snatched—”
“Lisette means only that she is used to married couples,” interrupted Margaret, flushing. “In our society, we are married at such a young age.” Her voice trailed off.
“Before we know who we are,” I said. “Before we even have the capacity to choose—so that we can’t.”
The young man shot me a sharp look. I twisted my napkin while Isabel picked up her horn-handled knife and peeled an orange.
“Have you heard the story of Black Fulk of Anjou?” she enquired, staring at the young man. She looked around. “Some of us here are descended from him. One day, he discovered his wife in the arms of her lover. Do you know what he did?”
The young man stared at her, unflinching.
“I will tell you,” said Isabel, returning his stare. “He made his wife get into her wedding finery. Then he burned her alive in the town square at Angers.”
There was silence for several moments, almost as if everyone was holding their breath. Then a sound made everyone turn.
It was Lisette. She slumped, white-faced into her seat.
Margaret got up. “She is not well,” she said, frowning at Isabel, who daintily placed a piece of orange into her mouth. “I must take her back to her chamber.”
I signaled to the steward, who bowed and put his hand under Lisette’s elbow while Margaret stood on her other side. Between them, they propelled the limp figure back to the castle.
“She makes much out of nothing,” said Isabel. “She creates these dramas.”
“Your story was not pleasant,” said Bess. She turned to me. “Is she easily upset?”
I hesitated. It was a delicate matter for Lisette, married to someone like my brother George, who had an unpredictable temper. Eventually I murmured, “She is not happy.”
Isabel snorted. “Who is?”
I rose. “I fear I must bid you goodnight,” I said to the young man. “Margaret might need my help.”
The young man bowed. “Of course,” he murmured, gazing at me as he kissed my hand.
I stepped into the shadows to hide my blushes while the others bade farewell to him.
“What a charming young man,” declared Bess as we went back to the castle. “So well favored. Do you suppose we’ll be seeing him again?”
“You can be sure of that,” said Isabel. “He clearly enjoys gleaning information and gossip from wherever he can find it.”
I didn’t respond.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Bess, curtseying first to me, then to Isabel. She smiled at me as she stifled a yawn and disappeared up the stone staircase.
“You’re quiet tonight, Cecylee,” said Isabel, giving me a peck on the cheek.
“I am greatly fatigued, madam,” I replied, sweeping her a low curtsey.
I spent that night waiting for dawn to break.
Chapter 7
Lammastide
August 1,1441
By Lammastide, the roses had reached their peak and clustered thickly up and over the arbor, providing not only shade but also a wonderful scent that intensified upon the evening.
It was my custom to sit in the arbor, by the bathing pool, with Margaret while we did our needlework. At thirty-seven years, Margaret was the eldest lady of my acquaintance, and during that long, hot summer, she became my dearest friend and confidante. Perhaps this was because Mama had so recently passed away.
How I missed Mama. Though we’d not seen much of each other these four years since my marriage to Richard, our messages brought me great comfort. Now she’d been gathered up to heaven, leaving a great hole in my life. Something Richard didn’t understand.
I sighed. Why did he interest me so? I’d scarcely been able to keep him out of mind for the past week. “What do you want?” I murmured. Then, recollecting myself, I said to Margaret, “I wish I could give my lord another son. Little Henry is not strong. I fear he will not make old bones.”
“Has he been coughing again?”
“Yes. He seems always to be sick with something, and it’s high summer. What will happen when winter
“Lisette means only that she is used to married couples,” interrupted Margaret, flushing. “In our society, we are married at such a young age.” Her voice trailed off.
“Before we know who we are,” I said. “Before we even have the capacity to choose—so that we can’t.”
The young man shot me a sharp look. I twisted my napkin while Isabel picked up her horn-handled knife and peeled an orange.
“Have you heard the story of Black Fulk of Anjou?” she enquired, staring at the young man. She looked around. “Some of us here are descended from him. One day, he discovered his wife in the arms of her lover. Do you know what he did?”
The young man stared at her, unflinching.
“I will tell you,” said Isabel, returning his stare. “He made his wife get into her wedding finery. Then he burned her alive in the town square at Angers.”
There was silence for several moments, almost as if everyone was holding their breath. Then a sound made everyone turn.
It was Lisette. She slumped, white-faced into her seat.
Margaret got up. “She is not well,” she said, frowning at Isabel, who daintily placed a piece of orange into her mouth. “I must take her back to her chamber.”
I signaled to the steward, who bowed and put his hand under Lisette’s elbow while Margaret stood on her other side. Between them, they propelled the limp figure back to the castle.
“She makes much out of nothing,” said Isabel. “She creates these dramas.”
“Your story was not pleasant,” said Bess. She turned to me. “Is she easily upset?”
I hesitated. It was a delicate matter for Lisette, married to someone like my brother George, who had an unpredictable temper. Eventually I murmured, “She is not happy.”
Isabel snorted. “Who is?”
I rose. “I fear I must bid you goodnight,” I said to the young man. “Margaret might need my help.”
The young man bowed. “Of course,” he murmured, gazing at me as he kissed my hand.
I stepped into the shadows to hide my blushes while the others bade farewell to him.
“What a charming young man,” declared Bess as we went back to the castle. “So well favored. Do you suppose we’ll be seeing him again?”
“You can be sure of that,” said Isabel. “He clearly enjoys gleaning information and gossip from wherever he can find it.”
I didn’t respond.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Bess, curtseying first to me, then to Isabel. She smiled at me as she stifled a yawn and disappeared up the stone staircase.
“You’re quiet tonight, Cecylee,” said Isabel, giving me a peck on the cheek.
“I am greatly fatigued, madam,” I replied, sweeping her a low curtsey.
I spent that night waiting for dawn to break.
Chapter 7
Lammastide
August 1,1441
By Lammastide, the roses had reached their peak and clustered thickly up and over the arbor, providing not only shade but also a wonderful scent that intensified upon the evening.
It was my custom to sit in the arbor, by the bathing pool, with Margaret while we did our needlework. At thirty-seven years, Margaret was the eldest lady of my acquaintance, and during that long, hot summer, she became my dearest friend and confidante. Perhaps this was because Mama had so recently passed away.
How I missed Mama. Though we’d not seen much of each other these four years since my marriage to Richard, our messages brought me great comfort. Now she’d been gathered up to heaven, leaving a great hole in my life. Something Richard didn’t understand.
I sighed. Why did he interest me so? I’d scarcely been able to keep him out of mind for the past week. “What do you want?” I murmured. Then, recollecting myself, I said to Margaret, “I wish I could give my lord another son. Little Henry is not strong. I fear he will not make old bones.”
“Has he been coughing again?”
“Yes. He seems always to be sick with something, and it’s high summer. What will happen when winter
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