Lady of the Roses (28 page)

“Why is that one covered up?” he demanded.

Geoffrey laughed. “’Tis her custom—she dances veiled. ’Tis not from modesty, either, I assure you, as she is a ribald little thing—welladay, not so little, since she is as tall as I, though some will say I am little—however it be, you will see for yourself tonight. ’Tis enough to bring a blush to your own cheeks, I warrant!”

Geoffrey exchanged a look with me, and it took all my will to suppress the laughter that threatened to convulse me. He was quite the mummer, though I had never known it. Clearly he was enjoying himself with a freedom he would never taste again, and my raised eyebrow told him so.

“We’ll see about that,” the man-at-arms said with a scowl. “Wait here.”

Patiently we sat beneath the fierce gaze of the guards while the Gypsy captain stood holding the reins of the lead horse, fearful to stir lest they unsheath their swords. The man-at-arms finally returned with Conyers who held my missive, the seal now broken. I shrank into my saddle, but Conyers strode directly to Geoffrey and barely glanced my way. He broke into a broad grin.

“Geoffrey, you rogue,” he said with a slap on Geoffrey’s back that nearly felled him, “how did you gather this bevy of wild beauties? I half expected you to be dancing for us tonight when I heard you were here. Never would I have guessed women were one of your many talents.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my lord.” Geoffrey grinned back good-naturedly.

I realized suddenly how fond I was of these two men, loyal friend and loyal servant. Conyers turned back to the sergeant-at-arms. “Let them pass, and offer them what comfort there is. We have few here, my ladies”—his smile passed gallantly over us all—“as you will soon see, but we are happy you came, and most likely some of us will be even happier tonight.”

Geoffrey broke into a broad smile and shepherded us and our cart of supplies past the guards into the camp.

IN THE DINING TENT, MEN CROWDED THE LONG
plank tables, filling the space with rowdy conversation and bursts of laughter as they drank their ale and awaited their commander’s arrival, for one sweep of the scene told me John was not yet present. While my dance troupe dressed and made ready in a small area at the back of the enclosure, I hid behind the curtain that shielded us from men’s eyes and watched for him, my gaze touching nervously on the table, set with tall-backed chairs, where he would sit with his highest officers.

At one side of the enormous tent, a wide flap stood open, admitting the fading light of day and a view of the fields lit by the rosy glow of the setting sun. As I looked in that direction, a general commotion took place, and there was the rustle of garments as men stood to receive their commander. John entered with Sir John Conyers and his knights. I pulled back behind the curtain to catch my breath. Then, fortified once more, I looked again. John was making the rounds, greeting a man here, a man there, laughing and pausing to rest a hand on many a shoulder as he passed along to the high table. It was a side of him I had never seen before. He evinced a genial ease and camaraderie with these men that could exist only between those who had fought together and shared danger, who had entrusted one another with their lives and proven true time and again. Here was his own private world, a world of which I could never be part. I drew back, overcome by an inexplicable sadness.

When everyone was seated and the first course had been served, the Gypsy captain gave the signal to the minstrels, and the merry notes of the first melody floated over the hubbub of conversation. I nodded to four of the dancers and parted the curtain for them. They twirled into the hall, bright and beautiful in their costumes, midriffs exposed, hips swaying, their raven hair loose, bare legs visible through the slits. Men cheered and whistled. The girls smiled and blew them kisses as they danced, eliciting hoots of admiration from the soldiers, one of whom suddenly stood with a hand to his heart and cried out, “For mercy’s sake, either marry me or slay me now!”

I peeked out from behind the curtain, seeking John. He sat engrossed in conversation with Conyers and paid the dancers no heed, his mind clearly elsewhere. This distressed me.
What if he doesn’t notice me? What if he leaves the hall before I have a chance to dance?

Rousing applause broke into my thoughts. The first number had ended. The girls moved to the beat of the next melody, which was faster and wilder than the one that had gone before. John ignored them, still absorbed by his thoughts. Although he glanced up when the dance ended, his eyes held a faraway expression. A silence fell. I waited for the clash of cymbals to announce my entrance, and checked that my veil was secure against my hair. The music changed to a slow and sultry beat. My heart in my throat, I glided onto the floor, surrounded by a circle of dancers who shielded me from sight with blue and green ostrich feathers. I struck my pose, head turned shyly over my shoulder, eyes downcast, a hand holding my veil away from my body, the jeweled toe of one bare foot pointing out from beneath my gown. The girls withdrew their plumes. Men gasped at the strange sight I made, a dancer veiled from head to toe. They had never seen such a thing.

With one hand gripping my veil tightly over my face and the other sweeping its folds back and forth across my hips, I took long, languid steps to one side, then to the other, careful to keep my face averted from John. The minstrels quickened the beat of the music, and I broke into a long, sensuous twirl. Across the dance floor I writhed, veils sweeping around me, hugging my body, revealing a glimpse of jeweled ankle here, a glimpse of thigh there. I saw many of the men put down their ale to watch more intently, not knowing what to expect but unwilling to miss whatever came next. I twirled across the floor, pausing to reach out here and there to brush a shoulder, caress a cheek, or meet a glance with a promise in my eyes, all the while keeping my veil secured firmly across my face. Finally, my breath in my throat, I dared to look in John’s direction. Oblivious of me, he had tilted his chair back to talk to his friend Marmaduke Constable, behind Conyers, a gesture reminiscent of the banquet at Lord Cromwell’s castle that squeezed my heart in memory.

But, dear Heaven, doesn’t he recognize me yet?
On either side of him, Lord Clinton and Conyers sat relaxed in their chairs, giving me their full attention, smiling in enjoyment but also without a hint of recognition.
Have I disguised myself too well?
My heart cried out to John—
John, it’s me, my love, look at me, want me, I’m here….

The hoots and calls of the soldiers, and the gazes of Clinton and Conyers, who now leaned close to watch, finally penetrated John’s concentration. He tilted his chair back to the table and gazed over at me, but still with only half a mind. This was my chance. I twirled forward to his table, stepped up on tiptoe and swung a thigh swiftly, boldly, across the table at him, and retreated again. The minstrels broke into the melody of our first dance at Lord Cromwell’s castle and I cast my outer mantle to the floor. Dancers whisked it away. I was now covered only by a single sheer veil, as are Saracen women of the harem when they dance for their lords and masters. While some of the dancers fanned me with the ostrich feathers and others clapped to the beat of the wild melody, I writhed sensuously before him, letting my veil slip from across my cheeks for a mere instant. Then, as he lifted a goblet of wine to his lips, I displayed a leg, bare to the mole on my thigh.

John froze. He leaned forward in stunned disbelief. Tearing his gaze from the mole on my thigh, he ran his eye up my leg, up over my bosom, to my face. He met my gaze. He set his wine cup down and stared at me. Then slowly, very slowly, a grin began to spread across his handsome mouth, and the creases I so loved made themselves visible to me.

I widened my own smile and gave him a wink.

I RETURNED TO BURROUGH GREEN, WREATHED
in joy. My mission had been accomplished successfully, and as John assured me when I left, he would not soon forget my Gypsy dance. “The memory shall keep me warm on many a cold winter’s night,” he promised as he kissed me farewell. As if our reunion had brought us good fortune, more news arrived from John on the heels of my visit. He had raised the siege of Carlisle and killed six thousand Scots. His victory meant that King Edward no longer had to hurry back to the North and delay his coronation. The date was set for June twenty-eighth, four days after John’s birthday on St. John’s Day. John came home to celebrate his name day, and the following morrow we left for London to attend Edward’s coronation.

However, everywhere along the way to London, we heard the people murmuring about the choice of date. “Sunday?” they’d gasp. “But Sundays are unlucky this year!” Then they’d cross themselves to keep the Devil away. I’d had the same reaction when John had given me the news; even he had been troubled. For the day of the week on which fell the anniversary of the Massacre of the Holy Innocents, December twenty-eighth, was unlucky throughout the year. And this time it had fallen on the Sabbath. King Edward apparently cared naught for superstition. That date suited him, so preparations went forward for the crowning of England’s Yorkist king.

When we arrived, we found London thronged by cheering masses displaying the White Rose of York, which was sold by the cartload on street corners and by hawkers from aprons brimming with the flower. “Fresh white roses for sale!” they cried. “Buy a fair white rose for our fair White Rose King!” The palace of Westminster, where we went to greet King Edward and John’s brother Bishop George, now his chancellor, bustled with the coming and going of innumerable staff. Cooks and helpers milled in the kitchen, conjuring all manner of toothsome delights into creation; carpenters hammered and pounded, making necessary repairs around the palace and on the royal barge, building tables and making chairs; while cages of swans and pheasants, and sacks of fruits, vegetables, sugar, and spices poured into the royal kitchens on carts, horses, and the backs of mules. The halls teemed with courtiers and nobles, and their retinues and ladies, and we had to thread our way through crowds everywhere we went. On our way to the king’s chamber, I gave a cry of joy, for my eyes alighted on a dear, familiar figure.

“Maude!”

She was with her uncle, Lord Cromwell. We embraced with delight.

“How are you, Maude?” I said. “You seem happier…. Are you?”

“Indeed I am. The defeat of the bitch of Anjou has done my heart much good.”

Promising to seek one another out over the next few days, we left for the king’s chamber. We found him chatting amiably with a goldsmith whose wares, spread out on a table, gleamed and flashed in the light.

“This is the goldsmith Master Shore, and he has made us a fine sword that shall be our offering as soon as the crown is placed upon our head,” Edward laughed and, flinging an arm around the man’s shoulder, he pointed to a golden sword set with rubies. Unaccustomed to familiarity with royals, the man colored and attempted an awkward bow. Edward removed his arm and moved to embrace us. “He’s the best goldsmith in London,” Edward said, slapping the man’s back before he left. “Almost as good a goldsmith as you are a commander, Cousin John! I owe my coronation to you, you know. If you hadn’t raised the siege of Carlisle, I would have had to come north—but now—”

He gave me a lingering glance filled with admiration. “Truly, you sacrifice yourself for your king, John. To think you could be at home with your beauteous wife instead…. Here, let us walk together. The garden is profuse with the most splendid adornments.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder, and we strolled out to the garden. But as Edward talked of finances, state troubles, and military strategy, his glance touched on each of the ladies we passed along the rose-lined paths. I realized that, for him, adornments meant not flowers but women.

In spite of the money woes that seemed to plague the young king—for he’d had to borrow ceaselessly these past three months to pay the troops and expenses of the government—King Edward threw himself a lavish coronation. He made his state entry into London the next day, and was met by the mayor and aldermen in scarlet and four hundred citizens clad in green. They conducted him from Lambeth Palace across the bridge to the Tower. At a rich banquet that evening he created thirty-two Knights of the Bath, two of whom were his young brothers, eight-year-old Dickon and eleven-year-old George, and he gave each knight a sumptuous gift. The following afternoon, the king rode in procession from the Tower to Westminster, preceded by his Knights of the Bath in their blue gowns with hoods of white silk.

His coronation took place on Sunday morning in Westminster Abbey. The archbishop of Canterbury anointed him and placed on his head the priceless crown of King Edward the Confessor, which he wore to Westminster Hall as he walked beneath a glittering canopy of cloth of gold. He took his seat at the dais, beside his brothers and other members of his family, while we arranged ourselves around an adjacent banquet table. To my surprise, the hall was dimly lit, with only a few torches on the walls, and no candles. At first I thought this was a money-saving concession. But as we took our seats in the low light, torches appeared in the shadowy dark depths of the cavernous hall and moved toward us out of the blackness, accompanied by soft chanting. As the torches drew closer, we saw that they were borne by hooded monks. They divided into two long rows and filed past the dais and down both sides of the hall, chanting their song until it faded away into the darkness that enfolded them.

Immediately varlets scurried to light the candles on the tables, and the hall filled with light. In the flicker of their flames, the beautiful colored glass in the soaring windows came to sparkling life, as did the banners and tapestries that decorated the walls, while the jewels that encrusted the hats and gowns of the nobles dazzled the eyes. All at once, from above, came the flapping of wings. We looked up to find hawks and falcons swooping and diving through the hall to our delight, pausing now and again to seize an apple or a plum from the silver bowls on the tables. The jangle of tambourines caught our ears, and a brightly colored Gypsy troupe made their entry to the beat of the lilting music of their strolling Gypsy minstrels. They were dressed Saracen-style in low-cut bodices with their midriffs exposed over their jeweled skirts, and I recognized the captain of my troupe when he passed close to our table. He gave us a low bow, and I threw him a white rose. John leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Warwick arranged it at my suggestion.” Then he gave me a naughty wink, and I laughed knowingly.