Only Rutland knew his sensitivity; all others found him either brilliant and witty or sullen and silent; but his heart he hid from all but his friend, and even he never knew it all. Nurtured on the French romances that were the boyhood reading of his day, he dreamed of attaining the love that he had yearned for in secret since he was pryed screaming from his nurse's arms at the age of five, and set to learning Latin with a pious young uncle. He spent his quiet hours dreaming of a romance of the sort he read about in the tales of Sir Lancelot and Prince Orlando, fated, overwhelming. She would be beautiful, graceful, a good dancer. They would make love. His imagination, always powerful, and now coupled with a teenage boy's libido, made it as real as though it had already happened. Well, almost as real.