She threaded her way through the crowds, not presuming too much on deference; she was a lady, but a very young one. Early evening, just as the sun set, was her favorite time in Gervais; everybody was in a good mood and thronging the streets between the shingled brick and half-timber houses and workshops, calling greetings and laughing. Hooves clattered on brick or asphalt paving.

Then a chill. A detachment of men-at-arms in the black armor of the Protector’s Guard lounged in front of the Chinese Hand Inn, drinking beer and munching on bread and bowls of sweet-and-sour chicken. They whistled and wolf-called as she rode by, laughing at her glare and elevated nose. An under-officer came out of the inn with a wineglass in one hand and a chicken leg in the other to snarl at them: “Show some manners there, you dogs! Can’t you see that’s a lady?”

Doubtless they were the escort for some courier. Yseult arrived back at the castle with her cheeks flushed by more than good exercise.

As she dismounted in the stables, her uncle Guelf Mortimer strode in, calling for his groom. He saw her.

“Where’ve you been, brat? Your mother’s that worried about you! Go to her right now!”

Yseult ducked around him and ran. Guelf was rough spoken and known to slap people who displeased him. Her other uncle, Jason, many years dead, had been rough mannered, too. Yseult rushed into the castle.

Why’s he so mean? I might as well stay downstairs with the cow-handed sewing maids, she thought resentfully. At least they are polite to me! Of course, they have to be.

In the great hall she hesitated, torn between conflicting desires. The chapel and prayer called; Guelf had ordered her to go to Mary, and she really needed to change.

Chapel can wait until after dinner, she decided. I’ll be calmer then and won’t hurry things. I must listen for the voice of the saint or the Immaculata with calm or I won’t hear it. So, what to do now? It’s a toss-up. Will Mama be angrier with me for coming to see her in all my dirt or if I come in later and make her wait? I’d better go see her first.

She scratched at the door and slipped in when her mother called.

“Back?” asked Mary.

Yseult eyed her warily. She stood by the fireplace stirring the coals with an iron poker. There was a sheet of paper in her hand and the grate was adrift in ashes. Ashes sullied the expensive rug from Oregon City that Mary stood on. More papers littered the large worktable by the southern windows.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well, how do you like spending the day with the sewing maids?”