Kitabı oku: «The King's Sister», sayfa 3
Yet I could dream. What woman would not dream? And so I did, allowing my thoughts to stray pleasurably to another man, one who was the epitome of my chivalric dreams. A courtier, superbly well connected, with a handsome face and aristocratic birth, our paths had crossed on a multitude of occasions at Windsor and Westminster. A man with a smile that could light up a room. A man whose skill with sword and lance and polished wit outshone every other knight. This was the man I could desire in marriage, and my heart throbbed a little at the thought of what might have been.
Until harsh reality sank its teeth into my flesh. For this object of my admiration was also a man of grim reputation and high temper. My father would never have desired an alliance with such an adventurer whose irresponsible behaviour was thoroughly condemned.
‘He is as riddled with ambition as an old cheese with maggots!’ my father had censured, when the object of my admiration had paraded in peacock silks at my cousin Richard’s coronation.
So my knight errant was consigned to moments of wistful imaginings, as he should be, for a Pembroke connection was my father’s wish, and as part of the great plan to consolidate the House of Lancaster, I accepted it. This was my destiny. All I must do was exercise patience, living out the next handful of years until Jonty caught up with me in maturity and experience. He might even, in the spirit of the troubadours, offer a poem to the beauty of my hair.
‘Could I clasp whom I adore
On the forest’s leafy floor,’
Sang Hubert, the lovelorn minstrel who knelt at my feet, seducing me with images of more than courtly love.
‘How I’d kiss her—Oh and more!
Dulcis amor!’
Turning my face away, wishing misty-eyed Hubert would take his songs and his sentiments and shut himself in the stables out of my hearing, I shivered. And not for Jonty’s embrace on a forest floor. My tempestuous virginal dreams did not involve Jonty.
I tried. I really tried in those first days when the festivities continued and the new Earl and Countess of Pembroke were under scrutiny. Taking Dame Katherine’s advice to heart, I tried, like a good wife, to seduce Jonty into liking me more than he liked the parrot. I hunted with him. I rode out with a hawk on my fist, a pastime I enjoyed for its own merit. I played games, trying not to beat him too often at Fox and Geese. But he was just a boy and would rather spend his boisterous time and energy with Henry or the other lads of high blood who came to learn their knightly skills under my father’s aegis.
‘What do you expect?’ Philippa observed as, lingering on the steps leading up to the new range of family apartments, we watched him escape his mother’s clutches and race across the courtyard towards the bellows and clashes of yet another bout of practice warfare.
‘I expect nothing more or less. He is a boy.’ I grimaced a little. ‘It is his mother and grandmother who expect me to dance attendance on him more than I see fit. I can feel their eyes on me. Is it not enough that we sit together at dinner? That we kneel together to hear Mass? If I have to discuss the respective merits of birds of prey one more time, I’ll …’
My words dried as Jonty came to a halt under the archway, spun on his heel and seeing us as the only audience, waved furiously in our direction, both arms above his head.
‘My lady,’ he shouted in a piercing treble.
‘My lord,’ I replied at a lesser volume.
Jonty bowed. I curtsied. He bowed again, and I saw the compact, graceful young man he would one day become. Then:
‘Did you see me, Elizabeth? Did you see?’ His excitement echoed from the stonework.
I descended and walked towards him, reluctant to continue the conversation at shouting pitch, which he was quite likely to do, scowling at Philippa to stop her laughing. What had he been doing today that I had not seen? In the tilt-yard probably. Practising archery or swordplay? I made a guess, based on his sweat-streaked face and scuffed clothing. His hair resembled nothing so much as a rat’s nest.
‘Indeed I did see you.’ Now I was within speaking distance. ‘You rode at the quintain as if you were born in the saddle.’
‘The Master at Arms says I’ll be a knight in about twenty years.’
He did not see the irony of it yet.
‘But that seems a very long time to wait …’
Or perhaps he did.
‘Will you come and watch me, Elizabeth? If I try every day it may not take me twenty years.’
I did and applauded his valiant efforts. Henry, who had come to stand at my side, swiftly vanished in the direction of the mews when Jonty dismounted at last and bore down on us. Even Henry grew weary of Jonty’s exuberance.
‘I’d run for it if I were you. His tongue is like a bell-clapper.’
It was indeed like owning a pet dog, I decided. I could not dislike him. He was lively and cheerful with the ability to chatter endlessly when the mood took him. His manners were impeccable with an inbred courtesy that I could not fault.
But he was no husband.
Being Countess of Pembroke palled when I had no knight to squire me or write verses to my beauty. Jonty was brave and bold but quickly proved to have no interest in poetry and possessed the singing voice of a corncrake. Although he counted his steps less obviously when we danced, it was obvious that he would rather be in the saddle.
So, as it must be, when his family returned to their far-flung castles, I left Jonty to his own devices and returned to the pattern of my old life. A wife but not a wife. Countess of Pembroke, yet no different from Elizabeth of Lancaster, except that my carefree adolescence had been stripped away in that exchange of vows and sprinkling of holy water. I was part of the grand order of alliance and dynastic marriage.
But when I received an invitation to spend time at Richard’s court, I lost no time in ordering my coffers to be packed. While waiting for her husband to become a man, the Countess of Pembroke would shine in her new setting.
Chapter Two
January 1382, Westminster
In these days after the Great Rising had been laid to rest, there was a glitter about the King. Richard: no longer the child who wailed when Henry teased him, or when we, as children, refused to allow him the respect he considered his due. He had been a boy easy to tease. Now there was a bright, hard brilliance that I did not recall, almost febrile. The days when he was no more than a terrified youth before he rode off to face to the rebels and quell the revolt at Mile End were long gone, even though it was a mere matter of months. I curtsied low before him and his new wife.
Anne. A foreign princess, come all the way from Bohemia, with an extreme taste in Bohemian headdresses. This was the most extravagant yet, its wired extremities almost wider than her hips, its veiling reminiscent of bed-curtains.
‘My Lady of Pembroke,’ Richard, seated on a throne draped in gold cloth, purred in greeting.
‘Sire.’ I rose from my obeisance, our eyes fortunately on a level since Richard had had the forethought to have the thrones placed on a low dais. He would not have approved of my superior height, for I had my father’s inches. Richard, to his chagrin, was not quite full-grown at fifteen years in spite of his autocratic air.
‘Allow me to make you known to my new wife, Queen Anne.’ He turned to the lady at his side. ‘This is my cousin Elizabeth of Lancaster, Countess of Pembroke.’ His eyes glinted with heady delight in the candlelight. ‘She and her family are dear to me.’
So formal from a boy I had known since his infancy, a boy I recalled clinging to my skirts, demanding that I allow him to fly my new merlin when it was quite clear that she was still in heavy moult, but I followed the desired ceremony as was his wish. Richard was recently seduced by ceremonial and grandeur. All because he had been given the Crown of England at so young an age, Henry frequently observed, interlarded with colourful epithets. Being the King of England when he was barely breeched had given him a damned superior attitude that he had yet to earn. Henry was more interested in tournaments than ceremony and tended to sneer when Richard wasn’t looking—and sometimes even when he was, but it was no longer wise to do so now. Richard was beginning to flex his regal muscles.
So I curtsied again, head bent as was seemly, to Queen Anne.
‘My lady. I am honoured,’ I murmured.
Queen Anne smiled with a knowing acceptance of this piece of foolery. A year older than Richard, she looked to be little more than a child, a tiny scrap of humanity, but with a sharp eye and a tendency to laugh at the ridiculous. She also had a will of iron beneath her formal robes. There was nothing of a child in Queen Anne despite her lack of presence. Which pleased me.
‘We are most pleased to welcome you, Madam Elizabeth,’ she said graciously, indicating with a curl of her fingers that I should rise.
Richard stepped down at last, to salute me formally on each cheek. ‘I know that you will be a good friend to my wife, Cousin.’
‘I will be honoured, Sire.’ I tried successfully not to laugh. How remarkably pompous he sounded for a lad whom I had rescued from the carp pond at Kenilworth where Henry had pushed him.
‘And be pleased to give her advice until she becomes familiar with English ways,’ he added.
And as I caught Queen Anne’s eye, we laughed. The whole introduction had been unnecessary. Richard, with a flash of eye between us, froze.
‘We already know each other very well, Richard,’ the Queen explained gently, as she came to stand with him, a hand on his arm.
‘We have already discussed fashion, horseflesh and men and what to wear for the tournament tomorrow,’ I added, and took a risk, but a small one. ‘And when did you last address me as my lady or even cousin?’
Richard thought about this, I could see the workings of his mind behind his stare, tension hard in his spare shoulders. Encased in cloth of gold and enough ermine to coat fourscore of the little creatures, he looked like one of our grandfather’s knights got up in frivolous costume for a Twelfth Night mummers’ performance. Pride held him rigid, until he took a step back onto the dais, so I must look up into his face.
‘Elizabeth will be my friend,’ Queen Anne murmured. ‘As she is yours.’
‘Of course she will. Do we not order it?’
‘Richard! You cannot treat her like a diplomat from Cathay. You have known her all your life! She will be my friend and to me she will be Elizabeth, even if you continue to address her as Countess. And how foolish that will sound. Now greet her properly, my dear husband.’
And when Anne stepped up to kiss Richard’s cheek, and laughed openly at him, so did he smile and all the tension was broken.
‘Welcome, Elizabeth,’ he said gruffly.
‘I am so happy for you, Richard.’
And we were restored to a close-knit family group.
The days after the fright of the attack on the Tower had not been easy for any of us, but now all was smoothed over. A new year and new beginnings with this foreign bride. Leaving my husband to continue his growing up at Kenilworth, I had come with Henry to Richard’s marriage celebrations. How it pleased me, this new delight in outward appearances, in feasts and dancing and ceremonial. And as close family to the King, Henry and I had been given the honour to receive the new Queen into London in the cold of days of January. My father, too, was restored to grace, escorting her from Dover to London. The dire lash of Walsingham’s tongue against the Duke who had brought all the evils of defeat and rebellion tumbling down onto England’s head had been obliterated by Richard’s acceptance of the family closest to him.
Not that I was without complaint. It was not in my nature to be content. How could I be so, for here we were, celebrating a potentially happy marriage, which I did not have, a marriage in more than name and promises for the next decade. Despite the remarkable headdress she was wearing, surely hot and cumbersome, Richard was beaming at the new Queen as if he were already in love with her, while Anne, undoubtedly pretty, knew how to manage Richard’s strange humours.
Jonty continued to be more enamoured of his horse, his tiercel, his new hauberk since he was growing like a spring shoot, and even a pair of shoes with riskily extreme toes that caused him some loss of dignity, than he was of me.
‘We will talk after supper,’ the Queen said, a gleam in her eye. ‘Come to my room, Elizabeth, and see what I will wear tomorrow, when I am Queen of the Lists.’ She tugged on Richard’s arm. ‘I think it would be an excellent idea if you choose Elizabeth to step into my shoes for the second day. She is my cousin now, is she not?’
‘I think I will do whatever pleases you on our marriage day.’
‘Then it is decided.’
Richard took his wife’s hand, regarding her as if she were some precious object that he had acquired and must keep safe from harm or disappointment. ‘We must speak with my uncles who are waiting to greet you.’ Then to me, as the musicians tuned their instruments, looking over my shoulder to whomever it was who had approached: ‘I’ll leave you in the care of my brother. John, come and entertain Elizabeth. And if you don’t wish to talk to her, you can always dance. I’ll guarantee she’ll not tread on your toes.’ And to me, with a strange slide from ceremony to rude familiar: ‘My brother has a reputation for entertaining beautiful women. But don’t believe all he says …’
With a particularly un-regal smirk, Richard led Queen Anne to the little knot of Plantagenet uncles of Lancaster, York and Gloucester, who stood in an enclave, deep in discussion. This marriage was not popular with everyone. Anne had proved to be an expensive bride, with no personal dower worth mentioning and few diplomatic benefits for England.
Meanwhile a soft laugh reached me, stilled me. Slowly, I turned, knowing who I would find. Here, filling my vision, was my father’s old cheese, riddled with maggots. A less appropriate comment I could not envisage for this courtier, resplendent in court silks heavy with gold stitching, impeccably presented from his well-shaped hair to his extravagantly long-toed shoes. Every sense in my body leapt into softly humming life, like clever fingers strumming lightly across the strings of a lute.
Sir John Holland, illustrious half-brother to King Richard, with whom he shared a mother in the dramatic form of Princess Joan, once the Fair Maid of Kent. He had made a reputation for the charm of his smile, for the wit and sparkle of his conversation, for his legendary temper, as well as for his unquestionably handsome face. Some men were wary of him, for he made much of the value of his royal connections, employing a smooth arrogance. He was ambitious for power, but that was no deterrent in my eye. As half-brother to King Richard, why should he not wield authority at the King’s side?
But that was not all. He was thirty years old, with an impossibly seductive glamour. Even to me, he had a court gloss that intrigued me. When he smiled his face lit with a wild lustre, and I sighed with youthful longing, for this brilliance was irresistible. The last time I spent any length of time in the company of Sir John Holland, he had been wielding a blood-stained sword, while I had been shivering with terror, gripping his arms as if I were a child in the midst of a nightmare and he could shield me from the dark torments. Now the situation was very different. Sir John bowed. I curtsied. How superlatively decorous we were, as I surveyed him and he surveyed me. I could not read the mind behind those remarkable features, but as I acknowledged the intensity of his gaze that took in every detail of my apparel, memory came flooding back.
It had been in the previous year, when what we had come to call the Great Rising had erupted, drenching us all in fear. Peasants’ mobs from Kent and Essex, vociferous in their complaints, had turned their ire on my father as royal counsellor and the instrument of all their woes, and since he was on a diplomatic mission to Scotland they vented their wrath on all connected with Lancaster. My brother Henry had been dispatched to the Tower of London to take refuge with Richard’s court, newly come from Windsor, and I accompanied him, anticipating safety behind the impregnable walls until my father could return with an army to rescue us.
But then all unimaginable horrors overtook us when the garrison opened the gates of the Tower to the rebels fuelled with blood-lust. Brutal violence and fire and death descended on us, creating the nightmare that troubled me long after. Hopelessly manhandled, pushed and dragged, Henry fought back but I was beside myself with speechless terror. Were we destined to join the Archbishop and royal Treasurer as well as my father’s physician on Tower Hill for summary execution?
And then in the hot centre of my fear, a new hand closed on my arm, hard and remorseless. I wrenched away, but it held tight.
‘Quietly!’ a voice said in my ear.
‘I’ll not die quietly!’ I retorted, speech fast returning, as defiant as my brother, only then realising that Henry and I had been carefully separated from the rest of the prisoners.
‘Be silent!’ The same voice. The grip on my arm tightened even further. ‘If you draw attention, we’re lost.’
I whirled round, fury taking control in my mind, in my heart. ‘Take your filthy hands off me. I’m meat for no lawless rabble.’
‘They are filthy. But they are at your service, if you’ve the sense to accept it! Be still, girl!’ my captor snapped back.
And I saw that I knew him, and that we were surrounded by a small body of soldiers. My furious response died on my lips as he began to issue orders to his men.
‘Here, Ferrour! Take him!’ he ordered. ‘Hide him if you must. But keep him safe. At all costs.’ And Henry was snatched up and pushed into the arms of one of the soldiers who nodded and dragged him away.
‘Henry!’ I called, not understanding, now beyond fear. ‘In God’s name …!’
The hand on my arm shook me into obedience. ‘We must get the boy out of here or he’ll surely die. As Lancaster’s heir, this rabble will execute first and ask questions later.’
But I cried out, unable to take in what was happening. The horror of the past minutes had robbed me of all sense. ‘He is my brother. I can’t let him go.’
‘You must. Listen to me, Elizabeth.’ I tensed as his demand cut through my panic. He knew my name … ‘Elizabeth.’ An attempt to soften his voice. ‘Stop shrieking in my ear. And listen …’
‘Yes,’ I said, but without clear thought. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘It’s me, Elizabeth. John Holland. Look at me. You know me. Henry will be safe. Now we have to get you out of here. This is what you do. You go with these men …’
To my astonishment, in the midst of all the violence and squalor around us, he grabbed at my hand, lifting it briskly to his lips in a beautifully punctilious salutation as if I were some court lady, not the bedraggled figure I knew myself to be. My gaze snapped to his, and for the moment it took to draw a breath, our eyes held, before his moved slowly over me, from my head to my feet. I could sense him taking in my ruined skirts, my hair tumbled down my back, then as his gaze focused, he seized my hand and lifted my arm.
‘Is it your blood?’
I looked with surprise as he pushed back my sleeve, where it had been wrenched apart, to reveal a short but deep scratch above my wrist. I had not been aware, and the blood had now dried. I had not even felt it in the heat of the moment.
Abruptly he allowed me to go free.
‘Get one of my mother’s women to tend it for you. It would be a tragedy if you were scarred. Now go. And fast, or I’ll use the flat of my sword to encourage you.’
I fled with my escort, to be thrust ignominiously into Princess Joan’s barge, the impression of his kiss still viable against my skin. My first meeting of any tangible quality with John Holland. He had undoubtedly saved me from violent, terrible death.
He had done more than that.
This man’s reputation was not merely one of military prowess, for Sir John had a name for attacking the defences of beautiful women, and with great success. His striking features won him the laurels, and not all on the battlefield or at the tournament. There was one particular rumour of a torrid affair that set the court about its ears. He had no reticence in casting his net as high as he liked when persuading a lovely woman to his bed.
Yet this did not stop him from being the knight whose vivid, volatile features I could summon into my mind as accurately as I could see my own in my looking glass, the dark-haired man who invaded my thoughts and my dreams.
What would it be like, I pondered, if he would see me as a woman rather than a child? What would it be like to dance with such a man, our bodies moving in unison or counterpoint? What would it be like to flirt, to spar verbally, discovering some understanding that would touch both heart and mind? To converse about something of more consequence than a hunting hound? Even now, it might be my avowed intention to remain a virgin bride until Jonty was ready to put that to rights, rather than a boy rolling in the dust in a wrestling match with his peers, but I thought I would enjoy the company and esteem of a knight who was a man, and talented withal.
And here he was, bowing with extravagant grace, and with a gallant turn of his wrist inviting me to join him as if he had no recall of me in an extremity of pure terror, of which I was not proud.
‘Will you dance, my lady?’
I loved dancing. Being adept at every complicated step and simple procession it was on my lips to leap at the opportunity, for this was the carole that I particularly enjoyed. Then I decided that I really had no wish to dance, or not yet, knowing full well how impossible it was to hold a conversation when one’s partner was hopping at some distance. Here was a man who stirred my blood. Here was a man I wished to talk with.
A man I wished to impress?
But of course, I admitted as into my mind came the image of how he had seen me last. Frightened, blood-smeared and filthy. I wanted him to see me as I was now: finely clad, in command of my senses and my conversation, adept in the fine art of courtly love. I had been woefully ignorant, but five months at court had done much for my education. Recalling his final flamboyant gesture of a courtly kiss, I wanted to see if it had been a mere passing gesture in the enhanced emotions of the moment. Or perhaps John Holland might be persuaded to repeat the experience.
Despite my eagerness, however, I would take utmost care. There would be no scandal attached to my blood and proud name. I knew all about his reputation, more now since I had gossiped during the wedding celebrations. I was not the only woman to have an interest in John Holland—even now eyes were following his every move—but I determined to hide it better than some.
‘Well?’ he asked, brows flattening into a black bar when I hesitated far too long for polite refusal. ‘I didn’t think my invitation to dance would call for such deep contemplation. Unless you have no energy for it, you being so advanced in years.’ His face remained grave. ‘Or perhaps you have taken a dislike of me, in the manner of any capricious woman.’
‘No, Sir John, not being capricious I have not taken you in dislike,’ I replied promptly now, ‘although I might if you frown at me.’ Knowing full well that he was mocking me, I placed my fingers on his arm, walking with him as if I would allow him to lead me into the newly forming circle. ‘Is it possible for you to dance in those?’ I gestured to his hazardous footwear.
‘Assuredly, lady. If you can manage the bolt of cloth in that ostentatious garment you’re wearing without tripping over it.’
I smiled pityingly, for who was he to point the finger? Used as I was to brother Henry’s taste in ostentation—was he not even now enveloped in gold damask and gold lions? —here beside me was lavish resplendence. John Holland’s formal calf-length houppelande, dagged and heavily trimmed with silk at hem and neck, the blood-red of its hue not a colour that flattered many, swirled and fell into heavy folds. As he moved the burden of expensive perfume—something foreign and costly such as the heady note of ambergris, I thought—surprised me, teasing at my senses. It would be no easy task for him to caper with dexterity, but I was in no doubt that he could. Determined to give no sign of any appreciation of this vision who had sought my company, I replied with comparable solemnity.
‘Then I fear that you must find another partner, Sir John. I find that I do not wish to dance after all.’
‘Well, that’s forthright enough.’ He stopped. So did I, glancing up at him. It pleased me that he was taller. ‘I’ll stop frowning. What do you wish to do instead?’ There was a gleam in his eye.
‘I would like a cup of wine and somewhere to sit. I have been on my feet since I rose from my bed at dawn.’
‘And were you alone in your bed, before you rose?’ His thumb brushed over my knuckles.
So! I took a breath. ‘Sir John?’
‘Madam Countess?’
Since this was a level of familiarity even beyond my improved experience, I felt hot blood rise in my cheeks, but I held his stare. ‘Of course, alone.’
‘Is your husband not present?’ he asked, all gentle malice.
‘He is here. He is in my father’s retinue.’ Jonty had come for the wedding, as was fitting.
John Holland showed his teeth in a smile. ‘Poor Elizabeth!’
I knew his sly reference to my half-wed state. Enough of this, I thought. ‘I would not be such a poor thing if you would find a cup of wine for me.’
‘Your wish will be my command, my lady.’
He led me to one of the cushioned stools placed against the wall, far enough from the crowd to allow us a little privacy, where he bowed me to take my seat and disappeared in search of sustenance. I watched him go, without making it too obvious, my heart still beating harder than my sitting at a court reception would engender.
John Holland, I mused, was all I remembered him to be, and all I had recently discovered. A man of hidden depths, a bold companion, but probably a dangerous enemy. But ambition and ability in the tilting field was not what intrigued me. Apart from the sheer force of his presence whenever he entered a room, what fascinated me was that John Holland had been enveloped in rumour and scandal since the day of his birth. Or more accurately, the scandal that was of Princess Joan’s making.
As we all knew the salacious details of it—how Philippa and I had enjoyed dissecting these early years of the Fair Maid of Kent’s life! Princess Joan was first married when very young to Sir Thomas Holland, something of a clandestine event but certainly legal. But Sir Thomas went off on Crusade, leaving Joan behind to be forced—in her own words—into a second marriage with the Earl of Salisbury. When Sir Thomas returned, it was to discover his wife wed to the Earl in an undoubtedly bigamous union. And Sir Thomas, from some strange motivation, took up a position as steward in their household.
Such a delicious ménage à trois!
But Sir Thomas wanted his wife back, and got her when he appealed to the Pope that Joan had promised herself to him and shared his bed. Did Joan prefer Sir Thomas to the hapless Earl of Salisbury? Who was to know? She and Sir Thomas had five children together before Sir Thomas died, leaving Joan a widow and free to wed again to Prince Edward. It might have been against the wishes of King Edward and Queen Philippa, for Joan was no innocent virgin, but she had achieved her heart’s desire, and here was her royal son Richard, wearing the crown.
And here, working his path through the crowd was John Holland, her youngest child by that first marriage, now a Knight of the Garter, thirty years old, darkly beautiful to my mind with none of the fairness of Richard. A man who was creating his own glamour, his own scandals. He was unlike any other man I knew.
I watched him make his way in leisurely fashion, a smile here, a comment there, a pause as some acquaintance exchanged an opinion or a jibe, an appropriate inclination of his head towards one of the dowagers. He had all the poise, all the courtly aplomb in the world, and, as the King’s brother, no one would be unwise enough to rebuff him. When he finally approached me again, he smiled, and, unable to prevent myself, I discovered that I was smiling back.
You are playing with fire, a voice of common sense warned, disconcertingly in the tones of Dame Katherine who was no longer one of our number. After the debacle of the Great Rising, my father had dedicated himself to a life of sinless morality to achieve God’s blessing on England.
But how pleasant to be a little singed, I replied, wishing that she were here. What right have you to advise me on such matters? As my father’s mistress, dubbed a whore by Walsingham for leading my father into sin, I thought she had no right to be critical.
But she would not be put in her place. Take care he does not burn you to cinders. Some men, as I know to my cost, are impossible to withstand.
All I intended was to practice the arts of courtly love. And with so personable a man. I had no intention of being a burnt offering on the altar of John Holland’s male pride.
So have many women said. Particularly, of late, the Duchess of …
I cut off the voice before it could say more, and then he was returned with loose-limbed grace, the perfect protagonist upon whom to polish my female skills. Was I love-struck? Certainly not. Merely enjoying my first experiences under the power of a flattering tongue, spreading my wings in the company of a man of many talents.
