“Ah, Henrie—why do you start?”
She lifted her face to mine. I kissed her forehead before I answered.
“I started because you did not call me by my name. My name is Michael Le Bourse.”
She looked at me with growing wonder in her eyes. “Michael Le Bourse? Ruth’s brother? He is dead.”
“No, he is not dead. You did not see his body at Marmaduke’s. You were deceived. He is alive and well, and I am he.”
As she gazed confusedly at me the wonder faded from her face. Then in a flash she seemed to comprehend it all. She broke from me and stood in the center of the room, burning with shame and anger.
“If you are Michael Le Bourse, what are you doing here?”
Oh, the sight was pitiful, both for her and for me. She stamped her foot madly.
“What are you doing here? Are you a spy in my father’s house? You wretch, I see it now. You came here to avenge your sister. You tricked me into loving you. I hate you. I thought you were an honest man. The shame, oh the shame to have touched you. Is this your just religion? Where is your justice? In lying, in deceit, in being false to women? All, all to gain your own selfish ends. The dogs in my father’s kennels would hold better faith than that. Yet you judge others. You say we Catholics are untrue. God shield us, we are not ashamed to own our names.”
I tried to interrupt her. She only drew her skirts about her and edged off as if I were diseased.