Henry rose from the throne, descending the short steps and moved closer, his gaze fixed on the Lord Chancellor. His court robes shifted around him, dark and richly embroidered. "So...you can decide whom I will marry."
Geoffrey's mouth tightened. "My lord—"
Henry lifted a hand. Geoffrey fell silent. "You can bring her to England," Henry said, voice sharpening. "You can place her in my palace, parade her before court, remind me every morning that the future of this kingdom apparently rests upon my ability to fuck for the rest of my life a woman I barely know."
The Archbishop cleared his throat faintly. "Your Majesty—"
"Do not," Henry snapped, turning his eyes briefly on him, "test me today."
The old man wisely closed his mouth. Henry turned back to Geoffrey.
"But now," Henry said, his smile returning without warmth, "you leave the very important chore of picking wedding dates to me. That's where you draw the line? Wedding dates?"
The sarcasm in his voice could not be mistaken.
