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notion alarmed her.  She remembered the stories of the saints, most particularly Saint Lucy.  She’d dedicated herself to Christ as Anne had yearned to do, but she’d been burned at the stake, had had her eyes cut out, then been slain with a sword.
    That’s how Anne viewed herself.  As if someone had taken a sword and pierced her through her heart.
    Lord Hugh had escorted her directly from the wedding to the banquet.  She’d tried to slip away, had tried to plead fatigue so she could hide in her room and lick her wounds—she felt so aggrieved, so wronged—but she couldn’t escape.  The servants were waiting for them, the food ready to be served, and they’d proceeded to the head table.
    When they’d walked in, the crowd had clapped and cheered—for Hugh, she assumed; she didn’t know why they would clap for her —and she was incensed that he’d been accepted so easily.  Or perhaps he hadn’t been.  Perhaps they’d simply been cheering for the fact that he was hosting such a fancy meal.
    She scanned the throng, eager to locate Rosamunde, but she wasn’t present. Had Cadel brought Blodwin to the castle?  Anne didn’t suppose Blodwin would help her, but she hoped that the older woman would show some mercy and, at the least, tell Anne how to get out of her predicament.
    Henry was on her right, and Lord Hugh on her left.  Two other knights stood behind them, guarding Hugh’s back.  She considered leaping to her feet, shouting that she refused to participate in such a farce, then stomping off, but Hugh would never let her leave.  And if Anne shamed him on his wedding day, in front of so many spectators, she couldn’t predict how he might retaliate.
    She dawdled, paralyzed with grief and fear.  Her mind was racing, urging her to do something, but what?
    Hugh leaned in, turning slightly so that he blocked her view, so that she could see only him.
    “Have your tears stopped?” he asked.
    “My tears shall never stop.  I’ll cry until I’ve filled the oceans with water.”
    At her comment, he chuckled, which enraged her.
    “It won’t be so bad,” he claimed, and he surprised her by giving her hand a tight squeeze.
    “Won’t it?”
    “Women love me.  You will, too—eventually.”
    “Your vanity knows no bounds.”
    “No, it doesn’t.  It’s part of my charm.”
    He flashed a grin that had probably incited females from London to Jerusalem, but it didn’t work on her.
    “May I be excused?” she inquired.  “May I go to my bedchamber?”
    “And miss your wedding feast?”
    “I don’t feel like celebrating.”
    “Don’t be surly,” he said.  “It’s unbecoming.”
    “I most humbly apologize for ruining your day.”
    “You haven’t ruined my day.  You couldn’t.”
    He smiled a smile that confused her.  It was so warm and genuine, as if he was… happy to have wed her.  His eyes were brimming with what seemed to be understanding and a touch of pity.
    He’d caused her such misery.  Did he realize how distraught she was?  Was he sorry? 
    He couldn’t be.  He was too conceited, and she wouldn’t flatter him by imbuing him with traits she was certain he’d never possessed.
    He’d married her for unfathomable reasons:  because he could, because she hadn’t wanted him to.  He’d married her to prove that she couldn’t defy him and expect to get away with it.
    “I hate that you’re so sad,” he murmured, frowning.  “Promise me that you won’t cry for the rest of the meal.”
    He looked hopeful, eager, as if her mood mattered to him. 
    For the briefest moment, he appeared young and unsure.  She had a glimpse of what he must have been like as a boy, when he’d still been sweet and innocent and some mother’s dearest son.  That would have been long before war and fighting had altered him into the brutal knight he’d grown to be.
    She caught herself saying, “I’ll try to enjoy myself.”
    With her capitulation easily obtained, he winked and stole a quick