The man beside her wore dark clothing, his shoulders straight. Even from a distance, something about him demanded attention. Then he turned slightly, and firelight caught the gold on his head.
A crown. Livia's breath caught. The king. And the woman beside him, judging by the tiara and the way she held herself, must be the French princess Lady Bella kept talking about.
Future Queen of England. Livia leaned closer to the window. She could not make out his face clearly from where she stood. Only the outline of him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man built for command, even at a distance.
"So that is him," she whispered.
The evil king. Livia watched as the princess tilted her head toward him. They looked like a painting.
