"If she displeases him, he can take away her children and lock her up."

"Do you expect me to ride roughshod over your feelings?"

I stare at him. Yes, I do expect him to ride roughshod over my feelings. But something about the way he looks at me prevents me from saying so. Instead, I merely remark, "I don't know you."

"We have known one another since childhood!"

"We have not seen each other in twelve years."

"That was not my wish. I always wanted to see you."

I twist my hands together. I can hear the longing in his voice.

"My love, I think you worry too much. No one could love you as much as I. You must know I don't want a caged animal for a wife, but someone to love me."

I finger my crucifix.

He kneels. "Don't you want to experience the joy of having a husband who loves you?" He takes my hand. "Don't you want to have children to adore?" He kisses my hand and puts it over his heart. "Are you telling me, Cis, that you would prefer to live out your life in your brother's household when I am offering you my hand, my heart, everything I have?"

Unexpected tears come to my eyes. I realize I am wilting through lack of love. A life ruled by prayer now seems colorless and lifeless. All my life, I have spent in my head. The tips of my fingers resonate with each beat of his heart. He kisses each finger of my hand, front and back. The gentle pressure of his touch makes me tingle. I glance at him. He is attractive, lean, muscular, and well dressed. "Come to me, my love," he murmurs, "I adore you. You would be safe with me."

I look away. He sounds hungry for me. What would our wedding night be like? I shiver and close my eyes.

Richard gently kisses each finger. "Would two months give you long enough to get ready?"

Two months? That is not much time. On the other hand, I feel powerful sensations of longing I did not know I possessed.

"Yes-" I sigh out that word on the thread of a whisper, without looking at him, to hide my blushes.

"When?"

I pull myself together and stare at him. "The feast day of Mary Magdalene."

But Richard laughs, his face warming with merriment. "Cis, you really are-"

"Mary Magdalene is much misunderstood," I inform him stiffly.

"My love, of course, if you wish it," he says instantly. He rises and takes my face between his hands. "But have I your promise that we will marry then, in two months time, on the twenty-second day of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1437?"

"On one condition," I say. "I wish to stay here another week. I need to prepare myself."

Richard treats me to another one of his long silences. Finally he says, "I have a request also. Of course you may stay here for another week, but I would ask that you allow me to visit you every day, and then escort you back to Bisham." He folds my hand into his. "It would be cruel to deny me the pleasure of your company."

What am I supposed to say to that?

BOOK II: ONE SEED SOWN.

As long as I am alive, in truth, no one will have the joy and pleasure of my love except for this flower.

FROM PLUS BELE QUE FLOR.

MONTPELLIER CODEX, 13TH CENTURY.

Chapter 6.

Rouen Castle, Rouen, English France.

Feast of Saint Anne, Mother of Our Lady.

July 26, 1441.

On a day when hot winds carried the sharp scent of herbs, I was riding back from a visit to the merchants of Rouen-one of several-when I heard the thunderous sound of hooves galloping toward me.

I stopped my palfrey on the slope that led up to the castle.

Was it Richard? He'd ridden out with his army to relieve Pontoise only two weeks ago, and I did not expect him so soon. I clutched at the reins, causing my gentle palfrey to snort and arch her neck.

Life as Richard's d.u.c.h.ess was not as bad as I'd feared. I acquired a taste for gorgeous satin and thick velvet gowns of every hue, for fur robes, supple gloves, elegant boots, and jewelry. I grew to love the wink of precious gems, of emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, and in the summer months, I loved the subtle l.u.s.ter of pearls with lighter silks. Richard proved to be a considerate husband, sparing no expense to fit up his various residences for my pleasure. The only thing he would not tolerate was refusal when he wanted to bed me. He was gentle, but persistent.

And so I bore him three children in four years.

I hated the discomfort of pregnancy and the messiness and pain of birthing, but my children were lovely. My eldest, three-year-old Joan whom I named after Mama, was the apple of my eye. She was a charming child, already showing great beauty, and saying the funniest things. Her sister, two-year-old Nan, was a much quieter soul who glowed with contentment when playing with animals. Baby Henry, born in February, was only five months old and had yet to make his mark on the world. But Richard had been thrilled to have an heir.

Through the thin, semi-transparent fabric of my veil, I dimly saw a gentleman bring his white gelding to a stop with a flourish and vault off.

I pushed the material aside with my gloved hand.

Much younger than Richard, I guessed his age to be no more than twenty. He wore a tunic of dark green velvet over stockings that were half green, half gold with the seam straight up the middle of the front of each leg. The tunic was shorter than usual, and the eye-catching stockings drew attention to those legs, long and very shapely.

"Your Grace," he gasped in elegant French as he dropped to one knee in the dust. "You forgot this."

He handed up a package that contained my new dress, stiff with jewels.

I looked into a pair of laughing hazel eyes.

"Have I seen you before?"

"I was riding through Rouen when I saw your entourage. I'd heard much of your beauty, so I reined in to see if I could get a glimpse of such rare loveliness."

I turned my head to hide a faint blush. "How did you notice my package?"

"I saw it as soon as you left."

"How fortuitous that you should happen to be there at that precise moment."

His boots were coated in dust.

"Have you come from Pontoise?"

He nodded.

"Have you news of my lord?"

"Indeed I do, my lady. He is in good health and spirits and his campaign against the French is going well."

Richard and I had arrived in Rouen a month ago so that he could take up his post as governor of Normandy. The city of Rouen was the English capital of France, but the French had been trying for the past several years to wrest control of English France. Pontoise was an English town near Paris that controlled a strategic crossing over the River Oise. Whenever the French wanted to use this crossing, they were forced to pay English tolls, and this they did not like.

In early June, three weeks before our arrival, the French laid siege to Pontoise. But Richard appeared at the head of a large army, bringing his best generals. He was determined to teach the French a lesson. While the men fought the French, their wives and children kept me company.

At my asking, the young man went into detail about marches and counter-marches, night-crossings and chases back and forth across the River Oise. His brown hair bounced, as he gestured the army's movements with his hands, his lips equally mobile and expressive. He smelled of almonds, of nutmeg, and of some exotic spice I could not place. This was such a contrast to other men I knew, who smelled of dogs, horses, mud, and-other unmentionable things.

Who was he? Where did he live?

"Why don't you stay awhile and refresh yourself?"

I led the way into the great hall of Rouen Castle, summoned the servants, and saw that he was well furnished with refreshments. When I was a.s.sured that he had what he wanted, I left.

Around an hour or so later, I reappeared.

He was singing a chanson, accompanying himself on his lute. As soon as he saw me, he rose.

He devoured me with his eyes.

My new dress was of blue-grey silk with yards of material that floated around me as I walked. Pearls adorned the bodice. Pearls swirled in patterns down the sleeves. Pearls inscribed my name around the hem. I wore a matching heart-shaped headdress with a fine gauze veil.

It had been hard to decide which jewels to wear, for I had chests filled with them. It had taken Jenet a whole hour to find them all.

Eventually, I chose a sapphire and pearl necklace with matching earrings.

The silence lengthened as he gazed at me.

I lifted my chin and stared back. What would happen now? But our silent reverie was interrupted by the appearance of the other ladies. Word must have got around that an attractive stranger had arrived, for they wore their best dresses, coloring their cheeks and lips with rouge. After two weeks of nun-like seclusion while our men battled the French, we were dying for male company.

The young man got up and bowed, kissing each hand with a flourish.

I took in their finery and glanced down at my gown.

"You look ravishing, d.u.c.h.esse," murmured the young man. "You need no addition to your attire."

Richard's sister, now Isabel de Bourchier, married to Baron Henry Bourchier, bit her lip.

Lady Bess de Vere, married to John de Vere, twelfth Earl of Oxford, interrupted. "Do you know Plus Bele Que Flor, The One To Whom I Submit Is More Beautiful Than A Flower?"

"Now, how does that go, my lady?" said the young man as he sat and strummed some chords on his lute. "The One To Whom I Prostrate Myself Is More Lovely Than A Flower?"

Lady Margaret Beauchamp, Countess of Shrewsbury smiled. "The One Who Lets Me Play For Her Is More Lovely Than A Flower."

"No," replied my sister-in-law Lady Lisette Beauchamp, married to George. "The One Who Lies Beneath Me Is More Lovely Than A Flower."

I laughed. "No indeed. It is The One Who Commands My Obedience Is More Lovely Than A Flower."

"You are looking very well, Cis," remarked Isabel in her distinctive voice. She lisped her rs exactly as Richard did. "That is quite a magnificent dress, I have never seen so many pearls. Who is that?"

Silence fell as I faced Isabel.

Lady Isabel de Bourchier was an unusually thin lady of thirty-two years. Of course, it would be Isabel asking the awkward questions, with her habit of watchful silence. "This young man, Isabel, has come from Pontoise."

Isabel turned towards him. "And you are?"

"My name is of no consequence, my lady." The young man rose and bowed gracefully.

Isabel's elegantly thin eyebrows rose. "Are you saying that you are of no consequence?"

There was silence.

"Where are you from?"

"A country far from here."

Isabel thinned her lips.

"Isabel," I said, touching her arm. "He has come from Pontoise. He has news of the campaign."

Immediately the ladies clamored for news about their husbands, all of them among Richard's generals: Isabel's husband, Baron Henry Bourchier, Bess's husband, the Earl of Oxford, and Lisette's husband, my brother George, Lord Latimer.

I held up my hand. "It's such a fine evening, with many more hours to run. Why don't we sit outside? We can discuss Pontoise."

I signaled to the servants to follow.

The young man put down his lute and offered me his arm.

I led everyone to an area out in the garden screened by yew, which made for a private kind of outside room. Inside this s.p.a.ce were tubs of roses, rosemary, thyme, and small orange trees. A turf seat stood in the middle, looking as if three benches had been put into an oddly shaped triangle with a side left open. Sitting on the seat gave us a view out of this small garden through a doorway cut into the hedge. This view led the eye into the larger pleasure ground where a fountain fed the bathing pool.

I sat in the middle of the seat, with the young man on my right and Isabel on my left.

The others took the remaining places.

I turned to the young man, and he began his tale while the servants set up a table at the open side of the three-sided seat and brought cold beet soup, cheese, and manchet bread, followed by a salad and hare stew. This was followed by Hippocras and angel wafers.