To the memory of
Brian Russell Cabe former student, henchman, fellow actor stage combat partner and most excellent friend who loved Renaissance Faires
“Was ever woman in this humor wooed? Was ever woman in this humor won?”
—RICHARD III
Monday, June 11, 1520
The Field of Cloth of Gold at Val D’Or Between the towns of Guisnes & Ardres, France
Rosie shifted her bare feet on the rough wood of the barrel top, lifted her chin a notch and stared squarely into the face of hell.
Despite the warmth of the evening air, she shivered inside her thin travel-stained shift and torn flax skirt. Apprehension knotted the pit of her empty stomach. Pressing her lips together into a tight line, she tried to ignore the hundreds of upturned faces around her—all male and all staring at her with undisguised lust. They had gathered outside Quince’s tent for the express purpose of debauching a virgin—her.
Rosie swallowed, then shook a hank of her tangled hair out of her eyes. She resolved not to allow anyone to see how terrified she was. In a few hours’ time, she would be ravished by one of these smirking devils, and so begin her new life as a prostitute.
Standing behind her, bawdmaster Peter Quince slapped her backside with his cudgel. “Smile, wench!” he hissed under his breath. “Show them ye have all yer teeth!”
Rosie stretched her lips into a wide grimace. The noise around the harlots’ tent rose in volume. The perspiring customers pressed closer.
“Show us the goods!” roared a drunken voice.
Others cheered and whistled their agreement with the suggestion.
Rosie ignored the sea of faces. Balling her hands into fists, she dug her nails into her callused palms.
Another man raised his voice above the general din. “More light! Let us see if the chit is as innocent as you proclaim.”
“Aye,” agreed another. “I have forgotten what a virgin looks like!”
Rosie shuddered. Not even Quince knew that she had already lost her maidenhead this past May Day. For an instant, the handsome face of her seducer flashed in her mind. Because of Simon Gadswell and his lying promises, she now found herself up for auction like a haunch of venison. All too soon, she would be sold to the highest bidder. Then she must be very clever with the little vial of pig’s blood that she had concealed inside a slit in her waistband. If she did not bleed like a true virgin, Quince would beat her even worse than before.
The bawdmaster held a flaming torch closer to her face. Rosie flinched and prayed that its sparks would not ignite her hair.
“Smile, damn yer eyes!” Quince growled. “I want a good price fer ye.”
Rosie bit back the retort that formed on her lips. The bruises from his latest punishment were still fresh on her back. She took a deep breath. A wave of light-headedness washed over her. She had not eaten a crumb since last evening when their boat had finally docked at Calais after a wretched voyage across the Channel. She prayed she would survive this next fortnight and return safely to England.
Rosie tried to distract herself from what she knew was coming. Beyond the ring of torchlight, she saw nothing in the soft blue-black darkness of the summer’s night except thousands of campfires that dotted the cloaked French countryside like an army of fireflies.
A raucous voice shattered her brief respite from her unsavory predicament. “Untie her lacings!”
Fifty more took up the cry. “Open her shift! Show us her paps.”
Rosie gritted her teeth. The bawdmaster’s whores had warned her this would happen and had told her what she was expected to do.
Quince again swatted her backside. “Rosie!” he snarled. “Do it now, or ye will rue this night, I promise ye!”
Rosie’s numb fingers fumbled at the tight leather knot that held her shift together. It took her a few agonizing minutes to loosen it. With a grunt of exasperation, Quince reached up and tugged on the garment. Rosie’s scant protection slid off her shoulders and down her arms. A low bestial roar welcomed the sight of her bared breasts.
Tears of shame pricked behind Rosie’s eyelids. She blinked them back and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from sobbing out loud. In all her nineteen years, she had never felt so alone.
* * *
Observing the scene from the fringe of the crowd, Sir Andrew Ford felt nothing but pity for the poor, halfnaked girl on top of a barrel. She blinked several times in the torchlight. Andrew suspected that she was close to crying. Her pale countenance and wide eyes revealed her terror.
A young giant beside Andrew chuckled. “I vow the wench looks the part,” Brandon Cavendish remarked to his younger brother.
“A virgin in a brothel tent?” snorted Jack Stafford, the third youth in Andrew’s party. “Tis as rare as a unicorn in London.”
“Rare, but not impossible,” Andrew mused. He held a clove-studded orange closer to his nostrils to block out the stench of the rogues and knaves around them.
Guy Cavendish cocked his head. “Even if she is a whore, she’s a pretty little thing.”
Andrew cast a wry glance at his former squire. “How now? Since when have you become a connoisseur of fallen virtue, Guy?”
The golden-haired youth rocked on the balls of his feet. “Life at court has been very…er…instructive, Andrew. And I am a knight now,” he added. “By the hand of the king himself.”
“Ah,” Andrew responded. “For two months only. What has happened since April to your vow to honor womanhood? Did you toss it overboard when we crossed the Channel?”
Before Guy could stammer an answer, Jack interrupted the bantering conversation. “To honor ladies, Andrew.” He pointed to the pitiable object of the evening’s entertainment. “Yon minx is not a lady.”
“But she could be,” Andrew murmured.
Indeed, he could see that the girl was a beauty despite the dirt on her face and the Medusalike appearance of her dull hair. “With a little cleaning and polish, she could be every inch a lady,” he continued.
Brandon chortled. “You are growing soft in the head with your advancing old age, Andrew. That girl is a strumpet, plain as daylight.”
Andrew smoothed his crimson velvet sleeve and fluffed the lace at his wrists. “Looks are deceiving,” he remarked to his three hot-blooded companions. “Tis clothes that make the difference between a prince and a pauper—or can turn a whore into a lady.”
Brandon pointed at the white-faced girl. “You could never turn her into a lady! A strumpet is a strumpet.”
Andrew lifted one eyebrow in mock surprise. “Indeed, Sir Brandon? Perchance you would care to make a wager upon that opinion?”
The elder Cavendish gaped at him. “How now? You can’t be serious!”
Andrew inclined his head. “I fear I am, my young friend. I wager that I can take that delightfully wretched creature and transform her into a duchess who will dine at King Henry’s feast in twelve days’ time.”
Guy whistled through his teeth.
Jack draped his arm around Andrew’s shoulder. “Oh most