Ah, Valentine’s Day….Eleanor’s heart flutters a bit. If only, if only, that devilishly-handsome Lord Hugh would cast his misogynistic prejudices aside and see that she is indeed extremely intelligent, entirely capable of managing her estate and the forests, loyal almost to a fault (oh that disgusting Edgar, her late–thankfully–husband!), and witty into the bargain. Who else could trounce that cur, her overlord William of Litchfield, in brilliant conversation, and leave him clueless as to what had just happened? Eleanor smiles to herself. Then, she looks at the picture of the heart, with an arrow piercing through it, and she is reminded of how Lord Hugh’s intense blue gaze pierces her through and through, not to mention the pangs of longing she feels as she watches his broad shoulders disappear through the doors of the Great Hall. What shall she do? Should she risk penning a note anonymously and having a peasant deliver it to Wykeham, Lord Hugh’s castle? She frowns. Nay, ‘twould not do, for hardly any women in her day, 1272, know how to read and write, and Lord Hugh would guess in a heartbeat who had written it. A heartbeat….Eleanor blushes at the thought….