At the Queen's Summons by Susan Wiggs

horse with a steady patter of lilting nonsense. Before long she sat proud and beaming, certain she had mastered the art of riding.
    As the four of them left the yard, she asked, “My lord, what is this horse’s name?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you?” The O Donoghue Mór winked. “He is called Midge.”
    They rode out into Woodroffe Lane, leaving the narrow byways behind and trotting across Finsbury Fields, scattered with windmills. They passed Holywell, teeming with holidaymakers and their picnics. In the distance, the playing flag of the theater fluttered on the wind, and she gave a whoop of gladness.
    Making a loud, urgent noise proved to be a mistake. The gelding surged out of its bearable trot into a full gallop. Pippa hollered in terror and clung, her fingers twining in the horse’s flying mane. She looked down to see the ground racing past at a furious rate. Aidan shouted something, but she could not understand.
    The knowledge that she was about to die a violent death was unexpectedly and intensely liberating. Acceptance stripped away the terror, and she found that the emotion building inside her was no longer fear, but joy. Never had she moved so swiftly. It was like flying, she decided. She was a feather on the breeze, rising higher and higher, and nothing else mattered but the speed.
    Twin shadows encroached upon her. Aidan and Donal Og. They came up on either side, forcing her horse to slow. Like the feather, she settled slowly back to earth, her white-knuckled hands relaxing, her mouth widening in a grin of pure delight.
    â€œWe made it, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling. “Look.” Ahead of them loomed a rambling barn and a horse pond, and beyond that, the theater rose like a citadel.
    Still exhilarated from the thrill of the ride, she slid to the ground. With a shaking hand, she gave the reins to awaiting groom. Aidan and his companions did the same, tossing coppers to the grooms and admonishing them to look after the beasts.
    â€œMind his mouth, then,” she called after the boy leading her gelding away. “And give him a good long drink.” The very idea of someone actually doing her bidding was heady indeed.
    Beneath the playing flag gathered an audience of all manner of persons—nobleman, merchant, beggar and bawd. She tugged at Aidan’s sleeve and led them toward the penny gate. “If you don’t wish to pay, we can go stand in the yard, but for a penny each, we can—”
    â€œI want to watch from up there.” He pointed to the stairway leading to the curving rows of seats.
    â€œAh, my lord, it’s a higher fare, and besides, the seats are for gentry.”
    â€œAnd what are we?” Iago asked with a haughty sniff. “Groundlings?”
    She laughed. “I’ve always been perfectly comfortable with the penny public. Actors love us, for we laugh and cheer in all the right places. The Puritans hate us.”
    â€œSpeak to me not of Puritans,” Aidan said. “I have had my fill of such people.”
    â€œAh, have you encountered your share of black crows, Your Reverence?”
    Donal Og’s reply, in Irish, seemed to indicate concurrence, possibly empathy, but before she could demand a translation, Iago hastened them toward the stairs.
    â€œWait,” she said, balking. “I haven’t a mask.”
    â€œYou have now.” Aidan held out a black silk half mask. “It is a curious practice, but the English are a curious race.”
    As she tied on the mask, she wished he had not spoken like that, pointing out how very foreign he was in the only world she had ever known.
    But as she climbed the steps with her remarkable escorts, a sense of wonder filled her. As many times as she had come to stand with the penny public, she had never bought a seat at the theater.
    The magnificent building was designed in circular fashion like the bear garden in Southwark. The sloping stage jutted out