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because Amice had admired another man. A handsome, talented one at that, with a voice to make ladies melt. He’d seen the like at court, and been subject to the swooning that went on for days hence.
    He sat alone at the table staring into his empty mug. Amice entered the hall, humming the minstrel’s plaintive tune. The fact that it had stuck with her irked him.
    “I wish he could sing for us again,” she said, a wistful tone in her voice. “The way he made me experience the lovers’ sorrow, not just through the beautiful notes and well-written verses, but how he sang….” She heaved a sigh worthy of any woman at court. “The pacing, his use of artful pauses. I’ll have to think on how I might apply some of his techniques to my writing. I should have asked him for another song, a happier one. I’d have loved to see how he conveyed joy and pleasure.”
    Her gazing upon him was bad enough. He didn’t want to hear Amice sing Geoffrey’s praises. But why should what she thought bother him? She couldn’t marry a minstrel, and he’d be departing in the morn. Their paths might never cross again.
    Yet the adoring look on her face even now rankled. He wanted Amice to admire him, as she’d seemed to when they stood on the parapet. To wax poetic about him as she took his arm. He shook his head. More the fool he, for it could do naught but to salve his pride.
    She couldn’t marry him, either.
    Not that he wanted her to.

    A week later, on the first of May, Amice awoke at dawn and ran to the window, opening the shutters as if she were a young girl eager to go outside and play. The sun peeked over the horizon; the sky was awash in pinks and golds, promising a beautiful May Day.
    She threw on an old gown of brown linen and hurried to join those who foraged in the hunting fields of Rising Chase to gather the may, branches and flowers they’d fashion into wreaths and garlands. Morning dew on May Day was said to bring luck.
    As she selected leaves to weave into her hair, Amice wondered what Nicholas would think. Would one such as he, used to finery and feasts, look down upon their holiday? Would he be bored by the games, find the dances foolish? Everyone, except perhaps Father Heydon of St. Lawrence Church in Rising, appreciated the importance of the ceremonies dating back to pagan times. The earth needed to be encouraged to yield to spring.
    She smiled. Whatever his views, she looked forward to Nicholas’s presence at this special celebration.
    Though she hadn’t yet come up with another way to avoid marriage except her letters, though good or bad news from court could come at any time, she wanted to live every moment at Castle Rising to the fullest. Each moment in Nicholas’s company made her want another. Despite their differences, no man had made her laugh, none had made her feel so at ease. Contented.
    And sometimes, the way he looked at her made her think he saw her as more than a friend. As a woman. Those times made her wish for more…more time, more togetherness, more closeness.
    If only…. No. She couldn’t think of what she wanted. But she took extra care with her appearance nonetheless.

    Nicholas watched Cyril supervise the maypole decorations in the bailey, shouting commands as morning breezes blew his hair upward.
    At court, servants made ready. Nobles participated only in the dancing and eating. The ladies might weave a garland or two, more for sport rather than achievement or to share tasks. Here, everyone worked wholeheartedly, from Amice and Cyril to the stable boy, Harold. Even Amice’s page Robert had a task, for he busily scurried toward the outside kitchen.
    Nicholas wanted to join in the fun, but felt uncomfortable asking how he could help. He sat on a tree stump, the sun warm on his face though the air was cool, alone in the midst of activity. Would he always feel the outsider? Because he frowned on the intrigues of court life, he hadn’t minded holding himself aloof there. Here, camaraderie