The Masters? Eleanor asks herself. She herself answers to no master, most certainly not that arrogant — but devilishly handsome — Lord Hugh — and most definitely not that swine’s head William of Litchfield, who is scheming to marry her as soon as his poor wife dies in childbirth. Lucky woman, she, Eleanor snorts, guessing what life with that cur William must have been like.
But, to the point, there has been a great deal of excitement in the castle today about something called the Masters, and she is curious, so curious that she is almost ready to ask one of the ladies-in-waiting to find out what this Masters is. From what she has heard, it involves a strange-sounding game of hitting small balls with clubs. She knows bowls, of course, but, what is this striking of a small ball? Why on earth would anyone want to do that, over and over again? And to what avail? To earn a green jacket?