Scotland: 1557.
Margarete stood by the window, folding and unfolding a square of linen between nervous fingers. Her young body was taught with anxiety beneath her rich gown. Abruptly, she spun around to face the somewhat older woman who sat calmly stitching at an intricate piece of embroidery.
"I must know more of him," she snapped, her large eyes flashing with impatience. "In five days' time I'm to become his bride. By application of my woman's wiles, I'm to soften his heart and loosen the strings of his purse. In short, I must prevail upon him to save my family from penury and dishonor." Her voice rose in frustration. "How am I to wind him about my finger like yarn, if I know not the fiber from which he is made?"
Lise gave a half smile as she replied tranquilly: "All men are of much the same fiber when the lamp is extinguished. You are young and shapely, a virgin of noble birth. Such a woman has little difficulty in satisfying a man in the bed chamber."
"I must do more than simply satisfy him!" Margarete exclaimed. She began to pace around the guest accommodation which had been provided by the convent. The marriage procession was resting for a few days before proceeding to the estate of Lord Colin MacLean.
"My uncle's gambling debts are beyond reason and, before very long, within weeks perhaps, my bridegroom will be entreated to rescue my family's name. If the Lord Colin is to be persuaded out of so much gold, without even time for a son by his young wife, I must do more than my simple wifely duty.
You say that men are of the same fiber when it comes to desires of the bed, and yet," her pale cheeks flushed slightly, "I've listened to women's talk, and not only among serving women. Why you yourself were once a..." She broke off, ashamed of her indiscretion.
"A whore?" Lise finished. "Indeed, though few remember it." Her countenance was unperturbed, and her stitching went on, even as before.
"Well," Margarete continued somewhat more diffidently, "I have heard that men... men may differ in what they demand from a woman. Can you not tell me, or can we not learn? You know I am convent trained, I know little of men other than my father and brothers. I have been set the task of giving myself to this unrefined Scots barbarian, and influencing him to part with a great deal of wealth on my behalf. When my father and brothers set off for battle, they have been trained in combat. They have scouts to tell them what lies ahead of them. Must I then, a woman, walk unarmoured into my fate?"
Lise continued her stitching, but Margarete could tell by the set of her lips that she had at last caught the older woman's attention. Lise could see some sense in her mistress's words, but remained silent, waiting to see how much cunning Margarete would bring to bear on her own situation. Lise reflected that such exercise would serve her mistress well, and couldn't be begun too soon.
Margarete stopped at the window again, her back to it, hands gripping the ledge. Lise admired the lively curves of Margarete's body set against the contemplative gray of the sky. Instead of the thread beneath her fingers, Lise felt again the symmetry of those curves under her hands as she tended the younger woman, the soft texture of Margarete's young flesh.
"Of a certainty," Margarete continued excitedly, "This Lord Colin is no monk! If he is to be married soon, surely even now he roisters and disports himself with women of easy virtue. Could we not bribe one such to tell me what I need to know?"
Lise threw down her embroidery and laughed aloud.
"Ah My Lady, you have the mind of a Medici, and the sophistication of one of your cloistered convent sisters. You cannot simply begin making inquiries of such women regarding the bed habits of the Lord MacLean! Such women too often have loose tongues and little discretion."
She rose and came to where Margarete stood.
"My poor little flower." She said lovingly, taking the younger woman into her arms. "You are truly distressed, and perhaps you are right to be. For all you are young and inexperienced, much responsibility has been placed on you."
Lise caressed the soft faire hair, so treasured by noble women such as Margarete. Every night she, as Margarete's favored attendant, brushed out that feathery cloud and braded it for sleep.
Now, she ran her fingers tenderly through it and spoke soft words. Margarete pressed herself against the other woman in an embrace of gratitude and affection. She turned her face up to smile fondly into Lise's eyes. Lise bent and pressed her mouth to Margarete's parted lips. The younger woman's body was still thrumming with anxiety and excitement. Lise felt stirred by her nearness, and by the growth of an idea of her own, a possible means to obtain the information her mistress required.
She ran her hand from Margarete's hip up the curve of her waist to her breast.
