Her name was Rebecca. She was Romany gypsy by blood. Born under a blue moon she used to tell me. I met her one day as I was leaving Londinium. I failed again in my attempts to become a noble’s jester. She had her old gypsy caravan just off the country road and she was seated in front of it, in the mud. I rode up on my steed, Morning-Star, and asked her, "Good morrow, m’Lady. What fortunes should leave you here?" "Funny you should ask that, sir, as it usually my job to see problems like this in advance. But in hindsight I suspect I pay more attention to others’ fortunes than mine. My horse was struck lame and I just put her out of her misery, but now find myself with my own share." "So m’Lady is in need of a horse. Where are you headed?" I asked. [More]