The Forbidden Queen (47 page)

It was magical.

‘Do you approve, Majesty?’ Edmund asked with a bold stare.

‘It’s too late to ask that,’ I replied in mock reproof.

He sank to his knees, head bent. ‘I asked no permission. Am I in disgrace?’

‘Would you care?’ I thought he would not.

‘I would care if I caused you to frown on me, lady.’ Suddenly he was grave, looking up through his dark lashes, all light mockery abandoned, making me recognise that I must consider my choice of words. And so I kept them light as I borrowed a fiddle bow from one of the nearby minstrels and struck Edmund lightly on both shoulders.

‘Arise, Lord Edmund. I forgive you everything. A hot brazier and a bowl of onion pottage on a freezing day can worm your way into any woman’s favour. Even mine.’

He leapt to his feet. ‘Come and be warm.’

Handing over the raptors to the waiting falconers, we ate, then danced on the frosted grass by the river, until the bitter wind dispelled even the heat of the fires and drove us in. I laughed at the irresistible impulsiveness of it all when we joined hands and circled like any peasant gathering, and my hand was clasped hard in Edmund Beaufort’s as we hopped and leapt. As if he felt that I might run away if he released me for even a moment.

I felt like a young girl again. I had no intention of running.

Ah, but some days I felt old, older than my years, unable to respond to the simple magic of pleasure. A vicious cold snap found us skating on the solid stretch of river, silvered and beautiful in the frosty air, the grass seed heads coated in hoar.

‘I cannot,’ I said, when my damsels donned skates and proved their prowess. It looked dangerously uneven to me, the ice ridged and perilous to those who had no balance.

‘Have you never skated?’ Edmund was skimming fast across the frozen ripples, already at my side in an elegant slide and spurt of ice that drew all eyes, while I shivered miserably on the riverbank, reluctant even to try. I had a vision of me, sprawled and helpless and horribly exposed.

‘No.’

‘You can learn.’ ‘I doubt it.’

What’s wrong with you? Why can you not just try? What will it matter if you fall over?

I am afraid. I think I have been afraid all my life
.

And there was the familiar gloom lurking on the edge of my sight, waiting for me to allow it to approach closer and overwhelm me.

‘You can, Queen Kat. There is nothing that you cannot do.’ Edmund’s certainty cut through my self-imposed misery. ‘You will be an expert by tonight. I guarantee it.’

Still I sought for an excuse. ‘I have no skates.’

He produced a pair, shaking them by their leather straps over my head. ‘Sit there and I will remedy your lack.’

I sat on a folded cloak on the bank. ‘Permit me, my lady.’

Without waiting for permission, he pushed back my skirt and lifted one foot, beginning to strap on the skate. I discovered that I was holding my breath, watching his bent head as he huffed at the stubbornness of the frozen leather. He wore a magnificently swathed velvet hood, his hair curling beneath it against his cheek; his fingers were sure and clever, even in the cold.

I took in a quick breath as they slid over my ankle, then round my instep. It was an intimate task but not once did he stray beyond what was acceptable. Quick and efficient, he was as impersonal as any servant. Not once did he look up into my face. Until it was done.

And then he did, holding my gaze, his own bright with knowing. ‘There, my lady. It’s done. You may breathe again.’ His eyes outshone the jewels anchoring the velvet folds. He knew I had been holding my breath. My heart jolted against my ribs.

And then there was no time to think. Edmund braced himself to lift me, and drew me onto the ice. I clung to his arm as if he were my last resort in preserving my life, but I skated and my pride knew no bounds.

‘A prize! A prize for Queen Kat, who has learned a hard lesson.’

He left me standing at the edge, to skate off to the far side, returning with a feather fallen from the wing of one
of the swans that we had driven off in high dudgeon. It was perfect, shining white, and he tucked it into my hood.

‘You are a pearl beyond price, Queen Kat.’

‘Indeed, you must not…’ Despite the cold, my body felt infused with heat, but a voice of sense whispered in my mind. Enchantment could be a dangerous thing.

And then before I could say more he was off with a whoop to swing Joan away from James and drag her along the curve in the river at high speed. And then even Alice, who had brought Young Henry down to see the jollity. He did not single me out again, for which I was glad.

I sat on the bank and watched, Young Henry tucked against my side. And when I shivered, my Master of Household strode across, shaking out a length of heavy woollen weave to wrap around the pair of us, anchoring it against the breeze with much efficient tucking. When I murmured my thanks, he bowed gravely in acknowledgement, sternly unsmiling, returning to his position.

As the wagons were repacked and we prepared to return to the castle, whose towers beckoned with promises of warmth and comfort, I retained enough presence to thank those who had added to our festivities—the minstrels, the servants, the long-suffering pages, who had been at our beck and call all day. I did not think Edmund would necessarily remember them, and it was my household after all.

‘Master Tudor.’ I summoned the young man who had
stood, silent and watchful throughout. ‘Do you have any coins?’

‘I have, my lady.’ Searching in the purse at his belt, he dropped into my outstretched hand a stream of silver.

I dispensed them with my thanks.

‘You must tell me what I owe you,’ I said.

‘There is no need. I will note it in the accounts, my lady.’

His eyes were as dark as obsidian, his voice a slide of pleasurable vowels and consonants, but brusquely impersonal.

‘Thank you,’ I said hesitantly.

‘There is no need, my lady,’ he said again. ‘It is my duty to see to your comfort.’

The winter evening’s twilight was falling fast and I could see his face only obscurely, the planes of his face thrown into harsh dips and soft shadows. It seemed to me that the corners of his mouth were severely indented, almost disapproving—or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

A voice reached me, calling out to my left.

‘Come and give me your opinion on this important matter, Queen Kat!’

I went joyfully where I was summoned.

I looked in my reflecting glass when we returned. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, and not from the exercise. My thoughts were capricious, and all centred on Edmund Beaufort. I had wished he would not single
me out, but was irritated when he did not. His wit, his outrageous compliments set fire to my blood, but then I found them too personal, too over-familiar.

I was swept with an urgency, a longing: I could barely wait to rise from my bed to experience a new day at the wilful hands of this man who had erupted into my life.

And then came the long evenings and nights, the days when it did not grow light and the twelve days of festivity drew close. The day before Our Lord’s birth dawned, and the castle was shivering with anticipation. Perhaps I was the one to shiver, uncertain of what awaited me but exhilarated in equal measure.

I had had one Christmas with Henry, in Rouen, a rather sombre, religious affair, heavy with tradition and formal feasting and celebration of High Mass. And then I had spent Christmas alone at Windsor after my son’s birth. We had made no merriment that year for I had not yet been churched. Neither did I recall any moments of festive joy as a child. This year would be different. This year Edmund Beaufort was at court. There was a distinct air of danger when we met together before supper on Christmas Eve. Not menace, but a waiting, a standing on tiptoe.

‘We need a Lord of Misrule,’ Joan announced. With James at her side she had blossomed like a winter rose. ‘We cannot celebrate without a Lord of Misrule.’

We were standing in the Great Hall around the roaring fire, still in furs and heavy mantles after a foray along
the riverbank. It was a tradition I knew of, such cunning and malice-laden creatures who turned the world upside down.

‘I will be the Lord of Misrule,’ Edmund announced, posturing in a fur-lined cloak of brightest hue. He looked like some malign being from the nether world.

‘You can’t,’ Joan responded promptly. ‘Tradition says he must be a servant, to make mockery of all things. You don’t qualify.’

‘I change tradition.’ Edmund stared around the group. ‘Who can stir us all to a frenzy of delight better than I?’

‘I thought you had to be chosen,’ James observed as he breathed on his fingers. ‘A heathenish practice…’ he grinned ‘… but one I’ve learnt to live with.’

‘Chosen? I choose myself.’ Edmund’s brows rose, as if he was daring anyone to defy his decision, and then his stare fixed on my face. ‘What do you say, Queen Kat? Am I your Lord of Misrule, from this day on?’

‘Not allowed.’ I shook my head solemnly, caught up in the game, but I thought there was more than a hint of petulance in the set of his mouth when his heart’s desire was denied him. There was no laughter in him. His scheming was not going as he wished, and I felt a mischievous urge to thwart him, whatever his intended plot. ‘You know how it works,’ I stated.

‘And you will hold me to it?’ he demanded, as if force of will could change my mind.

‘I will. No cheating. We will all abide by the rules.’

I sent a page running to the kitchens while we retired to a parlour, casting aside cloaks and gloves, where Thomas, my page, bearing a flat cake of dried fruit, discovered us and placed it on a table in our midst with a wide grin. There was an immediate rustle of interest, of comment. Of excitement. The outcome would affect the whole tenor of our celebrations.

‘Behold the Bean Cake.’ Edmund brandished his sword as if he would cleave it in two. ‘Do I slice it?’

I smiled graciously with a shake of my head. ‘I choose the King of Scotland to cut it.’

And James responded promptly: ‘And I give the honour to my affianced bride. She’ll do it with more elegance than you, Edmund. And with more skill. You don’t need a sword to cut a cake.’

Edmund tilted his chin, eyes gleaming dangerously. For a moment I thought he would resist. Then he laughed.

‘Go to it, Queen Joan!’

James slid his dagger from his belt, passing it to Joan, who wielded it with sure expertise and cut the cake into wedges. The pieces were passed around. We ate carefully, looking from one to the other. Within one piece lurked the bean that would confer the honour on the Lord of Misrule.

‘Not I.’

‘Or I.’

There was much shaking of heads, some in palpable relief. James shrugged in disappointment. I said nothing.
I waited. I knew what would happen. He kept us waiting, for what a master of timing he was. And then:

‘There! What did I say?’ Edmund fished a bean from between his teeth and held it up. ‘I am Lord of Misrule after all.’

‘Now, there’s a coincidence!’ Beatrice observed.

‘Do you call me a cheat?’ Edmund swung round, his expression as fierce as if he would attack any who dare point the finger.

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

Neither would I, though I knew he was. Edmund had come prepared with a bean of his own, trusting to the force of his own will to impose silence on the true winner. It was a risky venture that could have ended in his discomfiture. But I held my peace.

My piece of cake had held the bean.

‘I am the Bean King. I am the Lord of Misrule.’ Full of wild satisfaction, Edmund leapt onto a chair, sword in hand. ‘And my first command will be…’

‘Who will be your Queen?’ someone asked.

There was not a moment’s hesitation. Again I knew what he would do before he did it. As I drew in my breath, because I did not know what I wanted, Edmund circled the point of his sword towards me. He stared along its length.

‘You. I choose you.’

A sigh ran through the group.

I swallowed against a moment of panic. My habitual response. ‘I cannot.’

‘Why not?’

Because I could not romp and cavort and play the fool. ‘Because I do not know how.’

‘Then I’ll teach you, Queen Kat. My golden queen. We will reign together.’ Colour rushed to my face and I think he saw it, for he immediately turned to the practical to draw all eyes back to him.

‘My first decree, my miserable subjects, as Master of Misrule. We’ll take the Old Year out with mirth and jollity. We’ll dance and sing and break all rules. We’ll make these old walls resound and shiver.’ He leapt down from the chair, whirling the sword around his head. ‘And I know where there’s treasure to be had.’

With a key obtained from Alice, who looked askance as if we were no more than a bunch of irresponsible children, Edmund, taking my hand in his and pulling me along in his wake, led us down increasingly dusty passages until we came to what had once been an antechamber. As he opened the door, we saw that it was now used for storing the detritus of lives past. We crowded in, the women lifting their skirts and stepping away from the dust-ridden coffers and tapestries. Edmund was oblivious, entirely wrapped up in his own intent.

‘Let’s see.’ He took stock of the boxes and bundles.
‘I command you to open up the chests, because unless I am ill-advised…’

We did as we were bidden, soon forgetful of the dust, exclaiming with admiration and astonishment, much as children might. Packed into the chests were layer upon layer of costumes intended for some long-distant royal procession or a mummers’ play.

‘Whose are these?’ I asked, holding a pheasant’s mask to my face, which muffled my question, feathers nodding over my head.

‘King Edward, the third of that name. We have him to thank. They’re old. But by God they will make us splendid this year.’

We pulled the costumes out, shaking them free of dust and cobweb and the odd spider. They were in remarkable condition, such a bounty of cloaks and masks and wings to adorn and transform. Soon the whole party was draped and garbed in starred and gilded splendour.

‘And what would you be, Queen Kat?’ Edmund asked, when I stood, still undisguised—for what would I choose?—but with a vast length of red and black velvet in my hands and draped over one shoulder. Edmund was already clad in a cloak painted with stars as if he were a magician, his face covered with a lion’s mask so that his voice echoed strangely and his eyes glittered through the leonine stare.