taller. But he had smiled into her eyes and asked for the honor of a dance. Her feet hardly touched the floor when she stepped out with him. Almost like her waking dream, he had kissed her fingers afterwards and run his thumb along her palm at the same time. She felt a warmth between her thighs, and she was sure the whole room knew her for a wanton.
“Good day, Lady Margaret,” a pleasant voice interrupted her thoughts. “I hope I am not disturbing you?”
Margaret looked up into Anthony Woodville’s smiling face and smiled back unconsciously. “Why, Sir Anthony, I am delighted to have company,” she said, patting the grass. “I pray you sit down.”
Anthony murmured his thanks and carefully eased his long limbs onto the ground. Margaret had not been this close to him before, and she appraised him at her leisure. Aye, he was possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen, but what she liked more was the openness of his expression. She saw no guile in the wide eyes and upward-turned mouth, simply confidence and a modicum of arrogance. She was also intrigued by the dimple that appeared in his left cheek as he smiled. Thank you, dear Mother of God, for letting me be seated, she thought. Perhaps he will not notice my height.
“I saw you with a book, my lady, and as books are my passion, I could not resist coming to see what you were so earnestly reading.”
Margaret wondered vaguely if he was flattering her, but his tone was sincere, and so she offered the book to him.
“Ah, so you, too, are enthralled by Arthur and his knights,” he said, turning the pages reverently. “Tell me, who is your preferred knight?”
“Galahad, sir. Certes, who could not favor a man who searches so long and valiantly for the Grail? And you, Sir Anthony?”
“I commend your choice, Lady Margaret. Mine is Lancelot du Lac for his gentleness, courtesy and courage. If I may be so forward as to tell you, my aim is to model myself upon him. You do know he was also the greatest fighter of all Arthur’s knights, do you not?”
Margaret scrutinized his face for signs of falseness, but she was rewarded with a direct look and serious expression. “Aye, my lord,” she answered him with equal directness, “although I cannot fathom why men have to prove themselves by fighting each other. But your goal is honorable and long may it continue. But”—she paused, and a small smile changed the tone of her response—“you must guard against falling in love with the queen—when my brother chooses one!”
“Ah, yes. Guinevere. But you see, I am married, and that is where Lancelot and I differ.”
At the mention of his wife, Margaret was brought back to earth. How stupid she was not to have remembered! She lowered her eyes. “Aye, so I have heard. We have not yet had the pleasure of your lady wife’s company at court. Will she be joining you here, sir?”
“Eliza’s health has not been strong of late. She has been keeping to our estates in Norfolk much of the time,” was all he would say. Baroness Scales was the only daughter of Thomas, Seventh Baron Scales, and had inherited the title when her Lancastrian father was murdered by boatmen on the Thames in the year of her marriage to Anthony in 1460. By rights and by marriage Anthony should have been granted the title of baron, but King Henry had more on his mind at that precarious juncture with the Yorkists than to spend time on granting this right to such an insignificant young man. He sighed and looked down at the book, running one immaculately manicured finger over the gold leaf of one of the illustrations. “This is beautiful, Lady Margaret. I can see why it is a favorite.” Then he closed it and handed it to her. “Now I must go.” He could see questions in Margaret’s eyes and had no desire to go into details about his lack of title for fear of reminding Edward’s sister of his recent Lancastrian leanings. He winced as he rose to leave.
Concerned, Margaret said, “Edward tells
“Good day, Lady Margaret,” a pleasant voice interrupted her thoughts. “I hope I am not disturbing you?”
Margaret looked up into Anthony Woodville’s smiling face and smiled back unconsciously. “Why, Sir Anthony, I am delighted to have company,” she said, patting the grass. “I pray you sit down.”
Anthony murmured his thanks and carefully eased his long limbs onto the ground. Margaret had not been this close to him before, and she appraised him at her leisure. Aye, he was possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen, but what she liked more was the openness of his expression. She saw no guile in the wide eyes and upward-turned mouth, simply confidence and a modicum of arrogance. She was also intrigued by the dimple that appeared in his left cheek as he smiled. Thank you, dear Mother of God, for letting me be seated, she thought. Perhaps he will not notice my height.
“I saw you with a book, my lady, and as books are my passion, I could not resist coming to see what you were so earnestly reading.”
Margaret wondered vaguely if he was flattering her, but his tone was sincere, and so she offered the book to him.
“Ah, so you, too, are enthralled by Arthur and his knights,” he said, turning the pages reverently. “Tell me, who is your preferred knight?”
“Galahad, sir. Certes, who could not favor a man who searches so long and valiantly for the Grail? And you, Sir Anthony?”
“I commend your choice, Lady Margaret. Mine is Lancelot du Lac for his gentleness, courtesy and courage. If I may be so forward as to tell you, my aim is to model myself upon him. You do know he was also the greatest fighter of all Arthur’s knights, do you not?”
Margaret scrutinized his face for signs of falseness, but she was rewarded with a direct look and serious expression. “Aye, my lord,” she answered him with equal directness, “although I cannot fathom why men have to prove themselves by fighting each other. But your goal is honorable and long may it continue. But”—she paused, and a small smile changed the tone of her response—“you must guard against falling in love with the queen—when my brother chooses one!”
“Ah, yes. Guinevere. But you see, I am married, and that is where Lancelot and I differ.”
At the mention of his wife, Margaret was brought back to earth. How stupid she was not to have remembered! She lowered her eyes. “Aye, so I have heard. We have not yet had the pleasure of your lady wife’s company at court. Will she be joining you here, sir?”
“Eliza’s health has not been strong of late. She has been keeping to our estates in Norfolk much of the time,” was all he would say. Baroness Scales was the only daughter of Thomas, Seventh Baron Scales, and had inherited the title when her Lancastrian father was murdered by boatmen on the Thames in the year of her marriage to Anthony in 1460. By rights and by marriage Anthony should have been granted the title of baron, but King Henry had more on his mind at that precarious juncture with the Yorkists than to spend time on granting this right to such an insignificant young man. He sighed and looked down at the book, running one immaculately manicured finger over the gold leaf of one of the illustrations. “This is beautiful, Lady Margaret. I can see why it is a favorite.” Then he closed it and handed it to her. “Now I must go.” He could see questions in Margaret’s eyes and had no desire to go into details about his lack of title for fear of reminding Edward’s sister of his recent Lancastrian leanings. He winced as he rose to leave.
Concerned, Margaret said, “Edward tells
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