Edward and Queen Eleanor were the countess’s ancestors, too.
“Edward the First was the king who so loved his wife that when she died he erected crosses to her memory at every stop made by her funeral cortege,” I added, remembering Sir Lionel’s instructions to please and flatter the most important members of the household.
These ornate “Eleanor Crosses” still stood. When, later, I saw one for the first time—in the city of Westminster, hard by London—I understood why both the princess and the countess took such pride in their heritage. Never had I beheld such a marvelous creation—all statues and carvings and standing higher than any other monument.
I had planned to launch into another tale of Arthur and the Round Table, after I recounted the discovery of the king’s bones, but Princess Mary was not through asking questions: “How did he come to be buried in Glastonbury?”
“The town was built on the ancient site of the Isle of Avalon, Your Grace. Another old name for Glastonbury is the Isle of Glass.”
I spoke with confidence. My father used to say that it is always best to sound as if you know what you are talking about, especially if you are not at all certain of your facts. Inside, I was beginning to panic. I had already revealed every detail I knew about King Arthur’s bones.
Before anyone could ask another question, I blurted out a related tidbit: “In those days the deep channel of the River Brue was surrounded by shallow swamps. The Perilous Bridge was once the onlyway to enter the city by land from the south and it was from this bridge that the knight Bedwyr returned the sword Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake after the Battle of Camlann.”
Happily, this information diverted my audience and allowed me to launch into the tale of how King Arthur acquired his famous sword—which was not the same sword he pulled out of the stone. I followed that story with others, including the one about Joseph of Arimathea and the hawthorn tree. By the time I’d finished the latter, my throat was dry and my voice had gone hoarse from too much talking.
Lady Butts, the physician’s wife, regarded me with concern. She was a tall, exceedingly plain-faced woman with a decided chin, a prominent nose, and a brusque, no-nonsense manner. She served as one of the princess’s waiting gentlewomen. Before I could begin another tale, she reminded the princess that she had missed her morning walk: “It was raining earlier in the day, Your Grace, but there is just time now for a brisk stroll before supper.”
As this daily constitutional had been prescribed by Dr. Butts for the young princess’s health, a regimen that had the full approval of her mother the queen, the hint was sufficient to recall Princess Mary to her duty. She rose with a resigned sigh.
We all stood with her. The maids of honor always accompanied Her Grace on her perambulations, along with two gentlemen ushers, two gentlemen warders, two yeoman ushers, and two grooms. I took my usual place, at the end of the line of young gentlewomen, lowest in precedence as well as the last to join the household, but Lady Butts caught my arm as we started to file out.
“You should stay indoors, Mistress Lodge. I will send one of the servants for a hot drink containing honey and lemon juice to soothe your throat.”
“That is kind of you, Lady Butts.”
She snorted. “There is nothing kind about it. I should like to hear more of your stories, too, and you cannot tell them if you lose your ability to speak.”
But Her Grace, just as she reached the door to the garden, looked over her shoulder to fix her nearsighted gaze on me. “Come walk at my side, Mistress Lodge,” she piped in her high, child’s voice. “I would hear more of this magical hawthorn tree at Glastonbury.”
Lady Butts released me. I heard her sigh as I hastened to obey. Belatedly, I recalled that the hawthorn was also a Tudor symbol.
9
A nne Rede’s prediction about state visits
“Edward the First was the king who so loved his wife that when she died he erected crosses to her memory at every stop made by her funeral cortege,” I added, remembering Sir Lionel’s instructions to please and flatter the most important members of the household.
These ornate “Eleanor Crosses” still stood. When, later, I saw one for the first time—in the city of Westminster, hard by London—I understood why both the princess and the countess took such pride in their heritage. Never had I beheld such a marvelous creation—all statues and carvings and standing higher than any other monument.
I had planned to launch into another tale of Arthur and the Round Table, after I recounted the discovery of the king’s bones, but Princess Mary was not through asking questions: “How did he come to be buried in Glastonbury?”
“The town was built on the ancient site of the Isle of Avalon, Your Grace. Another old name for Glastonbury is the Isle of Glass.”
I spoke with confidence. My father used to say that it is always best to sound as if you know what you are talking about, especially if you are not at all certain of your facts. Inside, I was beginning to panic. I had already revealed every detail I knew about King Arthur’s bones.
Before anyone could ask another question, I blurted out a related tidbit: “In those days the deep channel of the River Brue was surrounded by shallow swamps. The Perilous Bridge was once the onlyway to enter the city by land from the south and it was from this bridge that the knight Bedwyr returned the sword Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake after the Battle of Camlann.”
Happily, this information diverted my audience and allowed me to launch into the tale of how King Arthur acquired his famous sword—which was not the same sword he pulled out of the stone. I followed that story with others, including the one about Joseph of Arimathea and the hawthorn tree. By the time I’d finished the latter, my throat was dry and my voice had gone hoarse from too much talking.
Lady Butts, the physician’s wife, regarded me with concern. She was a tall, exceedingly plain-faced woman with a decided chin, a prominent nose, and a brusque, no-nonsense manner. She served as one of the princess’s waiting gentlewomen. Before I could begin another tale, she reminded the princess that she had missed her morning walk: “It was raining earlier in the day, Your Grace, but there is just time now for a brisk stroll before supper.”
As this daily constitutional had been prescribed by Dr. Butts for the young princess’s health, a regimen that had the full approval of her mother the queen, the hint was sufficient to recall Princess Mary to her duty. She rose with a resigned sigh.
We all stood with her. The maids of honor always accompanied Her Grace on her perambulations, along with two gentlemen ushers, two gentlemen warders, two yeoman ushers, and two grooms. I took my usual place, at the end of the line of young gentlewomen, lowest in precedence as well as the last to join the household, but Lady Butts caught my arm as we started to file out.
“You should stay indoors, Mistress Lodge. I will send one of the servants for a hot drink containing honey and lemon juice to soothe your throat.”
“That is kind of you, Lady Butts.”
She snorted. “There is nothing kind about it. I should like to hear more of your stories, too, and you cannot tell them if you lose your ability to speak.”
But Her Grace, just as she reached the door to the garden, looked over her shoulder to fix her nearsighted gaze on me. “Come walk at my side, Mistress Lodge,” she piped in her high, child’s voice. “I would hear more of this magical hawthorn tree at Glastonbury.”
Lady Butts released me. I heard her sigh as I hastened to obey. Belatedly, I recalled that the hawthorn was also a Tudor symbol.
9
A nne Rede’s prediction about state visits
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