easier than usual.
“They have only one thing on their minds,” her father told her on a recent outing, pointing to a stag in the distance that was rubbing its hardened antlers against a tree to mark it. “To find a willing doe.”
Cecily’s blank look tickled her father’s sense of humor, and he roared with laughter. “’Tis the time to get her with child—just as all males in the animal kingdom feel the urge to do, including us—and not just at rutting time!” he told her, pointing to a lurcher trying to mount a bitch and getting its leg nipped for its pains. At once he remembered that it was his daughter and not a son he was talking to and covered his clumsy explanation with an embarrassed cough. “Ask your mother. She will tell you all you need to know,” were his parting words. But Cecily never dared approach her mother with the topic and so remained in ignorance—and gratefully so.
Today Ralph was planning to hunt near Brancepeth, where it was rumored that a pair of wild boars had been seen. The party that set out was larger than usual, and Cecily maneuvered herself next to Richard, who was among a group of henchmen that did not include her brothers. With George and Edward now riding with Ralph, Cecily saw her chance to have a quiet conversation with her betrothed, as her mother had sanctioned. The other young hunters fell away, and Cecily and Richard trotted side by side up the road to Brancepeth.
“What do you think of your Brancepeth family, Cecily?” Dickon asked. “It seemed to me on the day of our betrothal that your father’s heir is somewhat vainglorious. Am I mistaken?”
“Vainglorious? I confess ’tis not a word I know. But if it means conceited, high and mighty, or a bore, you are being kind, Dickon. Why, he can barely give any of us Beaufort Nevilles a ‘Good day,’ and his nose would scrape the tree branches if he held it any higher. He is naught but a swollen-headed peacock, and I hate him!”
“God’s body, Cecily,” Dickon said on a laugh. “Why do you not simply speak your mind?”
Unused to sarcasm, Cecily replied, “But I did. ’Tis what I think.” Then she giggled. “Heavens, I was only supposed to talk to you about the weather—or perhaps you would like me to recite a few of Master Chaucer’s lines?”
Dickon made a face. “I detest verse,” he declared. “Nay, I would much prefer we speak about the rest of your family. But we can tell your mother we spoke of the weather, if you don’t mind a small untruth.” He raised his eyebrow, and seeing her grin, he put his finger to his lips to keep their secret. “What more can you tell me of your sisters and brothers?”
Cecily was ecstatic. She felt so grown up, chatting with her intended about her family. Not only was she having private time with Dickon, but he did not mind conversing about things other than the weather. I think I shall like being married to him, she decided.
“I was happy when our Joan went off to the convent,” she confided. “Nay, not happy she went, but happy it was not me. I think being a nun must be the dullest thing in all the world.”
“What do you hope for in your life, Cis? Besides being my duchess, of course.”
“What else is there, Dickon?” Then she dimpled. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I sometimes dream about being a queen. I think I would make a good queen.” She looked at him from under her lashes, afraid he would laugh at her, but his face was perfectly serious.
“I dream about being a soldier—nay, commander of an army—and winning lots of battles,” he said. He smiled at her as they crossed a clearing, following the sound of faraway horns. “I think my dream is more likely to come true, but I promise I will not tell a soul about yours.”
Cecily’s eyes shone. “A secret! I love secrets.”
A pair of magpies flew over them, and the two young people looked up at once. Cecily was enchanted.
“One for sorrow, two for joy,
“Three for a girl
“They have only one thing on their minds,” her father told her on a recent outing, pointing to a stag in the distance that was rubbing its hardened antlers against a tree to mark it. “To find a willing doe.”
Cecily’s blank look tickled her father’s sense of humor, and he roared with laughter. “’Tis the time to get her with child—just as all males in the animal kingdom feel the urge to do, including us—and not just at rutting time!” he told her, pointing to a lurcher trying to mount a bitch and getting its leg nipped for its pains. At once he remembered that it was his daughter and not a son he was talking to and covered his clumsy explanation with an embarrassed cough. “Ask your mother. She will tell you all you need to know,” were his parting words. But Cecily never dared approach her mother with the topic and so remained in ignorance—and gratefully so.
Today Ralph was planning to hunt near Brancepeth, where it was rumored that a pair of wild boars had been seen. The party that set out was larger than usual, and Cecily maneuvered herself next to Richard, who was among a group of henchmen that did not include her brothers. With George and Edward now riding with Ralph, Cecily saw her chance to have a quiet conversation with her betrothed, as her mother had sanctioned. The other young hunters fell away, and Cecily and Richard trotted side by side up the road to Brancepeth.
“What do you think of your Brancepeth family, Cecily?” Dickon asked. “It seemed to me on the day of our betrothal that your father’s heir is somewhat vainglorious. Am I mistaken?”
“Vainglorious? I confess ’tis not a word I know. But if it means conceited, high and mighty, or a bore, you are being kind, Dickon. Why, he can barely give any of us Beaufort Nevilles a ‘Good day,’ and his nose would scrape the tree branches if he held it any higher. He is naught but a swollen-headed peacock, and I hate him!”
“God’s body, Cecily,” Dickon said on a laugh. “Why do you not simply speak your mind?”
Unused to sarcasm, Cecily replied, “But I did. ’Tis what I think.” Then she giggled. “Heavens, I was only supposed to talk to you about the weather—or perhaps you would like me to recite a few of Master Chaucer’s lines?”
Dickon made a face. “I detest verse,” he declared. “Nay, I would much prefer we speak about the rest of your family. But we can tell your mother we spoke of the weather, if you don’t mind a small untruth.” He raised his eyebrow, and seeing her grin, he put his finger to his lips to keep their secret. “What more can you tell me of your sisters and brothers?”
Cecily was ecstatic. She felt so grown up, chatting with her intended about her family. Not only was she having private time with Dickon, but he did not mind conversing about things other than the weather. I think I shall like being married to him, she decided.
“I was happy when our Joan went off to the convent,” she confided. “Nay, not happy she went, but happy it was not me. I think being a nun must be the dullest thing in all the world.”
“What do you hope for in your life, Cis? Besides being my duchess, of course.”
“What else is there, Dickon?” Then she dimpled. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I sometimes dream about being a queen. I think I would make a good queen.” She looked at him from under her lashes, afraid he would laugh at her, but his face was perfectly serious.
“I dream about being a soldier—nay, commander of an army—and winning lots of battles,” he said. He smiled at her as they crossed a clearing, following the sound of faraway horns. “I think my dream is more likely to come true, but I promise I will not tell a soul about yours.”
Cecily’s eyes shone. “A secret! I love secrets.”
A pair of magpies flew over them, and the two young people looked up at once. Cecily was enchanted.
“One for sorrow, two for joy,
“Three for a girl
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