The Rogue's Princess Read Online Free

deep mourning.’
    Mercy felt she had just been made to agree to something, but she wasn’t sure what.
    ‘Did I tell you Master Fletcher called on Father to ask for Catherine’s hand?’ On impulse, Ann leant out of the window and threw a straw into the water below to watch it be carried away on the hungry tide.
    ‘Nay. What happened?’ Mercy perched beside her, sniffing with relish the fresh air of a stiff breeze off the sea.
    ‘He was sent away with a flea in his ear. None of us will marry anyone less than a guildsman if my father has his way. Catherine was relieved: Fletcher’s breath smelt of onions.’
    The gust of wind sent Mercy’s ruff into a flutter, pins from where she had not anchored it securely scattering into the water below. She hastily grabbed the loose end before it too went sailing.
    ‘Here, let me do that.’ Ann clucked her tongue. ‘You have a mighty skill at striking wide with the pins, like a half-blind archer shooting at the butts on Finsbury Fields.’
    ‘I know. I’m hopelessly untidy even though I try not to be.’ Mercy gestured to the room she shared with her sister. It was a case in point. Her truckle bed was a tumble of sheets; Faith’s made right and tight as if she had never slept in it. Their belongings were in a similar state: Mercy’s trunk a jumble, Faith’s neat as if for military inspection.
    ‘I don’t understand it,’ continued Ann, as she worked her way round Mercy’s collar, ‘neither your brother nor your sister wear such plain, dull clothes, and your father is the biggest importer of cloth in London! I noticed that Faith is wearing a lovely russet kirtle and white sleeves today, so clearly this is none of her doing.’
    Mercy made no comment. It was a matter between her and God, and Ann would just laugh if she told her. Besides, she was used to being the less regarded sister in the shadow of Faith’s shining reputation.
    ‘My friend.’ Ann had nearly reached the end of her task, tipping Mercy’s head sideways to ease in the last fastening. ‘I think you must be a fool for wasting your position; you could have your pick of the shipments. It’s as though you don’t like being a girl.’
    Mercy hummed in a non-committal manner.
    ‘You must admit that choosing pretty clothes is part of thefun of belonging to our sex. Lord knows, we have few other advantages.’
    Mercy smoothed her grey skirts, secretly agreeing that they were dreadful, but she had made a bargain with God when she was little and she meant to keep it. ‘I like being this way.’
    Ann turned away to gather a few things for Mercy, putting them in a little leather bag. ‘No, you don’t. I see you eyeing my orange kirtle. You, Mercy Hart, are a counterfeit good girl. There is a merry maid just wanting to burst out.’
    Wasn’t that the truth? Mercy was beginning to regret her decision to go; she knew her weaknesses well enough to realize she should resist putting herself in the path of temptation.
    ‘Please, Ann, I’ve said I’d come to your feast. Let that be enough.’
    Ann shoved a nightgown and clean shift into Mercy’s arms and held the bag open to receive them. ‘Then we shall make our escape. Supper is at seven.’
    In the family parlour downstairs, Faith was sewing on the bench seat by the riverside window. The light fell across her face, making her look like the painting of the Madonna in St Mary Overie, the one that had survived the reformers’ whitewash. Faith would not welcome the comparison as such depictions were suspect, so Mercy kept that thought private. Mercy’s grandmother, Mary Isham, sat bundled in blankets by the fire, her chin wagging in the way of the very old as she stroked the tabby cat curled on her knee. Her white hair was bizarrely decked with ribbons like a girl on May Day.
    ‘I’m going to Ann’s, Gran,’ Mercy bellowed into her ear.
    Grandmother Isham smiled up at her granddaughter and cupped her cheek. ‘That’s good, dear. France is said to be very