but gazes on you with one grim glance, fall and kiss his muddy boots—”
“Aye, or kiss wherever he will have you,” Mary Boherne shrieked, and they all fell into gales of hysterical laughter again.
Joan laughed too, but the jest seemed hardly palpable. Did they hate Master Robert or such pious instruction so much they had to mock it so? All Mary Boherne’s words about kissing a lord’s muddy boots made Joan think of her “Sir Mud and Mire,” the man she had watched at the quintain yesterday, and how he had made her feel she wanted to kiss him—or maybe scream at him and so—
“Oh, Lady Joan, forgive us,” Princess Isabella got out between her attempts to catch her breath. “You see, we here have all taken a vow—and you, too, simply must join us, must she not?” the girl plunged on, not waiting for the assent which never came from her clustered ladies. “A vow to do all we can to seek our own pleasure and to have as many men in continual whirls as possible. If you will agree to keep it all secret, especially from all men, we shall tell you straightaway, will we not,
mes chéries
?”
“Aye, of course,” the red-haired Constantia Bourchier said, and several other voices chimed in.
“It is tremendous fun, of course, and we all pick out someone new at least twice a fortnight to—well, to entrance, to make our obedient and eternal slave in love forever. We tell each other all our secrets and even”—here the titters began again as if all sensed a marvelous jest was about to be reiterated—“well, we even entice the same gallant knights sometimes, compare our tactics and the men never know.
Touché!
We fight our own battles
d’amour
our own way.”
They all seemed to turn and stare at Joan. She hoped she did not register surprise—only, at most, interest and, hopefully, delight. “Oh, I see. A marvelous secret. Of course, no one would know, and I shall never tell. Only, I have never had a
beau,
you see, for there were no young men but a few pages and squires at Liddell until my brother Edmund came home with his retinue a fortnight ago to bring me here.”
The lovely, young maids looked taken aback, dismayed. “No swains, no
beaux,
no romance?” someone asked.
“Romance? Saints, I did not say that. I have read them all, Tristain and Isolt, Lancelot and Guinevere, and I can play romances on the lute and many French
chansons
about love.”
“But your home—your castle at Liddell,” Mary Boherne ventured. “Such a small household there were no
galants
?”
“Leave her be, all of you,” Princess Isabella swept to Joan’s rescue. “Just think, not a one of you plays the lute. Will that not be a novelty to attract the knights like little flies,
oui
? Why, even my pompous brothers shall be swept off their feet by that, and where will their rude teasings of our dear secret society be then, eh? Shoo, shoo, all of you now and let me talk with our
chére amie
Joan, and if anyone protests someone as lovely as Fair Joan of Kent being our new and dear friend, let not Joanna or me hear of it! Be off now. Oh, if only my eldest brother Edward had not gone off to his lodge at Berkhamstead now, I swear by St. Peter’s bones we would try your wiles out on him, dear Joan. He teases me unmercifully, though of course we adore each other. My dear Edward was never a quick catch like the other fools who snap at pretty bait and female cleverness.”
“The Prince Edward,” Joan asked, her mind reeling from the mere suggestion her dear new friend could mean she should tempt such a one as the next king of all England. “Our sovereign Prince Edward, the Prince of Wales?” Joan faltered.
Isabella tugged Joan back down to their stools as the remainder of the ladies trailed out the door with a mixture of fond or dart-eyed glances the princess seemed not to note. “Aye, the same. The stern, the grim, the most wonderful and terrible brother a maid ever had. And when you meet him upon his return, show him not the
“Aye, or kiss wherever he will have you,” Mary Boherne shrieked, and they all fell into gales of hysterical laughter again.
Joan laughed too, but the jest seemed hardly palpable. Did they hate Master Robert or such pious instruction so much they had to mock it so? All Mary Boherne’s words about kissing a lord’s muddy boots made Joan think of her “Sir Mud and Mire,” the man she had watched at the quintain yesterday, and how he had made her feel she wanted to kiss him—or maybe scream at him and so—
“Oh, Lady Joan, forgive us,” Princess Isabella got out between her attempts to catch her breath. “You see, we here have all taken a vow—and you, too, simply must join us, must she not?” the girl plunged on, not waiting for the assent which never came from her clustered ladies. “A vow to do all we can to seek our own pleasure and to have as many men in continual whirls as possible. If you will agree to keep it all secret, especially from all men, we shall tell you straightaway, will we not,
mes chéries
?”
“Aye, of course,” the red-haired Constantia Bourchier said, and several other voices chimed in.
“It is tremendous fun, of course, and we all pick out someone new at least twice a fortnight to—well, to entrance, to make our obedient and eternal slave in love forever. We tell each other all our secrets and even”—here the titters began again as if all sensed a marvelous jest was about to be reiterated—“well, we even entice the same gallant knights sometimes, compare our tactics and the men never know.
Touché!
We fight our own battles
d’amour
our own way.”
They all seemed to turn and stare at Joan. She hoped she did not register surprise—only, at most, interest and, hopefully, delight. “Oh, I see. A marvelous secret. Of course, no one would know, and I shall never tell. Only, I have never had a
beau,
you see, for there were no young men but a few pages and squires at Liddell until my brother Edmund came home with his retinue a fortnight ago to bring me here.”
The lovely, young maids looked taken aback, dismayed. “No swains, no
beaux,
no romance?” someone asked.
“Romance? Saints, I did not say that. I have read them all, Tristain and Isolt, Lancelot and Guinevere, and I can play romances on the lute and many French
chansons
about love.”
“But your home—your castle at Liddell,” Mary Boherne ventured. “Such a small household there were no
galants
?”
“Leave her be, all of you,” Princess Isabella swept to Joan’s rescue. “Just think, not a one of you plays the lute. Will that not be a novelty to attract the knights like little flies,
oui
? Why, even my pompous brothers shall be swept off their feet by that, and where will their rude teasings of our dear secret society be then, eh? Shoo, shoo, all of you now and let me talk with our
chére amie
Joan, and if anyone protests someone as lovely as Fair Joan of Kent being our new and dear friend, let not Joanna or me hear of it! Be off now. Oh, if only my eldest brother Edward had not gone off to his lodge at Berkhamstead now, I swear by St. Peter’s bones we would try your wiles out on him, dear Joan. He teases me unmercifully, though of course we adore each other. My dear Edward was never a quick catch like the other fools who snap at pretty bait and female cleverness.”
“The Prince Edward,” Joan asked, her mind reeling from the mere suggestion her dear new friend could mean she should tempt such a one as the next king of all England. “Our sovereign Prince Edward, the Prince of Wales?” Joan faltered.
Isabella tugged Joan back down to their stools as the remainder of the ladies trailed out the door with a mixture of fond or dart-eyed glances the princess seemed not to note. “Aye, the same. The stern, the grim, the most wonderful and terrible brother a maid ever had. And when you meet him upon his return, show him not the
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