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came away with chapped knees and an aching back. Spending hours kneeling on the damp stones in the drafty old convent, was her least favorite task.
    â€œHmm. Except for the pain, I doubt it is.”
    â€œPain?” Rosamunde eyed her sharply.
    Eustice nodded reluctantly. “I have heard there is pain, Rosamunde, and I gather there is even blood. At least, the first time.”
    Rosamunde paled. “Blood?”
    â€œAye. They say that it proves the bride’s innocence.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œâ€™Tis the price we pay for Eve’s sin.”
    â€œEve’s sin,” Rosamunde muttered resentfully. How often had Father Abernott spit that phrase at them? He had hammered it into them to the point that those words were practically branded on her soul. “I thought Jesus died for our sins? Or was that only for men’s sins?” she asked dryly.
    Eustice was saved from dealing with that question. The door beside them opened and a somewhat frantic abbess slid out. “Whatever is taking you so long? The king is quite wroth at this delay.”
    â€œRosamunde had some last-minute questions,” Eustice explained dryly.
    â€œWhat sort of questions, dear?” the abbess asked kindly.
    â€œDid not Jesus die for our sins?” Rosamunde asked.
    â€œAye. Of course he did,” the abbess assured her quickly, but was obviously confused by the comment.
    â€œThen why do we suffer pain in the consummation and bleed?”
    Adela’s shoulders sagged, blowing her breath out in dismay. With a look that was somewhere between consternation and fond regret, the abbess merely said, “We really do not have time for such complicated theological discussions now, child. Mayhap you should ask Father Abernott that after the ceremony. Come now. Your father really is eager to have this done.”
    Â 
    Father Abernott was a stuffy little priest, normally puffed up with self-importance. Performing the marriage of the king’s daughter, illegitimate or not, at the king’s request, and in his very own exalted presence, had the man inflated beyond endurance. Haughtiness was oozing off him as he presided over the ceremony. The congregation was madeup of the king, Shrewsbury, the groom, a second man who appeared to be the groom’s friend, and every single nun who resided within the convent—the others having begged the abbess to allow them to attend. Most of them had been at the abbey since Rosamunde’s arrival and had watched her grow to womanhood with interest and affection. They were like family to Rosamunde. Which was why the abbess had given in to their pleas and allowed them to witness the ceremony. Their presence seemed merely to add to the priest’s pretentious behavior, however.
    Barely able to stand the man’s self-satisfied expression, Rosamunde ignored his words and turned her gaze to his bald pate instead. The sight of his shiny scalp made her lips begin to tremble with wicked amusement. Every single one of the unflattering names she and some of the younger nuns had come up with to describe the man when they were annoyed with him were rolling through her mind one after the other, and threatening her with inappropriate laughter.
    She quickly lowered her gaze to the skirt of her gown. It was the best she had. Made of the softest linen, it fit her upper frame snugly, then flared slightly at the waist. Hours had been spent crafting this gown, for Rosamunde had wanted it to be just right. But she had created it for taking the veil, not taking a husband. Not an earthly one, at any rate.
    Stifling a small sigh, she glanced curiously at the man beside her. He seemed rather big to her, and Rosamunde was five-foot-nine herself. She had been told that her mother was more petite, but her father was over six feet tall. She could only assume that God had split the difference with her.
    She had always felt tall. Most of the women here in the convent were at least two or