Roan Rose

Roan Rose

By Juliet Waldron

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-1-77362-199-9

Kindle 978-1-77145-151-2

WEB 978-1-77362-200-2

Print 978-1-77362-201-9

Dedication

To the Legend I met in my tenth year,

sitting behind that Barbadian bar, nose in a book.

God send to every gentleman,

Such hawks, such hounds

And such a Leman….

—The Three Ravens, archaic

A Game of Chess

The King of England and I played chess, passing his sleepless hours. After years of struggling with the game, I can say, without exaggeration, that I'd become a formidable competitor, nearly his equal. I will stand firm upon this claim, even though I was a lowly servant—and female, at that.

Nightly, our forces swayed back and forth across the board, until the birds began a summons to Dawn, calling her, as the harpers say, "from that silken couch whereon she dreams."

We sat in a steady circle of candlelight in a small, high room at the palace of Nottingham. From our vantage point, the narrow river, spangled by summer stars, flowed below a single, open window. The distance, I might add, was sufficient to prevent the smell from blighting the view.

Of late, I had won a few these matches. This I credited in part to the King's growing distraction and exhaustion. By June of 1485, he’d realized that his rule was unraveling around him, and, that he, in no small part, had been the architect of oncoming disaster.

What other choices, however, could my Lord have made? If he had let his nephew come to the throne, his own head would, sooner or later, have become his vengeful sister in law's trophy. Either that or he would have been arrested and mewed up by his enemies, murdered in secret like so many members of his family. Richard Plantagenet knew history and he was not a passive man. All he'd done in deposing the boy was to strike his enemies before they could strike him.

Men now say otherwise.

There is mystery in the dark hours between two and four. The black and white squares of the board swam before my eyes. I, too, was tired to my very bones. The King's wakefulness had become his servant's. I was ready to make a move when his foot, under a long red robe, touched mine beneath the table. The contact seemed accidental, but was it?

He knows how greatly I love him, how I hunger for any touch….

Concentration broken, I glanced up and met his brilliant hazel eyes, burning deep in hollows of chronic sleeplessness. For an instant, a slight smile curved those thin, mobile lips, but his gaze returned naturally to the board. Our relationship had always been singular. Only recently had it turned—let us say—customary. During the winter, his queen, the mistress I'd served and loved for nigh onto twenty years, had died. That is why his touch distracted me, made my concentration falter.

Was the move I'd planned such a good one?

My hand wavered over the few remaining strong pieces. Traps lay on every side. Several, I saw clearly, for I'd been playing chess with Richard since our shared childhood. Whatever coup de grace he'd planned, I feared I'd never see until it was too late.

That wasn't fair. In our secret kingdom of night, titles, and much else customary between master and servant, had been abandoned.

Check.

I'd revised, chosen to move my last knight to pin down his king. Of course, I knew quite well that second guesses are nearly always fatal this deep in a match.

Nothing in this world is fair.

As his hand went for it, I saw my doom—a lurking bishop.

Checkmate, Richard lifted a dark brow in triumph. Extending those jeweled, elegant fingers, his bishop cast down my helpless king.

You touched my foot on purpose.

What of it?

It was worth losing any number of chess matches to see him smile. Always glorious—and always rare—it had, lately, become a thing of legend.

Old Dick doesn't smile. This was well known all over his Kingdom. Like a great many other things that are ‘well known’, there was not a grain of truth in it.

I don't mind. It's only that you used to win by your wits, and now it seems you must rely upon the lowest tricks to best your humble servant.

He laughed shortly, but it was not an entirely happy sound. Playing with my king now, turning it between ringed thumb and forefinger, he said, Better for all of us had I learned the game of low tricks at a far earlier age.

How to reply? Crouching at the back of this night's wakefulness lay the same old horror. Where are his nephews?

Pawns are always the first to go. In my Lord's case, crime had brought, as it so rarely does in this wicked world, a punishment not only swift, but apt. In the space of sixteen months, the King had lost his adored son and his dearly beloved wife, my noble mistress.

On this night, Richard Plantagenet had traveled almost to the end of his earthly course, to the haunted land where human tribulation ends. Gazing at the ruin of our board, I believe we both knew it.

Chapter I

Little Witch! A slap always followed the malediction. Dost thou stare?

This was my father. He did not like children whose opinions showed in their eyes. Large dark eyes I had—my mother's eyes—and when I displeased him, he was not slow to punish the unbroken will he saw.

I was born at the village of Aysgarth in the house of a stark yeoman farmer, Master Whitby. He was not pleased when my mother gave him a daughter, and then another and another, as if by the force of her own contrary will.

Master Whitby acknowledged me, however, as he acknowledged my sisters. I was written down in the book at the Church of Our Lady as Rosalba Whitby, legitimate, born to Master Raymond Whitby and his espoused wife, Roseanne.

When I was old enough to hear the tale, my mother very kindly let me know matters stood otherwise. To learn I had been conceived in liberty and was not the get of that humorless, ham-fisted tyrant fills me, to this day, with satisfaction.

Aysgarth lies on Wenslydale, north and west of the great Keep of Middleham. Here our peasant houses grew from the ground like mushrooms. The poorest were of turf, but the best homes, like the one in which I was born, rose upon a costly timber frame.

Those hard packed earthen floors! In the East Wind time, rain slanted through the central smoke hole and pelted the fire of our hearth. I remember huddling close, thinking how the flames were like serpents, lowering their fiery heads and hissing whenever the drops landed. During the worst weather, the entire family, including Master Whitby's curly-pelted white cattle, sheltered with us.

Our village was linked by a single, rutted path. Beyond the stone fences lay fields, wild water and wind. The river went down rapids and over the falls, on and on until it reached the stormy eastern sea through the Great Wash.

My mother kept a garden behind the house. Well-manured with the leavings of our animals, tended by my hands and those of my older half-brothers, it flourished. Here mother grew turnips, mangels, carrots, parsnips and greens, food for us and for our animals. In a raised patch, she also grew herbs, for she was Aysgarth's midwife.

She knew how to cultivate and how to distill what was useful. She delivered children, here in Aysgarth and on the dales round about. So skillful and well-reputed was she that she lived to the age of nineteen free of the marital yoke.

Our priest, however, did not approve. My maternal grandmother had been hanged as a witch and people hereabout have long memories. Although my mother had mostly been raised by a pious woman, Mother Margery, the blood line of a witch was said to run strong.

After my foster mother died, the priest and the other men of the village decided it was best that my mother, so inclined to independence, be placed under the thumb of a strong man. Farmer Whitby, recently again a widower again, was elected to the task. My mother was his fourth and final wife.

Edward Duke of York took the throne, apparently once and for all, from the House of Lancaster during my sixth year. With the help of our mighty Earl of Warwick, Edward imprisoned the mad old King, Henry VI, and drove out his wife, Queen Marguerite, a damned French princess. Edward then declared the Queen's son by the old king to be a bastard.

Master Whitby had no love for queens, especially French ones. He rallied at once to the idea that Queen Marguerite's son had been gotten in adultery.

It is said that our poor monkish King cried out she must have made that little shit with the Holy Ghost! I'll tell you, no good has ever come from a single one of these French queens. They bring us only bad government and war. Their courts are filled with their lovers and prancing catamites whose only care is to plunder decent folk. Look at Great King Hal’s French bitch! Popping out pups to a dirty Welsh stable-boy as soon as the Lord Chamberlain's back was turned.

Rosalba—White Rose—was a name given to me by my mother, who favored flower names. I think Master Whitby acquiesced in it because at the time he thought it politic to have a foot in the Yorkist camp. One of my elder half-brothers still glowered about the house under the name of Clifford, in honor of that other great northern family. Supporters of the House of Lancaster, they had once been a great power among us. One of Master Whitby's favorite adages was: Coats must go on as the wind blows.

* * *

When I was ten, the Duchess of Warwick, wife to the Mighty Earl named Kingmaker, arrived in Aysgarth. This lady was on her way to the Keep of Middleham, and had fallen ill. This was how she came to rest, with all her train, in our small stone church.

We all went to gawk. Lords and their ladies did not pass our way often.

I say the whole village, but this is not quite correct. My mother would never dare leave the house without my father's permission. Master Whitby's rule in this, as in all things, was enforced with blows. Mother picked her battles.

I can still call the old man to mind, him with his long salt and pepper beard, lank grizzled hair, and his wide, work-thickened hand, a member with which all his dependents had close acquaintance. His gaze alone could scald you, for he was a man of choleric humor. Even his flesh bore testimony, for every exposed inch of him turned scarlet at haying time. Master Whitby was certain that while he and other men labored in the fields or among the cattle, their women were likely to waste either their time or a husband’s hard-won goods. He was a firm believer that women were vain, foolish and lazy.

I shall recall no more of him, for to carp is a poor pastime. There were others in our village who suffered more. For all I know, my mother would have ended like her mother had she had remained without the protection of marriage. Master Whitby took at least as good care of his children as he did his cattle. He allowed my mother to exercise her gifts, for any reward she received only made him that much richer.

Ordinarily, during a visit by high gentry, Mother would have remained in the kitchen. Going to gape at the progress of the mighty was not worth the price she'd later have to pay. Nevertheless, this time she eventually did go, for she was summoned by a power far higher, by Lady Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick.

* * *

The retainers of the Earl had gathered around our church, making a better spectacle than any feast day. Mother and I walked through a forest of armed men, of horses and carts and bright banners.

I wondered at the beauty of the ladies. Their mounts were hinnies with delicate legs and long ears, decked with brasses and draped in scarlet. The Ragged Staff banner of the Countess’ husband stood before our church, snapping in a raw April breeze. The great lady’s journey had been interrupted by woman's trouble. Her ladies, perhaps desiring a scapegoat, had called for the local midwife. I accompanied my mother, scurrying behind her and carrying a small wooden box of hastily assembled vials.

The dark, echoing interior of the church was familiar, but I had never seen or imagined it like this, filled with torches and retainers, their coats of mail and polished armor bright against the stone. We were led in straightaway by a sharp-nosed lady in the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. I remember it to this day, a dashing scarlet, a kind of cloth for which I then had no name. The material fell in luxurious folds. The white scarves adorning her headdress were fine as fairy wings.

She took us to a narrow room behind the high altar, usually only visited by choir or the priests. I could feel sweat beneath my shirt, although the day was cold. Mother was nervous too, although she held her head high. Before answering the summons, she had taken time to wash her face and put on a clean apron and cap, as if it were a Sunday. Now, I understood why.

* * *

I smelled blood at once. All the colors—all the clean and sheen of her numerous attendants, as fair as angels in the church windows, all—vanished with that smell. It was strong, the smell of birthing. It was not the sharp, clear smell of a pumping wound or of an animal bleeding its last under the butcher’s knife, but heavy and musky—sure sign of a she-creature in trouble.

Stay close.

I stood beside my mother, clutching the box.

You are midwife of Aysgarth?

My knees knocked as I looked up at the great lady, seated on a make-shift bed, a plank covered with blankets and set between stools. My father was a king in his house and we feared him, but we knew that he feared his lord who lived in Kendall Castle, Sir William. In turn, Sir William feared his lord, the great Earl of Warwick, whose knee bent only to the King in London! This proud lady, now suffering like a commoner in our poor church, represented great power.

Yes, Milady. Mistress Whitby, at your service. Mother curtseyed low and bowed her head. Her emphatic downward motion sent me to my knees on the cold slate beside her, still clutching the box.

Come to me quick, woman! I miscarry.

I raised my eyes and this time managed to focus upon the most high and noble lady. Her brows were narrow and perfectly arched against her forehead, the whitest I'd ever seen. The eyes beneath those brows were like a gray autumn sky. Her pallor was deep, as if she had been struck in a vital part by a sword. I followed my mother, the box held against my flat, freckled chest.

The ladies who attended, with their fair skin, their soft hands, and round plump cheeks, parted before us. They looked like queasy angels, uncertain for the first time in their divine lives. This was not a trouble which could be managed by smooth address.

Mother went straight to work. I was used to this commanding demeanor when she assumed the midwife's mantle. The Countess lay back and submitted to her handling. Great Lady she might be, but now she must abandon modesty. Like a cow in a difficult calving, she must accept our helping hands.

The small, bloody lump my mother soon delivered from between her white knees was a boy. A noble child, but he looked to me the same as any other miscarry I’d seen. The Countess of Warwick's pain and her tears were also familiar.

I knelt by mother, first handing her vials, some of precious glass and others of equally precious metal, exactly as she called for them. The ladies served, bringing basins of hot water to us and a goblet of hot red wine to their mistress.

Cures were mixed with the wine; the Countess sipped. After passing away the cup, much to my surprise, the great lady took my hand and squeezed it. I did what Mother had taught, and offered her both hands. I gazed in awe at the whiteness that my fingers—so freckled and rough—enclosed. Veins crossed the back of her hand, and I wondered if it were true, the thing men said about the aristocracy having blue blood, different from ours.

Our priest said it was true, that he'd seen the heads cut from Lords, and that the first blood was dark as the winter sea. Master Whitby scoffed. If that were so then pigs or bulls must also be noblemen, for didn't their blood—when struck proper—flow just as dark?

As I held the Countess' hand between mine, her breathing eased. I could see her muscles relax. Mother helped her patient with a clout of clean cloths, and fed her the wine in which she'd let fall four carefully measured drops of distilled knotweed and nettle.

Knotweed to tie up bleeding.

Nettle for a heated illness….

The noble child was lost, but the Countess did not blame. She grieved that she had failed her lord and that she had lost a child of her body. My mother assured her the miscarriage was clean, that nothing remained behind to poison the blood.

God willing, there will be others, Milady Countess. Mother ventured the common comfort.

The Countess responded with a weary smile that turned down on one side.

Yes. God willing.

My mother asked if the lady felt much pain.

Yes, good woman, though I know it well. This is a trial I have stood before.

I was impressed by the way she bore her misfortune, with pride and grace, even in this most wretched physical moment.

If it cannot be helped, it is best just to get on….

Mother finished by giving a draught containing poppy from one of the vials, then she brought from her pocket a smooth round stone from the river. It was gray, apparently like a thousand others, but my Mother was never without it.

With your permission, Milady Countess; may I speak a charm to stop pain?

Yes. The Countess lay back and closed her eyes.

There was a silent moment while mother began to pass the stone over the lady's body.

"Hair and hide

Flesh and bone,

Feel no more pain

Than this stone."

The charm was told thirteen times. Still holding the Countess' hand, I ventured to gaze at her. Everyone knew that her husband, the great Earl whose power made and broke kings, had sired only two daughters. No sons to fight at their warlike father's side! Wondering if the Earl upbraided her for dereliction, I felt a wave of pity.

Mr. Whitby, my authority upon everything male, declared that blood royal had grown weak as water since the time of Edward III. It was, he said, the cause of England’s long years of war.

Why, a man cannot be left to farm his land in peace for ten weeks before he is marched over by armies. Every village is robbed of young men for arrays, chaste women are befouled, cattle, grain and sheep are stolen. No law anywhere, only this lord and that, stirring up factions among us. How can an honest man increase his worth in such turmoil? This is surely God's judgment, just like the plague of my grandfather's time.

In Whitby's opinion, the Earl of Warwick was an improvement over the Percies, the old Lords of the North. Recently, he’d cut away the red rose that had grown over the door and planted a white one. Upon his Sunday hat he now sported a handsomely embroidered badge of The Ragged Staff.

* * *

When the Countess drowsed, we crept away. The chief among the ladies-in-waiting gave mother a coin as we left.

You may be called again.

May the Blessed Mother protect our good Countess. Mother bowed deeply.

The lady’s haughty demeanor softened at my mother's stolid concern. We did not quite dare to bow ourselves away, because she continued to stare at us if she had something else to say.

Excuse me, Lady, Mother finally said, but we must go. My husband will be angry if he finds me not in his house when he returns from the fields.

Although you have attended your Countess?

Milady. Mother kept her eyes down, but I stole a glance, and saw the plucked places where the woman's brows had once been arch.

Have no fear. Your husband may not grudge service to the wife of The Earl of Warwick, he who is master of this land and all in it.

As you say, Milady.

Mother bowed again, and the proud noblewoman, to my surprise, returned a faint echo of her reverence.

* * *

I observed your apprentice. The Countess looked better today, and, as her lady-in- waiting had suggested, she had called for mother Early the next day. She did not, however, speak of herself, but seemed inclined to other matters.

She is my daughter, your ladyship.

She is young.

It is never too Early to study the craft, Milady.

The Countess nodded. Her great gray eyes turned thoughtfully upon me.

You wish her to follow you.

I do hope and pray that she will, Milady of Warwick, God willing.

Her touch hath healing. How does she in your garden?

Well, Milady. She is my eldest, obedient and clever.

Come here, child.

I did as I was told. Sunlight fell precipitously through a window, a sudden break in the eternal galloping clouds of spring. I was walking, although I did not know it, into another world.

The Countess stretched out a long-fingered white hand. I had never seen so many glistening jewels. The danced before my eyes like blue and red stars.

Give the Countess your hand, child! From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered a jab between my shoulder blades. My small freckled fingers met the elegant hand of the lady.

Such beautiful eyes! Hers met mine, and I knew that her spirit was exactly as hard and as brilliant as those jewels upon her fingers.

What is your name, child?

Rosalba.

Rosalba—White Rose. The name made her smile and once more I was astonished. Unlike most breeding women of our village, she had all her teeth.

Do you have brothers and sisters, Rosalba?

Two little sisters, Milady.

Speak up! From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered another poke.

Do you take care of them when your mother is busy?

Yes, Milady, when I am not helping my mother in the garden, or in the kitchen.

Do you like caring for your little sisters?

Oh, yes, Milady. When Lily was sick with croup last winter, I nursed her at night so Mother could sleep. The Countess seemed so approving that, despite the harsh presence at my back, I gained sufficient confidence to add, This spring our Lily is bonny and fat.

You give your mother good service.

What happened next is hard to describe, but I could feel a wave of distress coming from my mother. Although she didn’t make a sound and I couldn't see her, it was as if she had cried aloud. It was a torture doubled because I did not dare turn back to see.

I have two daughters. Do you know that?

I nodded vigorously.

My youngest daughter is Anne. She is not hale and hearty like you, Rosalba.

She studied me. Then, suddenly, her focus swept beyond, with such fierce determination that I was impelled to turn my head. When I did, I saw that my mother's eyes, those big dark eyes we shared, were full of tears.

Mistress Whitby, give me this little roan rose.

I saw my mother—my brave mother—swallow hard.

We are yours to command, your ladyship. Mother folded her hands beneath her bosom. Unlike bullying episodes with my father, she did not lower her eyes.

I wish her to nurse my youngest.

Mother's eyes were unnaturally bright, but instead of voicing sorrow, she replied steadily.

An’ it be your will, Milady Countess. You greatly honor us, who are ever at your service.

Chapter II

I don't want to go away!

You must.

We were on the way home. Mother would not look at me.

But you need me!

I do, but your father does not. Already he plans to marry you away.

If she had knocked me to the ground with her fist, I could not have been more surprised. Most girls in our village were married between twelve and fifteen. I was ten, but, having little dowry, had counted upon at least three years more of living as a maid in the good care and teaching of my mother.

You are to go to the home of Martin Thornton, by Oxnop Ghyll. His wife has begun to ramble in her wits and old Martin himself is poorly. You and Jane Cobb are to meet with his sons, Mark and Matthew, at the church door, on the Nativity of John the Baptist. You are for Mark and Jane is for Matthew. They badly need women in that house.

Cold news, more terrible than a bad harvest.

The Thorntons will take you without dower, for they know you are a good girl and are a hard worker. To get rid of a daughter was all it took to persuade Master Whitby of the wisdom of his course.

Why had she not told me?

The Thorntons were wild as Scots. They lived on the high dales, lonely herders in a stone and turf croft, a family rough, simple, and almost as speechless, as their sheep.

I have entreated the Blessed Mother to save you every night since Master Whitby shook hands with Old Martin at the Cross Quarter market.

Mother's fingers closed tightly on my arm. Her gaze burned.

Oh, my darling! I feared Our Lady had abandoned us, but see! My prayer is answered! You are saved! Whitby will not dare refuse the Countess of Warwick.

Tearing my arm away, I fled, running down the street, clogs clopping and slipping. Past the smith's shed with its reek, noise and steam, across the gray stepping stones of the rattling beck, water gurgling on every side. I knew Mother would not follow. She had supper to make and news to break to the wrathful man who ruled us.

I ran until I was out of breath, then I walked, up a grassy hill that overlooked Aysgarth. A narrow, winding sheep path led to the top and I followed it. Near the crest, I turned to look back at the huddled houses trailing smoke. There were numbers of fires tonight, with the train of Countess in residence. Church bells rang for Compline, the sound clear and hollow. Wind was dying along with the sunlight. I shivered and tightened my shawl, knowing I had nearly a mile to go.

At last, toward sunset, I reached the place I sought, a bald hilltop jumble of weathered rocks which stood sentry over our valley’s thin soil. Carved by rain and wind, these stones were filled with fissures, some large enough to sit inside. Shepherds caught by the gale hid here, waiting it out with their sheep.

Close to the center of this desert place, springing from a crack, one deep enough to hold a man, grew an oak tree. Blasted by storms, twisted, stunted, starved, and yet it grew. The villagers were always wood hungry, but somehow, over the centuries, no one had been desperate enough to cut it. It was very old, leaning and spare, the shape sculpted by the prevailing wind.

Mother brought offerings here in secret, as her mother had. In dry summers she carried water. In autumn moonlight, she brought dishes of blood from butchering. She poured these tributes into the fractures where the gnarled roots sank. Others brought similar gifts here as well. I knew because sometimes the rocks were stained when we arrived, but I never knew who else tended the ancient tree, and I never asked.

Somehow, this had always seemed a natural place to take my distress. Certainly, no one would be here tonight. The tree stood alone, clinging to the mouth of a crevice. Following the twisted trunk downward, I lowered my body into the hole. The stone my palms pressed was sharp and grainy.

Crouching in the dimness, I wept upon the roots and waited for the calm of the place to overtake me. Sweat cooled upon my back. A shiver shook me and passed, born of the deep chill that always lingered here.

Looking up, I peered through the branches, lifted against that broken spring sky. In summer the leaves seemed to be whispering secrets, but this was too early. Only a few wart-like buds dotted the twisted limbs. As I sat, listening to my blood pump, staring up through the branches, I heard a fierce, sweet cry, one which spoke of beauty, of power and pain.

Out of the clouds, riding down a ray of light, sped a hawk. He seemed a lord, far removed from the humble, grubbing world of men. He shot by, faster than an arrow. He did not call again, but the perfect moment reverberated like a rung bell.

That was when I understood. As frightened as I was of leaving everything and everyone I'd ever known, of going away with strangers to a place where a peasant was less than nothing, it was better than the slavery to which Master Whitby would doom me.

Mother was right. The Blessed Mother had saved me. I bowed my head and began a Hail Mary.

* * *

Straining upwards, scraping my hands on the stone, scuffing my knees, I scrambled forth from the crevice, determined as a new-made butterfly. On the way home I had to keep my eyes fixed upon the twilight path in order not to slip on the greasy new grass and tumble head over heels down the hillside. The sun was disappearing, a blur in a hazy wrack. As it sank, the clouds darkened to the color of dried blood.

Chapter III

I will pass quickly over the ache and fear, the tumult of my homecoming that night. I shed tears for my mother, for my best friend Jane, for my little sisters, Marigold and Lily, for the only home I'd ever known.

It is enough to say that after he received the news, Master Whitby roared, cursed and hurled about the house shouting. Finally, he struck my mother. It seemed that he'd made an even better deal than she knew in his agreement with Thornton. Two kindled blue-faced ewes were to have been traded for me. The loss of those fine creatures piqued him beyond measure.

* * *

The next day, the proud lady who had tended the Countess appeared at our door, took my hand from my mother’s and led me away. I was too exhausted from the alarms of the night to be frightened when a great burly man-at-arms all suited in mail and with the face of a battle-scarred bear picked me up. He lifted me into one of the high-sided lumbering carts that carried the baggage.

There I sat, beside bolts of fine cloth, furs, fine trunks of tooled leather and a hooded hawk in a cage. We were baubles picked up along the way, gifts from suppliants and subjects. Miserably, I found a place to sit, upon a hay bale thrust between two stacks of rugs. At least, I reasoned, if these fell, they would not crush me.

Behind I could see knights in armor mounted on horses taller and broader than the most enormous oxen I'd ever seen. The horses, too, were armed, their heads and necks protected with jointed plate. Like scales on a fish, these accommodated their bravely curved necks. The armor between their eyes was decorated with twisting silver horns. The men rode without their helms, and, unlike other soldiers I'd seen, they wore their hair long. Pinioned lances sat easily in a single hand, the butt thrust securely against a stirrup.

Exhausted by the terrible night, I lay down in the swaying, jolting wagon, but there was no way I could sleep. Hollow-eyed, I sat up again and watched as a gray jennet carrying two riders came pelting beside the marching line. One of the knights turned his head, and after a shout to his mate, they both laughed.

The jennet wasn’t pleased to be hurried. Her long ears were laid back, but she obeyed the feet thumping her ribs. As she paced beside the wagon, I saw a slender young man, a servant in soft boots and red livery, his fair hair very long. Behind him, clutching his waist and smiling even more widely than the joking knights, sat a barefoot woman. She was astride, so the wind blew her skirt up to her plump thighs.

Where've you been, Pretty Lucy? One of the knights greeted her.

A poor riddle!

The couple on the jennet ignored them. Much to my surprise, as they closed alongside the wagon, the girl turned to grasp the upturned bars that held the side slats, and swung free of her mount. The jennet, reined sharply away from the wagon, gave a honk of protest and then was left behind.

Rosalba? She was beside me now, as uncaring and limber as a boy. I admired her strength.

Yes, Mistress.

I'm no mistress, as you must certainly see, goose. Just Lucy, a servant like you.

I stared at her dumbly.

You are to be the Lady Anne’s new poppet?

I nodded, although I felt sure my duties would be more important than that.

Good! I’d rather scrub pots than take care of babies. I was afraid the Countess would make me serve her.

Lady Anne isn't a baby, is she? I had a flare of real fear. Babies were messy and difficult to care for. Noble babies died as easily as ordinary ones, often a dangerous happenstance for the luckless caretaker.

Lucy was amused. She flopped onto her belly and waved bare legs carelessly in the air.

Thank your lucky stars! Lady Anne's five-years-old, and hasn't shit herself in ages, if that's what you're worried about. Just as I began to feel some relief, she added, She's a weakly little thing, fair as an angel—which, mark my words—she will soon be. Don't you worry, though. She's easy enough to care for, except when she's got the croup. Then she cries all night.

I wanted to say that I had had the croup myself, and that I thought anyone might cry from it, but Lucy was already rushing on.

Did you see that fine fellow who rode me here?

I nodded. How I could have missed her arrival?

Well, he's one of the Earl's ushers, and we were just married! Isn't he handsome? Aren't I lucky?

It was clearly expected, so I nodded agreement. It was easy to take her measure. She was one of those who must talk. Let them run on, my mother always said, for with this kind there's nothing else to be done. Soon, you will know all—and more—than you ever wished to.

"And you are almost