She was dressed simply enough in a brown gown with a lacy ruff round the neck but she would have outshone any queen. Her voice was low and musical and her command of English only enhanced by a slight French accent. She said something to me, a simple introduction, but all I could do was stare open-mouthed at her. Suddenly she giggled and I realised I was still holding her fingers. You see, it was those eyes, so blue in a face so dark, one of God's most beautiful mixtures. I have met such women since, young girls from the west of Ireland, but Agnes Ralemberg was the queen.

Believe me, if the eyes are the windows of the soul, then Agnes's soul was as beautiful as she looked. She was totally guileless, honest, with a mordant sense of humour and sardonic wit. She knew me to be a rogue as soon as she clapped eyes on me and, whilst her father ushered me to a seat, she watched girlishly out of the corner of her eye. She was laughing at me but I didn't care.

Ralemberg talked and I listened. As far as I was concerned he could have my every piece of silver if he just allowed me to gaze at his daughter. Good Lord, I feel tears pricking my eyes now. Old Shallot, who would be under a woman's skirts, given half a chance, sat tongue-tied before this chit of a young girl. Do you know, I was frightened of her – or was I shy? (My chaplain is smirking. He had better be careful! Agnes was one of the great loves of my life. Indeed, the first and only one. Perhaps I loved those who came after because they were faint imitations of her.) Ah well, Ralemberg chattered gaily, then took me on a tour of the house. I walked like some sleepwalker as he showed me empty rooms and a steep, stone-vaulted cellar.