“Ah, ye wouldn’t be near as happy if ye didn’t have something to badger me about, milady. Ye love the critters as much as I do.” Tabatha spoke tartly as she helped her mistress into the bliaut, which was a long, fitted tunic that laced up the side to give the gown shape. Its sleeves were laced tight from elbow to wrist and the hem covered her slippers, dragging on the ground behind her.

“I cannot argue with that, but I beg you not to befriend any more mother skunks preparing to give birth…at the least until we return to Lilyfare. Then I shall grant you an entire out-building for your animal caretaking.” Judith made the comment in jest, but nevertheless, a wave of sadness and frustration surged over her.

“Lilyfare?” Tabby snorted, her blue eyes flashing. “’Twill be the end of the world—or at least her reign—before the queen allows you to see those green hills again.”

“Aye. But I miss it so much…and, it seems, more as of late than ever before.”

“As do I, milady,” the maid said softly, folding up the discarded kirtle. “But ’tis our lot to serve the queen.”

“Aye. To be a bird, caged at her majesty’s whim and allowed not even to hunt…but only to sing the songs she wishes to hear.” Judith bit her lip, suddenly irritated with her discontent. She was blessed in numerous ways being a member of the queen’s close retinue. She had more freedom than many other ladies, coming and going with her raptors almost as she pleased, her own chamber, and the ear of the queen (who had the even more important ear of the king)—as well as a cluster of friends with whom she might make merry.

Though that cluster of friends might sift and change as they wed and left court, there were always newcomers to befriend. An ever-changing sea of lords and ladies currying favor with the royal couple and their confidantes. And at court, one always had good food and new fashions, priests when they were needed, and the best medical care from physicians of both Paris and London as well as Antioch. Even exotic foodstuffs, such as oranges, olives, and cinnamon, were readily available.

Truly, Judith had naught of which to complain. And so she lifted her chin and lectured herself into compliance. If she were at Lilyfare, she reminded herself, she’d never have tasted a fresh fig. And that would have been a tragedy.

Judith approved Tabby’s choice of a simple gold-link girdle to wrap around her waist, then slipped her eating knife into a sheath affixed to the chain and hung a small pouch of coins next to it. As she slid her feet into soft leather shoes, the furious sound of metal clanging rose from below.

She peered out the narrow window slit, her fingers brushing the cool stone, and looked down. In the courtyard, knights and men-at-arms trained. Their metal blades gleamed though the early morning light was dull with rainclouds, and she heard shouts and jests floating up in deep masculine voices.

“The men are training early this morn,” Tabby commented. “Even before mass.”

“From the look of the clouds, it’ll rain betimes,” Judith told her. “Then they’ll be cooped inside like a bunch of riotous chickens. Better to work off some of their bile before then, or there will be fights in the hall. Men are such war-mongering fools,” she added wryly. “Not a one is happy if he isn’t brandishing a blade and making off to fight some battle—whether real or imagined. Never do they care if their women are left behind, waiting for word of them.” As she had been when Gregory went off to fight. And never returned.

“’Tis one of the things I find comforting about my station,” Tabby said with the frank honesty they shared from more than a decade of being servant and mistress. She’d been Judith’s maid since she was eight and her lady was ten—although at that time, she’d merely been learning how to be a good tiring woman. “The chance of any husband of mine riding off to protect his lands—or even the king’s—will happen nearly about the time Her Majesty releases you to Lilyfare. Should I ever find a husband, he’ll be naught but a marshal, smith or miller—and devoid of warlust.”

“And that blessing I pray for you, Tabby, dearling,” Judith said. “That you must never lift the mail sherte off or onto the shoulders of your husband. And now, I must see to Hecate before mass, for I fear the rain will come soon.”

Judith’s slippered feet were light on the curving stone stairs as she bounded down them. Tapestries—some wrought by Queen Eleanor, but mostly by her ladies—as well as the flaming wall sconces fluttered in Judith’s energetic wake. When she reached the bottom, instead of pausing in the hall where serfs prepared for the breaking of the fast after mass, she went out into the bailey.

She had to pass by the training yard on her way to the mews…well, mayhap that wasn’t quite true. She could have cut across between the fore stable and the bakery, but then she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to walk past the pairs of men battling with broadsword and shield. And aside from that, the strip of grass between the stable and bakery was sure to be wet from the dew, which would soak her slippers.

Thus, Judith had ample opportunity to observe the two dozen or so knights and men-at-arms as she went on her way. Many of them wore only mail chausses and boots, leaving their shoulders and chests bare. If it were midday, they likely wouldn’t have been so bold—for fear one of the women might see them. But Ursula, Alynne, and the other ladies were most likely still abed, or at the least dressing for mass.

But Judith was no prude—after all, she’d grown up watching men train in her father’s yard, oft in various states of undress. As well, she and Gregory were betrothed for more than a year before he died, and they’d been intimate on more than one occasion. Before she came to court, Judith had even attended to visiting lords or other important men at her father’s estate, often bathing them herself as a sign of honor and hospitality.

Thus she counted herself fortunate rather than mortified to see and admire the sleek muscles, broad, square shoulders, and dark patches of hair covering many of the bare chests of some of the king’s best warriors. Sweat gleamed, muscles bulged, and powerful arms swung swords nearly as heavy as Judith herself.

She knew many of the men: Hugh de Rigonier, James of Revrielle, Clancy de Monfronte, and at the furthest edge of the group, Malcolm of Warwick. Judith found herself wanting to pause and watch him for a moment—simply out of curiosity, of course, for she’d oft seen the other men during their swordplay—but she dared not be noticed gawking. Still, Judith took note of Mal’s sleek bunches of muscle, rippling down his arms and over his shoulders. He moved with speed and surprising grace for one so tall, his too-long hair plastered over his eyes and across one cheek.

As she continued past, now eyeing the lunging and spinning movements of the other warriors, she noticed a pair of younger fighters. Squires, likely, and mayhap barely fifteen years of age. They were surrounded by a small group of others of their age; not the full-grown, knighted men, but younger ones still aspiring to receive their accolade. One of the two fighters was long and gangly and overmatched by his more agile partner. As Judith approached, she was reminded of the days at Kentworth when Gregory was fostering. She’d watch him practice whenever she could, utterly besotted by his handsome face and curling blond hair. He was quick and lithe, even if he used his feet to trip his sparring partner as oft as he did his sword.

If he had not done such foolish, dangerous things and gotten killed, she would be married. They would likely have a babe or two. And she would be home at Lilyfare, with a man who—if he did not love her, at the least he cared for her somewhat.

A shout caught her attention, and Judith looked over in time to see the taller, slighter young fighter tumble into a heap on the muddy ground. His sword lay well out of reach, and it appeared he’d tripped on his own feet instead of being disarmed by his opponent.

None of the other young men went so far as to laugh or even jeer at him—but mayhap that was even worse. Instead, Judith caught some laughing, slanted looks cast between them along with a few expressions of disgust.

Someone handed the boy his sword as he picked himself off the ground. From the amount of dirt on his tunic and chausses, it was clear it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a spill.

“Better luck next time, Rike,” the other boy said jovially. But even from where she stood, Judith could tell he was trying hard not to smile.

She looked away quickly, for fear Rike would see her watching and be even more mortified. But at the same time, her mind was working. He needed someone to train with—someone who knew what he was doing and could teach him how to move his too-long legs and control his awkward arms. Mayhap she would ask Hugh to take him under his wing, or—nay. Not Hugh. Malcolm.

Nay, Warwick. She must remember to think of him as Lord Warwick now.

But it was a good thought, no mater how she named the man in her mind. How many times had Mal—Warwick—ended up accidentally dropping his sword or tripping over its tip when he was younger? Judith had oft seen it happen when he was fostering with Gregory. Once, he’d tried to do a spinning lunge and ended up flat on his face, his sword bouncing across the dirt, his own shield cutting him across the cheek as he fell. If anyone could advise Rike, ’twould be Warwick.

She kept walking, frowning in thought. But would he even be willing? Did he have the temperament? During their brief conversation last evening by the mews, she’d sensed impatience and discomfort fairly rolling off him. Whether it was caused by herself or nay, Judith didn’t know. But she must find out before putting any plan into action. The poor boy didn’t need any further bruise to his ego, that was certain.

By now she’d reached the mews. Tessing was there of course, his sparse white hair standing in soft, curly tufts at the back of his head like the underdown of a baby merlin. His watery gray eyes were bright as he looked up from sweeping to greet her.

He preferred to sleep on a small pallet in the falcon house, and Judith didn’t dissuade him. He liked to be among the feathers, he told her, for they didn’t talk back to him. (That had been a veiled reprimand to her in remembrance of Judith’s stubbornness and saucy tongue when she was younger and just learning her way around the birds—thinking she knew better than he. How soon she learned otherwise.) And ’twas good for the birds to be around men as much as possible. As well, Tessing’s presence also protected them from any cat or other beast—including a two-legged one—that might wish to partake of the valuable hunters.