“He did look a real gentleman,” said Jennet, smoothing my fly cape. “They make handsome men in the North.”

“You are far too interested in men, Jennet,” I said severely.

“Oh, but they’m interesting folk, Mistress.”

“I should warn you. You know full well what can happen to girls who don’t take good care of themselves.”

“Oh, Mistress, you be thinking of the sailors. Them that’s here today and gone tomorrow. If this young Richard Rackell do come he’s here to stay, and what he does will have to be answered for.”

“Jennet, I have noticed that you are inclined to invite attention.”

“Oh, Mistress.” She flushed deeply and giggled.

I went on severely: “And if this young man should be fortunate enough to be given work here you would do well to wait until he shows interest in you before you betray yours in him.”

“’Tis but a boy, Mistress,” said Jennet, her eyes sparkling, and I was angry with her because I knew that she was comparing the young Richard Rackell with Captain Pennlyon.

It was typical of Edward that he should find a place for Richard Rackell in the household. He came into the solarium where Honey and I sat together, she embroidering, I idly watching her, and sat down with us.

He said: “I’ve put him into the stables. They need an extra groom, though how he will fit in I don’t know. He has not the appearance of a groom, but he certainly has a way of handling horses. In time we’ll find something else for him. My opinion is that he would make an excellent scribe, though I have no need of a scribe.”

Honey smiled at her husband over her needle; she was always tender and gentle with him; he, of course, adored her. She looked beautiful with her needle poised thus and a quiet, dreamy look of contentment on her face.

“Let him serve in the stables then,” said Honey. “And if something other should arise he will be there to take it.”

“A pleasant young man,” said Edward. “Of some education, I believe.”

“He speaks with a strange accent,” I added.

“That is because he comes from the North. Their speech is oft so different from our own that it can be difficult to understand it.”

“One can understand Richard well enough.”

“Oh, yes, but he is a young man not without education … not the sort who normally come knocking at the doors begging for work.”

“He is reticent, Jennet tells me. She has lost no time in making his acquaintance.”

Edward cleared his throat and said, “Thomas Elders will be visiting us at the end of the week.”

Honey paused slightly, her needle poised. I knew that remark had made her a little uneasy.

I wanted to tell them both that they had nothing to fear from me. I would not betray what I knew, which was that Thomas Elders was a priest who traveled from one Catholic household to another, that he came as a guest who was said to be an old friend of some member of the household; and that during his stay in the house he heard confession and celebrated Mass; and at the same time ran the risk of incurring the Queen’s displeasure for himself and for the members of that household he visited.

He had been once before. I had thought little of his coming then although I had quickly assessed the purpose of it.

Everyone was expecting a more tolerant attitude toward religion with the new reign and indeed it could not be more severe than the last, but that extreme tolerance had not yet come; the Queen had her reasons and so did her ministers. It was, to say the least, unwise to entertain priests in the household.

When I remembered the fierce attitude of the Pennlyons I was apprehensive.

I changed the subject by talking of the newcomer Richard Rackell.

“He has gracious manners indeed,” I said. “I knew someone from the North once who came to visit my father. He did not speak or act as this young man does.”

“People are never cut to a pattern,” said Honey comfortably.

Then she began to talk about their neighbors and, fearing that this might lead to the Pennlyons, I rose and left them together.

Every day Jake Pennlyon called. There was nothing subtle about him; he clearly came to see me.

He noticed Richard Rackell on one occasion; he said: “I’ve seen that fellow before. I remember. He came to Lyon Court looking for work.”

“And you had none for him.”

“I don’t like the look of the fellow. More like a girl than a boy.”

“Do you expect everyone to roar like a lion?”

“I reserve that privilege for myself.”

“Or,” I added, “bray like an ass.”

“Which I leave to others, but I would look for neither a lion nor an ass in a servant. Some tale he had about coming from the North.”

“Why should it be a tale? Edward believed him.”

“Edward would believe anything. He has a mistaken idea that everyone else follows his fine mode of behavior.”

“Perhaps it is more pleasant to believe the best than the worst of people before anything is proved against them.”

“Nonsense. It is better to be prepared for the worst.”

“As usual, I disagree with you.”

“Which delights me. I dread the day when we are in complete agreement.”

There was no doubt that he enjoyed our verbal battles. To my amazement, so did I.

When he was late calling one day I found myself at the window watching for him, hoping, I kept assuring myself, that he would not come; but I couldn’t help the twinge of excitement I felt when I saw his white horse in the stableyard and heard his loud voice shouting to the grooms.

We visited Lyon Court—that mansion which had been built by Sir Penn’s father. On either side of the porch were lions with ferocious expressions; and a lion’s face was molded over the porch. It was a younger house than Trewynd and its Gothic hall extended to the full height of the house; Lyon Court had its central block built around a courtyard and east and west wings; in these wings were the bedchambers and the living quarters. In the center block were the hall and the grand staircase leading to the gallery. It was impressive and rather ostentatious, what one would expect, I told myself, of such a family. The Pennlyons had not always been in possession of wealth and, therefore, that possession seemed something to boast of. It had been in Edward’s family for years and he had been brought up to accept it as a natural right.

Still, I could not help being caught up in the enthusiasm of both Sir Penn and Jake Pennlyon for their magnificent house. In the Long Gallery there was a portrait of the founder of their fortunes, Sir Penn’s father, who sat uneasily in his fine robes, and of Sir Penn, very sure of himself; his wife, a rather fragile-looking lady with a bewildered expression; and Jake Pennlyon, jaunty, arrogant, his brilliant blue eyes the most startling feature on the canvas as they were in the flesh.

The gardens were very fine. Sir Penn had numerable gardeners who were kept busy making his land the most outstanding in the neighborhood; the graveled paths were symmetrical; the flower beds immaculate, although less colorful than they would be in the heart of summer. There were still roses in the rose garden, though; and there was a herb garden which particularly interested Honey; I told Sir Penn that my grandmother was something of an authority on plants and herbs.

“There was a witch in the village,” I told him. “My grandmother befriended her and before she died she gave her several recipes.”

“Witches!” spat out Sir Penn. “I’d hang the Devil’s spawn.”

“Well, this was a good witch, I believe. She cured people.”

“My dear young lady, there be no such thing as a good witch. She’s damned and her purpose is to carry others to damnation. Any witch hereabouts and she’ll be strung up by her skinny neck, I promise you.”

“I’d not hold you to the promise,” I said, wondering why I found it impossible not to spar with these Pennlyons.