No matter. He had finally given me a ring and in the box were coins to the value of ten pounds. With these I would pay some debts, especially that to my old maidservant. The ring was too large and so I placed it in the box and handed it to Richard Weston to safeguard. By the time we set off again, the children were shivering in the icy wind.

“He proposes in writing?” said Weston quietly so the children would not hear, his scorn apparent.

“The Prince called for him.”

“Does this Prince not go to plays? ‘Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends,’” scoffed Weston. Sleet blew in our faces.

“Do not quote at me, Weston. It was not a proposal but an explanation. If it suffices for me, it should for you.”

To my astonishment he reached for my hand, despite the witnesses behind us. The younger children stared, the others looked away and fiddled with shawls and hats to keep out the freezing rain. Weston’s hand was warm despite the bitter weather. “I would not wait for others to tell me when I could ask for your hand. I would marry you tomorrow with all pride and pomp and tell the world you are my wife.”

You will judge me, but I felt only anger. I had never sought nor encouraged Weston’s affection, and his enthusiasm made Arthur’s punctiliousness more painful to bear. Weston made it clear I should feel humiliated by my lover’s careful observance of propriety, whereas I strove to view it as courtly necessity.

“You challenge Sir Arthur for my hand?” I said, not warmly.

“I would be proud to win it.” He looked me in the eyes and would not budge from that windy spot until I acknowledged his gallantry.

“I am grateful for your concern,” I finally said and walked on, not caring if I led the way, for it was too dark now for others to see. Weston seemed content to follow and took both Mary and Henry in his arms for they were chilled and sad. His care for us melted my heart, I do not deny it, but not in any way that I could repay with my naked body. I had married an old man once already; once was enough. From that night on, I broke into a coughing fit whenever Weston attempted a romantic phrase; in credit to him, he did not recoil from me.

My brother Eustace awaited us at George’s grave and with him, disguised as his servant, the priest. We knelt on the bitter earth, picturing George sleeping beneath; we prayed to shorten his time in Purgatory, but I would have dug through the iron-hard ground with my teeth could I have brought him back to us. Weston knelt at our side to shield us from the frigid gusts, but nothing could.