The Heart’s Desire

Book One of The Briarcrest Chronicles

by

Anna Furtado

Copyright © 2004 by Anna Furtado

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, elec-

tronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or

any information storage and retrieval system, without per-

mission in writing from the publisher. The characters, inci-

dents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance

to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 1-932300-32-5 (eBooks)

eBook conversion July 2010

Cover design by Donna Pawlowski

Published by:

Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC

4700 Hwy 365, Ste A, PMB 210

Port Arthur, Texas 77642

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Published in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

A big thank you to my editor, Sylverre, for helping me

bring this story to the world in its most intelligible form,

and for keeping me “honest” about the many details.

I especially want to acknowledge all the help and hand-

holding offered by Lori Lake as we journeyed on this path

to getting this book into print and to Cathy LeNoir for

allowing me the opportunity to have the first of “The

Briarcrest Chronicles” published.

To all the friends who read, edited, commented and

critiqued over time and the evolution of this story, thank

you! I especially want to acknowledge Judy Z, Carol and

Michelle, Jackie and Chris, Joan S, Marge W, Monique C,

Robyn D and Connie C. If I’ve forgotten anyone, it’s not for lack of appreciation, but rather for lack of memory.

Additionally, there were many others along the way who

gave their encouragement and support who deserve my

sincere thanks. Consider it done.

Most of all, my heartfelt thanks to my partner, Earlene,

for her love and encouragement of me as a person and as a

writer. She has given me the gift of time over and over

again. Without it, this first of Catherine’s and Lydia’s

stories would never have been told.

~ Anna Furtado

To Earlene,

without whom this story would never have been told.

Chapter One

The Eve of the Feast of St. Remi

September 30, 1458

Willowglen Township, England

CATHERINE COULD NOT forget the woman’s eyes.

That grey-green gaze had probed into the depths of her soul

and left her overwhelmed with puzzling emotions.

She tried not to dwell on it, not with all the preparations

to make for the start of Willowglen’s Harvest Fair.

However, try as she might to ignore her feelings, it just was not possible. Catherine trembled. She felt bewildered

because of a woman—a mystery woman that she could not

erase from her mind—a stranger with compelling eyes

capable of sending shivers dancing on the surface of

Catherine’s skin.

How had one look banished the melancholy that she had

endured for the seasons of a year? One look had cracked

open the cold, impenetrable shell that surrounded her,

bringing the first hint of joy in life since her father’s death.

As Catherine pulled open the shutters of the old shop

window and breathed in the new day, a ray of morning sun

sparkled on the window sill. It made her smile, and evoked

the memory of the woman standing outside her shop.

Catherine tingled with excitement. Questions raced

through her mind. What was this new passion that woke in

her? Her chest pounded when she thought of the woman.

The dull ache that had not left her since she’d first seen

those eyes was almost too much to bear.

As the sun rose, the light became more intense, crisper.

The familiar cupboard of rich, dark wood spanning the far

wall almost glowed. Stoneware jars and small wooden

boxes of herbs seemed luminescent. Carefully arranged

linen, brocade and velvet, neatly piled on shelves,

shimmered. Catherine saw it all with new eyes.

The thick-planked worktable in the middle of the room

held last-minute preparations for the fair, reminding her

that she did not have time to linger. Moving across the

room, she negotiated the large baskets of herbs harvested

from her garden. As she passed a small wooden chest

containing her most costly and exotic spices, she ran her

fingertips across the lid and smiled. The contents of the box came from places Catherine had only seen with her mind’s

eye. When she was young, her father had let her stay and

listen to stories told by traders who came from far-off lands; now, some of those same men told their tales to her.

As a youngster, Catherine had been careful to be quiet

and well behaved so that she would not be banished from

the room during those sessions. Her father would never do

such a thing, of course, but the presence of a girl-child

might be frowned upon by some. As she approached

womanhood, Catherine Hawkins developed into a tall,

stately individual. She commanded attention when she

entered a room, even when she did not intend to be noticed.

Both her parents had encouraged her to be confident and

self-assured—odd for a young woman in this time and in

this place. Her teachers, the women of Wooster Abbey, also

fostered this attitude.

Catherine reached for the hem of her outer skirt and

deftly folded it up into her waistband. Plucking a well-

worn broom from the corner with a large, slender hand,

Catherine opened the door and stepped outside. Every

morning, she performed the same ritual. It started with

sweeping the front step of the spice shop.

Catherine whisked the cobbles in front of the building

and smiled. She loved the old shop that held the herbs and

spices she sold. When her father added the fabric, sturdy

wool, linen and extravagant brocades and silks, she happily

included them on the shop shelves. But it was the herbs

that she especially favored, because she used them to heal.

“No time for daydreaming,” Catherine chided herself

softly, plunging into her chore again. She thought of the

woman’s eyes as she swept.

A customer had come to the shop before she opened for

business the previous morning, seeking Catherine’s special

blend of herbs to ease his wife’s aching joints. She

packaged the ingredients and watched from the doorway as

he hurried off with the bundle tucked under his arm.

Turning to go back inside, she noticed the young woman in

the street opposite the shop. By her dress, Catherine

deduced that she was a woman of means, perhaps of title,

but the beauty of the fabric was as nothing compared to her

eyes. Excited and uneasy, Catherine puzzled over the

episode. Who is this stranger and why is she in the street, unescorted, so early in the morning?

In the end, both had shied away without speaking. A

rush of heat that she couldn’t explain stole across her face, and, surprised by her feelings, Catherine stopped sweeping.

To try to overcome her uncharacteristic awkwardness, she

attacked the cobblestones with her broom. She was

unsuccessful in sweeping away the emotion she felt.

When she gained control, Catherine went back into the

shop. Gathering up rosemary sprigs and several small

baskets, she took everything outside to try a display for the fair the next day. After setting it up on the shelf beneath the shop’s open window, she stepped back to assess her creation,

but she was distracted by a commotion down the street.

A group of women laughed boisterously as they waited

outside Edward the silversmith’s shop. Catherine chuckled

to herself at their liveliness. Such a rare thing for ladies of title to be so rowdy in public. It does my heart good to see them enjoy themselves like that. They must be waiting for Edward to give them a preview of his work before the fair.

The door opened and the revelry stopped. The women

jostled around in the street moving toward the opened

doorway. As they did, they resumed their chattering.

Catherine saw her watching her from the edge of the

crowd. A flood of emotion washed over her; she turned

away and stumbled back to the shop window sill.

Pretending to fuss with the sprigs of herbs, she held on to the shelf with one hand until the disabling dizziness passed.

Regaining her composure, she gathered up her baskets and

started back to the shop. Almost involuntarily, she slowed

and glanced sidelong down the street. To her

disappointment, she found it deserted.

“Mind your wits, Catherine,” she scolded herself. “You

have herb packets to prepare. A fair is about to begin.

There are a great many things that need your attention.

Back to work with you, now.”

CATHERINE SAT AT the worktable half-listening to the

activity in the street and wondered again about the women.

She thought they must be from another town, and

remembered seeing two of the older ladies at another fair.

The rest were strangers, newcomers to the celebration. One

thing was certain. If I had seen her before, I would have remembered those extraordinary eyes... Catherine shivered and forced herself back to her small fabric bundles. The street

grew quiet.

She started as a sharp voice shattered the silence just

outside her open window.

“There you are. I wondered where you had gotten off

to.”Catherine looked up in time to see a short, plump

woman with greying hair and the young lady with the grey-

green eyes disappear from view, the older woman pulling

the young noblewoman along. She strained to hear more.

“Come along now, dear. Your Aunt Beatrice wants you

to see the new silver candlesticks she just bought. Mind

you stay with us, Lydia.”

The name was like a beautiful melody to Catherine. She

felt the sound caress the ether as she breathed it forth.

“Lydia.” Then she spoke the question she longed to have

answered: “Who are you?”

Chapter Two

The Feast of St. Remi

October 1, 1458

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

CATHERINE AROSE IN the pre-dawn darkness,

thinking of Lydia. She lit a small candle and waited as the

taper flared to a luminous orange, brightening before it

settled to a soft yellow glow. She dressed in her linen shift and underskirt, poured water from a pitcher into a well-worn basin and washed her face. After brushing her dark

brown hair with long, deliberate strokes, she captured its

silkiness in a net cap and tied it up securely. From a peg on the wall, she took a smooth, brown linen kirtle to put on.

Over the top, she donned a black bodice embellished with

bright embroidery, a gift from her father following a trip

north. She laced and tied the front of the vest, feeling the pressure of the cloth against her breasts.

She discarded the water from her basin out the second-

story window overlooking her garden. The water cascaded

to the ground and splashed on some winter beans climbing

a trellis against the house wall. The plants would be glad of the moisture, for the autumn ground was unusually dry.

As she started down the steps to the shop, her shadow

danced beside her on the whitewashed mud-and-straw wall

in the candle’s glow. The leaping phantom called her to

come and join in its frolic. Although Catherine could make

merry with the best of them, she was not prone to flights of

fancy, especially in the midst of such a busy time. For a

moment, though, she was tempted, even if she could not say

why. The fragrance of the herbs and spices wafting up the

stairway called her back to her duties; she turned away

from the beckoning darkness with some reluctance.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Catherine heard a soft

rap on the door to the street. She slid the long, wooden

latch back from the heavy door. Sarah, her young assistant,

stood outside with her younger brother, Andy.

At Catherine’s encouragement, Sarah had gone to help

her uncle’s family bring their goods to the fair. The family was the only kin the young girl had left since, several years before, Sarah and Andy had lost their parents to a

devastating illness that swept through the poor hamlet-

dwellers. Catherine had tried to minister to the ailing folks with teas and potions, but to no avail. After her parents

died, Catherine took Sarah in to apprentice with her in

order to save the remainder of the family from the burden

of another girl-child. Andy still lived with his aunt and

uncle.

Once her brother had gone, Sarah joined Catherine in

tying up some sprigs of fresh mint. As they worked,

Catherine inquired about Sarah’s uncle and his family.

“They are fine, Mistress, but my uncle’s family is so

large and noisy. It is good to be back in the quiet of the

shop.”

“Still, Sarah, I’m glad you went. I’m sure they

appreciated your help.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of it, Mistress Catherine.”

As they waited for the first light of morning, they talked

of the fair and the herbs and spices they were readying.

Lydia was uppermost in Catherine’s mind all the while, but

she did not mention the oddly compelling woman. By the

time the sun started to peek above the hills beyond

Willowglen, they were ready to set up their wares outside.

ACTIVITY IN THE street grew while Catherine and

Sarah decorated the shop front with garlands of fresh herbal

boughs and arranged their goods on temporary stands

outside. Soon fair-goers would be spilling down the street,

their enthusiasm bubbling over. The merry throng, led by

banner-bearers, accompanied by musicians and singers,

would overrun the temporary booths and shops. Another

Willowglen fair was about to begin—and with it came an

excitement that Catherine had not felt since childhood.

The Grouse & Pheasant Inn

AS DAWN BROKE, Lydia opened her eyes and stretched

sensually in her small room at the Grouse and Pheasant Inn.

She lay in bed thinking of her encounters with the herbalist

until she heard movement in the tiny enclosure next to hers,

the two separated by a thick tapestry. Marian was stirring.

A scowl spread across Lydia’s face. She wanted to be

alone to savor her thoughts of Catherine. Although Lydia

did not understand her feelings completely, she thought

that if she were to fall in love, it would feel very much like she felt now.

A shudder ran through her.

AS MARIAN DRESSED, flashes of Lydia’s childhood

scurried through the passages of her mind. She always took

refuge in these thoughts when concerned with her young

charge. Lydia had been in Marian’s care since she was a

baby. The child’s laughter echoed through Marian’s

memory in recollections of a game of Fox and Hen, with

Marian in pursuit of the toddler, Lydia giggling with

delight as she ran on unsure legs. Recalling those happy

hours brought a smile to Marian’s face. She had tried to be

like a mantle around Lydia’s shoulders over the years,

covering her with love, trying to make up for the loss of her mother and the lack of affection from her father.

The Earl of Greencastle had always been too busy with

some affair of his office to spend any time with his young

daughter. He was often away from home, and he did not

seem to know how to express affection when he was there.

In his defense, the death of Lydia’s mother had left Lord

Wellington devastated, so he spent his lonely days growing

bitter, preoccupied by status and wealth. By the time his

grief might have been healed, he was so embittered that he

could not, or would not, change. So he continued to entrust

his young daughter’s nurturing to Marian, and her

education to the priest, Isadore.

Marian scowled at the thought of the priest. Now, that

cleric—that poor excuse for a holy man of God— he wanted to spend time with Lydia. A sound of contempt came from

Marian’s throat unbidden.

Rather than leave the young child alone with her tutor,

although Isadore suggested it often, Marian contrived a

story about enjoying the lessons herself and finding them so

interesting that she did not want to miss a single one. In reality, although Marian did appreciate the opportunity for

learning, it was more that she did not trust the seedy little priest.

“Vile little man,” muttered Marian.

Isadore had a way of making Marian feel surrounded by

dark winter storm clouds. Marian shook off the thoughts

and called through the curtain gently. “Lydia, dear, are you awake?”

“Yes, Marian.”

“Shall I come and assist you at dressing, then?”

“No, Marian, I shall dress myself this morning.”

Lydia heard the sound of soft leather padding against

smooth wood, then silence. Marian was probably off to the

kitchen to get some light refreshment for them to start their day. In the quiet, the young woman returned to her musings.

In the silversmith’s shop the day before, with her

companions out of earshot, Lydia had inquired about

Catherine. As she leaned over a creation of Edward’s and admired his handiwork, she’d remarked casually that

Willowglen seemed a town of very creative people.

Then she said, “I have heard said, sir, that the herbalist down the street has some excellent goods. Is it true?”

“Yes, My Lady, it is true. Mistress Catherine has a fine reputation. She grows and processes most of her herbs and they are most excellent. Her spices are the best around and her prices fair for treasures that come from so far away. She also carries fabrics, linens and velvets—lovely things. I am sure the quality would interest a lady of your fine taste.”

“You seem enamored of this shopkeeper, sir. Does her

husband know you think so highly of her?” Lydia chided.

Edward chuckled at Lydia’s suggestion. He only cared

about Catherine as he would his own daughter. He had

responded that she was only just a little older than his own two sons. In fact, his children had spent a great deal of time with Catherine in childhood. Edward and Catherine’s father had been fast friends and it was Edward who had joined with Catherine’s father to petition that she become a member of the Spice Vendors’ Guild in her own right.

“No, My Lady, I am just an old man who admires the hard

work of a friend’s daughter. She has made an excellent name for herself by her good work and skill. But I have no worry of my admiration being misunderstood. The mistress Catherine seems to have no need of a husband. Her father once confided in me that she was far too independent to be tethered to a man, and that such companionship never interested her—but,

forgive me, My Lady. I should not go on so.”

But it was enough. Lydia was intrigued.

While Edward and Lydia conversed, Marian busied herself

examining the jewelry in a small case nearby. She seemed to be too preoccupied with the ornaments to hear the discussion but, in fact, she listened to every word. She wondered why Lydia had so special a regard for this herbalist—why she

disappeared down Market Street at every opportunity—and

why she inquired about this woman now.

LYDIA REMOVED HER linen shift from a hook next to

her bed and slipped the garment over her head. She stood

up, smoothing the soft cloth over her breasts, lingering

there for just a moment before moving her hand down to

her stomach and across to her hips. All the while, she was

aware of the cool fabric against the warmth of her body.

She donned her dress, brushed her thick auburn hair

quickly and pinned it up with exquisite gold combs. Then

she walked over to a stool in the corner of the room and

pulled on the long, thick stockings she liked to wear with

her soft leather traveling boots. As she smoothed the cloth

against her thighs, she wondered how someone else’s

caresses might feel.

Catherine’s face came to her. Lydia’s heart pounded.

Bewildered and breathless, Lydia stamped both feet firmly

on the floor and stood, throwing her dress hem down

emphatically. She took a deep breath and tried to collect

herself. She needed a distraction. She headed downstairs

to look for Marian.

Willowglen Township Square

THE BUZZ IN the town square died down as the

officials climbed the temporary platform. Their opening

speeches promised a marvelous celebration beyond

anyone’s imagination. Enthusiastic cheers punctuated their

words. However, in the midst of the festivity, one young

woman found herself quite wearied by the opening

spectacle.

Unlike Marian, who hung on every word, Lydia fidgeted

and sighed. The Ladies, Beatrice and Hilary, listened with

mild interest and seemed to take no notice of Lydia’s

fretting. To the young woman, the speakers seemed to

drone on and on, until she could not endure them for one

more moment. Finally, she leaned over and whispered to

her companions. “These speeches are so tedious they give

me a headache. I need to get away from this din.”

Marian made a weak attempt to stop Lydia, but she

knew the young woman all too well. Once she made up her

mind to do something, there was no stopping her. In the

end, Marian offered to accompany her, but Lydia insisted

that she wanted to be alone.

“Marian, you do so love the splendor of a fair’s opening.

I would not dream of taking you away from it. Let me go

alone. I can manage just fine.”

Marian opened her mouth to protest, but Lady Beatrice

intervened.

“Marian, let the child go. Everyone is here in the

square, save for a few merchants busy about their fair

preparations. She can go back to the Inn and rest awhile.

Go on, Lydia, dear, meet us later. We will start our

browsing on Market Street.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Marian agreed.

Lydia headed in the direction of the Inn. In order to

reach it, she had to pass Catherine’s shop. As Catherine’s

booth came into view, Lydia saw that the shopkeeper was

engaged in animated conversation with another young

woman.

Catherine did not see Lydia.

The young noblewoman slowed her pace as anxiety

overtook her. She steeled herself against the urge to turn

and run away. She looked up toward the thick board hung

above the shop entrance and took a deep breath. The sign

was uniquely different from most shop signs. Ordinarily, a

picture or symbol of a shop’s wares or a design representing

the name of the establishment sufficed. This sign contained

an innovation. It had lettering that read:

Hawkins & Hawkins

purveyors of herbs, spices & fine linens

Above the words, the emblem of the Spice Vendors’

Guild, the mortar and pestle, gleamed in gold. Lydia stared

at the sign trying to compose herself. Her legs trembled,

keeping time with her racing heart. Although she did not

look in Catherine’s direction, she knew that the shopkeeper

had turned around and was staring.

Lydia’s imagination ran wild. Catherine would think

her mad to be approaching once more, unaccompanied and

without introduction. And to what purpose? Only that I am drawn to this woman as a moth is drawn to candlelight.

Plucking up her courage, Lydia looked directly at

Catherine and tried to read her expression. What was it?

Puzzlement? Curiosity? Distress?

The two women studied one another. Then Lydia

gulped and forged ahead. Her eyes still held the spice

vendor’s when Lydia stopped in front of her.

Catherine spoke first.

“Good day, My Lady. Welcome to Willowglen fair. May

I help you in choosing a spice, or perhaps some fine cloth?”

Lydia struggled to find her voice. “No. I mean, yes, I...

What will you show me in a linen? Something bright that I

may wear riding or hawking.” She looked aside shyly.

Disappointed that the young woman had turned away,

Catherine tried not to let her voice betray her. “I have some finely dyed reds and purples inside, My Lady. Please

follow me and I will show them to you.”

Lydia was glad for the chance to move into the shop, to

leave the street and be alone with Catherine. She had no

idea what to say next, but she knew that it must be

something more than idle prattle about fabric.

Inside, the shopkeeper moved to the far end of the room

and removed large, neatly folded pieces of fabric from the shelves. The colors were the most vibrant Lydia had ever

seen. As Catherine spread the cloth out on the workbench,

Lydia thought the reds and purples, greens and golds shone

like some deep rainbow. However, she only saw them out

of the corner of her eye, for she was more interested in

watching Catherine’s ebb and flow.

Catherine reached above her head to take yet another

measure of cloth down. As she did, her loose sleeves

slipped to her elbows and exposed her tanned forearms. An

image of the woman putting her hoe to rows of plants,

moving from one green stalk to another with sleeves rolled

up to expose supple arms to the day’s warmth made Lydia

breathe hard. Her fantasy played itself out in her mind

until Catherine’s voice shook her from her reverie as she

repeated her question. Did the Lady find any of the fabric

to her liking?

In an instant, Lydia formed a plan and launched into a

proposal, hoping that the shopkeeper would hear her out.

“Mistress...Catherine, is it not?”

Catherine smiled and nodded. So, she knows my name, as

well. The shopkeeper’s smile reassured Lydia. She continued,

“Mistress Catherine, I have become very interested in the

processing of herbs of late. I have actually come to engage

you as a tutor so that I might learn about the cultivating of this art. I will remain in Willowglen if you would be

willing to do so.”

Catherine stared. Lydia looked away quickly, afraid

Catherine would see the real reason that she was drawn to

her and refuse her request. How else was Lydia to spend

time with Catherine, to get to know more about her? It

didn’t matter that she would have to get Marian’s

permission to do so. She didn’t even think about the fact

that her father might be opposed to such a suggestion. She

would have her way.

Out of the silence, Catherine responded cautiously. “I

have but one question, My Lady. Why it is that you come to

me for this instruction?”

Lydia walked around the table nervously and

stammered her response. “I...have heard that you do much

of your own growing and drying of special herbs, Mistress.

I am interested to learn all I can about what you do here. I am at a loss to be instructed in herbology otherwise and I

know little about spices—or cloth, for that matter. I would

find this knowledge most useful. And I have heard that you

have a good reputation.”

Catherine’s mind raced. Her heart battled to keep up

with her head. If she wanted to spend time with Lydia,

getting acquainted, finding out more about her, why not do

so? In truth, there is nothing to stop me—nothing at all. I am free to do as I please. If I want to take this woman as my pupil, I can. I have no one to answer to but myself. So why not?

A smile blossomed on Catherine’s face. “Agreed, then.

Shall we begin right after the fair ends, one week hence?”

Lydia replied enthusiastically, “Yes, after the fair, that

would be most agreeable!”

“I shall see you then, Lady Lydia.”

Lydia’s eyes widened, surprised at hearing Catherine

say her name. How did she know it? Could it be that perhaps she has felt this drawing, too? Has she learned all she could about me, as I have about her?

Lydia stammered, “Perhaps I shall come back to discuss

the particulars of my studies while the fair is going on?”

She did not want to seem too eager, so she made a conscious

effort to slow her words down. “If that would not be too

much of an inconvenience to you, Mistress Catherine.”

Catherine had felt immediate disappointment to think

that she would have to wait an entire week before meeting

with Lydia again. Yet knowing that she would be weary

each evening of the fair, Catherine grappled with her own

practicality. Her shadow—the one that had called her to

come and dance in the flickering light on the stairway—

caught her eye on the opposite wall. She imagined

struggling with it in some mock wrestling match until she

allowed it to win, and thought it odd that she gave in so

easily.

“The fair does get busy at times, My Lady, but perhaps

we could talk at the end of the day when everyone has

closed up and gone home to rest. Would you find that

satisfactory?”

Lydia could barely contain herself. “Yes, very

satisfactory. I shall see you—perhaps tonight at supper

time?”

“Yes,” said Catherine. She hoped she concealed her

eagerness. “Tonight.”

Lydia smiled sweetly, and Catherine thought, She is the

most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Lydia felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment under

Catherine’s gaze. “I must go,” she said. She started toward the shop door, turned back and smiled again. “I am off to

the fair, now—until tonight!”

CATHERINE WATCHED LYDIA glide down the street

as if carried by unseen angels. She could hardly believe

that the encounter had taken place. From the corner of her

eye, Catherine caught a glimpse of something moving. It

was as if a shadow was doing cartwheels across the shop

wall. When she turned, though, there was nothing there.

Catherine thought it must have been her imagination... but the beauty of Lady Lydia’s eyes—that is not my imagination.

And she is interested in learning the herbal art. Why does she want to learn from me? Does she not have other means to learn about herbs?

Catherine’s questions went unanswered. At that

moment, the din of the approaching parade pierced her

thoughts. From her window, Catherine could see a huge

crowd moving down Market Street. Large, colorful banners

fluttered in the autumn breeze. Flute players, bell ringers

and drummers led the happy, noisy throng. The colors, the

music, all seemed more beautiful than she had ever

experienced. The fair had begun like many other fairs, but

this one was different.

Turning back into the room, the sight of the fabric pieces

lying on the table made Catherine laugh out loud. So, the Lady Lydia never meant to look at cloth. She quickly returned the textiles to the shelves and hurried outside.

To look at her, anyone would have thought that

Catherine was especially enthralled by the celebration this

year. Sarah even remarked, much to Catherine’s surprise,

that she was glad to see her mistress so happy. There was

no way Sarah could have known that it was Lydia who

brought such a look of joy to Catherine’s face. Lydia had

captivated Catherine’s heart.

Chapter Three

The Feast of St. Remi

Eventide

BUSINESS THE FIRST day of the fair had been brisk and

profitable.

In the evening quiet, Catherine sat down to tally the

days’ receipts. Just as she finished, she heard a delicate

knock on the door. Realization dawned slowly. Lydia. I

have been so busy since we parted company this morning that I forgot she was coming back...for supper, she said. Oh, dear, and I have nothing to offer her to eat but bread and dried meat.

The rapping came again, more purposeful this time. A

voice called from the street, “Mistress Catherine, it is Lydia.

I have come to sup with you.”

Catherine headed for the door, her distress growing.

The knocking resumed. When Catherine pulled open the

door, she almost met Lydia’s fist.

Lydia stood before her holding a large cloth-covered

basket. Behind her, a young man carried a pewter pitcher.

A large leather pouch hung from his shoulder. Catherine

recognized young Will from the Grouse and Pheasant Inn at

the end of the street.

Lydia said, “Good evening to you, Mistress. I had

begun to think you were not at home this evening. Since I

invited myself to supper, I thought I should provide

something to eat. Will you allow us to set out the food?”

Catherine, embarrassed and grateful, opened the door

wide and gestured toward the next room. The pair walked

past her, through the shop, toward the kitchen. Catherine

followed.

Will placed the pitcher carefully on the table and helped

Lydia unpack the basket. They set out fresh-cooked meat,

potatoes, carrots and warm bread. Will produced autumn

grapes and a slab of cheese from the pouch. The young

shopkeeper’s eyes widened as the feast materialized.

When they were done, Lydia handed the young man a

coin with her thanks. She asked him to return later to escort her back to the Grouse and Pheasant.

“Thank you, Your Ladyship,” Will responded shyly. “I

shall call for you after we clean up from the evening meal at the Inn.”

“That will be fine, Master Will, thank you,” Lydia said.

He gave Catherine a shy smile as he passed her heading

for the door. Halfway, he turned, as if something had just

crossed his mind. “Is Sarah about, Mistress?”

Lydia added, “Yes, would she like to join us? I have

brought enough.”

“I am afraid the bustle of the fair did Sarah in. She has

gone to bed. No doubt she is already sound asleep.”

Will looked disappointed. He turned and plodded

toward the door, but just before he put his hand on the

handle, Catherine called to him.

“Will, perhaps you could come by tomorrow during the

day and visit Sarah at our booth. Tell Master Elbert I asked if he might spare you for awhile. I need you to help me

move a barrel of herbs that is too heavy for me.”

Will reeled around. His face had brightened into a

broad grin. “Yes, mum,” he said with enthusiasm. “I am

sure he would let me come to assist you. Tomorrow, then.”

He pulled open the door. As the door closed with a soft

thud, Catherine turned back to Lydia.

“Is Sarah the young woman who was with you earlier

today, Mistress?” Lydia asked.

“Yes,” Catherine replied. “She is my assistant. Young

Will, there, fancies her, I suspect. Don’t you?”

Both women laughed.

The initial tension was broken. Catherine invited Lydia

to sit down and she served the meal on plain wooden plates

that she produced from a chest in the kitchen. Almost as

soon as Catherine joined Lydia at the table, the tiredness

seemed to melt from her shoulders. Lydia’s presence and

the aroma of the food renewed her. Whenever her eyes met

Lydia’s, Catherine felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach.

For that reason, she kept her attention on her plate. It

allowed her to eat in spite of her feelings. Catherine had

not eaten all day and now she realized how hungry she was.

Lydia watched her scoop the food up from her plate,

pleased that she seemed to enjoy the meal.

Shoveling the last morsels onto her spoon, Catherine

said, “It was so kind of you to think of all of this, Lady

Lydia.”

As she spoke, her eye caught movement on the stone

hearth—a shadow. Was it the flickering firelight playing

tricks, or a fleeting phantom that danced merrily across the

stones? Curious, Catherine thought.

When she looked at Lydia, she was immediately caught

up in the spellbinding grey-green eyes. Thoughts about

those eyes, her lips, her face, her hair, swirled wildly in

Catherine’s head. No matter how much she pushed against

them, they would not go away. Finally, Catherine let go

and dove into the grey-green sea. Feelings washed over the

young herbalist. Time stood still.

CATHERINE REALIZED THAT she had no idea how

much time had passed when she saw how low the fire in the

hearth was. They had talked long into the evening.

Catherine felt giddy and light-headed, almost as if the wine

had been too much for her. Yet she knew she had not drunk

a full goblet.

“Lady Lydia, you left before you told me if any of my

fabric appealed to you earlier today,” Catherine said.

Lydia hesitated, then confessed, “I did not really want

to look at fabric.”

Catherine laughed. “That was most apparent by the time

you left this morning, My Lady,” she said in a teasing tone.

Lydia blushed and replied, “I only wanted to speak to

you alone. I wanted to ask you about...tutoring me. I was

afraid you might not agree to take me as a student.” I was afraid that you might refuse my request and I might never see you again.

Catherine stifled another chuckle. “Oh, I see, My

Lady.”

Lydia felt embarrassed. She searched for a change of

subject, pleading, “Mistress, please, let us not be so formal.

Will you call me Lydia?”

Catherine felt more and more mischievous. She looked

over at the stone fireplace. Ridiculous. How can a shadow be smiling?

“I will agree only if you will consent to my condition,

M’lady.” As Catherine spoke, the room started to turn,

slowly at first; then, faster and faster. She tried to ignore the dizziness, but it was very disorienting.

“...and what would that condition be, Mistress?”

inquired Lydia for a second time.

Catherine willed the movement of the walls around her

to stop. She took a long, deep breath, grateful when the

movement finally began to slow down.

As if from down a long tunnel, she heard Lydia’s voice.

“...the condition?”

“Oh, yes, the condition.” The spinning finally stopped.

Catherine took another deep breath and said, “You must not

call me Mistress. My name is Catherine.”

“Yes,” replied Lydia shyly, “I know.”

“Oh, yes, of course you do,” stammered Catherine. She

waited. Would the room start turning again? Thankfully, it

did not.

Lydia pronounced, “Agreed, then.”

“Agreed? Oh, yes, let us dispense with titles. We have

no need of them here.” The mischievous twinkle returned to Catherine’s eyes. “And do not trouble yourself about the

fabric.” She leaned forward now, boldly meeting Lydia’s

gaze. “Tell me, Lydia—what is it that you wish to learn

about herbs?”

Lydia replied excitedly, “Everything, Catherine.”

Holding her new teacher’s gaze, she suddenly felt shy, yet

added, “I want to know everything.” About you.

AS THE EVENING wore on, the women became more

comfortable with one another and shared many things.

Catherine spoke of her love of tending to people’s illnesses

and injuries. Lydia gave Catherine a glimpse into the days she spent at Briarcrest with her aunt Beatrice and her

companion, Hilary. They made plans for Marian, Lydia’s

former nurse and current companion, to join them for dinner

the following night, and arrangements for the remainder of

the fair. Lydia insisted on bringing the evening meal to share with Catherine and Sarah at each day’s end.

At first, Catherine objected. “Lydia, I cannot have you

provide our meals. Surely, you will let me supply the food,

for you are my guest.”

But Lydia had made up her mind. When she said,

“Please, let us not quarrel over this, Catherine,” the

shopkeeper agreed and said no more about the matter.

The hours passed almost unnoticed. Both women

blushed whenever their eyes met again. Catherine got up

from the table and busied herself stirring the kitchen hearth back to life. Lydia watched her, admiring the outline of her body against the fire’s glow.

After a while, Lydia broke the silence. “What of your

parents, Catherine?”

Catherine turned back to her visitor. “I lost my mother

at the age of twelve. My father has not been dead long. It is still difficult to think of him gone. He was an exceptional

man and I feel his loss deeply.”

Lydia noted the pained look in Catherine’s eyes. “He is

the other Hawkins, then? On the sign, I mean.”

“Yes,” Catherine said, “this shop belonged to him and to

my mother. He built up this trade from nothing. He gave

me the benefit of his livelihood when I was a child and I

continued the shop with him as an adult.

“I apprenticed with my father and I was taught by the

nuns of Wooster Abbey. They taught me all the customary

subjects: reading, ciphering and how to keep books. They

also instructed me in needlework and music. Since I

already knew a great deal about herbs, they also saw to my

education in the healing art.

“Some people these days frown upon such an ability,

preferring to think that only learned men can be healers, but I know that I am destined to use this skill. I have been

fortunate. In Willowglen, the people are accepting of my

ways. I know they think me a little odd, but they say

nothing against me and they are grateful for my help with

their illnesses.”

Later that evening, when she was alone, Catherine

would reflect on how unusual it was for her to reveal so

much of herself to anyone, let alone to someone she had so

recently met. Yet, she felt that she could tell Lydia

anything. Well, almost anything.

THE KNOCK AT the door meant that Will had come to

escort Lydia back to the Grouse and Pheasant. Both women

felt that the evening had passed far too quickly. Their only consolation was in knowing that they would be able to see

each other again the next night.

The young man helped Catherine and Lydia pile

leftovers into a basket and walked ahead while the women

said their reluctant goodnight. Catherine stood outside her

shop and watched Lydia’s silhouette as she walked down

Market Street. When she disappeared into the Inn,

Catherine went back inside.

The two women’s hearts were so full that each of them

found sleep elusive that night. They had so many questions

and so much to share with one another. When weariness

finally overtook them, it was in the wee hours of the

morning.

Chapter Four

October 1458

Willowglen Fair continues

EARLY ON THE second day of the fair, before the

crowds began to gather, Lydia, Marian and some other

women appeared at Catherine’s stall. Lydia introduced

Catherine to her companions.

As Catherine had surmised earlier in the week, she

recognized the Ladies of Briarcrest, Beatrice, Duchess of

Briarcrest, and Lady Hilary, from a previous Willowglen

fair. Beatrice and Catherine discovered that they shared a

mutual fondness for a refreshing tea made from mint leaves.

Catherine had her own blend of mint varieties that she

combined with lemon balm. The Duchess purchased several

fresh bundles from Catherine.

Lady Hilary found a dark brown linen cloth with an

elegant weave that appealed to her. She bought all that

Catherine had and eagerly showed it off to Lady Beatrice.

Catherine heard the Duchess say to Lady Hilary, “You’ll stir

up some talk with that garb, my dear,” and chuckle as they

walked off down the street.

Lydia and Marian lingered at Catherine’s stall awhile

longer. The shopkeeper took advantage of the early

morning lull to engage Marian in conversation.

“Are you enjoying Willowglen Township’s Fair,

M’lady?”

Marian replied, “Oh, my dear, I am. Why, yesterday I

saw a performance in the square that was truly delightful.”

The portly woman launched into a retelling of the comic

story, shaking with laughter as she recounted some of the

play’s lines. However, she was not so distracted by her

merriment that she did not remember to scrutinize

Catherine. The nature of her questions regarding

Catherine’s business dealings made it clear that Lydia had

informed Marian of her plan.

Though they’d only just met, Catherine was certain that

the older woman would only allow her charge to be placed

into the most trustworthy of hands. Catherine, normally a

woman who cared little of what others thought about her,

found herself eager to gain Marian’s approval.

The second day of the fair promised to be another busy

one for Catherine and Sarah. Crowds of fair-goers began to

swell in the street. Catherine might be called away at any

time to attend to business, so she wasted no time in asking

Marian to accompany Lydia that evening. Marian flushed

with pleasure and accepted the invitation.

Catherine watched as Lydia moved off down Market

Street with Marian. Before the pair was devoured by the

crowd, Lydia turned back and smiled at Catherine. It took

the young shopkeeper’s breath away for a moment. When

she turned back to the booth, Sarah was staring at her.

THAT EVENING, CATHERINE felt more tired than she

had on the one before. Still, she could not contain her

excitement at the thought of Lydia’s return.

Sarah had fared much better, having retired nearly as

soon as the fair ended for the day and gotten a good night’s

sleep. Although she was tired from the bustle of the day,

she was able to join the group for dinner. She could not,

however, overcome her nervousness in the presence of

Lydia and her companion. When Marian asked Sarah a

question, she stuttered her response and turned a bright

crimson.

Marian chuckled at Sarah’s befuddled state. Then,

remembering a day when she had been more like Sarah, she

tried to put the young girl at ease. Marian, too, had come

from a poor family, she said. When she first went to

Greencastle to care for Lydia, she was quite bashful and she

was reluctant to speak up. She did not mention that she had

quickly learned to be bold in order to protect Lydia.

Marian offered, “Deep down in my heart, I am still a

peasant woman, you know, Sarah.”

Peasant woman? Catherine did not think so. Marian

was quite a lady, indeed.

When the meal was over, Marian engaged Catherine in

an intense discussion. It was apparent that Lydia’s

companion had gathered a great deal of information about

the young shopkeeper. She seemed to know about her

family history and her upbringing. She questioned

Catherine extensively about her knowledge of herbology,

about her business endeavors, and about her philosophy of

life in general. Catherine knew that it was more than

Marian’s curiosity that prompted her questions. She felt as

if she were being tested. She tried to answer Marian

confidently, in spite of the fact that, at times, she felt as if she were trembling visibly.

“I believe it will be good for Lydia to take lessons from

you, Mistress,” Marian pronounced finally. “I think that

they will be most beneficial to her. You have a great deal that you can teach her. Perhaps she may have something to

teach you, too.”

Outwardly, Catherine smiled. Internally, it took every

ounce of self-restraint she had not to grab hold of Marian

and embrace her enthusiastically. In an effort to stay calm, Catherine understated, “I am pleased that you have decided

to allow me to tutor Lydia, M’lady.”

Pleased? Not exactly. Overjoyed? Ecstatic, that was more like it.

She looked over at Lydia, who had remained very quiet

during the whole ordeal. The grey-green eyes sparkled as

she grinned from ear to ear. If anyone had looked up at the

ceiling, they would have seen not one but two shadows

swirling around in the flickering lamp light, and might have

imagined their leaping as the young women’s emotions

were given form.

Marian had some stipulations to her agreement. First,

she felt it was important for Lydia to learn all aspects of the business, from planting and harvesting to keeping the

books. Catherine agreed without hesitation. She was more

than willing to teach Lydia everything she knew.

“In addition,” Marian said, “Lydia will stay at the

Grouse and Pheasant during her studies. She is not used to

the labor involved in your work, Mistress, and she will need

a place to retreat and rest at the end of the day.”

The Inn was not a typical lodging of the time with a

tavern-like atmosphere. It had a reputation as a refined,

honorable establishment. It was known as a place where

ladies would not have to contend with the bawdiness found

in some inns of the day.

Catherine agreed with Marian, acknowledging her

insight. It was wise to have a place for Lydia to get away

from the duties of the shop and be able to rest. Catherine

couldn’t help but wonder what other perceptions and

intuitions the older woman had.

In actuality, Marian did know that something significant

was happening between the two young women. The ever-

strengthening bond between them did not escape her

watchful eye as she observed Lydia and Catherine together

that night. She decided that it would be best not to

interfere.

With their business completed, the conversation turned

to the women’s common interests. Marian and Catherine

found that they enjoyed each other immensely. Although

neither Catherine nor Lydia was aware of it, this helped

make Marian’s next decision a little easier: She would not

stay with Lydia in Willowglen.

Lydia’s father had made it clear that the new husband

he intended for his daughter would provide maids and

attendants from his own household in France. Callously, he

had informed Marian that her service would no longer be

needed then. It was a good assumption that her days were

numbered at Greencastle, too. When Beatrice had learned

of this, she was furious. Concerned for Marian, she had

immediately extended an invitation to her to make

Briarcrest her home.

Although Lydia’s Aunt Beatrice wielded a great deal of

power, she could not prevent her brother from sending

Lydia away. He alone held the right to decide his

daughter’s future. Beatrice had considered herself

fortunate to have convinced her brother to allow Lydia to

attend Willowglen’s Fair with her.

Beatrice, Hilary, Marian—even Lydia—knew the Earl’s

motives in his search for a husband for Lydia. He sought

someone of high rank and title to increase his own status

and prestige. No pact had been made yet because Lord

Wellington had not decided on the alliance that suited his

needs.

Although Lydia did not want to marry anyone, she was

helpless against her father’s wishes. She and her father had argued about it more than once and, each time, Marian had

intervened to smooth over their ill will. By arguing that the Earl’s young daughter would make a far better wife if she

were given more time to mature, the older woman had

bought Lydia some time. However, her father would have

to make a decision soon, or he might lose his opportunity

altogether. Toward that end, the Earl was out of the

country again and could not interfere with Lydia’s latest

plan.

Before going to Catherine’s that evening, Marian had

consulted with Beatrice about the situation. The Duchess

had agreed. They would not interfere with Lydia’s plan as

long as Marian approved of Catherine. Now, Marian made

another decision. She would take Beatrice up on her offer to go back to Briarcrest with them. The decision was

bittersweet for Marian. Lydia was no longer a child and

Marian felt that she had to allow her a life of her own—even

if her father would not give her the same consideration.

FOR THE REMAINING evenings of the fair, Lydia came

to Catherine’s alone. Sarah joined them for supper but

preferred to retire early, leaving Catherine and Lydia alone

after the meal.

On the night the fair closed, Beatrice and Hilary invited

Catherine and Sarah to dine with them at the Inn. Although

Marian had made Sarah a little more comfortable in her

presence, and it had become easier and easier for the young

girl to talk to Lydia, she still could not overcome her

nervousness in the presence of the Ladies of Briarcrest. She shook whenever she thought of the evening to come.

During a pause in activity on the last afternoon of the

fair, Catherine questioned her. “Is something troubling

you, Sarah? You are not yourself today.”

“No, Mistress Catherine,” Sarah squeaked.

Catherine decided that she could not continue to allow

Sarah to be in such agony. “Are you troubled about dinner

this evening, Sarah?”

Sarah’s anxiety spilled out like liquid from a tipped

bottle. “Oh, Mistress, I wish I did not have to go. All those fine Ladies make my tongue feel as if it is upside-down in my mouth. If they ask me a question, I shall die from fright before I think of an answer.”

Catherine looked into the girl’s eyes. Sarah knew the

workings of Hawkins and Hawkins almost as well as

Catherine did herself. When Catherine’s father could no

longer carry on in the shop, Catherine took Sarah in as her

apprentice. This had allowed Catherine time to tend to her

father’s needs in his illness and took some of the burden

from Sarah’s uncle and his family. It took only a short time for Catherine to realize that the young girl was extremely

bright, and determined that she would not let her ability go

to waste.

Catherine taught Sarah to read and write a little and she

familiarized her with a variety of duties. Eventually, Sarah began assisting customers. She managed very well. She

had no reason to feel so nervous in the presence of the Ladies of Briarcrest, but Catherine knew she would not be

able to convince Sarah of that. Perhaps it was better to give her a way out of this dinner than to allow her continue in

her torment.

“I am sure that the Duchess does not want to cause you

anxiety over her invitation, Sarah. She seems a kind and

understanding woman. I do not think she will be offended

if I ask her to excuse you tonight.”

Sarah breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I would be so

grateful if you would do that, Mistress Catherine. I would

rather stay in the shop and begin putting things away after

the fair.”

“You may stay, Sarah, but you have worked hard

enough all week. Take the evening for yourself. We’ll put

things away together in the morning.”

Sarah smiled and whispered, “Yes, Mistress Catherine.”

Tomorrow, Catherine mused, there would be another

pair of hands in the shop—Lydia’s.

The end of Willowglen Fair

CATHERINE DINED AT the Grouse and Pheasant with

the women of Briarcrest. Lively topics during dinner

spanned politics in the Court of London to styles of dress

for women. They talked of other fairs in other towns, of

commerce and travel. Catherine felt a sense of pride to be

among women who conversed with such intelligence, wit

and insight.

At the end of the evening, Lydia and Catherine decided

that Lydia would begin the following day at the shop. The

day after the fair closed was always something of a holiday

for the shop owners; it gave them time to reorganize, take

stock, and rest a little. Catherine could not bear the thought of a day without seeing Lydia, however, so she told Lydia

that she was most welcome at the shop.

“Sarah and I planned to put the shop in order. It will be

a good time for you to study the wares on the shelves and

ask any questions you may have.”

Lydia had responded that she would be there first thing

in the morning to begin her course of studies.

Catherine then thanked the Duchess for her hospitality,

and for understanding about Sarah’s absence, and she bid

the group goodnight. Making her way down Market Street,

Catherine found that she looked forward to the next day

eagerly—largely because of Lydia.

THE NEXT MORNING, Lydia’s aunt and her company

departed early for Briarcrest. At Marian’s insistence, Lydia promised to join them before the feast of St. Nicholas. If she delayed any longer than that, the journey might not be

possible. The roads deteriorated quickly once the rains

began, making carriage travel difficult at best.

Marian did not want Lydia to miss the Christmastide

feast at Briarcrest. The two had often spent the winter

months there, for the Lord of Greencastle did not abide

much keeping of the Yule season. He considered it a

frivolous waste of his treasury.

Lydia’s Aunt Beatrice, on the other hand, believed the

season was meant to be enjoyed with as much gladness and

feasting as possible. This was a prime example of why the

Earl of Greencastle had little use for his sister. He

considered her nothing but a foolish woman, and much too

unconventional for his liking. He tolerated his daughter’s

relationship with Beatrice for only one reason: She had

more holdings, inherited from her dead husband, and more

friends in higher places, cultivated on her own, than he did.

In short, his sister was far more powerful than he was. Yet, in spite of her wealth and authority, Beatrice insisted on

mingling with commoners and peasantry. He did not

understand the woman. She had friends in the Court of

London, which was more than he could boast, but she did

not seem to understand her place. There were times when

he worried that Lydia would be found lacking by a potential

husband if they got wind of Beatrice’s influence. Still, she was family, and she did dote on the child.

Christmastide was special at Briarcrest. Lydia, Marian

insisted, must be there. Lydia agreed reluctantly. At least she had the coming weeks with Catherine. She wondered

what they would bring.

Chapter Five

Lessons at the Spice Shoppe

Willowglen Township

LYDIA AND CATHERINE settled quickly into a routine.

For the first few days, Lydia arrived each morning to find

Catherine in the kitchen enjoying her first cup of mint tea.

Before the week was out, however, Lydia arrived before

Catherine came downstairs. Sarah would let her into the

shop and she would go directly to the kitchen to prepare

Catherine’s tea.

When Catherine came to the kitchen each morning, she

protested Lydia’s ministrations. The shopkeeper was

uncomfortable with this attention, imagining the servants

Lydia had at Greencastle and Briarcrest.

For her part, Lydia ignored Catherine’s protests, which

went on for days. Gradually, though, Catherine came to

look forward to finding Lydia in her kitchen at the start of

each day and she no longer objected to her performing this

morning ritual. The women would sit talking about the

day’s duties over their cups of tea before they joined Sarah

in the shop.

Lydia flourished in Willowglen. For, although she

loved her time spent at Briarcrest, there was something

much more enlivening about her life with Catherine. She

was happier than she had ever been.

The autumn harvest over, Lydia learned that there was

still much to do. Herbs needed to be tended as they dried.

Winter plants had to be started and patches of the garden

had to be cleared and prepared for the next spring’s

planting. Lydia became comfortable amid the herbs and

soil and burlap bags. She learned more about spices than

she had ever imagined possible through Catherine’s exotic

tales of the cultures that yielded them. Catherine wove

stories about her father’s dealings with people from all over the world, people with whom Catherine still dealt. Her

trade was so well established that new spices found their

way to her shop with little need for her to travel as her

father had once done. Lydia listened to Catherine’s stories, spellbound. It never occurred to her that anything

Catherine had to say would have held her attention for

hours.

ONE DAY, LYDIA asked about Catherine’s parents.

The shopkeeper offered, “When my father and mother

married, they had a small plot of land at the edge of town

where they planted an herb garden and began to sell their

wares. They worked hard and did well. My father began to

travel to acquire other goods to sell. By the time I was born, they had this shop. My father put the sign up outside when

they opened for business. From the first, he had wanted my

mother to be his partner, not merely an assistant. When I

think of it now, it was a remarkable gesture to include a

woman as a business associate. He told me later that the

people of Willowglen thought little of it, however, since he

already had a reputation among his fellow guild members

as being somewhat unusual. Little did anyone know he was

paving my way into the Spice Vendor’s Guild at the time.

“I’m sure you have noticed that the shop sign is quite

extraordinary, Lydia. He insisted that it bear script. I

remembered him telling me more than once, ‘A day is

coming when every commoner will be able to read. People

will not be kept in the dark forever. Those who are most

ignorant will rise up and demand to be delivered from their

illiteracy, for in knowledge there is liberty.’

“My father was an educated man,” Catherine continued.

“More than that, he believed that everyone was entitled to

an education. He taught my mother to read, and he saw to

my schooling as well. My time at Wooster Abbey was

happy, although I missed my parents when I was away. I

spent summer and winter months of the year with the nuns

and I came home during the busiest seasons to help with

planting and harvesting.

“In the spring of my twelfth year, my mother died. I did

not return home for the spring planting that year because

there was none. My father closed up the shop and traveled

for long periods, trying to avoid the pain of losing my

mother.

“I, too, felt her loss, of course. However, there were

marked differences in our grieving. I had found a mentor in

one of the nuns, Lady Anne. My father had no such

confidant. It took him much longer to overcome his grief.

One thing he could not bring himself to do was to change

the sign. To him, it would have been as if he were

banishing the spirit of his beloved wife.

“After my mother’s death, Lady Anne and I spent many

long hours talking of my sorrow. In addition to missing my

mother, I felt helpless at seeing my father so aggrieved. To help me overcome my sadness, Lady Anne built upon my

knowledge of herbs by instructing me in their use for

healing. The medicinal use of plants and herbs fascinated

me, and it gave me a positive focus at a difficult time in my life. I discovered, during those days, that I have a gift to recognize illnesses and insight to know how to heal them. I

recalled many treasured moments we Hawkins women

spent together when I was home discussing such things.

“Often I would read aloud to my mother as she worked.

My father bought books during his travels. Sometimes, the

reading evoked lively discussions between us. We did not

always see eye to eye, but I delighted in these debates. I

came to realize that my mother did, too. She always tried to encourage me and listened to what I had to say.”

Lydia sat engrossed in Catherine’s narrative.

“For two years after my mother died, I watched my

father grow tired and bent by his grief. I only saw him

briefly during that time, but I recognized that his sorrow

was consuming him. Finally, I decided to take matters into

my own hands. I informed him that I was about to begin a

formal apprenticeship with him in his business. He would

need to stay home, reopen the shop, and work closely with

me.“At first, he would not hear of it. Then gradually, he

became accustomed to the idea. By the time the day arrived

for me to bid the Abbey good-bye, he seemed delighted

with the prospect and was a great deal less disheartened.

“When I left the Abbey, Lady Anne gave me a gift—a

small medicinal bag—but over the years I have found that

she gave me so much more. For she gave me the skill to use

the bag’s contents to heal many afflictions that would have

consumed a number of people in this town.

“On my fifteenth birthday, my father announced that

the sign above the shop door no longer signified his

partnership with my mother. It now meant Master and the

young Mistress Hawkins. I rejoiced in the announcement,

for I knew it meant more than a full partnership with my

father. It meant that he had finally accepted my mother’s

death and let go of his grief.”

Almost wondering out loud, Lydia inquired, “Did your

father not want you to marry?”

“He talked about finding a husband for me,” Catherine

replied. “But I told him I had no desire to marry each time

he brought it up. We discussed whether or not he would be

failing in his duty as a father if he did not find a suitable mate for me. My reply usually soothed his concern because

I maintained that a father’s duty was to provide for a

daughter after his death. By providing me with a thriving

enterprise, he was more than fulfilling his fatherly duty to

care for me. After a time, we no longer discussed it. I think father grew accustomed to our lives together and he could

not imagine them to be any different. It pleased him that I

had found my place among the townspeople, too.”

“And your father—he has not been gone for more than a

cycle of seasons, has he?”

“Two summers ago, his health started to decline. He

was ill for quite a while and in the end, he faded in and out of wakefulness. During one of his better days, he told me of his confidence in me. He told me that he knew I had the

respect of many of the good people of Willowglen and that I

would continue after he was gone. He said that he could

give up his life with no concern of failing in his fatherly

duty. He died at summer’s end a year ago.”

Both women worked quietly for awhile. Then Lydia

asked, “Why did you tell him that you did not wish to

marry?”

Catherine gave Lydia a curious look, then smiled her

crooked smile, one side of her mouth turning up more than

the other. “I am not sure I can answer you,” she replied. “I only know I do not wish it. I feel no desire to be bound to a man. I see how women in this town, and in other places I

visited with my father, do not have the same alliance with

their husbands as my mother did with her spouse. My

father was a rare find. I suppose that if I ever found

someone like him, someone who believed in equal

partnership, perhaps then I might change my mind. Still, in

reality, I do not think I would want a husband.”

“I feel many of these same things, Catherine, but I

haven’t been so fortunate to have a father like yours. I fear that I will never find such understanding or acceptance

from him. His reasons for finding me a husband are not as

noble as your father’s were. He sees my pairing as a means

to amass more wealth and status for himself and he

wouldn’t give up his opportunity. It distresses me, but I am at a loss over what to do. Being here with you these weeks,

though, makes me more determined not to allow him to

betroth me for his own gain when I want no betrothal at

all.”

Then, looking into Catherine’s eyes, she added shyly,

“Except, perhaps, that which I may choose for myself.”

There was a long pause. The air hung heavy in the

room. Each woman sat alone with her thoughts.

Catherine wondered at the strength of her own desire to

fulfill Lydia’s dream of finding a partner in life. Yet

somehow, Catherine couldn’t imagine the young Lady

finding contentment with a man.

Lydia struggled with the fantasy that Catherine was a

rich and powerful nobleman to whom her father would

happily betroth her. Frustrated at realizing that her

thoughts were merely a daydream, Lydia shook them off,

asking another question. “Was it difficult for you to be

accepted as a member of the merchant’s Guild?”

“Yes, my father and Edward, the silversmith, fought

hard for my admittance.”

“Are there no other women who are members of the

Guilds in Willowglen?”

“Yes, but everyone is married with a husband in the

Guild, or older and widowed. The Guild Masters found it

difficult to accept a young, unmarried woman likely to

become the sole proprietor of Hawkins and Hawkins one

day as a member of their order.”

“How did you win them over? Although I imagine your

considerable charm could do it.”

The crooked smile appeared again. “Charm, indeed,”

Catherine scoffed. “It was only after Edward’s son was on

his deathbed with fever and I was able to help him by my

ministrations with herb teas and baths that Edward stepped

in and spoke on my behalf. My father was very influential

in the Guild, but he still spoke as a father in the Guild

Masters’ eyes. Only when Edward finally joined with him

did the Masters allow them to present my skills. Once I was

accepted, though, I was able to prove my own merit. No

one ever spoke again about whether or not it should be so. I pay my Guild fees and continue in the manner of my

parents, and everyone seems to accept it.”

Lydia offered, “You have gained more than acceptance

into the Guild, Catherine. I have heard some of those men

when they come into the shop. They seek your counsel.

They hold your opinions in very high esteem.”

Catherine brushed Lydia’s accolades aside. “Oh, they

have learned to appreciate my views as an honest,

hardworking Guild member, but you give me more credit

than is my due, Lady Lydia.”

Catherine’s formality brought a smile to Lydia’s face.

She had come to realize that the shopkeeper now only used

her title when she was embarrassed or uncomfortable with a

conversation.

The women held each others’ gaze and Lydia thought, I,

too, bestow admiration, and more than mere admiration, so much is my fondness for you. Dare I call it love? Yes, I dare.

The conversation ended there. Each woman spent time

deep in thought as they cleaned up the shop after the day’s

work.

Their time together passed with only small

interruptions. People came into the shop to make

purchases. Occasionally, Catherine went to the home of one

or another of the townspeople to bring some fabric for them

to examine or certain spices for them to buy.

When Catherine was consulted with regard to ailments

and illnesses, she skillfully recommended remedies of leaf

or root, this plant or that or several together. If someone

could not obtain what she recommended and she had a

supply of it, she gave it freely, never taking payment for the medicinal plants and counsel she dispensed.

As the days flowed one into the next, the two women

shared more and more of themselves with one another.

Lydia’s love for her aunt was apparent as she revealed

treasured memories of time spent at Briarcrest. She told

Catherine the story of her aunt’s betrothal to the young

Duke of Briarcrest—as much as Lydia knew of it. To

Catherine, it seemed a curious tale.

Beatrice had been given in marriage by her father,

Lydia’s grandfather, at the age of fifteen. Lydia did not

know of her aunt’s feelings toward the Duke. She said

Beatrice had never discussed them. On those rare occasions

when she spoke of the Duke at all, she was always gracious.

Some time after their wedding, the young Duke went off to

fight for Henry VI in France, leaving his bride to oversee his house and lands.

The Duke had been taken up with endeavors for

political and personal gain much as Lydia’s own father had

been over the years. However, the Duke was quick to

realize that Beatrice was gifted in the management of

Briarcrest. He saw to it that she was well supported in her

efforts. When he did not return from his final campaign, it

mattered little to those who pledged their steadfastness to

Briarcrest. Beatrice, a fair administrator, ruled wisely and gained the respect and allegiance of those in the service of

Briarcrest quickly. The Duke had been gone so often, and

for so long, that to them, loyalty belonged to Beatrice alone upon his death.

During Beatrice’s husband’s last effort in France, a

friend of the Duke brought his daughter to Briarcrest, to

stay with Beatrice while he went off to join her husband.

Hilary and Beatrice had met once before only briefly. At first, Beatrice considered her hospitality to the young

Hilary to be merely for the sake of her husband’s friendship

with Hilary’s father. As time passed, and the two women

became better acquainted, their friendship deepened.

One year later, the Duke and Hilary’s father were killed

in the same battle. When word of their loss reached

Briarcrest, the two women decided that Hilary would stay

on. For Hilary, one year Beatrice’s junior, had become her

trusted associate.

LIFE AT THE spice shop went on in its usual,

uneventful way until a week before the feast of All Saints.

Then Lydia began talking about going to the Hallow’s Eve

observance in the town square. Catherine almost dropped

the kettle she was holding when first Lydia voiced the idea.

She didn’t want Lydia to go. She knew it was dangerous,

and the whole idea of the gathering angered her. The

passing of days did nothing to change her mind.

She could not explain her reaction to her friend beyond

saying she’d been once before. During childhood,

Catherine had feared the gathering. When she was old

enough to realize what was really going on, she became

infuriated. People would be admonished to live good lives,

then they would do as they pleased anyway; fueled by drink

and inspired by the “demons” they had just seen, they

would do things they might otherwise not.

The fire in Catherine’s eyes stilled Lydia’s tongue for

awhile, but the young noblewoman still intended to go to

the square. As the day drew near, Catherine tried to wear

away at the other’s resolve, but the lure of the unknown

was too strong to be ignored.

Catherine’s hand shook, and she bit her lip as she

fastened her cloak. She closed the shop door and followed

Lydia out to the street. Dusk had fallen. All Hallow’s Eve

had begun.

Chapter Six

All Hallow’s Eve

October 31, 1458

Willowglen Township Square

A PENETRATING DAMPNESS hung in the air as the

two women hurried down Market Street. Their foggy

breath mimicked the clouds hiding the stars in the night

sky. Catherine shivered and wrapped her heavy cloak

around her tighter in an effort to seal out the biting cold—

and her feeling of apprehension.

Earlier, the persistent rain had given her the hope that

Lydia wouldn’t want to go to the square. However, just

before dark, the storm passed and Lydia announced that she

still intended to go. Refusing to let her venture out alone, Catherine now reluctantly stepped along the cobblestone

path at Lydia’s side.

A faint pinpoint of light from a single lamp at the center

of the square drew them. They joined the other gathering

townspeople. The subdued crowd murmured in low tones.

Catherine dreaded what would happen next. The

apparitions—spectral saints and netherworld devils—

would come as if unbidden. More than any other night

Catherine could remember, she wanted to be at home in

front of a warm fire—preferably with Lydia beside her.

“Please, Mother, please, please let me go to the square tomorrow night,” the little girl whined.

“Your father and I do not think it a place for a child. We are not even sure it is a place for adults. No, we will not permit it. You will not go.”

The little girl skulked away, but later that evening, she climbed onto her father’s lap and nuzzled his bearded cheek, fully aware that she was up to no good. She wanted to go to the celebration in the square and she knew her father could seldom resist her.

“Father, I especially want to go to All Hallow’s Eve

tomorrow night. Will you take me?”

“Why would you want to go to that spectacle, child? It is the Church’s miserable way of keeping the rabble under their thumb by scaring them half to death. We have no need of that sort of trickery.” His voice was firm, but very quiet; he’d explained to her before that his views would not be accepted in the town.

“I want to see, father.” She leaned so close to his face that she felt the warmth of his skin. She whispered, “James said there are devils—”

“There are no devils—I told you already. If there are

devils in Willowglen, they certainly do not show themselves so blatantly that we can recognize them in the street. Demons are much more discreet. Sometimes, they even come disguised as men of the Church.” Even with their heads close together, Catherine had barely been able to hear that last remark.

Still, the little girl persisted. Finally, her father

reluctantly gave in.

He took the girl to the square the next evening, held her hand as they waited for the costumed creatures to arrive.

What followed unsettled the child and gave her nightmares for weeks afterward. Her parents vowed never to allow her to attend the event again, but they had nothing to fear. Young Catherine never asked.

Catherine still failed to see the value in such fiendish

displays; why spend so much energy in telling tales? She

would rather try to help people, to ease their pain, cure

their illness. Stave off death. The nuns at Wooster Abbey

had told her that faith involved a relationship with a good

and loving God. Catherine could only conclude that a

spiritual life and religion seldom had the same goals. As an adult, she rejected the Church almost entirely, refusing to

participate in the town’s expressions of piety. The clergy

made their disapproval of her attitude be known, but the

townspeople accepted her rebelliousness as part of the

Hawkins family idiosyncrasy.

As people arrived in the square with their children in

tow, Catherine cringed and wondered how many weeks and

months of horrifying nightmares would follow for these

little ones. As they stood in Willowglen’s square, waiting,

Catherine tried once again to shake the anxiety that

permeated her being.

Lydia, for her part, had found Catherine’s bitterness

difficult to understand. She had been deeply disappointed

when Catherine so emphatically refused to participate at

first. Although Catherine had tried to make Lydia

understand that her concern was for the nightmares that

would be imposed on the children, the young noblewoman

couldn’t understand. Lydia simply wanted to experience

something that had a forbidden quality to it; she didn’t

understand Catherine’s vehemence. To her, it was a party,

nothing more.

Catherine had not been able to bear the silence and

tension their disagreement caused, so finally, she gave in

and went along. It took all her will to keep her from

running back to the shop. She knew that if she left, Lydia

would never follow. So she stayed, feeling overwhelmingly

protective, her feelings perplexing her.

THE CROWD DREW in a collective breath as the lamp in

the square was extinguished. Darkness seemed to swallow

them up. The first devilish creatures approached,

announcing their arrival with screams and laments. When

they reached the crowds, they clawed at them. They

grabbed at their clothes and poked them with what felt like

sharp, fleshless fingers.

Catherine wanted to shut out the howls by covering her

ears. She wanted to slap away the unwelcomed contact.

Instead, she stood stoically by Lydia’s side and wondered if

her companion was disturbed at all by the display.

If she could only see Lydia’s face she would know if the

other woman was frightened or not—but in the inky

darkness of the moonless night, Catherine could see

nothing. As the agonizing shrieks tore through the

blackness, Catherine set her jaw firmly against the night.

Her refusal to leave Lydia’s side became her armor against

the awfulness of her surroundings and the fury the ritual

provoked.

After an eternity, the ghoulish howling turned to

moaning and whimpers. Relief washed over Catherine. She

let out a breath.

Flickering lantern light gradually illuminated the

square. Saints and martyrs dressed in white garments and

the garb of monks and nuns drove the evil beings to cringe

and moan in a huddled mass away from the crowd. A

welcome quiet descended on the square. Then the

bellowing voice of the presiding clergyman rang out,

announcing that good had, once again, triumphed over evil.

The citizens of Willowglen were to pattern their lives after

these holy men. Catherine wondered how he had not

noticed that some of the “saints” portrayed were women.

The speech over, saint and devil alike formed a

procession around the gathering. Catherine was grateful

that the ghoulish figures were more ordered and well-

behaved in the presence of their holy counterparts. They no

longer seemed so dreadful bathed in the soft glow of lantern

light.

The villains and the virtuous led the townspeople

toward the Governor’s Hall for a service in the chapel. The

pious among them followed. The less devout took the

opportunity to go in other directions. Some headed for

home; others made for the local tavern, despite the cleric’s

earlier admonition.

The monotone bell in the chapel tower clanged its

metallic prayer for the souls of the dead. Catherine and

Lydia waited until the end of the procession before winding

their way behind the crowd.

When the women reached Market Street, they broke

from the line. At Catherine’s insistence, Lydia would not

return to the Grouse and Pheasant. Instead, she would stay

the night with Catherine rather than be out on the street

alone. Lydia had agreed, not wanting to risk another

quarrel.

They moved quickly through the darkened street with

only the light shining through a few scattered windows

reflecting off the still-damp cobblestones. Catherine and

Lydia engaged in an animated debate about the Hallow’s

Eve event. They were halfway to Catherine’s shop when a

hooded figure leaped into their path, fingers curled in their faces menacingly, growling and threatening to do them

harm.

At first they thought the person had merely meant to

play a Hallow’s Eve prank on them, but they soon realized

that they were wrong. The monster grabbed Lydia with one

hideous hand and stifled her cry with the other, then

quickly dragged her into the alley. Catherine frantically

looked around for help. The street was deserted. The quiet

was broken only by the pounding of Catherine’s own heart

in her ears and the din of the chapel bell driving itself like a wedge into her consciousness.

Anger quickly replaced Catherine’s alarm. She

scrambled back toward the alley, wondering how she would

save Lydia. Running down the narrow passageway,

Catherine tripped over an old, discarded ax handle. As she

regained her balance, she grabbed the makeshift club.

The figures were barely visible in the dark, yet

Catherine somehow knew where Lydia was. She charged at

the dim, ghoulish figure just as it was lifting Lydia’s skirts above her shoulders. Catherine wrapped her hands tightly

around the handle and raised it over her head. Taking a

deep breath, she slammed the bludgeon down with all her

might as she exhaled, aiming for a spot high on the

attacker’s back.

The monster gasped and released Lydia. Entangled in

leggings twisted down around its knees, the fiend reeled,

then fell to the ground and scrambled, crawling off into the

darkness. Catherine could hear gasping and choking.

Lydia stood unable to move. Catherine pushed her out

of the alley with one hard shove. Out on the street, she

grasped Lydia’s hand as tightly as she could and broke into

a run, pulling the young woman along with her.

When she reached the shop, Catherine flung open the

door and hurled Lydia inside. She yanked the door shut

and pulled the bolt across with a mighty heave. Plopping

onto a workbench seat, Catherine plunged her face into her

hands and let out an agonized sob.

Lydia staggered to Catherine and fell beside her on the

bench. Tears flowing, they held one another until Catherine

finally felt the fear and anger drain from her like poison

from a wound.

No longer lost to her panic, she felt awkward holding

Lydia. How many times had she dreamed of embracing

Lydia? But her fantasy had contained nothing of this type

of distress. This was not how she’d hoped to find her arms

around the other woman. Self-conscious, and worried that

the gesture might be misinterpreted, Catherine pulled

away. “Are you all right, Lydia?”

“Yes.”

“Did he...hurt you?”

“Only my arm, when he pulled me into the alley. I am

sure it will be fine, Catherine.”

Anger welled up again. Catherine spit out her words.

“This is not a celebration. It is a mad, evil event. A poor excuse to subject people to things that should never occur.

‘Good overcoming evil,’ indeed.”

Catherine’s rage ballooned until it overwhelmed her.

She clenched her fists on the table in front of her as she

envisioned herself running down the street, searching for

the devil that had tried to violate Lydia. In her mind’s eye, she carried a sharp, pointed stake in her hand. When she

found the demon, she called to it. It turned and met her

with a hideous smile. Without hesitation, she drove the

implement through the villain’s chest with all her strength

and almost felt the flesh and bone giving way under her

hand as she did.

Horror quickly replaced satisfaction when she realized

that anger had made her envisage killing another human

being. She was a healer, committed to preserving life, not a murderer. She wailed.

Lydia put a tentative hand on Catherine’s arm.

When Catherine’s tears finally stopped, Lydia conceded,

“Perhaps Hallow’s Eve in the square is not such a good

idea. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.”

With trembling hands, Catherine lit the lamp on the

table. Lydia’s tear-stained face appeared in the soft glow.

Catherine’s heart ached at the sight. She said, “I should

have been more insistent about not going. Are you sure you

are all right?”

“Yes, please believe me, Catherine. I am unharmed.”

“I could not live with myself if you had gotten hurt—or

worse, Lydia.”

Lydia stared at her hands without speaking for a

moment. When she looked back at Catherine, she spoke

almost inaudibly. “Thank you.”

“Please, do not thank me—”

“But you rescued me.”

“I allowed you to be put in danger.”

“Catherine, it was not your fault. I insisted on going. I

should have listened to you.” She tried to catch Catherine’s eye. “Forgive me?”

Now Catherine turned away. I just realized that I could

kill someone rather than let anything happen to you, such is my great care for you. I have never felt like this about anyone before in my entire life. How can I tell you my real feelings?

Lydia repeated, tentatively, “Catherine, will you forgive

me?”

Catherine faced her. “Oh, Lydia, of course I forgive

you.” My love.

She turned away again, embarrassed by her thought,

and the two women sat together in the subtle glow of the

small lamp for a long time without speaking. Finally,

Catherine rose from her seat. “Would you like some tea

before we go to bed, Lydia? I left the kettle over the fire.”

“Thank you, Catherine, but suddenly I am very tired. I

would like to go to bed, if you don’t mind. Have some tea

yourself, though, if you would like.”

“No, I am quite tired myself. Come with me upstairs. I

shall show you where you will sleep.”

Lydia’s haggard face revealed the toll the ordeal had

taken on her. Catherine fought the urge to snatch her into

her arms. She picked up the lamp and headed for the

stairway. Lydia pulled herself up slowly and followed.

Upstairs, Catherine led Lydia through the main room

that had been Catherine’s parents’ bedroom before it was

her own. Next to it was a small, enclosed area that had

served as Catherine’s childhood bedchamber. She lifted the

heavy tapestry that hung in the doorway and motioned

Lydia into the tiny room.

Catherine found it difficult to leave. She stood frozen,

unable to move, waiting for her desire to take Lydia in her

arms to pass. “I shall leave you to your rest, Lydia.

Goodnight. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, Catherine,” Lydia sighed.

In the next room, Catherine undressed down to her

undergarments, then went back to the tapestried doorway

and listened for movement. There was none. She moved

the curtain aside. The lamp sat on a stool beside the bed,

still lit. Lydia was sound asleep on the cot, fully clothed.

Catherine let the curtain drop.

Even in the darkness, Catherine found the carved chest

at the foot of her bed with ease. Years before, her father had brought it back with him from the Far East. It was made

from the smooth, warm wood of the camphor tree. A

unique pastoral scene had been carved into the lid.

Catherine could not make out the details of the design in

the moonless night, but she felt the grooves under her

fingers as she lifted the lid.

Stories of a race with smooth, round faces whose eyes

looked different from her own passed through her mind.

Her father had told her of meeting people who stood ankle-

deep in water to harvest their grain from wet fields.

Catherine found what she was looking for—a thickly

woven covering. She took it back to the small room and laid

it gently over Lydia. The young woman stirred only

slightly but did not awaken. The ache in Catherine’s heart

surfaced as she watched Lydia’s face in the flickering

lamplight. On the wall behind her, as if waiting for her to

take action, Catherine’s shadow swayed back and forth with

the flickering light.

With great effort, Catherine finally tore herself away,

taking the lamp with her. Back in her own bedchamber, she

blew out the flame and climbed into bed. Fatigue overcame

her quickly and she slept fitfully, chasing demons all night

long.

Chapter Seven

The Feast of All Saints

November 1, 1458

Willowglen Township

THE SKY WAS still dark when Catherine woke. She

dressed quickly in the dim lamplight and went to check on

Lydia. Catherine lingered in the doorway watching her

guest sleep before letting the tapestry curtain fall gently

across the opening.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Catherine stirred the kitchen

fire awake and added more wood to the embers. She

watched the logs ignite. The warmth slowly spread into the

room. She busied herself by rearranging some pots until the

water in the kettle boiled then made herself some tea.

Taking her steaming cup to the window that overlooked the

garden, she watched the day dawn through a fine mist.

WHEN LYDIA FINALLY came into the kitchen, she

surprised Catherine out of a daydream.

“Oh! Lydia, how are you feeling?”

“I am rested, Catherine, thank you. I slept very

soundly. I was very tired, indeed, after last evening.”

“Yes, I think we were both worn out after last night.”

Finding it painful to think of the experience of the prior

evening, Catherine changed the subject. “Would you like

something to eat, Lydia?”

“I shall join you for tea. Master Elbert told me there is to be a celebration at the Grouse and Pheasant this morning.

I told him that I would be there and that I would ask you to

be my guest. Will you come?”

Catherine replied shyly, “Yes, Lydia. I shall come, if it

pleases you.”

“It pleases me. Very much.”

At the Grouse & Pheasant Inn

THE ROOM WAS abuzz with lively conversation as

Catherine entered the Grouse and Pheasant Inn. Several of

Willowglen’s merchants, as well as many of the town’s

officials, were already partaking of the harvest abundance

served by Master Elbert, the Inn’s proprietor. Catherine

recognized James Hall, a merchant trader who had been

well acquainted with Catherine’s father, among the visitors.

The elder Hawkins and Hall had traveled together on many

trade journeys, but it had been more than three years since

James Hall had come through Willowglen.

He called to Catherine, “Mistress, I am so glad to see

you. Please, come. Sit here.” He gestured opposite him with a large roasted drumstick.

Catherine sat on one of two empty stools. “Thank you,

Master Hall,” she said. “How have you been keeping?”

“I have been well, Mistress; and I must say that you look

as if you are doing quite well, too.”

Catherine smiled and nodded shyly.

When Lydia came over and took the empty seat,

Catherine introduced her to Master Hall. He gallantly rose

from his seat in greeting, all the while keeping his grip on

the poultry leg.

Catherine said, “Your travels must have kept you quite

busy, sir. We have not seen you for quite some time in

Willowglen.”

“Too long, Mistress.” He turned to Lydia and added,

“Why, the last time I was here, Mistress Catherine had just

been accepted into the Guild. Her father and I embarked on

a trading excursion together soon after.”

“Yes, and that trip proved most successful for Hawkins

and Hawkins, Master Hall.”

“And you, Mistress, no doubt proved yourself very

capable of running the little shop on Market Street in your

father’s absence?”

“I suppose I did, sir. Yes,” Catherine answered.

“I must apologize for waiting so long to return to

Willowglen. The news of your father’s death saddened me,

but circumstances did not permit me to make my way here

until now. I had planned to stop by your shop later to pay

my respects. But now, it is my good fortune to have you

dine with me.” He raised his tankard in Catherine’s

direction and added, “To the memory of your father,

Mistress—and to you, fine lady.”

Catherine raised her tankard, smiling uncomfortably.

A murmur of ascent rattled around the room and

everyone stared in Catherine’s direction as she turned

crimson from her neck to her cheeks. She looked down at

her lap.

In fact, James Hall admired Catherine. He had once

entertained the thought of asking for her hand in marriage,

but her father had discouraged him. He knew both James

Hall and his daughter well enough to know that it would

not have been a marriage made in heaven. Master Hall had

long since dismissed the idea of taking Catherine as his

wife, but he still held warm feelings for her.

The conversation then turned to local events. One of the

other town merchants launched into the strange tale of a

peculiar little man seen limping out of town that morning.

The authorities had stopped and questioned him, judging

him to be someone of doubtful reputation, but he only cried

out that he wanted to be as far from Willowglen as he could

be, as fast as possible.

“He had a long, bloody gash across the back of his tunic.

When the magistrate questioned him about his injuries, he

babbled like a madman and refused all offers of help. Since

he didn’t seem much of a threat to anyone in his condition,

he allowed him to be on his way. No one seems to know

who he was or what his business here might have been. His

injury is a mystery, too, but the magistrate is convinced he

was up to no good. I, for one, would like to meet the man that imposed the likes of his injury on him, though. I can

tell you that.”

Everyone laughed—except Catherine and Lydia. They

only exchanged knowing looks. Neither of them said

anything, and conversation among smaller groups along the

table started up as people speculated as to who the

mysterious man could have been.

Lydia tried to shrug off her unpleasant feeling about the

previous evening by leaning toward Catherine and saying

in a low tone, “I do have something to tell you. When we

came into the Inn earlier, Master Elbert gave me a note from

Briarcrest. My aunt is sending transport for me.”

Catherine’s heart sank. She had known it would

happen. Now, she was more surprised by her own reaction

than she was by the news itself. Her voice sounded like a

helpless kitten when she responded, “I see.”

Catherine’s reaction magnified Lydia’s own feelings of

concern and confusion. She had given her promise to

Marian to return to Briarcrest before the roads became unfit

for carriage travel, yet she did not want to leave. “You

knew I would have to go,” she said. “I promised Marian. I

cannot go back on my pledge.”

“I know. I just did not realize how quickly this time

would pass.” Catherine could barely cope with the agony

she felt. It was difficult to get the words out. “When will you leave?”

With a voice full of pain, Lydia replied, “On the feast of

St. Andrew. If I do not leave then, I may not be able to get back to Briarcrest once the winter storms start.”

“Yes, that’s true. I only wish...” Catherine looked into

the grey-green eyes, remembering the first time they had

enraptured her. It seemed so long ago, yet somehow, like

only yesterday. Conflicting emotions flooded in, leaving

her disoriented. In her thoughts, she heard herself cry out: Do not leave me, Lydia.

Panic set in. She could not allow the words to slip from

her mind to her lips. She could not give voice to her

feelings. Catherine pushed her stool back with a loud

scrape. All heads turned toward the sound. “Forgive me,”

she blurted out. “I must leave.”

She turned and bolted for the door.

Market Street

OUTSIDE, THE LIGHT rain had turned to a downpour.

The dark sky lit up for an instant. A loud clap of thunder

followed.

Lydia ran into the street after Catherine shouting,

“Catherine, wait!”

When she caught up with Catherine a few doors from

the spice shop, she spoke her name again. Catherine

turned. She looked tired and drawn. She backed away,

trying to keep Lydia from seeing the state she was in. Lydia came close in an effort to be heard above the storm. Tiny

rivulets of water streamed down Catherine’s hair onto her

face, meeting and mingling with tears on her cheeks. She

stared past Lydia.

“Catherine, please, let’s get out of this rain.”

Catherine dared not move. She battled for control of her

emotions and the thoughts she dared not speak.

She thought, How can you leave me? I have fallen in love with you.

She said, “How can you leave? We have only scratched

the surface of what there is to learn about herbs.”

Lydia struggled to keep from voicing her own conflict.

She loved Marian like a mother, but her feelings for

Catherine were compelling—oh, so much more

compelling—yet she had given her word. After a long

silence, Lydia said, “I find that I am torn, but I must keep

my promise to Marian—and my aunt is expecting me.”

She thought, Oh, Catherine, I do not want to leave you—

ever—but I need to hear you say that you want me to stay for more than the study of herbs. Please, Catherine, ask me to stay because you need me—because you want me.

There was an edge in Catherine’s voice when she

replied, “Yes. Well, you must keep your promise.”

Lydia did not conceal her own disappointment, but

Catherine did not notice. She had looked away—in the

direction of the sound of running feet squishing water

between leather and cobblestones. The feet belonged to

James Hall, who stopped when he reached them. Rain

streamed from the wide brim of his hat in several places as

he spoke. “Ladies, do you require assistance?”

Lydia replied, “No, sir, we were just so involved in our

conversation that we took no notice of the rain.”

“No notice?” Hall asked incredulously. “That must be

quite a subject, but I suggest you continue it indoors—” He

raised his voice over a deep roll of thunder. “—it does not

look as if this storm will stop any time soon.”

“Quite right, Master Hall,” Lydia acknowledged.

Turning to Catherine, she said, “Mistress Catherine, let’s

continue this at your shop, shall we?”

Unsure of her own voice, Catherine merely nodded.

Lydia bid Master Hall a good day.

James Hall, noting a look of sadness on Catherine’s face,

said no more. He bowed to the ladies and broke into a run

down the street again.

The two women headed for the shop in silence. Their

wet dresses weighed upon them as heavily as their thoughts

as they walked.

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

CATHERINE SENT LYDIA into Sarah’s room to remove

her wet clothes. The house was still warm, but Catherine

went into the kitchen and added a log to the fire. Then she

plodded up the steps to her own bedchamber. In her room,

Catherine peeled out of her wet clothing and dried off

hurriedly. She put on an old, soft dress and tied a sash

around her waist. She took her best—and warmest—dress

from its hook on the wall and carried it downstairs.

Through the curtain separating Sarah’s small room from

the storeroom, Catherine called, “Lydia, here is something

for you to wear until your clothes dry out.”

Lydia opened the curtain. She stood wrapped in the

covering from Sarah’s bed. Lydia looked at the garment

and then at Catherine. “This is your best dress, Catherine, I cannot wear this.”

“Please, Lydia, put it on. Anything else I have is in

tatters from use in the garden.”

Lydia’s tone was indignant as she replied, “I am not

ashamed to wear your work clothes. I have toiled side by

side with you in the garden for weeks now. Some of my

things are beginning to look the same way.”

Catherine said, “Still, take this. It is what I would like

you to wear—just until your own things dry.”

Lydia sighed and took the dress from Catherine. It was

useless to try to argue, she knew.

Catherine stood in the doorway as Lydia walked back to

Sarah’s cot. With her back to the entrance, she let the

bedcover drop to the floor, exposing her bare body.

Catherine felt a thrill rush through her. She could not take her eyes from Lydia and followed the youthful lines, tracing

the alabaster skin of Lydia’s shoulders, down her back to

her buttocks. How graceful she looks. How beautiful her

thighs. Catherine tried to absorb the sight of Lydia’s exquisite form. Her breathing grew deep and labored.

When Lydia pulled the dress over her head, it seemed to

Catherine as if a tapestry had been pulled across the gates

of heaven and she could no longer see in.

As Lydia turned around, Catherine’s mood changed and

she burst out laughing, uncertain if it was a release from

tension, or if it was the comical sight before her. Catherine was considerably taller than Lydia. The sleeves of the dress Catherine had lent her hid Lydia’s hands well past her

fingertips. The hem of the frock lay on the floor, twisted

around Lydia’s legs, in appearance rather like an old,

disheveled mop. To Catherine, she looked like a small child

wearing her mother’s dress to play a game of pretend.

Lydia looked down at herself and realized what she

looked like. She laughed, too. When she took a tentative

step toward Catherine, she stumbled and the two women

laughed even more.

Catherine moved toward Lydia and took her hidden

hand in her own. She rolled up the sleeve. When she

finished, Lydia presented Catherine the other hand.

Catherine shivered under the gaze of the woman with the

grey-green eyes. Lydia looked away, not wanting to reveal

her own inner feelings. Catherine and Lydia stood

motionless. Catherine thought, I do not want you to go. I fear I shall never see you again.

Without warning, Lydia threw her arms around

Catherine and laid her head against her breast. Catherine’s

dry dress absorbed the water from Lydia’s wet hair quickly,

but she did not mind.

“I shall miss you,” Lydia whispered.

Catherine pulled Lydia closer and said hoarsely, “And I

shall miss you.”

THEY SPENT THE rest of the day in the front of the fire,

their wet clothing draped all around the kitchen to dry.

Steeped in each other’s presence, they found little need for

conversation. Finally, as the grey day showed signs of

turning to night, Lydia got up and gathered her clothes

together.

“I should get back to the Grouse and Pheasant. It will

be dark soon.” Ask me to stay the night with you again,

Catherine. Please, don’t let me go.

The feelings Catherine had experienced while she

watched Lydia dress came back to her in a flood of emotion.

She looked into Lydia’s eyes. It was unwise to invite Lydia

to stay.

“Yes, you should go, or it will be too dark to venture out

alone.”

I wish I could ask you to stay, Lydia, but I cannot trust myself. I am so confused by my own feelings. Confused...and afraid. How can I go on without you? Yet you are leaving.

Leaving me. Oh, Lydia, if I asked you to stay, would you? And if you stayed, what would happen? No. You must go back to the Inn. As Lydia turned to go into Sarah’s room to change, she looked disappointed. Catherine read the look as fatigue. A

bent shadow-figure reflected on the wall opposite

Catherine.

Chapter Eight

St. Martin’s Day, also called the Feast of the Plowman

November 11, 1458

Willowglen Township

THE DAYS PASSED far too quickly. Often, Lydia joined

Catherine as she cultivated delicate stalks in the garden.

Occasionally, Lydia would stop under pretense of needing to

catch her breath. She would stand back and watch Catherine,

following her movements as she worked her way around the

rows of herbs and medicinal plants. Catherine’s sleeves,

rolled up to her elbows, exposed her forearm muscles, taut

under the tanned skin as she worked her rake or hoe. It was

just as Lydia had imagined that first day of the fair.

From the time Lydia had announced her imminent

departure until the day before she was to leave, an intensity grew between the two women, although few words were

exchanged regarding it. They were often quiet and

introspective when they were together. It was as if they

needed the stillness to soak in each other’s essence, trying

to commit it to memory for the absence that would follow.

Late one afternoon, as Lydia and Catherine worked in

the garden, Sarah waved Lydia to the back door of the shop.

After a brief exchange with the young assistant, Lydia

called back to Catherine that she had to leave for the day.

“I shall finish in the morning, Catherine.”

Catherine motioned to Lydia to go and responded,

“There will be more to do tomorrow.”

Lydia disappeared into the shop.

Catherine found herself struggling again, as she often

did these days, in an attempt to distance herself from Lydia, not wanting to stand in the way of her decision to leave

Willowglen. Catherine had to fight not to reveal how

difficult their separation would be for her.

Lydia felt the strain, too. She knew that, when the day

came for her to leave Willowglen, the pain would be

unbearable. However, the more the women tried to detach

themselves from one another, the stronger their bond

became in spite of themselves.

Chapter Nine

The Eve of St. Andrew’s Feast

November 29, 1458

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

THE NIGHT BEFORE Lydia’s departure, the three

women ate their evening meal in Catherine’s kitchen.

Sarah, ever attuned to her mistress, excused herself to

attend to some chore in the storeroom. She asked Catherine

to call her to accompany them when Lydia was ready to go

back to the Grouse and Pheasant.

Alone with Lydia, Catherine produced a package from

the cupboard and presented it to her. When Lydia

unwrapped it, she found a woolen, hooded cloak, lined with

a beautiful soft silk. The color of the outer cloth was a deep, rich purple, more splendid than Lydia had ever seen. The

fabric shimmered in the firelight.

Lydia correctly surmised that it had cost Catherine

several months of her earnings. Catherine had bought the

material from James Hall before he left Willowglen. Storing

the cloth out of sight, she had worked on the garment each

night after Lydia left the shop. She cut and stitched by

lamp and firelight after a hard day’s work so that she would

have the cloak ready before Lydia’s departure.

Lydia tried to contain her emotion, but tears flooded her

eyes and flowed down her cheeks. Between her tears, Lydia

whispered her thanks to Catherine.

Catherine made light of her reaction, careful not to

reveal her own thoughts. I love you. I wanted to make the most beautiful thing I could for you. It is the only way I know to convey what I feel. I hope you understand that, my beloved.

To Catherine’s surprise, Lydia had a gift for her, too.

From deep within her sleeve Lydia produced a small

package wrapped in soft cloth.

Catherine fumbled with the wrapping, protesting that

Lydia should not have done anything for her. When she

folded back the fabric, she exposed a beautifully etched

golden medallion. It contained a detailed relief of a mint

stalk superimposed upon a mortar and pestle. Catherine

turned the medal over to reveal an engraved message on the

back. It read:

CH

gratefully

LW

Catherine stroked the design with her fingers. She tried

not to betray her emotions, but when she spoke, her voice

quivered. “Lydia, it’s beautiful. You should not have done

such a thing. It cost you far too much—”

Lydia interrupted. “Do not concern yourself about the

expense, Catherine. I have paid a very small price to

express my gratitude to you. You are very special to me. It is difficult...to say good-bye. I hope you will wear this and keep good thoughts of me in your heart.”

Tears welled up in Catherine’s eyes. “I shall wear it

gladly,” she murmured. Then, trying to sound detached,

she asked, “How did you come by such a splendid piece,

Lydia?”

Lydia confessed, “A few days ago, I left early. You

remember. Sarah called me when we were in the garden.

She told me that Edward had come by and asked her to tell

me that this was ready. His work is so elegant. I wanted

you to have something special from me.”

“You mean you had this made especially for me?”

“Yes, Catherine,” Lydia admitted shyly.

Catherine stared at the gold medallion. Then, as they

embraced, Catherine struggled with her thoughts. If I asked you to stay, would you? Instead, she said nothing. Her shadow was barely visible in the corner of the room, a

forlorn, hunched-over shape.

Lydia was not without her own conflict, wrestling with

her own thoughts. If only you would tell me to stay, not for any other reason but that we should be together. Perhaps I could be persuaded...

But Catherine broke their silence by calling for Sarah. It

was time for Lydia to go back to the Grouse and Pheasant.

SARAH AND CATHERINE said their good-byes to

Lydia at the door of the Inn. The carriage had arrived from

Briarcrest that afternoon. Lydia was to leave before dawn

the next morning. She clasped the folded cloak tightly to

her breast and, as she turned to go, Catherine saw tears in

her eyes.

The two women hurried back down the street to the

spice shop. No matter how fast Sarah walked, in an effort

to catch up to her Mistress, Catherine kept two steps ahead

of her. That way, her young assistant would not see her

tears.

Catherine clutched the gold medallion in her hand. The

more the tears welled up, the tighter she squeezed it, as if

the discomfort of the metal cutting into her hand could

distract her from the miserable pain in her heart. How

would she carry on with Lydia gone?

Chapter Ten

Feast of St. Andrew

November 30, 1458

Market Street

A SLIVER OF the moon cut a small notch in the darkness

of the pre-dawn sky. Two men emerged from the Grouse

and Pheasant Inn. They hurried to the stables to hitch two

horses to an enclosed carriage bearing the shield of

Briarcrest on each side.

The coach pulled up in front of the Inn and stopped.

The attendants sat silently in their seats, waiting. The

horses stood, stamping their hooves, their nostrils emitting

clouds of steamy breath.

A figure appeared in the doorway wrapped in a dark

cloak, the hood blocking the wearer’s face from view. One

of the men jumped down, opened the small carriage door

and bowed as the woman passed him. He latched the door

and swung himself up onto the seat beside the driver. The

sound of his voice echoed down the quiet cobbled street.

“Ready,” he declared.

With a clicking noise and a flip of the reins, the driver

signaled the horses. They pushed against their leather

harnesses and the carriage began to roll. The darkness

swallowed them quickly.

Standing outside the shop, Catherine strained to hear

the fading sound of the jingling traces until the noise died

out. The moon, although it was thin, had given enough

light for Catherine to make out the arrival of the carriage.

She had watched the figure exit the inn, had seen her enter

the carriage without a sidelong glance. Catherine had

barely been able to make out the cloak the woman wore, but

she knew it was a rich, deep purple wool, lined with silk.

Choking back her tears, Catherine grasped the gold

medallion hanging around her neck on a cord and turned

from the street. When she put out her hand to open the

shop door, it gave way too easily, causing her to stumble.

Sarah stood on the other side of the entrance with a lit taper in her hand.

Catherine blurted out, “She’s gone, Sarah.”

“Will she be back, Mistress?”

“I do not know.”

Without another word, the young girl turned and led the

way back into the shop. Catherine plodded up the stairs in

the dark. She needed no light to negotiate them for she

knew their every unevenness.

Sarah went back to her own room and, although she

returned to her cot, she could not sleep. The sight of her

mistress with red, swollen eyes rimmed by dark circles

haunted her. The only other time she had seen Catherine

look like that was right after her father had died.

Catherine also found sleep elusive. As she lay in her

bed upstairs, a swirling, sinking feeling overwhelmed her.

She felt as if she were drowning, and she heard Lydia’s

name echoed over and over again in her mind to the rhythm

of a dull ache in her heart. Just before dawn, Catherine fell into a brief, exhausted sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Feast of the Epiphany of Christ

January 6, 1459

Hawkins & Hawkins

AS CATHERINE SAT alone in the shop during the late

winter afternoon, the shape of her shadow on the wall

behind her moved as if heaving a deep sigh. Sarah was

making a delivery to a customer and would, no doubt, be

gone longer than necessary. Lately Catherine’s young

assistant took every opportunity to stop by the Grouse and

Pheasant to talk to Will.

Catherine shook her head and smiled. Young love. But her smile vanished quickly. She tried to ignore the ache in

her heart by concentrating on rearranging her herb shelf.

She didn’t succeed. Images of Lydia bobbed to the surface

like corks in her watery consciousness. She struggled until

the sound of the shop door opening ended her private

battle.

“Back so soon, Sa—?”

It was not her young assistant.

The stranger stood just inside the door of the shop and

scrutinized Catherine. He looked dusty and tired from a

long, hard ride. Tentatively, he inquired, “Mistress

Catherine Hawkins?”

“Yes. How may I be of assistance to you, good sir?”

The doubt and fatigue lifted from the man’s face. It was

replaced by a gentle smile. He plunged his hand into a

leather sack and pulled out a thick, folded piece of paper. A red wax seal held the overlapping sheet together.

“I have come from Briarcrest, mum,” he said. “This is

from the Lady Lydia Wellington. She told me I should give

it to none other than yourself. She said I was to come here

directly and that I should wait to see if there was a reply.

My horse is stabled with the smith. I will be staying with

him tonight. I could come back in the morning, mum, if you

please.”

Catherine’s heart raced. She moved toward the note,

trying not to seem too eager. Her hand trembled ever so

slightly as she reached for the paper the man held out to

her. Feigning composure, she asked, “Whom shall I thank

for bringing news of the Lady Lydia to me, sir?”

“They call me Henry, Mistress,” replied the man shyly.

“Thank you, Henry. You have done well. Let me fetch

you something for your trouble.”

“Oh, no, mum. I could take nothing. I was asked by the

Duchess herself. ‘ Lady Lydia will tell you where to take the note, ’ she said. ‘ Please take it for her, ’ she said. The Duchess is always so polite, you know, a real Lady, she is. And what the Duchess asks, Henry does willingly, mum. She and

Lady Hilary are so good to my family and me. If it were not

for them, I do not know what would have become of us—”

He paused, checking his speech. “Excuse me, mum. I

should not go on so.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Henry,” Catherine said. She

moved to the counter where she kept her funds and

removed a coin from a plain wooden box. She pressed it

into the messenger’s hand. “Now, Henry, since you will be

staying here in Willowglen tonight, would you not like to

be able to have a tankard or two of ale at the tavern? Please, take this and enjoy yourself. I shall look for you in the

morning.”

Henry smiled a sheepish grin, pleased by her kindness.

He tipped his cap, saying, “Thank you, Mistress. You are

most kind. I will come by first thing tomorrow. Good day

to you.”

“Good day, Henry.”

As soon as the door closed, Catherine sat down by the

window. She breathed deeply in an attempt to calm her

trembling hands. Almost as if in a dream, she heard the faint tick of the wax yielding under her fingers. Tilting the note toward the fading light outside, she read the message

written in Lydia’s delicate hand:

Octave of Christmas

Dear Catherine,

I have been thinking of you so much and so often

that I must send you word. I miss our days together in

your shop and your garden. I wish I were there with

you now. We celebrated Christmas by exchanging

gifts. Marian, my Aunt Beatrice, and Hilary, as well

as the rest of the household, all joined in, as is the

custom at Briarcrest. As much as I enjoyed the gifts I

received, I treasure the beautiful cloak you made for me

most of all. Its fine workmanship has brought many

compliments. Whenever I wear it, I think of you.

I shall be journeying back to Greencastle, as my

father has sent word for me to return. I do not wish to

go, for my days here at Briarcrest are happy ones, at

least, if I cannot be with you in Willowglen. But I am

afraid I cannot hold back fate and so I must return to

my father. I beg you, please send word back to me with

my aunt's messenger. I must hear from you. I shall

try to send you word again from Greencastle when I

arrive there. Everyone that you know here at

Briarcrest has asked me to send regards to you.

With a true heart,

Lydia

Catherine closed her eyes and raised the paper to her

nostrils. It smelled of lavender and roses. It smelled of

Lydia.

She inhaled deeply. Her heart pounded. Then a shiver

ran through her body. She felt the ache and a sadness

similar to that which she felt after her father’s death. She longed for Lydia’s presence. She yearned to tell her of her

feelings for her, but she feared she could not.

Just then, the shop door burst open and Sarah rushed in

looking flushed. She stammered excitedly, “Mistress, I was

at the Inn—uh, that is, Will said, that is, um...”

Catherine shook off her sorrow. Sarah looked like a

peasant cat caught with the royal pet bird in its mouth. The young assistant fidgeted with a small thread at her

waistband. She wouldn’t look at Catherine. Catherine

struggled to contain a chuckle, unsuccessfully.

“Sarah, do not be concerned. I know that you and Will

have eyes for each other, and I know that you visit him

when you go out. Why do you think I send you on so many

errands lately?”

Sarah stopped fussing with the filament and looked up,

wide-eyed.

Catherine continued, “Now, tell me, why are you in

such a dither?”

A look of relief crossed the young girl’s face and she

began again. “I was at the Grouse and Pheasant, and a man

came into the Inn. Will told me that he heard him say he

was looking for your shop. He said he was from Briarcrest.

I told Will that I needed to get back right away to see if, if everything was all right. With the Lady, I mean.”

Catherine gave her young helper a penetrating look. Is

she concerned about Lydia, or about me? How much else does she know, I wonder? More than she lets on, I think.

In an effort to ease Sarah’s mind about the message,

Catherine said, “Lydia has sent word that she is about to

leave Briarcrest and return to Greencastle.”

“Oh,” said Sarah disappointedly. “I thought she might

be coming back to Willowglen.”

“No, Sarah, I am afraid not. At least not for now.”

A long pause ensued. Sarah peered at the floor.

Catherine knew that Sarah had more to say.

She waited, and when the young girl continued her

silence, she added, “I shall be sending a note back

tomorrow, Sarah. Is there anything you would like me to

tell Lady Lydia for you?”

Sarah scrutinized the floor again. When she finally

raised her head, she wore a determined expression. “Tell

her I wish she could come back here to stay. Tell her...”

“Yes, Sarah?”

“Tell her you were happier when she was here. She was,

too, no doubt.”

Sarah’s blunt honesty stunned Catherine. She stared at

her assistant blankly.

Sarah felt that, perhaps, she had said too much. She

exclaimed, “I am sorry if I spoke out of turn, Mistress. It is just that it troubles me to see you so low in spirit. You were so happy when she was here. You smiled and laughed

easily. So did Lady Lydia. There was a feeling of delight in this house that left when she went away.”

Slowly, the enormity of what Sarah said seeped into

Catherine’s understanding. “Sarah, you are a wonder.

When did you become so wise?”

Sarah blushed and stammered, “I am not wise at all,

Mistress.”

“Oh, but you are, Sarah. Wise and bold. I do not know

if I shall be able to be so bold myself as to write such things to Lydia, but I shall think about what you have said. I shall try to be honest with her.”

Sarah pronounced a single, emphatic “good.” Then she

turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen.

Catherine stood rooted to the floor, staring after Sarah in

disbelief.

WHENEVER CATHERINE FOUND herself alone that

afternoon, she pulled out Lydia’s note and read it again.

She held the letter close to her face and breathed deeply.

The aroma of lavender and roses brought with it the image

of Lydia’s face, and she felt the sadness and the longing

more intensely. Yet this ritual somehow strengthened

Catherine. By it, she became more determined to set her

true thoughts and feelings on paper, just as Sarah had

recommended.

With the day’s work done and the shop closed for the

evening, Catherine and Sarah ate a simple meal together.

They did not speak of their earlier conversation about

Lydia, but Catherine decided to broach the topic of Sarah’s

feelings for Will.

Reluctantly, Sarah admitted that they were in love, but

Will was only a kitchen lad at the Inn and his pay was

meager. With Sarah’s parents dead and her only family a

younger brother, and her uncle and aunt and their six

children, Sarah would have no dowry. It would be a long

time before she and Will could wed, she said, if they were

able to do so at all. Catherine wanted to help the young

couple and resolved to think of a way, but she said nothing

to Sarah about it.

IT WAS CATHERINE’S custom to remain in the kitchen

by the fire for a while each evening after supper to read or

to work at some project. Often, she spent her time

consulting a well-worn book on medicinal herbs given to

her by Lady Anne. Both Catherine’s father and the nuns at

Wooster Abbey had instilled in Catherine a love of books

early on in her life. She even owned one of the new typeset

books, and she still had her favorite “The City of Women” by Christine de Pisan. However, on this particular evening,

she would neither read nor sew. Instead, after cleaning up

from supper, she retired to her bedchamber, taking with her

writing implements and a sheet of paper.

Upstairs, Catherine placed everything on a small oak

table located at one end of the bedchamber and drew up the

stool from beside her bed. She adjusted the small lamp so

that the circle of yellow light illuminated the blank page.

Removing the stopper from the ink bottle, she inserted the

quill to the proper depth. Then she put the pen to the paper and began writing in her bold hand:

January 6, Epiphany

Dear Lydia,

It gladdened my heart to hear you are wearing the

cloak I made for you. I hope that you find it protection from the winter cold. I was sorry to hear that you

would not be able to stay at Briarcrest for an extended

period. I know that you enjoy your aunt's home

immensely. Perhaps I shall be able to see its charm

myself, one day.

Sarah heard that you had sent a messenger from

Briarcrest and she wanted me to tell you that I miss

you and that I wish you could be here, too. I find it

difficult to tell you that which is in my heart, mostly

because I do not understand it myself. I only know

that, as Sarah said, I laugh more when you are near.

The pendant that you gave me is around my neck to

remind me of you daily. It is, indeed, a beautiful

treasure to me. I never take it off. I do have an

advantage over you in that, do I not? For you cannot

always wear your cloak. People would think you most

peculiar and you would find it most uncomfortable in

the summer's heat, I am sure.

Safe journey to you, my Lydia. I do wish you were

coming to Willowglen instead of going to Greencastle.

As ever,

Catherine

The gritty powder made dull tinkling sounds as she

sprinkled it onto the paper. She waited for the powder to

soak up the ink, then blew it away. After reading the letter once more, she folded it, making careful, even creases. She

removed the chimney from the lamp and used the flame to

melt the small piece of brown wax cradled in a tiny metal

spoon. When it was melted, she allowed the liquid to drip

onto the overlapping edges of the folded paper and watched

the wax pool into a round mass. Lifting a seal with an

embossed mortar and pestle on it, she positioned it over the

liquid wax and pressed firmly. A few seconds later, she

pulled up on the seal and felt its unwillingness to let go. It reminded her of her own reluctance to allow the letter to

leave her hands.

CATHERINE RESISTED THE urge to call Henry back to

retrieve her letter as he walked out of the shop. The

determined look on Sarah’s face the previous afternoon was

all she had to prevent her from doing so. She had to admit

to herself that what she had written was as it should be.

Like the seal letting go of the wax, she let the messenger—

and her written words—go.

Chapter Twelve

February 20, 1459

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

The Octave of Candlemas, February 10

at Greencastle

Dearest Catherine,

I find it difficult to be in my father’s house these

days. He talks of nothing but the plans he is making

with a Grand Duke in France for my betrothal. I

cannot bear it. At least he has not made a pledge for

me as yet and Marian has been able to convince him,

once again, that I need time to get used to the idea. He has, at least, consented to allow me to go back to Briarcrest once the roads become more passable for one

final celebration of the May. I suspect Marian had

something to do with his willingness to grant this

request, although she will not admit it.

Before I left for Greencastle, my aunt told me that I

must invite you to Briarcrest as soon as travel

conditions become better, so I have a plan. Marian and

I are to leave Greencastle after Easter and will go to

Briarcrest. Marian will stay on with my aunt, for she

finds long journeys difficult these days. From there, I

shall come to Willowglen to take you back with me for a

visit. It may well be our last chance to do such a thing, although I pray it is not. You are invited for the May

celebration. I trust you will be able to leave your shop in Sarah's charge for a few days, since you have said

she is quite capable. Please send word to Briarcrest

accepting my invitation. Be ready three days before

May Day.

I think of you every day and I miss you profoundly.

You have my heart,

Lydia

Catherine sat by the fire in the kitchen and read the

letter for the second time since it had arrived that day. One of Lord Wellington’s men had appeared at the shop door

that afternoon. Sir Stubius, a stern-looking man, said that

the Lady Lydia had sent him. He held out a note to

Catherine, stiffly, in his gloved hand. Catherine thanked

him politely and took it. She thought it not prudent to ask

him to bear a response back to Lydia and he did not offer.

He was curt in his manner and gave her the impression that

he found it irritating to do the bidding of his master’s

child—and a woman at that. Something about him annoyed

Catherine, but she couldn’t say what. Only interested in

Lydia’s letter, she was happy to take it from him and watch

him go. Her irritation dissipated quickly as she focused on

the letter in her hand.

Chapter Thirteen

The Eve of the Feast of the Annunciation

March 24, 1459

Willowglen Township

WEEKS AFTER LYDIA’S letter, written at Candlemas,

arrived, Catherine still mulled over leaving the shop in

Sarah’s care to go to Briarcrest for the May celebration. She knew Sarah could take care of business for a few days, but

ever since the incident on Hallow’s Eve, Catherine had

become particularly cautious. She felt uncomfortable

leaving Sarah alone, especially at night. Finally, she hit

upon an idea.

Of late, Sarah’s brother had not been able to work

because of an injury, but he was still strong, and a good

man. Catherine would ask him to stay at the shop with his

sister during her absence. She then took her ink and quill to the room above the shop and wrote to Lydia:

March 24, Our Lady’s Annunciation Eve

Dearest Lydia,

I received your note and invitation to Briarcrest for

the May Day celebration. My heart jumped for joy at

the thought of seeing you again. I am glad you will

come to Willowglen and allow me to travel back to Briarcrest with you. I look forward to the May feast

there. Please extend my thanks to your aunt for her

most gracious invitation. I shall be glad to see her,

Lady Hilary and Marian again. I have no doubt that

Sarah will do well in my absence. I hope to enlist

Sarah’s brother to stay at the shop with her while I am

gone. I will feel better if she has the companionship.

I can hardly believe that I shall be seeing your

beloved Briarcrest soon. I await your arrival with

happy anticipation.

As always,

Catherine

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Catherine went to the

Governor’s Hall to hire a messenger to take her letter to

Briarcrest. The road was not fit for carriage travel as yet, but a horseman could easily make the journey in a day if no

new storms developed.

As Catherine inquired about a courier at the Governor’s

Hall, John, the silversmith’s son, came to her. “Mistress

Catherine, I heard you inquiring about a messenger to

Briarcrest. I leave to go there myself tomorrow morning.

The Lady Hilary has commissioned some silver goblets for

the May celebration and I have some sketches to show her

for her approval. I shall be glad to take your message with

me when I go.”

“I would be most grateful, John.” She handed him her

note, sealed with brown wax.

“Tell me, Mistress, do you expect a response to your

message?”

“No, the message is for the Lady Lydia, who will be

along later. I will be happy to have the note waiting for her there when she arrives. I thought that it might take some

time before I found someone going in that direction. I am

most grateful to you, John.”

“I am happy to do it, Mistress Catherine—but excuse

me, if you will. I see the man I am to meet over there.” He put her note in his sack and started toward a group of men

at the far end of the hall. Before he disappeared, he called back over his shoulder to her. “I shall deliver your note safely, Mistress.”

WHEN CATHERINE RETURNED to the shop, she

informed Sarah of her plan and asked her to enlist her

brother to come and stay with her. Sarah said her brother

would probably find the arrangement most agreeable since

his injured arm did not seem to be healing very well.

Catherine insisted, “Sarah, you must tell him to come to

me and I shall see if I can help him.”

“I told him that, Mistress, but he is proud and says he

will not come to you because he cannot pay.”

“You know I charge no one when I dispense medicines,

Sarah. Have you not told your brother this? If I don’t ask

him for money, it’s not to demean him; it’s my way with

everyone who has a need.”

“I told him, Mistress, but he is young and stubborn.”

Catherine tried to keep from smiling. He was young,

but Sarah was only his senior by a year. More and more

Catherine realized her assistant was older than her years.

After puzzling with the problem of the young man’s

obstinacy for a moment, Catherine thought of a solution.

“Tell your brother I intend to pay him to come and stay

with you while I am away. He may compensate me later, if

he insists. But tell him he must come for care now, before

he gets a fever in his wound.”

“I shall tell him, Mistress. Do not be concerned. This

time, I shall make him come.”

Satisfied, Catherine set about the business of the spice

shop. Sarah arrived with her brother in tow the following

day. When Catherine examined his injury, she scolded him

for waiting to come for help, for it was badly inflamed. She set about bathing his arm in a comfrey tea and gave him

some calendula to apply as a poultice for the inflammation.

She made him promise to continue with the treatment.

The days that followed passed far too slowly for

Catherine. She could hardly wait to see Lydia again, and

this time, she resolved, she would try to be more

forthcoming about her feelings toward the young

noblewoman. The thought frightened her, but she tried not

to allow it to lessen her determination. Could she do it?

Chapter Fourteen

Within the Octave of Philip, the Apostle

April 29, 1459

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

A DEAFENING CLANG sent Sarah racing inside from

the garden. When she reached the shop, she found

Catherine stooped over a large copper pot. The scent of bay

filled the air. In the middle of the room, dried leaves lay

strewn across the floor. Catherine scooped them up and

returned them to the container.

“Mistress Catherine, are you hurt?”

Catherine waved her off. “No, no—I am not hurt. Do

not concern yourself, Sarah. Go back to what you were

doing. I can manage.”

Catherine had been agitated all morning. Sarah noticed,

but decided not to speak of it. She knew the source. Lydia

had been due to arrive the previous day and she had not

come. No word had arrived concerning her delay, either.

As the day wore on, Catherine had become more and more

distressed. Now, Sarah decided she could no longer keep

her concern to herself.

In an effort to soothe Catherine’s anxiety, she ventured,

“Mistress, I am sure that Lady Lydia will be here. There are still two days left until the May celebration. She might have been delayed coming from Greencastle. Everyone says the

roads have been good for traveling for weeks, but

Greencastle is a long way and perhaps no one from

Willowglen has traveled that way of late.” Then Sarah

added, not feeling completely convinced herself, “She will

be here today, Mistress. I am certain of it.”

Catherine was taken aback once again by Sarah’s

perceptiveness. She felt embarrassed to be so obvious to

her young helper about Lydia. Words came only after a

struggle. “Yes, I am sure you are right, Sarah. I must try to keep my composure. It’s just that I am so eager to see her,

and a little concerned that she didn’t arrive yesterday. But I’m fine now. Truly! Go back to the garden. I can clean up here.”

Reluctantly, Sarah left her mistress kneeling on the floor

gathering up the spilled herbs, battling dark thoughts and

trying desperately not to succumb to her growing panic.

What if she does not come? What will I do if something has happened to her? What if she has been hurt? How will I know?

What if her father has gone back on his word and has forced her to go to France now?

This last thought horrified Catherine, for here was

something she had no control over. If Lydia was sick, she

could administer healing herbs and, hopefully, she could

overcome the illness. However, if Lydia were forced to

leave England, to marry someone of her father’s choosing,

Catherine would be helpless to do anything. In the midst of

her increasing alarm, Catherine did not hear the shop door

open. As she continued stuffing the container with dried

plants from the floor, a familiar voice broke through her

uneasy thoughts.

“When I was a student under the tutelage of Mistress

Hawkins, it was considered most inappropriate to sort

herbs on the shop floor.”

“Lydia!” Catherine jumped to her feet, spilling the pot’s

contents again.

“Catherine! I thought I would never get here. I am

sorry I was delayed. I had to wait an extra day before my

father would make transport available for Marian and me,

but I am here at last.”

Catherine wrapped her arms around Lydia and sighed

with relief. She whispered into the fiery hair, “I am so glad you’ve finally come, Lydia.”

The two women were still holding each other when

Sarah came into the shop. When she saw Lydia, she

squealed with delight. “Lady Lydia. Oh, Mistress

Catherine, you see, I told you she would be here today.”

Sarah embraced Lydia warmly. “I am so glad you have

finally come.”

“Thank you, Sarah. I’m glad to have gotten here at last,

myself.”

Turning back to Catherine, Lydia asked, “Can you be

ready to leave for Briarcrest in the morning? We only have

two days before the May celebration and Aunt Beatrice

asked me to get you to come as early as possible.”

“Well,” Catherine said, turning to her assistant, “Sarah,

you had better fetch your brother so that Lady Lydia and I

can leave in the morning. We must not disappoint the

Duchess, now, must we?”

“No, Mistress. I shall go and fetch him now. I am sure

we can be back by this afternoon.”

After Sarah left, Catherine turned to Lydia, and said, “It

seems like so long ago since you left. Yet, now that you are back, it is as if you were only gone briefly. I want to hear everything that has happened—and I hope that you will

stay with me tonight, Lydia.”

“Yes, Catherine, I will stay,” Lydia said shyly. “Let me

tell the carriage men that I will not go to the Grouse and

Pheasant and that they may call for us here in the morning.”

Lydia disappeared out the front door. Catherine stood

in the middle of the shop for a moment, catching her breath.

By the time Lydia returned, Catherine had put the last of

the herbs into the metal pot once more.

Lydia stood in the entrance of the shop and inhaled the

warm, spicy-sweet aroma of the herbs and spices.

Catherine could not help but admire the beauty of the

woman standing there. She wore a fine purple cloak. Her hood was thrown back, exposing auburn ringlets of hair

that framed her grey-green eyes. Catherine beamed.

Lydia smiled back sheepishly. “It smells wonderful in

here,” she said. “I have missed the fragrance of your shop

so much—and my daily cup of fresh mint tea, Mistress. Do

you know where I might get a cup?”

Catherine laughed lightly, then harder once Lydia

joined in. It felt so good to have Lydia back. “Right this way, my dear,” said Catherine.

As she led the way to the kitchen, Catherine thought,

Sarah was right. I do laugh more when she is around. I believe she may be right about Lydia laughing more, too.

Catherine stopped short in the doorway. She turned

around and met Lydia’s face three fingerbreadths from her

own. They did not speak. They held each other’s gaze

until, after great effort, Catherine turned back to the

kitchen. Lydia trembled as she followed Catherine into the

next room.

Trying to sound casual, Catherine said, “I am so glad

you are here, Lydia. I have missed you.”

Lydia replied, “I have missed you, too.” My love.

Catherine hung the brewing kettle over the hearth. She

was glad for something with which to busy herself. Lydia

watched Catherine’s every move from her vantage point at

the kitchen table and allowed herself to admire the curve of

Catherine’s hips as the herbalist prepared their tea.

Catherine stirred the fire. It flared up brightly and cast a shadow on the wall: a figure with its head thrown back,

laughing joyously.

IT TURNED OUT to be a quiet day at the spice shop.

The two women passed the hours straightening up. While

they worked, they talked about Lydia’s trip to Willowglen

and the next day’s plans. Neither of them wanted to bring

up the subject that troubled them most—Lydia’s impending

betrothal. Instead, they spent the time delighting in each

other’s company without inviting that dark cloud upon

themselves just yet.

Sarah returned later in the day with her brother. As

soon as Andy set foot in the shop, Catherine examined his

arm. She questioned him to make sure he had continued

with his treatment. Satisfied, she pronounced that he

would have full use of the limb in another week or so.

Andy grinned when he heard the news. Lydia watched

Catherine at her ministrations with a look of admiration on

her face.

Andy and Sarah ate early and set up his cot in the corner

of the shop. After Catherine and Lydia ate, Catherine led

the way to her quarters upstairs.

Reaching the main bedchamber, Catherine said, “It

seems such a bother to make up the small cot in the other

room. Perhaps you would not mind sleeping in here with

me, since it’s just for this evening.”

Lydia repeated shyly, “Since it’s just for this evening.”

Neither woman looked the other in the eye.

Catherine inspected the weave of her dress as she spoke.

“Shall we retire, then? The carriage will be here early. We should get some rest.”

Lydia studied her feet. “Yes, I suppose we should,

Catherine.”

“You may put your clothes on the hook over on that side

of the bed.” Catherine pointed to the opposite wall.

Lydia looked up just in time. “Yes, thank you,” she

replied self-consciously. She walked around to the other

side of the bed.

The two women undressed with their backs to each

other. They hung their garments on the hooks on the wall

and ducked under the covers quickly, each careful to keep

to her own side of the bed.

Catherine pulled herself up on her elbow to blow out the

candle sitting on the stool beside her. As she leaned

forward to quench the light, she felt the coolness of the

medallion on her skin. She lay back down in the darkness

and smiled. Neither of them spoke for a while, until

Catherine finally chanced the question that was uppermost

in her mind. “Has your father made any progress with your

betrothal?”

There was a long silence before Lydia answered. “He

left for France as we left for Briarcrest. He thought the time was right to make final arrangements, he said. He

suggested I accompany him. We fought about it, and

Marian interceded. She persuaded him that I should be

allowed to spend one last May time with my aunt.”

Another long pause.

“Catherine?”

“Yes, Lydia?”

“Hold my hand.”

Catherine slid her hand across the mattress. The straw

crackled as she did. She met Lydia’s hand and grasped it

firmly. It was cold—as cold as metal in winter. “Your hand

is so cold, Lydia.”

“I am afraid. I do not want...to be betrothed.” At least not to anyone other than you. If only that were possible.

“I know. I am afraid, too. Perhaps we can think of

something. But, try to sleep, now. Do you think you can?”

“Perhaps.”

“Try, then. Do not worry. At least we are together for

now.”

“Yes. We are together. At least for a time.”

“Good night, Lydia.” My dear, sweet love.

“ Good night, Catherine.” How I love you.

The fatigue of an emotional day overtook them quickly

and they slept, holding hands all night long. Even in

slumber, they would not dare cross the invisible line that

divided the bed in two.

Chapter Fifteen

The Eve of May Day

April 30, 1459

Willowglen Township

THE FIRST HINT of light through the upstairs window

roused Catherine. In her sleepy fog, she could not

remember if Lydia had actually arrived the previous

afternoon or if it had all been a dream. The mist rose from

her mind. She felt Lydia’s hand on hers. It was true. Lydia was there beside her. Catherine blinked. She slowly

slipped her hand from under Lydia’s. The sleeping woman

did not stir. Catherine watched as the covers moved up and

down in rhythm with Lydia’s breathing. She is so beautiful.

Her lips, so inviting. Kissing her would be...

Her unfinished thought jarred her. She pushed herself

out of bed and wrenched her clothes from their hook.

Turning away from the bed, Catherine tried to compose

herself as she dressed. Calm yourself, Catherine. This cannot continue. You must stop. You might lose her altogether if you do something rash.

Still, she could not deny herself another look at Lydia’s

lovely face. When she turned around, Catherine found the

grey-green eyes open. She blushed and struggled to regain

composure. “Did you s-sleep well, Lydia?”

“Yes, very well, thank you, Catherine,” Lydia answered.

Catherine battled her desire to take Lydia in her arms

and kiss her. Distraction, Catherine. You need a distraction.

“We had better get ready for our journey, Lydia. I was just

going to gather a few things to bring with me.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose we should,” Lydia responded

dreamily.

Come on, then, Catherine. Move your feet. Stop acting as if you’re fixed to the floor. But instead of moving, she just stood while words escaped through her lips without her consent.

“Shall I help you get dressed first, Lydia?”

What are you saying? She does not need your help. Why do you want to help her? Oh, Catherine, you cannot look at her body, that beautiful, wonderful body! You cannot. Remember the last time you saw her? You almost fainted with the joy of it...and you wanted so much to...to touch her, caress her, kiss her.

Before Catherine could protest her own suggestion,

Lydia said, “Yes, perhaps you could help me.” She sat up,

allowing the bedcovers to fall to her waist.

Catherine immediately felt her body respond with

something like a shooting pain that ran the entire length of

her body. She breathed deeply and forced her feet to start

around the bed. Lydia threw off the covers and stood naked

before Catherine. It was almost more than Catherine could

bear. She lost her footing. She stumbled, then turned to

stare at the floor behind her in disbelief. Had some

imaginary bump risen during the night to trip her? Nothing

looked out of place. She turned back to Lydia.

A wordless dance of sensual pleasure followed as

Catherine slowly gathered up each item of clothing and

Lydia held out her arms to receive the garment. They

moved as in a dream. Time seemed to suspend itself.

Catherine had no idea how she was able to move amidst the

sweet ache she felt. Each piece of clothing slipped onto

Lydia’s body effortlessly. Finally, when she fastened the

front of Lydia’s dress, Catherine’s hand brushed against her

soft breast captured inside the linen garment. Catherine

thought she might faint from the sheer delight of the brief

touch.

In the end, Catherine managed a hoarse question. “Shall

we have some tea before the carriage arrives?”

Lydia replied with great effort. “I will go and put the

kettle on, Catherine. You get your things.”

“If you do not mind, Lydia...I shall join you downstairs

later.”

Catherine watched Lydia leave, trying to memorize her

beauty before she disappeared down the stairway, finally

exhaling only when the other woman was no longer in

sight.

Thoughts and feelings bombarded her in a chaotic

jumble. She opened the ornate chest at the foot of the bed

and took out a cloth sack. As she stuffed her things into it, her composure gradually returned. When her shaking

eased, she stood straight, eyes scanning the room, checking

to be sure what she needed had been packed. On the wall

behind Catherine, a shadow seemed to lean into the corner,

heaving deep, panting breaths.

THE CARRIAGE ARRIVED just as Catherine finished

giving Sarah some last minute instructions. The two

women boarded the coach and heard the latch click as they

settled onto padded leather seats. As they started off down

Market Street, Catherine thought happily, This is so different from Lydia’s last departure. For now, they were going to Briarcrest together. She peered out through the small slit at the rear of the carriage and caught a final glimpse of Sarah

and Andy standing in the street, waving.

“She will do well, Catherine,” Lydia offered.

“I know she will. I am glad Andy is staying with her,

though.”

“He seems like a good boy, in spite of being a little

rough around the edges. What happened to his arm?”

“A hunting accident, he said—but he would not tell me

more. He may have been in Lord Brunswick’s forest. I hear

that some young men from around here are suspected of

taking game. I should not be surprised to find that young

Andy has been among them. Some of the lads do it just to

boast that they have gotten away with a hare or a quail. But Sarah’s uncle is so poor and his family so large, I have no

doubt that they have been desperate for food at times. If he were to be caught, though... Well, I prefer not to think of

what could have happened to him. It looks as if he tore his

flesh on something sharp. I think the reason it was difficult for Sarah to get him to come to me was that he thought I

might turn him in. He was very scared, but he was also too

proud to ask for help for himself. His arm will be fine, now, though. The worst is over—and I hope he has learned a

lesson.”

“They are very lucky to have you, Catherine Hawkins.

Not unlike me.”

Catherine’s cheeks darkened.

Lydia extended her hand. Catherine took it gently in

her own. They smiled at each other broadly.

The carriage turned off the road from Willowglen and

took the fork that led to Briarcrest. They would ride all day to reach their destination before dark.

The Journey to Briarcrest

THE CLATTERING OF the harnesses, coupled with the

sound of beating hooves against hard-packed dirt and

wheels grating against the uneven road, made conversation

impossible for most of the trip. Catherine and Lydia

bounced continuously until, as the sun melted into the

horizon, the road smoothed out.

Briarcrest materialized in the distance, prestidigitated

by some invisible sorcerer. The road wound to and fro,

back and forth, as if to tease the vast towers in the distance.

Now Catherine understood one more of Lydia’s

attractions to Briarcrest. Not only did she love its

inhabitants, but the place itself was enchanting. The vast

structure was surrounded by trees reflecting the waning

fireball in the sky. The stones of the walled edifice shone

with a soft, pink luster, looking like the stuff of childrens’

fairy tales.

Small thatch-roofed cottages clustered around Briarcrest

to the east, seeming to pop up out of the ground like spring

daisies. The road swung wide past the dwellings. As they

rode on, village folk turned from their last chores of the day in garden and field to wave and shout greetings of welcome

when the carriage passed.

With conversation now possible, Catherine said,

“People certainly seem eager to see us.”

“We are arriving in my aunt’s carriage. It is the custom

that it be greeted warmly. All of the village has felt my

aunt’s kindness at one time or another. They love the

Duchess—and the Lady Hilary. This little settlement

thrives because of them and they, in turn, are most loyal to

Briarcrest Hall.”

“I think your aunt and the Lady Hilary must be

remarkable people, Lydia. I should like to get to know them

better.”

“You shall, Catherine. These next few days will be a

wonderful opportunity for you, and for them, as well. But,

look! We approach the gate.”

Someone had been watching for the carriage to arrive

and the thick wooden gates swung open wide just as the

horses reached them. The coach rolled into the enclosure

without the animals’ hooves missing a beat. As they slowed

to a halt in the outer courtyard, they heard excited shouts

and feet hurrying from many different directions.

The footman opened the door and offered his hand to

help the women out of the carriage. Catherine stepped

down first and was glad for the walk from the outer

courtyard to the impressive front entrance, for it gave her a chance to get her stiff legs working properly again.

Catherine followed Lydia through the great oak doorway,

anticipating the adventure that awaited her within

Briarcrest’s walls.

Chapter Sixteen

The Eve of May Day

April 30, 1459

Briarcrest

CATHERINE WAS NOT unfamiliar with places the likes

of Briarcrest. On two separate occasions when she was an

adolescent, she had accompanied her father on his travels.

They had stayed at the residences of her father’s friends and business acquaintances, some of whom were nobles. In

adulthood, Catherine often went to the homes of the titled

in and around Willowglen to tend their ills or deliver herbs

and spices.

Upon entering Briarcrest Hall, though, Catherine saw

the uniqueness of it immediately. Although it could have

been a cold, dank place with its high walls of stone, it was

not. Rather, it was a charming mixture of castle and manor

house with a hall that exuded warmth and hospitality.

Catherine felt welcomed.

The room was elaborately decorated for the May feast.

Banners of bright colored fabric lined the walls, some with

crests and symbols on them, others undecorated. Looking

up, Catherine saw, suspended high above them, flowing

folds of green and gold fabric interlaced with pine bough

swags that reached out in all directions to the edges of the

great hall. Catherine felt as if giant enfolding arms,

perfumed with spicy forest aroma, were holding her in an

embrace. In the center of the room stood a long dining

table. It sparkled with tall, glowing tapers in silver holders.

Arrangements of brightly colored spring flowers accented

the table. Goblets and bowls were in place, ready for a

meal.

As Catherine followed Lydia, several people bid them

welcome. One young woman approached and took their

cloaks and bags. Then she headed for the opposite end of

the hall and disappeared up a long stairway that bordered a

massive fireplace.

Lydia opened her arms in an encompassing gesture and

beamed. “Welcome to Briarcrest, Catherine. What do you

think of it?”

“It is most extraordinary, Lydia, just as you said. So

vast, yet so comfortable and inviting—and everyone is so

friendly. The workers all seem so at home here.”

“Beatrice and Hilary subscribe to a very different

philosophy from that of my own father to those in his

service. They believe that everyone at Briarcrest deserves to be treated well. In turn, they are rewarded with loyal,

good-tempered workers. You would be hard pressed to

find someone who was not completely faithful to the ladies

of this house—”

A voice interrupted Lydia from the direction of the

staircase. Marian stood on the landing above them, talking

excitedly. “Welcome, Mistress Catherine. And Lydia, dear.

I am so happy you were able to reach us before dark.”

Marian met them at the bottom of the steps looking

flushed and sounding out of breath. T he excitement of

Lydia’s return, no doubt, Catherine thought, unable to hide her smile.

Marian embraced Lydia. When she turned to give

Catherine a welcoming hug, an intuitive warning sounded

within the young healer. Something was wrong. Catherine

could not be certain of the exact nature of the problem, but

she knew from experience that her feelings were always to

be trusted. Marian’s face, though red, had a pallor beneath

her blush. Her panting was not from rushing to greet them,

but from the strain of trying to get sufficient air to breathe.

Lydia interrupted Catherine’s thoughts. “Marian, how

are you feeling? Are you better?”

Marian nodded, a look of embarrassment on her face.

Lydia turned and explained, “I left for Willowglen so

early yesterday that I did not get a chance to inquire if

Marian had recovered from our journey. She does not take

to long carriage rides very well these days.”

Marian brushed away Lydia’s remark. “Oh, Lydia, I am

much better now. You worry about me far too much—but

enough of me. How was your journey? I hope it was not

too difficult.”

Lydia laughed. Her voice rang with music. “We were

quite jostled for a while, but we managed to hold our bones

together. I was certainly glad that the road was not

impassable. It would have been a shame if Catherine had

missed this May feast.”

“That is very true. There is none to compare with the

May feast at Briarcrest,” Marian pronounced. Then she

added, turning her attention to Catherine, “And how are

you, my dear? Did you survive the trip?”

“Oh, yes, Marian, I survived as you can see. Our

journey was quite bumpy, as Lydia said, but the approach

to Briarcrest smoothed out, and it gave us a chance to catch

our breath and enjoy the scenery.”

Catherine scrutinized Marian with a trained healer’s eye

as the conversation continued. The flush in Marian’s cheeks

did not disappear. If it were merely caused by the initial

excitement of Lydia’s return, her color should have been

normal by now. Catherine also noticed that the older

woman breathed with more difficulty than she should have

from her short descent down the stairs. She looked at the

hand that clasped hers as Marian spoke. Her fingernails

had a slight blue tinge to them. But Catherine had to set her evaluation aside, for another figure had appeared out of the

dimness on the landing above them.

“Aunt Beatrice,” Lydia called. “Good evening to you.”

Beatrice started down the stairway, beaming at her

niece. “I am glad you arrived safely, children. How was

your trip?”

“Happily uneventful,” Lydia answered.

“And Mistress Hawkins, I am so delighted that you

could join us to celebrate the May.”

“Thank you for your invitation, Your Ladyship.”

As Beatrice reached the bottom of the stairway, she gave

Catherine a look of feigned horror. “Please, Catherine, we

do not stand on such formality at Briarcrest. You must call

me Beatrice.”

It took Catherine by surprise. The Duchess commanded

great respect. To be invited to this familiarity astounded

the young herbalist. She stammered, “Yes, B-Beatrice. I

would be honored.”

“Good,” Beatrice said matter-of-factly. “We have little

use for titles in this house. We all know our duties.

Therefore, it is not necessary to address one another as

superior or subordinate. Whether we are related by birth or

not, we are all one family here.”

Catherine found Beatrice’s viewpoint remarkable. In all

of her experiences, she had never met anyone quite like this

woman. This visit was going to be interesting and

delightful, indeed.

Beatrice opened her arms and embraced Lydia. Then

she turned to Catherine, giving her a warm, affectionate

squeeze.

“Where is Hilary, Aunt Beatrice?” Lydia asked.

“She went with the grounds steward to see to some last

minute details for the celebration. She will be along

shortly. Oh, yes, be sure to see the new foal that was born

while you were gone to Greencastle, dear. It is a lovely

little one with a beautiful chestnut coat. Hilary does make

over the young thing so. Make sure you ask about her, will

you? You would think it was her child the way she carries

on.”Lydia laughed. Catherine thought she heard music

again.

Then Lydia explained, “Hilary is responsible for the

running of Briarcrest’s exterior. Everyone must account to

her regarding the animals, the grounds, the forest and all

such things. Aunt Beatrice takes care of the inner workings

of Briarcrest.”

“That sounds like an excellent arrangement,” remarked

Catherine.

Beatrice agreed that it had worked very well over the

years. It afforded Hilary a reason to spend her days

outside, which she loved, and it allowed Beatrice more time

to devote to the duties of her position and to household

affairs.

“By the way, dears, after dinner this evening, Hilary and

I shall be having a bath for the four of us—if you are not too tired from your journey. We will be glad for your company

and it will give us a chance to spend some time together.”

Catherine said nothing. Communal bathing was

customary, but it had not been her habit to do so. She was

not sure she would be comfortable with it now.

Lydia responded, “Oh, Aunt Beatrice, it will be relaxing

after the long journey and it will be wonderful to be able to spend some time with you and Hilary.” Then she turned to

Catherine, with a look full of anticipation and said, “Shall

we, Catherine?”

Catherine surprised herself by saying that she would be

delighted to join them. She even half-believed it.

“Lovely,” replied Beatrice. “Lydia, perhaps you should

let Catherine settle in, now, and after dinner I am sure you

will show her the way to our chambers to join us. I am

leaving Catherine’s care to you, child.”

“Aunt Beatrice,” Lydia chided, “you know I will take

excellent care of Catherine.”

Lydia stole a look at Catherine. Her dancing eyes

evoked the same response they always did in the young

herbalist. Catherine glanced away quickly, afraid that

Beatrice might see her reaction—and understand. She did

not seem to notice, though.

Beatrice continued, teasing, “You had better, my dear,

for I hear she took very good care of you while you were in

Willowglen. It is the least we can do for her during her stay at Briarcrest.”

Lydia smiled. Then, without warning, she bolted for the

stairway, laughing with abandon. She stopped on the

staircase, looked at Catherine disarmingly and called

Catherine to follow.

Like a flying ember, passion jumped from Lydia to

Catherine. She, too laughed from sheer happiness as she

gathered up her long skirt. She excused herself quickly and

ran after Lydia up the stairway. Catherine’s heart soared.

She caught up and stayed close behind her. At the top of

the stairs, Lydia turned the corner. Catherine followed and

stopped short. A long hallway stretched before them.

Several large wooden doors loomed along one side of the

corridor. She had heard that portals much like exterior

doors had started to replace the tapestries on inner passages in the homes of the nobility, but the size and the ornateness of the massive carved doors astonished Catherine.

Lydia pushed open the one closest to them to reveal a

large bedchamber. The bed had a huge canopy top with

side curtains tied back exposing lavish bed covers. On the

far side of the room, by a large window, a table held a pot of some steaming beverage, two goblets, and a small plate of

pastries. The table was covered with a white linen

tablecloth. Two chairs awaited their guests.

Lydia beckoned Catherine in from the passageway and

closed the door. Catherine stood in the middle of the room,

watching Lydia as she strolled toward the table.

As Catherine approached, Lydia handed her a cup and

poured the steaming drink. A spicy mead aroma reached

Catherine’s nostrils as she looked into Lydia’s eyes. She felt intoxicated. She had no desire to check her feelings. Lydia continued pouring the liquid into the cup, higher and

higher. She looked down just as the cup was about to

overflow and stopped pouring in time to prevent it from

spilling over onto Catherine’s hand. She threw back her

head and laughed. Catherine thought she heard music

again and it made her laugh, too.

The women sat at the table without a word. Lydia

offered Catherine the tray of cakes. When Catherine bit into one, it tasted sweet and faintly nutty on her tongue. As she took a second bite, she captured Lydia’s gaze again. Lydia

blew gently on her drink, and held Catherine’s eyes for a

long time.

Bursting with emotion, Catherine felt like getting up

and taking Lydia in her arms to kiss her with all the passion she felt. Instead, she wrenched herself away and looked out

the window. She suspected that Lydia, too, was overcome

when her voice cracked as she offered Catherine another

cake. Catherine declined. She could eat or drink nothing at the moment. The two women sat in silence, staring out the

window. Catherine traced the faint outline of tree tops

visible below them in the light of a rising full moon. The

glow mixed with the lamp light in the room and cast their

shadows on the wall—two women seated at a small table,

their heads tilted toward one another, moving closer, closer.

Might I act? Catherine wondered. Would Lydia shy away if she kissed her? I cannot. I mustn’t. Catherine looked back out the window.

The intensity of feeling softened and they struck up a

conversation, pretending that nothing exceptional had

taken place. Lydia concentrated on nibbling at a cake and

Catherine followed her lead. A shadow on the wall behind

Catherine mirrored the form of the seated woman, arms

clasped around the knees closely listening to the

conversation.

As they finished the last of the wine, a loud bell

sounded. Lydia announced that dinner would be served

momentarily. They had not eaten on their trip, and small

cakes go only so far in quelling hunger. Still, they were

reluctant to leave the room.

At the bottom of the stairs in the great hall, Hilary

greeted both women affectionately. Other guests had joined

Beatrice, Hilary and Marian at the long table. Catherine

noticed additional places had not yet been occupied.

Hilary invited them to sit down and introduced

Catherine to those she did not know. There was a baron

from the northern part of Wales and several dukes from

various parts of England. Some titled ladies had come from

London as well. They all seemed to be long-time friends of

the Ladies of Briarcrest. More guests, Beatrice said, would

arrive early the next morning.

The guests engaged in lively conversation as dinner was

served. When the food was set out, Catherine found

another surprise awaited her. Those who had served the

meal took their places at the table. The kitchen help also

joined them.

Catherine had eaten at the homes of nobles before, but

she had never seen those who served be allowed at the same

table as their mistresses and masters.

Beatrice noticed Catherine staring down the table as the

workers took their seats. “Are you surprised that we do not

banish our help to some cold, dark room off the kitchen to

eat, Catherine?”

Catherine started, hoping she had not offended her

hostesses. “Yes, Beatrice. I must say, I do find it unusual,”

she said shyly.

“Good. Then we are as unconventional as we profess to

be—now let me introduce you to those who have just joined

us.” Beatrice presented each person by name. As she did,

they nodded with a smile toward Catherine. She

acknowledged them in like manner.

With the introductions finished, dinner resumed.

Catherine contented herself with listening to the diverse

topics for most of the meal. The kitchen help discussed

their activities for the preparation of the feast. The guests talked about their travels and of some of their mutual

acquaintances.

There was a remarkable ease in the exchanges as

discussions overlapped among the guests, their hostesses

and the workers of Briarcrest. Everyone seemed to know

one another from previous gatherings and no one seemed to

notice class differences.

Between the wine Catherine had at dinner and the

beverage she had earlier, Catherine felt bold and carefree.

With no concern about what others might think, she looked

long into Lydia’s beautiful eyes. All through the meal, she

and Lydia exchanged looks of passion. Oddly, no one

seemed to notice.

When the meal ended, the help cleared the leftovers.

The other guests excused themselves, saying their journeys

had worn them out and they looked forward to a good

night’s rest. Marian begged her leave, too. She said she

needed to attend to some matter for the children’s party the

next day.

“Marian still loves being around the young ones for the

May feast,” Beatrice explained to Catherine, forcing her to

tear herself away from Lydia’s gaze.

After Marian left, Lydia suggested that she and

Catherine go upstairs to prepare for the bath. On those

occasions when Catherine did not use her pitcher and basin,

she preferred to bathe alone, using a small copper tub

placed in the kitchen before the fire. She was not opposed

to communal bathing, but her family had always preferred

to be more solitary about their cleansing ritual. Although

Catherine still struggled with uncertainty, she did not want

to offend Beatrice and Hilary, nor did she want to

disappoint Lydia. So she followed her companion upstairs

to the large bedchamber without voicing her reservations.

In the women’s absence, thick robes had been laid out

on the bed for them. Catherine ran her hand over the

garments. They were made of a soft, felted material. She

turned to comment about the fabric in time to see Lydia

removing her dress. She turned away quickly, feeling shy.

“Catherine, are you uneasy? Would you rather that I

not share my bedchamber with you?” Lydia questioned.

“No, Lydia,” Catherine answered quickly. “You just

took me by surprise. I am...a little nervous about this

communal bathing.”

Unspoken emotion was beginning to take its toll on

Lydia. The next words slipped out of her mouth before she

could stop herself. “If you would rather not stay here, I will arrange for another room for you, but you must tell me

honestly.”

Lydia regretted the sentence before she finished it. I

want you to stay, Catherine. How I long to be with you, even if only for a little while.

Catherine stood in silence, bewildered. She did not

want to leave. In an instant she decided it was time to stop holding back. “If you do not mind sharing your room with

me, Lydia, I would like to stay. The house is full anyway, I imagine. Perhaps there is no other room available.”

I do not want to go. I would like to share your bed, as you shared mine last evening. Even though we kept our distance, it was wonderful just being near you and holding your hand.

Lydia, still unsure of Catherine, said sharply, “There are

other rooms, Catherine. You do not have to stay just

because you think there is no other place for you to go.”

She caught herself. She did not want ill-humor to spoil this time. This was supposed to be a holiday, a time for them to

enjoy each other. Still, she had to know something of what

Catherine felt. “Tell me truthfully: Would you really like

to stay or not?”

Catherine looked deeply into Lydia’s eyes. They looked

to her as if they were on fire, and she felt her body burning in response. She became lost in a myriad of emotions.

“Catherine,” Lydia repeated, “do you want to stay?”

Why am I always trying to pull your true feelings from you? I am afraid to be totally honest with you until I know how you feel.

Please, Catherine, be truthful. I must know.

Catherine’s response was barely more than a whisper,

but her eyes were bold and penetrating. “I want to stay,

Lydia. With all my heart, I want to stay.”

A deep sigh echoed from within Lydia. It was as if she

had been holding her breath since the two women had

parted months before on the feast of St. Andrew. Finally,

Lydia felt as if she could breathe again. “And I want you to stay, Catherine.”

As Catherine looked on, Lydia slipped off the rest of her

clothes and put on one of the robes. Then, in a voice as soft as velvet, she said, “Let me help you, Catherine. Beatrice

and Hilary are waiting.”

Catherine blushed. Lydia smiled and put her hand on

Catherine’s shoulder. She crooned soothingly, “The bath is

a very private affair for the ladies of this house, Catherine.

Normally, they do not ask anyone to join them. It will just

be the four of us. Remember, this is to be a time of

enjoyment and respite.”

Catherine tried to relax. “Yes, Lady Lydia, I shall try to

keep that in mind.”

Lydia helped Catherine undress and held out the other

soft robe for her to put on. As Catherine slipped her arms

into it, wrapping it around her body, she felt her

apprehension fade. Lydia rubbed her hands reassuringly

across Catherine’s back. Catherine tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a shiver at Lydia’s touch.

The Bath

CATHERINE HUGGED THE soft robe tightly around

her and followed Lydia down the hall. They padded past

several large wooden doors and came to one standing ajar at

the end of the hall. The glow of candlelight, visible through the opening, gave the room an inviting look. Lydia reached

up and knocked on the door jam.

Beatrice responded from a distance. “Come in, dears.”

Slipping into the room behind Lydia, Catherine felt as if

she had entered a sacred place. Peculiar. I do not ever recall having quite this feeling about any church or chapel I have been in, yet here is a holy place.

She tried not to be too obvious as she looked around.

Elegant tapestries hung on the walls. The bedcover of

brocade and lace shone warmly in the candle glow. The

carvings on the thick, dark posts and headboard were even

more elaborate than the bed in Lydia’s room.

They crossed the threshold to the suite’s next room.

Warm, moist air met them at the doorway. Beatrice and

Hilary were submerged up to their necks, their eyes closed,

in a large wooden tub. Although the steam that rose from

the surface of the water made them look almost transparent,

the contentment on their faces was still visible. A fire

roaring in the fireplace provided the only other light for the room. Next to the tub, within arm’s reach, a small wooden

table held a pitcher, four metal cups, and a bowl of fruit.

Lydia’s tone suggested that she felt the same reverence

in these chambers as Catherine did. When she spoke, it was

almost in a whisper of awe. “We’re honored that you have

invited us here tonight.”

Hilary responded without opening her eyes. “Please,

ladies, do come and join us. There is a chill in the air

tonight. The sooner you get into the water, the better off

you will be.”

From a dark corner of the room, an older woman

appeared as if she had materialized out of thin air.

Catherine recognized her as one of those to whom she had

been introduced at dinner. Her name was Joanna and she

had been in the service of Briarcrest for many years, since

long before Beatrice had arrived.

Joanna invited the young women to remove their robes.

Lydia slipped hers from her shoulders, then stepped onto a

stool beside the tub and climbed in. As she sank down into

the water, she gave Catherine a reassuring smile.

Catherine let Joanna help her out of her robe and she

followed Lydia into the tub. As she lowered herself into the water, she discovered a low bench at the bottom and she sat

down.

Herbs and dried flower petals floated on the surface of

the warm water. The heated liquid penetrated Catherine’s

cool skin and soothed her. Beside her, Lydia heaved a deep

sigh.

Beatrice welcomed them, asking if the water was warm

enough for them. Both women moaned their approval.

Joanna filled four cups with wine and handed them to

the women.

Beatrice opened one eye and took her drink. Then she

glanced at Catherine and questioned, “Tell us, Catherine,

has Lydia enticed you to stay with us for more than a day or

two?”

“I hope to stay for a few days, with your permission,

Beatrice. But then I must get back to Willowglen. I am

expecting a shipment of spices to arrive and I must be there

to receive them. This is also the first time I have left the shop in Sarah’s care, so I am anxious to see how she will

fare in my absence.”

Hilary added, “You must think her capable or you

would not have left her in charge.”

“I think she is more capable than she knows, but I do

need to return by the end of the week. I hope you

understand.”

“Of course we do, dear,” Beatrice said.

Hilary added, “It is just that we want you to be able to

rest and enjoy your stay. We are so delighted to have you

here, but of course, you must look after your business. We

understand perfectly well that a trade, like this household

and its lands, must be properly managed.”

Beatrice said, “Nevertheless, Catherine, while you are

here, we hope you will not think of any of that. Just enjoy

yourself.”

“Thank you both,” Catherine answered. “I am sure I

shall. My visit has been wonderful thus far. I am looking

forward to the rest of it, to be sure.”

Beatrice motioned to Joanna, who had retreated into the

shadows in a corner of the room. When the older woman

came close, Beatrice said, gently, “You do not need to stay,

Joanna. We will be fine. I am sure you are tired. It has

been a long day with all the May preparations taking place.

Go off to bed now, dear.”

“Thank you, mum, I shall,” the woman replied. She

took a final pot of water from the hearth and poured it

slowly into the tub. Then she left, closing the big, wooden

door in the outer room after her.

The four women chatted for a while. Catherine found

the plans for the next day’s celebration fascinating. She had never participated in so elaborate a May Day. She was more

familiar with the Church’s feast of the Virgin, celebrated at Wooster Abbey and in Willowglen, though she was well

aware that the goddess rituals were still observed

throughout the countryside. Briarcrest’s holiday, with its

woodland goddess theme, intrigued Catherine. Higher up

the heirarchy, Church officials forbade participation in

these pagan celebrations. Local officials frowned upon it,

for the most part. In the countryside, however, they still

remembered and relished the old ways. Catherine,

although never having participated, knew the origins and

meaning of the May celebration. May Day celebrated love,

courtship and mating. The Queen of the May, with origins

in the fertility goddess, dominated the celebration. In some cases, she was accompanied by a King. Symbols of life were

everywhere. No matter a person’s station in life, she or he

spent May Day gathering flowers and reveling in the forest.

Catherine listened as they spoke of the ancient foundations

of the day. The guests, Beatrice said, looked forward to a

romp in Briarcrest Forest throwing off inhibitions and

acting on their most intimate desires.

Catherine wondered if she could abandon her own

reserve. She glanced over at Lydia and discovered that

unsettling gaze waiting to meet her own. Catherine smiled

self-consciously. She realized she was surrounded by a sea

of grey-green again. It must have been for a longer time

than she thought, for Hilary was asking Catherine a

question and Catherine had no idea what the topic was.

“I apologize, Hilary. My mind wandered. I didn’t hear

your question. What was it that you asked?”

Hilary studied Catherine. Then she smiled and said, “It

was of no importance, dear.”

Conversation picked up again. It surprised Catherine

how easy it was to sit, talking casually, in a tub of water

with these women. She sat back and took a sip of the spiced

drink. The liquid slid down her throat without effort. The

aroma from the warm bath water wafted over Catherine.

Without thinking, she identified a mixture of chamomile

and rose hips with a little lavender added—a mixture to

promote relaxation and well being. It was working.

Catherine melted into the warm water. It felt so good to

be here and to have Lydia beside her. Conversation trailed

off. Only an occasional sigh broke the comfortable silence.

“I think if I do not get out of this tub soon, I shall fall

asleep right here and drown,” Hilary said.

They all chuckled their agreement. Lydia and Catherine

climbed out of the tub and found a large piece of felted

drying cloth by each of their garments. They dried off

quickly, donned their robes, thanked the ladies, and bid

them good night.

As the two young women stepped out into the hall, the

cool air made their skin tingle. They hurried down the hall

to Lydia’s bedchamber and dove under the covers of the

large canopy bed as quickly as they could. Lydia found and

held Catherine’s hand as they had done the night before in

Willowglen. The room was pitch black. Both women

smiled contentedly.

After a while, Lydia whispered, “Catherine? Are you

asleep?”

“No,” Catherine replied. “I am enjoying the soothing

aftereffects of the bath. The herbs in it were very good for relaxation.”

“Yes, I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I had an excellent teacher in the art of herbs and herbal

blending.”

“And who might that have been?” Catherine inquired,

teasing.

“Perhaps you have heard of her. Her name is Mistress

Catherine Hawkins.”

“I believe I may have heard the name before, but how

did you come to know of her?”

“I met her once, in a town called Willowglen. She

caught my eye when I attended the fair there.” Feeling very

brave in the darkness of the room, Lydia added, “Soon after,

she captured my heart.”

Silence.

“Lydia?”

“Yes, Catherine.”

“I have the feeling that you already knew a great deal

about herbs when you came to me. Am I correct?”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Yes, Catherine. As you probably realize by now,

Beatrice and Hilary are well versed in herbology. They

have taught me a great deal over the years.”

“Lydia?”

“Yes, Catherine.”

“Why?”

“Do you not know?”

“Tell me.”

“Because from the moment I first saw you, I knew...I

was...in love with you.”

Catherine was afraid to move, afraid of the desire

welling up within her.

Lydia, too, was fearful, having spoken what she had not

dared to say for so long. She too was still.

More thick silence followed before Catherine dared to

speak again. “Lydia?”

“Yes, Catherine.”

“I’m glad you came to me.”

“So am I, Catherine.”

Lydia moved closer to Catherine. Catherine could feel

the warmth of her body now. Lydia propped herself up on

her elbow and brought her face close to Catherine’s.

Catherine felt Lydia’s breath on her cheek. Lydia found the

cord around Catherine’s neck and traced its path with a

finger until she reached the medallion just above the space

between Catherine’s breasts. Lydia felt Catherine’s chest

rise and fall beneath her fingertips and heard Catherine’s

breath quicken. Catherine did not protest Lydia’s touch.

Lydia picked up the pendant and caressed it between

her fingers. The polished metal felt smooth. It still held the warmth of Catherine’s body. “It makes me happy to know

that you wear the medallion I gave you.”

Catherine opened her mouth to speak. At first, no

sound emerged. She tried a second time. “It...makes me

happy to wear it.”

“Why?” asked Lydia.

“Because it reminds me of you. It makes me feel close to

you.”

“Your cloak does the same for me. I am saddened that

soon I shall have less occasion to wear it. It will be too

warm even for evenings in the garden.”

“I must think of something else to give you, then.

Something you can keep with you no matter the season.”

“I would like that very much, Catherine.”

Lydia wanted to caress Catherine’s skin, to feel its

smoothness beneath her hand, but she dared not. If she

became ill at ease, I could not bear it. For now, I shall savor the sweetness of this moment and be content.

Lydia carefully replaced the medallion on Catherine’s

skin. She leaned back onto the bed and wondered what

Catherine was thinking, but she dared not ask.

Perhaps it was just as well. For Catherine, again,

struggled with confusion, wanting Lydia to touch her,

wanting even more to take Lydia in her arms and caress her.

Yet how could it ever happen? She experienced a goodness,

a wholeness with Lydia. She did not want to jeopardize

that. She could not risk frightening her away.

Catherine reached for Lydia’s hand this time. Both

women lay in the dark without speaking. After a time, their

desire quieted and they finally drifted off to sleep.

BEATRICE AND HILARY, still sitting in the warm,

fragrant water, speculated that if the two young women had

not already engaged in lovemaking, it would not be long

before they did. They talked of their sadness at the fact that Lydia’s father would not allow her to follow a path

different from that which he had ordained for her.

Beatrice sighed. “It is difficult enough to be a woman in

these times without the likes of my brother for a guardian.

Would that things could be different, but I am afraid it is

too much to ask. It makes my heart heavy, Hilary. He will

only choose for Lydia that which will take her spirit away.

She could be so happy and she deserves no less.”

Hilary caressed Beatrice’s greying hair with dampened

fingers. All she could offer was an empathetic, “I know,

love. I know.”

Then they, too, fell silent for a while.

Chapter Seventeen

May Day

Briarcrest

IN SPITE OF her struggles the night before, Catherine

awoke refreshed and feeling content. When she reached

over to find Lydia’s hand, she discovered that the other

woman had already gotten up. Catherine threw back the

covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. As she

stood, she tightened her muscles into a stretch, then felt

them relax. The spring sun that streamed though the

window at her back warmed her. While she dressed,

Catherine’s thoughts were of Lydia. She is so lovely. She makes my heart sing. I wonder, does she want what I want? Do I know what I want? I am beginning to think so, and is this not May Day? Is this not the day—what was is that Beatrice said last night?—when we should abandon all our inhibitions and seek our heart’s desire?

The door swung open and Lydia entered the room

looking as if she had blown in on a soft spring breeze. She

was radiant. Catherine smiled.

“Good morning, Mistress Catherine. Are you ready for

this grand celebration of May Day?” sang Lydia.

“I am not sure that I know how to join in these

festivities, Lydia. Remember, the only May celebration in

which I have taken part is the May procession at the Abbey

to honor the Virgin.”

Lydia laughed. “Well, I do not think it is a virgin we

honor today. We celebrate the goddess of the May rather

than the Church’s Virgin Lady.”

Catherine seemed deep in thought. Lydia waited,

accustomed to Catherine’s reflective moods. Finally,

Catherine spoke. “Lydia?”

“Yes, Catherine.”

“Is this not the day to throw off our inhibitions and act

without restraint?”

“Why, yes, Catherine.” Lydia’s eyes danced. “Why do

you ask?”

Catherine felt unnerved. “I was just wondering...”

Lydia teased, “Why, Catherine, what wild, raucous

thing would you like to do this May Day?”

Catherine blushed and struggled for words. “I

was...that is, I thought...I mean, we...” Her eyes pleaded for rescue from her embarrassment.

Lydia threw back her head and laughed a deep,

unfettered laugh. Such an expression might have seemed

unbecoming of a lady in some circles, but Catherine found it

attractive.

Lydia offered, “Perhaps we all have our inner longings

that we would like to act on this day, Mistress. I would

encourage you to act upon yours. I, for one, intend to look

for an opportunity to carry out mine.”

As Lydia looked away, suddenly shy, Catherine tried to

guess what Lydia meant. Was her interpretation pure folly?

A knock on the door prevented her from questioning

Lydia any further. One of the kitchen maids waited outside

with a tray of food. Lydia thanked the girl and took the

tray, depositing it on the table.

“I had a light meal prepared for us before we join the

celebration in the forest. I hope you don’t mind, I thought

we could eat here instead of going down to the main hall.”

“I can’t think of anything I would rather do than enjoy

the morning meal here alone with you, Lydia, except...”

Catherine’s thought alarmed her.

Lydia turned, surprised by Catherine’s half-finished

sentence. Perhaps bringing Catherine to this May celebration was an even better idea than I imagined. Maybe she will reveal her heart to me before this day ends. How I want to tell her mine.

Oh, how very much I want to tell her mine.

Wrestling with embarrassment, Catherine changed the

subject. “I find I am quite hungry this morning, Lady

Lydia. What have you there?”

“Some bread and spiced potatoes, and a large pot of

your favorite mint tea.”

Catherine picked up the pot and poured a steaming cup

for each of them. Then they sat and ate in shy silence.

Glancing out the window, Catherine followed the carpet

of trees below. Briarcrest Forest, vast and plush, spread out before her. A stream wound its way around the edge of the

wood, glinting in the sun like a thin silver ribbon. Several small bridges spanned the stream. There was a great deal of

activity on them. People carried large baskets and bundles

into the forest. Others returned empty-handed.

“Briarcrest Forest looks beautiful from up here,”

remarked Catherine.

Lydia agreed.

They lingered over their meal until they heard another

knock at the door: The kitchen maid, come to retrieve the

tray, and to let the women know the festivities had begun.

Lydia excused herself for a moment, saying she had

something to attend to, asking Catherine to wait for her in

the courtyard. Catherine made her way downstairs

wondering just what had put the light in those dancing

grey-green eyes.

BRIARCREST HALL WAS quiet when Catherine entered

it. Everyone had left for the forest. Catherine found the

large double doors that led to the garden. Through the

paned windows, she saw a pond at the center of the

enclosure with several benches surrounding it. More seats

were nearly hidden here and there among flowering bushes

and tall plants climbing arched trellises. She walked

outside to wait for Lydia.

Catherine chose a stone seat by the clear pool in the well

tended garden so that Lydia would find her easily. She

studied the reflection of the water blossoms in the mirror-

smooth surface of the pond and sighed. I think it could be very difficult to leave this place.

A moment later, Lydia arrived carrying a small, covered

basket and inquired, “Are you ready to be my companion to

search for the Queen of the May, the Green Lady? You shall

need an escort through the forest. Every new guest to

Briarcrest Wood must have a guide. I shall be yours,

M’lady.” Lydia bowed low in the manner of a nobleman.

Catherine blushed and murmured, “Why, thank you,

Lady Lydia.”

As the two women wound their way through Briarcrest

Hall, Catherine admired the festive decorations once again.

When they reached the outer courtyard, Catherine

marveled at its transformation. It had changed from an

active work area to an enclosure for a fair. When their

carriage had pulled into the courtyard the day before, it had been bustling with workers. Now the stables, located at the

far north end, the kennels, and the aviary to the east were

all quiet. The area had been brightly decorated for the

children’s version of the May celebration. A small feast, set out in a tent made of netting, awaited the arrival of the

guests, and various games had been set up on the grounds.

Catherine tried to envision the area filled with youngsters

running about, squealing with delight, and Marian in the

midst of them all.

Lydia watched with pleasure as Catherine scanned the

courtyard and smiled. Lydia stretched out her hand. When

Catherine reached for it, her whole body shivered with

delight. A stolen look at her companion told Catherine that

Lydia had felt it, too.

Catherine quickly examined her feet. Boots. She

noticed her boots and tried to recall getting dressed that

morning, but it was difficult to remember much of anything

at the moment. She was not able to move. A tumult of

emotion washed over her once again. She wanted to flee

but her feet would not accommodate her. She had to force

herself to remember that this was the May celebration and

that she was there to enter into the spirit of the feast with Lydia.

She looked into Lydia’s eyes and grasped her hand

firmly. Lydia squeezed Catherine’s hand in return. Oh,

how Catherine wanted to take Lydia in her arms right there

and kiss her fully on her lips. To keep from doing just that, she broke into a run with Lydia in tow. They sped toward

Briarcrest Forest, laughing as they plunged into the

observance of the day. Their skirts whipped around them

in the breeze as they ran. Briarcrest’s great gated entrance had been thrown wide open and festooned with colorful

fabric. Banners and flags suspended from poles marked a

path to a stone bridge that took them into the forest.

When they reached the wood, Catherine dropped onto a

fallen log to catch her breath. Lydia slowed to an amble and wandered amid nearby trees. The aroma of rich earth and

pine sap met Catherine’s nostrils as she breathed deeply to

recover from her sprint. Forest shadows caressed her face

and neck in welcome coolness. In the distance, birds

chirped the message that their home was being invaded.

Deeper in the forest, she heard laughter and shouts as

people called to one another playfully. Their faint muffled

footsteps padded on the pine-strewn ground as they moved

about.

The woods, like Briarcrest, had been decorated for the

May celebration. Long streamers of colored cloth hung

from tree limbs and banners adorned trunks here and there.

Lydia approached a branch and removed several ribbons.

She started back toward her companion with them in her

hand.

Catherine drank Lydia in as she approached. I can never

seem to get enough of her. I wonder why that is?

With her eyes twinkling mischievously, Lydia crooned,

“You must be properly dressed for the celebration, M’lady.

I fear if you are not, I shall have to call the Lord Forester to banish you from these woods.”

Catherine, catching Lydia’s playfulness, replied, “Oh,

please, Lady Lydia, I am new to the way in which the May is

celebrated at Briarcrest. I didn’t know that I wasn’t dressed properly. Please don’t send the Forester after me.”

“Well, then, you must let me dress you with these

emblems of the celebration.”

Lydia put her basket down and removed Catherine’s net

bonnet. Her thick dark brown hair fell and lingered on her

shoulders before cascading to her waist under its own

weight. Lydia ran her hand through the silky strands.

Catherine thrilled at her touch. Lydia could barely

continue, such was the burning in her own breast. Only

with great effort did she will her hands to move. She tied

the ribbons into Catherine’s tresses, wondering if Catherine

felt the message of love she tried to convey with each touch.

Suddenly, Catherine caught Lydia’s hand and took the

last ribbon from her. With as stern a look as Catherine

could summon, she spoke with pretended sharpness. “How

dare you tell me you would give me over to Sir Forester,

when you yourself have not come into the forest with the

proper streamers in your own hair. You shall have to

submit to my decorations, M’lady, or I shall be forced to

give you over to the dreaded Forester myself.”

With feigned resignation, Lydia replied, “Yes, Mistress

Catherine. I shall submit.” I wonder if you would like me to submit to more than putting ribbons in my hair? I should certainly like to, but you are so restrained. Will you allow yourself to follow your heart’s desire today?

The women changed places. Catherine, following

Lydia’s earlier lead, removed the young woman’s cap and

let her hair fall down her back. A sweet pain rushed

through Catherine as she watched the long, sleek auburn

hair drop down her back. Small sparkles of sunlight filtered through the trees and played on the reddish-brown strands.

Catherine fumbled with the strip of cloth in her hand. Time

seemed to stand still as Catherine struggled with her

feelings. She wanted to scoop Lydia’s soft hair into her

hands and nuzzle it. She wanted to bury her head in her

neck—and kiss her.

Lydia turned to see if something was wrong.

To conceal her thoughts, Catherine pronounced, “Now, I

think M’lady may not be festive enough with just one of

these ribbons, but it will have to do for now.” She tied

Lydia’s hair into an intricate lacing of cloth and tresses,

working slowly. It felt good to touch Lydia.

As Catherine finished tying the ribbon, she sighed, “I

suppose we will never find the Queen of the May if we

don’t start looking.”

Lydia laughed, “My dear Catherine, we are in no hurry

to find the Queen. We shall all find her by the end of the

day. Who shall be first and who shall be last matters little.

What matters is taking delight in the day, the beauty of the

wood, and being able to act upon the desire in your heart.”

Bashfully, Catherine replied, “I thought the sport was to

find the Queen—but then, I have never taken part in this

game before.”

“Allow me to enlighten you in the celebration of the

May Queen as it is done here at Briarcrest, Mistress

Hawkins.” Lydia scooped up the basket and took

Catherine’s arm. She led her through the trees, speaking as

they strolled along.

“The Queen of the May shall be found in Briarcrest

Wood by one and all who enter into her feast there. She is

Mother of All and Lady of All Living Things. It is she who

bestows new life, which we honor during May Day. It does

not matter who arrives at her hiding place first or last. The conquest is in the joining. Success is in the celebration of life to its fullest. The object is to be carefree and have your fondest wishes granted all during this day.”

As Lydia continued, Catherine thought, If you only knew

my fondest desire, Lady Lydia, perhaps you might not be so willing to have me here with you now. After a time, she ventured, “What is your heart’s desire, Lydia?”

Lydia did not answer. She longed to reveal her heart to

Catherine, but she had hesitated for so long, afraid that they were not of the same mind, that she found it difficult to do

so now. If I reveal my heart to you, Catherine, will you flee? I wish I knew for certain how you truly feel.

“Will you tell me? Will you tell me your heart’s desire?”

Catherine pressed.

“Perhaps before this May Day is finished, I shall,

Catherine. Perhaps I shall. But for now, I am your guide.

Follow me if you dare. However, we must beware the old

Hag of the Wood. If she sees us and gives us a dry branch,

the Queen may not look kindly upon us when you come into

her presence. We must avoid the Hag at all costs.”

Catherine, taken by this tale, questioned, “Why does she

haunt this wood? Can we tell of her approach? Can we

hide? Can she be fooled into not giving us her branch?”

Lydia smiled softly. “She is one who did not reach for

her heart’s desire, so now she tries to keep others from

achieving theirs.” She looked around, then put her mouth

close to Catherine’s ear and whispered, “She wears a bell.

So listen for it. If we see her and she has not yet seen us, we may flee her and hide. But once she says our names, we

must accept the twig she gives us.”

Just then, they heard the faint clanging of a bell. Lydia

squealed, turned on her heel, and darted off. Catherine

bounded after her.

As they ran along the edge of the wood, Lydia pointed

beyond the forest. “Quick—into the meadow—I know a

place we can hide there. The old Hag never leaves the

forest.”

They pounded toward the field. The grass was knee-

high, thick and green. Bursts of color from spring

wildflowers surrounded them as they ran. The bell

resounded behind them. Catherine’s heart pounded. How

would they conceal themselves in the open meadow? She

stopped, studying her surroundings.

Lydia called to her, “Quickly, Catherine. Follow me.”

Catherine still did not move.

Lydia retraced her steps, seized Catherine’s hand, and

pulled her along. As they ran, the grass became taller. It

came to their hips, then to their waists. When it was almost up to their shoulders, Lydia pulled Catherine to the ground,

shouting, “Down!”

Gasping to catch their breath, the two women lay

surrounded by a soft, green wall of blooming grasses. The

scent of spring enveloped them.

Catherine strained to hear the bell. The clanging sound

did not seem to change. She listened again. Yes, she was

sure it was not changing. How would they ever get back

into the woods if the old Hag never left her spot where the

forest and meadow met? Finally, Catherine could bear it no

longer. “Lydia, she is not leaving. How will we get back to the celebration?”

Lydia stared at her, blinking in disbelief. Finally, a hint

of a smile showed at the corners of her mouth. She

struggled to hold back her laughter, but she could contain it no longer. Her giggle swelled until Lydia was howling with

merriment, while Catherine watched her in dismay.

When it seemed Lydia would never stop, Catherine

cried, “Why are you laughing at me, Lydia?”

Lydia wiped tears from her eyes as she confessed, “Oh,

Catherine, it is a game! There is no old Hag. There is no

dry twig. There are only bells, hung throughout the forest

for our amusement. Don’t be perturbed with me. Can you

forgive me? I could not bear it if you were angry with me!”

A smile stole across Catherine’s face as she realized the

humor of the prank. Then she, too, began to laugh, more at

herself than anything. Lydia joined her. They held their

sides, roaring wildly. They rolled in the tall grass, kicked their feet and howled some more. When their laughter

died, their eyes met.

Catherine felt submerged in the grey-green depths,

encompassed by their beauty. Lydia looked long into the

eyes of the woman who had first beguiled her long months

ago in Willowglen. Her soul sang a wordless refrain, filled

with love. Lydia moved closer. Catherine felt Lydia’s

breath on her face. They drew together and, lips meeting,

they kissed softly.

When it was over, Lydia thought, If I am to be rejected, it will be now.

She waited, her eyes trained on Catherine’s. Instead of

rebuffing her, Catherine leaned forward and kissed her

again, this time stronger, harder, feeling as if she never

wanted to stop.

Lydia’s breathing grew more labored. Catherine’s

breath quickened. She felt Lydia’s lips part slightly, and

Catherine opened her own. Like thirsty soil that had

endured years of drought, they drank each other in.

Thoughts raced through Catherine’s mind now.

Thoughts she questioned if she dare act upon. She had no

time to decide, though, for Lydia’s hand was on her vest,

pulling at the laces. Catherine did not protest.

Moments later, Catherine felt the warm sun on her bare

shoulders and breasts. Looking into Lydia’s eyes, she

recognized her own emotion. Feeling as if she were

standing on the edge of a cliff, she took a deep breath and

jumped, headlong, into a deep grey-green abyss. A long

shadow followed her into the depths.

She peeled away Lydia’s clothing to reveal her smooth,

white skin. Catherine drank in the beauty of Lydia’s body,

marveling at her firm, small breasts. Their breathing

became more labored still as they reached out and touched

one another tentatively.

Catherine paused for a moment, concerned. Looking

around, she asked, “Can anyone see us?”

Lydia’s response was thick and heavy with emotion.

“The grass is over our heads and everyone is deep in the

forest by now.”

All was forgotten then. They relished each other’s

beauty as they had yearned to do for so long. They kissed.

They embraced, feeling the softness of breast against breast.

Finally, they lay down surrounded by the sweet cocoon of

grasses, the women’s shadows a dark blanket that spread

and gently writhed.

Catherine exclaimed to Lydia, “You feel so good against

my skin. I have wanted to feel you this way longer than I

have known.”

“And I, you, Catherine,” whispered Lydia.

Lydia caressed Catherine’s breast and felt the firmness

of her nipple as it rose up to meet her palm. She felt her

own desire expressed in the wetness between her legs. They

kissed again. As they stroked each other, they felt their

passion rise to an all-consuming fire.

Heedless of nothing now, only wanting more of Lydia,

Catherine grasped her by the shoulders, pressing against

her body. Kissing her again, she found the softness inside

Lydia’s mouth. Catherine thrilled at the feel of Lydia’s skin against her own hand and, remembering her vow to

celebrate the May with abandon, Catherine followed her

heart’s desire. Lydia responded fully, surrendering to

Catherine completely. Lydia followed with her own

longings for Catherine. That May Day, they expressed their

love for one another as completely as ever was possible.

Feeling the sweetness of their ecstasy, they held one another close. There were no words now. There was only a feeling

of deep joy—and love.

CATHERINE AWOKE TO the sound of a bell. She

smiled to herself when she thought of the Forest Hag and

Lydia’s prank. When she looked at the woman asleep

beside her, she was overcome with feelings of deep love.

Quickly, though, they were replaced by feelings of concern.

Surely two women have never before fallen in love this way. I fear it will never be understood. I cannot see how we can continue together. Yet I cannot bear the thought of giving her up. Lydia stirred. She stretched sensuously and looked into Catherine’s eyes with longing. Catherine fought against her

rising passion. It was replaced with doubt that moved like

a fast-paced storm cloud. Perhaps this is just a May Day lark for her. Perhaps she has done this merely for the thrill of the day.

Yet, deep down inside, Catherine knew that was not the

truth. Her doubt dissipated. O r is it more than the wild abandon of May Day to her? I must believe, with all my heart, that she has expressed true feelings. If this is so, then we must find a way to be together. Somehow. We must.

“Why do you look at me thus?” Lydia asked bashfully.

“I wonder what you think of, of what has happened

between us?”

Lydia began, “I think...”

Catherine held her breath.

“I think I love you as I could love no other. I think that

I have known this since the first day I saw you at

Willowglen. I think I have wanted this day to come for a

very long time, but I was not sure you wanted it, too. I

could not act unless I knew you were of like mind. When

we kissed, at last, I knew it was true. I was not wrong, was I, Catherine?”

Overcome by emotion, Catherine did not answer.

Lydia pressed her, repeating, “Catherine? Was I

wrong?”

Catherine’s voice was difficult to hear at first, but it

strengthened as she expressed what was in her heart. “No,

Lydia. You were not wrong. I have felt deep emotion for

you from the first day I laid eyes upon you. At first I did not understand it. I have never felt thus for anyone before

in my life. I was unsure of how to act—or even if I should

take action. I was fearful that you might disapprove. I was afraid that I might lose the friendship that we had. And

now? Now, I am still unsure, not of how I feel, rather, I

wonder where will this take us? Having expressed my love

for you so completely, I am not sure I can let you go. Yet

how can we be together? You are someone else’s ward. You

must do as your father bids you. Perhaps, it might have been better had this day never come.”

Lydia silenced Catherine by putting a finger on her lips.

Moving closer, she kissed her. It was a long, loving kiss.

When she moved away, Lydia looked Catherine in the eye

and said matter-of-factly, “We shall find a way, Catherine,

for I want to be with you. And, Catherine?”

“Yes, Lydia?”

“I love you.”

Catherine tried to swallow her tears. With a tremor in

her voice, she said, “I love you, too, Lydia. You are truly

my heart’s desire.”

They kissed and embraced again. In the distance, a bell

rang.

IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON by the time they ate the

small lunch from Lydia’s basket.

As they left the meadow, Catherine asked, “Do you

think anyone has been looking for us?”

Lydia replied, “I am sure that everyone has been about

their own observance of the Green Lady’s feast. They have

all been far too busy to miss us. However, on this day, one

does not ask where others might be or what they might be

doing. One does not attend to anything but one’s own

desires.”

They walked on a little further and Catherine stopped.

“Is something wrong, Catherine?”

“Lydia, you have been to the May feast at Briarcrest

before, is that not true?”

“Yes. Why do you ask, Catherine?”

“I just wondered if you had ever done anything like

this...”

Lydia understood. “Catherine, I have not been with

anyone other than you—not anyone. Do you understand?”

Catherine nodded assent.

Lydia moved close to Catherine and gazed into her eyes.

“Now, I desire to be with none other.”

A smile crept into the corners of Catherine’s mouth.

Lydia continued, “As for coming to Briarcrest for the

May celebration, it is true. I have been here often during

May Day. However, I have always stayed inside the

confines of Briarcrest’s walls. When I was younger, I

attended the parties in Briarcrest courtyard. The May

celebration brings many children to Briarcrest, including

the children of the staff and those from the village. Beatrice wanted me to have other children to play with when I was a

child. She did not think it mattered that they were not the

children of nobles, as my father would have insisted upon.

Beatrice and Hilary always made sure that, as youngsters,

we received our heart’s desire on May Day.

“When I grew older, I was still not invited into the

forest. Rather, I stayed behind and helped Marian with the

parties given for the young ones. I was invited to

participate in the banquet and the entertainment in the

evening, but I have never been into Briarcrest Wood to look

for the Queen. Until now, seeking my heart’s desire on May

Day consisted of enjoying sweet cakes and spiced wine and

playing at children’s games.”

Catherine asked, skeptically, “How did you know about

the bells and the old Hag, then?”

Lydia chuckled. “Even as a child, one hears the stories

of the grownups’ antics in the forest. Sometimes adults do

not realize that children are listening. Then, too, whenever I had a question, I knew I could get a truthful answer from

either Beatrice or Hilary. A few years ago, I asked them

about the old Hag. After they explained the prank, they

told me that someday, I, too, might have a special guest to

play this trick on when we heard the bells.”

Catherine grunted, finding it hard to believe that she

had been so gullible.

They walked on quietly until they reached the edge of

the forest again.

“This may seem a curious question, Lydia, but I wonder

how is it that Hilary has been with your aunt all these

years?”

Lydia smiled the smile of one who knew a secret.

“Beatrice and Hilary are like us, Catherine.”

“Like us? What do you mean?”

“I mean, they love each other. I mean, they have

dedicated their lives to one other, similarly as do a man and woman in marriage.”

Catherine was astonished. She squinted at Lydia,

pondering her answer. At first, she had trouble believing it, but the more she mulled it over, the more she began to

understand. Finally, when she spoke, it was with

excitement in her voice. “This is amazing. Yet how could I

not have realized? How could I have thought that Hilary

lived here merely because of Beatrice’s generosity to

someone who needed a haven?”

Catherine began to pace as she spoke, trying to catch up

to the thoughts that rushed through her mind. “How could

I not have seen what becomes so apparent to me now? They

are more than companions. And this is not just Beatrice’s

home. This is Hilary’s home as well. This is incredible!

Like us, you say? You mean there are others? And they

have managed to find happiness together? Do you think we

could find such happiness together?”

Catherine did not wait for an answer. Even as she

uttered the words, doubt crept in until she found the whole

idea absurd. How could Lydia know such a thing about

Beatrice and Hilary?

“But you cannot be serious, Lydia.”

“I most certainly am, Catherine.”

Lydia’s confidence took Catherine by surprise. “How

do you know?”

“When I was a small child, I use to steal into their

bedchamber early in the morning. Marian would try to stop

me, but Beatrice always insisted that she be allowed to

enjoy my childhood. ‘ Before we know it, she will be grown up and gone. Perhaps we shall not see her again. Let us enjoy her while we can, Marian.’ After that, I would climb into bed and snuggle up to the two of them, and feel so warm and secure.

Sometimes Beatrice would tell me stories while I lay there—

stories of strong, brave women who ruled kingdoms and

did great deeds that some thought only men could do.

There were times when, listening to her, I thought myself

capable of anything. I cherish the memories of those

mornings, Catherine.

“One day, as I was about to enter womanhood, I had

been thinking about those times. A measure of sadness

came over me, knowing that those comforting morning

visits with the Ladies of Briarcrest were over. Hilary took

me out riding that day in an effort to chase the dark clouds

of my brooding away. During our ride, I asked her why it

was that she and Beatrice slept in the same room when there

were so many bedchambers at Briarcrest. Marian and I each

had our own rooms when we visited and there were still

others that sat unused until visitors came. Hilary

responded that it was a private affair between herself and

Beatrice, but that if Beatrice would be willing to talk to me about it, she, too, would agree.

“That evening, Beatrice and Hilary called me to their

chambers. We sat at their little table in front of the fire and ate honeyed cakes together. They told me of their care for one another and they explained to me that some women had

no desire to be wed. This was the first time that I had heard that others felt as I did. Until then, I had thought I must be the only young woman in creation who did not want a

husband. However, when I told them this, they pointed out

that not everyone was as fortunate as they were. Not

everyone could live as they were able due to Beatrice’s high

station and treasury. Of course, Lady Hilary is a woman of

some means herself, you know.”

Catherine listened to Lydia, wide-eyed, as she

continued.

“Then they explained that not everyone understood

their association and they told me that, mostly, others chose to think that they were companions and nothing more.

They asked me not to speak of it without discernment. I

understood that it was important to do so, although it was

not until recently that I realized just why. Oh, Catherine, I have had ample opportunity to observe these two Ladies

over the years. No other pair is more devoted to one

another. They care very much for one another. They love

one another as we now know we love each other.

“Once, back in Willowglen, you told me you had not

found any couple respectful enough or caring enough to

cause you to admire their union. During that conversation,

I said I felt the same way. I knew I had an excellent

example in Hilary and Beatrice. However, since we had

only recently met, it did not seem prudent to discuss these

details of the lives of the Ladies of Briarcrest.”

“I see,” Catherine said thoughtfully.

They walked deeper into the forest. As they passed a

tall fir tree, a tiny bell pinged its song. They looked up into the branches and laughed, then clasped hands and walked

on. Following the strains of song and peals of laughter,

they reached a clearing and met an extraordinary sight.

The trees opened to form a giant, vaulted area.

Overhead, densely intertwined branches kept the vicinity

cool and dark as night. A fire burned in a large pit,

illuminating the blackness. Beyond it, they saw a long

table, festooned with green and gold decorations. Most

incredible of all was the huge figure of the Green Lady that

loomed before them. Catherine’s mouth fell open as she

stared at the magnificent towering image. Made entirely

from branches, vines and leaves, she sat on a twig throne

raised up on a large platform. Flower garlands decorated

her head. More blossoms adorned her leafy torso, forming a

rich regal robe. She was the guest of honor at the feast, the Queen of the May herself.

Below the Green Lady, a group of people played

instruments and sang rousing songs. They drank large

tankards of ale and merrymaking abounded. A circle of

people surrounded Lydia and Catherine and greeted them

with joyful dancing. Each person was decorated with

flowers and streamers. They placed flower wreaths on

Lydia’s and Catherine’s head and laid garlands on their

shoulders, welcoming them to the Lady’s throne room.

Goblets of a frothy, amber drink were thrust into their

hands and they were drawn into the merrymaking. They

danced and sang and drank until they felt lightheaded.

Then Lydia and Catherine walked to a quiet corner at the

edge the clearing.

As they sat and caught their breath, Lydia mused, “I

wonder how Marian is getting on at the children’s

celebration? This is the first May feast that we have not

been together. I hope she is feeling well enough to contend

with all those spirited youngsters.”

“Why do you say that, Lydia?”

“Her old body is giving her a great deal of trouble these

days, Catherine. Even more than she lets on. I know she

takes herbs—for a digestive malady, she says—but I wonder

if they help her much.”

Catherine asked, “Have you heard her speak of any

particular difficulties, Lydia?”

“Oh, Marian never complains about anything,

Catherine, so it’s difficult to tell what might be ailing her.

Now that I think of it, though, she had some trouble when

we were at Greencastle. One day, I found her in her room

looking very pale and holding her chest. She had not met

me after the noon meal as she had said she would. I became

concerned and went to look for her. When I found her, the

sight of her frightened me. I didn’t know what to do. She

was pallid and weak, but she assured me it was nothing but

poor digestion and that it would pass. She asked me to stay

with her, which I did. I could not have left her alone in her state. I remember wishing that I had some measure of your

skill at healing.

“After a time, the difficulty seemed to pass, and color

returned to her face. She slept then, and when she awoke,

she seemed almost her old self, so I thought she was correct

in saying it was some bit of food that had upset her. She

never seemed to get her old vigor back after that, though.

Still, she will not admit that she is ailing.”

Catherine recalled Marian’s flushed cheeks when they

arrived the previous day. The same warning sounded

within her again, but she hesitated to speak of her concern.

She did not want to frighten Lydia with her suspicion that

Marian might well have a heart ailment. The skilled healer

knew it might be treatable with foxglove, but she wondered

if it would be possible to intervene discreetly. Catherine

consoled herself with her newly gained knowledge that the

ladies of Briarcrest were well versed in the art of using

herbs—assuming, of course, that Marian had not tried to

hide her affliction from them.

To soothe Lydia’s concern, Catherine pretended

indifference. “Marian is no longer a young woman, Lydia.

She will probably lose more of her vitality as the years go

by. Perhaps what she experienced that day at Greencastle

was only as she said—a bit of bad food.”

“I hope you are right, Catherine.” Lydia smiled timidly.

Catherine knew that she wanted to believe the incident

to be insignificant, but she was sure that the event was not

as trivial as Marian had made it out to be. Yet nothing

could be done about it at the moment, so Catherine took

Lydia’s hand and whirled her back into the festivities.

“Come, Lydia,” she said. “Let us join in the dance, for this is a day to celebrate.”

In the center of the music-filled clearing, Catherine

bowed from her waist. Lydia returned the bow. They held

hands and leapt together to the music, joining a group

dancing a jig.

THE FESTIVITIES CONTINUED until late afternoon.

When a large gong sounded, the crowd fell into an eager

silence. From between two large oaks, a pair of figures

appeared. They were dressed in matching robes with pine

boughs and golden streamers woven into their greying hair.

Each robe was made from a fine white linen, embellished

with rich embroidery over its entire surface. Beatrice

carried a large golden headpiece with which she would

crown the Queen of the May. Hilary walked at her side.

They climbed the stairway and placed the diadem on the

leafy head of the Green Lady.

Once done, they turned to the gathering and Hilary

announced, “The Queen of the May is among us.”

With great ceremony, Beatrice added, “Long live the

Lady of the Green.”

The crowd intoned, “Huzzah! Huzzah!” and the Ladies

of Briarcrest descended the stairs.

Beatrice and Hilary took their places at the head of the

table. Their guests joined them and began passing trays of

nuts, fruit and honey cakes for the enjoyment of all. Wine

and ale continued to flow freely.

Later, as Lydia and Catherine sat talking to those

around them, Beatrice and Hilary arose from their seats and

lifted two beautifully embellished silver goblets in a toast.

Beatrice said, “My dear friends, Hilary and I hope you

are enjoying the feast of the Green Lady. We encourage you

to continue to celebrate your heart’s desire for the rest of

the day and beyond. Hilary and I especially welcome my

niece, Lydia Wellington, to the forest festivities for the first time.”

Everyone raised their cups and uttered their good

wishes.

“We also welcome her dear friend, Catherine Hawkins.

We are most pleased that she could join us.”

Again, enthusiastic greetings. When the hails died

down, Beatrice continued. “My friends, enjoy the feast.

This evening, we shall be graced with the presence of

Madame Toussants, the great troubadour from France, to

sing for us. We have received word that her entourage will

reach Briarcrest shortly.”

A rousing cheer rose from the group. Madame

Toussants was well known for her stories in song. She

traveled many lands singing for royalty. Her talents were

much in demand. That she would grace the halls of

Briarcrest was a testament to the regard she had for the

Duchess and the Lady Hilary.

THE LADIES OF Briarcrest spent the remainder of the

afternoon circulating among their guests. When they

approached Catherine, she remarked at the beauty of the

workmanship of the goblets each one carried.

“They are the work of your own Willowglen

silversmiths,” Beatrice replied. “Edward’s son, John,

designed them and Edward fashioned them especially for

Hilary. They were her gift to me for the feast. You can see the image of the Green Lady beautifully done on each one.”

Beatrice held her goblet out to Catherine. The detail

was exquisite. As she continued admiring it, Hilary

inquired about her day in Briarcrest Wood.

“It has possibly been the most wonderful day of my life,

My Ladies,” Catherine replied breathlessly. “I am ever in

your debt for your invitation.”

Hilary and Beatrice exchanged glances, silently

affirming their speculation of the previous night.

Catherine’s enthusiasm and the glow of her cheeks led them

to believe that she and Lydia had, indeed, followed their

hearts.

In a teasing tone, Beatrice asked, “Have you found your

heart’s desire this day, then, Catherine?”

Catherine blushed. Trying to avoid eye contact, she

looked past the older women. She exhaled in relief when she

saw Lydia approaching. Trying to speed up her arrival,

Catherine waved and called out to her. When Lydia reached

the group, Beatrice repeated the question to her niece.

“Greetings, dear. I just inquired of Catherine, but she

had not yet told us, if she had found her heart’s desire this day. Perhaps you could tell us if you have found yours.”

Lydia looked from the pair to Catherine and back again.

She flushed visibly, but quickly composed herself. Giving

her aunt a look of feigned scorn, she scolded, “I always

understood that one was not to inquire about the activities

of another during the May celebration. Why do you ask us

such questions?”

Beatrice and Hilary looked at each other and burst out

laughing.

Hilary answered, “You are quite right, dear. Forgive us.

We are fanciful old fools.”

Beatrice elbowed Lydia and added, “We are not,

however, blind old fools, my dear.” She winked. “But you

are right. We have no excuse for asking such a question.

Your activities are yours alone. Be on your way, you two.

Enjoy the remainder of the feast. The afternoon is almost

over and we shall be forced to move indoors soon.”

Catherine returned the goblet to Beatrice. Their

hostesses moved off into the gathering. The younger

women heard them laughing as they walked away.

Lydia asked, “What brought that on?”

“I am not sure. I felt as if they knew about...this

afternoon.”

Lydia blushed again. “They probably do, Catherine. As

my aunt said, they are not blind old fools.”

The two women stared at each other, then Catherine

caught Lydia’s hand and reeled her into a group dancing to

a melody played on flutes and drums. Lydia gathered up

the hem of her dress and the two women plunged into the

dance with abandon.

When the song ended, the gong sounded again.

Someone doused the fire and the forest clearing darkened.

Out of the blackness, two torches appeared, the light

illuminating Beatrice and Hilary’s faces. They led the

guests in procession back to Briarcrest. As they walked,

more torches lit up. A lone pipe struck a merry tune. A

drum joined in, followed by other instruments, as the entire

gathering journeyed back to Briarcrest at dusk.

They entered the large hall to a prepared feast.

Briarcrest’s workers had come back from their own

celebration in the forest earlier. The long table had been

pushed to one side of the room and set with all manner of

meats, fowl, fruits and cakes, spiced wine, and other rich

things to eat and drink. Benches and chairs had been placed

on the opposite side of the room, ready for the performance.

Beatrice and Hilary briefly disappeared and changed

from their robes into brocade and satin dresses. On their

return, they sat in stately wooden chairs and watched as

their guests mingled.

Wine and ale flowed from large pitchers. Visitors

gradually took their seats. Hilary beckoned Lydia and

Catherine to seats beside her and informed them that Madame

Toussants had arrived and would be singing shortly.

When the singer entered the hall carrying a lute, a hush

fell over the crowd. Several other musicians followed her,

carrying string and reed instruments. The troupe bowed to

their hostesses and settled themselves to begin. Catherine

was surprised to find that Madame Toussants was not a

young woman, but when the troubadour from France

opened her mouth to sing, her voice rang clear and true.

Her first songs were full of fantastic voyages and exotic

places. She mesmerized the crowd. Next came comical

songs. The audience laughed uproariously. She sang a

rather bawdy song after that. Most people chortled and

wisecracked, but Lydia and Catherine were both somewhat

embarrassed. Beatrice noted their reaction and laughed

even more, making a coarse comment herself. The vulgarity

of it, coming from Beatrice, shocked Catherine.

Finally, Madame Toussants and her company changed

the mood of the hall by singing ballads of love lost and love triumphant. During one love song, Lydia got up and sat on

the floor at Catherine’s feet and took her hand. Beatrice

pretended not to notice, but she lifted one eyebrow and

smiled, looking at Hilary out of the corner of her eye while

Madame Toussants’ song continued:

Come, my love, and search your heart

Can you not see that I love you?

Come my fair one; tell of your heart’s

Desire this night, for I love you.

I would give you gifts so fair.

I would tell you such secrets rare.

I would delight in your love, undaunted.

Do you not see that my soul you have haunted?

Come, my love, and search your heart—

Let me possess your treasure.

Come; engage in your Heart’s

Desire—without restraint or measure.

Catherine glanced around the room. Many of the

revelers had paired off. To Catherine’s amazement, many

of the couples were woman with woman and man with man.

This is, indeed, an extraordinary celebration of the May. A shadow on the wall behind Catherine almost seemed to

heave a sigh of contentment.

The troubadour and her ensemble ended their

performance with a rousing round. The audience joined in

enthusiastically, each section trying to out sing the other.

When it was over, the room rang with applause and cheers.

The musicians dispersed to circulate among the party-

goers. Madame Toussants stood where she had performed,

her admirers rushing to her with praises. Beatrice and

Hilary watched over the event like mother foxes watch their

young kits play from a distance. Finally, Madame

Toussants tore herself away from the group surrounding

her and approached the Ladies of Briarcrest. Beatrice

embraced the woman warmly.

“Madame Toussants, you were wonderful, as always.

Thank you for gracing our May feast.”

Madame Toussants feigned humility. “Please, Duchess,

you flatter me.” With much more sincerity, she added, “I

am ’appee to be invited to this great ’all once again. I am

only sorry that I missed the earlier celebration in the wood.

My carriage had a wheel come loose on the road this

morning and it took forever to fix it. I was afraid that I

might ’af to disappoint you, but I am ’appee that we could

be here in the end.”

Beatrice motioned Lydia and Catherine toward her. As

they approached, they heard Beatrice say, “You remember

my niece, Lydia—and this is her friend, Catherine Hawkins,

who joined us for the first time this year for the crowning of the May Queen.”

The Lady Troubadour cocked her head and squinted one

eye. She looked from Lydia to Catherine and back again.

Breaking into a grin, she said, “It is a pleasure to see such youthful beauty in these halls once again,” and, glancing at

her hostesses, she continued, “We are getting too old,

ladies. Ah, but your niece and her friend bring youth and

comeliness to Briarcrest.”

The troubadour turned back to the young women and

held out her hand to each of them in turn, adding, “I am

very pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Catherine, and to

see you again, Lady Lydia.”

When Madame Toussants shook their hands, she gave a

warm, strong handshake, like a man would give another

man.Beatrice invited, “Please, Madame, join us in leading the line for the banquet. I am sure everyone is more than ready

to dine by now.” Beatrice gestured for Madame Toussants

to lead the way. Lydia followed Beatrice and Hilary with

Catherine at her side. As the younger women walked

behind the trio, they heard Madame Toussants say to

Beatrice, “So, zee niece, she is cut from zee same cloth, no?”

The singer winked at the duchess, who made no reply.

THE REVELRY WENT ON long into the night. At some

late hour, Beatrice and Hilary invited the participants to

continue the celebration as long as they liked. Then they

bid them all goodnight. Catherine and Lydia stayed to

enjoy the music and entertainment a while longer.

Finally, Lydia asked, “Are you tired, Catherine? Would

you like to retire soon?”

Catherine replied that she was ready to retreat to a quiet

place after the evening of song and celebration. The two

women made their way across the hall, stopping here and

there to speak to some of the guests before going upstairs.

Once they were behind the closed door of Lydia’s

bedchamber, Catherine surprised Lydia by boldly taking

her in her arms and kissing her. Catherine noted her

companion’s reaction. “Am I too brash for you tonight,

Lydia?”

“No, not at all Catherine. I just thought you might be

tired and want to go to bed.”

“I am not very tired...but I would like to go to bed.”

Catherine looked into Lydia’s eyes, penetrating to the

depths of her soul. Lydia blushed and turned away as she

started to unfasten her dress. Catherine approached her,

astonished at her own daring. She took over loosening the

shawl that Lydia had tied around her waist and continued

helping Lydia disrobe. Lydia did the same for Catherine

and they walked hand in hand to the large tapestry-

curtained bed.

When Lydia went to extinguish the lamp, Catherine put

her hand out to stop her. “Leave the light on for a while,

Lydia. I want to be able to look at you. You are so

beautiful.”

Lydia began to protest Catherine’s flattery, but stopped

herself, shyly saying, “If you wish, Catherine.”

They embraced each other. They talked. They kissed.

They admired each other’s bodies aloud to one another.

When they kissed again, passion rose. They made love to

each other, in turn, until each was fulfilled.

The last thing Lydia heard Catherine say to her that

night as she drifted into a soft, sleepy mist, was,

“Goodnight my sweet May Queen, my goddess, my own

Green Lady. You have blest me with the ultimate blessing

this day.”

Then with more kisses and deep sighs of contentment,

they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Chapter Eighteen

The Morning after the May Day Feast

Briarcrest

THE SUN SLIPPED though a small opening in the

tapestry window coverings waking Lydia. She turned over

and studied Catherine’s face. Although her features were

not as refined as Lydia’s, Catherine was still an attractive

woman.

Catherine’s eyes remained closed, but a smile stole

across her lips. Playfulness filled her voice when she spoke.

“Will you be staring at me every morning when I awaken,

Lady Lydia?”

Lydia giggled and plunged toward Catherine.

Catherine, her eyes open now, seized Lydia by the waist

and drew her down against her naked body. She responded

immediately to Lydia’s warm, soft skin against hers. As

they kissed and caressed one other, their breathing

quickened.

A sharp rap on the door startled them from their desire.

Lydia fell back onto the mattress before acknowledging the

knock. When the door opened, Beatrice bustled in looking

fresh and rested. “Oh, I am sorry, dears. Did I wake you? I thought you would have been up by now.”

As she reached the bed, she saw the two women were

visibly flushed and panting. For the first time in Lydia’s

life, she saw her aunt come close to loosing composure. The

older woman stumbled over her words. “Oh, you poor

dears, I interrupted. That is, I should have, that is...”

Lydia forced herself to come to her aunt’s rescue. Still

somewhat breathless, she offered, “Do not be concerned,

Aunt Beatrice, we were just startled out of our sleep by your knocking.”

Beatrice was relieved by this pretext. “I am sorry if I

woke you. What I have to say can wait. I shall come back

later.” She turned to leave.

“Please, Auntie, stay. We want to hear what you have to

say.”

Beatrice hesitated, then offered, “Hilary has suggested

that we go hawking later today. Would you like to

accompany us?”

Lydia looked at Catherine, who had been lying very still

next to her, trying desperately to overcome the passion she

felt for Lydia. “Would you like to go, Catherine?”

Catherine took a deep breath and tried to speak without

betraying her emotion. “I have never been hawking. I

would be happy to go as an observer.”

Beatrice inquired, “Do you know how to ride,

Catherine?”

“Yes, I do. I rode often with my father. I do not own a

horse of my own, but I hire one when I have need.”

“Good. We shall go out after the noon meal. I think that

will give you enough time to take care of your...needs.”

Beatrice smiled broadly. She had apparently overcome her

embarrassment. As she left, she poked her head back inside

the door and said, “Do not stay in bed too long, dears. You

shall get a headache, or perhaps an ache elsewhere.”

The door slammed behind her, but they heard her

snickering as she walked down the hall.

Catherine turned to Lydia, wide-eyed. “She knows, you

know.”

Lydia broke into a wide grin. “Does it matter?” Then,

imitating the French troubadour, she said mockingly, “We

are cut from zee same cloth, you know.”

“I know,” Catherine replied dreamily, “and a fine fabric

it is, too.”

Both women chuckled. Catherine caressed Lydia again.

“It is an extremely beautiful cloth.”

Lydia moved closer and they took up where they had

left off before Beatrice knocked on the door.

Hawking

AS THE WOMEN walked through the stables and

kennels of Briarcrest, Catherine still found herself

distracted by the garb Hilary wore. The older woman’s

appearance at the noon meal had yielded another in a long

line of surprises for Catherine.

With everyone already seated at the long wooden table in

the main hall, Hilary had appeared on the upper landing

dressed in brown leggings and a tunic, much like men wore, though made to fit her perfectly. Catherine recognized the linen from which the tunic had been made. It was the fabric Hilary had purchased from Catherine during the fair.

The older woman wore high leather boots that stopped just above her knees. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head and she had replaced her usual net cap with a forester’s felt hat. A single long, graceful pheasant feather decorated the cap.

All conversation stopped. The staff, who were in the

process of serving the meal, halted. Everyone except Beatrice looked toward the landing and stared, mouths opened. Hilary stood with her hands on her hips, looking somewhat like a woodland sprite, defying someone to mock her appearance. As if an enchanted spell had been cast by Lady Hilary appearing in men’s clothes, no one spoke or moved.

Beatrice decided to take matters into her own hands.

Without turning around, she said, “Hilary, I told you that outfit was going to shock everyone if you wore it at table.

Could you not have waited until our guests had departed?”

Hilary bounded down the stairs like a gazelle. She spoke in a teasing voice as she skipped down the steps. “But, Beatrice, this is my heart’s desire: to dress comfortably. I could not dress this way yesterday, because it did not fit the occasion.

But this afternoon, we are going hawking. It will be the perfect time for such a costume. So, I thought, since it is still so close to May Day, I would try it out. Just to see if it is truly as functional as it seems, you know.” She came to rest at Beatrice’s elbow just as she finished her explanation. She wore a sheepish grin.

Beatrice sighed deeply, then announced, “Ladies and

gentlemen, Lady Hilary means to dress in this attire when she attends to her duties outside. If anyone finds it humorous, please, share the humor with all of us now, for laughter is good for the soul. If anyone finds fault in it, I suggest that we hear your views before we proceed any further. We shall have no ill talk behind our backs.”

The silent stares continued. Finally, Matilda, the young kitchen maid, broke the silence by speaking directly to Hilary.

“It looks very practical, mum. It looks good, too, I think.

Might not mind havin’ one o’them outfits m’self.”

All attention turned to the young woman as she spoke.

Everyone seemed in awe of the fact that she was so forthcoming with her opinion. For her part, Matilda was enjoying center stage. She added, “Although I do not think I would like the looks of it on the Duchess quite as well as I do on you.”

Beatrice looked at the young girl with feigned dismay.

“What?” she said, as if deeply hurt. “You mean you would not have me wear the mate I have to these clothes?”

Another silence followed. Although some had been unsure

of the sincerity of Beatrice’s remark, others, after a brief consideration, realized that Beatrice had no intention of dressing in such attire.

First, there had been tenuous chuckles. Soon the giggles turned into loud laughter. Beatrice and Hilary had joined in.

By this time, the room was in an uproar. Hilary, still

laughing, took her place beside Beatrice. The staff resumed their serving, some still chuckling and shaking their heads as they went. The uncertain moment had passed. Hilary’s new attire was accepted.

Catherine shook off the recollection as she followed

Hilary and Lydia into a small enclosure to see the new foal.

The newborn was indeed beautiful, a chestnut color with a

large white diamond on her forehead. The young animal

looked back at the women in wide-eyed wonder as she

stood at the mare’s side. The large horse nickered softly as if assuring her offspring that the visitors were friendly.

“Have you named her yet, Hilary?” Lydia inquired.

“Not yet, although I think I shall call her Queen of the

May. She was born before May Day, but ’tis the season, and

she is so full of life.”

“It suits her, don’t you agree, Catherine?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, it seems perfect. She is beautiful and lively.”

Hilary patted the mother and baby affectionately.

The women headed back out to the main yard. Henry

met them at the entrance.

Catherine recognized him immediately. “Henry, it is

good to see you again. How are you?”

“Fine as can be, thank you, Mistress. I hope you have

been well, mum.”

“Yes, Henry, thank you.”

Henry informed Hilary that four horses were ready for

them. He would ride ahead to the hawking field and meet

them there.

They found Beatrice waiting for them when they

reached the horses. Catherine was assigned a large black

mare. A stable hand appeared to assist the ladies onto their mounts. Hilary did not wait for help. After swinging

herself onto the horse, she turned to Beatrice and said, “You see, my dear, it’s so much simpler in this attire. No need for a man to mind your skirts, and no question of riding pillion

at all.”

Beatrice chided, “You never rode pillion a day in your

life, Hilary. You’re just thrilled there’s no need to tuck all that skirt between your legs once you’ve straddled the

saddle.”

The women laughed. They had to agree that Hilary’s

new clothes did look more comfortable for riding than their

own dresses. Catherine could not help but think that she

would not mind being dressed thus for riding, herself.

They rode off to meet Henry and his apprentice-son,

Tom, who sat, waiting on mounts, each with a large hawk

on one arm. Soft leather hoods covered the hawks’ heads

and colored leather thongs dangled from their legs. The

birds seemed content to wait patiently while Hilary and

Henry discussed which bird would be hunted first. The

decision having been made, Henry handed the big hawk

over to Hilary, who removed the bird’s hood. She spoke

words of encouragement. The hawk seemed very interested

in every word. Then, raising her arm quickly, Hilary

propelled the bird skyward.

They watched the bird soar, reaching outward with its

wings for the air. Finally, it began gliding in an ever-

downward slow spiral, searching for prey as it went.

Catherine marveled at the beauty and grace with which it

moved through the ether.

Suddenly, the hawk dove toward the low brush a short

distance from them, flushing out a hare. The second hawk,

which had been released after the first one, spiraled behind

it. It seized its catch in powerful talons as the animal

darted from the underbrush.

It was over in an instant. The hunter waited patiently on the ground, the prize held tightly in its claws. Henry

approached and fed the bird a piece of meat from a pouch

on his belt. The hawk took it, and jumped off the carcass.

Henry took the dead hare and tied its hind legs with a

leather strip as the hawk consumed the meat it had been

given. When he held out his arm, the bird jumped onto

Henry’s well-padded sleeve.

The scene was repeated several more times in the course

of the afternoon. Each of the Ladies took a turn sending the hunters on their way. Eventually, the hawkers were

satisfied with their catch and the group headed for home.

Henry had half a dozen rabbits suspended from his saddle,

dinner for the next evening. A large hooded hawk rode

balanced on his arm. Tom had the other hawk perched on

his shoulder. The two men led the party back toward

Briarcrest’s gates in the fading afternoon light.

When the group arrived back at Briarcrest Hall, Beatrice

went off to attend to some household duties and Hilary

excused herself to change into less controversial attire.

Catherine and Lydia made their way to the inner courtyard

off the main hall. They found a small wooden bench

surrounded by rose bushes just beginning to bloom.

Sheltered among the flowers, Catherine took Lydia’s hand

in hers and spoke.

“Lydia, you know that I must return to Willowglen. I

think it better if I leave in the morning—and that I should

go alone.”

“I do not want you to go, Catherine. Can you not stay a

day or two longer?”

“I need to get back, Lydia. My new spice delivery will

be arriving and I do not want to leave Sarah too long.”

“I could go with you. Who knows how long it will be

before my father comes back from France. It could be days

or weeks—perhaps longer—before he returns.”

“If we prolong our farewell, Lydia, it will only be that

much more difficult. As it is, when I think of it now, I feel as if my heart will break at the thought of leaving you.”

Lydia looked away and tried not to yield to the tears

welling up in her eyes.

Catherine plunged on. “I intend to ask Beatrice to give

me passage back to Willowglen tomorrow after the morning

meal. We must not make this any more difficult than it

needs to be. However, if either of us can think of a way that we can be together, we must send word to the other

immediately. For now, though, I am afraid I can see no

alternative. I must leave. Therefore, I think I should leave quickly and with as little disruption as possible.”

“I know you’re right, Catherine, but my heart does not

want to let you go.”

They were silent. Catherine’s thoughts wandered back

to the previous All Saints’ Day when Lydia had announced

she would be leaving Willowglen. Feeling much the same

way as they had that day when they sat in front of the fire,

basking in each other’s presence, they sat in the garden

now, saying little, holding hands until the evening chill

drove them inside.

“BEATRICE, I AM afraid it is time for me to return

home. I am very grateful for your hospitality, but I must

get back to Willowglen.”

Beatrice stared as if she were trying to read Catherine’s

innermost thoughts before she spoke. She assured

Catherine that a carriage and escort would be available to

her the next morning. Catherine was grateful that she

didn’t try to talk her out of leaving.

Beatrice and Catherine found Hilary and Lydia in the

main hall, talking in hushed tones. Lydia looked as if she

had been crying, but when she saw Catherine, she put on a

brave smile. She failed in an attempt to say something

humorous and Hilary tried, without much more success, to

rescue her from the tense moment. Just then, the kitchen

help arrived with supper, so they took their places at the

table, grateful for a diversion.

THE SMALL GROUP that dined at the table that

evening ate quickly with little conversation. They decided

that the day’s activities had proven tiring and that they

would all retire immediately after the meal. At one point,

Catherine made an unsuccessful attempt to inquire about

Marian’s health. The older woman made it clear that she

did not want to discuss her health with Catherine, or with

anyone.

At the end of the meal, Catherine and Lydia excused

themselves and went upstairs. Once the door was closed

behind them, they made love recklessly. When it was over,

they both felt lonely and sad. Since neither woman could

sleep, they held one another long into the night, sometimes

drying each other’s tears.

Catherine awoke at dawn with heavy eyelids and a

tightness in her throat. She tried to shake off her gloom,

more for Lydia’s sake than her own, but she could not. She

leaned over and kissed Lydia on the brow. When Lydia

opened her eyes slowly, they looked red and puffy. The

women held each other, desperately, for a long time.

At last, Lydia said, “Catherine, we shall think of

something. We must. For I cannot bear to be separated

from you again. Knowing our true feelings for one another

now, I will not let my father stand in the way of our

happiness. There must be a way. We shall find it,

Catherine. I know we will.”

“You are right, Lydia. There must be something...”

But Catherine did not hold out much hope. Lydia kept

her hopeless thoughts to herself also.

Departure

MARIAN DID NOT come down to the hall that morning.

She requested some tea and biscuits be brought to her room.

Catherine was concerned about her, but her grief clouded

her mind and she could not see a way to try to help.

Before the morning meal was over, Henry came into the

hall to tell Beatrice that the carriage was ready. He offered to escort Mistress Catherine back to Willowglen himself and

Beatrice agreed. Catherine excused herself to go upstairs

and Lydia followed behind her. In the bedchamber, they

held on to each other one final time and struggled to choke

back tears.

Finally, Catherine said firmly, “Lydia, I must go. Stay

here. It will be better for both of us if you do not come to the carriage.”

Lydia heaved herself onto the bed. Desolately, she

looked up at Catherine and muttered agreement. Catherine

put her hand on the large wooden door to leave. With

desperation, Lydia called to her. “I love you, Catherine

Hawkins.”

Catherine stopped, waiting for the pain in her heart to

subside before responding. “And I love you, Lydia

Wellington.”

Catherine looked away quickly, hiding her tears. She

opened the big wooden door a crack and slipped out, not

knowing if she would ever see Lydia again.

Lydia knew that it was better for both of them if she did

not go downstairs. That did not stop her from wanting to

run after Catherine. She struggled against the confused

feelings washing over her until, finally, she flung herself

onto the bed and wept inconsolably.

Catherine arrived downstairs to find Beatrice and Hilary

waiting for her. Together, they walked to the outer court in silence. Before boarding the carriage, Catherine asked

Beatrice to say good-bye to Marian for her. The older

women bid Catherine a safe journey with a fond embrace,

and she climbed into the carriage before anyone inquired

about Lydia.

Henry was at the reins with his son beside him. Hilary

secured the door and waved him on. As the carriage moved

out onto the road, Catherine clenched her fists and refused

to cry. She choked back her tears for several hours, but

finally, as the carriage jolted her repeatedly on its approach to Willowglen, she could no longer hold in her sorrow.

From his seat atop the carriage, Henry thought he heard

something that sounded like wailing. He considered

stopping, but then he decided it might be wiser to get his

passenger home—the faster the better—so he sped up the

horses. After a time, the only sound he could hear was the

noise of the carriage and the pounding of the horses’ hooves

accompanied by their jangling traces, so Henry relaxed his

grip on the reins a little. By the time they reached town,

dusk had given way to night.

Henry escorted Catherine to the shop, and she went

straight to the box of shop receipts. She removed two coins

and gave them to Henry. He tipped his cap, mumbled

“Thank you, mum,” and left without another word.

Sarah heard the shop door open and came in from the

kitchen just as Henry left. She knew that something was

wrong immediately. “Are you all right, Mistress?”

“Yes, Sarah, I’m fine. I’m just tired from my journey.

The trip is long and the road outside of Willowglen is

rough. Do not trouble yourself. All I need is a good night’s sleep and I will be myself again.”

Sarah doubted it, but she didn’t question her mistress.

Instead she offered her some supper. Catherine refused,

saying that she only wanted to go to bed.

Picking up her bag, she bid Sarah goodnight. She

started for the stairs then stopped. She looked around the

shop and remarked that it looked neat and tidy. “You have

done well in my absence, Sarah.”

Sarah was pleased.

Catherine then inquired about Sarah’s brother. The

young girl said he was using his arm quite well. Earlier that day, he had gone to talk to one of the market merchants

about working for him.

“Fine, just fine, Sarah,” Catherine said in a distracted

tone. She turned and started back toward the stairs. Before she reached the top, tears were streaming silently down her

cheeks.

Chapter Nineteen

The Eve of the Feast of St. John the Baptist

June 23, 1459

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

THE DAY BEFORE the feast of the Baptist dawned warm

and sunny. Catherine busied herself in the garden for most

of the morning. When the summer heat became too intense,

she moved into the stone drying shed to lay out her

harvested herbs. She was happy to be so busy because, that

way, she paid little attention to the dull ache in her heart.

Correspondence had gone back and forth between

Briarcrest and Willowglen since Catherine’s return from the

May celebration. There had been no word from Lydia’s

father, and Catherine questioned her decision to keep Lydia

from coming back to Willowglen over and over again.

Lydia’s notes lamented the pain of their separation.

Catherine found these portions difficult to read but she

would not consider asking that the letters stop. She

treasured their exchanges.

Lydia sometimes enclosed flowers from the courtyard at

Briarcrest. She would pick them and press them, sending

them to Catherine between the folds of her notes. As each

new bloom arrived, Catherine tried to envision the

changing garden. She could not help but see Lydia walking

the grounds, gathering up the petals to send to her. The

image increased Catherine’s longing for Lydia even more.

Catherine tried to keep her responses to Lydia’s letters

light and cheery, but she did not usually succeed. Often

after she had penned a few sentences, she would end up

telling Lydia how much she missed her, too.

Catherine shared the changing garden behind the shop

with Lydia in exchange for the flowers from Briarcrest.

Whenever Lydia opened a note from Catherine, herbs and

blooms came tumbling out onto her lap. Somehow, these

expressions bridged the distance between them.

Most recently, Catherine had received a letter that

troubled her deeply. It had contained the tragic news that

Marian had died. Lydia wrote that the older woman had

missed morning meals more and more frequently,

sometimes taking to her bed for days at a time. One day

when Beatrice went to check on her, she found Marian’s

cold and lifeless body. Apparently, her weak heart had

finally failed her. Lydia’s anguish came through clearly in

her letter. Her grief clouded her thinking. She wrote

erratically, making little sense at times. This alarmed

Catherine.

The young healer longed to hold and comfort Lydia.

She wanted to soothe her sadness away, to give her back her

innocence and joy, but she knew that, even if she were to go

to her, she could not.

Catherine fretted over what she should do about Lydia

as she hung the fresh herbs to dry. Asking her to come to

Willowglen was not a good idea, she decided. Once Lydia’s

father sent for her, the pain of their separation would begin all over again and Catherine feared what another parting

might do to her.

She contemplated sending word of her concern to

Beatrice, but that, too, seemed futile. What could she hope

to accomplish by pointing out to Beatrice what she probably

already knew? Catherine dismissed the idea.

It had been several weeks since Lydia’s last letter.

Catherine grew more and more uneasy about the silence.

To quell her fear, she tried to tell herself that Lydia was

surmounting her grief by keeping busy, and therefore had

little time to write. The more she tried to convince herself, the more her anxiety grew.

CATHERINE FINISHED LAYING the herbs out to dry

and returned to the shop. Her agitation built as she tried to occupy herself by tidying her workbench. When Sarah

came in from church with Will, they were laughing and

enjoying themselves as young lovers will. Resentment

welled up within Catherine. Fiercely, she blurted out,

“Will, why are you here instead of at the Grouse and

Pheasant? I cannot be responsible for your bad work habits,

you know.”

Catherine realized what she had said only after the

words had escaped from her mouth and she could not take

them back. Sarah and Will stared at Catherine. Surely she

knew that Sunday was their day of rest. Beyond the

minimal chores necessary at the Inn, Will was free for the

day, as was Sarah.

The strain was more than Catherine could bear. She

muttered an apology and ran to the kitchen to hide her

tears. She sat at the table with her head in her hands.

Sarah came in and put the kettle on the fire.

Catherine dried her eyes and watched the young girl’s

movements until she felt composed enough to speak.

“Sarah, where is Will?”

With her back to Catherine, Sarah said, “I sent him off.”

“Why did you do that, Sarah? This is your day to be

together. I am sorry I spoke out of turn. Go and be with

him.”

Sarah turned around. Her face was ablaze with anger.

Her look alarmed Catherine, for she had never seen Sarah

like this. Catherine had become so fond of this young

woman, it made her feel even worse to know that she was

the cause of her rage. But when Sarah opened her mouth to

speak, Catherine found that her fury came from a much

different source than Catherine had imagined.

“Mistress Catherine, you are one of the kindest, most

caring people I have ever known. Your temperament is

usually as steady as a rock. There is only one thing that can turn you from your customary nature and upset you like

this. Do you know what that one thing is, Mistress?”

Yes, Catherine knew, but she was taken aback, again, to

think that Sarah might know.

Sarah demanded a second time, “Do you know,

Mistress, what that one thing is—or not?”

Catherine put her head back in her hands as she released

the cause of her distress in a word. “Lydia,” she cried as

she allowed the pain to surface.

“Yes, Mistress, Lydia. Always Lydia. But only Lydia

when she is gone. Why do you torture yourself by making

her stay away?”

Catherine looked up and stared into Sarah’s eyes. It’s

almost laughable how transparent I am to her.

When Catherine spoke again, her voice quivered. “You

are doing it again, Sarah.”

“Doing what again?” asked Sarah, annoyed.

“Being a wise woman.”

“Oh, Mistress.” Sarah’s anger dissipated. She spoke

with concern, now. “Why do you not tell her to come and

stay, Mistress?”

Thoughts Catherine had struggled to keep at bay

flooded in. It would be so easy—I could write today and take the note to the Governor’s Hall. It could probably be in Lydia’s hands by the day after tomorrow...

Catherine pushed the thought aside. “She has her own

life to lead, Sarah. A life that her father has more control over than either she or I have. He wants her to go to France and marry a nobleman.”

Sarah weighed her next thought carefully before she

spoke. “If it were me, Will would fight for me.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘if it were me, Will would—’”

“I heard you. I just cannot believe that you see things so

clearly. You are right, of course. I should not give up, not without a fight.”

“Good,” pronounced Sarah.

Both women were silent again until Catherine repeated

the question she had asked earlier. “Sarah, where is Will?”

Sarah broke into a wry little smile. She cocked her head

in the direction of the Inn down the street. “He is waiting

for me at the Grouse and Pheasant.”

“Go to him, Sarah. Someone in this house should have

her heart’s desire.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Sarah lowered her eyes, embarrassed at

knowing too much. She started to move toward the door

without looking at Catherine.

“Wait, Sarah, I have more to say.”

“Yes, Mistress?”

“First, when you see Will again, please tell him I am

very sorry.”

“Will is not one to hold a grudge, Mistress. He will be

fine.”

“But you will tell him, will you not?”

Sarah looked directly at Catherine. “Yes, Mistress, I

shall tell him. Is there anything else?”

Catherine had given what she was about to say a great

deal of thought. Before this, she hadn’t known how to

broach the subject with Sarah. Now, she decided the time

was right.

“Yes, Sarah. During my short stay at Briarcrest, I

learned a great deal. In particular, I came to realize that

titles are for naught. No one is above or below another.

You and I work closely together every day. Why should I

be Mistress to you? It is not necessary. I would be honored if you would call me Catherine.”

Sarah grew quiet.

“Will you do that, Sarah?”

“Yes, Mis—Catherine.”

Now it was Catherine’s turn to pronounce, “Good, then.

Now go to Will. And Sarah?”

“Yes, Mis...Catherine?”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Catherine.”

Sarah did not move.

“Is there something else, Sarah?”

“Will you be all right, Catherine? If I go, I mean.”

“Yes, Sarah. I think it would be good for me to be alone

right now. I have a great deal of thinking to do.”

Sarah smiled. She walked over to Catherine and

embraced her.

STEAM ROSE FROM the kettle and demanded

Catherine’s attention. She got up from her seat to prepare

her mint tea. Just before she added the leaves to the pot,

she changed her mind. Perhaps some comfrey instead—to calm my concern and help me to think more clearly. It is true what Sarah says, it is always Lydia, and only Lydia. Oh, Lydia, I miss you so much.

Catherine took her tea to her upstairs room and did

something most peculiar. She sat on her bed in the middle

of the day, drinking slowly and waiting for inspiration.

None came. Still, she felt untroubled. She attributed it to the soothing herb, but it was really the calm before the

storm.

Chapter Twenty

The Feast of St. John the Baptist

June 24, 1459 – Before dawn

The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

CATHERINE FELT EXHAUSTED. She wanted to stop

running, but her sense of urgency pushed her on. She was

caught in some unfamiliar plaza surrounded by a maze of

stairs with halls in every direction. She searched in a frenzy with no clear idea of who it was that she was supposed to

find. Over and over, she took a turn that ended nowhere

and had to retrace her steps. Running down an alley, she

found it blocked by a huge door. She tried to force it open, but it would not yield. Catherine gave up and took a

stairway. As she climbed, each step became narrower and

narrower until passage was completely impossible. She

turned back once more, frantic. She tried another flight of

stairs. It ended abruptly at a solid wall. Turning back, she found the way from which she had just come was now

blocked by a heavy wooden railing. Overcome with

frustration, she thrust her clenched fists hard against the

barricade. Pounding on the thick beam again and again, she

felt the vibrations reverberate all the way up her arms.

Catherine emerged from the thick fog of her fitful sleep

bathed in perspiration. Realization came slowly. The

pounding had not stopped. It came from somewhere below.

Someone was beating on the shop door downstairs,

demanding entry.

Catherine bounded out of bed and threw on her dress.

Running down the stairs, she met Sarah crossing the shop

with a lit candle in her hand. In the glow, the young girl

looked as if she had seen a ghost.

The pair approached the door together. The determined

banging continued. Catherine pushed the wooden bolt back

and tentatively pulled the door open a crack.

Peering into the night, her mind struggled to identify

the murky figures. One had a fist raised, ready to beat on

the door once more. A smaller form stood beside a larger

one. Both had the hoods of their riding cloaks pulled over

their heads. Catherine blinked, trying to focus on the faces of the dark forms.

Was it two men? No. A man and a boy? Then,

recognition: The man was Henry. She squinted at the boy.

It was not Henry’s son, yet the frame was familiar.

Realization struck. Hilary! Hilary, dressed in tights and

tunic with leather boots that came past her knees.

Catherine swung the door open wide, anxiously beckoning

them inside.

As they stepped across the threshold, Henry and Hilary

pulled back their hoods. Catherine led them into the

kitchen. Sarah followed, wide-eyed at the sight of Lady

Hilary in men’s clothes. Catherine bid them sit down,

adding that she would make some tea, but Hilary

interrupted.

“There is no time, Catherine. We have come to take you

back to Briarcrest. Lydia has been gravely injured.”

Catherine gasped and grabbed the edge of the table to

steady herself. Sarah jammed the candle into a holder

quickly and sprang to Catherine’s side. She steered her

toward a bench by the shoulders and sat her down.

Catherine tried, in vain, to compose herself. With a

tremor in her voice, she asked, “H-How?”

Hilary answered, “Lydia received word that her father

had settled the arrangement for her betrothal. As you

probably already know, she was grief-stricken over

Marian’s death, not to mention her distress at not being able to have your companionship.

“When she heard that her father wanted her to return to

Greencastle to set sail for France, she became distraught.

Beatrice and I tried to calm her, but she would not be

comforted. Finally, exhausted, she went to her room to rest.

However, later that evening, unknown to us, she packed her

bag and slipped away.

“Very early the next morning, Isadore, the priest,

showed up with some of Greencastle’s knights. He said he

had come to claim Lydia and bring her back to Greencastle

for her father.

“It was only then that we discovered that Lydia was

gone. When Joanna went to call her, she returned looking

as if she had seen a specter and she had a note that said that Lydia was on her way to the Abbey of St. Nicholas. We

believe that she went there to seek sanctuary. The foolish

child was traveling alone and on foot. Unfortunately, when

Joanna brought the news that Lydia was gone, Isadore was

still with us.

“He set off after her immediately. I followed, after

enlisting the help of Briarcrest’s best men. Isadore and his henchmen caught up with Lydia on the road before we got

there. Apparently there was a struggle. Perhaps she

became unreasonable; she can be willful, as we all know. At

any rate, Isadore had her b-beaten...”

Thus far, Hilary had spoken calmly. Now anger and

sadness welled up and her voice trembled. She swallowed

hard in order to continue. “Beaten within an inch of her

life. Then, it seems that when he realized how badly injured she was, he abandoned her at the Abbey doorstep. Left her

for dead. Then he and his pack ran like the cowardly dogs

they are.

“The Abbey of St. Nicholas is isolated and the nuns very

austere. They cared for Lydia’s wounds as best they could

since we dared not move her. She did not wake from the

sleep of injury all the time we were at the Abbey.

“After a few days, we decided it would be better to risk

taking her back to Briarcrest. We feared for her safety, and at Briarcrest she would be better protected. We tried to

move her carefully, but the journey was difficult. She

awoke only briefly, but she could not speak. I was very

relieved when we got her home.

“As soon as we settled Lydia at Briarcrest, Henry and I

left to fetch you. Beatrice is caring for her, but she is most anxious to have you return with us. Lydia’s life may well

depend on your healing skills alone, Catherine.”

Hilary paused for a breath. “We brought a horse with

us for you, Catherine. You had better get ready. We must

go quickly.”

Catherine sat motionless, stunned by this news. Sarah

leaned close to Catherine and spoke into her ear.

“Catherine, you must go upstairs and get ready to travel.

Do you want me to help you?”

Catherine looked from the pair from Briarcrest to Sarah,

then back to Henry and Hilary again. As if waking from her

earlier dream once more, Catherine shook her head. She

spoke as if her assistant had just entered the room, and

knew nothing of what had happened. “Sarah, I must go to

Briarcrest. It is urgent. Will you attend to the shop while I am gone?”

“Yes, Catherine. Do not trouble yourself about the

shop. I will take care of it and I will get Will or my brother to help. I do not want you to concern yourself with

anything here.”

“Sarah, you are too good to me. You deserve a rich

reward, which you shall have upon my return.”

“Never mind that, now,” said Sarah. “Just prepare for

your journey—and hurry. Lady Lydia needs you.” Sarah lit

a lamp and handed it to Catherine.

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Catherine ran methodically

through a mental list of medicinal herbs she would bring

with her. She checked the contents of her herb bag.

Everything she needed was there. She tried to hurry, but

her movements felt thick and slow. Hilary’s tale echoed in

her mind as she dressed. Anxiety welled up as she heard

Hilary’s words again. “Beaten within an inch of her life... ”

She almost knocked the lamp over as she reached for it. Her

hand trembled as she picked up her bundle.

Hilary and Sarah were talking in hushed tones when

Catherine returned to the kitchen. Henry had gone back

outside to attend to the horses. When Catherine appeared

in the doorway, Sarah jumped up from her seat and went to

her. She embraced her mentor and said, “Do not trouble

yourself about anything here, Catherine. Stay at Briarcrest

until you are able to bring Lady Lydia back home with

you.”

Catherine could only manage to whisper, “Th-thank

you, Sarah.” She feared if she tried to say more, tears

would flow. She did not want anything to delay the start of

their journey to Briarcrest.

Hilary, also concerned about Catherine, looked her in

the eye and said firmly, “Catherine, you must have your

wits about you to ride. It will not be light for several hours and the road is not easy. If we could wait until after

sunrise, it would be better for us, but we do not have a

moment to waste.”

Catherine’s reply sounded more confident than she felt.

“I’m fine, Hilary, really. We must not delay.” She accepted a farewell embrace from Sarah, donned her own hooded

cloak, and followed Hilary out the door.

Outside, Henry had joined his son, Tom. The two stood

between four saddled horses. When Hilary and Catherine

approached, Tom, looking very somber, greeted Catherine

politely. He handed her the reins to one of the horses. She mounted, swinging her leg over the animal, straddling the

saddle and tucking her dress under her. Hilary watched

from atop her own mount and nodded her approval. She

turned to her stable master, nodded again, and the hollow

clapping of hooves sounded as the group broke into a canter

down the cobblestone street.

At the end of town, they turned toward Briarcrest,

urging their mounts to greater speed. When they reached

the more treacherous stretch of road outside of Willowglen,

they slowed their pace and strained to see the path ahead.

The horses grew uneasy. The riders could feel their muscles

tense as they carefully picked their way along. Several

hours later, with the dawn of morning over the distant hills, each horse and rider relaxed a bit. Now that they could see

more clearly, the horses would be more sure-footed, but

they would still not be able to break into a gallop until the road smoothed out, several miles outside of Briarcrest.

They moved along the smoother edge of the road, single

file. Henry headed the column with Hilary behind him.

Catherine and Tom brought up the rear. As they plodded

along, Catherine’s thoughts focused on Lydia. It would be

late afternoon by the time they arrived at their destination.

Another day would have passed during which Lydia would

be lying, battered and bruised, without Catherine at her

side. Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away quickly

with her cloak and steeled herself against her feelings. This journey was difficult enough. Catherine could not break

down now.

By mid-morning, horses and riders were exhausted from

their strenuous ride. Henry was concerned for Hilary and

Catherine. Hilary had not slept in days, first tending to

Lydia at the Abbey, then riding all night to reach Catherine.

He glanced back at Catherine and saw that she, too, looked

tired and drawn. Knowing that neither woman would

consent to stop for themselves, he insisted that the horses

needed the rest. Hilary deferred to his wishes regarding the animals.

They turned off the road and trudged up a grassy hill.

At the crest, a wide meadow, ablaze with colorful summer

wildflowers, came into view. Catherine winced at the

memory of the field outside of Briarcrest wood and the May

Day celebration. They made their way toward a grove of

willows bordering a pond in the distance. When they

dismounted, Henry passed a water bag around. Then he

and Tom led the horses to the pond to drink.

The two women sat on the soft ground with their backs

against a rock, watching the horses and their caretakers in

the distance.

Hilary, concern in her voice, inquired, “Are you

enduring the ride, Catherine?”

“Do not trouble yourself about me, Hilary. I only want

to get to Briarcrest and be with Lydia.”

“I understand. We should be there by early afternoon.”

“I know Beatrice is taking good care of her. I only hope

I can do something more for her when we arrive.”

“Beatrice will be relieved to have you there. She needs

you as much as Lydia does, Catherine. She knows you

understand how much it hurts to see someone you love...”

Hilary stopped. She did not want to risk upsetting

Catherine any more than she knew she already was. The

remainder of the journey would require all of their

concentration. But Catherine had only half-heard Hilary.

Her thoughts were a confused jumble, filled with too many

emotions and questions.

“Hilary, what will happen now? What will Lydia’s

father do?”

“We cannot be sure, Catherine. He may try to come

after her, but he will see that she cannot be taken all the

way back to Greencastle in her present state. Beatrice sent

word to him that Lydia is gravely ill and that he should

dismiss any plans to sail for France indefinitely. We can

only hope that he will honor his sister’s request.”

“Is he aware of the source of her injuries?”

“Not likely. I imagine Isadore has fled somewhere far

away from both Briarcrest and Greencastle. I would be very

surprised if we heard from him any time soon. Some of our

men are pursuing him, but I do not know if they will be

successful.”

Catherine was pensive. Her thoughts wandered to the

Hallow’s Eve night incident in the alley. She told Hilary the story, relating her feelings of rage toward the monster that

tried to hurt and violate Lydia. “I was shocked to find that I had such violent emotions within me that night. Now I

find that I have the same contempt for this cleric who

ordered my, my...”

Catherine’s eyes filled with pain. Anguish prevented

her from continuing.

Hilary knew that Catherine needed to speak of her fears

and concerns, so she pressed her. “Say it, Catherine. You

must.”

Catherine looked at Hilary through a cloud of agony

and confusion. Say it? Say it out loud so that someone other than Lydia might know? I cannot say it.

“Catherine?”

“Hilary—”

Tears welled up in Catherine’s eyes now. They seemed

to wash away her bewilderment. Remembering just who

this companion of hers was, that Hilary and Beatrice... W hat was it that Lydia said? ‘They are like us, Catherine.’

“Hilary,” Catherine started again, “I feel as if I could

kill this fiend who has hurt my beloved Lydia.”

Hilary cooed, “Catherine, you must not hold it in any

longer. Tears will cleanse you so that you can continue this journey.”

Catherine buried her face in her hands. Allowing

herself to open to all of the emotion she felt, she shuddered and tears gushed forth as if a floodgate had been opened.

Hilary put her arm around Catherine’s shoulders and sat

with her in silence.

When the tears finally stopped flowing, Catherine felt

stronger. She sat up and looked Hilary in the eye. “I love

her, you know.”

“I know you do. And she loves you. I hope you know

that, too.”

“I do.”

“I do not know what we can do to help you, Catherine, but know that Beatrice and I shall do all that we can. At the moment, though, I am afraid all we can do is help Lydia get

well again. Her condition warrants your expertise in the

healing arts, to be sure. It may take a long time for her to recover. Are you prepared for that?”

“I will do whatever it takes, Hilary. I could never turn

my back on her. Not now, not ever. When I told her not to

come to Willowglen, I only wanted to make it easier for her

to keep peace with her father. I only wanted her to come to

no harm, especially at my doing.”

Catherine stared straight ahead and continued, “When I

left Briarcrest after the May celebration, I wanted so much

for Lydia to return to Willowglen with me. After I arrived

home, I used to imagine her just outside in the garden,

tending one of the herb patches. I would think, ‘soon she

will come though the door into the shop and say something

to me at which we will both laugh.’ I wanted her with me

so much it hurt.”

“I don’t know if you can believe this, Catherine, but I do

understand.”

“I believe you, Hilary. I’ve seen you with Beatrice, and I

hope you will not mind, but, well, Lydia told me about you

two.”

“Lydia told us, Catherine. We have no need to hide

from one another.”

Catherine continued, “Seeing you and Beatrice—your

love for each other—it is apparent that it has matured over

the years. It has a richness about it that I can only hope

Lydia and I can find in the future.”

“You will have it, Catherine. I feel sure of it.”

They sat in silence again. Catherine absently reached

for the pendant around her neck and caressed it between

her thumb and forefinger.

After a time, Henry and Tom rounded up the grazing

horses and led them toward the women. As they

approached, Hilary said, “The time has come, Catherine.

We must get you to Briarcrest. Are you ready to ride?”

Catherine’s “yes” was strong, emphatic. The women

mounted their horses, and the group started back toward

the main road. After going a short distance, they reached

the fork in the road that would take them to Briarcrest.

Their spirits lifted just a little, for soon the road would

smooth out.

Once it did, Henry looked back at Hilary, who ordered,

“Let us make haste, Henry—to Briarcrest, as quickly as we

can.”

Henry squeezed his horse’s flanks with his thighs and

took off at a gallop. Hilary followed suit. Catherine stayed at her side. Young Tom quickened his horse right behind

them. They made better time now and, by early afternoon, a

large cloud of dust could be seen on the road approaching

Briarcrest. Beatrice had sent a man to the tower to watch

for their approach. When he saw the shadow billowing up

from the road in the distance, he knew it must be the riders

from Willowglen.

The watchman climbed down from his lookout post and

returned to Briarcrest Hall. He found Beatrice as he had left her—seated beside a small, battered-looking figure lying on

a cot in front of a blazing fire. He bent down to Beatrice’s ear and whispered his message.

“Thank God,” Beatrice sighed. Then she turned her

attention back to the ghostly shape lying in front of her.

Chapter Twenty-one

The Feast of St. John the Baptist

June 24, 1459

Briarcrest Hall

FOUR RIDERS DISMOUNTED and handed over their

horses to a stable hand. Hilary insisted that Henry and Tom

go home to rest. The two women shook the dust from their

cloaks. Passing several guards, they entered the great hall

of Briarcrest.

Catherine glanced around the expanse of the main room.

It felt desolate and cold compared to the first time she had

been there, in spite of the huge fire burning in the fireplace at the far end of the room. Catherine breathed a sigh of

relief when she saw the blaze. They were keeping Lydia

warm. That was important.

Beatrice turned when she heard them come in, but she

did not leave her post. As the pair approached, she got up

and greeted Catherine with a silent embrace. When she let

go, Catherine saw the Duchess’ eyes were filled with tears.

Catherine went to Lydia’s side and knelt down. Behind

her, she heard Hilary ask about the young woman’s

condition. Beatrice whispered that there had been no

change.

Catherine took Lydia’s delicate hand in her own. She

choked back her own tears as she whispered softly, “Lydia,

it’s Catherine. I’m here. I have come to help you get well.”

Silence.

Catherine had ministered to many sick and injured

people over the years. Once, she had to attend to someone

who had been badly mauled by a wild animal. Another had

been thrown from a horse. She had treated still more with

fevers and other mysterious maladies. She had felt

compassion for them all. She was angered, too, by the

injustice of the human condition. Still, she was not

prepared for the gamut of emotion she experienced when

she surveyed the battered Lydia.

The only color on the young woman’s face was the blue

discoloration turning to yellow and green around her eyes

and a large, raw scrape on her cheek. Her once-smooth

shoulders had red, angry gashes on them from the lashes of

a whip. Catherine was at once terrified, saddened, and

enraged. She bit her lip as hard as she could. She had to

remain in control for Lydia’s sake.

She searched deep within herself for one small, glowing

ember of strength and confidence. Finding it, she fanned

the spark until it burst forth into a bright flame. When she was sure the fire would not die, she stood up and turned to

Beatrice and Hilary.

With confidence, she said, “I have probably had more

sleep than both of you together in the past few days. Go

and get some rest. Leave me with Lydia. I shall attend to

her. I have some herbs in my bag with which to soothe her

wounds. All I require is some hot water and a few soft

pieces of cloth.”

Beatrice started to protest, but Hilary took her by the

arm and led her to the stairway. She half-whispered,

“Beatrice, she is right. We both need to get some rest.

Catherine will need to be relieved later and we should be

ready to do so. For now, leave her alone with the child. It will be good for both of them.”

Catherine had already set to work, removing several

small bundles of herbs from her bag. She looked up from

her preparations and encouraged them with a nod. They

looked exhausted.

Beatrice sighed in resignation, “You are right, Hilary.”

Then she turned and spoke to Catherine. “I know you will

take good care of her, Catherine. I shall send Joanna down

to help you. She will get you anything you need.”

Beatrice started up the stairs slowly, heavily weighted

down by concern and fatigue. Hilary walked at her side, her arm around Beatrice.

A SHORT TIME later, Joanna came downstairs. She had

dark circles under her eyes, undoubtedly from worrying

about Beatrice and Hilary as much as from her concern for

Lydia. She greeted Catherine eagerly. “Oh, Catherine, I am

so glad you have come. Beatrice said you require some

water and cloths. I will get them for you.”

“Thank you, Joanna.”

The older woman padded off toward the kitchen.

As she waited for Joanna to return, Catherine let her

eyes drift down the length of the great hall. By the dim

glow of candlelight, she could just make out the

antechamber at the opposite end of the room. Two guards,

in helmets and full mail and armor, and with large swords

sheathed at their sides, stood watch.

Catherine turned back to the small cot. Her sad sigh

echoed through the hall. She shook off the heaviness and

reached for the flame deep within her being. She folded

back Lydia’s covers carefully and swallowed hard when she

saw the full extent of Lydia’s wounds.

Catherine lifted Lydia to one side gently to examine her

back. Lydia moaned. Catherine’s rage welled up again.

The Hallow’s Eve monster’s face materialized before her.

She saw herself chasing him through the streets. When she

caught up with him, she wrapped her hands around his

flabby neck, clamping tighter and tighter as she watched

him gasp for air. This time, the ghoul wore the robes of a

cleric.

Catherine shook off the ghostly vision and refocused her

attention on Lydia. She carefully laid the young woman

back onto the cot and gently covered her frail-looking body.

Joanna returned bearing a basin and a pitcher of

steaming water. Several soft, felted towels hung over her

arm, a smaller version of the kind Catherine remembered

using during the May celebration. The May celebration—it

seems like an eternity ago. Everything is so different now. But it will return to happier times. It must. And it will be even better than before, for Lydia and I will be together. Now I know that I cannot keep her from my life. First, though, I must get her well.

“Shall I help you, mum?” Joanna asked softly.

“Yes, please, Joanna. I shall need you to hold her while

I bathe and dress the wounds on her back.”

Joanna brightened. “Yes, mum,” she replied

enthusiastically.

Catherine took a cloth from the older woman’s arm.

“Can you tell me what has been done for her thus far,

Joanna?”

“Beatrice cleaned her wounds and bathed her with

comfrey.”

“Good,” pronounced Catherine, “but there is more I can

do. I shall require a small, clean bowl.”

“Yes, mum.”

While Joanna went off toward the kitchen again,

Catherine poured hot water over one of the cloths and

washed the grit and grime of the road from her hands and

forearms. Then she removed a small mortar and pestle from

her bag. She placed a few dried plantain leaves in the cup

and began grinding skillfully.

By the time Joanna returned with a small pottery bowl,

Catherine had the leaves reduced to a powder. She poured

the fine particles into the bowl and took another herb, white willow bark, from a container. It, too, would be added after she ground it down. When the mixture was prepared,

Catherine poured a small amount of water into the dish and

blended it into a thick paste. Once applied, the compound

would ease Lydia’s pain and help soothe the infection that

Catherine saw had already started. She motioned to Joanna

and the older woman turned Lydia gently. Catherine

applied the poultice to the open gashes across Lydia’s back,

touching the injured woman as lightly as she could during

the process. Once the application was finished, Catherine

took another soft cloth and dipped it into the warm water.

She laid it across Lydia’s back to keep the herb mixture soft, allowing it to penetrate deeply. When she was done, they

rolled Lydia back onto the cot.

Catherine continued medicating Lydia’s injured

shoulders, neck, chest and abdomen with skilled

proficiency. Finally, she applied the poultice to her arms,

her legs, and the wound on her face. Had Catherine not

been concentrating on her ministrations, she probably

would have had to fight off her rage again.

The two women placed the cover over Lydia’s body

again. She did not stir. Catherine watched her shallow

breathing and decided that she had been through enough

for the moment. “She should rest, now, Joanna. We will not

need to change the cloths for some time.”

“I shall be back after a while, then, mum,” Joanna said.

She picked up the water vessel and moved off toward the

kitchen.

Catherine took up Beatrice’s vacant post. The house

grew quiet. Fatigue from the ride and the toll of the

emotion at seeing Lydia’s condition overtook her like a

heavy mist. She nodded off. Her rest was brief, though, for a few moments later she was awakened by Lydia’s moaning.

Catherine sprang to the injured woman’s side. She

spoke to her in soothing tones, telling Lydia about the

treatment she had just given her. She asked her to forgive

her for the pain she had caused her and assured her that she

would try to limit her discomfort by doing only what was

necessary to make her well. Then she added that, when

Lydia was better, they would be together—always.

Catherine was not sure if it was what she said or merely

the sound of her voice, but Lydia became calmer and

breathed a little easier, so Catherine decided to continue.

She told Lydia about being awakened in the early morning

hours to find Hilary and Henry at the door of her shop. She

even laughed briefly as she related the look on Sarah’s face

at seeing Lady Hilary in men’s clothes. She recounted the

journey from Willowglen including her conversation with

Hilary by the watering pond.

Lydia seemed to rest more comfortably. When she

looked as if she were sleeping peacefully, Catherine sat in

silence, holding Lydia’s hand.

BEATRICE RETURNED TO the hall later that evening

looking somewhat refreshed. Catherine informed her of her

course of treatment. Beatrice nodded and smiled.

“Catherine,” she said haltingly, “I am so grateful that you

have come. Lydia needs you here. I need you. I thought, if she knew you had come, she might not give up. I thought,

with your skilled care, she might have a chance. I hope you

do not mind that I sent for you.”

“Oh, Beatrice, do you think I could stay away knowing

that something had happened to Lydia? Nothing could

keep me in Willowglen when I heard. We both want the

same thing for her. We both...love her.”

There was sadness in Beatrice’s smile, and tears welled

up in her eyes. She tried to choke them back,

unsuccessfully. Patting Catherine’s arm, she tried to

convince the young woman to go upstairs and rest, but was

not surprised to be refused. She knew Catherine would not

be willing to leave Lydia’s side just yet. They sat together, trying to will Lydia back to them.

Chapter Twenty-two

The Feast of St. John the Baptist

Nightfall

On the sailing ship Stella Maris

COLD SPRAY PUMMELED Isadore’s face. He had never

liked the sea. He did not trust it. After all, there was

always the chance of falling off the edge of the world.

People said it was not possible, that the earth was round,

not flat at all, but Isadore did not believe it.

All his life, the cleric had made every effort to stay away

from sailing vessels of any kind, to keep his feet firmly

planted on the ground. It was ironic that he should end up

on a ship now, fleeing for his life.

He had known immediately that there would be no place

to hide in all of England. The men of Greencastle had

abandoned him immediately after depositing Lydia’s limp

body at the Abbey. They had scattered in different

directions to save their own hides, wanting nothing more to

do with him.

After running for several days, he made his way to the

coast. In desperation, he struggled to overcome his

contempt for the sea when he realized that fleeing by ship

seemed his only alternative. At first, the captain of the

vessel bound for Spain would not allow him passage.

Saying that he looked like a man on the run, he added that a

man on the run usually brought trouble. The captain did

not want trouble.

In an uncharacteristic stroke of genius, Isadore

concocted a story about being sent to Spain on an urgent

errand for the local Inquisitor. Since the last thing the

captain wanted was problems with the Inquisition, he asked

no more questions. Instead he waved Isadore onto the deck,

grumbling under his breath as he did. The captain then

barked orders to the crew who scurried around heaving the

last of the heavy cargo on board from the dock. When

everything was loaded, they hoisted the sails—hours before

they were scheduled to leave port.

Up on the ship’s deck Isadore sat contemplating his fate.

He had not meant his life to come to this pitiful hour. He

had once entertained noble and pious ambitions. When he

became a priest, he thought himself bound for greatness.

He dreamed of becoming a university teacher, but he was

never to realize his dream. He found the world much too

distracting to apply himself to his studies. Frustration

deepened with the passing years and he was not able to

obtain the recognition that was so important to him.

His studies had made him a marginal teacher, at best.

To his discredit, he had little patience with people. He

fought constantly to control his temper, as well as his

passions. Once he secured the meager scrap of a position he

had as the tutor of a nobleman’s woman-child, he found

that his hostility only increased. He knew full well that he had been granted the commission by Lord Wellington only

because of pressure from the man’s sister. It seemed she

believed the girl should be given an education. He didn’t

really understand why, but it presented him an opportunity

unlike any other. His deception secured his place. He had

told the Earl that he had, in fact, been a university teacher.

Fortunately for the clergyman, there was no one in the

vicinity to dispute his claim.

It didn’t take Isadore long to figure out that the

nobleman was not very noble at all. Anger heaped upon a

lifetime of anger made the fire of resentment fester in

Isadore’s belly. He regarded the Earl as arrogant and self-

important, always demanding his own way.

Lord Wellington cared nothing for the piety that Isadore

had hoped to instill in him and his household. The final

indignity was that, once he was in the service of the Earl of Greencastle, the man adopted a dismissive attitude toward

him. Even the woman-child’s nurse got more recognition

than he did, and her wishes were always honored. It

seemed to Isadore that her wish to take the child to

Briarcrest was always granted a little too willingly. It was all very hard for Isadore to swallow.

Then there was her newest protector—the herbalist. He

felt an ache between his shoulder blades and he felt a

shortness of breath when he thought of her. What did she

think she was doing—fighting like a man in the dark of

night? He had arrived in town the day before Hallow’s Eve

and waited for his chance. He was wild with anticipation

when he realized what good fortune was his when the two

women attended the gathering in the square and then left

alone, but it hadn’t worked. No it hadn’t worked at all.

Because he didn’t deserve it? Or because it was his fate to

be a tormented, miserable wretch for the rest of his life?

He shook his fleshy fist into the damp night air and

cried, “I shall show them all the error of their ways one

day.”

A plume of salt water splashed over the deck as the boat

started to pitch again. For the fourth time in an hour,

Isadore charged to the side of the ship and heaved the

meager contents of his stomach over the railing. He spat

and muttered a curse into the night.

Returning to the crate he used for a seat, thoughts

rushed madly through Isadore’s head. His mood changed

when Lydia came to mind. “Such a sweet child,” he

whined.

The fire in the pit of his stomach flared up again. Every

time he thought of her, his skin tingled. It was a sweet pain and he liked the feeling. But that infernal nursemaid had

never allowed him a moment that was not filled with

lessons.

“Lessons, lessons, lessons. Always lessons,” he chanted

bitterly.

Well, he’d taught them all a lesson, now, hadn’t he? He

had shown them. The child had grown far too willful.

Imagine, refusing to acquiesce to his—that is, her father’s—

orders to return to Greencastle with him. If it was not his responsibility to teach her a lesson, then whose was it?

Perhaps in the future she would remember her place. After

all, she was only a woman.

The old crone who guarded her night and day was

finally dead and gone. Good riddance, too. As soon as he

heard the news, he seized the opportunity to act, but he had

failed, miserably. He plunged his head into his hands and

rocked back and forth. “Such a lovely child,” Isadore

crooned.

His painful fantasy made him wince. He had wrestled

with thoughts of Lydia for most of his years at Greencastle,

from the time she was but a child. As she matured, his

torment grew with her. Unable to overcome his wicked

thoughts, he fluctuated between despondency and self-

righteousness.

A sinister laugh emerged from his fleshy lips. If he

could not have her, no one would. Perhaps she was dead by

now. A fate she surely deserved.

“And look at me in my miserable situation,” he seethed.

“Abandoned and fleeing from everything I have ever

wanted—forced onto a ship, for heaven’s sake! I shall show

them. I shall show them all—if I survive.”

Isadore ran for the side of the ship again. As he retched,

he hurled his curse into the dark, turbulent sea.

He had no idea where he would go once he reached

Spain. At the moment, he cared little. His only prayer was

that he be able to plant his feet on firm ground again.

Perhaps he could find a monastery willing to extend him

their hospitality. He knew he would not stay long, though,

for the austerity of the monastic life held no attraction for him.He shuddered, thinking of the alternative. He could end

up a poor, homeless beggar. Even worse, he still might not

survive this wretched voyage at all.

Overcome with cynicism, he hissed to himself, “This is

your downfall, Isadore. You would not be in this

predicament if you had only been able to control your

passions. You are depraved—a sinner—deserving of

death—and this journey might well be your undoing.”

The battle continued to rage within him as the ship

tossed about on the sea. He was right; he was wrong. He

was pious; he was profane. He was pure; he was obscene.

He was honorable; he was contemptible. In his misery, he

began to think dying on the high seas might be a preferred

alternative, but cowardice overcame him. Trapped, ill, his

mind by turns racing and stuttering, he at last found

comfort of a sort in assigning blame. Seasickness faded

before the thought of revenge.

Raising a fist again, he cried out to the blackness, “They

can’t kill me. I will not allow it. By the God above, they will pay for this. I vow, here and now, that they will all pay.”

He barely got his oath out before he was back at the rail

of the ship, vomiting.

Chapter Twenty-three

Lydia’s Healing

June 1459

Briarcrest Hall

CATHERINE SUPPLEMENTED HER original mixture of

herbs to fight the fever and to ease the pain with a

fomentation of comfrey to soothe Lydia’s wounds and aid

their healing. The sun rose and set again. Still, Catherine would not leave Lydia’s side. Having discovered that

speaking to Lydia in quiet tones soothed her, Catherine

kept it up.

She told stories of events in Willowglen, keeping her

narratives light, hoping they would buoy Lydia’s spirits—

if, indeed, she heard them. When Beatrice came to Lydia’s

side now, Catherine encouraged her to follow her lead.

Beatrice held Lydia’s hand and talked to her softly,

recounting tales of Lydia’s childhood experiences at

Briarcrest, hoping these, too, would help revive her.

Hilary also came and sat by Lydia’s side, but she said

nothing. During one such visit, Catherine realized that

Hilary said nothing because she silently shed tears. Only

then did she understand how much affection Hilary held for

Lydia.

AT THE END of the second day, when Catherine still

refused all offers to allow anyone else to replace her,

Beatrice had another cot set up beside Lydia’s. Catherine

used the cot only briefly during the night when she could

no longer keep her eyes open. Most of the time, she sat in

the chair watching over Lydia, willing her to live.

AS THE FIRST light of the third day crept into the hall

through the windows overlooking the garden, Lydia

moaned. Catherine leaped to her side and laid a hand on

her forehead. It felt cool for the first time since Catherine had arrived. Her fever had broken. The poultices were

working. Catherine took Lydia’s hand in her own and

examined her bruised fingers. A single tear ran down

Catherine’s cheek. She wiped it away with her free hand

and looked back at Lydia’s battered face.

Lydia’s eyelids seemed to move just a little. Catherine

moved closer, inspecting the injured woman. She called to

her soothingly and Lydia’s eyelids fluttered open. With

difficulty, she tried to focus on Catherine’s face.

Catherine smiled at Lydia through tear-filled eyes. At

first, she was so overcome, she could not speak, but she

finally managed a whisper. “Everything is going to be all

right, my love. You will get well now. I am here to take

care of you. I will not leave you. I promise.”

Lydia’s lips were dry and cracked from her ordeal. She

tried to speak but could not. Catherine offered her a small

amount of liquid which she drank with some difficulty.

Catherine comforted, “Just lie still and rest, Lydia.

There will be time enough to talk when you have regained

some of your strength.”

Lydia relaxed and nodded, and Catherine breathed a

sigh of relief. Now there was hope that Lydia might well

survive.

CATHERINE SAT WITH the chair pulled up to the cot,

holding Lydia’s hand and beaming. When Joanna came in

from the kitchen to see if Catherine needed anything after

her night-long vigil, the herbalist nodded toward the pale

figure beside her. Joanna turned and realized that Lydia’s

eyes were open. The older woman gasped.

Catherine blinked back tears again and said, “Joanna, I

think it would be a good idea if you would ask Beatrice and

Hilary to come down.” Then she turned to Lydia and said,

“They have been very worried about you. They would have

been here, except that I insisted they go upstairs and get

some rest a few hours ago.”

As Lydia nodded weakly, Joanna headed for the

stairway with a new spring in her step.

BEATRICE APPEARED ON the landing in her stocking

feet and wearing a felted robe. She looked

uncharacteristically disheveled. Her hair was uncombed

and she still had sleep in her eyes. Peering over the

landing, she blinked a few times to focus on the small cot.

She turned toward the darkened upper hallway and

exclaimed, “Hilary, it is true!”

Beatrice headed down the stairs with Hilary close at her

heels. The two women stood beside the cot, panting. It was

true. Lydia’s eyes were open. She was alive despite the

wounds and bruises she still bore.

Beatrice dropped to her knees beside the cot and stroked

her niece’s hair. She spoke lovingly to Lydia, tears filling her eyes. “Lydia, Lydia, I am so happy to see your beautiful eyes again.”

Catherine agreed wholeheartedly. “She has a long

mending period ahead,” the healer said, “but she will get

stronger now, I am sure of it, Beatrice. She is having

difficulty speaking after her ordeal but, hopefully, her voice will return soon. For the moment, some soothing tea would

help. Then she must rest.”

Joanna had followed Beatrice and Hilary back to the

main hall and Catherine now requested some licorice tea to

soothe Lydia’s throat. When Joanna brought the drink,

Lydia took a few small sips and mouthed “thank you.”

Beatrice and Hilary, satisfied that Lydia truly had rallied,

excused themselves to get dressed.

When Catherine was alone with Lydia again, she

confessed, “As the days passed, I became concerned that

you might never awaken. The thought frightened me so,

Lydia. I am so relieved that you have opened your eyes at

last.” Shyly, Catherine added, “I cannot live without you,

Lydia.”

Lydia smiled—just a little. Then she mouthed, “How

long?”

“How long have you been...ill?”

Lydia nodded.

Taking a moment to count, Catherine replied, “Ten

days. Do you remember being at the Abbey?”

Lydia looked confused. Finally, she shook her head

“no.”

Catherine continued, “You were there for five days.

Then Hilary brought you back here to Briarcrest and she

and Henry came to fetch me—that was two more days. I

arrived here three days ago. I have been tending your

wounds ever since.”

Lydia smiled again but the smile was replaced by a

pained look. She mouthed her question in a single word.

“Father?”

Catherine questioned, “Your father?”

Lydia nodded once.

“You want to know if we have heard from him?”

She nodded again.

“We’ve had no word. Beatrice sent a message that you

were much too ill to travel and that your father should give

up his plans, but he has sent no word back. It seems

strange. We have no idea what he intends to do now, but do

not be concerned. He will not be allowed into Briarcrest.

Beatrice has seen to it that all is secure. No one will be

allowed entry unless Beatrice permits it, I can tell you that.

Look,” Catherine pointed down the length of the main hall

toward the guards at the other end. Lydia turned slowly.

“Briarcrest’s men are everywhere, standing ready. They are

on guard outside, as well as inside the walls. You are safe.

Do not be troubled, my Lydia. Only rest and get well.”

But Lydia did look troubled. She wanted to speak but

could not. Frustrated by the absence of her voice, she

closed her eyes in weariness and sighed. Catherine

understood.

“I want, with all my heart, to see you well again. Rest,

Lydia. Do you think you can sleep for a while?”

Lydia nodded “yes” without opening her eyes. She

moved with great effort and held out her hand to Catherine.

Catherine took it tenderly in her own.

“Sleep, my dear. I shall be right here when you

awaken.”

Lydia smiled weakly. Catherine, too, smiled for she

could see a faint hint of color returning to Lydia’s pale skin.

There was hope. Catherine felt it. Finally, as the sun rose higher in the morning sky, Lydia drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-four

Feast of St. Mary Magdalene

July 22, 1459

Briarcrest Hall

LYDIA’S WOUNDS, WELTS and bruises made

movement extremely painful. Catherine waged a vigilant

battle against infection with her potions, teas and

ointments. Several times a day, she massaged an herbal

mixture into Lydia’s scarring tissue to help keep her skin

soft and pliable. Although it was painful, Lydia endured it.

After a few days, her voice returned, at first only in a

whisper, but it grew stronger as time passed. Catherine

allowed Lydia a little solid food, along with the broths and

teas that she prescribed as she regained her strength. In

tending to Lydia, Catherine found yet another expression of

her love for her in her healing art. It pleased her to see the progress Lydia was making.

Catherine now allowed herself brief intervals to get

some much-needed rest each afternoon. However, she

would not allow anyone else to stay with Lydia during the

night, for the recovering woman was frequented by horrific

dreams. Images she could not describe haunted her. In

fitful sleep, she moaned and cried out. Sometimes, it was difficult to awaken her. She would be bathed in sweat and

frightened beyond words. During those times, all Catherine

could do was hold Lydia close and soothe her fears away

gradually.

Each evening, as the rest of the household retired to

their own chambers, Catherine took up her post in the chair

or on the cot beside Lydia while she slept. During the day,

Beatrice, Hilary or Joanna stayed with Lydia since the

nightmares plagued her only at night.

One afternoon, Lydia looked at Beatrice, who sat by her

side, and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Auntie, I wish I were

able to walk up the stairs to go to my own room. It would

be more comfortable for Catherine since she will not let

anyone else stay with me at night. And,” she added shyly,

“I wish we could be together.”

Beatrice needed no further explanation. “Perhaps you

will be well enough soon, dear,” she replied, already

formulating a plan to grant her niece’s request. When

Catherine returned later that afternoon, Beatrice excused

herself, saying she had some business that needed her

attention. She disappeared quickly, and was absent until

just before the evening meal.

Beatrice and Hilary returned to the main hall leading

two muscular young men carrying a chair suspended

between two large poles. Catherine’s curiosity was piqued.

Beatrice announced, “Lydia expressed a desire to be

moved into her own room today, and this seems a good

thing to me. Does it not seem so to you, Catherine?”

Surprised, Catherine responded, “Why, yes, Beatrice. It

might be more comfortable for her in her own bed. She is

recovering well enough to be away from the fire and the

weather has been pleasant anyway.”

The two lads waited patiently as Beatrice and Catherine

slowly helped Lydia off the cot, wrapping her in the fur

cover from the bed, and carefully settling her onto the chair.

Hoisting the makeshift throne gently, the pair stepped up

the stairway. Lydia sat suspended between them. By this

time, a small crowd of household staff gathered to follow

the group up the stairs, chirping their excitement and

admonishing the young men to take care with the injured

woman.

When they set the litter down, Beatrice and Catherine

helped Lydia into the tapestry-curtained bed. The boys left

without a word, the household staff chattering excitedly

behind them as they departed. Before Joanna left, she

encouraged Lydia to rest. It was apparent that the journey

from the great hall to her bedchamber had taken its toll on

her.When Catherine and Lydia were alone, Catherine

encouraged, “Sleep, now, Lydia. There is time before they

bring the evening meal to you.”

Lydia patted the bed beside her with some effort and

said in a gravel-textured voice, “Come and lay beside me,

Catherine. I will rest so much better if you do.”

A look of concern crossed Catherine’s face. “Lydia, I am

not sure it is wise. It would be better if I had the cot

brought upstairs. You are still in a great deal of pain.”

Lydia’s hoarse “no” was adamant. Then, with pleading

in her eyes, she said, “I should rest with you beside me.

That is how I will rest best, and I do not want you to endure that uncomfortable cot any longer.”

Catherine thought about opposing Lydia, but decided

against it. She did not want to agitate the young woman.

Besides, I want to be with Lydia, to lie beside her again. Perhaps it is the best thing we can do for her healing.

Thus, they passed their nights side-by-side in the large

tapestried bed. The days came and went with Lydia

devoting herself to rest and recuperation. Catherine did

everything she knew to assist Lydia’s healing—and it

seemed to be working.

DURING ONE OF Beatrice’s afternoon visits, Lydia and

Beatrice spoke of Marian.

Lydia admitted for the first time, with tears in her eyes,

“I miss her so much.”

“I know, child. I miss her, too,” Beatrice replied, patting

her niece’s hand.

“What do you suppose she would say about all this,

Auntie?”

Beatrice grew thoughtful. Finally, she replied, “Marian

understood more of what went on in your life than you

realize, Lydia. She sheltered you more than you know.

However, she knew that you had come to a crossroads and

she could not protect you any longer. You would have a

difficult road ahead of you, especially if you chose to defy

your father over your coming betrothal. She knew well that

Catherine was important and special to you. She did not

intend to stand in the way of your happiness, even if your

father would.”

“Do you think that’s possible, Auntie?” Lydia’s tone

was full of hope. “Do you think that Catherine and I could

ever find the happiness that you and Hilary have found

here?”

“You must understand. Hilary and I came together by

chance. What we made of our feelings happened only

because fate chose to smile on us. If Hilary’s father had not died, leaving her with no betrothal plans and no family who

cared to interfere with her future, and if the Duke of

Briarcrest had not met his untimely death, our lives might

have been vastly different.”

Lydia was quiet, hesitating before daring the question

she had long wondered about. “Did you love him, Auntie?”

The question took Beatrice by surprise. She had not

thought about it for many years—not really. Nevertheless,

Beatrice had always been honest with her young niece, so

she tried to answer her truthfully. “I did not choose the

Duke as my husband, Lydia. He was chosen for me by my

own father, your grandfather, who was Earl of Greencastle

then. For my own part, I understood that I would marry

someone of my father’s choosing. I never questioned it.

“My father was not very different from yours in that he

looked long and hard for a husband for me, but that is

where the similarities end. His reasons for choosing

carefully were different from your father’s motivation, for

my father was content with his title and fortune. He only

wanted a good man of suitable title who would treat his

daughter with decency. He thought he had found that man

in the Duke of Briarcrest, and he thought correctly. In our

short time together, I found the Duke to be a kind husband.

He was quick to praise my virtues and tried, although he

did not always succeed, to be attentive to my desires. He

never mistreated me.

“When he went off chasing his own ideals, he was

content to leave Briarcrest in my hands, for he knew I had

his best interest at heart and that I was capable of managing his estate well. He went away—unknowingly to his death—

leaving me in charge of his household, his lands, and his

fortune, willingly.

“Did I love him? I respected him, as he respected me.

Did I love him? I did not feel passion for him, no, not like the passion I found for the young Hilary when she came to

Briarcrest those many years ago. Not like the passion I feel for her still. She makes these old bones feel alive, and she gives me strength and support. She is truly a helpmate,

Lydia.”

Beatrice paused, blushing a little at her own candor,

before continuing. “I do not know if you and Catherine can

find the same peace and happiness that Hilary and I have

found. We gained the respect of those who served us over

the years. Our own peers accepted us each for our station in life, for Hilary is a Lady of Court in her own right, as you

know. Oh, we were not without trials, but we overcame

them. They seem of little consequence to me now for we

have found that, if people appreciate you, they will leave

you in peace.

“Of course, having the treasury of Briarcrest at our

disposal has not hurt, either. You, on the other hand, will

not be as fortunate. The coffers of Greencastle are not

available to you. Still, Catherine has her business, and you have never been afraid to roll up your sleeves and do a little work. I have always said that trait would stand you in good

stead.

“I do not think it totally out of the question for you and

Catherine to make your way together. However, we must

think of a way to get around this will of your father’s to

marry you off to a French noble. Do not be troubled,

though, child. When the time is right, we shall know what

to do. I am sure of it.”

Chapter Twenty-five

The Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin

August 15, 1459

Briarcrest

THE DAY LYDIA left the upstairs bedchamber and

made her way slowly down the stairs for the first time,

Catherine breathed another sigh of relief. At last, she felt confident that the young noblewoman would recover

completely.

In the beginning, Catherine and Beatrice would permit

her to lean on no one but them. Lately, however, they

allowed Joanna to accompany her, for she was able to

negotiate the stairs alone. Oftentimes, now, she did not

even need to stop and rest going up or down. During the

warm summer afternoons, Lydia had taken to sitting in the

little inner garden. This bright day, she sat by the pond

watching some birds bathe and drink.

Catherine joined Lydia in the courtyard and wandered

off to a corner bench to write Sarah a note. She sat with her back against a stone wall, its firm coolness pleasant on the

warm summer day. A wooden lap desk, borrowed from

Beatrice, rested on Catherine’s knees. She dipped a quill

into the ink bottle and carefully penned to her young

assistant the news of Lydia’s improvement. She expressed

her secret desire to bring Lydia home to Willowglen when

she was well enough to travel. Looking over at her beloved

sitting by the pool’s edge, Catherine thought, Perhaps I

should tell Lydia of my plan...

Smiling to herself, Catherine returned to her note, anxious to finish. Beatrice had informed her that a man

would be leaving on an errand that would take him close to

Willowglen. If Catherine wanted to send Sarah a message,

he could deliver it.

Catherine signed the note and joined Lydia. “I am going

to give Beatrice my note for Sarah. Would you like me to

help you upstairs first?”

“I thought I would stay downstairs for the evening meal

tonight, Catherine. I am tired of eating in my chamber. It

will do me good to be among the household at table, don’t

you agree?”

“Why, yes, Lydia. If you feel up to it, that means you

are progressing better than I had hoped.”

“I think for now, though, I’ll stay outside and enjoy the

last bit of the afternoon warmth. You go ahead, Catherine.

I shall join you later.”

Catherine caressed the top of Lydia’s head. She looked

into the grey-green eyes and, for the first time since May

time, their souls touched for a brief instant. It took

Catherine by surprise. She blushed, touched Lydia’s cheek

affectionately, and quickly left the enclosure.

BEATRICE SAT IN her study behind her large, ornate

writing table. A stack of papers was piled up in front of

her. She looked up as Catherine knocked lightly on the

open door. “Come in, Catherine,” Beatrice said. “I was just about to send for you.”

“My letter to Sarah is done, Beatrice. Here it is.”

“Oh, yes, fine,” Beatrice said distractedly. She pointed

to one side of the desk where a stack of finished documents

lay rolled and tied with red ribbons stamped with the wax

seal of Briarcrest. “Put it there, dear. Those will be sent off in the morning, but that is not why I wanted to call you. I

have news—of Lydia’s father.”

Catherine’s heart sank. This was news that she didn’t

think she wanted to hear. Trying to sound indifferent, she

inquired, “Oh, and what news is that, Beatrice?”

“News that confirms my suspicions, Catherine. News

that Lydia’s father had not returned from France when

Isadore showed up here for Lydia. We were falsely

informed. Some of my people have been able to gather enough information for us to piece together the patchwork

of events.

“First, there was no message from Lydia’s father. It was

all Isadore’s invention. Most likely it was all to serve his own, let us say, insidious end.”

Catherine stood before Beatrice without blinking. Past

conversations with Lydia went hurling through her mind.

Those that included Isadore came to the forefront, and in a

flash of insight, Catherine understood. Concern replaced

comprehension instantly. When she looked into Beatrice’s

eyes, she knew that it was all true.

She thought out loud, “Marian never left Lydia alone

with Isadore when she was a child.”

Beatrice, looking solemn, clarified, “She never left Lydia

alone with Isadore at any time in her life. She never trusted him.”

Alarm now replaced her concern. Catherine weighed

her next question carefully before she asked it. “Then,

Isadore wanted Lydia for himself?”

Beatrice studied Catherine. “I am afraid it is so,

Catherine.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Since Lydia was a child. You see, that is how she and

Marian came to spend so much time at Briarcrest. Marian

found that my brother would never deny her request to

bring Lydia to visit. He was never certain if I might serve

some purpose of his. Perhaps I might be manipulated into

granting him something he desired. Marian used that

selfishness on my brother’s part to get Lydia away from

Greencastle whenever she could, especially when Lord

Wellington was gone.

“Isadore watched himself carefully when the Earl was

there. He dared not act out of turn. However, whenever

my brother left Greencastle for any length of time, Isadore

would become brash, leering at Lydia. Marian feared what

else he might do, given the chance. So she brought Lydia

here as often as she could.”

“Beatrice, did you know that Isadore himself gave Lydia

that beating?”

Beatrice sat back in her chair and stared. “How do you

know this, Catherine?”

“Lydia is starting to remember her nightmares.

Fortunately, the more she remembers, the less they seem to

trouble her. They contain the details of what happened to

her, just as we suspected. She told me that when Isadore

caught up to her she was only a short distance from the

Abbey. When he ordered her to come with them, she

refused and kept walking, trying to reach the Abbey gate.

Because of her defiance, Isadore ordered the men with him

to seize and beat her, but they hesitated. No doubt they

weighed the consequences of harming their master’s

daughter against those from refusing Isadore’s orders.

When they did not take action fast enough, Isadore became

enraged and took matters into his own hands. Lydia said

that the last thing she can recall is her surprise that such a flaccid little man could have so much power as he lashed

the whip.”

Beatrice looked somber. She spoke slowly, deliberately.

“And yet, I am not surprised. His anger was, no doubt, that

of a man who has had his passion thwarted for years. He

probably took all of it out on Lydia—his obstructed lust for

her, his contempt of Marian, his loathing of Lydia’s father,

and especially for his plans to send Lydia away to be given

to another man. No,” Beatrice added bitterly, “I do not

doubt for one moment that Isadore was directly responsible

for Lydia’s injuries.”

It was distressing to Catherine to think that Isadore had

been a threat to Lydia for most of her life. Marian, alone,

had deflected that threat by her own cleverness for years.

In the end, though, from her final resting place, Marian had

not been able to protect Lydia.

Catherine thought, And what about us? What of Beatrice

and Hilary and I? Will we be able to protect Lydia now? Those of us who are left and who love Lydia still—can we continue to shield her from those who are after their own desires for her?

Catherine had no answers. She only had more

questions—questions she decided not to ask Beatrice at the

moment. However, her anxiety, for some reason, made her

wonder, Who was it that had come out of the alley on Hallow’s Eve night and tried to drag Lydia off?

LYDIA CAME IN from the garden and sat by the fire in

the main hall. She looked tired, but she would not hear of it when anyone suggested that she go upstairs and allow her

meal to be brought up to her. She insisted that she wanted

to prove to herself, as well as to everyone else, that she was truly on the mend.

At dinner, conversation at the long dining table in the

great hall was buoyed by Lydia’s presence. However, it

came to an abrupt end when they heard a great commotion

in the antechamber. The muffled exchange grew to a

shouting match, causing the diners to fall into a hushed silence. In the distant shadows, a guard tried to prevent

someone from entering the hall.

Lydia grew pale at the sound of the argument. Beatrice

and the healer exchanged a whispered conversation. They

decided that they would not draw attention to Lydia by

ushering her from the room unless they had reason to

believe she was in immediate danger. Catherine kept her

eyes on her companion and her ear to the next room, ready

for action.

The voices stopped. The guard stomped to the doorway,

his anger visible on his face. He struggled to keep his tone pleasant when he spoke. “Forgive the intrusion, Beatrice.

A messenger has come from Greencastle. He says he will

give his message to none other than yourself. Will My Lady

allow—”

The guard plunged forward, losing his footing. The

intruder had come up behind him and shoved him out of the

way. Not waiting for permission to speak, the uninvited

caller bellowed, “You must listen to my message, for I have

been sent by Lord Wellington, Earl of Greencastle.”

The guard regained his footing and reeled toward the

trespasser with his sword half drawn.

“Enough!” Beatrice roared.

Surprised, both men whirled back toward Beatrice and

stared, wide-eyed. Beatrice drew in her breath. Speaking in a softer tone, her voice still betrayed her irritation. “Speak, sir, if you must. I would rather hear your unbidden words

than see your blood spilled before my eyes for your

insolence.”

The guard riveted his eyes on the man and his hand

tightened on his resheathed weapon.

The intruder shrugged at him in mocked innocence and

continued, “My Lord Wellington sends you word that he is

on his way here. He shall call for his daughter, the Lady

Lydia Wellington, three days hence. She is to be ready to

return to France with Lord Wellington upon his arrival.”

Beatrice and the messenger glared at one another.

“And how am I to know this message to be truly from

my brother? Others have come before you, making claims

that have proven untrue.”

Feigning politeness, he said, “I know nothing of other

messages, good Lady. I know that I, myself, have come

from France with Lord Wellington only days ago. As soon

as we made our way to Greencastle and we found the Lady

and her maid still gone, my Lord bid me come here with this

message, straight away.”

Beatrice inquired, “Tell me, sir, what do you know of

Isadore, the cleric?”

“Nothing, Lady. There are those at Greencastle who say

he has done some dastardly deed and fled the country.

Perhaps the Lady of Briarcrest knows more of him than do

we. For I have heard that some of Briarcrest’s own men

pursue him still.”

“Do you know the reason for this pursuit?” Beatrice

inquired.

“No, Lady. All we have heard is that the cleric is

responsible for some abomination and would dare not

return. We have heard nothing else.”

“And has my brother no concern for this news?”

“Lord Wellington bid him good riddance if he cannot act

according to his station in life. He said he cannot trouble

himself with the man, for he has leeched from him for too

many years as it is. As my Lord has said, he has more

pressing concerns, for he must deliver the Lady Lydia back

to France with haste.”

“Does my brother not wonder what the cleric has

done?”

“I did not hear him inquire. I only know that Lord

Wellington wishes to have his daughter back.”

Beatrice, impatient with the man’s answers, still

persisted. “Was my brother not given my message that his

daughter was gravely ill and could not travel?”

“He was given the message, Lady, and he responded

that surely she must be recovered from whatever silly

woman’s malady has befallen her. It was then that he

decided he would come for her himself to make sure that his

will is carried out.”

The hall filled with an uneasy silence again. No one but

Hilary noticed the vein that swelled and pulsed on the side

of Beatrice’s neck, a sign of her growing anger.

Beatrice boomed with indignation, “If it is his will, then

who are we to interfere? Tell my brother, by all means, come to Briarcrest if he wishes. After all, we live and breathe to serve him. Heed my warning, however, sir. He may not find

things as he would have them when he arrives.”

Unsure of how to respond to Beatrice’s message, the

man opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, then looked

puzzled. Beatrice dismissed him. “You may rest in the

outer courtyard until you have eaten, then you are to leave.

Briarcrest’s hospitality extends no further.”

The man seemed to take no note of the fact that Beatrice

was banishing him. He bowed low, turned on his heels, and

smiled at the guard. Then, brushing him with his shoulder

as he passed, the messenger strode off. A second guard had

arrived and was waiting in the shadows. He now fell in

behind the man to escort him out.

Beatrice spoke to the knight before her. “Have some

food and drink brought to him from the kitchen, please,

Guy. Then see that he is on his way quickly. He is not

welcome to stay the night.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Sir Guy stomped toward the kitchen.

DURING THE IMPASSIONED exchange between

Beatrice and the man, Catherine watched Lydia turn ashen

at his message and become unsteady in her seat. Catherine

discreetly put a hand on Lydia’s arm to steady her. When

the stranger left the hall, Catherine turned toward Lydia

just in time to catch her as she fainted.

A flurry of activity followed. Someone ran to get water

from the kitchen. Catherine held a cool, wet towel to

Lydia’s forehead while she steadied her against her chest.

Moisture trickled down Catherine’s arm as she held the

cloth in place. The small rivulet distracted her from her

concern for a moment. But then, in the midst of tending to

Lydia, Catherine stared at Beatrice. What, I wonder, does the Duchess have up her sleeve?

A collective sigh rose up in the hall, when Lydia finally

opened her eyes. When she realized that everyone was

staring, Lydia apologized for causing a fuss. Then she

added, “Perhaps I must resign myself to going with my

father. It would cause you—all of you—far too much

turmoil if I were to refuse him.”

Beatrice’s jaw tensed. Then she boomed, “I will not hear

of any of this, Lydia. The man has no idea of the grief and

pain he causes by his selfish ignorance. I do not want to

hear you talk like that any more, do you hear me?”

Lydia nodded meekly.

Relief washed over Catherine as she thought, So, Beatrice has no intention of handing her over. She spoke up now.

“Beatrice, I think that Lydia should go upstairs and rest.

This has been quite an ordeal for her and she has been up

for the greater part of the day today. She is exhausted.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Beatrice said apologetically.

Turning to Lydia, Catherine asked, “Are you able to

walk, Lydia?”

“Yes, I think I can manage, Catherine. I’m just a little

shaken, that’s all. I’m so sorry to have caused a scene,

Auntie.”

Beatrice, also concerned for her niece’s well-being said,

comfortingly, “Lydia, do not worry about causing a scene.

If that ruffian had been cooperative with Guy, I could have

received his message in private and spared you this shock.

However, perhaps this has happened for the best—but we

shall speak of it later. For now, go upstairs and rest.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Lydia replied, pulling herself up slowly.

Catherine steadied her.

“I am rather tired,” she sighed.

Joanna hurried to help Lydia by steadying her on the

opposite side.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Catherine heard

Beatrice say, “Hilary, this has gone far enough. It is time to act. Come with me to the study...”

JOANNA HELPED CATHERINE settle Lydia into bed.

When Catherine asked Lydia how she felt, she replied in an

exhausted whisper, “I shall be fine, Catherine. I’m just a

little tired.”

“Do you know that rogue, Lydia?”

“No. He must be new in my father’s service. I’ve never

seen him before tonight.”

“As I suspected,” Catherine replied, “since he did not

acknowledge you. He had no idea that you were sitting

right in front of him as he spoke...”

ONCE LYDIA FELL asleep, Catherine joined Beatrice

and Hilary in the study. She found them pouring over an

old map.

As Hilary motioned Catherine closer, Beatrice looked up

and asked, “Is she going to be all right, Catherine?”

“She will recover, Beatrice. She is just tired, now. She was asleep before I left her.”

The lines in Beatrice’s face seemed to lessen a little.

“She told me she never saw that man before tonight.

She does not know who he is. She said he is new to the

Earl’s service.”

“It’s not surprising,” Beatrice said, “and it is to our

advantage for my plan.”

Catherine, full of curiosity, asked, “What do you have in

mind, Beatrice?”

Beatrice answered, “Many years ago, the Duke of

Briarcrest discovered an ideal hiding place. He called it his

‘ fortress.’ It is located in the foothills not far from here.

Before he left on his last excursion, he gave me this map and told me to guard it well. ‘ The hidden stronghold is marked here, ’ he told me, ‘ but it is obvious to no one. If danger should arise when I am not with you, go there, ’ the Duke said. ‘ I shall come for you when it’s safe. ’

“Fortunately, I have never had need of it. It has been a

very long time since I have looked at this map. I have not even thought of it for many years.”

Bewildered, Catherine asked, “Beatrice, do you intend

to send Lydia into hiding?”

“Yes, my dear, that is exactly what I intend to do.”

“But for how long?” Catherine asked incredulously.

“She cannot hide for the rest of her life.”

“It is true, she cannot. That is not my plan. Listen—”

The three women huddled closer together. As Beatrice

revealed her idea, Catherine’s mouth fell open.

Chapter Twenty-six

August 16, 1459

Briarcrest

CATHERINE WANTED TO know about this Father

Giles. He arrived at Briarcrest shortly after dawn and

immediately accompanied Beatrice into her study.

Catherine asked Joanna about him and was told that Giles

and Beatrice had been friends for years.

“He is rather unconventional—for a priest. He even

comes to the May feast, although this year his superior sent

him on an errand, so he could not come. Beatrice thinks it

was done to stop him from attending the May Day

celebration.”

Even though Catherine implored Lydia to stay in bed

after the previous day’s ordeal, she insisted that she wanted to get up. When Hilary found out that Lydia intended to be

up and about, she intervened and ordered Lydia to remain

out of sight. Catherine and her young companion spent the

day in the upstairs bedchamber.

All morning long, Beatrice and Giles closed themselves

up in the study with the door shut tight. Catherine, on her

way to get some tea from the kitchen, saw the pair emerge

later. She heard Beatrice invite Giles to stay for the noon

meal, but he begged his leave, saying that he had to prepare

for the next day’s service.

After Father Giles left, the house grew very quiet—

almost too quiet. It felt as if Briarcrest itself held its breath.

“Farewell”

IT HAD BEEN two days since the disruption brought

about by the messenger from Greencastle, and the morning

had dawned dark and dreary. Oppressive storm clouds

gathered overhead, but no rain came. Catherine sat by the

window overlooking Briarcrest Wood, watching the dismal

clouds move closer. Sadness pressed in around her, but

tears, like the rain, refused to come and bring relief.

Catherine did not respond to the knock on the door.

When no reply came, Beatrice reluctantly opened it. The

older woman stood before Catherine looking pale and

drawn. She urged gently, “Catherine, it’s time. Giles is

here and everything is ready.”

Without a word, Catherine got up from her seat and

followed Beatrice. When they entered the seldom-used

chapel, a knot formed in Catherine’s throat. In the

sanctuary, surrounded by lit candles, was a plain wooden

coffin. Beatrice and Catherine joined Hilary, who was

already seated on a bench just outside the sanctuary. Most

of the surrounding village was in attendance. Many of the

women wept quietly.

As Catherine took her place in full view of the casket,

she reeled with dizziness. Relief came in the form of a

distraction when Father Giles emerged from the sacristy

dressed in his priestly robes. A young man, acting as

acolyte, preceded him. The lad carried a gold censer

suspended from a heavy chain. Sweet-smelling smoke rose

up from the burning incense and permeated the chapel. The

odor made Catherine nauseous.

The men bowed low before the altar. Kneeling with his

back to the congregation, Father Giles chanted the Prayers

for the Dead. His young assistant responded.

“...requiescat in pace...”

“Amen.”

“Domine exaudi orationem meam...”

“Et clamor meus ad te veniat.”

“Dominus vobisum...”

“Et cum Spiritu tuo.”

“Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Requiescat in pace...”

Back and forth the prayers volleyed between the two

until everything became a blur to Catherine. Finally, the

priest took the incense from his assistant and walked slowly

around the coffin, hurling smoke against its sides. When

the ritual was complete, several men came forward and

hoisted the heavy box onto their shoulders.

Catherine recognized one of the young men. He was

one of the lads who had borne Lydia on the litter up to the

bedchamber only weeks ago. The boy’s eyes were rimmed

red from crying. Catherine quickly lowered hers to keep

her own tears from flowing. Although she would have

welcomed the relief earlier, she would not allow herself to

weep now.

Beatrice, Hilary and Catherine followed the young men

as they solemnly carried the casket. The women were

followed by Father Giles and his acolyte, with the rest of the congregation behind them, as they walked to the burial site.

Silently, the procession gathered at the foot of a large oak

tree. A dark hole, dug deep into the earth, waited like the

mouth of some giant monster, open in anticipation of its

prey. Catherine swayed as dizziness overtook her again.

Hilary caught her arm. More prayers followed at the burial

site. At their conclusion, Father Giles nodded solemnly and

the men lowered the box into the ground on ropes.

Beatrice, looking as if she were a ghost herself,

sprinkled the first handful of dirt on the coffin. Others

followed suit—except Catherine. She could not bring

herself to commit Lydia to dust and ashes. She tried to

imagine what it would be like to be buried under so much

crushing earth. Fear overwhelmed her. It was more than

she could bear. Finding it difficult to breathe, she broke

away from the crowd and hurried back to Briarcrest Hall.

LITTLE MORE THAN a subdued drone could be heard

as people gathered in the great hall. Catherine, for her part, sat by a window, alone. She stared into the inner courtyard, not seeing its beauty.

As the morning wore on, those who came to console the

household departed quietly. The staff returned to their

duties. Catherine continued to peer out the window,

keeping no track of her thoughts—although they were of

Lydia.

Time passed in slow-motion. Hilary approached

Catherine. She whispered, “Catherine, go upstairs and lie

down for awhile. This has been hard on you.”

Catherine forced herself to look in the direction of the

voice and asked, “Are you saying it has not been difficult

for you and for Beatrice, Hilary?”

“No, not at all,” the older woman replied. “It has been

more distressing than we imagined it would be, I think, but

it is you that I am concerned about. You look pallid and

you cannot deny that you almost fainted this morning, more

than once, I dare say.”

Catherine turned back to the garden. “It is foolish, I

know.”

“I do not think it so, Catherine. I think it is the reaction of one who cares deeply.”

“It is still difficult, Hilary.”

Hilary put a consoling hand on Catherine’s shoulder.

“Beatrice told me you are planning to leave soon, Catherine.

I wish you would allow me to convince you to stay for a few

more days so that you might rest a little before your journey home.”

“My mind is made up, Hilary. I shall leave tomorrow.

It may have been a mistake even to stay that long. Perhaps I should have left right after the burial. I don’t know. I

guess I’m a little frightened.”

“I know. We all are, I think.”

Surprised, Catherine asked, “Are you? Are you

frightened, too, Hilary?”

“Yes,” Hilary whispered. Her voice sounded as if it

came from a great distance. She, too, stared somewhere

beyond the garden now.

AS BEATRICE APPROACHED the two women, she

recognized their far-off looks. She spoke apologetically

when she reached them. “Ladies, I am afraid I have just

received news that Lord Wellington will arrive earlier than

we expected. He is only a short distance away and will be

here momentarily. I shall receive him in my study. I

suggest that both of you go upstairs and remain out of sight

while he is here. There is no need for you to subject

yourselves to the unpleasantness that will, no doubt,

accompany his visit.”

Hilary’s response was quick and adamant. “No,

Beatrice, I’ll not let you do this alone.”

Beatrice replied, “It is not necessary, Hilary.”

“Perhaps it is not necessary to you, but it is essential for

me. There will be no discussion, Beatrice. I shall not let

you do this alone.”

Beatrice’s face softened. She smiled at Hilary.

“Nor shall I,” said Catherine. “I will be there, also.”

“You do not need to do this, Catherine.”

“No, but like Hilary, I will not leave you to face Lydia’s

father alone. After all, I am, at least in part, the reason we have come to this meeting.” As Catherine spoke, she felt

the dark cloud lift from around her. With each word,

strength and confidence replaced sadness and melancholy.

“So be it,” pronounced Beatrice, her own expression

visibly brightened, “but we must keep calm. I shall have

some tea brought to us while we wait. Wait for me in the

study.”

Hilary and Catherine started across the great hall while

Beatrice sent for the tea. The three women spent the

remainder of the afternoon waiting for Lord Wellington to

arrive. They exchanged little conversation.

THE CAPTAIN OF the guard informed Beatrice that

Lord Wellington was outside Briarcrest’s gates. She

instructed him to allow the Earl and his men passage to the

courtyard, but that Lord Wellington should be escorted into

the house alone.

The armed men stood eye to eye, neither side willing to

yield to the other. When the captain instructed Lord

Wellington to give up his weapons before being allowed in,

the Earl became furious. However, it did not take long for

him to realize that he was not to be admitted unless he were

unarmed. He grudgingly handed over his sword to one of

his men.

The captain then demanded, “I would also have the

dagger you have hidden, my Lord.”

Incredulous, Lord Wellington protested, “I have no

weapon hidden, sir.”

With a stern look, the captain countered, “Perhaps you

have forgotten...” Pausing for effect, he added, “We shall

wait until your memory returns.”

The two men stared at each other. The guards on both

sides shifted nervously. Finally, Lord Wellington muttered

a curse and produced a blade from within his tunic. His

men raised their eyebrows, exchanging disbelieving

glances.

The captain spoke again. “I am pleased to see that your

memory has returned, my Lord. Is there anything else you

have, uh, forgotten?”

“Nothing, to be sure,” barked the Earl.

“You will follow me, then, alone.”

The Earl started to object again, but the captain

reminded him of the long wait over his dagger. He

reconsidered and grudgingly motioned his men to wait and

he followed the guard. When they reached the study, the

captain stepped into the shadows, his hand resting on the

hilt of his sword.

Seeing his sister did not thaw Lord Wellington’s cold

expression. “Beatrice,” he snapped. He sniffed his

disapproval of the presence of the other two women in the

room.

Beatrice took the situation in hand. “We did not expect

you until tomorrow, Hugo.”

“I have an urgent task, Beatrice, and I would appreciate

it if you did not interfere. I have no patience for it.”

Beatrice, determined to maintain her composure,

measured her words. “Urgent task, Hugo? I would think

there is nothing of such urgency that you could not, at least, ask after the welfare of your own child. Have you no heart

at all?”

“Heart? This has nothing to do with heart. I have a

right to claim my daughter.” He raised his voice,

demanding, “—and I want her. Now!”

Beatrice lowered her gaze and shook her head solemnly.

“It is not so much your heart as your soul that I am

concerned about, Hugo. Although what ever motivation

prompts you to be so unfeeling will have to wait. I am

afraid that it is not within my power to hand Lydia over to

you.”

Hugo Wellington’s expression became tortuous. From

between clenched teeth he seethed, “Why not?”

Sorrowfully, Beatrice replied, “I truly regret giving you

the news this way, but you leave me no alternative. I

cannot hand Lydia over to you because your daughter

is...dead.”

“What?” screamed Hugo. “How can this be? How did

you allow this to happen, Beatrice?”

Beatrice struggled to remain calm. She answered, “I am

afraid that it is not I who allowed it, Hugo.”

“Beatrice, what nonsense is this?”

“I shall try to explain, Hugo,” Beatrice said, “but you

must allow me to speak.

“Lydia received word from you many weeks ago. When

Isadore arrived to collect her, we found that she had become

so distressed at the thought of going to France for her

betrothal that she had fled.”

Confusion overtook him for a moment. “But, I sent no

word until a few days ago.”

“Do not interrupt, Hugo,” Beatrice said sharply. “I shall

come to that in time.” She composed herself and continued

calmly. “We did not know she had left the house until

Isadore asked for her. When we found her missing, the

priest and his band went after her.

“When he came upon her on the road, he gave her a

severe beating, then left her for dead at the Abbey of St.

Nicholas. When we found Lydia, she had little life left in

her. We brought her back here and tried to treat her. At

first, we thought she would recover, but she took an

unexpected turn for the worse. In the end, she was just too

weak to go on. We buried her only this morning. I am

sorry...”

Hugo hung his head. He looked as if he might actually

mourn the loss of his daughter. It didn’t last more than a

moment, though. His head shot up and he questioned,

“How do I know you are not lying to me, woman?”

“If you would like, I shall show you the grave,” Beatrice

offered sadly.

“Show me the grave? You had better show me the

body.”

Beatrice stammered, “Hugo, would you desecrate your

own child with such an act?”

Hugo considered for a moment. Then, he said quietly,

“Show me the burial site.”

Beatrice turned to Hilary. “Hilary, will you go to the

chapel? I believe Father Giles is still there, praying. Ask him to accompany us to the burial site.”

“Certainly, Beatrice,” Hilary answered. She turned and

headed for the study door.

Hugo watched her go, a look of scorn on his face, until

Beatrice demanded his attention again. “Hugo, this is

Mistress Catherine Hawkins. She is an herbalist. We

engaged her so that we could give Lydia the best care

possible, but it was all to no avail.”

Catherine nodded to the Earl. Her face was

expressionless. He, in turn, glared at Catherine without

acknowledging her. Silence surrounded the trio until Hilary

returned with Giles.

Beatrice introduced the two men. Giles offered his

condolences to the Earl. “It is unfortunate that you could

not be here for the rites of the Church this morning, Lord

Wellington. Perhaps it would have provided you with some

measure of consolation.”

Lord Wellington muttered, “Yes, well...”

Beatrice got up from her seat and walked to the door.

Turning, she invited, “If you will follow me, Hugo, I will

show you where your daughter rests.”

As the group walked along the path toward the large

oak tree, they saw someone kneeling by the freshly piled

earth. They stopped some distance away and watched a

young man in his private grief. Before departing, he placed

a small bouquet of summer wildflowers on the dirt, then

wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He walked away slumped

over, looking very disheartened. It was the young man who

had carried Lydia’s coffin that morning. He was the same

lad who had borne her on the chair to her bedchamber.

Catherine wondered who he was and why he mourned

Lydia so.

With the young man gone, the group drew closer. Hugo

stood, staring at the earthen pile. Catherine bowed her

head as if in silent prayer, but she watched Hugo out of the

corner of her eye.

The Earl spoke to Beatrice, his voice quivering as he

asked, “This is why Isadore fled?”

Beatrice nodded.

“I was so absorbed with trying to get here that I failed to

listen to those at Greencastle who tried to tell me what he

was up to. I never thought that it had anything to do with

Lydia.”

Doubts crept in on Catherine. She was beginning to feel

sorry for him. If he truly mourned his daughter, how could

she continue this deception? She had nothing to worry

about, however, for his remorse was short-lived. The next

words out of Lord Wellington’s mouth exposed his true

feelings.

With a look of sorrow on his face, he whimpered, “They

were going to make me...a baron.” Tears glistened in his

eyes as he spoke.

Catherine understood now. He mourned, not the loss of

his daughter, but the forfeiture of his promised elevation.

His only regret was that he would not be able to redeem his

prize in exchange for the one piece of property he no longer

had—Lydia.

Catherine should have been filled with anger, but anger

was more emotion than she could summon. She was

drained. The ridiculousness of the situation overwhelmed

her. She felt like laughing, but she knew that would be

disastrous. An unbidden snicker formed in her throat. She

struggled to keep it from emerging. Uncontrolled laughter

pushed its way up through her chest. The sound caught in

her throat as she struggled to stifle the sound. Finally, it emerged in the form of a choking cough.

Hilary came to her rescue, saying, “Catherine is worn

out from caring for Lydia all these days and nights. There

is a dampness in the evening air that does her no good. Let

me take her back to the house. We’ll meet you there.”

Hilary and Catherine walked toward Briarcrest quickly.

Catherine was visibly shaken. Once they were out of

earshot, Hilary asked, “Catherine, are you all right? What

happened?”

“I’m not sure. Lydia’s father seemed to mourn the loss

of his precious title more than his own daughter. I wanted

to be angry, but I am so tired and the circumstances seemed

so pointless—even comical. I felt as if I would burst out

laughing. The more I tried to stop it, the worse it got.”

“Do not trouble yourself too much about it, Catherine.

Hugo is so full of himself that he will not think much of

what happened to you back there.”

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief at Hilary’s words.

She didn’t want to cause any doubt about Lydia’s death.

Arriving back at Briarcrest Hall, Hilary and Catherine

waited for the others to return. Beatrice and Giles came

back shortly—alone.

Hilary inquired, “Beatrice, where’s Hugo?”

“Gone,” she sighed, “as quickly as he came. We did not

have what he came for, therefore he had no need to stay. I

imagine I have seen the last of my brother, Hilary.”

“I am sorry,” Hilary said quietly. “I know you would

have liked Hugo to be different.”

“Perhaps more like he was before Lydia’s mother died,

Hilary, but we cannot go back. Instead, we go forward.

Our biggest obstacle has been overcome. Hugo has come

and gone—without digging up that grave.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

The Village of Wickingham

August 17, 1459

THE OLD WORK cart creaked and shifted as Henry

helped Lydia down. Dawn was just starting to break when

he escorted the young woman into a twig-and-mud hut.

They had left Briarcrest in the middle of the night. No one

had seen them go except Beatrice, Hilary and Catherine.

Inside the hut, Lydia was surprised to find the simple house

was neat and comfortable. The room was lit by a single

small lamp on a table. A stool was positioned on either side of the table. In a corner, by a lit stone fireplace, lay a straw cot. It was covered by a thickly woven covering that had

been colored with green vegetable dyes. Some kitchen tools

and tin dishes sat atop a crude wooden box under a tiny

paneless, shuttered window. They were welcomed by Lucy,

the grey-haired matriarch of the Wickingham clan. While

Henry went to settle their things into another hut, Lucy and

Lydia got acquainted.

“I knew your uncle,” Lucy said with some pride.

“My aunt told me you saved his life,” Lydia said.

“My mother was the one that healed him. I was just a

girl then. I was the one that found him in the forest that

day, though. I knew a little of herbs and potions, but my

mother was the clan healer. A group of us went into the

forest to pick mushrooms and wild herbs. I was the oldest.

When I found him, he was in terrible condition. I shouted

for the others and sent them to get help. When the men

came and carried him back to Wickingham, my mother

cared for him. Bandits had robbed him of his money, his

horse, and the better part of his clothes. Left him for dead, they did, but my mother brought him ’round. Fine healer,

she was.”

Lydia thought of Catherine and smiled.

“Never thought we’d see the likes of you here again. No

need to worry, though. You’ll have to live a lot simpler

than you are accustomed to, but if you can abide it,

everything will be fine. Know all about your father and his

nasty business. It’s not right—forcing people to do

something they have no desire for. Just not right at all. You stay here, though. Stay until that Duchess works it out. We will take good care of you.”

“Thank you, Lucy. I am most grateful,” Lydia replied

politely.

OTHER THAN LUCY, no one in Wickingham knew the

complete details of Lydia’s story. She and Henry thought it

better to discuss them as little as possible. There was some talk in the hamlet, at first—speculation regarding the nature of Lydia’s situation—but Lucy, in her strong and direct

way, put a stop to the gossip at once.

When the supplies they carried from Briarcrest had been

unloaded, the men hid the wagon deep within the forest

where it could not be found. They allowed the horses to

roam and planned to claim no knowledge of their origin

should they be questioned.

When Henry finally returned to Lucy’s tiny house,

Lydia accompanied him to another small hut at the edge of

the village. The place looked old except for several newly

patched areas, evidence that someone had prepared for

their arrival. A tapestry curtain, brought from Briarcrest,

had been hung from the low roof to divide the single room

in two. Lydia peeked behind the curtain and found a small,

crude cot set up. This, Henry informed her, would be her

sleeping area. Henry would sleep on a mat in the front part

of the room for the duration of their stay. He then

proceeded to reveal the entire ruse.

When she heard the plan, Lydia chuckled, embarrassing

him. Henry, already married with several nearly grown

children, told Lydia that she was to be known as his new

young bride. Together, they would live in Wickingham

until her safety could somehow be assured. Not even

Henry’s wife knew what he was up to. He had told her he

would be on an errand of great importance for the Duchess.

That was all. In his absence, young Tom would be the man

of the family.

LUCY, ONLY A few years Beatrice’s junior, reminded

Lydia of a combination of Beatrice and Catherine together.

She couldn’t help but like her. Lucy developed an

immediate fondness for Lydia, too.

At Henry’s request, the village healer took up the care of

Lydia’s wounds where Catherine had left off. The first time

she examined Lydia’s scars, Lucy marveled that the injuries

had mended so well. She acknowledged that they could

only have done so at the hands of a skilled healer.

“Yes,” Lydia replied shyly. “Her name is Catherine.

She is very special to me.”

“I’d like to meet this woman some day,” Lucy said.

“She’s very gifted.”

A smile stole across Lydia lips, but her eyes glistened

with tears. Lucy observed her reaction, but said nothing.

Henry insisted that Lydia not lift a finger since she was

still recuperating from her injuries. Lydia, however, knew

she was capable of some activity. She begged him to allow

her to work a little in the fall garden he had planted, but he would not hear of it. When Lydia felt as though she would

go mad sitting idle, she asked Lucy to intercede with him

and he finally allowed her to pick up a hoe.

Working their small crop, Lydia hummed to herself. She

felt closer to Catherine in the garden and the burden of their separation was a little easier to bear.

Each evening, Lydia retired early, for she still needed

extra rest. At times she missed Catherine so much that she

considered finding one of the horses and riding back to

Willowglen. Common sense won out, however, when she

thought of what had happened the last time she tried to flee

alone. To console herself, she tried to imagine what it

would be like for her to be with Catherine without anything

or anyone to stand in their way. She found it almost

impossible to fathom.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Catherine’s Departure from Briarcrest

August 18, 1459

CATHERINE FOUND SAYING farewell to Beatrice and

Hilary bittersweet. She hoped to see them at the next

Willowglen fair, but she wondered if she would ever have

the opportunity to visit the magnificent Briarcrest again.

Then, too, she worried about Lydia. The evening before her

departure for home, Catherine expressed her anxiety over

how they would continue to hide the news from Lydia’s

father that she was alive. Catherine feared that Lydia

would never be able to come out of hiding. Only because Beatrice’s response seemed so full of confidence was

Catherine’s apprehension appeased.

“I know my brother better than he knows himself,”

Beatrice said. “I am convinced that all we needed to do was

to get him to believe that Lydia was buried in that grave.

When he gets back to Greencastle, I am certain he will not

stay for long. He will set sail for France again and arrive at court with tears in his eyes. He will hope his friends see fit to console him over the loss of his daughter by bestowing

his coveted title on him anyway. He will seek their pity and use it to his greatest advantage. If it works, he will come to think of this whole affair as the greater blessing.

“When enough time has passed, should he discover that

Lydia lives, you can be sure he will deny it—to himself, as

well as to others. To be certain, she will have no claim on

any of Greencastle’s wealth because, finally, just in case the rumor should prove true, her father will disown her to

protect his precious fortune and his reputation. In the end, he shall have that which he most desires, and Lydia will be

left in peace. The only thing that remains, now, is for you to be patient until it is safe for me to send Lydia to you. You must trust me, Catherine.”

Of course Catherine trusted Beatrice. She did not even

have to think about it. Without question, she was willing to wait for Lydia for as long as it took.

As the carriage bounced along the road toward

Willowglen, her conversation with Beatrice repeated in

Catherine’s mind. Henry’s son Tom drove. Henry had not

been seen at Briarcrest since Lydia’s ‘death.’ Fortunately,

no one found his absence cause for suspicion since Beatrice

often sent him off on one endeavor or another.

As the carriage rounded the final bend in the road, the

rooftops of Willowglen appeared in the distance. Suddenly,

Catherine longed for the fragrance of the herbs and spices

in her shop. She yearned to touch the fabric piled on the old wooden shelves. She wanted to hear how things had gone

with Sarah in her absence. Most of all, she wanted time to

pass until Beatrice would allow Lydia to leave her hiding

place.

The more Catherine thought about their deception, the

more she could hardly believe that the scheme had worked.

It was incredible that Lydia’s father had accepted her death

at all—but he had. The trick had worked, and now Lydia’s

whereabouts were a closely guarded secret. Catherine only

had a vague notion of her location from an “X” placed on an

old map years before by the Duke of Briarcrest. They had

all agreed it would be safer for Lydia if few people knew

her whereabouts.

The carriage wheels vibrated over the cobblestones of

Market Street. Catherine was glad to be home. But a

carriage such as one from Briarcrest could not come into

town without drawing attention. Children ran behind it,

calling out. Dogs barked. Chickens squawked as they fled

from the horses’ path. From inside the shop, Sarah heard

the clamor. She opened the door just in time to see Tom

helping Catherine down.

“Catherine!” cried Sarah. “Why did you not send word

of your return? I could have had supper for you.” Sarah

ran to Catherine, embracing her. Catherine was, indeed,

home. However, Sarah hung on just a little too long.

Captured in Sarah’s grasp, Catherine asked, “What is it,

Sarah?”

Sarah pulled back and said tearfully, “We heard about

Lady Lydia only this morning.” Then, with a surprised

look, she added, “I thought you would be more distraught

over her...death.”

Now, here was a dilemma. Beatrice had been adamant

that they keep up the guise of Lydia’s death without

exception. Beatrice alone would decide when the ruse

should end. Until then, she was bound by her word and her

concern for Lydia to carry on the deception.

Catherine found it difficult to speak her next sentence.

“I have had time to adjust a little, Sarah. And, I am so very glad to be home, now. I shall keep busy and the time will

pass.”

Sarah thought she understood. “The saying goes: time

heals the heart of its grief.” She put her arm firmly around Catherine’s shoulder and escorted her into the shop.

Inside the door, Catherine stopped and took a slow,

deep breath, savoring the fragrant aroma of the various

spices. It was good to be home. Turning to Sarah, she said,

“The new shipment of nutmeg has come.”

“Yes, it arrived two days ago. How did you know?”

“I can smell it.”

Catherine smiled at Sarah. Her unexpected calm

puzzled the young assistant. Yet, she had to admit

Catherine seemed to be at peace. It was more than the

young woman had hoped for when she had heard of Lydia’s

passing. Yet, to the ever-perceptive Sarah, something was

not quite right.

When Tom finished bedding the horses for the night, he

joined Catherine and Sarah for supper. Afterward, they set

up a cot in the corner of the kitchen for him, so Catherine

and Sarah had little time to talk privately. Catherine was

grateful.

As soon as the pots had been cleaned, Catherine excused

herself to go to bed. An exhausting fatigue overtook her as

soon as she reached the upstairs room. As she drifted off to sleep that night, she thought she heard Lydia call her name.

I am here, Lydia, upstairs. Come and join me, my love.

THE NEXT MORNING when Catherine came

downstairs, Tom had already gone. Sarah said that he

asked her to say good-bye for him and that he hoped they

would see each other again.

Catherine merely smiled and said, “Tom is a good boy.”

All that day, and in the days that followed, Sarah

watched her mistress quietly. She looked for the old

familiar signs of impatience and irritability, but none came.

She had begun to resign herself to the fact that Catherine

had, indeed, gotten over Lydia’s death quite quickly. The

realization caused Sarah great disappointment.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Several weeks later

Willowglen

CATHERINE WAITED FOR an opportunity to reveal the

surprise she had for Sarah and Will. It had taken her awhile to work out the details, but now she was ready to tell them

her plan. One Sunday afternoon, she reminded Sarah of the

conversation that had taken place between them months

before. “Do you remember when I was about to leave for

Briarcrest in the middle of the night, Sarah? Even though I

was distraught at the time, I recall that, when you told me

to go to Briarcrest and not to worry about anything here, I

told you that I appreciated your help and that I would

reward you for your kindness when I returned. During my

long quiet days at Briarcrest, I had time to think of a way to compensate you properly. I had some details to resolve, but

I think my plan is now ready.”

Sarah blushed. “You do not need to do anything for me,

Catherine. I am your helper. It is right that I should have taken over for you in your absence. I only hope that everything was done to your satisfaction.”

“Sarah, you did everything just as I would have,

perhaps better. Please, let me do this for you—and for

Will.”

Now they were both curious.

“What is this plan of yours, Catherine?” Sarah asked.

“I want to help you and Will...so that you can be

married.”

Will’s eyes opened wide. He could hardly believe his

ears.

Sarah turned red again, embarrassed and overwhelmed.

She responded, with difficulty at first. “Oh, Catherine, we

would like to marry, but Will says he cannot take me as his

wife without a craft to earn his living.”

“I think I may have the answer to that, Sarah—that is, if

Will agrees to my idea.”

“I shall listen gladly, Mistress,” Will replied.

“Lord Pembroke has just returned from Germany. He is

most enthusiastic about the new device that puts writing on

pages. He told me all about it a few days ago when he was

in the shop. He purchased such a machine and it is being

sent to him here. He would like to set up a shop for

printing books. He will have need of an apprentice. He

wants someone who will take an interest in this new

endeavor and help to make it successful—someone who has

a willingness to learn. I spoke to him about you, Will. He

said he would like to engage you, if you are willing. It is a great opportunity. Books will be printed so that everyone

will learn to read soon. They will not be just for those of

privilege, hand-printed by monks in monasteries. I told

him you would be perfect for the job since Sarah has been

teaching you to read. What do you think, Will?”

“Think?” blurted Will. “Think? I think it is a miracle of

God and his holy angels! I think, Mistress Catherine, that

you are, in fact, one of those angels.”

Catherine reddened and said, “Oh, Will, stop. I am not

looking for your praise. Only tell me that you are willing to talk to Lord Pembroke.”

“Of course I will. I shall sing to him if he requires it.”

The young man turned to Sarah and said, beaming, “Sarah,

lovey, perhaps we will be able to marry after all.”

Sarah looked away shyly and squeaked her thanks to

Catherine. Tears of joy filled her eyes.

Catherine now revealed that there was more to her plan.

“You know the drying shed is getting far too small for us

these days, Sarah. I have inquired about having a new one

built out back. I was thinking that, if you and Will do not

mind, the old shed could be fixed up for the two of you to

use for a while. Work begins on the new storehouse

tomorrow.”

Sarah wiped her eyes and stood up. Walking over

behind Catherine, she wrapped her arms around the

shopkeeper’s shoulders. She pressed her cheek to the side

of Catherine’s face affectionately. “You are too good to us, Catherine. We do not deserve such kindness from you.”

“You most certainly do, Sarah. You deserve the best

that anyone can provide for you. You have become a very

beautiful and discerning young woman since you came to

work for me. You were such a weedy little thing, afraid to

say anything much at all. And now, well, I knew you were

growing up that first day you told me exactly what I should

do about Lydia—”

Sarah and Will each sucked in their breath quickly at the

sound of Lydia’s name. Catherine noticed their eyes widen

just a little. The couple exchanged a glance. Catherine

understood the meaning, but she had to keep silent.

Ever since her return, she had tried not to speak of

Lydia. That way, she did not have to deceive anyone. Sarah

and Will had also refrained from bringing up the topic,

afraid that they might upset Catherine, causing her pain.

Now, Catherine turned the conversation to the couple’s

future again. “Why don’t you two go and look at the shed.

See what you think can be done with it. Then talk about

when the wedding should take place.”

Sarah replied tearfully, “Thank you—thank you again,

Catherine.”

Will chimed in. “Yes, Mistress Catherine, we are most

grateful to you.”

Catherine admonished, “Will, don’t forget to see Lord

Pembroke. You must not waste any time. Someone else

may get wind of his plans and try to convince him that they

would be better for the job.”

Will called over his shoulder as he and Sarah headed for

the back door. “I shall not forget, Mistress. I’ll call on him as soon as we finish in the drying shed.”

Life in Wickingham continues

AS THE FEAST of St. Remi approached, Lydia found it

difficult to deal with the sadness that overcame her.

Visions of Catherine in her shop, Catherine in her garden,

and Catherine at the fair haunted her, day and night.

Lucy happened upon her one afternoon as she sat

outside her hut wrapped in a shawl, her eyes filled with

tears. Concerned, the older woman questioned her gently.

“Lydia, dear, what is the matter? Do your injuries pain

you?”

“No,” Lydia sniffed. “It’s my heart that pains me.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Lucy asked.

“No,” Lydia replied, wiping her eyes. “It’s just that the

coming feast of St. Remi brings thoughts of someone I miss

very much.”

“I see,” Lucy said sympathetically. She sat with Lydia

for awhile, hoping her presence would bring the young

woman some measure of comfort. Although Lydia

appreciated Lucy’s care and concern, it could not quell the

ache deep in her heart. Lydia wondered if this ordeal

would ever come to an end.

Chapter Thirty

The Michaelmas Feast

September 29, 1459

Willowglen

A FEW DAYS before Willowglen Fair was about to

begin, Catherine received word from Beatrice. Sadly, she

informed Catherine that she thought it best that she and

Hilary not attend Willowglen Fair. It was the first word

that Catherine had heard from Briarcrest since she left. She read one line in the letter over and over again—the one

meant to tell her that Lydia was safe and well.

...your treasure is in good hands, and it shines as beautifully as ever it did...

The words made Catherine smile, but her joy was

quickly replaced by the familiar underlying ache. Despite

the activity of preparations for fair, despite the planning for Sarah’s wedding, she missed Lydia terribly. How long

would they have to endure this separation?

The Octave of the Feast of St. Remi

October 8, 1459

THE WHIRLWIND OF preparation was followed by

another Willowglen fair. Catherine and Sarah feverishly

prepared for, and survived, the onslaught of visitors. The

fair was successful and prosperous, but exhausting. As

soon as it was over, Will and Sarah busied themselves

transferring everything out of the little drying shed into the newly built larger one. The couple made repairs to the old

shed and Will worked every spare minute he had on simple

furniture for their new home, sometimes laboring long into

the night.

By day, he worked with Lord Pembroke to make the new

book printing shop ready for the arrival of the printing

machine. Sarah and Will continued their reading lessons as

often as they could, so that Will would be skilled by the

time the first book type was ready to be set.

The couple decided to wed before the start of Advent in

the chapel in the Governor’s Hall. Ordinarily, a couple of

their stature would not have been allowed to do so, but

Catherine made the request and it was granted without

issue. As preparations continued for Sarah and Will’s life

together, Catherine thought of the many things that she

wanted to share with Lydia and her heart ached with

longing.

The master of the Grouse and Pheasant was not pleased

with Will’s departure, but he was a good man at heart. He

could not deny that the young lad had been presented with

a golden opportunity. He would be foolhardy to let it pass

him by. In the end, he presented Will and Sarah with a fine

pewter pitcher for a wedding gift. It was a gesture of good

will, as well as one of good wishes.

A gift for the couple even arrived from Briarcrest. They

received a set of fine bed linens from the Ladies, Beatrice

and Hilary. Two notes accompanied the gift: one for Sarah

and Will with fond wishes, and one for Catherine.

Another disguised message accompanied Catherine’s

note. Lydia was still well and still cared for in her place of hiding. How long can we continue this separation? Lydia, my Lydia. I miss you so...

Chapter Thirty-one

October, 1459

Briarcrest

NEWS OF LORD Hugo Wellington’s demise reached

Briarcrest in mid-autumn. When Beatrice heard the news,

she decided not to act hastily. Instead, she dispatched some of Briarcrest’s men to investigate the matter. They came

back with word that, as Beatrice had predicted, Lord

Wellington had set sail for France. Soon after putting out to sea, it seemed, a rogue storm arose. The odd and

inexplicable occurrence swept the ship with its occupants to

the depths. There was one survivor to tell the tale. He had witnessed the deaths of all on board, including, as he put it, the arrogant and self-serving Hugo Wellington. Beatrice

mourned the loss of her brother silently—and waited.

It did not take long for a battle over possession of

Greencastle to break out. Two contenders came to the

forefront. In the end, Lord Robert Wellington, a young

distant cousin of Beatrice and Hugo, won the fight,

banishing all who would not pledge fidelity to him. Most of

Hugo’s men were gone from Greencastle in a matter of

days.

When news of these events reached Beatrice’s ears, she

decided that it was time to take action.

November 6, 1459

Greencastle

AS BEATRICE AND Hilary climbed down from their

carriage, Lord Robert came out to greet them. The three

embraced warmly and Robert offered an arm to each of the

women to escort them into the main hall.

As they entered the room, Robert said, “Ladies, I must

apologize for the dungeon-like atmosphere of Greencastle.

You would have thought that Hugo was a penitent the way

he lived, but it will become more livable in time.”

“I’m sure you will make it very comfortable, Robert—

but we have come on a most urgent matter. We must speak

privately.”

“Why certainly, Beatrice,” Robert replied. “Follow me.”

He led them to a room that had served as a kind of

tactical chamber for Hugo. Beatrice could see that Robert

had already made some changes. His extensive collection of

hand-copied books, as well as some of the newer ones,

printed on the new printing devices, were stacked on a

table.

“I shall come to the point, Robert,” began Beatrice. “We

need to speak of Lydia.”

Robert’s face saddened. “Beatrice, I know how much

you cared for her. I was so sorry to hear of her passing—”

“That is precisely what we must discuss, Robert. She is

not dead. She is very much alive. She is being cared for in a place I would rather not reveal at the moment.”

Robert blinked in disbelief. “I found the annals of

Greencastle, Beatrice. Lydia’s death was written in Hugo’s

own hand. He said she died during the Octave of St. Mary

Magdalene.”

“It was a ruse, Robert. Her father wanted to drag her off

to France to marry. She did not want to go.”

“Mmm, no doubt the marriage was to further his own

cause,” speculated Robert.

“Yes,” replied Beatrice.

“I know he was your brother, Beatrice, but I never did

like the man. He was a bit too calculating for my liking.

When I received news of his death, I could not help but

think it was a good riddance. I even thought I wanted no

part of a claim to Greencastle, but Philip convinced me

otherwise. He is tired of traveling, he says, and he wants a place to call home. I must admit that the older I get, the

better that starts to sound to me, too. So here we are in this dark hole, trying to make it more habitable.

“By the way, Beatrice, Philip was very perturbed with

me that we did not get to Briarcrest for the May feast this

year. I thought I would never hear the end of that one.

Nevertheless, I told him ‘you cannot have everything,

Philip, you have to make some choices.’”

Beatrice shook her head and stifled a smile. For all his

pretensions, she liked Robert.

“But I digress, Beatrice. Come. Tell me all about this

deception of yours. What would prompt you to chance so

dangerous a thing as to defy Hugo by feigning Lydia’s

death?”

SOME TIME LATER, Robert emerged from the room

with Beatrice and Hilary laughing and talking about old

times. The two women stayed at Greencastle overnight,

dining with Robert and Philip in their private rooms. The

next morning, before they returned to Briarcrest, Robert

handed Beatrice a rolled document with the Wellington seal

affixed to it. As Philip closed the carriage door, he assured the women that he intended to see that he and Robert

attended the next May feast at Briarcrest without fail. As

the carriage started down the road, Beatrice held up the

scroll and smiled triumphantly at Hilary.

THE JOURNEY FROM Greencastle to Briarcrest took

several days longer than usual because of a storm.

As Beatrice and Hilary sat watching the rain from their

room in a wayside inn, Hilary spoke. “Do you have

everything you need now, Beatrice?”

“Yes,” Beatrice replied. “My brother’s death has been

confirmed, and Robert has given me this.” She patted the

roll of parchment sitting next to her on the table. “With it, Lydia is free.”

Hilary smiled.

When the storm finally let up, Beatrice and Hilary set

out for Briarcrest again. Beatrice wasted no time when she

arrived home—she went to her study immediately, sat

down and penned two notes. When she was done, she

called for two messengers. One she dispatched to

Wickingham. The other, she sent to Willowglen.

Chapter Thirty-two

The Feast of St. Martin, the Plowman

November 11, 1459

Willowglen

CATHERINE CLOSED THE shop in celebration of Sarah

and Will’s wedding day. The modest festivity was in

progress at the Grouse and Pheasant when the messenger

from Briarcrest arrived in Willowglen. Finding the shop of

Hawkins and Hawkins closed, he went to the Inn to inquire

about Mistress Hawkins’ whereabouts and located her

there. He gave her the note from Briarcrest and was invited

to a glass of ale amidst the festivities.

Catherine sat in a quiet corner pouring over the

message. Upon learning that Lydia would be able to come

out of hiding, Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry.Even in the midst of the merrymaking, the young bride

kept an eye on her mentor. From her seat beside Will, Sarah

watched the messenger deliver the note. Her eyes followed

Catherine as she withdrew to a corner of the room. When

Sarah saw Catherine’s reaction, she feared that the news

was not good. She jumped out of her seat and ran to

Catherine’s side. “Catherine, what is it?”

Catherine looked up. She had tears in her eyes, but

through her tears, Catherine’s face was beaming. Sarah

knew then that the news could not be bad as she had feared.

She breathed a sign of relief.

Catherine confessed, “I have kept something from you

these past months, Sarah. I am sorry, but it was important

for Lydia’s safety that I not tell anyone that she is, indeed, alive. And now,” the spice vendor added, trying to contain

her excitement, “she is coming back to Willowglen. Her

father is dead. Beatrice is her guardian now and she is

sending her to me.”

“I knew it!” Sarah cried. “I knew you were too much at

peace. I know you too well, Catherine. You care for her too deeply not to be troubled at losing her.”

Catherine blushed and looked down at the note, not

seeing it. When she looked up again, Sarah was grinning

from ear to ear.

“So, this is a double celebration today, Catherine.”

“Indeed, it is, Sarah. Indeed, it is.” Catherine wiped

her eyes and arose from her seat. Putting her arm around

Sarah, she said, “I think you should go back to your

husband. He looks rather lost without you by his side.”

The two women looked over at Will. He was standing

with Sarah’s aunt and uncle, looking very uncomfortable as

the festivities went on all around him. Both women

laughed.

“Do you think I should go and rescue him?”

“You should if you want him to survive his uneasiness.”

They approached Will. His expression brightened when

he saw Sarah.

Sarah turned to Catherine and said, “I am so happy

Lydia is well, Catherine, and that she is coming home.”

The remark jolted Catherine briefly, but she recovered

quickly, breaking into a smile. Yes, it is true. Lydia is coming

‘home.’ On the wall of the Inn, a shadow could be seen to throw up its arms and whirl around in joyful celebration.

The festivities continued long into the late afternoon.

As Catherine watched the young couple, she prayed that

they would find delight in each other for the rest of their

lives. Before the party sent the newlyweds off to their little bungalow, Catherine spoke to Lord Pembroke and got him

to agree that Will could have a few days off to be with his

bride. Catherine had already decided that she would grant

Sarah the same leave. The herbalist then went to the couple

and told them the news that the next few days were their

own. When they set out, with a flurry of good wishes from

the guests, Sarah and Will shouted their thanks back to

Catherine. They then ran full speed down Market Street,

anxious to be alone.

THAT EVENING, CATHERINE stood at the door of the

Grouse and Pheasant and watched the last guests depart. It

had been an emotional day, even before Beatrice’s message

had arrived. Catherine felt tired, but she was not ready to

go back to the empty shop just yet.

When the Master of the Grouse and Pheasant came into

the room, he found Catherine clearing tables of their dishes.

He shouted excitedly, “Mistress Catherine, you have paid

me well to give this feast for the young couple. It’s not

necessary for you to do this. It’s our duty to tidy up here.”

“I know, Master Elbert,” replied Catherine, “but I need

to work off a little of your fine feast before I go home to

bed. You and your wife have outdone yourselves with the

food you’ve served us. I’m very grateful to you both. I’m

sure Will is thankful to you, too. You’ve been most gracious, especially after losing him as a worker.”

Elbert scuffed a foot over the floor in front of him. “Oh,

it was nothing. Will’s a good lad, a hard worker. I was

sorry to see him go, but I’m glad that things have turned out so well for him. We’ll manage here.

“But what of you, Mistress? How goes business for

you?”

This was Catherine’s opportunity—with a word to

Elbert, she could spread the word that she would be taking

on a partner. “It goes very well, Master Elbert, I can hardly keep up. In fact, I may be getting someone else to join me

soon. You remember Lady Lydia who stayed here at the Inn

while she studied herbs with me?”

“Yes, I do. She was a lovely young thing.”

“Yes, well, she will be coming to stay, I think.”

“A lady of her position is going to work in a spice shop?

Pardon me, I do not mean to make little of your work,

Mistress. It’s only that it seems such a one as Lady Lydia

has no need to be thus engaged. Now that I think of it, I

thought I had heard that she had died.”

“I’m happy to say that’s not true. She was quite ill for a

time, but she has recovered. It’s Lady Lydia’s father that

has met with his demise. His estate has fallen to someone

who has no interest in the Lady’s future. Beatrice, Duchess

of Briarcrest, is her guardian now. It’s with her blessing

that Lady Lydia shall come to Hawkins and Hawkins.”

Catherine knew the Master of the Grouse and Pheasant

held the Duchess in great esteem. He would say nothing

out of turn knowing that Lydia was her ward now and that

she had given sanction to her niece’s endeavor. Catherine

also knew that, by giving this information to the Master of

the Grouse and Pheasant, it would spread throughout

Willowglen Township quickly, for Master Elbert had quite a

reputation as the town gossip.

The Feast of St. Martin, the Plowman

Wickingham

THE SECOND MESSENGER dispatched from Briarcrest

approached the little hamlet of Wickingham. He did not

come on horseback. Instead, he rode atop a carriage that

bore the mark of Briarcrest on its doors. Tethered to the

carriage, a riding horse followed dutifully behind.

A villager tending his garden left his plot to scrutinize

the approaching coach. As the carriage drew closer, Henry

recognized the driver. He waved to Sir Guy as he reined the

horses to a halt.

As the two men talked, their breath suspended white in

the chill fall air before disappearing. Guy held out a small, rolled piece of parchment tied with a red ribbon and sealed

with the emblem of Briarcrest. Henry nodded and took the

note into the hut. Inside, a delicate young woman sat

working at some stitching. She looked out of place there, in spite of the plain brown peasant dress she wore.

Henry handed the message to Lydia. The two

exchanged a wordless look. She broke the seal, untied the

ribbon and unrolled the paper with her long, delicate

fingers. Then she read aloud:

My dearest Lydia,

It is with a mixture of sadness and relief that I

write this message. I have received word, and feel it is on good authority, that your father is no longer a

threat. God has seen fit to take him to his eternal rest.

I can only hope he finds some measure of peace reunited

with your mother. Your cousin, Lord Robert, has taken

possession of Greencastle and has turned your

guardianship over to me. Because of this, you are free

to leave. Henry may escort you to your chosen

destination. It is not necessary for you to come to

Briarcrest. I only hope that we shall see you again

once you are settled. Inform the good people with

whom you are staying that they have my sincere

gratitude for their trustworthiness and hospitality. I

shall send a shipment of supplies to thank them

shortly. In addition, the horses and wagon in which

you came is their first allotment. Henry may return to

Briarcrest once he has seen you safely settled.

With my fondest greeting,

Your loving aunt,

Beatrice, Duchess of Briarcrest

At the bottom of the page, a note to Henry read:

Henry, my trusted friend,

I expect you will accompany Lydia and see her

safely to her destination. I look forward to seeing you

again, and to hearing about your stay these past

months. Your family is well. I shall inform them of

your imminent return. I am certain that they look

forward to seeing you after your long absence.

With utmost gratitude,

Duchess of Briarcrest, Lady Beatrice

Henry said, “I am sorry to hear about your father’s

death, mum.”

“I hardly knew him, Henry. He was only someone who

occasionally lived in the same cold, dark citadel as did I.

The one person who made Greencastle home for me was

Marian. It is she whom I shall miss for a very long time, not father.”

“Yes, mum,” murmured Henry. He understood. He had

not taken much to the Earl himself. As a matter of fact, he

failed to see how anyone could mourn his loss. After a

moment, he ventured, “Sir Guy brought us the carriage. He

has his own horse with him for his return to Briarcrest.”

Lydia said, “Tell him that he is welcome to stay the

night with us, Henry.”

“I shall, mum. Lucy and her people will be pleased with

the horses and work cart. It was good of Beatrice to think of that.”

“They will be a great aid to them,” Lydia said.

Henry remarked, matter-of-factly, “It’s a two-day trip to

Willowglen if the weather holds.”

A smile spread across Lydia’s lips and she teased,

“Henry, how did you know that would be our destination?”

He shrugged and winked. “Lucky guess, mum. I had

better go and see how Guy is doing. He was bedding the

horses in the lean-to. Then perhaps I should tell Lucy about the other horses and the cart.”

“Lucy told me she saw the horses grazing nearby only

yesterday. I am sure she will want them rounded up as

soon as possible.”

Henry nodded and turned to leave.

“Henry—” Lydia called.

He stopped and looked back at Lydia. “Yes, mum?”

“You have been a good ‘husband.’”

Henry blushed. “Yes, mum,” he murmured.

Lydia added, “If I desired a husband, I would want one

as good and kind as you are, Henry. Your wife is a lucky

woman.”

“Yes, mum,” he said, more embarrassed.

“What I am trying to say, Henry, is, well, thank you.”

“I could do no less for you, M’lady, for you or for the

Duchess and Lady Hilary. I owe them my life. You know

that. Besides, I would do it for you alone.”

Now, it was Lydia’s turn to blush.

LYDIA SAT WITH her stitchery abandoned in her lap,

re-reading Beatrice’s letter. It was true. She was free to go to Willowglen—to Catherine. She could hardly believe it.

Outside, Henry found Guy where he’d expected to,

bedding the horses in the small shelter. “You will need a

place to stay tonight, Guy. My home here is no more than a

shack, but you are welcome to what warmth you can get

from my fire.”

“Thank you, Henry. I am sure it will be better than

sleeping here with the horses.”

“I must find the clan leader. Beatrice sent a message for

her. Will you finish up here while I do that?”

“Yes, go on, Henry. I still have my own horse to bed. I

will be a while more.”

Henry found Lucy and informed her that he and Lydia

would be leaving. He told her that the work cart and horses

were Wickingham’s to keep, to which Lucy replied, “We

have become very rich, indeed, Master Henry.” She was

visibly pleased by the gesture and wasted no time calling

some young boys to round up the horses and retrieve the

cart from its hiding place.

Henry returned to the lean-to and escorted Guy back to

his hut. Guy knew that Henry had been on some mission of

great importance for the Duchess, so he had been surprised

to find him living a reclusive life in a distant hamlet. He

had no idea of the true nature of Henry’s assignment. When

Guy entered Henry’s hut that afternoon, he was stunned by

what he saw.

“My Lady! I thought you were, uh...”

“Dead?” offered Lydia.

“Yes. Dead,” replied the stunned man.

Henry said harshly, “I suppose you were mistaken,

then.”

Guy understood. No one knew the will of the Duchess

as well as Henry. If Henry thought this must not be spoken

of, then Sir Guy would comply. He was loyal to his Ladies.

Later that evening, the trio ate a simple meal together.

Lydia inquired about her father’s death. “Do you know

how it happened, Guy?”

“Drowned, they say. It happened weeks ago, but

Beatrice wanted proof. She said she knew well that rumors

of death are not always true. Now I better understand her

remark.”

Lydia tried to stifle a smile.

Henry asked warily, “What of that cleric?”

Lydia shivered at the mention of Isadore.

“He’s nowhere to be found. It’s rumored that he has

fled England completely. Most likely it is true, since our

pursuit ended at the port harbor to the south. I think it not likely we shall ever see the ‘good’ father again. Good

riddance, I say.”

Henry agreed. Then he turned to Lydia and said, “I

suppose we should make our plans. Shall we leave in the

morning, then, mum?”

Without concealing her excitement, Lydia replied, “If it

were not that it was night, we could leave right now, Henry.

But the morning will be fine. There’s not much to prepare.

I shall be ready.”

With a wry smile, Henry quipped, “If you will allow me

to say it, mum, you made a pretty fine peasant wife.”

Guy puzzled over their banter until he realized the

nature of their deception—Henry and Lydia married and

living in Wickingham? It was quite comical—even absurd.

He joined in their laughter.

EARLY THE NEXT morning, Sir Guy rode off toward

Briarcrest. The inhabitants of the little hamlet of

Wickingham came out to bid farewell to Lydia and Henry.

Lydia thanked each villager in turn for the kindness she had

received from them as they said their good-byes.

Lucy hung back until the last. Then she embraced Lydia

for a long time. “You’ve become like my own daughter,

Lydia. I wish you joy.”

“Thank you,” Lydia replied. “You have been so kind to

me. I shall never forget you, Lucy.”

They embraced again and Lucy found the softness of the

fine purple cloak Lydia wore a new and pleasant

experience.

Even once they were on the road, Lydia could not quite

believe that she and Catherine would soon be together. She

pinched herself to see if she was really awake. Having felt

the sting of it, Lydia knew it was true. She was on her way

to Willowglen at last.

The journey should have taken only two days, but a

rainstorm delayed them. They stayed at a small wayside

inn waiting for the road to dry out before going on. To

Lydia, the wait seemed unbearably long.

A misty rain started to fall again as they reached the

outskirts of Willowglen. When the carriage finally rolled

onto the cobblestone streets of town, they were quiet and

quite deserted because of the rain. Within a matter of

minutes, the mist had quickly become a steady downpour.

Henry brought the horses to a halt in front of the shop and

jumped down from the driver’s seat. The pair ran for the

shop, which was shuttered tightly against the storm. Henry

tried the door latch, but it had been bolted for the night. As the storm picked up momentum, Henry shielded Lydia from

the rain with his own traveling cloak, then raised his hand

and pounded loudly on the shop door.

Chapter Thirty-three

Inside The Shoppe of Hawkins & Hawkins

Willowglen Township

CATHERINE HAD JUST stoked the fire and put a kettle

of water on for tea to warm herself against the storm. She

was grateful that the weather had been warm and bright

several days earlier for Sarah and Will’s wedding.

The young couple had taken Catherine at her word.

They had not so much as poked their heads out from the

drying shed that was now their tiny cottage home for days.

When Catherine finally saw them again, they looked

content and happy. Now, both young people had returned

to work and were adjusting to married life together. She

smiled at the thought of the two of them cuddled up

together by the small stone fireplace Will had built in one

corner of their cottage.

Catherine brewed her tea and walked to the small

kitchen window. Sipping the warm drink, she watched the

grey smoke rising lazily from the cottage chimney.

The loud banging made Catherine jump. She put her

cup down and hurried to the shop door thinking perhaps

someone had taken ill and needed her help. She unlatched

the door and pulled it open.

Spice odors wafted across the doorway to meet Lydia

and Henry. Catherine stared at the two wet forms for an

instant. Then, she reached out and pulled Lydia into the

shop. Henry followed, closing the door behind him. By

then, Catherine had Lydia in a wordless embrace. She held

her gratefully, afraid to speak, concerned that she would

cry, even though, if she did, the tears would be tears of joy.

Lydia protested that Catherine was getting as wet as

she. Catherine cared nothing about her damp clothes, but

then she remembered Henry standing there waiting quietly.

She let go of Lydia and went to him. Catching him

completely off guard, she embraced him, too.

Catherine looked back and forth to both of them and

said breathlessly, “Oh, I am so glad you have finally come.

But I didn’t know when you would arrive. Let me prepare

some supper for you both.”

Henry cleared his throat, sheepishly, and said, “I need

to get the horses inside, mum. I’ll go to the blacksmith’s

behind the Grouse and Pheasant and stay the night there, so

don’t be concerned about me.”

Lydia said, “You will come by in the morning to say

goodbye—you must, Henry.”

Henry smiled. “Yes, mum. I couldn’t leave without

saying goodbye to you and Mistress Catherine.” He went

back to the shop door and wrapped his cloak tightly around

his body. Plunging into the storm, he went to the horses

and led them toward the blacksmith’s stalls.

Catherine bolted the door behind him and stood before

Lydia. She untied the cord holding the purple cloak around

Lydia’s neck and let the cape fall to the floor. Lydia didn’t move. She gazed into Catherine’s eyes. Catherine took

Lydia in her arms and kissed her. Desire coursed through

them.

Catherine’s voice quivered as she spoke. “I have missed

you, Lydia.”

Lydia returned, “There were so many nights when I

couldn’t sleep. I lay on my cot thinking about you—

thinking how very much I missed you—and I wondered, at

times, if I could survive the endless waiting.”

“Beatrice would not allow anyone to know where you

were. She felt it was safer that way.”

“Beatrice is very wise. I trust her. It was difficult, but I was among caring people. There was a woman there named

Lucy. She’s a healer. She took up care for me where you

had left off. She praised your skill in the healing arts. She said she would like to meet such a talented practitioner.

Perhaps we could visit her one day.”

“I would like that,” Catherine said dreamily.

Standing amid the perfume of the herbs and spices,

caressing each other, as if becoming reacquainted, they

explored arms and shoulders, touched finger tips to cheeks,

traced lips...

Catherine stopped abruptly. “I have forgotten my

manners. Please forgive me, Lydia. Would you like

something to eat?”

Lydia pulled Catherine toward her again. “My hunger

is for you, and you alone.”

Catherine met Lydia’s gaze. The glowing sparks in her

grey-green eyes flared into a wild inferno. Catherine took

Lydia’s hand and led her up the stairs. In the bedchamber

above the shop, they helped each other undress. When

Lydia’s garment fell from her shoulders and her scars were

laid bare, Catherine winced.

Uneasily, Lydia offered, “I healed skillfully at your

hands, Catherine. They give me no trouble at all.”

Catherine examined Lydia’s back. She pressed her

fingertips lightly against two of the deepest scars. “Are you sure these do not hurt?”

“Not at all.” Lydia turned to face Catherine. Her face

had no scars. Even if she had them, she would still be as

beautiful as ever. Her eyes were burning, deep green wells.

“You are not afraid to... touch me, are you, Catherine?”

“No, my love. Never. I could never be fearful of you.”

“I could not bear it, were it so.”

Catherine drew Lydia against her. Then, together, in the

simple room above the spice shop, they were reunited in

their love.

IT WAS NOT until early the next morning that Lydia

learned of Sarah and Will’s marriage and that the drying

shed had been converted to their living quarters. In the

darkness of the early morning hours, the two women spoke

of many things. Most of all, they talked of their love, and

they promised each other they would be together always.

Catherine recounted the events that took place at

Briarcrest after Lydia left for Wickingham in the middle of

the night. She told her of her father’s reaction upon hearing of her death and of his visit to the grave site. “There was a young man there. You know him, Lydia. He carried you

upstairs on the litter when you were not well enough to

walk yet.”

“Little James,” Lydia said, her mind wandering back to

childhood days.

“Little James?” Catherine said, surprised.

“Oh, I know he isn’t little in stature, but it’s what he is

called. It’s because he is still so childlike in his mind.

When he was younger, the children used to torment him.

During the children’s party one May feast, the others

wouldn’t allow him near the table filled with treats and

gifts. When I saw it, I made all of them step back and let

him have first choice of anything he wanted. Being treated

in so special a way made him so happy.

“Afterwards, I explained to the children that Little

James was not as quick a thinker as they were, but he had

other good qualities and they should try to see them. When

I asked them to think about how they would feel if they

were Little James, they felt remorseful. Some of them even

became his friends after that and looked out for him. One

boy has remained his very good friend. He was the other

young man who carried me upstairs. After that incident,

Little James and I continued to have a special bond. He

always came to visit me whenever he heard that Marian and

I were at Briarcrest.”

Suddenly Lydia sat upright in alarm. “Oh, no. I must

tell Beatrice that she will have to sit down with him and try to explain that I am well. If I go back to Briarcrest and he sees me, he will think he’s seeing a ghost and will be afraid.

I would never want to frighten him. He’s such a dear

thing.”

“I am sure Beatrice will be happy to talk to the boy for

you, Lydia,” Catherine comforted.

“Yes, you’re right. I must ask her to inform all of the

people of Briarcrest that I am alive and well. They will all need to know. You should have seen Guy’s face when he

saw me. I thought he would collapse from the shock.”

Both women laughed at the thought of the stalwart

knight’s reaction at seeing Lydia alive.

Catherine continued her story. “Well, when we took

your father to the gravesite, Little James was kneeling there, crying. He was so tender when he placed a little bunch of

flowers on the pile of earth. It was because of his grief that your father finally believed it was all true. Otherwise, he

might well have had the grave dug up and found that your

coffin was filled with stones that Beatrice, Hilary and I

placed there before sealing it up.”

Lydia said softly, “I shall have to thank Little James one

day. I owe my life to him, as well as to the Ladies of

Briarcrest. Most of all, though, I owe my life...to you,

Catherine.”

The breaking dawn faintly illuminated the room.

Feeling self-conscious, Catherine sought a diversion. She

threw off the covers and went to the carved chest at the foot of the bed. Opening the lid, she picked up something small

and dove back into bed quickly again to avoid the morning

chill. Nuzzling close to Lydia, Catherine sheepishly held

out a small cloth pouch. Lydia opened the bag slowly and

discovered a medallion on a cord.

“What is this, Catherine? Why do you give me a gift?”

“You once told me that, when it was too warm for you to

wear the cloak I made for you, you would miss it. I said I

would have to think of something else for you to wear

without concern for the time of year. When I returned home

from Briarcrest, I had Edward make this so that I could give

it to you when we were together again. I pray we shall

never be parted, but even when we are about our daily

duties, we shall hold each other close. I have my medallion

from you and you shall have this one.”

Lydia turned the pendant toward the early morning

light until she could see the image. It was the figure of the Green Lady. She drew in her breath. “Oh, it is beautiful!”

Swallowing back her tears and clutching the medallion to

her heart, she whispered, “Thank you.”

They held each other until the sun rose over the

rooftops. The storm of the evening had passed and the day

promised to be bright and warm.

CATHERINE STIRRED THE embers in the fireplace.

The fire caught and flared. Catherine added some wood

until it was crackling. The kitchen warmed. It felt pleasant.

As Catherine put on a kettle of water, Lydia stole up behind

her and wrapped her arms around Catherine, holding her

close. “It feels so good to be here,” she murmured into

Catherine’s shoulder.

Catherine turned around in Lydia’s embrace. “It feels

so good to be home, ” she corrected. “This is your home, now—our home, Lydia.”

Lydia closed her eyes and smiled, savoring the words.

“Mmm, yes, it rings true.”

Catherine held Lydia’s face in her hands. Lydia opened

her eyes to meet Catherine’s and the fire erupted again.

With some difficulty, they tore themselves away and forced

themselves to concentrate on breakfast preparations.

Henry arrived to say goodbye. He was glad of the

pleasant day, he said, for he knew the journey home with

the carriage would be difficult enough after the earlier

storms. Catherine and Lydia tried to talk him into staying,

but he finally admitted that he was anxious to get back to

Briarcrest and his family.

Soon after Henry left, Sarah came into the kitchen

through the back door and squealed with delight at the

sight of Lydia. All three women chirped merrily together.

Against the fireplace wall, Catherine’s shadow looked as if

it was leaning back enjoying the scene immensely.

By mid-morning, the women were busy working in the

shop. To Catherine, it felt as if Lydia had never left. Yet in other ways, it felt very different now that Lydia was home

to stay. That evening, the newly wed couple ate dinner

with Catherine and Lydia.

Day followed day and night followed night. They came

and went, Will to Lord Pembroke’s shop and Sarah to work

with Catherine and Lydia. They all settled into their new

lives—Sarah and Will, Catherine and Lydia.

Chapter Thirty-four

Early Spring, 1460

Willowglen

WITH THE BLOOMING of the first buds on the trees of

Willowglen came an invitation from Briarcrest to attend the

May Celebration. Catherine asked Sarah if she would tend

to the shop while she and Lydia traveled to Briarcrest.

Sarah was pleased to hear of their plans and consented. She

had only one request: that Catherine and Lydia convey

Sarah’s deepest gratitude for the lovely wedding gift that

the Ladies of Briarcrest had sent. Catherine assured Sarah

that she would relay the message as soon as they set foot in

Briarcrest Hall.

The Eve of the May Feast

April 30, 1460

Briarcrest

BEATRICE AND HILARY welcomed Catherine and

Lydia as if they were daughters returning home. The last

time the Ladies of Briarcrest had seen Lydia, she was still

weak and recovering from her wounds, disguised as a

peasant woman in an old work cart with Henry at her side.

Now, it gladdened the older women’s hearts to see her

looking so healthy and happy. The spring sun had already

tanned Lydia’s once-milky skin as she worked in the garden

behind the spice shop. Her delicate body had become firm

and muscular. They sat in the garden drinking mint tea that

first afternoon of their return to Briarcrest and Beatrice

asked the two younger women to join Hilary and her in

their chambers that evening for a bath.

“It’s now a new tradition,” laughed Beatrice. Then she

added with a twinkle in her eye, “You will find everything

about the May feast quite different from last year, I think.

You have been through a great deal together.”

Lydia gave Catherine a knowing glance. Catherine

agreed, smiling silently.

IT PROVED TO be a different May feast indeed. During

their bath that evening, as Beatrice sprinkled some crushed

lavender and bay leaves into the water, Lydia moved into

Catherine’s arms. Beatrice and Hilary seemed to take no

notice, but in truth, they did. They only pretended it was the fragrance and warmth of the water that made them smile.

As they sat in the soothing water, Beatrice poured cups

of mead for each of them. Then she said she had a request

of the younger women.

Eager to do whatever the Duchess asked of them,

Catherine and Lydia assured her they would try to honor

her request. They were dumbfounded to learn that Beatrice

and Hilary wanted them to assume the duty of crowning the

May Queen.

Catherine recovered from her surprise and responded.

“Oh, Beatrice, we could not do such a thing. Surely it is a

great honor that should be reserved for the Ladies of this

house.”

“Which brings us to another topic, my dears,” Beatrice

said with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “One day,

Hilary and I will be too old to carry out the household

duties of Briarcrest, you know— ”

“Aunt Beatrice, that will not be for a very long time,”

Lydia protested.

“Be that as it may,” Beatrice replied, “we feel this matter

must be attended to before that time comes. Since we have

no children who will take possession of Briarcrest, we

would like it to become your home. We can draw up the papers and have them recorded and sanctioned in the court

of London. No one will be able to dispute your claim to Briarcrest and its lands once it’s done. It will give us peace knowing that Briarcrest Hall will continue as it has these

past years. Will you agree?”

“I...we...are not sure, Aunt Beatrice,” stammered Lydia.

“Promise you will at least think about it? Both of you?”

Lydia and Catherine looked at each other, wide-eyed.

Catherine finally responded, “We promise to think

about it, Beatrice. It is the least we can do.”

Lydia nodded in agreement.

The May Feast

May 1, 1460

Briarcrest

THE MORNING SUN warmed the room as Lydia and

Catherine lay in the tapestry-curtained bed, indulging

themselves in the luxury of their late rising. Catherine had been lying with her eyes closed, trying to suppress a smile,

for she knew Lydia was watching her.

At last, she said, “Do you intend to stare at me like that

every morning while we are at Briarcrest, My Lady?”

Lydia replied innocently, “No, only on the days that I do

not wake you by kissing you all over your body, Mistress.”

“Lydia!”

Lydia rolled toward Catherine and looked into her eyes.

She called softly, “Catherine, it’s the May feast. Come, I

shall give you your heart’s desire...”

BY THE TIME they entered the forest that morning,

everyone was well into the celebration. Lydia and Catherine

visited the meadow first. Standing silently amid the tall,

fragrant grass, they reverenced it as if it were a sacred site.

Afterward they went to the clearing in the woods to join in

the festivities. Among the guests this year were Father

Giles and Robert, Lord of Greencastle, with his companion,

Sir Phillip.

Late in the afternoon, a gong sounded and two forms

appeared dressed in matching embroidered robes. In their

hair, each woman wore pine boughs and golden streamers.

A hush fell on the crowd as they entered the clearing and

approached the larger-than-life leafy form sitting on her

wooden throne. Carrying the golden crown, Lydia ascended

the steps. Catherine accompanied her. After Lydia placed

the crown on the Queen’s head, the women turned to face

the gathering and Catherine announced in a clear, resonant

voice, “Behold the Queen of the May.”

The crowd raised their cups and tankards and shouted,

“Huzzah, huzzah!”

The feast continued. Lydia and Catherine joined

Beatrice and Hilary at the head of the table.

When the revelers returned to Briarcrest Hall late that

afternoon, they were entertained by Madame Toussants.

This year, she, too, had attended the festivities in the

woods. Sensing that something remarkable, something

powerful, had transpired during the past year, Madame

Toussants made an inquiry of the Ladies. They told her

briefly of the events that had transpired during the past

year. Finally, Madame Toussants said, “So, ze torch, it is

passed on, no?”

Hilary replied, “It still remains to be seen, Yvette. The

invitation has been extended, but we cannot make the

decision for them. They will have to make it for themselves.

However, I think it’s a good sign that they are hesitant. If they were too eager, I might worry.”

Beatrice added, “They must think long and hard about

their future. That’s why we decided to pose the question

early. They can take as long as they need to consider our

proposal. Briarcrest is theirs if they say yes.”

“When they say yes,” Hilary corrected.

“Perhaps,” said Beatrice.

“Hmmm,” added Madame Toussants.

Catherine and Lydia came and sat beside the trio to

catch their breath from dancing around the hall. The young

women exchanged whispers. Then they threw back their

heads, laughing merrily.

“Hmmm,” repeated Madame Toussants. Glancing at

Beatrice and Hilary, she looked as if she understood a great

mystery.

Epilogue

THE DAYS AND months turned into years. Time passed

far too quickly. The herb, spice and fine linen shop in

Willowglen flourished. Catherine and Lydia’s lives were

rich and full. The day Lydia was admitted to the Guild,

Catherine was ready with a new sign. Hanging outside,

above the shop door, it now read:

Hawkins & Wellington

Herbs, spices & fine linens

The people of Willowglen had known Mistress

Catherine all of her life. They had come to respect her as a healer and as a shop owner. It did not take long before

Lydia gained the same respect for herself. As Catherine

treated people in their illnesses, Lydia assisted her. They

were thought odd by some, but Catherine was accustomed

to it, and Lydia seemed to take no notice.

Year after year at the May feast, Lydia and Catherine

donned the robes of the celebration to crown the May Queen

while Beatrice and Hilary stood beaming. The ladies of

Briarcrest never repeated their request for Lydia and

Catherine to take over the management of Briarcrest.

Instead, they waited, anticipating the day when the younger

women would be ready to speak of it again.

Sarah took over the shop each year while Catherine and

Lydia went to Briarcrest for the May feast. After Little Will was born, he toddled among the herbs “helping” his

mother. His father was no longer an apprentice to Lord

Pembroke. He was, rather, his assistant. That business, too, flourished and the couple moved into a larger cottage at the

edge of town. In the spring of 1465, a daughter was born to

Sarah and Will. The couple named her Catherine Lydia.

ON A COOL, spring evening as the May feast drew near,

Lydia and Catherine sat in the garden surrounded by new

growth. The light of a full moon hanging high in the night

sky illuminated the garden.

Lydia whispered, “Catherine, I have been thinking.”

“About what, Lydia?”

“About Beatrice and Hilary, Briarcrest...and us. About

the request they made of us—do you realize that it was

fourteen May feasts ago? If we do not agree to oversee

Briarcrest, what will become of it? What will become of the

people? And what of Beatrice and Hilary as they grow

older?”

“I... have been waiting, Lydia.”

“For what?”

“For you to bring it up,” replied Catherine.

“Have you thought about it, also?” asked Lydia.

“Often,” responded Catherine.

“So have I. What do you think?”

“I am still not sure, Lydia, but now that you have

brought it up, I think we must ponder it together,”

Catherine said.

“Yes, I think you are right.” Lydia was silent for a

moment, then she asked, “Would it be difficult for you,

Catherine?”

“Difficult?”

“To give up the shop, I mean.”

“I used to think it would be impossible, but I’m not so

sure of late. I think that if we decide it’s the right thing, leaving the shop won’t matter,” replied Catherine.

Lydia said, “Things are changing—even in Willowglen.

This afternoon at the Governor’s Hall, I heard that the

Inquisition comes closer and closer every day. They are

saying that the Church will no longer tolerate those of us

who use herbs for healing. They have killed some women,

Catherine. They said they were—of the devil.”

Catherine sighed and asked, “Would we be protected

from it if we take over Briarcrest, Lydia?”

“Who can say, Catherine. Still, I feel as though the time

has come. Perhaps when we go to Briarcrest this year, we

should speak of it to Beatrice and Hilary.”

“Yes, I think we should, Lydia.”

The two women sat absorbed in their thoughts. The

stillness of the evening was only broken by the cricket-song

coming from the garden.

Catherine’s eyes wandered to the old drying shed and

she thought aloud, “It seems like only yesterday that Sarah

and Will lived back here.”

Lydia added, “Like yesterday and, at the same time, like

a lifetime ago, Catherine. Sometimes I wonder where the

time has gone.”

They sighed in unison. The night air started to chill.

Catherine asked, “Are you ready to go in, Lydia?”

“Yes,” Lydia answered.

The two women looked into each other’s eyes. By the

light of the full moon, it seemed as if they could see into

each other’s souls. They each reached out a hand and the

fire ignited. Upstairs in the bedchamber above the spice shop, they expressed their hearts’ desire as they had done

so many times over the years.

Other Anna Furtado titles:

The Heart’s Strength

Revisit Catherine and Lydia as their story continues in

Book Two of The Briarcrest Chronicles.

Lydia and Catherine have become the caretakers of

Briarcrest. When a letter arrives from Catherine's old friend and former assistant, Sarah Pritchard, Catherine sets out on

a journey that is both dangerous and embroiled in conflict.

Catherine encounters an old friend in Willowglen and

forges a friendship with his daughter, Fiona. The tall, blue-

eyed, raven-haired beauty becomes an important ally when

two churchmen from Spain set the town in turmoil claiming

the authority of the Inquisition.

Suddenly, friends and neighbors are under suspicion.

Lydia joins Catherine, and the two women find that they

and all whom they love are at the center of a terrible

struggle. One of the priests, the Dark Monk, has long

harbored a wicked secret and possesses ulterior motives.

Catherine and Lydia are beset by danger at every turn. Each

must dig deeply to find strength of heart in the battle

against the injustices they encounter. But with religion and

society at odds, will they all survive the ordeal?

ISBN 978-1-932300-93-2

The Heart’s Longing

Trinn Wells is an award-winning chef in one of the

finest hotel restaurants in Boston. She should be content,

but she's not. She hates her boss, her ex-girlfriend has left her in debt, she finds it impossible to meet her mother's

expectations, and she's having strange dreams that disturb

her sleep.

Sidney Wycombe is a prestigious London solicitor

driven to preserve the memory of a place that no longer

exists. When she tries to convince Trinn to help her in her

efforts, Trinn hesitates, but finally arrives in London

looking forward to an all-expenses paid holiday, a respite

from her troubles.

As Sidney reveals the knowledge and lore of Briarcrest,

Trinn's dreams become an alternate reality where she meets

a man known only as Catty. As Trinn becomes more

involved in Catty's world, she discovers that not everything

is as it seems at the Briarcrest of old. When she learns that Catty is involved in some very dangerous activities, the two

women from the future begin to worry for Trinn's safety.

While the women try to unlock the secrets of the past,

they battle their growing feelings for one another - feelings that neither one of them is prepared to deal with, but which, in the end, neither of them can deny. Will Sidney be able let down her guard as noble protector of Briarcrest? Will Trinn

let go of living up to other people's expectations and

express her true feelings for Sidney?

The women of Briarcrest live! Travel back in time to find

what the future holds for those who love the great castle

and its inhabitants.

ISBN 978-1-935053-26-2

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About the Author

Anna Furtado is the Author of The Briarcrest Chronicles, novels set in the Renaissance about women who just can’t

seem to keep from getting in trouble with Church and local

authorities. The Heart’s Desire: Book One of the Briarcrest Chronicles was a finalist for the Golden Crown Literary Society “Goldie” award. The Heart’s Strength: Book Two was nominated for several awards. Anna is also a contributor to

The Butch Cookbook. She has a bi-monthly column on writing technique and the writing life at the Just About Write web site, where she contributes book reviews on lesbian fiction

regularly. Anna lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with

her partner and their two Scottish Terriers. Most weekday

mornings, Anna goes into a phone booth and changes into

her Quality Compliance super-hero outfit and goes off to

work in the medical device field.

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Document Outline

The Heart’s Desire

Copyright © 2004 by Anna Furtado

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Epilogue

Other Anna Furtado titles:

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About the Author

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