"What a strange name," I murmured. "Did you know Queen Alainor of Aquitaine had a grandmother named Dangereuse?" I snapped back into the present. "And what did Sister Dangereuse tell you?"

"She told us you were busy with your writing and had expressly commanded no one to disturb you."

Half an hour pa.s.sed. I'd slumbered again when Sister Ghislaine knocked on my door.

"My lady, I have a tray of food for you, a light repast, and another poultice for your aching wrist."

She wound a tansy poultice around my wrist to ease the aching from all the writing I have done this day, then poured some hot spiced wine into one of my gold cups. She arranged dishes of pigeon pastries, lentils, and wafers on a small table. She stoked up the fire, for the room had become cold again. Finally, she put the silver bell back on my table.

"I thank you," I said, smiling at her.

Sister Ghislaine and I had become dear friends over the years, ever since my arrival here in the midst of a sleet storm in March 1469, twenty-six years ago. Ghislaine was a child of twelve, left at the house of Ashridge when both her parents died. Now she had taken her vows and was known for her skill in illuminating ma.n.u.scripts.

There was a knock at the door. It was Mother Avisa, the Mother Superior who managed our Benedictine cell. Now a plump woman in her fifties with square, capable hands, she sank into a deep curtsey, then sat in the chair I indicated.

"Where is the new nun?"

Mother Avisa sighed and looked at Sister Ghislaine.

"I have searched for her but can find her nowhere."

I picked up the leather book made to look like a prayer book and secreted it in my fur wrapper.

"Very wise, my lady Abbess," remarked Mother Avisa. She cleared her throat and coughed. "I do not know who Dangereuse is, but I can tell you that I accepted her because she came with very good references. As you know, since Sister Matilda's death, we have needed someone who is a skilled herbalist."

"Who recommended her?"

"Her letter of introduction was signed by Archbishop Morton himself."

I gazed into her face. Archbishop John Morton was the new Archbishop of Canterbury and extremely popular with Tudor the Usurper. His popularity was due to a diabolically clever idea of collecting fines, known as Morton's Fork. Under this scheme, you either paid the original fine whether it was fair or not, or if you did not pay, then you paid another fine for not paying the original fine. Needless to say, Tudor loved this idea, for he was the most grasping, the most avaricious, the most penny-pinching monarch ever to sit on the Throne of England.

"Archbishop Morton is Tudor's henchman." I said slowly. "That plot against Tudor in which Lambert Simnel impersonated my grandson, the Earl of Warwick, was supported by my daughter Margaret. And we know that Tudor's policy is to destroy anyone who might have a legitimate claim to the throne."

"Whereas my lady of Burgundy's is to annoy Tudor as much as possible," murmured Ghislaine.

I smiled. "She now has at her court another promising young man, this time someone known as Perkin Warbeck. It is possible that he could be one of Edward's b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, dating from that time he had to take refuge in Burgundy more than twenty years ago."

"My lady of Burgundy also says he's another of your grandsons, the Duke of York," said Ghislaine.

I was silent. If that were true, it would mean that the Serpent had smuggled her younger son out before Richard disturbed her sanctuary. Could she really have done that? She was cunning enough, and desperate. I put that thought away, for a headache threatened. "Perhaps he is," I murmured.

"My lady, they've arrived." Someone was shaking me.

I sat up slowly in my chair and blinked to adjust my eyes to the light of the candle.

Ghislaine was bending over me. "I'm sorry to disturb you, my lady, but they thought it best to arrive under cover of night."

"Whom do you mean?" I asked, my thoughts blurry from sleep.

"The party of nuns from Burgundy, my lady."

I sat bolt upright. "What hour is it?"

"Nigh unto matins."

Avisa bustled into the room. "It's quite a large party," she announced, rising from her curtsey. "Twenty men-at-arms, ten archers, a priest, three nuns, and the abbess herself. I have found places for everyone. There is someone who would like to meet privately with you now."

I looked up as a figure swept me a low bow.

"Olivier de Blay at your service."

I looked at the figure before me, but couldn't see his face, hidden by shadow. I motioned him forward.

He bowed again.

Something familiar echoed. It was almost as if I were seeing Edward again. But how could that be true, for Edward had been dead these twelve years? Had my daughter of Burgundy sent me her latest protege? What was his name? Oh yes, Lambert something.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Olivier de Blay."

"You seem familiar."

"I'm told I look exactly like my grandfather. Though I never met him."

He was dressed in a tunic of wine-colored velvet embroidered in silver. His stockings were a russet color. Of course. He had Blaybourne's build, nut-colored hair, long expressive face and shapely legs. But whereas Blaybourne's eyes had been hazel, this young man's were grey. I looked at his hand and saw a blue glint.

"Let me see your ring."

He drew from his finger a sapphire ring set in silver.

I took my sapphire ring from my finger and put both rings together. My ring nestled into the cutout shape of his sapphire, just as I had once nestled into Blaybourne's arms. My vision blurred and I fumbled for my handkerchief.

The young man hovered nearby and handed me a gla.s.s of wine.

"After all these years, I have so many questions." I indicated a seat, and the young man sat in the carved chair opposite mine, stretching his long legs out towards the fire.

"My grandfather was humbly born. His father was a blacksmith."

"He told me that," I said, "but where?"

"In the village of Blay, near Bayeux in Normandy.

I frowned. "His name was not Blaybourne?"

"Being so humble, my grandfather did not have a last name. But when he arrived at the monastery in Caen, the monks asked him where he was from, and so called him Pierre de Blay."

I smiled. What would Tudor say if he knew his wife had such peasant blood? I cleared my throat. "When last I saw him, he was dressed as a n.o.bleman, and he had an entourage of pages, knights, and men-at-arms. That day, he gave his name as Philippe de Savoy, Count of Geneva."

"There was a gentleman of that name," replied Olivier de Blay. "He was the youngest son of Duke Amadeus of Savoy."

"But wasn't it dangerous for your grandfather to impersonate a n.o.bleman?"

"He chose minor members of the n.o.bility, and was careful in his choices. After all, the Count of Geneva never came to Rouen."

"I've always wanted to know more about him. I had so little time."

"Did you know he was a spy?"

I stared at my guest, as everything slid into place. The fact that Blaybourne knew so many languages. The humble background, the courtly behavior, the education at an Italian university. Even his advanced degree.

"I had no idea," I said, gripping the arms of my chair as I stared into the fire. The flames flickered, giving me an image of Blaybourne saying farewell to me all over again.

"He must have been in some danger while he was visiting me, for he had no protector."

The grandson smiled. "My grandfather was extremely well educated, and valuable for that reason."

"Whom did he spy for?"

"The Medici bank of Florence."

Yes, he had used that name when giving me his last instructions.

"Banks need information about which way the wind is blowing before they lend money," continued the young man. "My grandfather was trying to find out whether the English were likely to win their war against the French, so that the Medici bank could determine if it would be wise to give the English king a loan."

"Is that why he came from Pontoise?"

"Yes. After getting information about the campaign against the French, he planned to go to the court at Rouen to gather more information before returning to Italy. He was detained by a fair lady."

My cheeks warmed.

"The lady was enchanting, so I've heard," observed the young man smiling. "My grandfather delayed until he could do so no more."

"Until he had to leave," said I, conjuring up the image of the moment when Richard had announced his return outside Rouen Castle.

There was silence for a moment.

"He wasn't a n.o.bleman," I sighed.

"No, but he could a.s.sume the guise of a n.o.bleman. He said it made it easier to conduct negotiations."

"I always wondered how he managed to do that."

"The monks taught him his manners," replied Olivier de Blay. "As you know, some of them come from aristocratic families."

I nodded, too weary to pursue the matter further. "What happened to your grandfather?"

"He gave up the roving life of a spy, returned to Florence and worked for the Medici bank in other ways. Several years later, he settled down, married a young lady whose father was a wealthy merchant and produced a son. My father Cecilio."

"Cecilio?" I clasped my hands and smiled. "He remembered me!"

"He couldn't forget you."

"He was not happy?"

"He was well enough."

I looked down. Even when I was nine years old, marrying Richard hadn't felt right. Granted, I reveled in my power and influence. But had it been good for my soul? I examined my hands, now k.n.o.bbled with arthritis. What would I have done had I known what that choice would entail? Would I have had the courage to leave three children and cause a scandal for a husband who loved me, in exchange for a life of study and companionship with Blaybourne?

No. For the cost would have been too high. True, I would have been spared the drama and tragedy of a life encrusted with power. But could I have lived with myself?

I felt inside my fur wrap and brought out the leather-bound book, handing it to the young man.

"My life is in my memoirs," I said. "Take this book to my daughter Margaret for safekeeping. For Tudor would destroy if he knew of it."

The young man bowed.

"Tell me more about your grandfather. Is he alive?"

"No, my lady, I regret to say not. He died some thirty-five years ago."

"The very same year as my lord husband," I murmured.

I leaned back in my seat, feeling Lady Fortune completing her circle. If I shut my eyes, I could see their faces: Mama's, Cath's, Anne's, Audrey's and Jenet's. They were laughing at something I said.

We were sitting in Bulmer's Tower at Castle Raby, discussing Chaucer. The day was warm and fresh. Mama smiled at me and patted my hand.

NOTE.

Cecylee, d.u.c.h.ess of York died on May 31, 1495 at the great age of eighty. She is buried in the Collegiate Church of Fotheringhay, opposite her husband, Richard, Duke of York.

This ma.n.u.script was taken to Margaret, d.u.c.h.ess of Burgundy, who placed it in safekeeping at the convent of Roosendael just before her death, in November 1503. Unfortunately, this convent was destroyed in 1576, during the religious upheavals of the sixteenth century. The ma.n.u.script has only recently been unearthed.

About the Author.

Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and raised in Surrey, England. About thirty years ago she came to the United States and has lived there ever since in the Mid-Atlantic region. She has had four careers, violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer and novelist. Yes, she is related to H. Rider Haggard, the author of SHE and KING SOLOMONS'S MINES. (He was a younger brother of her great-grandfather.) She got into novel writing by accident, when an instructor announced one day that each member of his cla.s.s had to produce five pages of their next novel. She took a deep breath and began. She hasn't stopped since.