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name produced among those gathered—“has made an interesting proposal. In good faith, he has sent the man second dearest to his heart to deliver it, his nephew Baron Andret.” He gestured toward the man at the table I didn’t know who nodded curtly at the introduction.
    “I’m sure,” the baron said, “you’ll understand why King Mark sent me rather than his first dearest nephew, Sir Tristan.”
    It was a deft way to get out in the open what we all knew—that it was Tristan who slew The Morholt and brought grief to all of Whitehaven. Tristan would never have been welcome within these walls. As it was, the baron was barely being tolerated as evidenced by the murmur that grumbled its way through the hall. By all, that is, save Father who seemed rather pleased at hosting Mark’s man.
    Father held up a hand to stave the noise. “Cornwall and Ireland have had a long history of taxation, oppression and outright war. For fifteen years King Mark has refused to pay tribute to Ireland as law demands. His interpretation of the treaty, however, has always been that it ended with his father’s death. I sent the queen’s brother—The Morholt, Sir Marhaus—to Cornwall to extract the levy. When Mark refused, Sir Marhaus proposed a challenge to settle the law for once and all. Mark offered up Tristan as his champion. And you know the rest.” Father lowered his eyes for a moment along with everyone in the hall, save for the three strangers—the baron, Palomides and Drustan. Then he raised a cup in silent toast to Marhaus.
    “The challenge has been fought and the law struck down,” Father continued. “And now it is time to mend our differences and strengthen the bonds between Cornwall and Ireland. That is why I’ve gathered you tonight—to bear witness to my acceptance of King Mark’s proposal. He has asked for Yseult’s hand in marriage, to which I am agreeing.”
    The room spun. I gripped the edge of the table to keep from spinning with it. My heart pounded in my chest and I could feel three score pairs of eyes staring into my torment. I tried to be a queen, accepting the sentence—for that is how I thought of it—in public with gracious passivity. God knows I tried. But how does anyone with a heart and soul accept the death of all their dreams with stone-faced silence?
    I did not collapse or swoon, though had I been standing, I’m not sure my knees would have held me. But emotion overwhelmed me. I swallowed hard, shook my head, shut my eyes and let the tears flow for all to see. I stifled the sobs as best I could but they were all I could hear in the moments after my father betrayed me. Betrayed my mother too. Though he wasn’t giving me to the man who’d actually killed her brother, he was giving me to the man who ordered the trial go on when he could have refused it or stopped it with a word.
    Duty alone held me to that table as surely as it held my mother. How desperately I wanted her arms around me, to cry together in commiseration, she who had been given to my father who now gave me away for the good of Ireland.
    My father’s speech didn’t go on much longer, though I was beyond caring what more he might say anyway. I could only feel relief when he at last slammed down his cup at the end and ordered more wine for everyone. I had embarrassed him, but I didn’t care. That I’d embarrassed myself didn’t concern me either. Not in that moment with my world crumbling around. My reputation was not my first care—which likely meant I was not worthy to be a queen. Maybe when King Mark heard from his messenger, the baron, how I’d reacted, he wouldn’t want me.
    No. I knew better. It was a political marriage, naught to do with want but with need. When I got to Cornwall, Mark could simply lock me away where I’d have no chance to embarrass him. Keep me in a room where he’d visit me daily till I was great with child, then once an heir was ensured, spirit the babe away to be reared as a proper king and never