"Lady Anne," I said, holding out a shawl. "If you go out, you must wear this."
Eyes shone back at me, bright as her mother's. When I bathed her, sponging her arms or her chest, wringing warm scented water from the basin, I marveled at the sight of all those branching veins within the translucent flesh. There it was, flowing through this little girl—genuine "blue blood." Tributaries of the heart's river opened in the fine skin of her wrists and elbows. Others—slate colored ropes—fanned across her thin little bosom. In spite of Lady Anne’s apparent fragility and tender nature, will was present in formidable quantities.
"Oh, Rose!" She protested as we made our way up the narrow, spiraling stair, "I don’t want to. 'Tis far too warm."
I had learned a great deal about my charge in the last weeks. Putting my hand on her forehead, I checked for excess heat. No fever. Moreover, she was correct. The June day was warm. Warm, that is, for our dales.
I was warm myself, but I never judged Anne by how I felt. She was a rarer kind of being with her thin skin, her careful, adult enunciation, and the unfortunate susceptibility of her lungs of which I’d heard so much.
"Well," I said, "while we are climbing, I shall carry your shawl. When we are there, we shall see how the breeze feels."
Wind at that height could be stiff. The Earliness of summer would make it fresh. If she broke sweat while climbing, I would have to pay attention and wrap her up before that turned to chill. However, Mother Ash had told me that climbing would not harm Anne—or anyone—unless they were old and fat.
Common sense, not coddling, was what I learned from my teachers. All the fuss in the world is useless when a person is marked for the grave. And unless we are wicked, what is to be feared in death? Are we not on our way to the bosom of God?
"You'll see, Rose. We'll be quite warm enough." Anne flashed me one of her pretty smiles and took my hand. We began our march from a south-facing, sunny room by entering a torch-lit dreary hall. A sleepy young man-at-arms with a red and white tabard over his mail came to attention as we passed. The darkness of the station made it hard to stay awake.
Anne was excited, and, to tell truth, so was I. Today was a feast day. The household had been to Mass in the chapel, and now the young knights in training would display their skills at a mock tourney. I had never seen such a thing, although I had watched the squires and pages exercise in the yard.
They drilled daily, their execution criticized and sharpened by a master. These were mock melees with wooden sword and buckler, with the pike, with mace and battle-ax. The final step in their education was the management of weapons on horseback.
Tilting at quintain was the most exciting. If the boys were too slow riding past the target, they would receive a mighty buffet in the back as the tail piece swung around and they'd be tumbled off the horse and onto the hard ground.
During this rough practice, the boys wore layered jacks stuffed with tow. In jousting, the protection went up a step, and they donned brigantines—jackets with hide and pieces of tinned metal sewn inside. Then these sons of lords began to practice in odds and ends of plate, for they must also acquire agility and speed underweight.
Today, Anne's long fair hair was in a single braid down her back. A white cap tied at the chin covered her head. This would give adequate protection against the wind, if it wasn't too chilly. It was her throat and neck that might need wrapping, so I followed, carrying the shawl draped neatly over my arm.
I was learning to be comfortable here. The Countess relied upon me, and simply believing that this great lady trusted me ensured the best I could give. Anne, with sweet docility, had attached herself to me. It further eased my task that she was naturally kind. In spite of so much privilege, she was not in the least spoiled, which, I'm sorry to report, was not the case with her older sister.
Even had I been inclined to neglect my duties, the memory of hairy Mark Thornton, smelling of sheep dung, should have been sufficient to keep me on the straight and narrow. Master Whitby, too, was an angry presence I did not miss.
At first, a night did not pass in which I did not pine for my mother or for my poor friend Jane, but even that ache was quickly fading. Ease, good food I did not have to labor to produce, warmth and cleanliness, were seductive. The fact is I had taken to living at Middleham like a duck to water. Always one who watched and listened before opening my mouth, I doubtless seemed wiser than I was—at least, about the ways of the castle.
Mistress Cole, the woman who had supervised the child nurses was no longer spry. She was heartily glad to no longer be called upon to trot for hours after active little girls—or, as in the case of my predecessor, wayward nurses. Nursey Cole didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She answered my questions and instructed me patiently.
Besides, Mother had instructed me to seek the guidance of "the little Lady's old nurse. Be humble, courteous and respectful, for she possesses all you must immediately learn." I had followed Mother's advice, and so pleased Nurse Cole. She and I got along well, and she always gave good advice, brief and to the point. Now that I cared for Anne (her own daughter, Elaine, attended Isabel) she was free to sit and chat with friends by the fire. As she had served the Countess faithfully since childhood, she had earned every moment of ease.
"I believe we shall make a lady of you, Rosalba." Standing before the Countess, scrubbed, braided, coifed, in a new linen dress and a white cap, I'd dropped a deep curtsy, feeling well on my way. My heart swelled with gratitude every time I saw the Neville crest—white bear and ragged staff—and for this world of marvels to which these mighty folk had transported me.
Anne and I continued to climb. Bright, narrow bands of light intruded from bow slots in the wall. When we reached the top, Anne's cheeks would be pink and her breath hard. So would mine, but there was a difference. It always took her time to recover from any exertion.
At last, we emerged into breeze and sun. There were seats set in the out-of-doors gallery, and all the folk of the house occupied them: the Countess and her ladies, the bailiff and his wife, the chamberlain and the chief usher, all chatting. Veils and shawls billowed in the breeze.
Anne, excited, pranced toward her mother, pink dress fluttering. In my old world cloth was dyed in colors which came easily from plant and earth. The blacks, purples, and the host of pastels of the rich still amazed me.
"Oh, have they already begun?" Anne cried. "Everyone's here!" Before anyone could answer, Thomas, a favorite among the burly men-at-arms, held out his arms.
"Thomas! Thomas! Lift me down."
Not waiting for anyone to scold this unladylike behavior, Anne sprang into his big hands with all the trust of a puppy. Grinning, Thomas swung her over the stone lip, effortlessly lowering her into an empty space beside Isabel. Gaily, Anne turned and waved.
"Do you also wish my help, Mistress Rose?" Thomas winked at me.
"I can walk." I headed for the stairs. I knew I must be on my dignity. Thomas and his friends chuckled. Teasing a new servant girl was always good sport.
Squeezing past others in the narrow aisle, I thanked my lucky stars that the Countess was talking with the bailiff's wife. Either Mistress Bailiff was more interesting than usual, or the Countess had chosen to ignore Anne's prank.
Lady Isabel, however, did not. She said loudly, "What a baby trick!"
As I inched past a pair of fat male knees covered in a noisy diamond pattern of red and white, I noted Isabel's disdainful heart-shaped face. The Neville girls were sisters, no doubt about it, right down to the gilt hair and sapphire eyes, but Isabel was haughty and sharp. Daily, I breathed a sigh of relief that gentle Anne was my charge, not the older girl, who was much taken with her own beauty and high station.
She was jealous, too. Everyone flirted with the handsome bear, Thomas, and though he was only a man-at-arms, it seemed to pique Isabel that he had not paid so much attention to her. Anne, of course, was still young enough to be the pet. Isabel Neville and I were of an age, young women. Entering this new estate, we had lost some privileges and gained others. How like Isabel, I thought, to covet the best of both worlds.
Looking down at the ground below where the games were, I had a moment of vertigo. The gallery inclined precipitously. In the courtyard knights and squires rode brightly caparisoned horses. When they trained or served in the house, the boys, all sons of high nobility, wore the badge and color of the Nevilles. Today, because of the tourney, they wore their own badges, signs of proud lineage. Below I saw the crests of each family—the quarterings and crossings. Instructed by Anne, who had been schooled in heraldry since she could lisp, I had begun to learn them all.
There was the Bear and the Ragged Staff of Warwick, the Dun Bull of another branch of the Neville family, and the Fish Hook of Falconbridge. There were white and red lions, shackle-bolts by the score, collared dogs, stag's heads, griffins with teeth bared, ravens and falcons with spreading wings. Covering the wide rumps of the sweating horses was cloth dyed indigo and white, red and yellow, purple and black. Murray and blue, colors of the House of York, appeared as well.
"Pick one for your champion." The bailiff's wife encouraged while the young men paraded in the yard. Wagers were offered and taken—little things—scarves or ribbons among the ladies, and daggers, rings, or badges by the men.
First came jousting, with a rush and shout. Next was the melee. The boys began on horseback, and then fought on foot. The clang of metal and the thud and crack of wood rang in my ears. Showers of dirt flew. Loosing the last of their weapons, one after another, the fighters would be forced to yield and withdraw.
With the notable exception of Anne, who sometimes covered her eyes, most of my companions, even True Thomas, laughed and joked when a young contender fell and did not rise. Trained to see in another way, I could not look again until servants ran upon the field to help away the injured ones. Even as young as I was, I knew there would be scars and broken bones, or perhaps even the killing fog of a head-wounded sleep for some of these fallen. Despite that, soon excitement seized me like the claws of those heraldic beasts. The thunder of hooves and harsh clash of arms, the dangling red foam on the bit, blinding flashes of sun upon plate, the alarms of trumpets, thrilled me to the core.
Through it all, Anne and I hugged each other. Sometimes we joined the others, pointing and cheering. Sometimes we covered our faces. The full armor of the knights rang like a bell whenever a helm or chest plate was struck. Around us, men and women leapt up, red-cheeked, cheering and clapping, or groaning and booing and turning thumbs down, as the fortune of their wagers changed.
After the men, the violent game was taken up by squires with blunted weapons and odds and ends of plate. Finally, as the Earl and the others of importance were settling wagers and reliving the show, the youngest boys put on a display, such as their fledging talents could provide.
"See!" Anne yanked at my arm and pointed. "There’s Dickon!"
Sure enough, there was the diminutive Duke. He swung a wooden sword and hefted a wooden shield, both of which were too big for him. His clothespin legs—one blue and the other murray—stuck out beneath a bulging tow jacket. The ground had been churned to mud by the earlier passage of horses, and the little boys stumbled about, whacking each other like mad men, whipped to frenzy, I guess, by the manly display they'd just witnessed.
The Earl cast a casual eye upon this field, and then began to laugh. Indeed, there was much to amuse, for none of the armament fit, except in the case of the very largest of these most junior contenders. Battered helmets, much dented, slipped over the boys' eyes. One lifted a heavy sword for a huge downward swing, tottered and then fell over backwards. A lunge launched by one boy to knock down his opponent ended in an ignominious collision with the wall.
A few old timers stood around the melee, refereeing and intervening to call "Quit." The boys were supposed to beat their opponent to his knees or strike "a killing blow." Then the loser was expected to surrender and abandon the field.
The boys hammered each other with those wooden swords. If they lost a sword, they fought on, battering with the shield, while attempting to snatch their opponent's weapon away. The field thinned. I saw the Duke matched with a much bigger boy, who simply charged, using his body like a warhorse. Richard fell, but managed to keep hold of his sword. Aiming upward, he shoved his opponent away by jamming the point beneath the tow of the jack at an angle.
"A good blow! A killing blow!" True Thomas, who had joined us in watching, cheered. "The Duke has gut-stuck ‘im beneath the fauld!"
The larger boy, Rafe Vaughn, staggered backwards and gasped. An old soldier came forward to declare the duel over, but Rafe came hurtling back at Richard, sword swinging. Richard, exhausted, and believing that the contest was over, had dropped his guard.
Rafe’s blow, on a downswing, struck Richard’s high shoulder. The Duke staggered backwards. His sword fell into the mud. Somehow, he managed to stand against the following push, clinging to his shield. His right shoulder and arm drooped uselessly. I knew he'd been hurt—badly.
"Yield!"
Richard didn't shout, but we knew his answer was defiant. An instant later, they were both on the ground. Fortunately, a huge man-at-arms yanked the older boy off and carried him away by the back of his jack, still cursing and flailing. Richard lay like a dead fish.
Before I knew what had happened, Anne was over the back of the stone seat, skirts flying, skinny legs pumping. I raced after her. A rail had been affixed to the wall to help older folks up the stairs and now Anne used it to go down, holding on with two hands and pushing off to take several at a time. I followed.
We raced through the great room with hanging banners and reedy floor, today dim and abandoned. Then, we descended another level, where we left behind a chorus of "Ladies! Be careful!"
We flew into the kitchen and straight across to the door that gave onto the courtyard. It had been opened for the folk below-stairs to see the contest, and there, as my Lady seemed to have known, was a mob. Some were boys, some were the old soldiers. Kneeling in the midst was Master Gray, who supervised the boys' training at arms.
Contestants leaned against the walls, nursing bloody noses, cut lips, bandaged hands and blacked eyes. On the stone floor, lay the skinny form of the Duke of Gloucester, his ruddy dark hair tumbled, his head bolstered on someone's cloak. Beneath the streaks of dirt and blood, his face was gray.
An argument was going on among the boys. Richard's opponent, Rafe, was out of doors, puking—whether from Richard's gut blow or one delivered by someone else, I never learned.
"It was a killing thrust!"
"It would have been caught by the fauld."
"Are you blind? Rafe was gut-stuck! He was done!"
"War is no game. No one is ever out 'til they're stone dead."
"Exactly! Rafe would have seen his guts spill!"
"Watch your tongue, Lovell, if you don't want the same."
A scuffle began. Francis Lovell, not a very large boy himself, had punched one of Richard's detractors.
"Take it outside, young sirs!" Master Gray pointed at the open door.
The man-at-arms and a pair of the half-grown squires added their voices and authority. The quarrel spilled outward, into the sunshine of the bailey.
Anne had wormed her way through the mob and now knelt beside Richard. I joined her, and we silently watched while Master Gray slit the arm of the jack upward to the shoulder.
"Saint Anthony." He shook his head and looked grim. The tow within was red. I saw a gleam of white, where bone had pierced flesh. Richard groaned, moved his head. Fresh blood bubbled from his nose.
"Be easy, young sir. Don't move."
A hand rested on my shoulder; it was gnarled, spotted and wrinkled.
"Take Lady Anne upstairs. There is naught for either of you lasses to do here." It was Mother Ash who spoke.
"But my dearest Cousin Richard may die! You—good Mother Ash—good Master Gray—you must make him well!" Anne began to sob piteously.
"We will do our best, My Little Lady," said Gray.
That evening, the boys received a lecture from the Earl himself regarding the rules of the tourney, about how the judges must be obeyed. A sorry lot the younger ones were—black eyes and bruises everywhere. The dispute that had gone outside had ended in a fist fight, but there would be no punishment. Boys fought. Men fought. That was what noblemen did.
On the battlefield, just as Rafe's defenders said, it was yield or die, and Duke Richard had chosen the latter. To die in battle, after all, was the noblest end any soldier could make.
* * *
Our Duke had suffered a broken shoulder and arm. The setting, we heard, was difficult. Mother Ash said too that because Richard’s spine had lately begun to grow with a curve—the cause of his high shoulder—he wasn’t as strong as other boys. In Aysgarth, I'd seen a boy die from a green stick break, not from the injury, of course, but from the gangrene which came next. This was a fact I was not about to share with Anne, who fretted constantly about her cousin.
When Richard started a fever, both Master Gray and Mother Ash stayed with him for over a week, treating him with humble willow bark, with expensive myrrh and mysterious clots of spider web, with leeches and frequent lancing, until the pus and swelling subsided. Finally, slowly, the little Duke began to mend.
For a long time his fever returned every afternoon. His meager body was beset with pains from head to toe for the shock of so much injury to a frail body was hard to bear. However, Richard was the King's brother, not some peasant lad, left alone at home to heal if he could. Master Gray and Mother Ash hovered over him. Special broths and soups came from the kitchens. His wounds were twice daily washed and dressed.
When he began to get better, Anne and I were sent to visit. The first time we found him sitting up in bed in a loosely belted robe. I could see through the gap that his torso was tightly wrapped in a kind of harness of muslin and canvas, with straps to hold it in place. Mother Ash later explained to me that even before his injury, Gray insisted that the Duke of Gloucester wear this device at night in the hope it would prevent his spine from curving more.
"Do you know how to play chess?"
The question, of course, was directed to Anne, who blushed and shook her fair head. She was quite in awe of her solemn older cousin, perfectly aware—and at ease with the notion—that they would eventually wed.
This is how Richard became our instructor in the rules of this ancient game. He remained patient with Anne, who was, to her dying day his "Sweetest Cousin." After a time, however, he grew merciless to me, just as he was to Francis Lovell—who, sporting his own black eye and bruised knuckles from the tourney, was occasionally set free of duty in order to visit his friend.
We played many other games, too, in those days: backgammon, games with dice and jeu cart. Mere girls, we were not expected to ever win.
Nevertheless, Richard had been born to a strong mother, and he seemed to have sucked in with her milk the notion that while women might be weaker in body, this flaw did not necessarily extend to their minds. Never voiced, it appeared in his attitude. Having let me into the game, he then gave no quarter.
In the beginning, Anne was distracted by the personalities she saw figured upon the board. She loved the horses especially, crying when they were taken. Richard teased, telling her the game was not about horses, but about kings, and that she would do well to remember it.
He was kind, though, because she was younger. Soon all the games he played with my lady left the precious horses ‘alive’ upon the board. She and I often played him together, consulting, but in those days we never could defeat him.
"The King falls, but the horses shall ride away." Anne smiled happily, the first time he engineered such an end for her. Richard sighed softly, reached across the board and tugged one of those long golden pigtails. Over her shoulder, he winked at me. His eyes were hazel, but close as we were I could see that they were strongly flecked with green.
"Dickon!" Anne cried, sweeping her braid free and slapping. "Ow! Stop!"
He let her hit him, next caught her small hand with his. The Duke's fingers were long and graceful, though in those days the nails were thoroughly gnawed.
"'Tis unfair to strike me, Lady Anne." He spoke with boyish formality. "As a knight and a gentleman, I may not defend myself."
"Well, then, don't laugh at me, Sir Knight." She pouted prettily. "I saw you wink at Rosalba."
"Pardon me, dear Annie." In a flash he was all cousin, all courtier. He drew her hand to his lips and gave the fingers a kiss, in a perfect imitation of his elders, lowering those beautiful dark lashes as he did so. The sight gave me a never-to-be-forgotten chill.
How old was I? How old was he? I have never forgotten the gesture, for in that instant Richard of Gloucester became my beau ideal of gallantry.
"Perhaps I may excuse you," Anne fell into her part, acting it out with a toss of her shining head. He had unsettled her, although she was too young to know exactly why.
So Early starts the dance!
Nevertheless, Anne had excellent instincts. She knew her cousin was managing her in some unfair, masculine way. Seizing her knights, she pushed backward, dropping in a flurry of skirts from the bed. "Come on, Rosalba! Cousin Dickon shan't have my horses, no matter what!"
Like magic, the door opened for her. Children placed so high are never alone, and we always played beneath the watchful eyes of a servant. Though the man had been sitting on a stool, apparently daydreaming in his red and white livery, as soon as Anne ran in his direction, he hopped up, ready to do her bidding.
With a backward glance at the small Duke, who was now smiling at this willful feminine behavior, I, too, regretfully slipped from the high bed. Richard of Gloucester was the nicest boy I'd ever known, certainly the nicest to girls.
* * *
One afternoon, so late the shadows had grown long, after the Duke had begun to heal, Master Gray called upon Ash for a soothing draught. We compounded it in the castle kitchen, and then I was sent upstairs with it. After I’d tapped and been called in, I discovered the physician at work, manipulating Richard's thin, scarred arm. I'd never forgotten his white face or his tears, so fiercely dashed away at the sight of me, nor the glow hanging like a willow-the-wisp about the old healer.
"I am cosseted." Naked to the waist, his twisted spine in plain sight for the first time, Richard turned to face me. Nonetheless, he took the draught from my hand. I looked down, seeing his discomfort and thought instead of Mistress Ash’s instruction:
Some for sleep.
Some for pain.
Some so the palate well receives.
"Tis healing, my Lord Duke, not cosseting."
As Gray spared me a look of silent approval, I'd tried not to look at the Duke’s poor arm, the scant flesh reddened from the massage.
"You are the king's brother, Lord Duke." Gray's voice had cut sharply between his patient's shame and my wondering. "Never fear! Mistress Ash and I shall make you strong again to ably serve His Grace."
* * *
When Richard was back on his feet again, we were allowed to visit the stables. True Thomas escorted us. He often was detailed to what his mates called "nursemaid" duty.
Thomas' eyes were the shattering gray of a Yorkshire winter sky. His hair was white, perhaps prematurely. How old he was, I do not know. Perhaps, he was one of those lucky men who remain agile, hale and hearty ‘til they die.
I’d heard it whispered he was a Neville bastard. He had the family look, and always stood about a half a step higher than the rank and file of ordinary servants. True Thomas had a fine hand with children. He gave many a frightened new page comfort and advice while they learned the ways of the castle. If Anne wanted to go somewhere ordinarily forbidden—like the stables—she could appeal to him. Even the Countess did not fret so long as he was our escort.
Anne had wanted to take me to the stables so I could see her pony. I'd been kept very busy through most of the first summer by Mother Ash, for it was gardening season and there was much to do. Now, in late summer, there was a pause, after haying and before the final gathering in, however, we’d followed the chain of command in order for me to receive permission. First, we’d appealed to Lady Agnes. After Anne coaxed a little, Agnes relented and summoned Thomas.
"And, please, Anne, do look where you step!" Agnes cautioned. She always had to have the last word. Behind her, Isabel and Elaine Cole sat in the window embrasure, demurely sewing sections of the most beautiful outer robe I'd ever seen. It was almost finished, embroidered on the turned back cuffs and around the collar with the standing bears of Warwick. In their claws they held the ragged staff, and beside them were suns and white roses, indicating the family’s alliance with the House of York. The older girls paused, and then shared, with a glance, their superiority. What a little girl thing, their eyes proclaimed, to be interested in horses!
Richard appeared outside the door, breathless, still straightening the tabard he'd thrown over his white inner tunic. He must have been summoned from some other duty, one that did not require him to be in livery. The forelocks of his ruddy brown hair were held back with a bit of eel skin.
"Your hand, Lady Anne." Richard bowed and offered his arm. He could walk beside her, not a half a step behind, as a boy of lower rank must. He was a prince, ranking every man in the place—including the Earl. Thomas and I followed the diminutive blue bloods down the gray twisting stair. Their formality was still new enough to amuse me. Such airs in mere children!
I glanced at Thomas, to see what he thought, but he wore a good-natured expression just this side of a smile. The most even-tempered man I've ever known, Thomas took the whole world, and all of us dwelling in it, in stride.
Passing through the kitchen, I was handed a basket with green apples. Outside, on the other side of the yard, the boys hammered each other with wooden swords and shields. For a moment, Richard's attention, so carefully trained upon Anne, wavered. He sent a longing look at the knightly exercise and released an audible sigh.
"You will heal soon, dear Cousin." Anne’s small white fingers pressed his. He appeared surprised that he'd been caught out wishing to be elsewhere.
"Yes, Milord Duke." Thomas brought us to a halt, and then rolled up a sleeve. "You don't want to have another break at the same place. See here what happened to this arm of mine after two bad breaks?" He extended a forearm. Lumpy, scarred and knotted beneath blond thatch, it was no pretty sight. "It is almost half a finger shorter than the other and all winter it sends me pain which could set a saint to cursing."
"But you can still fight, can you not?" Richard asked.
"Indeed. I can and I do, noble Milord," Thomas said, "but not near as well as might have been. Still, praise Saint Wilfred, it serves me well enough to uphold my good Lord the Earl!"
In the stable we walked carefully, as instructed. It was clean, as such places go, the stable boys scrambling to pick up manure as soon as it dropped. Tall war horses gazed over their boxes. Some were friendly and curious, others looked down with rolling eyes and then drew their lips back, as if they contemplated taking a bite of us. Great dappled rumps shone in colors of sorrel, strawberry roan, chestnut, and gray. Manes and tails were braided and filled with ribbons.
I gaped in awe. These animals, bred for carrying men and armor, were the biggest I'd ever seen, even taller than Master Whitby's finest white ox. No one in our village had horses, except for old broken down ones soon slaughtered and stripped of meat and hide. Even the royal children stared. I was visited by an irreverent thought, wondering when Richard, Duke of Gloucester, would ever be tall enough to mount such a creature.
Anne adored real horses as well as chess pieces. She examined these with as much pleasure as if she'd never seen them before. Her cheeks flushed pink. Solemnly, to please her, Richard named them. I could tell he loved and longed for them too. To me they were beyond astonishing, another sign of the wealth of this place to which I'd been so magically transported.
"This is gray Dominus, and that is Questor, who has a nasty temper." Richard turned to say, "So keep clear." We obeyed, moving away quickly when the big chestnut stamped and then suddenly thrust his head over the wall to show us his teeth.
Over our heads, in the dark rafters, swallows twittered and flashed. The business of raising young was in full swing, and the trails of their leavings streaked the walls.
"And there is Boadicea!" Anne pointed. A beautiful sorrel mare stood easily in her white socks, munching hay. After the stallions, she appeared quite placid and ordinary. I wondered why she should be of such interest, and then I saw that curled on her broad back was an orange cat, such an exact match to her hearty color that at first I hadn’t noticed her.
"Her good friend puss is well-seated." Thomas smiled.
"Oh!" I cried, forgetting myself. "Are the great horse and the little cat truly friends?"
"Oh, yes," Anne said "They are always together when Boadicea is in the barn. She even teaches her foals to love her cat."
As they said, I thought, a cat may look at a king….
I was enjoying my visit more than I'd imagined. To me, the place smelled comforting—of animals, of hay. I had a flash of homesickness, for the frigid times when the cattle shared the door end of the house.
Further along, we came to low stalls where smaller animals, rugged dales horses of black and brown, were kept. Most stalls were empty, as they were in the yard for tilting practice. At the far end, where the walls were low and made of slats instead of heavy boards, a snow white pony thrust out her head.
"There is my Precious," Anne announced proudly. "Isn't she wonderful?"
"Oh, my goodness, yes!"
She held out her hand and I placed one of the green apples in it. My Lady was that day a fairy maid in a blue dress, braid dangling from beneath a flaxen veil. Precious might have been her unicorn, with a face which was chiseled and strongly dished. Her eyes were dark, yet the lashes were white and long. Her mane was brushed and left hanging, not hogged off or braided like the others.
As Anne displayed the apple, the pony's lips wrinkled, revealing creamy teeth, a pink mouth and a pinker tongue. With a relishing crunch, the apple disappeared.
"Oh!" I sighed, full of wonder. "She is the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen!"
"Yes, she is." Anne smiled. “Now you see why I am in such a hurry to go riding when you go to Mistress Ash."
I noticed that sharing the box with Precious, back in the shadows, was another pony. She was smaller, shyer, too, for she didn't approach, even when the apples appeared.
“What pony is that, My Lord Duke?”
"That is Strawberry," Richard replied. “She keeps Precious company.”
After a time, the other pony moved closer. She proved to be an ordinary dales pony, stocky and strong, though she was colorfully marked. Strawberry looked as if someone had sprayed red wine all over her milk-white coat.
"We will feed Precious and keep her busy. See if Strawberry will come to you, Rosalba," Richard said.
I did as I was told, supplying them with the basket and then moving away a little. Next, I put my arms between the slats with the apple I’d selected flat on the palm. The roan pony approached slowly, snuffling. There was a moment of hesitation, and she glanced at her stable mate, now being indulged straight from the basket by the Duke and my mistress. I had a perfect view of my own freckled flesh beside her freckled muzzle, as she took my offering. As she crunched, studying me gravely with dark liquid eyes, I decided that being called “roan” was not entirely a bad thing.
* * *
Richard rode beside us, guiding a stocky, feather-footed chestnut gelding. Anne was mounted on her Precious. I perched upon Strawberry's fat back. A mounted austringer, a hooded goshawk upon his fist, brought up the rear. Richard may have been lord of this and master of that—but at Middleham, he was also a boy sometimes.
Today we were for an outing on the moor. Except for the austringer, we were quite unattended. The Earl and his Countess were gone away to another castle, taking Isabel, Elaine, and much of the household with them.
When they marry, I mused, as Strawberry and I trotted along behind, it shall not be hard for them to sleep together. Had they not spent time in bed already? Actually, the three of us—seated cross-legged or belly-flopped upon a heraldic coverlet, the chess board between us, along with a three-colored money cat—a famous mouser who'd become as privileged a commoner as myself—curled warmly against Anne's back.
I knew of the other things done in bed, as much as any common child would learn by living in a crowded house. More important to me seemed the chess, the talking, the things done together in daylight. As for the other, well, it appeared as blind and instinctive as what I saw in the fields of autumn, an act that neither party could resist, a momentary reflexive madness. The male became quieter after the deed was done, briefly close to tractable. The female continued about her business with as much dignity as she could muster. The hen soothed her feathers. The sheep or mare might run off after attempting to land a kick upon her mate's muzzle. The Queen Cat jumped up, shrieked, hissed, and dealt the puzzled Tom a head-rattling box.
Perhaps things were more mannered in the private bedrooms of the great folk at the castle, but I often wondered. At least this couple would have teased, played, squabbled, and kissed each other, cousinly, on the lips, before they were expected to breed. For my part, I thought Richard would make a good husband. He was tender of Anne's feelings. He was even thoughtful when it came to me, as if I mattered, as if even a servant girl was worthy of a measure of respect.
I remember the strong wind that day. Blue and mare's tails arched overhead. At our feet was the grey moor, the patches of rocks and glowing heather. Larks sang. Released, the goshawk circled, floating on sunlight, like a taloned magician.
Our Dickon was cross, I knew, although both Anne and I were elated to be allowed onto the moor with him. Even now, Francis Lovell and the other boys were at knightly exercises in the yard. Master Gray still refused to let him return to tilting at quintain yet, insisting that he was not well enough healed. The King's brother lived a life that was far different from the other boys.
Of course, it was also well understood that the Earl liked to often put Anne and Richard together. Despite the breeze, it was warm that day, one of those days when we might be sent outside anyway, to bring color to Anne's pale cheeks.
This is but a scrap of memory, I know, but they are all so precious to me.