Our house in London had been full of books. They had been crammed into cupboards and every shelf had groaned with the weight of them. But in my uncle's house there was only a heavy, stately volume of King James's Bible, and nothing more.
So happy was I to see such a quantity of books that I scarcely paid attention to the bookseller himself, a lean and quiet man who leaned against the cart, lit his pipe, and watched in indulgent silence as I pored over his collection of titles. There were several that I would have wished to buy, but I settled finally on Nature's Pictures Drawn by Fancy's Pencil to the Life, by Margaret Cavendish, the celebrated Duchess of Newcastle. It was not a new book—in fact it was some ten years old, having been written during the lady's exile from the Commonwealth—but my father had read it, and had remarked upon it with approval. Best of all, it was only fourpence.
'A good choice,' the bookseller commended me with a smile, 'providing you don't let all her romantic fancies turn your head. The lady is unique, and deserving of admiration, but she is not, I think, to be imitated.'
I smiled back at him. 'I shall keep your counsel in mind, sir,' I promised, quite certain that I would never be tempted to emulate the Duchess of Newcastle's extravagant dress and lifestyle.
I made to hand my pennies over to him, but he shook his head slightly, pushing a small dish of liquid toward me. The strong, acrid smell of vinegar assailed my nostrils.
'A caution against this cursed plague,' he explained. 'You may not be from London, child, but there's no saying where your coins have been.'
I tossed the four pennies into the vinegar with trembling fingers, certain that he could read the guilty knowledge in my downcast eyes. Grasping my purchase, I backed hastily away from the cart, and did not slow my pace until I had lost myself in the anonymity of the milling crowd.
My sense of direction having quite left me, I found myself wandering in aimless circles, unable to find either Rachel or the row of butchers' stalls. After making what seemed an endless circuit round the market square, I paused in the shelter of a laneway to rest a moment, and found myself facing an enormous gray stallion that seemed curiously familiar.
The beast was tethered to an iron ring in the wall, and stood quite calmly, staring down at me with great liquid eyes that betrayed only mild curiosity.
'Oh,' I said softly.
I had always had a weakness for horses. Even as a small child I had displayed no fear of the animals, and had developed a worrisome habit of running into the road to try to pet the cart horses and hackneys that crowded the London streets. I felt no fear now, as I stepped closer to the towering stallion and stretched out a questioning hand.
'Oh,' I said again, 'you beautiful thing. It's all right, I won't hurt you.'
The wide nostrils flared, testing my scent.
'There, my love,' I went on, speaking in that foolish tone that one reserves for babes and animals, 'don't be afraid. I only want to touch you. There.'
I curved my hand over the horse's nose, stroking lightly, and after a moment I felt the stallion relax, pressing its face against my caressing hand. I laughed in triumph and leaned forward to kiss the stallion's questing nose, running my hand along his beautifully arched neck.
The man's voice, coming from directly behind me, was a startling intrusion.
'You hold your life cheaply, mistress,' the voice said dryly. 'He's a bad-tempered devil, and his affections are often false.'
'Nonsense,' I said. 'He's a lovely brute.' And I turned my head to look Richard de Mornay squarely in the eye.
I had to look quite a long way up, in fact. He seemed no smaller standing than he had on horseback, and the top of my head was barely level with his shoulder.
He swept the hat from his head with a gallant gesture and bowed low before me, his eyes laughing.
'We meet again.'
'My lord,' I acknowledged him, nodding my head in response.
He had beautiful hair, I thought idly. As he stood and shook it back it caught the sun like gleaming sealskin, and I was sorry to see it once again covered by the broad-brimmed hat. Viewed at this close range, he also seemed to me much younger than I had originally judged him to be. Surely he was no more than fifteen years my senior, and not above thirty-five years of age.
'I congratulate you on winning Navarre's confidence,' he said, nodding at his horse. 'Navarre? Is that his name?' I stroked the animal's muscled jaw. 'It is a lovely name.'
Richard de Mornay shrugged and moved past me to tuck a parcel into one of his leather saddlebags.
'I've no ear for names. I called him Navarre because that is where I bought him. Have you lost Rachel, or did you simply tire of the market?'
I blinked warily. 'How did you know I was with Rachel?'
'I saw you earlier. 'Tis difficult not to notice two fair-haired beauties in a place such as this.' He did an extraordinary thing, then. He reached across and touched my arm, just above the wrist, his fingers warm upon the plain fabric of my sleeve.
'You should have bought the bracelet, you know,' he told me, in a contemplative tone. 'The stones would match your eyes.'
Pride kept me from saying that the trinket had been too expensive for my purse. I took a small step backward and he let his hand fall, his expression unconcerned.
'I bought this, instead.' I held up my book to show him.
'You can read, then.'
'My father was a scrivener. He viewed illiteracy as an unpardonable sin.'