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  I glanced in the direction she indicated. A table of young men were indeed eyeing me, and when they found my gaze on them, a curly-haired young fellow picked up his goblet and toasted me with a drink. In no way did he resemble the young lord on the dais, and I glanced down. “Aye, Sœur Madeleine,” I said, and realized my voice was tinged with melancholy.

  Obediently I ignored the young men and nibbled my bread while the ruddy knight beside me gave a belch and picked his teeth with a dirty fingernail. The thought came to me that he was probably married, and at that moment I made a vow never to give my consent to a match by the queen, unless I felt some affection for her choice, no matter how much pressure she brought to bear. A nunnery would be preferable…. My eyes stole wistfully to the knight at the dais. How splendid he was! He was laughing at a joke someone had made, and it made no sense to me that my heart should twist again with the yearning I had felt when I’d watched the beauty of the sunset.

  Having no one else to turn to, I decided to make the best of the evening. “Do you know who they are that sit at the High Table?” I asked the ruddy old knight, prepared to view the food he chewed in exchange for information.

  “Indeed I do!” he replied, munching. “The lady next to Lord Cromwell is his niece, Lady Maude, and she’s wed to the dark-haired knight seated on her right. His name is Sir Thomas Neville. And see there…that’s his younger brother Sir John Neville, sitting on Lord Cromwell’s left.”

  At the name “Neville” I threw Sister a nervous glance. Fortunately the crowd in the hall had grown rowdy, and Sister was so engrossed in her capon and wine that this information failed to reach her. Although she drank heavily, her cup remained filled; I realized suddenly that a varlet hovered nearby, constantly pouring as though she were born royal. I gave this no more thought, rejoicing instead that I could feast on information without her reprimand, despite my rapidly declining spirits.

  Though I had an uncle who had been created an earl, the Nevilles were of the blood royal and counted many a lord, earl, and duchess among their number. Their climb to power had begun in the twelfth century through the marriage bed, when Robert Fitzmaldred wed the heiress of Henry de Neville from Neuville in Calvados and their children took the mother’s name.

  Family feuds in successive generations made bitter foes of the two branches of Nevilles, driving one to champion the White Rose of York, and the other the Red Rose of Lancaster. The successes of the Yorkist Nevilles also brought them into clashes with yet another powerful clan—the Percies. Long a law unto themselves in Northumberland, the Percies resented the steady erosion of power and wealth to these Nevilles, whom they viewed as upstarts. Yet through all the troubles, Fortune kept her smile fixed firmly on the Yorkist Nevilles, and the marriage bed, where they had made their richest conquests, continued to bless them. Through his wife, Nan Beauchamp, whom he had wed at the age of eight, Richard Neville, the eldest of the four sons of the Earl of Salisbury, had recently been created Earl of Warwick, the premier earl of the land.

  “You are very knowledgeable,” I said, warming a little to the knight. His uncouth manners and sideways glances into my bosom no longer offended me, since he had proved so helpful. “Can you tell me more?” I leaned close so that the raucous bursts of laughter from our companions along the table as they exchanged court gossip would not deprive me of a word.

  “That young man beside Lady Maude is quite a knight, pardieu! Now there’s a tale—”

  I glanced at Sir John Neville. He had tilted his chair back and was engaged in conversation with Lady Maude behind Lord Cromwell’s back. I looked away before he could notice me. A question was throbbing for an answer.

  “These Nevilles, are they from the Yorkist or the Lancastrian branch?” I asked as casually as I could manage. So that the ruddy knight would not see in my eyes what the answer meant to me, I occupied myself by picking up a piece of the grilled hare now on my plate and making a show of swirling it around the spicy mustard sauce. But he surprised me by laughing; an uproarious, belly-shaking laugh that occupied him for quite a spell. I watched him curiously.

  “You are an innocent one, aren’t you?” Still laughing, he turned to the others down the table. “She wants to know whether these Nevilles are Yorkist or Lancastrian!”

  “I’ve been in a nunnery, sir.” I felt myself blush as I tried to explain my ignorance.

  “Then you do have a good deal to learn, and lucky the man to teach you!” he guffawed.

  The ladies smiled, and a few of the men snorted with laughter. One, who turned out to be Lord Cromwell’s seneschal, took pity on me and said, “They are the Yorkists, my lady.”

  I turned back to the ruddy knight, and he picked up where he had left off. “Indeed, each time King Henry slips into madness—excuse me, illness—the queen and Richard, Duke of York, vie to rule the land as Protector of the Realm. Sometimes York has the upper hand, sometimes the queen. But no matter—these Nevilles have stood staunchly by York through thick and thin since the very start of the troubles…. Aye, I see you’re beginning to understand. They are sons of the Earl of Salisbury and brothers to the Earl of Warwick.”

  I felt as though someone had struck me a reeling blow, and I must have blanched, because faintly, as if through a wall, I heard him say, “Are you all right, Lady Isobel?”

  I nodded. “’Tis merely…the hare is tough.” I laid the morsel down on my trencher and swallowed on my tight throat. “Pray continue.”

  “Well, here’s a tale for you…. There are the Nevilles, and there are the Percies, and the two clans hate one another, right—you know that much, eh? Good. Now, see Lady Maude there…she’s the heiress to the Cromwell lands and estates, which include several former Percy estates confiscated from them by Henry IV for treason back in early 1400. So when she married Sir Thomas Neville right here in this castle two years ago, that meant the Nevilles would one day lay claim to several strongholds that had once belonged to the Percies. Seems that Lord Egremont, a hot-tempered younger son of the Earl of Northumberland who’s landless himself—and such a rowdy fellow that no heiress will marry him!—didn’t take too kindly to the idea of Percy lands falling into Neville hands, no matter that the properties in question had been confiscated more than fifty years ago. So Egremont lay in wait for the bridal party at Stamford Bridge. They say that it was thanks to the younger son, Sir John—who’s as valiant a soldier as you’ll find anywhere—that the Nevilles—taken by surprise, mind you, and with a much smaller army—routed the Percies! Though he’s a third son and but twenty-five years of age, his father, the Earl of Salisbury, puts great store in his counsel. Aye, lady, I’d fight with Sir John Neville any day…that is, if Lord Cromwell gives the word. I’m in his service.”

  “I see.” A vegetable course of peas and onions in saffron had been cleared away untouched, and now I stared down at the figs on my dessert plate, beautifully served with almonds and rose petals, and decorated with powdered sugar. I picked one up and tried to swallow. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. The banquet I’d wept to miss had ended in sorry disappointment, and I found myself wishing the evening over.

  But Sister was not ready to leave. Turning to me, she gave a clap and said as gaily as any child, “The flame throwers are here, Isabelle!” She pointed to two bare-chested young men, with beads around their necks, entering the hall amidst a fanfare of trumpets from the minstrels’ gallery. They juggled the fire with a display of rare skill and ended their performance by devouring the flames. Raising their extinguished torches high in victory, they turned to receive the hearty applause and silver coins that rained down on them. Next came a troubadour with his gittern to sing a lewd tale about a fishmonger’s cheating wife, full of ribaldry, followed by a lament of Elaine’s doomed love for Sir Lancelot, brimming with sad sighs, tears, and desire. All I could think of was the lord with the creases around his smile. Now I was glad of the ruddy knight’s company, and I tried to focus on him so that I would not look at the one who sat high to my lef
t on the dais, so far above me.

  At last the troubadour gave a bow and said, “Thus ends my tale. God save all this fair company—amen!” The minstrels in the gallery broke into loud chords, and the floor cleared for dancing. The passionate Celtic rhythm they played on their harp, rebec, pipes, and lutes spoke of love in every note, but I sat stiffly on my bench, determined not to feel the music. Lords and ladies rose to dance, and the ruddy knight slapped the table.

  “Ho, my dear lady! ’Tis time for some revelry—let us—”

  He broke off in midspeech. I turned in the direction in which he gazed, to find myself staring straight into Sir John Neville’s dark blue eyes. The breath went out of me.

  “Lady Isobel, may I have the honor of this dance?” he said, his voice resonant, touched with the accent of the North.

  He knew my name! My lips parted in search of air. I rose mutely. He bowed to Sœur Madeleine, and she stood to let me out, though reluctantly, weaving slightly. She was clearly displeased, but I ignored her frown and gave him my hand. With a touch that was light yet commanding, he led me to the center of the hall. We took our positions along with other dancers on the rose-petaled floor, and in time to the exotic beat that evoked something of the wild moors, we moved together: a small step to the side, forward three steps, back two, and a hop. I barely knew what I was doing. His eyes scorched mine, and I could not look away. We reversed the sequence, parted from one another with a step, and drew back together again. I felt the movement of his breath, and with it the candles blurred, the walls of the room receded, and the other dancers faded into oblivion. There was only him and me in all the world, and music, and a fiery wind beneath my feet sweeping me forward, sweeping me back. He knelt, and slowly I circled him, feeling as if I moved in a dream, my hand never leaving his, his eyes never leaving mine. He came to his feet, took his turn. Time hung suspended, and I stood helplessly as he passed around me, igniting my burning heart into flame.

  We moved forward a double step, back one, gave a hop, and took another small step to the side. We danced palm to palm, face-to-face, in slow and perfect harmony, first in one direction, then the other, and we were two halves of a circle spinning together in eternity, spinning, spinning…. The melody filled all the air, leaving none for me to breathe, and I could not draw my eyes away from his; I could not move my hand from his. I never, ever wanted to leave, never wanted the dance to end, never wanted to return to the barren world I had known.

  But end it did. Suddenly and with a clash of cymbals, we were paused in place, locked in one another’s gaze, breathing in unison as the notes quivered into silence. The song was over; the world had stopped spinning. All my strength was focused on recovery, but my heart pounded so violently against my ribs that I knew my heaving bosom betrayed my emotion. A sick giddiness born of shame, heat, and excitement made me falter, and I raised a hand to my brow.

  “My lady,” he said, steadying me by the elbow. “It seems we must seek some air. The warmth in here is suffocating.”

  I nodded, the corners of my mouth lifting. And then I remembered Sister. She would never permit me to leave the room with anyone, especially not a knight. Especially not a Neville.

  “But—” I said, turning to the front of the room where Sister sat.

  “We shall request permission, as is seemly,” he said, but his tone held a smile.

  When we reached Sœur Madeleine, I realized why. She no longer sat on the bench but in a tapestried chair set off to the corner, and her head lolled to one side as she slept, snoring loudly. A wineglass lay lightly in one hand, engulfed in the folds of her skirts. Having spilled its last drops on her knees, it bobbed up and down with each heavy breath, like a ship at sea.

  I suppressed my laughter and glanced at him.

  “It seems Sœur Madeleine is in no condition to deny us permission, my lady,” he said, his eyes twinkling and a grin revealing his irresistible dimples. He put out his hand to me. I seized it most undecorously. The fact that I remembered the hovering varlet and realized that unholy temptation had deliberately been set into Sister’s path made not a berry’s worth of difference to me.

  The air was fresh, the night beautiful, and the small walled garden profuse with blooms that sparkled with raindrops. Music drifted from the open windows of the great hall as we passed a server with a tray of oranges, and a group of courtiers and maidens around a smooth stone fountain, laughing amidst the roses.

  “They tell me you are Lancastrian,” he said.

  “They tell me you are Yorkist. And that all Yorkists are rapists and murderers,” I replied, stealing a wry look at him from beneath my lashes as we strolled.

  He laughed, a hearty, wonderful laugh that creased his cheeks and flashed his dimples to my delight. A light twinkled in his dark blue eyes. “Don’t believe everything you hear. There are a few exceptions.”

  I glanced down at the hound that strutted happily at his heels. “And what is he, Yorkist or Lancastrian, do you know?”

  “Yorkist. But sometimes he forgets and licks a Lancastrian.” He mocked a grave countenance but a corner of his mouth twitched.

  I smiled, suffused with happiness as we talked. “Is he always with you?”

  “Always, except when there is danger, as in a battle…or at a dance. Then he watches from the tent—or from under the table…. He has more sense than I do, you see.” He looked into my eyes, and even in the starlight I felt the fire that had singed me when we danced together.

  I tore my eyes from his.

  “Northumbria is very beautiful. I was there once,” I said, dropping my gaze.

  “Cambridgeshire is even lovelier. I should like to visit more frequently.”

  I shot him a glance. His mouth had curved, as though he knew I had caught his meaning. I blushed again, feeling my cheeks as red as poppies, and I was grateful for the night that shielded me with its darkness.

  We strolled deep into the garden. Here, no torches blazed to light the way, and there were no prying eyes, except those of the silver stars that sparkled over us. The music faded, and only the chirping of crickets broke the silence of the night. I was acutely aware of his nearness, and a burning tension flooded me, making me ache for his touch.

  He said, “I never had the honor of meeting your father—God rest his soul—but I know your uncle. The Earl of Worcester is a devout and scholarly man.”

  I relaxed a little at the turn of the conversation. “Aye, that he is. He has a great love of learning, and taught me the pleasure of manuscripts at a young age.”

  “What have you read?”

  “Ovid, Christine de Pisan, Euripides, Socrates, Homer, and Plato…and—”

  “Whoa!” he laughed. “That is a mouthful, but no less than I would expect from the niece of such a man. I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of reading at any great length, unless you count De Rei Militari.”

  His reference to the great manual of military strategy saddened me, for it revealed something I would not have guessed from his demeanor. The troubles of the present weighed heavily on this knight despite his light banter, and I sensed that his carefree exterior masked the deep and thoughtful nature of a man given to reflection. My heart took a perilous leap toward him.

  “Did you know we are related, Lady Isobel? Your uncle, the Earl of Worcester, was once wed to my sister Cecily—God rest her soul.”

  I looked at him with disbelief. I had no knowledge of this.

  “Indeed, it was many years ago, when he was Lord Tiptoft and not yet Earl of Worcester. My sister was his first wife. They were married but a few months before she died.”

  I mumbled my regrets, still startled by the revelation. “No one ever told me,” I explained. “I only remember my aunt Elizabeth. She died when I was young.”

  He gave me a small smile. “Elizabeth Greyndour was his second wife. You were but a babe when he was wed to my sister, and I daresay that being related to a Yorkist is not something to boast about these days.”

  I did not repl
y, as that could not be denied, and in any case I still struggled with this bond of marriage between our families—and the hope it had sparked in my breast.

  “Your uncle is deputy in Ireland now, so I understand. How is he doing, have you heard?” he asked.

  “Aye, well,” I said, more brightly than I had expected. My heart had assimilated the knowledge he’d given me, and joy was coursing through me now. “He has written that he plans to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem when he gets back from Ireland, and perhaps spend time in Padua, studying Scripture, Latin, and Greek.”

  “Indeed, he expressed that to me before he left last year…. I believe he has an interest in translating Ovid from the Latin.” Abruptly, he demanded, “How old are you?”

  When I hesitated, he grinned. “If you’re concerned about Rufus here, I can assure you he won’t tell anyone.”

  I couldn’t help myself; my spirits were so light that I pealed with laughter. “Fifteen,” I said finally.

  “Is it true you’re a ward of Marguerite d’Anjou?”

  I could not have foreseen the effect this question would have on me. In one swift blow it reminded me that Nevilles were not welcome at court and ripped from me the cocoon of fantasy I had woven around myself. I came to my senses suddenly and violently. Maybe the fresh air had cleared my head; maybe it was the shock of my feelings, which had been as wanton as any tavern girl’s; maybe just the rest of my father’s words coming back to me again: Aim not too high; ask not too much. The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves…. But all at once I recognized how rash and foolish I had been. The marriage that once bound our families had passed into history and was a thread long since severed. Times had changed, and hatred had solidified. The marriage meant nothing, changed nothing. The divide between us remained as wide as a stormy sea. This knight belonged to one of the most powerful families in Christendom and was a foe to the queen who owned me. How could I be sure that he didn’t toy with me for his own amusement, thinking in some way to humiliate the queen he loathed? Even if that were not so, why should his attributes matter when he remained as unattainable to me as the stars above my head? I had forgotten my place, and reached too high, and asked for the impossible, and the gods had answered by sending me fire. I had to get out while there was still hope of recovery. My nurse was right. I was reckless, foolish, and wild. When would I ever learn?