The Forbidden Queen (51 page)

‘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.

‘What on earth is this?’ I asked, lifting the heavy cloth. I could not make out its shape.

Edmund growled with lion-like ferocity. ‘I’ll not tell you. Not yet. But you’ll see on Twelfth Night. Now—for you.’

‘I don’t know.’ I admitted forlornly, surrounded by so much glamour.

‘This, I think.’ Relieving me of the red and black, he cast a silver cloak over my shoulders and fastened a silver-faced angel mask with silver ribbons over my face. ‘Turn round.’ I did so, and I felt him fastening something to my shoulders.

‘What are you doing?’ I tried to turn my head, but could only see, and that indistinctly through the mask, some gossamer material stretched over a wooden frame.

‘Giving you wings,’ he replied. ‘Angels need wings.’ And he whispered in my ear. ‘How would you fly without? And I need you to fly, my silver Queen.’

He came to stand before me again and bowed low, hand on heart. I curtsied. We were King and Queen.

How I was re-created, remoulded by Edmund Beaufort, an acolyte in the hands of a master.

By Edmund’s decree—and because we discovered enough for all—we spent the festivities draped in green velvet robes, each embroidered from head to foot in peacock feathers, as if we were devotees of some strange mystic sect.

And thus clad, the days merged into one breathless intoxication of pleasure. We played disguising games, St George slaying the reluctant dragon, King Arthur discovering
his magic sword. How was it that Edmund was so often St George or King Arthur? Young Henry, my astonished son, joined in with eyes as big as silver coins, a dragon’s head perched on top of his curls, wings askew on his shoulders—until he fell asleep in my lap and the music went on around him.

We danced endlessly, and sang, arms linked, carolling the chorus as Edmund laid down the verses in a bright, true tenor. We wove our paths between an intricate pattern of cushions laid out on the floor, the penalty for disturbing any one of them being to obey some dire command of our misruling lord.

I was dispatched to the kitchens to fetch wine and ale, instructed to carry it myself in true reversal of roles, a queen serving her subjects. Which I could have done, except that Edmund accompanied me and carried the platters himself, ordering me to follow, bearing my steward’s staff of office and also the grace cup, which I presented to everyone present with a maidservant’s curtsey.

Nothing existed without his hand to it. Jokes and pranks and laughter. He wooed, seduced and charmed through an unending storm of activity. We ate and drank as we stood, not stopping for formal meals, and on a day when dark clouds lowered and might have driven us to the fireside, our young men fought out a Twelfth Night
mêlée
, the red and black velvet swathing their armour and that of their horses to a backdrop of a virulent green forest created
from twelve ells of canvas, the whole painted with flowers and trilling finches.

Amidst the sword thrusts and trampling hooves, Edmund capered in the feathered costume of a vast golden bird, his vivid features hidden behind a golden beak and crimson crest as he tripped the unwary with his golden stave. A ridiculous prank that reduced everyone to helpless laughter.

We were exhausted, but who could not admire him? Who could not worship at his feet?

‘I must sit down.’ I sank to the cushions on the floor, my own feet aching after a tempestuous leaping and stamping, as far from a dignified court procession as it was possible to be. My shoes had rubbed against my heel.