I was restless when Eleanor left me. She had brought with her the scent of the world beyond the walls of my convent. I was drawn in by temptations I had not thought of in years: roasted meat on the bone, fresh baked bread torn for trenchers, the scent of Henry’s skin when he lay beside me.
As I worked in the garden three weeks later, up to my elbows in loam, Jean Pierre came to me.
It was an ordinary day until he stepped into my garden. I was wearing one of my oldest dresses made of linen and flax. The sleeves dragged in the dirt as they always had, for I used that gown for gardening only. It had once been a soft blue but had faded to a light gray.
As was my habit now, I wore my hair long down my back, unbound but for a strand of silver cord that kept it out of my eyes.
I was directing
