color,” she said.
Will bowed.
“A peacock would pale next to you,” she added.
“Pray, madam, do not mock me.” He stared at her. “Your eyes are the color of your gown, two blue windows.”
“Yes, my eyes, my gown, seem a subject of fools’ flattery tonight.”
“We are but subjects to them,” he said, bowing again.
“Subjects to fools or to my eyes? It is the eyes of fools that weave false flattery. Must I be subjected to such foolishness? ‘Two blue windows’? Come, now. You can do better than that.” Katharine smiled.
There was something brazen about how he looked into her eyes, something prying and challenging and delightful. They had never been together at supper and certainly not at a banquet as glittering as this one. The music had begun, and the air was filled with the pleasant sounds of a violin, flute, lute and viol.
“What thought you of my last sonnet?”
“It spoke of torment. I could feel the wound in the heart. A lover crossed by his lover and his friend,” Katharine said.
“If a man sees his mistress with another man, even his best friend, he assumes his mistress has forsaken him.”
“All men assume this?”
“All men.”
“You are an education,” she said.
“I have started the new poem we spoke of in the orchard. Might you read it?” He leaned his broad frame close to Katharine, his voice low. “It is untried. The ink not yet dried,” he said. “I pray you like it.” He took her hand and kissed it.
It was the first time she’d felt his lips on her skin. His lips were warm.
Katharine took the pages he held out to her. She wished she weren’t leaving the great hall when he came to her, for if she turned now and went back in, it would seem she was doing so to be with him.
“I thank you in advance,” he said, bowing.
She nodded, not knowing exactly what to do. “Adieu,” she said finally.
Will bowed again and left her at the door, returning to the hall, where music and laughter filled the air. The guests were drunk and loud, and the gentle notes could not do serious battle with the harsh sounds of revelry.
She climbed the steps to the old turret, then put Will’s folded paper on the table next to her bed and stood at the window, staring into the last glow of light. There was something deliciously expectant about this time of night, in the gloaming, before darkness finally descended—a waiting. She sighed, unfastening the gold chain girdle at her waist that held a tiny Bible and then unpinning the lace coif that covered her hair. Molly came in and helped her out of her blue satin stomacher and blue and black brocade gown.
“You’ve come up early, my lady,” said Molly as she unlaced Katharine’s bodice. Molly had a face full of freckles, and orange ringlets that refused to stay captive beneath her cap.
“I am tired, Molly, bone-tired.”
“And a bit sad that Sir Edward is not here to enjoy the revels?” asked Molly.
“I suppose that’s why I left.”
“Feels off the center of things without him presiding at the table.”
“’Tis very true, Molly. The other day I heard horses and was convinced he’d returned. When I rushed to the window, it was Richard and some of his men. That was all.”
By the time Katharine’s black petticoat had fallen to the floor and the farthingale was undone, she had decided against reading Will’s words. She would snuff her candle and go to sleep. When Molly let down her hair, Katharine told her she could go.
As Katharine ran the brush through her hair, she watched herself in the oval looking glass perched on the table. Many women her age dyed their hair blond like Saxon girls. Though she had strands of gray, she preferred her own chestnut color. If she could change her appearance, she would wish away the lines on her forehead and around her eyes and even the laugh lines from the dimples on her cheeks. She would wish for smooth where there were now furrows. When she was young, she’d wanted to erase the burn
Will bowed.
“A peacock would pale next to you,” she added.
“Pray, madam, do not mock me.” He stared at her. “Your eyes are the color of your gown, two blue windows.”
“Yes, my eyes, my gown, seem a subject of fools’ flattery tonight.”
“We are but subjects to them,” he said, bowing again.
“Subjects to fools or to my eyes? It is the eyes of fools that weave false flattery. Must I be subjected to such foolishness? ‘Two blue windows’? Come, now. You can do better than that.” Katharine smiled.
There was something brazen about how he looked into her eyes, something prying and challenging and delightful. They had never been together at supper and certainly not at a banquet as glittering as this one. The music had begun, and the air was filled with the pleasant sounds of a violin, flute, lute and viol.
“What thought you of my last sonnet?”
“It spoke of torment. I could feel the wound in the heart. A lover crossed by his lover and his friend,” Katharine said.
“If a man sees his mistress with another man, even his best friend, he assumes his mistress has forsaken him.”
“All men assume this?”
“All men.”
“You are an education,” she said.
“I have started the new poem we spoke of in the orchard. Might you read it?” He leaned his broad frame close to Katharine, his voice low. “It is untried. The ink not yet dried,” he said. “I pray you like it.” He took her hand and kissed it.
It was the first time she’d felt his lips on her skin. His lips were warm.
Katharine took the pages he held out to her. She wished she weren’t leaving the great hall when he came to her, for if she turned now and went back in, it would seem she was doing so to be with him.
“I thank you in advance,” he said, bowing.
She nodded, not knowing exactly what to do. “Adieu,” she said finally.
Will bowed again and left her at the door, returning to the hall, where music and laughter filled the air. The guests were drunk and loud, and the gentle notes could not do serious battle with the harsh sounds of revelry.
She climbed the steps to the old turret, then put Will’s folded paper on the table next to her bed and stood at the window, staring into the last glow of light. There was something deliciously expectant about this time of night, in the gloaming, before darkness finally descended—a waiting. She sighed, unfastening the gold chain girdle at her waist that held a tiny Bible and then unpinning the lace coif that covered her hair. Molly came in and helped her out of her blue satin stomacher and blue and black brocade gown.
“You’ve come up early, my lady,” said Molly as she unlaced Katharine’s bodice. Molly had a face full of freckles, and orange ringlets that refused to stay captive beneath her cap.
“I am tired, Molly, bone-tired.”
“And a bit sad that Sir Edward is not here to enjoy the revels?” asked Molly.
“I suppose that’s why I left.”
“Feels off the center of things without him presiding at the table.”
“’Tis very true, Molly. The other day I heard horses and was convinced he’d returned. When I rushed to the window, it was Richard and some of his men. That was all.”
By the time Katharine’s black petticoat had fallen to the floor and the farthingale was undone, she had decided against reading Will’s words. She would snuff her candle and go to sleep. When Molly let down her hair, Katharine told her she could go.
As Katharine ran the brush through her hair, she watched herself in the oval looking glass perched on the table. Many women her age dyed their hair blond like Saxon girls. Though she had strands of gray, she preferred her own chestnut color. If she could change her appearance, she would wish away the lines on her forehead and around her eyes and even the laugh lines from the dimples on her cheeks. She would wish for smooth where there were now furrows. When she was young, she’d wanted to erase the burn
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