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The Duke of Clarence was drunk—again. I suppose, the past considered, he had reason to be. What makes a man like George Plantagenet, a man without conscience, honor or self-control? Words cannot express how perfectly I had come to loathe him.

I could see Isabel, paler than ever at the mere sight of her husband in bad humor. From her seat, close by the sharp light of a May-time window, she watched with all the wariness of an often kicked dog.

"Stitch, stitch, little Neville girls!" George snickered, indicating the ever-present embroidery. "What brave heraldry do we work this afternoon?"

Ankarette and I were sitting knee to knee, adjacent to our mistresses. The room was a townhouse of the Duke's. A luxurious Turkish carpet lay beneath our feet. There was good light for handwork from a cluster of glassed windows.

As George approached Isabel, I could feel Ankarette tense. She and I were joined to our ladies far closer than they to any husband.

"Ah, a noble black bull!" said George. "For my new arming coat? Very nice, my dear. Very nice." He made a great show of kissing Isabel on the cheek. She made a great show of enjoying it.

"Such talent with the needle," he said, baiting his drunk's ugly trap. "Such beauty in my lovely duchess! Such honoring and obeying!” He bent close, breathing into Isabel's paling face. "But no sons! No goddamned sons!"

Isabel closed her eyes, sat perfectly still, waiting for the blow, but this long summer’s afternoon, George had an audience. A nasty little play was an amusement he never could resist.

"Would you ladies like to hear a story? A thrilling story about the great war just passed?"

He put his fists into his waist, standing legs apart before our small fire. He was tall, and could still cut a good figure in tunic and hose, but an ever-growing gut took a deal away. Young as he was, drink had already blurred his elegant features. Blue eyes glazed, blond hair a bit too long for a man of war, he was, in my eyes, a player’s likeness of his older brother, King Edward.

"Not a word? Not one word from these chattering busy ladies?" He had to steady himself against the back of Isabel's chair. "Chatter, chatter, chatter! Yes, they chatter like a cage of canaries—until George comes!"

"You would not be interested in us, Milord," Anne spoke. I knew she was trying to draw him away from her sister, but, for my part, I wished she wouldn't. Isabel was safe—at least, until George had got his hands on all of the Earl of Warwick's property he coveted.

Anne had no one to protect her now, and if something were to happen to her, George would seize the great inheritance, every bit. I now feared George more than anyone else in the world.

"And why wouldn't I be interested, dear sister Annie?" He sallied toward her, wine spilling from the jeweled goblet he habitually carried at this time of day.

I was terrified that he'd take it into his head to strike her, for in each response she'd omitted the honorific "sir" or "cousin." I knew he'd caught the omission, and knew, too, that she had done it intentionally.

"Get up!" He waved his goblet, shouting. The last of the wine spattered Isabel's dress and the floor. Anne half started from her chair, but the command was for me, seated beside her. I hastily did as I was told, but took up a stance just on the other side.

George dropped onto my stool, tossed the goblet in the general direction of the door, where he assumed someone would intercept it. As it hit the floor with a clatter, he seized Anne's hand.

"My story is really only for you, pretty sister Annie." He stuck his red mug close to hers.

She focused on his hands, eyes down, prudent at last. There was a moment of silence, of no sound but George's drunken puffing and a creaking, dying fire.

"What are you gawping at? Spotted bitch!" Suddenly, his focus changed; he was roaring up at me.

"Duty?" He lurched back to his feet so he could face me. "Duty? Who asked for an answer, you—spotted bitch?" He was too drunk to think of another curse. Wine spittle flew.

I took a prudent step backwards. Lady Anne caught his hand. "M'Lord Clarence," she prompted. "Do tell us your story."

"Spotted she is! Spotted as a January apple." He mumbled, evil blue eyes slewing. After a moment, his gaze wavered and then shifted back to his original target.

The Duke swayed slightly. You could see him deciding that perhaps it might be safer to sit back down, which he did. I took a careful step backward. From here, I thought, I will watch, and perhaps he will not notice me. I resolved, however, to stay close enough to rush to my lady's defense.

"Why don't you get rid of the spotted creature? Her face is enough to make a fellow puke."

“Ankarette is not ugly." Anne tried a soothing tone, but all that can be done with a drunk is to humor them. Even that is generally impossible, for the whole point of the drink is to find a reason to rage, to punish the world at large, to humiliate and demean. Isabel's white face floated above the embroidery frame. She knew far better than Anne the doomed course of this conversation.

"Ankarette is not ugly," George mimicked her. "Listen, Widow Lancaster, it's what the Duke of Clarence thinks that counts in this house!"

"As you say, Milord." Anne lowered her head. The hennin and veil tipped forward, shrouding her fine features.

"Learn faster than your sister, you do, Annie.” George smirked. "I believe you are cleverer."

Silence followed. Everyone sat entirely still, praying, I guess, not to attract his attention.

"Wine!" George bawled to an evil-looking man-servant who slouched by the door. "Where, by God's nails, is my wine?"

There followed the scuffling of slippers on the stairs. A silver jug, and a silver goblet, the sound of pouring, and a sullen boy brought it forward upon a tray. George took aim and grabbed, as if the wine might, at the last minute, elude him. Of course it spilled, all over his gloves and onto the page.

"Clumsy brat!" He kicked. I believe he missed, for the boy jumped with alacrity, then shot away through the door. We heard him skipping downstairs. Apparently, he was accustomed to serving George."S'blood!" George pulled his face into an exaggerated mask of disgust. "Is no man in England worse served?" There was another pause, while he swallowed whatever was left. The smell of sugary Malmsey rose from the floor.

After it was drained, the empty goblet was again launched across the room. This time his man intercepted it, waving it in the air with a cheerful flourish.

"Ha!" George was delighted as a child. "Ha! Well done, Robinson!" He turned to Isabel. "Quick as a hawk, Robinson! It was well caught, was it not, Lady?"

"Now, my girls, we shall have our story." The drunk sat, extended his long legs to the fire. Another thing about drunks—they seem distractible, and, up to a point are. However, when it is their ire they follow, nothing can divert them for long.

"My story is about Tewksbury, and what befell there." He began with sinister satisfaction. "Pretty meadows—water meadows, they are called. Very green, good forage for cattle, although one must beware the leeches. Water runs all the time. Rather wet this year, they did say, making lots of pretty yellow and white flowers. You like to see tender spring flowers, don't you, ladies?"

"Yes, spring flowers are most pleasant." Anne plunged her needle into the embroidery and let it sit. Her elegant hands clasped in her lap. I knew it was to control the trembling.

"Liked daisies, didn't you?" George leered at Anne. The daisy, of course, had been Queen Marguerite's emblem. No one missed the allusion.

"Oh ho! Not as much as roses!" George flung his body around to face his wife. "She's clever, your sister!" He turned, mouthed a grin, and wagged a jeweled finger at Anne. "Not as much as roses! Ha, ha! Very good, Little Widow Lancaster!"

"But—your father decided he liked daisies—and swans, and ostrich plumes—if I remember right? Didn't he?" George continued. "Didn't he just, though?"

"I don't believe he ever truly liked daisies or swans, not really," Anne replied.

"Aha! Again, very good! But he believed he had a found a use for daisies and for those bloody little swans, didn't he?"

Anne said nothing. Isabel had nothing to say, either, and her blue eyes blazed with anguish, a pain I could see even through the veil of the hennin. The sisters had always viewed their father as a man who walked on water. Not even the horror just passed seemed to have altered this.

"My Lord," Isabel spoke, a quiver in her voice, "Please spare us your opinion on this matter. Anne and I mourn our most beloved and noble father."

"You mourn a damned old fool. King Louis used him and then threw him away like a rag full of snot!" Having unburdened himself of this, he called over his shoulder loudly, "Robinson! Where’s the wine?"

"Whatever he was, he was our father," Anne said. "I pray you, respect the dead, Your Grace."

"Dearest little Sister!" George let out a snigger. "I have respect for no man living, much less the dead!"

"Where comes this stain upon your doublet?" George leaned forward, eyes focusing on the boy with difficulty.

"Wine, My Lord." George squeaked the words. "Clumsy brat! Do you know how much Malmsey costs? Can't you carry a pitcher upstairs without spilling it all over yourself?"

"Oh, did I? How clumsy of me! Like this?" George took the goblet and abruptly emptied it over the page's head, following the assault with yet another kick.

Again, in the nick of time, the page jumped. He took the worst of the wine, but he did avoid the foot.

Training for knighthood in the house of the noble Duke of Clarence! At least, I thought, the poor boy will always beware the low blow.

There was another pause, in which his man came forward with a cloth to blot what had splashed upon George's doublet.

"And leave this jolly, jolly gathering? No! You can't go yet. I still have to tell Annie my story 'bout—'bout—the great big terrible battle at Tewksbury."

"No you weren't! You lie, Sister Annie. You and the wicked old whore—'scuse me—queen—were hiding in the priory. You saw nothing of the slaughter in the meadows, and that is exactly what I'm trying to tell you. Saving all these damned interruptions," he muttered in a deeply put-upon tone, "I would have finished long ere now."

"Shocking, wasn't it? Still, when you get down to it, that sanctuary business is silly monkish nonsense, nothing for true soldiers to worry about. And don't think they wouldn't have done the same to us, had it been the other way around. Besides, posh! That little splatter round the altar wasn't near as much blood as I saw. Oh, no, nothing like. I was making it spurt from arms and legs and necks on every side of the battlefield, yes, indeed I was."

"You don't think I was risking my life and killing the enemies of my royal—my most royal—brother of York, do you, Little Annie?"

"No, you don't!" He waggled a finger in her face. "You think I am a coward and turncoat, don't you, Sister Annie? You think I got your precious father killed! My dear Isabel does."

"But you think it, don't you? Oh, yes, both of you. I can see it in those big blue eyes."

"My big brother Edward and my little brother Richard are the brave ones, the true knights! Chevaliers! Aren't they? No one has any respect for poor old George."

If I could have plunged a dagger into that man's heart, I would have done so, and gladly suffered the agonizing consequences. A traitor, a weakling, a liar, a hundred times forsworn, a cowardly tormentor of women and children, the Mighty Duke of Clarence!

"Ah, you shake your head, but inside—ah, yes—inside—I know you are thinking very bad thoughts ‘bout me, Sister Annie." Satisfied with having bullied her into silence, George sat back.

"So, allow me to tell you how puny crooked Dickon himself, with his own quick hand, cut down your dear handsome Prince Edward, your late—however, not particularly lamented—little boy husband. It's really quite a relief, you know, the way things have turned out, to discover that you, personally, were never too fond of daisies. Frankly, Sister Annie, I'd say you know how to change sides with the best of us."

It was like a nightmare from which you cannot awaken. We were all transfixed by his malice.

"Our men brought Prince Bastard into our camp, trussed like a Christmas capon. Remember how he used to make all those fine speeches about all the heads he was going to cut off? Well, it was really quite funny to see the Heir In-apparent, all dirty and crying and snotty. Shaking in his French booties, he was, after a sharp taste of some real fighting."

George leaned forward and caught Anne's hand, drew it forward and lipped it moistly. It was all she could do not to tear away, but somehow she endured the vile creature's slobber.

"Dickon has always been sweet on you." He leaned close, his voice a drunken caress, "Now he's a sensible grown up, and he’s sweet on your father's lands and castles too. It's a romance, you see, just like me and your dearest, darling sister Isabel. Both of you are passing fair ladies, passing well left."

"The Duke of Gloucester and I were once promised.” I knew it was all Anne could do to hold her voice steady.

"Could I ever forget? A pair of sickly runts holding hands! It was sufficient to turn a fellow's stomach. Come to think of it, though, it does explain what he did," George said cheerfully. "I never thought of our dull Dick as the jealous type—but, there! Seems he's as hot as the next man. You know how I know? You don't, do you? So let me tell you about the willows—nice, big willows—pretty—weren't they? They had long trailing branches and made a lovely spot to lie, there by the river. Not this year, of course, the place is a crow's banqueting hall—but, after they and the worms have finished, it will be quite pleasant there again."

His voice trailed away, as if he'd forgotten where his tale was going. Anne said nothing. What could she do now, but wait for George to end?

"Where was I? Oh, yes! Poor little baby Prince Edward, your braggart husband! Well, he tried to speak to the king my brother, to beg for mercy, wretched brat. He had his hands bound and he'd lost his sword. He was standing there, all muddy and bloody and shaking, when Richard, just as smooth as you please, strolled up behind and slit his throat. It was funny, actually, how astonished the little bastard looked, to find himself stuck. Our Dickon was handy as a butcher with an autumn pig!"

"You know, Annie," George went on dreamily, "the eyes of a man so slain are full of surprise. The look is always there when you silence a man like that—or—a woman," he added with a sinister wink, as if he had done both many times. "They know, you see. It's no more than a sting, but they understand they are bleeding out from that great vein. It's over in less than a wink, but 'tis a very long wink for the one who is dying. Not an ounce of Prince Edward's blood flowed blue, for I watched most carefully. It made a lovely scarlet mess all over that fine embroidered arming coat. You know—the red and black with the swan and the ostrich plumes upon which you ladies worked so long and hard."

George paused to gauge the effect. Anne tilted her head, hiding her face beneath the veil. Her shoulders rose and fell steeply. I prayed she was not starting an attack.

"Hey, Ned of Lancaster is food for worms!" George sang in a golden slur. "His last view of God's earth, those willow trees, long arms trailing in the water.

The fire spit softly. No one moved. George had a good voice and his foul song cast a malevolent spell.

"Yes, little twisted Dickon is a man now. A valiant soldier, a fierce dog who bites at Brother Edward's command! He was at the Tower, too, you know, the night King Henry died and broke the coot's head in with a mace while he knelt at prayer." George giggled, pleased with the misery he'd created.

"There's another useless Lancastrian object helped to heaven. Did the job himself, you know. Why, can you believe it? Dickon told me that his soldiers were afraid of God's damnation if they killed such a saintly old man. Murdering a helpless fool on his knees before God doesn't give my little brother a pause, as long as it serves his best-beloved Edward. Suppose he would have done for your father, too, had he been the first to catch him. I wonder if he would have had your father's head chopped off, or if he'd have rather broken his head, like Henry? Dickon says he's found there's nothing quite like doing the job himself."

Anne choked, reached for her handkerchief. Her shoulders lifted, and I knew a spasm had begun. I stepped forward, my fingers clasping the aromatic bottle I always kept in my apron.

"Get thee back, spotted cow!" George exclaimed with playful menace, pointing at me. "I'm not done yet. Certainly your mistress—dear sister Annie—would like to know a thing or two about my brother, now so eager to warm something of his in that red muff of hers."

"Ah, my little wife is a scold!" George said. Leaping out of the chair, alarmingly quick for one so drunk, he seized Isabel's arm, and dragged her upright. "I have always had a strong fancy for angry women."

Isabel's curtained bed was visible through the open door. Kicking over a chair to clear the way, George began to pull Isabel toward it. Ankarette rushed forward, caught George's arm and began to plead.

Anne's choking was well started, but, somehow, she managed to get up. I put my arms around her waist to give support, and we fled Isabel's day chamber. I am sorry to admit cowardice, but Anne was my first care. As we fled past the evil smirk of Clarence's man-servant, I could hear Ankarette pleading.

"She should have a care for me!" George shouted. "Where are my sons? Why, men laugh behind my back, saying I do not know how to breed her!"

Anne leaned against the wall, slowly sliding into a sitting position on the steps. I settled beside her. She was struggling, trying not to choke, not to let her throat to close. She fought for each breath, swallowing over and again. I opened the aromatic vial.

The pungency seemed to help, although from my point of view it seemed hours we huddled on the stairs. I knew I must take Anne away and back to her room as soon as possible. We'd deal later with the filth George had spewed.

I understood something about the madness that takes men in battle, something about the similar madness which takes men in politics. Nevertheless, I'd be willing to bet that Clarence had made up every shred of what he'd just said about Richard.

A good story was not to be confused with truth, that much had become clear to me, a witness to oh so many strong oaths of fidelity sworn upon sacred relics. All those solemn promises—so soon forgotten! None of these elaborate ceremonies had any force nowadays, in this world of liars and cheats. Perhaps, I realized, in a sudden epiphany, they never had.

"Do you believe what he said?" Anne was curled into a window seat, looking as forlorn as only fifteen can.

"I believe nothing George says. He is a perjured, vile, drunken, traitorous dog."

"Good, for I believe less than nothing of his maunderings. It serves his purpose to make you hate the Duke of Gloucester."

"No, not since you were a wife." Still, I wasn't entirely certain. She had a great imagination, my Anne, and a fearful one, that I knew. Everyone had betrayed her, even her beloved parents. Why should she not now suspect that other love of her young life—her own dear Dickon?

"Do you think he killed Edward?" She spoke after a lengthy silence, confirming my intuition. George's web had snared her.

"Soldiers in the field killed your husband the prince, hoping to get some extra reward from the king. Such things often happen." I watched her face, knowing she was still watering the seed George had planted.

That if she'd failed to birth sons, Edward of Lancaster would have put her away in a heart-beat? That as soon as the thrill of bedding her lovely self wore off, this pitiless young man would quickly discover that he also ‘loved’ others? Privately, I was of the opinion that if Richard of Gloucester had slit Prince Edward's throat—even, exactly—as George said—it was for the best.

The Duchess looked none the worse for wear. After some of the stories I'd heard below stairs about the mixture of violence and sex George was said to particularly enjoy, I was surprised.

"Don't get the servants talking," Isabel said sternly. "They chatter enough already."

"Indeed," Anne replied, settling. Her time with Marguerite d’Anjou had taught her a great deal about changing direction and maintaining her poise while doing so.

Isabel arranged her skirts, and waited for Ankarette to bring the embroidery basket.

"If I may not enquire about your health, may I ask how is My Lord the Duke of Clarence this morning?"

"Anne, dear," Isabel said, heaving a great sigh of exasperation, "everything is fine. You just don't understand. George has a good heart. He never means what he says when he's deep in his cups."

Anne stole a glance at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking—or, at least, something close enough. We'd seen it time and again, his drunken abuse, followed by tears of repentance and a tender reconciliation sealed with a thousand liar’s kisses. It was George's pattern with the world.

Later, Ankarette confirmed this suspicion. Yes, she said, the Duke had roared, and Isabel had wept, and then, suddenly, as was his wont, he, too, had begun to cry, and talk about how he was misunderstood and maltreated by the whole world. They had ended in bed, weeping and comforting each other. George had fallen asleep—Ankarette had heard the snores—and Isabel, still dressed and quite unmolested, had sent her out.

"He will be tender and thoughtful for a few days, and then it will begin all over again. Lady Isabel will beg him not to drink, and for a while he will refrain, at least not too much and not in her presence, and then something will pique him, and he'll be off again, head first in the Malmsey, and ready to pick a fight with the first person who crosses his path. He tells her he loves her, and she, poor lady, wants so much to believe. She loves him, that's for certain." Ankarette paused, shook her sleek dark head with distaste. "Plantagenet men are the devil between your legs. Women will do anything to get more, from their lady wives to foolish serving girls. Once they've had you, you'll scorn the touch of any other. I've seen it before. Yes, indeed! Who can say where this will end for my poor lady?"

"Who knows how it will end for any of us?" I confess, of late, I'd been worrying about my own freckled hide far more than a perfect servant should. Little did I guess what mischief George had up his magnificent scalloped sleeves, for I came by—of all unexpected things—a suitor. After being assaulted with "spotty" every time I turned around, it was the last thing I expected.

A guard in George's house—one who had come as a soldier of fortune into the service—began to follow me about and make friendly talk. At first, I thought of him as merely lonely, a man who heard my Yorkshire tongue, in use when I was down in the kitchen and found that it made him think of home.

When others began to tease, I came face to face with his true drift. Not only was it hard to believe, but it seemed mightily ill-timed.

Hugh Fletcher was not young, being thirty at the time. He was a big, square fair man born in my own county. He had strong legs, brawny arms, broad shoulders, and a big, hard, gut. By trade, he was an archer. For fun, we watched the men practice at the butts on Sunday afternoons, as the ancient decree of England required. Here I saw with my own eyes there was not a man in the household who could come anywhere near the aim of Master Fletcher. Not only could he pull the heaviest bow, but he could hit the eye out of a squirrel at 200 paces. All the other men stood aside, watched and cheered while he shot.

Hugh had gone on the continent after his village had been burned in Queen Marguerite’s time and had joined a Company of Saint George, English mercenaries. Later, he'd returned to England and waded through the latest battles of York and Lancaster. When Clarence had changed sides and left the Earl of Warwick in the lurch before Barnet, Hugh had changed his badge too. He said it had turned his gut to fight for Marguerite.

Eighteen now, I was no longer young. Whatever bloom had been on this poor plain rose was long gone in the trials and tribulations of the last few years. In secret, I availed myself of Anne's polished metal mirror and gazed into it. There I was, same as ever, only a bit plumper. There was my white skin, lips and face, the fat roan freckles splashed over all. There were two thick, short braids of burnished brunette that set off my hazel eyes. In a moment, I'd wind the braids and cover all with a white headscarf. There I'd be, plain as a nun in a gray dress, with those damned freckles standing out against white linen.

Hugh was, of course, well paid, as any archer of such exceptional skill would be, but it was further rumored that he had money put into the wool trade. That he was, in fact, a man of enough substance to give up soldiering and settle down, something of a catch. There were girls in the house who had conceived (through this news, perhaps) a fancy for him.

Extra was carried to him at the servant's table with a sauce of winks, banter, and swaying hips. The girls even cooed he was good-looking, although there was too much bulk—and not enough hair beneath his brown felt hat—for my taste.

His hair was that ashy color which is the fate of half of the English nation, with high color in his cheeks, sharp gray eyes, and bushy brows tinged with white. He could speak fair and speak coarse, one as well as the other, and he could read and write a little, too.

Where on earth a poor boy gone to the wars had picked up writing, I had no idea. It was, however, rather intriguing, like many other things about him. When the fellows all stripped their shirts at archery on a hot Sunday, I saw his broad back was covered with whipping scars, a sign of some long ago transgression.

Hugh Fletcher nevertheless stood proud as a lord while drawing his great bow. Beneath the extra, there was muscle in good quantity. As he shot, Katy, one of Isabel's housemaids, ardently clapped, blushed, and giggled.

What on earth was there besides my Yorkshire accent to attract this hardy yeoman? One afternoon, when Ankarette teased me about Hugh, I put the question to her. She, dark eyes merry beneath her shapely black brows, replied, "Don't play the fool, Rosalba Whitby! Your lady adores you, as all the world knows. She will take good care of you, and Hugh, with the nose for money he has…."

"Without her father and under attainder, my Lady Anne is not in a position to take care of herself, much less me. And, how do you know Hugh Fletcher has a nose for money?"

"Is it? Timothy the scrivener helped Fletcher with a letter only last week. It was a letter about his money, placed with one Master Cooke, a wool merchant right here in London."

I must have looked shocked at this bit of household espionage, because Ankarette giggled and responded with a friendly shove.

"If you paid attention to anything except your herbs and hovering over your little lady, you'd hear a deal more, you know."

Hugh and I were seated at a side table in the kitchen, watching others at work, a most relaxing occupation. The room was a cavern of brick with a deep fireplace. Over our heads, timbers, half trees, cut long ago, hung with herbs, strings of garlic, onion braids, and drying slices of apples. There was a comforting smell of smoke, grease and spice.

On the slate floor nearby lay a snoring hound. Cats rested higher, atop the indoor wood pile. Kitchen maids in kirtles with their overdresses looped up to stay well off the floor, scrubbed at the slate sink, or stirred pots while standing beneath the mantel of the yawning fireplace, which was so deep and tall that several small cooking fires could be laid within. Some of these were for pot cooking, others for roasting. The spit dog, lop-eared, short-legged and long backed, trotted with a big smile inside a squeaking wheel.

Hugh was telling me his story. This was more than my polite inquiry had hoped to draw forth, but I had naught else to do, and the man seemed pleased to do it.

"I was born in the village of Sandal Magna. Grew up there, married there, and saw the whole damn place burnt to the ground. After the Battle at Wakefield, Clifford and Queen Marguerite's soldiers came to our village. They slew almost everyone I held dear, my wife, baby, my old father, my mother, three brothers, two sisters, neighbors, and all my friends. I lost everything but my life that day."

He paused to see what impression this made. Easy enough to offer sympathy! These were the bad old days of which Master Whitby and True Thomas had spoken, the southern march of Queen Marguerite's army after the Battle of Wakefield, a blood-soaked trail of plunder, murder, and rape. Like a passage by the Devil, the queen's soldiers had scorched the earth beneath their feet.

"A grievous loss, Master Fletcher. I have often heard of the terrible things that happened in those days. My village was fortunate. We did not fall in the way the queen's army."

"It was a time ago," Hugh said. He shook his great head, as if to clear it. "Afterwards, I went myself to soldiering. Faith! There was nothing else to do. I was in Burgundy for a time, and then came home to England again and threw in my lot with the Sons of York. I am a Neville man by birth, which was the reason why the She-Wolf plundered us. I fought in second St. Albans, where I just got away with my skin. I fought at Towton, where Edward of York paid the French Bitch some on her account. I was at Hexham with John Neville—the Earl Montague that was—and at Edgecot with Warwick Kingmaker, next at Barnet with the Duke of Clarence. Last, I was at Tewkesbury, where I settled scores, once and for all, with that murdering French whore. A fine battle for a fightin’ man, was Tewkesbury."

"I have, and make no bones about it. I’m a soldier. It's a trade to be followed like any other. As long as I'm paid and given a little respect, it's all one to me."

This last I judged professional swagger. After all, he'd just admitted to fighting in order to "settle accounts" with Queen Marguerite.

Hugh slipped a hand into his pocket, and drew forth a thick golden ring. When he held it out to me, however, I would not touch it.

"Oh, don't be so stuck up!" He snapped the ring into the air and caught it, "'Yes, ‘tis loot, but it is better than coin."

"So does this." Hugh proudly displayed a massive thumb ring. "These fellows didn't need 'em anymore."

"Well, then, they shouldn't have been so proud as to wear ‘em to battle, should they?" Hugh stuffed the first ring into his pocket and studied me from beneath those shaggy white blond brows. "What's the matter, lass? Don't you fancy a brave soldier?"

"The proper side is that which defends My Lady. To me, she is all that matters in this world."

"How old are you, Mistress Rosalba?" He grinned and leaned back in his chair. From around the room I could see the other girls—maids, kitchen wenches, cooks—smirking behind their hands. Other servants said I was too proud, that I had forgotten where I had been born, that I talked like those whom I served and thought myself better than the rest.

Hugh shot a glance at a man-at-arms who'd been chatting up one of the handsomer maids. A wink passed between them.

Someone laughed. Angry now, I went to get up and leave, but the rogue dared to catch my arm.

"Your fair young mistress will soon have that hardy stripling, the little fightin' Cock of Gloucester, to keep her warm at night. She won't need you anymore. What then?"

Before I knew what he was up to, he had me off balance and falling, straight onto his knee. "There," he said regarding me with satisfaction, for I was forced to steady myself against his broad chest. "A goodly backside you have, little woman."

"Suit yourself," Hugh replied. "Still, be you warned, Roan Rose. I've always had a strong fancy for freckles."

He released me. He judged well, for I wasn't in the mood to make any more of a scene than we'd already played.

Getting off his knee with as much dignity as possible, I stamped out of the kitchen. A flood of laughter spilled as I closed the door. I could have killed them all.

"Do you know where I first saw you?" It was Hugh, again, sidling up as I gathered peppermint. I'd paused at my task to take a deep breath of our good English air.

"No." We no longer bothered much with preliminaries, Hugh and I, though I was still locked within my stony castle keep.

"Really?" I'd been in such a fog of misery those days, I actually couldn't remember much, except for the feeling that everything was wrong—everything in the world.

Hugh spoke softly, looking over his shoulder to see if we were truly alone. "I wanted to say that I shall soon leave this house, for my service is up. These lords are all wolves, but, By Christ, this one is naught but a thieving dog."

I joined his survey of the garden, but all our company was a honeybee, buzzing within the bright, early flowers and a wren rattling like a mad thing among the wilting lilacs.

"The Duke of Clarence is a wicked man. I hope and pray the king will soon take my lady into his protection. I worry every moment we are here."

I could see again that hopeful look in his eye—girl—garden—spring!—and decided to cut the conversation short.

"I would like to go with the Duke of Gloucester," he said offhandedly. "That would take me north again. It has been a long time since I saw the dales."

"If all goes well for My Lady, I may soon see home again, too. I was born in Aysgarth."

"I would never have guessed." He smiled. "Let's see. There are two kinds in your village, the tall, fair ones that came on the long ships, and yours, with all the freckles." He wore an older, wiser look, full of amusement.

"I thought of the falls at Aysgarth the moment I saw you upon those French battlements, Mistress Rosalba. You made me long for my home place, a feeling I have not had since I lost my young wife and baby, all those years ago." When his big, warm hand moved to clasp mine, I did not pull away. That would have been cruel. Knowing I'd be kind, he'd begun to tame me, with a touch, as is done with all wild creatures.

* * *

As for Anne, she’d closed up, like an oyster pulled from the water. She would not talk about Prince Edward, not a word. Unlike Isabel, who had apparently detailed every passage of George's hand for her sister, Anne had nothing to say.

By nature she was modest. When, at first, Anne stopped sharing her inmost thoughts, I wasn't surprised. I knew she could hold her peace, but I had never suspected so much strength. Quite alone, by choice, she went through whatever Edward of Lancaster and their brief marriage had meant to her, then she packed it away, in some deep and private place.

There were days when she grieved. She prayed a great deal, said her rosary time and again, and often wept bitterly over it. When not on her knees, however, there remained a plain, grave determination to get on and not to wallow in the ‘what-if’ of a ruined past.

When it became clear she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, I let her. For me, it was enough to hold her again, to smell her fragrant hair and feel her long limbs sleepily moving against mine through the night. It was not that I could never give her up. Teased to death by everyone, I often reassured myself on this score.

I would be glad to leave my lady behind, when, and only when, I delivered her to the one who should rightfully have her. Putting her into Richard of Gloucester's bed was what should have been—and what might yet—come to pass. When that wedding night came, I should go to sleep, perfectly contented and alone. At least, that's what I told myself.

* * *

One beautiful June morning, my lady went riding. The Duke of Clarence, not usually much for anything except dice or the bottle, made an exception and went along with the party. At dinner time, I saw the accompanying ladies and gentlemen returning, faces pink, laughing and bright. They trooped at once into the hall for their dinner. I looked for My Lady, but did not see her, although I did see Clarence going upstairs to Isabel, passing by the room where Ankarette and I sat sewing.

I stood, wondering where Anne was. Ankarette followed me and then abruptly seized my shoulder.

"Listen!"

Through the thick walls, there came the sound of screaming, shouting! It was another battle royal between the Duke of Clarence and his duchess. Ankarette promptly started for the stairs. I followed, thinking that perhaps, somehow, Anne had passed me by. As we entered the stairwell, the Duke's villain of a servant, Robinson, met us. We both recoiled at the sight of him.

"Get you to your mistress, Ankarette! And you—Rosalba—" He paused to grin, his usual tired trick of finding humor in my name, "go pack everything of your lady's. You must be gone from here before supper to Westminster."

From above our heads came a crash as something shattered.

"Good luck to you and your dear lady. I'll come see you later." After squeezing my hand, Ankarette hastened away, past Robinson and up the stairs.

"Where is my Lady Anne, Master Robinson?"

His smirk grew wider. "Why, while they were out riding, who should they meet but our King Edward among his court? The King asked your lady to accompany him to his palace, so what could my master do but relinquish her?”

"My Lady Anne has gone to Westminster?"

"She is with the king, wherever she has gone," Robinson replied waspishly. "I say again, get you to her room and pack. You shall be conveyed thither, along with your lady's belongings, before supper today."

Wondering mightily—but also mightily relieved that we were leaving—I did as I was told. Help came in the form of a housemaid and a man to move the trunk when I had finished. There was not much to pack, when all was said and done. The daughter of the great Earl of Warwick had been plundered along with the rest of Queen Marguerite's train, and this single trunk was all that remained of the splendor that had once been hers. Isabel had given Anne clothes and linen out of her own store when we'd arrived here.

From the kitchen came buttermilk, cheese, and a round of hot loaf, a kindness I had not expected. I was excited about our fortunate escape, and, truth to tell, excited about the prospect of seeing the Court of Edward IV in all its new, conquering splendor.

Chapter XI