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well?”
    Griffith, too, noted the press of interested observers and offered his arm. “The king’s consort is well, as is her son and heir, Arthur.”
    “The heir to the throne of England.” Marian smiled at the irony of it. “And Henry Tudor is the father.”
    “ King Henry Tudor is the father.”
    Marian almost laughed at Griffith’s pomposity, but her years at court had taught her a respect for a king’s power, if not a respect for the men who sought the position. So she took the proffered arm and agreed, “Of course. King Henry, seventh of that name, is the father of this child. Has King Henry let his wife be crowned yet?”
    “Not yet.”
    “When the archbishop anoints Elizabeth’s head and places the crown on her noble brow in Westminster Abbey, she’ll be lifted above mere mortals.” Marian clung close, content to use Griffith as a wedge to part the crowd. As they left the milling gentlefolk behind, she said, “The king is afraid. Afraid all will say he owes his throne to his queen.”
    Griffith corrected her without a blink. “He’s cautious, and rightly so.”
    “The throne still totters beneath his royal behind.”
    “Totters? No. It does not totter, and only a foolwould say so. But those same fools who claim the throne totters might also claim he couldn’t keep the throne without the support of Elizabeth’s Yorkist kin.”
    “You aren’t a courtier, are you?” Marian asked, smiling, more amused than embarrassed by the charge of foolishness.
    “I am whatever Henry needs me to be.”
    “A lackey, then,” she said, wondering if he would respond to the insult.
    “At present, that is true. I am a messenger boy, delivering notes from one silly girl to another.” Without asking her preference, he steered her out a door into the lavish garden, redolent with the scent of new roses basking in the warmth of the spring sun. “My reward for completing this mission is a visit to my parents in Wales.”
    The afternoon sunshine did Griffith no favors, Marian noted. It revealed his hair was not black, as she’d thought, but dark brown and shiny. It grew back from a point in the middle of his forehead, giving his narrow face a devilish quality, and it flared out like a lion’s mane, lending him a beast’s menace. The sunlight highlighted his harshness, accentuated the length and breadth of him, and she wondered what madness had encouraged Henry to send him.
    Was Henry trying to intimidate her? What did he suspect? What did he know? And had he shared his knowledge with his messenger?
    A strand of her bright red hair hung in her eyes, and she tried to tuck it back under her close-fitting cap, with little success.
    He watched with a cynical lift to his mouth. “Do you dye your hair?”
    Dropping her hands, she glared. In all her twenty-two years, she’d never met such a rude man. “If I did, would I dye it this color?”
    He didn’t smile, didn’t twitch, didn’t make false protestations about his admiration. Instead he tookthe strand between his fingers and efficiently inserted it beneath the coif. “Can we be overheard here?”
    She could read nothing from Griffith’s countenance except a vast distaste for her and for his duty. So much the better, she thought. Wenthaven’s castle was the epitome of lavish country living, but she’d grown used to the excitement of court. Now she relished the chance to match wits with a haughty Welsh lord. “No one can hear us, but that’s of no consequence. Everyone knows I was once the lady Elizabeth’s chief lady-in-waiting. Everyone knows we communicate when possible, although the messenger is usually a little”—she ran her gaze up and down his form—“livelier.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Do you have a letter for me?”
    He withdrew a parchment from his belt, closed with the queen’s seal, and picked at the wax. “Shall I read it to you?”
    Snatching it, she tucked it inside her sleeve. “I’ll read it to myself. Is there a