Matilda liked this feeling.
She hadn't changed into another court dress, but into a new riding habit.
She hated fussy gowns. The clean, sharp lines of the riding habit offered a brief escape from the troubles her identity as a woman brought.
The door to the room opened. It was none other than her mother, Beatrice: Regent of Tuscany, eldest daughter of the Duke of Upper Lorraine, Duchess of Lower Lorraine, and Marchioness of Tuscany.
She had a slender waist and long, pale-gold hair that fell to her waist, possessing a unique elegance for a woman of her age.
She was a legendary woman—a staunch ally of the former Pope Alexander and a steadfast supporter of Church reform. Not even the armies of the old Emperor Henry III had managed to crush her ambition.
She had made it so one woman could act as regent for another, and she had kept Tuscany from being carved up.
Matilda had inherited her mother's silver-gray eyes, but she hoped it was the only thing they had in common.
