Chapter
IV

Christian sat on a bench in the back courtyard of the Golden Unicorn, leaning his weight on one hand and smiling at the chortles coming from Nora’s little shrike of a guardian. It hadn’t taken Christian long to conjure up a troop of players to distract his guests, and Bogo Littlefoot made an absurd spectacle as the sheriff of Nottingham. Using a pot for a helmet, a serving tray for a shield, and a roasting spit for a sword, Bogo waddled about the makeshift stage like a metal-clad lump of pudding with feet.

Judging that Nora had forgotten the bear baiting and was cheered by the combination of merrymaking, food, and the sight of Arthur’s pleasure, Christian took her hand and gestured for her to follow him. Arthur and two of Christians’s men-at-arms were cheering Robin Hood. Nora glanced over her shoulder at them, but Christian pulled her into the inn. Crossing through the kitchen, parlors, and the main hall, he got as far as the entry way before Nora dug in her heels.

“Where are you taking me, my lord?”

“Christian. I remembered just now that my lord father asked me to pick up something for him. He’s had a cup made to present to the Queen when she attends our banquet.”

Nora shook her head. “I can’t go alone with you.”

“Do you think I’d trip about London with a gold cup and a maid by myself? We’ll have escort.”

“But Arthur …”

Holding up a finger, Christian silenced her. Over the talk of the inn’s patrons they could still hear laughter from the courtyard. “Arthur is well settled. You wouldn’t want to deny him his pleasure, would you?” To forestall more objections, he caught her hand and whisked her into the stabling yard. “It’s not far, anyway. We can walk.”

Followed by several men-at-arms, he walked quickly so that she had to trot to keep up with him and had no chance to make excuses. She was too busy dodging loose cobblestones and ruts. He pulled her down a crowded street, around a corner, and across an intersection in front of a lumbering coach. The vehicle creaked and groaned as it sank into a mud hole, and Christian lifted Nora by the waist to swing her over the muck. When he reached for her hand again, she slapped his away.

“Ouch! Marry, lady, you are too cruel.”

“Take me back.”

“But we’ve arrived.” He nodded toward a timber and plaster structure at her back.

Nora turned and stood in silence. She took a step, hesitated, then glided to the windows to study the treasures set out in them. Christian followed, a gratified smile playing about his lips. He inclined his head at two apprentices standing guard at the shop door, and they smirked at him knowingly.

The shop of Hugo Unthank was unique, for Hugo was a collector of rarities. Having spent his youth traveling in Europe and the Middle East, he had settled in London during old King Harry’s days to purvey foreign goods. No one knew how he obtained the fabulous and exotic pieces that graced his shop, for Unthank discouraged questions. Joining Nora at the window, Christian glanced at a gold cross set with rubies, then at her.

She wasn’t looking at the window display. He followed her line of sight and found the object of her perusal. In a gilded cage suspended from a stand sat a parrot—a giant green and crimson parrot. Scowling, Christian muttered a curse. She was supposed to be looking at the jewels, the watches made to be suspended from a lady’s girdle, the illuminated book of hours, the ivory and lace fans. While he was scowling, Nora brushed past him and slipped into the shop. When he caught up with her she was stroking with one finger a tail feather that stuck out between the bars of the cage.

“Unthank!”

Nora jumped at Christian’s shout. So did the apprentice who was walking toward them.

“Anon, my lord. No need to bellow.” Hugo Unthank emerged from behind an arras at the back of the shop. “Indeed, indeed.” He paused to brush a speck of dust from his velvet coat, adjusted his cap with the gold feather, then approached to give his bow.

“There are laws about commoners wearing velvets and the like, Unthank,” Christian said.

The merchant smiled and flicked the feather in his cap. “Indeed, my lord, indeed. How may I serve you?”

Christian remembered his purpose. While Nora was making friends with the parrot, he took Unthank aside. “I’ve come for the cup my lord father ordered. But also find something to beguile the lady. Do it quickly, sirrah, and none of your cheap trinkets. I want wonders, marvels, anything to get her attention off that cursed bird.”

The parrot squawked, making Christian wince, and Nora laughed and clapped her hands. Unthank disappeared behind the arras again and returned some minutes later trailed by three assistants bearing coffers. These were set on a table covered with damask. Christian walked over to the gilded cage.

“Nora.” His quest was whispering endearments to the parrot. Christian raised his voice. “Nora, aren’t you interested in the Queen’s cup?”

Nora ceased her blandishments, but her gaze never left the bird. “Of course, my lord.”

Christian sighed, snatched her hand, and led her to a chair set before the display table. Gesturing for Unthank to begin, he watched Nora. Unthank set a tall cabinet of ebony before her, took a key from his purse, and unlocked the door. Inside, nestled in velvet, rested a covered pedestal cup wrought in silver gilt and translucent violet enamel. Scenes of the Queen’s coronation decorated the bowl, and the lid was crowned with a cluster of Spanish pomegranates and Tudor roses.

“Think you the Queen will like it?” Christian asked.

“Oh, yes.”

He bent down to look directly into Nora’s eyes. “Is that all you have to say after my poor sire spent a fat merchant’s fortune on the thing?”

“It’s very nice.”

“God’s teeth!” Christian threw up his hands and turned to Unthank. “Did you hear the lady? Nice. There. Look you, Nora, you’ve insulted Unthank. His feather’s all aquiver and he’s got the countenance of a grieving widow. Show her something else, man.”

The cabinet was put aside, and a cherrywood coffer took its place. With the air of a wizard about to reveal the secrets of magic, Unthank tipped back the lid of the coffer, exposing a pile of jewels that would have made Princess Elizabeth’s eyes gleam with acquisitiveness. Unthank’s nimble fingers descended into the mass of glitter to pluck out a pendant. It was a phoenix cast in gold, encircled by rubies.

Nora nodded politely, but to Christian’s disgust her head swiveled in the direction of the cage and its noisy occupant. Unthank cleared his throat, and she turned back to murmur her approval of a gold and enamel ring with an onyx cameo of the Queen.

Christian whirled away from Nora to yank on Unthank’s cloak. “Do something, you befeathered grub. I want to know what she likes.”

The merchant scurried into the recesses of his shop again and returned with another box, a small one this time.

“She won’t be able to resist this, my lord,” he whispered to Christian. “None of the ladies of the court has anything so fine.”

Christian grabbed the box and dropped to one knee beside Nora. She was gazing at the parrot once more, but remembered herself enough to turn her attention back to him when he approached.

“Look, sweeting, a surprise.”

He removed the lid of the box to reveal a small egg-shaped case made entirely of intricately engraved gold. He opened it. Inside the egg rested a watch so small, it would fit in Nora’s palm. All of crystal and gold, it was made to be worn on a chain about the neck. Christian spilled the watch into his hand and raised his eyes to Nora’s.

All he saw was the swirl of her skirts as she dashed to the shop window. A group of roughly clad men rushed past in the street outside. One of them held a bag, and something inside it wiggled and cried.

Nora was out the door and gone before Christian could stand. He threw the case and watch at Unthank, shouted for his men to remain behind, and took off after her. Insulted, his pride bruised if not cut, he vowed to catch this black-haired sprite and show her where her attention should be pinned. All thought of chiding her vanished, however, when he saw her hurtle after the three men into an alley. Clamping his hand on his sword, he dashed into the alley after her.

He was seconds behind her, but he was too late. As he ran toward her, he saw Nora reach out and poke the tallest, burliest man on the shoulder. The man turned around, and Christian recognized Pigsey Watt, a horse thief known to every ruffler, whipjack, and cutpurse in London for his unerring nose for sway backed and diseased horseflesh. Poor Pigsey was a dullard, and his awareness of his shortcomings had made him mean. Christian groaned when he heard Nora. She would choose this moment to abandon mousehood.

“You’ve got kittens in that sack,” she said to Pigsey. “They’re frightened. Let them out.”

Pigsey gaped at her. His two friends dug elbows into each other’s ribs and sniggered.

“Them’s my animals, mistress,” Pigsey said. “We’re going to use them in football, we are.”

“You are not.” Nora pulled herself up to her full height and pointed a finger at Pigsey. “Give those kittens to me, sirrah.”

“Them’s mine.”

Pigsey was nothing if not consistent. Thus far, his presence had gone unnoticed by the three men. He was still a few yards from the group, and in the shadows of the buildings on one side of the alley.

“I’m not going to let you hurt them,” Nora said. “Give them to me.”

“Won’t.”

“You will.”

Pigsey’s face took on what Christian assumed was his clever look, which meant he appeared to be suffering from gas pains. Apparently Pigsey decided to solve the problem of this interfering lady by attempting to barrel past her. As his bulk loomed near, Nora shrank back. But Pigsey overreached himself. He boxed the sack he was holding.

A kitten yelped, and Nora sprang. Shoving her foot in front of Pigsey, she hooked this thick calf and pulled. Pigsey barked in surprise and tumbled to the ground. His two friends knew better than to loiter while Pigsey wrestled with a gentlewoman. They ran past Christian as he headed for Nora. He was drawing his sword, but Pigsey had caught Nora’s ankle. He clawed at her skirt with his other hand. Christian knew the strength of those hands. If Pigsey got hold of her neck, he could kill Nora.

His sword cleared its scabbard as he closed the distance between himself and Nora. He shouted at Pigsey, all the while cursing himself for waiting too long. Pigsey’s hand reached for Nora’s neck, and she kicked him. Instantly, the man bucked and shrieked. Christian skidded to a standstill in front of the horse thief in time to see Nora withdraw her foot from the man’s groin. Shivering at the sight of Pigsey doubled over on the ground and moaning, Christian sheathed his sword and took Nora’s arm.

“By God, woman, you’re as lackwitted as a guinea fowl. Pigsey could have killed you.”

She pulled her arm free and leapt for the sack that Pigsey had dropped. Christian stalked over to her.

“I’m speaking to you, lady. I said you could have gotten yourself killed.”

“Give me your dagger.”

Christian ground his teeth together. “The saints preserve my temperance.” Nora held out her hand without speaking. He growled and handed her the weapon.

While Nora was freeing the kittens, Christian fussed. “I don’t understand it. I truly don’t. You can’t defend yourself from silly maids at court. You wilt like a babe in need of physick at the least harsh word, and tremble at the attack of thieves, and yet you furbish up your courage in an instant to attack three knaves over a sack of kittens.”

She freed the last kitten and set it on the ground. “And you’d let them torture the poor creatures, I trow.”

Christian felt his mouth drop open. “I would not!”

“You didn’t even notice them.” She picked up a kitten and thrust it at him, forcing him to grab it. “You were too busy looking at—at trinkets.”

Christian cursed. The kitten sank its tiny claws into the back of his hand, and he cursed again. Nora picked up the remaining kittens and marched back to the shop of Hugo Unthank. Christian stayed in the alley, peeling the kitten from his flesh. By the time he reached the shop, he was in a fine temper. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, and when he saw Nora handing the kittens to Unthank with a smile of gratitude, the urge to swat the girl on the rump was almost unbearable.

“Master Unthank is going to find the kittens a home,” Nora said to him.

“So,” Christian said as he handed over his charge to an apprentice. “So.”

Nora glanced at him. “So, my lord?”

“So, you fawn over a common merchant, all fat and foggy with praise because he takes in your pets. If I hadn’t been at the bear baiting, you’d have puked on the stairs.”

“What has the one to do with the other?” she asked.

Christian squeezed his eyes shut and recited the Greek alphabet. When he opened them, Nora was studying him in confusion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “It’s your fault for behaving like a mouse and then attacking like the god Mars. Don’t you know what it does to a man to see a woman burst into fire and passion like that?”

“I was furious,” she said in protest. “When we first met, you chastised me for lacking courage.”

He groaned and rubbed his forehead. “God’s teeth, she’s furious. Don’t you understand that you should defend yourself as well as you did those kittens?”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right, my sweeting. You’re more important than the kittens.”

She lifted her skirts and stepped into the street. “Oh, no, I’m not. Animals are creatures of God, too, and someone has to care for them.”

“You need to take care of yourself first, Nora Becket.”

She shook her head and laughed. Seeing her eyes brighten, for once at him, Christian felt his humor return. Setting himself to be pleasant until he could return her to the palace, he kept his objections to himself. She didn’t seem to think her behavior inconsistent—which made him wonder who had taught her that she counted for naught, for less than the stray cats and dogs that roamed the streets of London Town.

Nora stood in the privy chamber behind the older ladies-in-waiting and listened to the Queen’s sobs. The royal bedchamber was dark, although it was not yet midday, for all the hangings were drawn across the windows. It was May, and the court hadn’t quitted London due to the Queen’s condition. Glancing over her shoulder at the closed door that led to the outside world, Nora couldn’t decide whether it was better to endure the Queen’s growing derangement or Lord Montfort’s stalking. Mary’s raised voice distracted her.

“Why doesn’t he come?” the Queen cried. “He knows I’m with child again, and I need his comfort. And the war with France. I need counsel.”

Mary leaned on the arm of her favorite waiting woman and ranted at Luiz de Ateca. Shrouded in black, her belly swollen, and her eyes red with weeping, she cast her gaze to the ceiling. “Why does God punish me? Is it because my kingdom is full of heretics? I search for them constantly.”

Nora couldn’t hear de Ateca’s reply, but she could guess that the man was indulging in his usual tactics of reassuring Mary of King Philip’s fidelity while urging her to burn more heretics. It had been three weeks since she’d made the mistake of going to the bear baiting. In that time the Queen’s state had worsened. She’d taken to wearing armor again and grieving inconsolably over the absence of her husband.

Mary saw the estrangement between Philip and herself as the work of the devil and his minions, the Protestant heretics. The more distraught and gloomy Mary became, the more tense and oppressive grew her court. Rumors swarmed, fly like, in this atmosphere, and Nora stayed busy keeping William Cecil abreast of the latest gossip.

The newest rumor had it that the Queen would name her Catholic cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, her heir in place of Princess Elizabeth. Nora didn’t have to tell Cecil that such an act would mean civil war.

The Queen waved de Ateca away and hobbled to her great bed of state, sobbing once more. Nora and the other ladies hovered nearby, helpless. Nora clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling. Poor Mary. To be cast aside by her father, then be called a bastard and made to humble herself before her father’s mistress, Elizabeth’s mother. It was no wonder the Queen was unhappy.

For years she’d lived in fear that her father would cut off her head to keep her from the throne. And now she’d succeeded to the crown, only to find herself hated by the people whose souls she was trying to save.

One of the Queen’s friends shooed the ladies out of the chamber, and Nora tried not to run from the room. In the last few days the Queen had refused to leave the palace, and that had sparked more rumors. Some said Princess Elizabeth had been taken to the Tower; she had been murdered by order of the Queen. Once it was bruited that the Queen had been murdered. Next people were sure that the Queen had called for troops from her Spanish husband in order to arrest and try scores of heretics. The next day everyone said the Queen had sent the crown of England to Mary, Queen of Scots and her French husband.

The last out of the privy chamber, Nora scurried along behind the other ladies-in-waiting and darted glances around the palace chambers. Lord Montfort wasn’t about, and she relaxed. Perhaps he was busy with arrangements for that night’s feast. The Queen insisted that the event take place in spite of her illness, and she was sending her ladies in her place.

Nora’s heels tapped on the palace floor as she followed a fat countess. Tonight’s banquet didn’t signify. She’d been successful—for the most part—in avoiding Lord Montfort since the quarrel over those kittens; she could survive a feast at his house among a hundred guests.

Gaining her own chamber, she went to the window seat and took up her embroidery. Arthur joined her with his new lute, and she listened to him practice chords. Yes, she had outwitted Christian de Rivers, who seemed determined to pounce on her anywhere, from the presence chamber to the yew maze in the royal garden.

“I think Lord Montfort has given up,” she said to Arthur.

“Good, my lady.” Arthur didn’t approve of Lord Montfort, in spite of the lord’s attempts to bribe him with comfits and a new bow.

“It’s not that I’m not grateful to him for saving my life,” she added.

“Yes, my lady.”

Nora smiled. She and Arthur often sat like this, with her talking more to herself than to him, and the page making polite noises of interest. Regardless of his youth, she trusted him where she did not trust the girls at court her own age.

“It’s just that,” she went on, “no matter his blandishments and attentions, I’m sure he hasn’t changed his opinion of me. He thinks I’m a—a mouse.”

“The snark.” Arthur plucked a minor chord and sniffed.

Nora blinked at her page’s choice of words. “And anyway, he’s not comfortable.”

“My lady?”

“When he looks at me, I feel, well, uncomfortable. I don’t know.” She studied the French knot she was making with gold thread. “You’ve seen duels, Arthur. You know that look that comes upon a fencer just before the duel begins, when he knows he must concentrate on his opponent and nothing else or die. That’s the way Lord Montfort looks at me. It isn’t comfortable.”

Arthur put his lute aside and looked around as if in search of eavesdroppers. Seeing that they were alone, he whispered, “Mayhap he’s a cunning man, a sorcerer, my lady. The other pages say he consorts with roughs and knaves, that he’s never given up the evil he was raised to.”

Frowning, Nora considered the possibility that Christian de Rivers was a sorcerer. The Queen’s priests said that the Devil sent his servants among the unsuspecting in many disguisings. If the Evil One had sent Lord Montfort, the disguise was most pleasing—and therefore most dangerous. Nora congratulated herself for having escaped him. Indeed, he was not a comfortable or virtuous man.

There was a knock at her chamber door. Arthur answered it and returned bearing a letter. Nora almost snatched it from his hand, for she recognized her father’s handwriting. Breaking the seal, she read the note quickly, only to let the paper fall to her lap. She stared unseeing at her embroidery hoop.

He was coming. He was coming to London, and would see her. He was coming, and he was angry. It was her fault, for she’d failed to catch the notice of a family with a rich heir. She should have been married years ago, but how could she have married then, when she’d spent most of her time in the country? Her companions had been her nurse, her tutors, and now Arthur.

She had tried to make herself worthy. From the fading memories of her mother before she died of the sweat, Nora recalled a quiet voice praising her for her clever wits. Hearing of the great scholarship, brilliance, and daring of Princess Elizabeth, she had set the royal lady up as Nora’s standard. Elizabeth could speak French, Latin, Greek, and Italian. Elizabeth stood up to privy councillors and flayed them with her tongue. She had survived plots to have her beheaded and emerged from the Tower to the cheers of the people when Queen Mary let her go for lack of proof of treason.

Elizabeth was brave and beautiful, sophisticated and daring. Nora was none of those things. Her father said so, often, and now he was coming to court. He would arrive that night.

As she did when her father paid one of his rare visits to her country home, Nora spent the next few hours alternately fussing over her appearance and trying to think of excuses for the faults he was sure to point out. Since the list of her faults was endless, the hour of her father’s arrival came quickly. Still feeling unprepared to face him, Nora hid behind an ornamental screen in a gallery through which her father would pass on his way to the closet where they would meet.

She had paid the sergeant at arms to come this way so that she could observe her father unseen. It was an old habit, this spying. It arose from the time when her father had first conceived of the idea that she was a bastard.

She could remember the day clearly, for he had come to her while she was at her spelling lesson, dismissed her governess, and told her of his suspicion. From that day on, though he kept his suspicion a secret from all but her and her mother, Nora never saw the blessing of his smile. Her mother spent much of her time pleading with him and crying, but always when she thought Nora couldn’t hear her. A few months later, Mother fell ill of the sweat. Exhausted by her grief, she had little strength to fight for life, and soon left off trying.

To be ten years old and cast out of a father’s heart and then lose one’s mother was to be lost and bewildered, a battered and storm-tossed little dingy on an ocean of hostility. Soon Nora began to suspect that she was to blame for the unhappiness of her parents. It seemed only logical that if Mother hadn’t been unhappy because of her, she wouldn’t have died.

Afraid and burdened with guilt, Nora shrank in upon herself. Inside, she curled up as a fox curls up against the chill of a winter’s night. She was alone.

As the months passed, she grew used to missing her mother, but not her father. Mother was gone, but Father was not. She saw him every day, and yet he eschewed her company. To recapture a small amount of sunshine in her life, she decided to spy on her father. She would creep into corners and behind tapestries so that she could see the smile he never gave her, hear the laughter reserved for his friends and his mistresses. When he finally sent her away, it was a blessing. In the old country estate of her mother’s mother, she learned to put grief behind her and fill her life with sunshine of her own.

Now she waited again for the swift thud of boots as she had when she was little. Her father’s tread was distinctive. Always quick and always loud with the bulk of his thick frame, it reminded her of the tread of an enthusiastic bull who had spotted an intruder in his pasture and was happily running him down. Nora giggled at the image of her father galloping across a pasture, then clamped a hand over her mouth. The rapid tap of leather on polished wood signaled Father’s arrival.

In a sweep of brown velvet and gold chains, William Becket charged into view. Gold of hair and massive of frame, he neither glanced about the court nor took notice of the curious stares that always greeted the arrival of a newcomer. He preserved about his person the reserve and isolation of an abbot. This reserve dropped away when he was at leisure, or when he was angry. The tepid waters of his temper could boil in the flicker of a candle flame, as they had when William decided that a black-haired mite such as Nora couldn’t have been sired by a golden giant like himself.

William was past her in moments, and Nora raced to gain the closet before he arrived. She burst through the door, trotted to a side table decked with food and wine, and passed a shaking hand over the silver flagon and goblets that waited there. The door opened and closed before she could catch her breath. She licked her lips briefly, lifted her eyes, then lowered her gaze to the floor as she curtsied.

A grunt served as her acknowledgment. Nora murmured her own greeting, but William brushed past her to grab the wine flagon. He filled a goblet and drank it down before addressing her.

“Get up from that ridiculous half curtsy,” he said. “I’m tired and I want to go to bed. A fine thing it is to be full of joy and good tidings and yet find a goose-witted fool one’s only audience.”

He slammed the goblet onto the side table and crashed down into the only chair in the room. Nora opened her mouth to apologize—she wasn’t sure why—but William ignored her.

“God has answered my prayers,” he said. “My wife is pregnant, and I’ve come to town to purchase gifts for her. I’m going to have a child of my own. You know what this means?”

Nora gaped at her father. She’d known his reason for marrying again had been to get an heir he didn’t suspect of being another man’s child. What could she say?

“It means my honor is restored,” he said when she remained silent.

Wrinkling her brow, Nora shifted her weight from one foot to the other and tried to follow this line of reasoning.

“And I want you disposed of before my son or daughter arrives. I should have known better than to send you to court. I thought you might grow pretty under the tutelage of the finest noblewomen in the kingdom, but I was foolish to expect it of you.”

Heat spread up her neck and face, and she ducked her head. “I tried, but the clothes …” Her voice faded as her courage withered under William’s regard.

“I should have known no one would want you. You’re plain and stupid, and no man wants a plain and stupid wife. So I’ve taken care of the matter myself. You’re going to marry Percivale Flegge, son of Sir Badulf. And you’re going to do it in three months’ time, before my heir is born.”

“Percivale Flegge,” Nora whispered. She wet her lips and forced herself to speak up. “But Percivale Flegge … everyone knows he’s got the—the pox. That’s why he can’t get a wife. The pox is eating his face and his wits as well.”

“That’s all gossip.” William rose from his chair with the air of a man who had accomplished an unpleasant task. “Forsooth, I’m weary. It’s off to the town house for me. A good joint of meat and cool beer is what I need.”

He eyed the used goblet on the sideboard. While Nora stood in a daze, he whisked it away, hiding it under the chair behind one of the legs. Irrelevant thoughts swarmed in Nora’s head. Her father never could stand the sight of soiled plate or clothing, or a dirty floor. At mealtimes he insisted that each dish be taken out of his sight as it was used and replaced with a clean one. He had to keep three extra sculleries for the purpose.

She woke from her standing dream when her father headed for the door. “Not Percivale Flegge,” she said.

William’s head whipped around, and she jumped at the sudden boom of his voice. “Not Percivale Flegge? By God’s wounds! A woman needs but three virtues, chastity, silence, and obedience. They are all your sex is capable of, and I expect them from you, mistress. God strike me if I haven’t behaved toward you with Christian charity.” He strode up to her and bent over her, thrusting his face in front of hers. “When I knew you were not my spawn, I didn’t cast you out. I’ve fed you and clothed you for years for the love I bore your mother, but I’ll be damned if I’ll do it any longer. You’re an old maid, and it’s time you married. I’ll not have my new seed despoiled by contact with the Devil’s offspring.”

Nora shrank back from the rage that hit her like the heat from a kiln. “But, Father—”

“Silence! I’m signing the betrothal contract next month. Willing or no, you’re going to marry, and I don’t care how or to whom. If I have to truss you up like a stoat being taken to market, you’re going to marry.”

He grasped her shoulder and shoved her away. Without looking at her again, he stalked from the room.

Massaging her bruised shoulder, Nora stood gaping at the door. Percivale Flegge. Everyone said Percivale Flegge had festered lips and suffered from fits of violence, all from diseases arising from his debauchery. They said he’d been away from court because his family was trying to hide him. They needed an heir from Percivale desperately, but the young man’s plight was too well known among the nobility.

Nora crossed herself and sank to her knees. Words of supplication tumbled from her lips. Surely God would help her. Even she, plain and stupid as she was, didn’t deserve Percivale Flegge. Did she? The words of her prayer faltered as she wavered. Was this God’s punishment? Was she all the things that her father accused her of being? Nora squeezed her eyes shut and resumed her prayers. God protected even the worst sinners. If she prayed hard enough, he might protect her.