Roses in the Tempest Read Free Page A

she was perpetually in waiting until the moment of my return.
    I thought of her even while I lay in the straw, nestled beside one of Father’s serving wenches. Yes, Isabella was very like a saintly statue, serious, unyielding, patient, unlike the fawning creature who lay beside me.
    My hand lifted to stroke a silken thigh that had escaped the straw. She purred a throaty giggle. “My lord,” she murmured.
    “Would you sleep during your working hours? Up, you slothful wretch!” and I playfully slapped her haunch. She yelped and sat upright, but her eyes were still hooded, hair falling indulgently across her face. She was a fetching lass, to be sure, and I could not help but smile at her. “Bessie,” I said, snaring my arms about her.
    “Betty, my lord!”
    “Yes. Betty. What shall I do without you when I am far from here?”
    “You’re to be wed, my lord. When?”
    “Too soon, my merry Betty. Too soon. Will you miss me?”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “Liar.” I slapped her thigh again and this time it roused her to her feet. She gathered her clothing and began to dress, scattering straw as each layer covered her. I leaned back and crossed one ankle over the other and watched. “Any number of young men will fill your hours and you will not think of me.”
    “Any more than you will think of me, my lord.”
    “Ha!”
    “It’s that other then, you think of. Or is that your betrothed?”
    “Who?”
    She pushed back the hay-speckled hair from her face and insolently raised her chin at me. She smiled sleepily. “Isabella. It is a name you murmured to me.”
    “I? How so? You jest with me.”
    “Maybe so, my lord.” She yawned before throwing her veil lazily over her shoulder and sashaying out the door into the sunlight.
    Shaking my head, I secured my slops and pulled on my jerkin and gown. Faith! That I should be so occupied by thoughts of Isabella that I mumble her name into a kitchen wench’s ear! How Mistress Launder’s cheek would blush at that.
    Leaving the stables, I peered into the hazy afternoon, thinking of Isabella’s commonplace features and how unlike she was even to our Bessie, whose face rounded with rosy sensuality, yet they were not unlike in their stations. How incredible the difference with which I viewed them both.
    I could have easily forgotten about Isabella after that very first meeting, so long ago now. Recalling it always filled me with a portion each of amusement and embarrassment. I was a young rascal then, and she a hard-featured and spindly maid. That day—so many summers past now—I rode my stallion over the roads and byways with reckless impetuosity. The concerns of Caverswall were left far behind, and Father with his nattering about my schooling could be damned! Eyes shut tight, I had absorbed the bright sun dappling its warmth upon my closed lids. There was a fleeting rich scent of primrose shimmered on the wind, along with meadow grass, sweet and moist and filled with the essence of earth. That day I was the earth and sky.
    Too late I spied her. The horse leaned, and when I opened my eyes to observe the bend in the road, I could do little then but haul upon the reins. Even so, I saw her go down at the edge of my sight. Wheeling the horse, my heart was in my throat. Jesu! Did I kill her? I was hours from Caverswall and help. Panicked, I wrenched the horse to a stop.
    To my immense relief, she rose from the mire of the ditch and glared at me.
    “Could you not see me?” I cried. “What were you doing in the middle of the road? God’s teeth!”
    “That is hardly the point,” she replied, shaking each foot like a hound shaking his paws. She rather resembled a hound, with her thin arms, big hands, and long, unattractive face. Even covered in mud I could tell she was probably not much older than myself. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen, for the buds of her bosom were evident from the damp of her mud-spattered chemise and bodice. Having only just reached my thirteenth year, such things