lord’s men, Marta scurried after him.
“Please, Lord Morcar, by St. Andrew, the lass be all I ha’ had to love these last long years sin’ Lady Margaret turned against th’ child.”
He looked calmly at Marta, and his austere features softened as he gazed down on the wiry, petite Scotswoman. “Be calm in your heart, little Marta. Tell me truly, who would need the stars to read the Lady Joan’s future? Will not she be well loved? Admired? And set her own ways and styles? Do you not remember the first chart we did for the Lord Edmund and Lady Margaret when the little Joan was born in the middle of July the summer her father died? Born under Cancer, eager for action, ruled by the moon, a romantic, moody, curious—an alluring woman. Hold to that, little Marta. I am sorry you shall not be with her there for she could have need of your sharp tongue and practical Scots brain, eh? I had hoped to live out my days here in quiet, green Kent, not back at the court of a Plantagenet king whose family had some part in my Lord Edmund’s death. But the king has suddenly remembered my service to his dear uncle. The king speaks and we all—almost all—obey.”
A strange smile lit his mouth again as he moved stiffly away. By St. Andrew, Marta thought, it was fortunate that the Lady Margaret in her litter would force their slow travel pace, because that frail, old man would never live to see London otherwise.
Lord Edmund, who looked as little like his father as Joan strongly resembled their sire, entered and stopped stock-still across the room. His eyes were violet, like poor Lady Margaret’s, but other than that trait he shared with Joan, the twenty-three-year-old Edmund, Earl of Kent, and the Lady Joan looked nothing alike. Brown-haired and round-faced, Edmund resembled his mother’s Wake family lineage; while, but for the eyes, Joan was as blond and fair a Plantagenet as her executed father.
“Marta? Joan is ready to eat with us, is she not?” Lord Edmund’s clear voice interrupted the tumbling flow of her thoughts.
“Aye, milord. I shall fetch her direct. She but stepped out in th’ garden for a wee breath a air.”
He shook his head once and raised his hand as if to ward her off. “No, Marta. I shall see to her. The Lady Anne will be down soon. You may help Glenda and the servants. They have orders to bring my lady mother down at the last minute before we set out.”
He spun sharply on his heel and Marta’s eyes followed his black- and red-garbed figure as he disappeared from the great hall into the corridor. “Aye, for th’ love a St. Andrew,” Marta murmured under her breath, feeling much better as she always did whenever she invoked the patron saint of Scotland. “No one ever said anyone with blue Plantagenet blood in their veins does not know how to give orders or insist their own will be done!”
O utside in the midmorning sun, Joan stood at the edge of a fish pond staring at the reflection of the manorhouse and sky. She cradled her precious lute against her like a child and let the sun on her back chase the chill of pending departure from her veins. On a whim, she bent to pick a little handful of violets, purple trilliums, and forget-me-nots at her feet.
“Take a care not to fall in, Joan. We hardly have time to fish you out and you are wetting the hems of that lovely new kirtle on the dew.”
“Oh, my Lord Edmund. I did not hear you. But it cannot be time to go already.”
Her brother gave her that quick, half-mouthed smile of his, and his eyes went approvingly over her appearance. At least he did not seem to be out of sorts this morning, Joan thought, much relieved. It just would not do to be arguing with him on this last morning here in who knew how long. Little butterflies of apprehension fluttered in her stomach, but she beat the feeling down.
Edmund looked ready for riding and very grand in his black tunic which had red piping over his powerful chest and shoulders. He sported a smart black
“Please, Lord Morcar, by St. Andrew, the lass be all I ha’ had to love these last long years sin’ Lady Margaret turned against th’ child.”
He looked calmly at Marta, and his austere features softened as he gazed down on the wiry, petite Scotswoman. “Be calm in your heart, little Marta. Tell me truly, who would need the stars to read the Lady Joan’s future? Will not she be well loved? Admired? And set her own ways and styles? Do you not remember the first chart we did for the Lord Edmund and Lady Margaret when the little Joan was born in the middle of July the summer her father died? Born under Cancer, eager for action, ruled by the moon, a romantic, moody, curious—an alluring woman. Hold to that, little Marta. I am sorry you shall not be with her there for she could have need of your sharp tongue and practical Scots brain, eh? I had hoped to live out my days here in quiet, green Kent, not back at the court of a Plantagenet king whose family had some part in my Lord Edmund’s death. But the king has suddenly remembered my service to his dear uncle. The king speaks and we all—almost all—obey.”
A strange smile lit his mouth again as he moved stiffly away. By St. Andrew, Marta thought, it was fortunate that the Lady Margaret in her litter would force their slow travel pace, because that frail, old man would never live to see London otherwise.
Lord Edmund, who looked as little like his father as Joan strongly resembled their sire, entered and stopped stock-still across the room. His eyes were violet, like poor Lady Margaret’s, but other than that trait he shared with Joan, the twenty-three-year-old Edmund, Earl of Kent, and the Lady Joan looked nothing alike. Brown-haired and round-faced, Edmund resembled his mother’s Wake family lineage; while, but for the eyes, Joan was as blond and fair a Plantagenet as her executed father.
“Marta? Joan is ready to eat with us, is she not?” Lord Edmund’s clear voice interrupted the tumbling flow of her thoughts.
“Aye, milord. I shall fetch her direct. She but stepped out in th’ garden for a wee breath a air.”
He shook his head once and raised his hand as if to ward her off. “No, Marta. I shall see to her. The Lady Anne will be down soon. You may help Glenda and the servants. They have orders to bring my lady mother down at the last minute before we set out.”
He spun sharply on his heel and Marta’s eyes followed his black- and red-garbed figure as he disappeared from the great hall into the corridor. “Aye, for th’ love a St. Andrew,” Marta murmured under her breath, feeling much better as she always did whenever she invoked the patron saint of Scotland. “No one ever said anyone with blue Plantagenet blood in their veins does not know how to give orders or insist their own will be done!”
O utside in the midmorning sun, Joan stood at the edge of a fish pond staring at the reflection of the manorhouse and sky. She cradled her precious lute against her like a child and let the sun on her back chase the chill of pending departure from her veins. On a whim, she bent to pick a little handful of violets, purple trilliums, and forget-me-nots at her feet.
“Take a care not to fall in, Joan. We hardly have time to fish you out and you are wetting the hems of that lovely new kirtle on the dew.”
“Oh, my Lord Edmund. I did not hear you. But it cannot be time to go already.”
Her brother gave her that quick, half-mouthed smile of his, and his eyes went approvingly over her appearance. At least he did not seem to be out of sorts this morning, Joan thought, much relieved. It just would not do to be arguing with him on this last morning here in who knew how long. Little butterflies of apprehension fluttered in her stomach, but she beat the feeling down.
Edmund looked ready for riding and very grand in his black tunic which had red piping over his powerful chest and shoulders. He sported a smart black