"We are in bed. You may call me Manfred."
But I do not want to call you Manfred.
"What is it you think I would be so good at?"
"You can mask your feelings," he said with a smile. "You are doing it now. You are very good at it."
"Thank you, Sire."
He shook his head, sat up beside her, and put an arm around her shoulders. "I meant it when I said you are precious to me. But you must go with this man. I cannot tell you all my reasons, but it is for your own safety as well."
No doubt he was being honest with her, though he was not telling her everything. Just the other day one of Manfred's servants, whom she had cultivated with gifts, warned her that Manfred's queen, Helene of Cyprus, was demanding that Manfred break with Sophia. Of course, Manfred would never be willing to admit that his wife could force him to do such a thing.
She wanted to get off by herself and think this out, and cry, let tears release some of the pain she felt. This curtained bed confined her like a dungeon cell. She found her white shift amid the rumpled bedclothes. Getting up on her knees, she raised the shift over her head and struggled into it.
"Where are you going?" Manfred asked.
She crawled around the bed to look for her gown and her belt. "I have arrangements to make. Packing to do."