Up into the choir then, where the king and Mother Judiana led her out from under the canopy, now no longer sheltered under the Lady's rainbow mantle but given into the keeping of the man in whose hand the king now set hers, kissing her cheek and then stepping back to take his place beside his queen.

Readings, then, speaking of the duty of husbands and wives to one another and to God — and the joy recounted in the Song of Songs:

«Surge, propera, arnica mea, Columba mea, formosa mea, et veni…»

My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone…

Next, the vows, kneeling before Father Paschal as he bade them exchange promises, a ring, a kiss. And then the coronets, brought on their velvet cushion by Prince Brion, which cushion she took and extended to her new husband, that he might lay hands upon the two in token of the responsibilities he now assumed as a regent of Corwyn and Lendour.

The remainder of the Mass then — heavenly bread upon the tongue and the sacred cup shared each to each. And after that, the laying of her floral crown at the feet of the statue of the Virgin, bows to king and queen, and the recessional, following the double line of blue-robed students back up the aisle and into the chapel forecourt, where the girls showered them with flower petals as they emerged into the sunlight.

After, there was a festive wedding supper, and good wishes from the wedding guests: Zoë's enthusiastic embrace for both of them, the shy kisses of Kenneth's other two daughters, the awkward embraces of his sisters; the more heartfelt kisses of the three young princes and little Princess Xenia, who kept gathering up the rose petals from the chapel floor so she could shower the couple again; a promise of the king's ongoing protection and favor; Sé's promise that he would always be there, if needed. Vera's grin as she whispered a word or two about what awaited Alyce in the marriage bed.

After supper, the bridal couple were conducted to the principal guest apartment, occupied the night before by the king and queen but now vacated, with their imminent departure to return to the city. When the queen and Jessamy had dressed Alyce for bed, and Father Paschal had blessed the bed and her in it, everyone withdrew save for Kenneth, left standing against the door, simply gazing at her. In the garden beneath the window, the sweet voices of the students sang a gentle bridal blessing from distant Bremagne, that soon faded into stillness with the sound of departing feet on gravel.

He came to her then, in the twilit summer night, shedding his outer robe to slip into the bed beside her. He lay there on his side for a long moment, simply gazing at her, head propped on one elbow, before lifting a reverent hand to brush along her cheek, across her lips, down the curve of her neck to the ribbons at the throat of her night shirt, briefly caressing the sweet swell of her breast.

«Dear God, you are beautiful, in body and in soul!» he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. «I asked you once before whether you were an angel, for surely I stand before the gates of Paradise».

As she shivered slightly at his touch, he gently tugged at one of the ribbons until its bow parted, rolling closer then to nuzzle kisses on the creamy skin thus exposed.

«Actually, I've just lied to you», he admitted, raising an eyebrow at her astonished O of indignation. «I am not standing anywhere; I am lying here beside a beautiful woman who is my wife at last — though a part of me is upstanding».

The playful downward flick of his glance to the region of his groin elicited a giggle and a maidenly blush on the part of his bride, after which he resumed his reverent exploration of her neck, loosing another tie, slipping a gentle hand into the open neck of her gown as his mouth sought hers and began to draw her with him into Paradise.

Several times they had their pleasure of one another that night, and again shortly after dawn, before slipping back into languid dozing for another several hours. Around noon, shortly after the Angelus, they surfaced for a meal, brought to their room by a smiling Sister Iris Cerys, who bobbed in blushing curtsy over the tray she presented as Kenneth opened the door.

Later in the afternoon, the newlyweds emerged to stroll hand-in-hand in the convent garden, beginning talk of plans and dreams. Toward suppertime, others began to appear in the garden. Though most of the wedding guests had left, either the night before or first thing that morning, Zoë and Jiri Redfearn remained, along with Jovett Chandos. The five of them supped together that evening with Father Paschal and Mother Judiana, and spoke guardedly of the state of affairs concerning the bishops.

Alyce, who knew better than any of them just how far the bishop's wrath could extend — and with how little cause — kept largely silent, and lay shivering in Kenneth's arms later that night, until he kissed away her tears and turned her thoughts to more pleasant contemplations.

But their idyll of married bliss was not to last. The very next morning, not long after first light, Sir Jiri came knocking on their door with missives from the king recalling them all to Rhemuth.

«The king says there's been trouble up near Sostra. The county of that name belongs to Torenth, of course», Kenneth said, still skimming the king's letter, «but the town of Sostra is Corwyn's, as you know».

Both were aware that Duke Richard had been patrolling along the Torenthi border since mid-May, hoping his presence would discourage a repeat of the incursions into Corwyn two years before.

«It appears I'm to take up some of my regenting duties somewhat sooner than we expected», he went on. «Deinol Hartmann has asked for Jovett as well. We should leave as soon as possible».

They were gone within the hour, Jiri and Jovett in addition to Alyce, Kenneth, and Zoë, clattering into the yard at Rhemuth just past noon.

«Dreadfully sorry to drag you away from your bride, Kenneth», the king said, before briefing the three who would leave shortly for Sostra.

As he drew them toward the maps spread on the table in the summer council chamber, already starting to review details of the reports he had received from Richard, Seisyll Arilan watched silently from the other side of the room, and wondered why the king had lied.

Whatever the reason, Kenneth was away off-and-on for most of the summer and into the autumn, with periodic visits home to deliver dispatches and be reunited with his bride, but never for more than a few days, and never long enough to get her with child.

Jessamy, meanwhile, continued her observations regarding Alyce, recalling her own preparations for the conception of Krispin, and gradually narrowed down a series of optimal target dates.

But Jessamy's health was fast failing. Alyce and the royal physicians nursed her, but there was little they could do besides ease her pain. By October, she was all but bedridden, and early in November asked for Seisyll Arilan.

«I'm told you wished to see me», he said quietly, pulling a stool closer to her bed, at her gesture. Her maid had withdrawn, and they were quite alone.

«I am dying, Seisyll», she murmured. «It may not be today, or even next week, but it will be sooner rather than later».

«I had heard that», he replied. «I am very sorry».

«So am I». She turned her face to gaze at the canopy above the bed.

«Seisyll, we have not always agreed — you and I. I understand, though I do not accept, the reasons that others felt obliged to dictate the course of my life. I have never understood why there was so much antipathy toward my father, but I accept that perhaps there are things I was not meant to understand».