Rod saw, and was sorry he'd brought up the issue. "Maybe the kids will be able to make peace even if their parents can't, dear."

Gwen smiled at the thought, then turned all her attention toward the central doorway of the cathedral, waiting for the brides.

Guards lined the central doorway and the path to it, as much to keep the common folk from blocking the way as to protect the brides. The commoners clustered at the other two doorways, eager for a sight of their future king and queen. Shafts of colored light filled the air above them, a shifting array of colors from the stained glass windows along the sides of the nave and the great rose window above the choir loft. The noblemen and their wives seemed to vie with one another for the glory and extravagance of their costumes, shifting restlessly now and then, hungry for a sight of the brides.

So was Rod.

Anxiously, he scanned the three young men waiting eagerly and apprehensively at the stairs to the altar, then turned to look back into the recesses of the foyer. "We shouldn't have left the girls to dress themselves!"

"They have three maids apiece to help them, husband," Gwen said sternly. "We brought them here, after all. We can allow them some measure of independence." Nonetheless, she was tense enough herself—poised, no doubt, to dash to answer a daughter's call, to resolve last-minute misgivings.

Then the organ broke from Bach and stilled. The orchestra began again, a joyous but stately promenade, as the queen herself stepped down the aisle escorted by her younger son, Prince Diarmid. She was spectacular in embroidered silk, but wore only a few gems, her notion of not outdoing the brides. She paced the length of the aisle in stately fashion, stepped into the larger of the two carved and gilded chairs by the altar, and sat as her son went on to stand beside his childhood friend Gregory—interesting that he was best man for his friend instead of his brother, who had to make do with the young Duke of Savoy.