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alms, but their words didn’t reach me. By the time London’s crenellated city walls drew into view across the fields, my legs were in an agony of cramping and I had difficulty sitting upright on my palfrey. My head swam, and though my stomach lay empty, we had to stop twice before we reached Bishopsgate, so I could retch. Nor did it help to arrive in the city. The sights and smells of London sent my stomach churning anew as we passed butcher shops where clouds of flies banqueted on meat hung to dry, and rode down gloomy streets where the air was choked out by the upper stories of merchants’ houses projecting over the narrow streets, blotting out sun and sky. In these dingy, filthy streets, pigs roamed freely, digging in refuse piles that emitted a stench worse than the dung heaps we had passed on the country roads.
    All the while, as I rode and struggled to remain erect in the saddle, the world continued its uncanny silence. Mercers and customers argued in the streets; whirling wheels raised dust in the roadways; and blacksmiths hammered in their shops, fire spitting from the steel they forged, all without a sound. When we finally arrived at Westminster, the large palace courtyard teemed with crowds as mute as if they were etched in an illuminated manuscript. Grim-faced retainers strode purposefully across the court, hands clenched on the hilts of their swords; messengers galloped in and out, bearing missives to and from the far reaches of the kingdom. All unfolded dimly and without sound.
    I turned to Sister and saw her talking to the porter in the castle bailey, and I saw the porter nod and point to one of the towers near the river. My head spun, light faded from the day, and the last thing I remembered as the ground rushed up to meet me was the startled look in their eyes as they turned to me.
    I gave a soft sigh.
    “Is there anything I can do for ye, m’lady?” the girl asked.
    I shook my head, murmured my thanks, and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, for it was dark when I opened them again. I pushed myself up into a sitting position. By the light of a single candle on the small bedside table, I made out the girl’s form as she sat dozing against the wall. Her eyes flew open when I stirred.
    “M’lady, you’re awake!” She came and knelt beside me. Squeezing out excess moisture from the cloth in the washbasin, she wiped my face. “Your color is much better, m’lady. May I fetch you something to eat—some bread or broth?”
    I declined the offer. My stomach was still queasy.
    “A gift came for you while you were sleeping,” she said, moving to the coffer in a shadowy corner of the room. She picked up something and brought it to me. “Someone else has been concerned for you, too…. They sent you this.”
    I cried out and shrank back, repelled by the sight. A red rose. The girl frowned in puzzlement. “’Tis only a rose, m’lady. It was left outside the door, with this.” She slipped a letter from her bosom and gave it to me. There was no seal. I opened it to find a rhyme carefully scratched out in black ink. I bent my head to read, hope stirring in my breast with each line.
     
    Take thou this rose, O Rose,
    Since love’s own flower ’tis,
    And by this rose
    Thy lover captive is,
    And has been, since that fair night
    At Tattershall Castle.
     
    Joy exploded in my breast, and I felt the brightness of my own smile. I scoured the missive wildly, checking for a signature, but there was none. “Did you see who brought it?” I cried.
    “I only saw his back as he left the flower. He is young and well built.” The girl smiled at me, and I smiled back, my heart soaring. Sir John Neville.
    The rose was exquisite, in full and perfect bloom. The dream was an omen of good, not evil, I thought. I buried my face in the soft petals and lay back on my pillow, inhaling the flower’s lovely perfume, the sick feeling in my stomach suddenly gone. Bathed in its scent, I softly hummed the melody of the