In the judgment hall of Winchester Castle, the stained-glass windows filtered sunlight into crimson patches, casting blood-red halos over the thorned crest etched into Alfred II's silver mask. Isabella stared at Lily, kneeling on the cold flagstones—her mail undershirt, a remnant of her past life as a Templar spy, peeked through the rough linen collar, still rusted with blood from Lady Elena's whip.
"By your majesty's grace!" Lily pressed her forehead against the icy floor. "I swear on the cross of the Knights Templar—I saw Lady Elena drip purple iris poison into the late queen's communion chalice with my own eyes!"
Alfred's fingers tapped a rhythm on the oak tribunal table—slow and ominous, like the drumbeat of a condemned man's march to the gallows. He suddenly turned to Elena. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
The Burgundian pearls on the lady's headdress shivered along with her trembling. "Your Majesty would trust the word of a lowborn servant over the woman who shares your bed—"
"Silence!" The King's sword rang from its sheath, its tip lifting her chin. "Your father bartered Flanders' wool rights to get you into my bed. Now he's trading Marne's iron mines for my life?" With a flick of his blade, a string of pearls scattered across the floor.
Isabella stared as one pearl rolled to her feet. Her thoughts flashed to a certain scholar from Cambridge, the one who adored The Romance of the Rose—he had gifted her her first strand of Burgundian pearls, just like these.
"Your Majesty," Alfred's voice pulled her back to the present. "Do you acknowledge this knight's testimony as true?"
Old Margaret yanked at her sleeve from behind. Isabella raised her head, locking eyes with the king. Behind the mask, his gaze was a storm—complicated, unreadable, like the whirlpools of the Dover Strait. Suddenly she understood: this was a trap. Deny it, and Lily would burn as a perjurer. Admit it, and she would be under the King's protection—indebted, bound.
"I swear on the name of House Winston," she said, lifting her chin, "every word Lily spoke is the truth."
A flicker of a smile touched Alfred's lips, tugging the straps of his mask deeper into his burned flesh. "So be it. Lady Elena will be confined to the Tower of London. As for the Queen..." his eyes dropped to the hem of her gown, still stained with iris juice, "return to the White Rose Palace and rest."
As the guards dragged a shrieking Elena from the chamber, Lily flung herself at Isabella's feet. "Please, let me serve you! I was once championed in the Templar trials for—"
"Granted," Alfred interrupted, eyes never leaving Isabella. "After all, a queen needs loyal guards." His gaze flicked meaningfully to her skirts, where she clutched the razor-edged Byzantine coin.