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When the door closes behind them I’m just about to ask my questions when the prince gets in first with a question of his own.

“So, the harvesting process is for the Lords of Ardvalla alone, you don’t have to prove your child-bearing abilities?”

“No,” I reply, somewhat affronted, “I do not.”

He grins. “Why not?”

He picks up his spoon and with an affected air of nonchalance, sips at his soup. I know he is playing with me,teasing like the castle cats play with the mice before eventually killing them. I have no wish to be played like a mouse.

“Because after many years of the Ardvallan women being blamed for the falling birth rate, my grandmother figured out the fault lay with the men of Ardvalla. It was she who devised the Harvesting to guarantee our lineage. Therefore, my fertility is assumed, but if an Ardvallan lord wishes to become my king he must first prove his ability to father children.”

“And it is only the Lords of Ardvalla who may vie for your hand?”

“The High Lords, yes but in rare circumstances another may be considered, such as a prince or king of another realm.”

“Ah, I see, so that's where I come in?”

“Yes,” I reply as I sip on my soup.

“So, all that needs to happen now is for you to harvest me,” he states in a tone so matter-of-fact you wouldn't think there was anything amiss with what he just said.

I fight back a wave of frustration that threatens to overwhelm me and carefully place my spoon back on the table. “You mean all that needs to happen now is for you to be harvested, and if you could just let go of your ridiculous condition, that could happen sooner rather than later.”

He chuckles as he takes a hold of my hand again. “You call it ridiculous but I call it necessary,” he says in a low voice.

This time my frustration gets the better of me and between it, my lack of sleep and the strange energy that has fizzed through me all day I let my temper get the better of me. “Necessary?” I splutter. “How in all the realms do you consider my harvesting you as being necessary, especially when there are perfectly good maidens who have been handpicked to perform this task and can do it far better than I?”

He is about to answer when the serving girls return to clear the table for the main course. I grab my glass and, inan effort to calm my frayed nerves, drink heartily from it. The Master Of The Table enters with a platter full of succulent guinea fowl surrounded by a selection of slow roasted vegetables. Our wine glasses are filled again and then we are left alone.

“How do you know they can do it better than you,” he asks, an insolent grin on his face, “if you’ve never done it?”

I raise my eyes to the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re missing my point, Prince Ronan. The maidens do this all the time. They’re good at it. Just let them do their job and, if your seed is as good as you say it is, then we can get preparations for the wedding under way.”

He slowly takes a drink of wine from his glass, looking at me all the while, as if he is considering something. “If your lack of experience is what prevents you from fulfilling my condition then fret not, as I’m more than willing to guide you.”

I feel my cheeks redden in angry embarrassment and have no doubt they rival the scarlet of the fire lilies in colour and vibrancy. “Prince Ronan, in the name of the heavens, what is your objection to being harvested by the maidens? I believe it is a most pleasurable experience and have not received any complaints to date.”

“They are not you, Queen Elinor, and as uncommon as it may be, I am not a man who relishes intimacy with a number of maidens who are unknown to me. If I am to be your king and we are to bear children together I wish for my seed to be taken from my body by you and you alone.”

“And if I agree to your condition and your seed proves inadequate and I am forced to submit to Greythorne and he somehow finds out I am less than pure, then what?”

“Then to hell with him,” he replies, a dark note in his voice. “What's he going to do? Invoke the purity dictum and refuse to marry you? Isn't it his objective to become king? Whatbetter revenge can you get on him for forcing you into a marriage you don’t want than to go to his bed slightly sullied?”

There it is! The sullied word again! I throw my eyes heavenward and he starts to laugh, “No, I’m never going to let you forget it,” he says as he places a guinea fowl on his plate. “In fact, Queen Elinor, it’s my opinion, on the off chance you might find yourself having to marry Greythorne, that you should go to his bed well and truly sullied. I wouldn’t recommend going to the chamber of a man like Greythorne as the innocent you are now, and this is another reason why I see your harvesting me as being necessary.” He tears a leg from the guinea fowl as if to emphasise his point.

All this talk of Greythorne and his bed-chamber is making me feel queasy so I decide to change the subject.

“You seem very sure of your ability to sire a child. Is there any particular reason for that? I presume you are free to marry me?”

He slows his eating and takes a hearty drink of his wine. A darkness clouds his eyes and in a low voice he says, “Have no fear, Queen Elinor, if I were not free to marry you I would not have agreed to do so.”

I wait for him to elaborate but he simply proceeds to eat his food and drink his wine in silence. I want to ask him more, to demand to know if he has children already, but something stops me. There's something about the stony set of his face that tells me this is a matter he doesn’t wish to discuss. I decide to take him at his word and trust in what little assurance he has given me.

“Very well.” I reply. “You realise the marriage must take place as soon as possible and in secret? Are you amenable to this?”

He nods, “Yes, I don't have a problem with that. It’s preferable to the pomp and nonsense that usually accompanies a royal wedding.”

I smile, on this at least we agree.