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trumpets sounded.
    “The queen awaits!” John snatched up his
crown from where it rested haphazardly on a nearby chair and lodged
it onto his head.
    Bidding Royce follow, he hastened from the
chamber, taking long strides on short legs, his robes flowing and
jewels sparkling, a smile splitting his bearded face. Obviously,
this youngest of the Plantagenet brood enjoyed all the advantages
and attentions of kingship, a station that for many years must have
seemed beyond his reach.
    Royce trailed after the king, matching his
brisk pace. Surprisingly, the courtiers and attendants who’d held
audience with the sovereign stepped aside for Royce before they
themselves joined the royal progression. He could only wonder at
their seeming deference. Presumably, many a man enjoyed stations
far greater than he. Perhaps ‘twas the favor the king afforded him
that now governed their actions, Royce reasoned.
    Much bowing and scraping accompanied the
king’s passage through the antechamber as the lords and ladies
opened a path for the sovereign and his train to proceed toward the
White Hall. Whispers followed them and it bemused Royce to hear his
own name repeated upon those noble lips as a “great Crusader
knight” and “hero.”
    Queen Isabella waited before the doors of
the feasting hall, surrounded by her elegant ladies-in-waiting and
flanked by the most powerful barons and clergy in attendance. At
her husband’s approach, she sank into a deep curtsy, a vision of
exquisite beauty and grace. Though Royce had heard glowing
descriptions of her comeliness, ‘twas still jolting to behold the
new queen in person — for reasons beyond her loveliness.
    As Royce understood it, after John’s
coronation, he immediately set out on a tour of Normandy and the
Acquitaine. There, he encountered the beautiful heiress of
Angoulême, Isabella, and became wildly enamored of her.
Inconveniently, she was already engaged.
    When John made his intentions clear,
Isabella’s parents were all too happy that their daughter attain a
queenship. They moved to break the engagement and arrange her hasty
marriage to the English monarch. But scandal swirled darkly about
the newly wedded couple. Whilst John was a man of prime years being
two-and-thirty, Isabella was a child of barely twelve.
    Royce pushed aside his thoughts as John took
his young queen by the hand. Raising her to her feet, he pressed a
lingering kiss to her fingers. By his look alone, ‘twas plain the
man was utterly besotted with his bride.
    The king placed Isabella’s small hand
on his forearm, his larger one lingering to cover hers, then turned
to Royce. “My lady-wife, this is Sir Royce de Warrene, the heroic
knight of whom I spoke, just arrived from the Holy Lands. He warred
with Richard there. I’m sure he will be agreeable to entertain us
tonight with gallant tales of the Crusades and of the years since
my late brother’s departure from Outremer , the lands beyond the sea.”
    Royce bowed low and, at once, the diminutive
queen lifted her free hand to him to be kissed.
    “Rise, Sir Royce. I shall take pleasure in
your stories of chivalry and am pleased that you are returned safe
to England’s shores.”
    Royce dropped a light kiss to the queen’s
ring then rose. He paused for a moment as he gazed upon her
enchanting face. His brows began to draw together, then realizing
the gesture, he willed them smooth lest others think he found
displeasure with the queen.
    In truth, Isabella reminded him of someone,
but he could not quite puzzle out whom. She was a delicate creature
with lively eyes. Her bright, flaxen hair draped over her shoulders
in two long plaits, each wound with satin ribbons and ending in
jeweled clasps. A veil of net spilled from her fair head, held in
place by her queenly crown. Gemstones glittered on her mantle and
gown, the latter a shimmering creation of gold sendal over an ivory
undergown, all lavishly embroidered.
    Royce regarded the queen for only a brief
moment