In high school, my best friend and I made a pact to visit England together. It took many years, but when we finally made it, we decided to make the trip an adventure we'd never forget. She surprised me with reservations for the most remarkable hotel, Amberley Castle. It's a 12^th century keep with a dozen lavishly appointed chambers.  The owner lives on the top story.  During our stay we were treated to an impromptu piano concert by his children as well as witnessing a medieval wedding in the courtyard from our balcony. In the afternoon, strolling across the lush lawn which was cheerfully dotted with tiny daisies, we bumped into our host.  He greeted us most cordially, but complained about having to go round with the daisy-killer soon, as the "weeds" were getting out of hand!

I'm a big believer in the gift of serendipity.  Sometimes while I'm hot on the trail of one period of history, I stumble upon an anachronistic gem I can use later. I'd come to Yorkshire to do research for a Dark Ages Viking romance, but when I spied this medieval merchant's guildhall, I just had to explore.  Sure enough, I was inspired to write the first book of the "Knights of de Ware" trilogy.  Indeed, this is just the kind of hall where Linet de Montfort might have sold her wool as a guildswoman at the time of her adventures in "My Champion."

For me, nothing can duplicate the thrill of actually running my hands over stones that have stood for centuries, letting my gaze drift out past a medieval embrasure and across a hazy expanse of rich forests and verdant knolls, imagining what life was like hundreds of years ago. I must have spent half an hour soaking up the history in this chamber at Bodiam Castle.  Built in the 14th century and untouched by subsequent generations, the keep stands as a perfect canvas for many a romantic tale.

Knights apparently weren't all five feet tall, as this suit of armor from The Tower shows. The photo also shows this terribly dramatic black wool hooded cloak I bought at the famous January Sale at Harrod's. Of course, there's little occasion to wear such a heavy wrap in California, so I usually save it for vacations to cold climes.  The last time I wore it was on a foggy night prowling the streets of London.  I was feeling dark and mysterious and magical . . . until two teenagers came up behind me, and I overheard one remark to the other, "Just 'oo does she think she is - Batman?"

It was twilight, and I'd neglected to book lodgings in Chipping Camden. When I called the number for a restored coach-house inn I found in the Egon Ronay guide, the hostess apologized for her lack of rooms. She explained that she didn't have any "nice" accommodations left, but she could give me an older room with a four-poster. You guessed it.  THIS was the four-poster!  The year "1627" was carved into the wood, and the proprietor explained to me that the bed had never left the lath and plaster chamber, being too large to fit through the doorway.