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kiss.  Several men in the immediate vicinity saw him.  There were claps and hoots of laughter.
    Henry scolded, “No kissing at the table, you two!”
    Someone else shouted, “Head for her bedchamber if you can’t wait to have her!”
    Her cheeks flushed bright red, and he squeezed her hand again.  He could have tossed out some risqué replies, but he didn’t, and for that small blessing, she was enormously grateful.
    A servant hastened up and set a trencher between them.  It was made from the best bread, filled with a thick, creamy soup that Blodwin and Father Eustace often ate, but that Anne and others were rarely allowed to sample.
    “A special treat from the cook,” the boy said, bowing, and rushing away. 
    Hugh nodded and signaled for the serving to commence, first to the dignitaries in the front, then to the crowd in general. 
    Anne watched in a glum silence.  She felt ill and needed to quell her roiling stomach.  Courtesy demanded that she not start until all the dignitaries had their food, but she couldn’t wait.  She furtively pulled at a piece of the bread. 
    Before she could slip it into her mouth, Hugh reached over and took it, dropping it on the floor.
    She scowled—would he dictate when she could eat and when she couldn’t?—but said nothing as a commotion erupted at the rear of the hall.  He spun away to see what was happening.
    Blodwin swept in, flanked by Cadel and Rosamunde, with Father Eustace tagging after them.  They appeared imperious and aggrieved, as if the castle was still theirs and they hadn’t been invited to the feast.
    The walked down the center aisle to the head table.  As they passed, the room quieted, everyone excited to view the exchange so that they could gossip later.
    “Is this your family?” Hugh whispered.
    “Yes.”  Anne didn’t bother explaining how they weren’t.  Not really.  She’d never been welcomed by them.  She’d always been alone.
    “It’s Blodwin and Cadel?” he asked.
    “Yes, with Father Eustace behind them.”
    “How has your life been with them?  Have they been kind to you?”
    “Kind enough,” she replied, having no idea why she’d lie.
    He stood and tugged Anne up with him.
    She was embarrassed to be standing at his side.  She studied the floor, not wanting to stare at Blodwin and witness the condemnation in her gaze.
    Lord Hugh noticed and murmured, “Don’t glance away from her.  Look her straight in the eye.  You’re mistress here now.  You needn’t bow to anyone.”
    She smiled wanly and peered out at Blodwin, flinching at the wave of malice Blodwin directed back at her.  But Blodwin’s spite was swiftly masked.  She stopped below the dais, but showed no sign of deference to Lord Hugh.
    “Hello, madam.”  Hugh greeted her politely.
    “Lord Hugh,” Blodwin arrogantly chided, “you’re sitting at my table, and you’ve had my kitchen servants prepare a meal without my permission.”
    “It’s not your table, and they’re my servants.”
    “I see you’ve married Anne.”
    “Yes.  I would hear your congratulations.”
    “You have them.”
    At the paltry accolade, Anne bit down a snort.
    “May I present my son, Cadel,” Blodwin continued, “along with Father Eustace.  I’m told you’ve met my daughter, Rosamunde.”
    “I had the pleasure yesterday,” Hugh responded.
    “So you realize that you wed the wrong girl.”
    Hugh shook his head.  “No, I didn’t wed the wrong girl.  I picked the one I absolutely wanted.”
    He unnerved Anne by taking her hand.  It was a tender gesture, a possessive gesture, telling the onlookers—but Blodwin in particular—that he was glad to have her.
    With his claiming Anne so openly, Blodwin scoffed.  “Don’t be absurd.  They played a juvenile trick on you.  If I’d been here, I’d have straightened it out immediately.  I request an audience so we may discuss the situation.”
    “As you wish,” Hugh said.
    He’d uttered the words tossed to Anne when