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of his voice sent a lingering ripple of that dangerous restlessness through her limbs. Perhaps the priest was right. The illicit poetry of which she’d grown so fond had left the mark of lust upon her.
    She straightened suddenly. Brooding would certainly give no help. Shivering in the dampness, she washed and dressed quickly. There were chores to be done before mass.
    ***
    “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Rica knelt upon the stone flags, taking pleasure in the cold of them against her knees. Through the thin linen screen, she could hear that the old priest’s breathing had eased with the cooler weather and perhaps the tea she had brought for him to drink.
    She twisted her rosary between her fingers and found herself confessing a multitude of minor sins— losing her temper with the worse-tempered cook, who refused, once again, to listen to Rica about her father’s diet and had given him a rich pasty. She confessed to the small duplicity she and Etta had practiced at supper one evening—she playing Etta, Etta playing Rica with bangles and a low-cut gown.
    The memory made her smile. Etta, under the rich attention of Rudolf—who thought himself to be charming Rica—had bloomed. She said nothing, but Rudolf seemed to think little of this; wine had made him full of himself.
    Father Goddard made a small noise and Rica knew he, too, was amused.
    There had been no dreams of bloody revenge this week, for which Rica silently gave thanks. And she had read none of the forbidden poems.
    “I have another sin to confess, Father,” she said softly, bowing her head. A rush of heat stole into her cheeks. For a moment, she wished desperately to spill all of her wanton longings, to tell the priest and be absolved of her sins.
    Her pause stretched so long the priest prompted her gently. “There is no sin so deep the Savior cannot cleanse it.”
    Rica squeezed her eyes closed. In a rush, she said,
    “I think my thoughts have been overtaken by the demon of lust, Father,” she said in a mortified voice. “I have entertained many impure thoughts about a certain man this week.”
    “Ah.” His voice was gentle. Perhaps even understanding. “It is a common enough sin for a girl of your years,” he said. “It is time you married. Have you any other sins to confess, my child?”
    Vastly relieved, Rica sighed. “No, Father.”
    Her penance was remarkably light, Rica thought, emerging from the chapel into gray day. For a moment she stood just beyond the archway, uneasy with the knowledge that she had not fully confessed.
    The drizzle had eased a little. In no hurry, Rica wandered toward the kitchen gardens, which lay wet and perky at one end of the bailey. Against the gray day, the green of the plants fairly hummed. The sight eased her. She bent to pluck dead blossoms from a tangle of beans, smelling wet earth and decaying leaves as her hems dragged the ground.
    To one side were the modest herb gardens that served the ordinary needs of the castle. Peonies thrived, their bright pink heads dotted with lingering moisture. There were fine stands of lavender, the blooms gloriously purple, their leaves a soft gray-green. Rica pinched a stalk and lifted her fingers to her nose.
    “Mistress?” said a voice behind her. “Cook’s ailing. She sent for ye.”
    Rica followed the girl to the kitchens, where the cook sat in a corner, holding her belly, an unearthly moan cutting through the clatter and noise. Rica knelt beside her. “What is it?”
    “A terrible pain in my gut,” she said, then in a lower voice, “and blood in my piss this morning.”
    Stones, Rica thought. It wasn’t the first time Matilda had suffered thus. “Go to your chamber and I will fetch Helga.” Distractedly, she patted the woman’s shoulder as she scanned the faces assembled. “Gertrude,” she said, and a small, buxom woman stepped forward, her hair contained beneath a tightly tied scarf. “See to the morning meal and I will come help you later with