Campion nodded miserably. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

Lady Margaret looked at her with what seemed to be distaste. “Which is your favorite reading in the scriptures?”

Campion wondered what book of the Bible would most impress Lady Margaret, but settled on the truth lest she pause too long before her reply. “The Song of Solomon, Lady Margaret.”

“Ha! You have some taste then. George is quite wrong, of course, in implying that birth and breeding are the only begetters of elegance and taste. You haven’t met my son-in-law, Fleet. He’s an earl, but in his armor he rather resembles a pig in a leather jerkin. If that’s what birth and breeding does, then perhaps we’re better off without them. You’re small in the bust, child.”

“I am?” Campion, to her surprise, was beginning to enjoy Lady Margaret. There was an excitement in never knowing what would be said next.

“A few children will fill you out. Love-making does too. Fortunately my eldest daughter was generously endowed before she met Fleet, otherwise there’d have been small hope for her.”

Lady Margaret suddenly pointed to the ceiling. “Tell me what you think?”

Campion looked up. The cornice of the long gallery, like the landing outside, was heavily decorated with elaborate plasterwork. Yet unlike the landing, which had been an orthodox representation of harvest’s bounty, the long gallery was decorated with a shameless array of half-clothed gods, goddesses and grotesques. Half-clothed was an exaggeration. Most of the heavenly beings were almost totally naked, chasing each other in permanent riot about the long room. Above the huge, marble fireplace and a painting of Lazen Castle from the north, was the dominant figure of the plaster extravaganza. A naked woman, erect in a chariot, held a spear in her right hand. The woman’s face was uncannily like Lady Margaret’s.

“Do you like it, child?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” The question was a challenge.

Campion did not know what to say. She was not educated in such things, had never before seen such moldings. She thought, briefly, of the great picture in Sir Grenville Cony’s room, of the naked boy stooping over the pool, yet these plasters were quite different. There had been something sinister in Sir Grenville’s picture. These naked romps were altogether more innocent and joyful.

“Well?”

Campion pointed to the woman in the chariot. “Is that you?”

Again Lady Margaret was pleased. “Of course it’s me. The Italian master-plasterer did it as a compliment. He guessed my figure, and guessed remarkably well.” Lady Margaret was paying herself a compliment. The figure in the chariot was splendid. “Do you know who it represents?”

“No, Lady Margaret.”

“Diana the huntress.”

Campion smiled. “She was worshipped in Ephesus.”

“Of course.” Lady Margaret sounded sour. “I forget that you know your scriptures. Does the nakedness not shock you?”

“No, Lady Margaret.”

“Good. Prudery is not an attribution of the godhead.” Lady Margaret spoke as if she was privy to the deity’s secrets. “So, you know nothing, you dress badly, yet you are in love with my son. Are you in love?”