Virginia Henley

“The King is coming!” cried Roseanna breathlessly as she ran into the great hall of Castlemaine Manor. In her excitement she failed to notice either the gasp of pleasure that escaped her mother’s lips or the sigh of resignation that escaped her father’s. A flush of excitement enhanced her face, and as her father watched her, he realized that her exquisite beauty outshone her mother’s by a hundredfold.

“His Majesty sent a messenger ahead; he’ll be here in time for supper.” She picked up her gown from around her ankles and flew up the stairs.

“Roseanna, where are you going?” her mother asked sharply.

She paused on the step. “To change so I can ride out to meet him.”

“You will not! I know it’s been over a year since we’ve seen him, but Roseanna, you are sixteen, almost seventeen—no longer a child. I will not have you tearing across the countryside on that wild animal you insist on riding!”

Roseanna lifted her chin willfully. “Try and stop me!” “Roseanna, you must remember that Edward is the King of England and that you, I hope, are a lady. I forbid you!”

Roseanna, now very still, drew herself up to her full height and said quietly, “Forbid? I think not.”

“Ah, if you would only use some of that cool disdain in the King’s presence, it would be becoming. If you continue to fling yourself upon him, he will think of you as a nuisance.”

She gave her mother a seething look, ran back down the stairs and outside, and slammed the door to the hall so angrily that it shook the armored shields upon the walls.

Sir Neville Castlemaine made no remark about his daughter’s behavior but said quietly, “I’ll go see how many we can expect in the King’s party.”

Joanna’s eyes followed her husband as he left the hall. She briefly wondered what he was thinking, then swiftly dismissed thoughts of him as she realized that hundreds of things would need to be done before Edward’s arrival.

    Instead of going directly in search of the messenger, Sir Neville slipped around to the walled garden, where he found Roseanna angrily throwing pebbles into the lily pond. He smiled at the sight of her. Her dark hair fell like a cloud of smoke, reaching almost to her knees in its unbound disarray. Not even the plainest yellow linen gown could hide the lovely curves of her breasts. “The King could not possibly think of you as a pest, sweetheart.”

“Oh, Father, why is it that every time Mother and I speak to each other, we fight?”

He smiled. Neville Castlemaine was a quiet man yet a wise one. “When you were a child and never questioned your mother’s authority, your relationship was a loving one. Now that you are both women, you rub against each other’s nerves. You resent authority; she fears losing control. You are natural rivals.”

Roseanna’s eyes widened at her father’s insight. They were pale gray; the edges of the irises were ringed with purple. Her eyes were pools in which a man could drown himself.

Briefly, he wondered if they had been wrong to allow her so much freedom while she was growing up. She had had the freedom of a boy, really. She rode, swam, hunted, and yes, even cursed and gambled with his more youthful men-at-arms on occasion. No, he didn’t believe it had harmed her in the least to let her run wild, but clearly it was now time to train her in the gentler arts of being a woman. Past time, according to Joanna. “Why don’t you ride into the wind for an hour to sweeten your disposition?” he suggested. “But don’t be too late coming back, Roseanna. Your poor servingwomen will be frantic if they don’t have time to ready you for the royal visit.”

Impulsively she kissed him, then lifted her skirts and sped toward the stables.

    Castlemaine Manor was famous for its horses. They were Sir Neville’s one passion in life. Roseanna had learned everything about their breeding that her father could teach her. It was as if she had a natural talent for horses; it took her away from the monotonous but serious business of being brought up to be a great lady of the manor.

Sir Neville was an advocate of selective crossbreeding.
Ever since he had begun to listen to Roseanna—and he now took her suggestions seriously—they had bred some of the finest stock in England. As a consequence, the fame of Castlemaine’s horses was now surpassed only by the prices they brought.

Joanna disapproved totally. It was the bone of contention that could always be counted on to cause argument between husband and wife and between mother and daughter. Joanna was horrified that Roseanna—whose delicate beauty resembled that of a fragile flower—should sprinkle her conversation with phrases about mares in heat, stallions in rut, animals in danger of abortion, and foals to be gelded.

An aging man with a shaggy, gray countenance smiled his welcome as Roseanna stretched up to saddle Zeus. He reached under the stallion’s great girth to fasten the strap, then rubbed his shoulder joint where the rheumatism plagued him.

“Dobbin, why don’t you ask Mother for some of her herbal rub for your aching joints?” asked Roseanna.

Dobbin, so named for his lifetime association with horses, shook his head and replied, “Nay, my lady, the horse liniment I mixes will do me better than all your mother’s potions and pastes.” He helped her up into the saddle and murmured, “Careful as ye go.” It was the closest he dared come to advising her that the brute was dangerous and would perhaps one day prove to be too much for her to handle.

After she departed, Dobbin gave the nod to a young groom, signaling him to follow the mistress at a discreet distance to make sure no harm befell her. Roseanna, aware that he would do so, dug in her heels and let Zeus have his head until Castlemaine Manor was out of sight.
The wind whipped her hair about like a sable mantle as she sped toward the fringes of great Ettrick Forest. With each mile the stallion’s hooves covered, her spirits lifted higher.

The King was coming! Edward was her godfather. He had never made a secret of the fact that she was a favorite with him. They only got to see him when he came to his hunting lodge deep within the vast forests of Ettrick and Sherwood, which lay in Nottingham. Tonight the rafters would ring with merriment, despite her parents’ efforts at formality, for the King was not one to stand on ceremony when he was with old friends.

Roseanna’s sweetness of temper was fully restored by the time she returned home. The late afternoon sun had just begun its descent, throwing its golden glory across the skies. She lifted her eyes up and laughed, for it seemed that the heavens were heralding the King’s arrival: Edward IV’s device was the Sun in Splendor.

    Roseanna hummed a merry tune as she bathed, while her young tiring woman, Alice, brushed the tangles from her dark hair, which hung to the floor over the edge of the bathtub. Alice was a soft-spoken girl with chestnut hair and blue eyes who admired her mistress’s daring ways.

Roseanna was ready to capitulate to her mother’s wishes. She would act the demure maiden tonight. Her mother would find no fault with her. As she and Alice examined the lovely garments in her wardrobe, trying to decide on just the right gown, Kate Kendall came bustling in with her usual air of command. Kate, the plain-faced, North-country woman who was Joanna’s right hand and most trusted servingwoman, carried one of the
new gowns that had been sewn for Roseanna over her arm. “Your mother says you will wear this.”

Roseanna forced a faint smile and bit back the quick retort that sprang to her lips at the gimlet-eyed Kendall’s tone of authority. Alice took the exquisite gown and posy cap with its delicate hair veil from Kate, who delivered another salvo before she departed: “I am to remind you to keep your tongue from the subject of horseflesh, lest the King and his gentlemen mistake you for a stable-hand.”

“Damn you both!” Roseanna’s eyes kindled with the light of battle, and Alice shrank back in anticipation of the heated exchange that was inevitable between these two. “How is it that no one ever finds fault with my mother’s hobby? She doesn’t sit idle, plying her needle like a gentlewoman. She works endless hours at designing and fashioning jewelry, then sells it at exorbitant prices like a good businesswoman. But because I do the same with my horses, it’s all wrong!”

“Your mother is an artist,” said Kate Kendall in a reverent voice that could have been used to describe the Holy Mother of God.

Roseanna lowered her eyes and breathed deeply to regain a measure of control. In a quieter voice she replied, “You are right, of course. Thank you for bringing the gown, Kate.”

The older woman cast her a long, penetrating look, as if to discern what trick the girl would be up to next. Then she left without a word, her composure unruffled. Kate contended that Roseanna had been born with an oversupply of “wicked juices” that bubbled over every once in a while, and that she needed a firm hand.