As the gates of Winchester creaked open, the morning mist carried the final blast of the night watch's horn. My carriage rumbled over the frost-covered bridge as a sword tip flicked aside the curtain.
"You forgot this, milady," Richard de Clare said, handing me a jewel-encrusted dagger, its hilt carved with the Templar cross. "Some nobles enjoy staging 'accidents' during stag hunts."
When I took it, he leaned in and whispered, "Watch your father's study. Purple iris juice reveals ink on parchment."
As we passed the frost-dusted fields, Lily was busy organizing my jewelry chest. "His Majesty executed three Flemish spies this morning—quietly," she murmured while adjusting my coronet. From her sleeve slid a tiny porcelain vial labeled Holy Water from Hagia Sophia, but the liquid shimmered with an unnatural violet glow.
By noon, the spires of Winston Manor broke the horizon. My father—Duke William Winston—stood in full parliamentary regalia. The golden fleece on his chest glinted so fiercely, it stung the eyes.
"Your Majesty," he bowed, every inch a puppet on strings—except for the boot toe deliberately pinned to my hem. "Are you aware your wantonness has made me the mockery of Parliament for an entire—"
"Father must mean to say," I cut in loudly, "that the earldom he traded for his daughter and three cities has now been revoked?"
Gasps rippled through the household staff. My mother rushed forward and embraced me, her hands trembling as they grazed my neck, then froze. She'd found the bruises Alfred left in his fury the night before.
"Dear God..." Her tears soaked the lace on my shoulder. "What did they do to you—"
"Spare me the act, dear." My father wrenched her back. "Our daughter's the kind of harlot who kicks the King out of his bed."
At dinner, I deliberately sliced the foie gras with the dagger Richard gave me. When my father recognized the Templar cross on the hilt, he spilled red wine down his sleeve.