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fingers. “It is true that Vasily the Third died five years ago, that there was infighting among the boyars. I had it from the Prussian ambassador.”
    Encouraged, Juliana nodded vigorously. “Then you understand my position. No doubt a prince as lofty as yourself would feel honor bound to give me your full support.”
    The king chuckled, a charming, musical sound. His mount shifted beneath him as if straining from the burdensome weight. “What sort of support, my lady?”
    “A naval escort. Well-armed, of course, for I shall need help in bringing the murderers to justice.”
    Someone in the riding party laughed outright. Others joined in the mirth. Wimberleigh raised his eyebrows in skepticism. Furious, Juliana did the unthinkable. She plunged her bound hands into the waistband of her skirt and drew forth the Romanov ruby brooch.
    “This is proof of my identity,” she declared. “My father gave it to me on my thirteenth name day.”
    “Tis paste,” Lady Gwenyth declared with a bored sniff.
    “Or stolen,” said someone else. “We already know she is a thief.”
    The dark man called Cromwell addressed Sir Bodely. “Take the cozening wench away and hang her.”
    Though her fingers were numb with terror, Juliana had the presence of mind to slip her brooch back into its hiding place.
    Chains and manacles clanking, Sir Bodely advanced. Wimberleigh planted himself in the warden’s path. “Free her,” he said.
    “But, my lord—”
    “I said free her,” the huge, brooding man repeated. “Her offense—such as it was—is against me. I say she goes free.”
    The king stroked his beard. “You always did have a soft spot for downtrodden females, eh, Wimberleigh?”
    “She’s naught but the bride of calamity,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal with annoyance. “Surely the baron of Wimberleigh has better causes than—”
    “Peace, Thomas.” The king held up his hand, then gave a curt nod to Sir Bodely. The warden loosed Juliana’s bonds. Her first instinct was to flee, from the crafty king and his court, and most especially the forbidding man who all but held her hostage with his cold glare.
    “What say you, Wimberleigh?” the king asked. Cruel laughter danced in his eyes. “Shall we send the wench on her way, or do you want to keep her for yourself?”
    Lady Gwenyth tittered behind her hand.
    Juliana watched the tall, tawny-haired lord. He did not move a muscle, yet she sensed that he was torn. His craggy face was a mask of sheer dislike—whether of her or the king, she could not tell. She held her breath, waiting for his answer.
     
    Stephen expelled his breath, wondering how he should answer. Knowing that any response would be the wrong one.
    Murmurs of laughter rippled from the crowd. As far as they were concerned, this was a farce put on for their entertainment. In spite of himself, Stephen had to admire the way Juliana bore up under the humiliating mirth of the king and his court. Henry’s black-eyed glare had taken down fiercer adversaries than an addlepated gypsy girl, yet she returned his stare with unflinching ferocity.
    Almost as if she viewed herself as his equal.
    All of Stephen’s instincts urged him to send the girl on her way, back to her coarse gypsy people. Then he committed a grave error. He looked into her eyes.
    What a world of torment and yearning he saw there, in the flickering green depths. He thought of the husky, exotic cadences of her voice, the curiously accented words. Your Majesty, I am the victim of a terrible injustice . He told himself it should not matter; he had no business to concern himself with the troubles of an unwashed half-mad gypsy.
    And yet a voice rose inside him—alien, yet wholly from the depths of his heart. “Sire, the choice should be hers.”
    “Nay,” cried Henry, and his tone raised a prickle of suspicion on the back of Stephen’s neck. “The choice is mine. If we let the wench wander free, she’ll doubtless revert to her thieving ways. This girl,