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keep people from prying into her past life — years that even Rebecca was not privy to. When they were alone, Grandmama revealed a remarkable acumen, a steadfast calm in the face of crisis, and an inexhaustible patience. Grandmama had taught her to read Hebrew, had taught her much about the old religion through tales and stories. Young and old — confidantes — each listening to the dreams of the other.
    Rebecca was awakened from her reverie by the harsh cackle emitted from Lady Marlburn. As the great dame laughed, layers of chins slapped against her chest. Her breasts were enormous, tumbling out of a too-tight bodice. Her pomander was entrapped in cleavage — the sickly sweet-smelling orb peeking out of the gorge that separated mountainous mounds of flesh. Lord Marlburn stood dutifully at her side, nodding at the appropriate moments, sneaking sidelong glances at Rebecca.
    The “great” lord and lady, her father forced to show them respect because they were nobility.
    A pox on them.
    Rebecca remembered too clearly Lord Marlburn’s heavy arms holding her down, the thick hand clamped tightly over her mouth. His prick, stubby and crusted with scum, pushing deeply into her body. His stench and sweat dripping on her freshly washed skin. When he was done, the previously lustblinded lupine face had become sheepish. He had cried to her, begging her forgiveness at what he had thought was her deflowering. His weeping had made her even more sick and contemptuous. It had been simply her time of the month; she hadn’t been a virgin for two years.
    But she had told him nothing.
    Gifts soon followed — expensive bolts of cloth, bracelets studded with jewels, rare edibles — citrus from southern Italy, asparagus from Holland, chocolate from Spain. He had tried to speak with her, but she feigned illness, knowing he was mad with worry that she was carrying his bastard child. More gifts. More and more.
    What a fool!
    Looking at the two piggish bodies, Rebecca wondered how he could possibly mount and penetrate her when their torsos were wrapped in so many layers of fat. She tried to imagine their humping — two mastiffs pawing at each other, huffing and puffing.
    She hated them! At the moment she hated everyone.
    From the shield of her veil she noticed Dunstan approaching her. Her cousin was handsome. Tall, well built, his muscular thighs bulging under his stockings. His chest seemed massive under his peasecod doublet. His hair was long and sleek, his beard midnight black. A diamond winked from his left earlobe. As he neared, Rebecca picked up her head and nodded an acknowledgment.
    “How are you faring?” he asked, standing at her side.
    “Worry not for my sake,” Rebecca said. “Instead worry for Hector and Miguel. I fear that Raphael’s death will leave them weak with grief.”
    Dunstan sighed and nodded.
    “And what about your grief?”
    “I’ll survive.”
    “Did you love him?” Dunstan asked.
    “He was my betrothed, Dunstan. Of course I loved him.”
    Dunstan touched his earring with his forefinger and thumb.
    “And did you love him even as he bedded your chambermaid?”
    Rebecca faced him. “You’re despicable.”
    “Admit it,” Dunstan said with a half smile. “You feel relieved.”
    Rebecca turned away, blushing at the truth. Carelessly, she said, “Raphael’s death leaves us in a ticklish position, does it not?”
    Dunstan whipped his head around and whispered, “Quiet. We’re among strangers.”
    “My father talks freely,” Rebecca said. “He’s often unaware who is listening.”
    “God’s sointes, Rebecca, keep your voice down!” Dunstan reprimanded her. “Your father is
discreet
because he trusts you and speaks unmolested in your presence. Don’t make an ass out of him — or us. As comfortable as we live, we’re not immune from the whims of our rulers.”
    Rebecca knew that to be the truth. England’s religious tolerance could quickly be replaced by the Queen’s sudden death or military