wore a gold chain from which dangled a carved and heart-shaped gold pendant that was actually a locket.
Deirdre loaned her little sister delicate little freshwater pearl earbobs, for Velvet, being considered too young, had little jewelry. Lodema, casting a critical eye upon her mistress’s sibling, directed an undermaid to bring her two full-blown golden roses from a vase. She then twisted the flowers together with green ribbons and affixed them on one side of Velvet’s head.
Standing back, she noted sharply, “There now! You’ll not disgrace us.”
Deirdre and Velvet hurried from the apartment and flew downstairs to where Lord Blackthorn awaited them. Velvet felt like an intruder upon an intimate moment as her elder sister brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her smiling husband’s deep blue doublet. John was a very handsome man, Velvet thought, and obviously in his full prime. He stood just a head taller than his wife, and had a well-molded figure that was devoid of fat. If anything he was a bit on the slender side. He had a full head of deep brown hair that was well sprinkled with silver, and he kept it close-cropped. His eyes were of a much lighter blue than Deirdre’s; his face was very narrow and aristocratic with a slim nose, well-spaced eyes, and thin lips. Despite his austere appearance, he was a man who smiled easily and appreciated a good jest better than most.
John Blakeley’s family had owned Blackthorn Priory since the days of William the Conqueror. The priory and its lands had been given to the nobleman who had captured it for William from its inhabitants, rebellious Saxon monks. He was the Sieur Blakeley. The Blakeleys were loyal Englishmen who loved their land and protected it fiercely. They had fought for England alongside Richard I and Edward, the Black Prince, but never had they involved themselves in any court or its politics. It had been their salvation.
Never had an English monarch visited Blackthorn Priory until Elizabeth Tudor had learned—Heaven only knows how, thought John Blakeley—of Blackthorn Priory’s beautiful gardens, which were justly famous throughout the countryside. The gardens, begun over two hundred years ago, had been lovingly tended and added to by each Lady Blackthorn right down to Deirdre, who, like her late grandmother O’Malley, was a lover and collector of rosebushes. The gardens, however, contained not only roses but every flower known to theEnglish, including some beds of rare Persian and Turkish tulip bulbs smuggled in from the East by O’Malley ships. There was also a wonderfully clever boxwood maze, and the queen was known to enjoy mazes. At this moment, the gardens were colorfully ablaze with late tulips, narcissus, primroses, and columbine. Elizabeth should not be disappointed.
Suddenly, up the carefully raked gravel driveway of Blackthorn Priory raced the head gardener’s barefoot son, crying out: “Her is coming! Her is coming!”
“Get off the drive, boy! Get off the drive!” shouted the priory’s fussy majordomo, and the lad scooted onto the green lawn, making a rude noise in the direction of the majordomo as he went.
The younger maidservants, lined up in order of importance, giggled, only to be silenced by a severe look from the housekeeper. The entire staff of Blackthorn Priory , from highest servant to the lowly potboy, stood washed and waiting for a glimpse of the queen and her court.
For what seemed a long moment, there was no sound, not even the chirp of a bird, but then faintly on the wind came the sound of jingling bells and laughing voices. The servants tensed and strained their necks to get the first sighting of the court. At last, as if by magic, around the curve in the drive appeared Elizabeth Tudor and her court, and those waiting and watching let out a collective sigh of delight.
The first rider was mounted on a fine chestnut gelding and bore before him the ceremonial sword of state. Next came the queen riding upon a
Deirdre loaned her little sister delicate little freshwater pearl earbobs, for Velvet, being considered too young, had little jewelry. Lodema, casting a critical eye upon her mistress’s sibling, directed an undermaid to bring her two full-blown golden roses from a vase. She then twisted the flowers together with green ribbons and affixed them on one side of Velvet’s head.
Standing back, she noted sharply, “There now! You’ll not disgrace us.”
Deirdre and Velvet hurried from the apartment and flew downstairs to where Lord Blackthorn awaited them. Velvet felt like an intruder upon an intimate moment as her elder sister brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her smiling husband’s deep blue doublet. John was a very handsome man, Velvet thought, and obviously in his full prime. He stood just a head taller than his wife, and had a well-molded figure that was devoid of fat. If anything he was a bit on the slender side. He had a full head of deep brown hair that was well sprinkled with silver, and he kept it close-cropped. His eyes were of a much lighter blue than Deirdre’s; his face was very narrow and aristocratic with a slim nose, well-spaced eyes, and thin lips. Despite his austere appearance, he was a man who smiled easily and appreciated a good jest better than most.
John Blakeley’s family had owned Blackthorn Priory since the days of William the Conqueror. The priory and its lands had been given to the nobleman who had captured it for William from its inhabitants, rebellious Saxon monks. He was the Sieur Blakeley. The Blakeleys were loyal Englishmen who loved their land and protected it fiercely. They had fought for England alongside Richard I and Edward, the Black Prince, but never had they involved themselves in any court or its politics. It had been their salvation.
Never had an English monarch visited Blackthorn Priory until Elizabeth Tudor had learned—Heaven only knows how, thought John Blakeley—of Blackthorn Priory’s beautiful gardens, which were justly famous throughout the countryside. The gardens, begun over two hundred years ago, had been lovingly tended and added to by each Lady Blackthorn right down to Deirdre, who, like her late grandmother O’Malley, was a lover and collector of rosebushes. The gardens, however, contained not only roses but every flower known to theEnglish, including some beds of rare Persian and Turkish tulip bulbs smuggled in from the East by O’Malley ships. There was also a wonderfully clever boxwood maze, and the queen was known to enjoy mazes. At this moment, the gardens were colorfully ablaze with late tulips, narcissus, primroses, and columbine. Elizabeth should not be disappointed.
Suddenly, up the carefully raked gravel driveway of Blackthorn Priory raced the head gardener’s barefoot son, crying out: “Her is coming! Her is coming!”
“Get off the drive, boy! Get off the drive!” shouted the priory’s fussy majordomo, and the lad scooted onto the green lawn, making a rude noise in the direction of the majordomo as he went.
The younger maidservants, lined up in order of importance, giggled, only to be silenced by a severe look from the housekeeper. The entire staff of Blackthorn Priory , from highest servant to the lowly potboy, stood washed and waiting for a glimpse of the queen and her court.
For what seemed a long moment, there was no sound, not even the chirp of a bird, but then faintly on the wind came the sound of jingling bells and laughing voices. The servants tensed and strained their necks to get the first sighting of the court. At last, as if by magic, around the curve in the drive appeared Elizabeth Tudor and her court, and those waiting and watching let out a collective sigh of delight.
The first rider was mounted on a fine chestnut gelding and bore before him the ceremonial sword of state. Next came the queen riding upon a
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