from Lady Catherine, chief gentlewoman to the princess, to the stable boy named Thomas, whose title was “keeper of the princess’s nag,” seemed to know how we spent the first part of the night in the maidens’ chamber.
It was Lady Catherine who first approached me openly. Even though she was almost as old as Lady Salisbury, her face was still largely free of lines. She was, in fact, a beautiful woman, but both she and the countess had already passed beyond the half-century mark. As I was not yet fourteen, that seemed very ancient to me.
“Princess Mary has heard that you are a storyteller,” Lady Catherine said. “A veritable bard.”
The comparison pleased me. I preened. But I also had sense enough not to overstate my skill. “I do not sing of great battles or ancient warriors,” I warned her, “but I can tell tales of King Arthur and his knights, of bold explorers among the men of Bristol, of saints and miracles, and of the wonders of Glastonbury.”
And so, a short time later in the princess’s privy chamber, all sixteen of her ladies and gentlewomen gathered around me in a circle, prepared to be entertained. The princess sat on a chair. I was allowed a stool. Everyone else sat on cushions on the floor.
Thinking to flatter Her Grace, I chose a story that included one of her ancestors.
“During the reign of King Richard the Lion Heart,” I began, “the bones of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were discovered in the graveyard at Glastonbury Abbey.”
Everyone knew some stories about King Arthur. The princess’s grandfather, King Henry VII, had revered him, even naming his firstborn son Arthur in his honor. My father, too, had been named for the ancient hero-king.
“It was the song of a Welsh bard that contained the clue to finding them,” I continued, “and the monks of Glastonbury managed to decipher it after many years of trying. They dug in the ground near the Lady Chapel and there they found a stone slab. Beneath it lay a leaden cross and on the cross was an inscription. It read: Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon .”
“In what language was the inscription?” the princess asked, interrupting me.
Happily, I knew the answer. “In Latin, Your Grace. The monks translated it so that everyone would know what it said.”
She gestured for me to continue. Her shortsighted brown eyes remained fixed on my face. She did not smile.
“The monks continued to dig and in a little while they came to a coffin made from a hollowed-out log. Inside they found two skeletons, one of a tall man and the other of a woman.”
A gasp, hastily stifled, came from one of the princess’s ladies. I thought it was Mistress Pole, who had been the princess’s wet nurse years before and had stayed on in her household as a waiting gentlewoman after Her Grace grew too old to need her original services.
“Although they were much decayed,” I went on, “the remains were determined to be those of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.”
Princess Mary seemed untroubled by the suggestion of moldering bones. In truth, she took an almost ghoulish interest in the condition of the bodies. “How was King Arthur slain?” she asked. “Could the monks tell after so much time?”
“The skull was damaged.” My brother, as boys are wont to be, had been fascinated by such details and had duly relayed them to me. “Learned men came to view the bones and they determined that the king had been killed by a blow to the head.”
“Ahh,” the princess said.
“Both sets of bones were put on display. Hundreds of people came to see them. Thousands. Even a king came.”
“Which king?” Lady Salisbury’s avid voice assured me that she was as caught up in my story as anyone else in the privy chamber.
“It was some years after the first discovery. The king who came was King Edward the First and with him came good Queen Eleanor.”
Observing the satisfied expression on her face, I remembered that King
It was Lady Catherine who first approached me openly. Even though she was almost as old as Lady Salisbury, her face was still largely free of lines. She was, in fact, a beautiful woman, but both she and the countess had already passed beyond the half-century mark. As I was not yet fourteen, that seemed very ancient to me.
“Princess Mary has heard that you are a storyteller,” Lady Catherine said. “A veritable bard.”
The comparison pleased me. I preened. But I also had sense enough not to overstate my skill. “I do not sing of great battles or ancient warriors,” I warned her, “but I can tell tales of King Arthur and his knights, of bold explorers among the men of Bristol, of saints and miracles, and of the wonders of Glastonbury.”
And so, a short time later in the princess’s privy chamber, all sixteen of her ladies and gentlewomen gathered around me in a circle, prepared to be entertained. The princess sat on a chair. I was allowed a stool. Everyone else sat on cushions on the floor.
Thinking to flatter Her Grace, I chose a story that included one of her ancestors.
“During the reign of King Richard the Lion Heart,” I began, “the bones of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were discovered in the graveyard at Glastonbury Abbey.”
Everyone knew some stories about King Arthur. The princess’s grandfather, King Henry VII, had revered him, even naming his firstborn son Arthur in his honor. My father, too, had been named for the ancient hero-king.
“It was the song of a Welsh bard that contained the clue to finding them,” I continued, “and the monks of Glastonbury managed to decipher it after many years of trying. They dug in the ground near the Lady Chapel and there they found a stone slab. Beneath it lay a leaden cross and on the cross was an inscription. It read: Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon .”
“In what language was the inscription?” the princess asked, interrupting me.
Happily, I knew the answer. “In Latin, Your Grace. The monks translated it so that everyone would know what it said.”
She gestured for me to continue. Her shortsighted brown eyes remained fixed on my face. She did not smile.
“The monks continued to dig and in a little while they came to a coffin made from a hollowed-out log. Inside they found two skeletons, one of a tall man and the other of a woman.”
A gasp, hastily stifled, came from one of the princess’s ladies. I thought it was Mistress Pole, who had been the princess’s wet nurse years before and had stayed on in her household as a waiting gentlewoman after Her Grace grew too old to need her original services.
“Although they were much decayed,” I went on, “the remains were determined to be those of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.”
Princess Mary seemed untroubled by the suggestion of moldering bones. In truth, she took an almost ghoulish interest in the condition of the bodies. “How was King Arthur slain?” she asked. “Could the monks tell after so much time?”
“The skull was damaged.” My brother, as boys are wont to be, had been fascinated by such details and had duly relayed them to me. “Learned men came to view the bones and they determined that the king had been killed by a blow to the head.”
“Ahh,” the princess said.
“Both sets of bones were put on display. Hundreds of people came to see them. Thousands. Even a king came.”
“Which king?” Lady Salisbury’s avid voice assured me that she was as caught up in my story as anyone else in the privy chamber.
“It was some years after the first discovery. The king who came was King Edward the First and with him came good Queen Eleanor.”
Observing the satisfied expression on her face, I remembered that King
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