In the eastern gardens of Winchester Castle, the irises bloomed heavy with morning dew. Isabella plucked one and tucked it into her collar. The soft snap of the stem startled someone hiding behind the hedge.
"By Saint George!"
An old woman in a rough-spun cloak burst from the shrubbery. "That flower was brought back from Constantinople by His Majesty himself—it's sacred!"
But the moment Isabella turned, the woman's curses died in her throat. Her spot-blotched face wrinkled into an ingratiating smile, and she dropped into a graceless curtsey.
"M-My Queen! Forgive the old eyes of Margaret—I didn't recognize Your Grace's golden hair..."
"Leave us." Isabella's fingers traced the thorn-like veins of the iris petals.
The crone backed away, hunching like a penitent. But something about her face—the gleam in her eye—tugged at memory. It was a face from Cambridge, one of those sycophantic wardens who always bowed to power.
Suddenly the woman grabbed her skirts.
"Merciful Majesty!" she whispered. "Let old Margaret be your eyes! I know Lady Elena uses the secret passage to the King's bedchamber... every night."
Isabella hooked the woman's chin with the tip of her shoe.
"How much is your loyalty worth?"
"Only this, Your Grace—grant my grandson a place among the Templar novices."
Her eyes glinted with ambition.
At that moment, a rustle in the bushes—twelve halberdiers in shining armor flanked Lady Elena, emerging like a confessor from behind her velvet veil. Her Burgundy-styled headdress glimmered with pearls like a portable altar.
"Recruiting snitches now, Your Majesty?" Elena's fan half-hid her sneer. "Too bad Margaret once sold out her own son's funeral."
The old woman blanched.
Isabella crushed the iris in her palm, its juice staining her fingertips red.
"I happen to need a gardener who knows her poisons." She pressed her bloody fingers to the woman's shoulder. "Report to my chambers tomorrow. There are roses to prune."