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lee of a buttress along the north side of the church, pulled up her hood against the drizzle, and waited on the cold seat. She was early, she knew, and she whiled away the interminable minutes thinking about William’s visit. It did seem to her that the man was determined to have her, but this was not the first time John Lambert had attempted to marry off his eldest daughter, and so Jane convinced herself that she could turn Master Shore away.
    Her practiced fingers fondled the soft silk woven into her belt as she ruminated on her future, feeling a flaw in the weaving that made her look down at it with critical eyes. She and Bella had learned at an early age the art of working silk into elaborate fringes and tassels that were so fashionable at court as adornments on bodices, sleeves, and hats. Bella’s dexterity put Jane’s to shame, and Jane decided her talent lay in the less complicated weaving of belts, ribbons, and colorful garters for hose and in attracting customers; the irony that her father was not above using her beauty for the latter did not escape Jane. Bella, on the other hand, was allowed to work at home, under the kinder eye of their mother, but Jane spent much of her week at the Mercery, employing her lap loom when the shop was quiet. For all she was lazy at her loom, Jane had discovered she had a talent with the pen, and sheliked nothing more than amusing her mother and sister on quiet evenings with her clever verses.
    Jane’s reverie was interrupted by a group of monks chanting their way to nones along the path through the churchyard to the cathedral. Jane signed herself and intoned an ave, her eyes following them past the stone pulpit until they disappeared. It briefly crossed her mind that the choice of sacred ground for an illicit meeting might open up a rocky road to hell, but she dismissed the idea with a “pah!” and a smothered giggle and thus failed to see Thomas until he startled her with his first words.
    “You did not expect me, Mistress Lambert?” he teased, catching her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Do you have such little faith in me?”
    The bells above them clanged for nones and her embarrassed stammer, “N-nay, T-Tom, I mean, Master Grey,” was thankfully lost in the din.
    Tom curled her arm in his and joined her on the stone seat. It was out of the wind and drizzle, and she had been right about the privacy. He made sure there was no one about as he indulged himself in the first kiss of this new affair. She smelled of rosemary and citron, and her lips were hungry and warm. His instinct that Jane was versed in the art of flirtation had not failed him, and he could sense she wanted more, so he kissed her again.
    “Your eyes are the color of the sea, Jane,” he told her, holding her perfect oval face in his fingers. “I cannot make up my mind if they are green or gray.”
    His kiss stoked a fire in her that left her wanting more, but she knew what she must do in this dance of courtly love. Had she not read it over and over in her books: she must chastise him for his compliment. “You are impertinent, sir. You do not know me well enough to kiss me thus.”
    She expected that more high-flown prose or even poetry wouldcontinue the dance, but instead he said boldly, “Then forgive me, sweetheart, is this better?” And his lips were again on hers and this time she could feel his tongue seeking an entry. She pushed him away despite how much she longed to kiss him back in the same way; she did not want to forget the lessons that kept a real love like this burning brightly, even though he seemed to have waived his courtly manners. There was a rule that pertained to this moment, was there not, she thought. Ah, aye, rule number fourteen:
    The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized.
    Jane smiled. “Perhaps I do not understand the conventions of courtly love well enough, Tom. Do I not deserve some poetry? I am sure you are not