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“Did she suffer ill health in her youth?” Aimee persisted.

“What?” He looked up from unfastening his tunic.

“It occurred to me that might be why Freda never married,” she explained patiently.

“Not that I remember.”

“Hmmm,” she sounded thoughtful, and it crossed his mind as he stripped down to his braies that here was an opening for him to mention his suspicions that Ankatel had an interest in his cousin as a matrimonial prospect. Then he reminded himself he did not wish to dwell on such subjects. He had better things to be concentrating on right now, such as readying himself for the joust. Resolutely, he set about his ablutions.

“Do you think that Magnatrude will be happy as one of the queen’s ladies?” Aimee asked lowering her comb.

“So she says,” he answered in clipped tones, rubbing soap flakes between his fingers.

“But do you think she will?” she asked insistently.

“If she is,” he snorted, “it will be for the first time in her life.”

“She has always been dissatisfied with her lot?” she asked curiously. “Never happy? Not even,” she hesitated as though unsure whether it was her place to ask, “when she was betrothed?”

“Not even then,” he confirmed. “My sister was contrary and difficult prior to the war. What has happened since was not likely to sweeten her. She even admitted the other day that the marriage would have been an unhappy one.”

“Then mayhap this appointment to the queen’s retinue will truly be her vocation,” Aimee mused, shaking out a gown of amber satin.

That caught his eye. “What is that?” he asked pointedly.

Aimee looked startled. “My gown, you mean?”

“That is not the gown you are wearing this day,” he reminded her.

Aimee’s face reddened. “Konrad …”

“You are wearing my colors for the joust, remember?”

She looked instantly guilt-ridden. “I no longer own a gown in your colors,” she admitted.

“I told you to get another one made up,” he reminded her tersely.

“There was insufficient time for that, husband –” she said, dropping her gaze from his, and he felt a sudden stab of suspicion.

“You did not commission one to be made, did you?” he asked flatly.

Her face flamed. “No,” she admitted, staring down at the hands which clutched her gown. “In truth, I cannot imagine myself wearing a heraldic gown like that again by choice. Not since …” her words trailed off.

“Since what?” he demanded harshly, narrowing his eyes at her. “Since the royal festival? Since I let you down?”

Aimee gasped, then drew in a steadying breath. “Someone tried to warn me that I would look too conspicuous in that gown,” she started in a conciliatory tone. “And that I would appear vulgar in it,” she said, two spots of color appearing in her cheeks. “But I did not listen.”

“Magnatrude, you mean?” he asked angrily. “I will have words with her on our return.”

Aimee’s face fell. “No, no,” she said urgently. “It was not your sister. It was mine.”

“Yours?” He thought of gentle-eyed Ursula Ankatel and snorted derisively. “Do not lie to me, Aimee.”

“I’m not lying!” she flared up. “Except she didn’t flat out say it like that,” she amended consciously. “But rather softened the blow.” At his open skepticism, she lifted her chin. “She explained that a noblewoman may wear something with impunity, where a merchant’s daughter may not.”

“What the hells do you mean by that?”

“I would have thought it was obvious. I was not born to this role, Konrad. I will no doubt make many missteps along the way and parading around in your colors like that, so ostentatiously, was a pretty hefty one.”