By Honor Bound by Helen A Rosburg

won. Laughing, golden hair streaming, Honneure chased Philippe into the evening shadows of the towering château.

    “So this new breed, you say, is a cross between the Spanish horses and Arabians?”
    Philippe nodded at his father across the table. They were in the cozy servants’ dining room off the kitchen where it had become their habit, over the years, to dine each evening. “And it’s an interesting cross, brilliant really. The finest Arab blood was introduced and fused with the local athletic Spanish horses’ during the Moorish occupation of Spain. Maximillian II brought some of these new Spanish horses to Austria in the sixteenth century and founded a court stud. His brother, Archduke Charles, established a similar stud at Lipizza, near the Adriatic Sea. Hence, the name.”
    “Lipizzan.” Honneure tasted the sound of it. “They certainly are beautiful.”
    Philippe nodded again. “Strong and versatile but refined by the more delicate Arab.”
    “It’s about time the Austrians did something constructive,” Paul said darkly.
    Jeanne reached over and patted her husband’s hand.
    Honneure glanced from one to the other. “If what Madame Dupin says is true, this alliance with Austria will soon become permanent. The empress has agreed to the betrothal of her youngest daughter to the dauphin.”
    “In my wildest dreams,” Paul growled, “I never thought an Austrian would become Queen of France.”
    “She’s not the queen yet, dear,” Jeanne soothed.
    “It won’t be long. They say old Louis’s new mistress is a lively one, and he’s not got much left in him. It won’t take long to finish him off.”
    “According to Madame Dupin,” Honneure interjected, “that’s what they said about his last mistress. I wouldn’t dig his grave quite yet.”
    Philippe nearly choked on his wine. Jeanne flashed Honneure a reproving look, but the twinkle in her eyes belied the expression on her face. Paul chose to ignore them all.
    “To make matters worse, the dauphin is only fourteen. When his grandfather dies we’ll have a pimply-faced boy as King of France.”
    Despite her foster father’s antipathy, Honneure felt sorry for the duke. She recalled her conversation with Madame Dupin five years earlier, when she had not even known who the Duc de Berry was. Barely two years later his father had died spitting blood. Now the boy was no longer a duke but a prince, the dauphin, and heir to the throne of France.
    “The shadow of kinghood must be a very great burden for someone so young,” Honneure said. “And it cannot be much easier for his future queen. She’s only thirteen and contemplating not only a throne but marriage.”
    Paul grunted, but his solemn expression lightened. His foster daughter’s generosity of spirit was hard to resist. “I suppose it must be a bit daunting.”
    “Yes, indeed. Poor little thing,” Jeanne muttered. “What’s her name?”
    “Marie, Mother,” Philippe replied. “Marie Antoinette.”
    “And her wedding gift from Madame Dupin will be the horses you brought from Austria. How thoughtful. It not only will remind her of her homeland but will show honor to her country for their national breed to be chosen as a royal wedding gift.”
    “Let’s just hope the wedding’s not too soon. I have a bit of training to do before those horses are ready for royalty.”
    “Madame Dupin told me they will not wed until the new dauphin is sixteen,” Honneure said lightly. “So you have two years. Do you think that will be enough time?”
    “Two years ? It shouldn’t take me more than two mo—” Realization dawned on Philippe’s features. “Oh … you …”
    Philippe’s chair clattered over backward as he sprang up. Honneure’s scraped the floor as she pushed away from the table in an effort to escape. Paul and Jeanne clasped hands as they watched their children fly, laughing, from the room.
    “Some things never change,” Paul remarked.
    “And pray they never do.”

    “I