Light-hearted, she made her way back to her own apartments. Beaufort walked some little way behind her; she was embarrassed in case he did not wish for her company so went faster, her small shadow and his tall one thrown in wavering procession on the walls.
At the staircase she saw Queen Margaret’s dog. A slim little whippet that had been frightened by the noisy trumpets, and cowered and snarled as she bent to pick it up. Beaufort came quietly up behind her.
‘I will take the beast,’ he said, quite roughly, and scooped it, thin and trembling, up into his arms. He began to walk slowly back towards the Queen’s chambers. The torches were flaming brightly and the Palace was quiet, so that Elizabeth saw how he buried his face in the little dog’s neck and heard his broken, passionate whisper.
‘Marguerite! My Marguerite!’
Barnaby met Elizabeth at her door. He was in a fury. He had been awakened from snatched sleep to summon the leech to Ismania Lady Scales, who was vomiting and purging. They could find no reason for her malady. It was quite unaccountable, like the work of some mischievous spirit.
She rode to the jousting ground in a litter with the Countess of Somerset and Lady Margaret Beaufort, and she was pleased that the other ladies were somewhere behind in the entourage, more subordinate than she, the Queen’s chosen lady. That evening in Margaret’s private apartments was a covenant of favour which none could gainsay. Her mind often returned to it; to the soft, quicksand conversation going on above her head; to the Queen’s kindness; to her own extraordinary witness of Beaufort in the passage giving way to the festering wound of a forbidden emotion. She held that scene in her heart, like the tales of the old Court of Love.
Upon the rough road the litter swayed suddenly and she was thrown against the stiff brocade side of the Countess of Somerset, who smiled dreamily. What would you say, my lady, if I told you that your lord loves the Queen? She knew, without asking, the answer: We all love her, Dame Isabella. God strengthen her.
‘Is this your first tourney, Madame?’ Lady Margaret Beaufort’s pompous voice broke through. She sat, small and composed, with a massive brow and those dark eyes that probed calmly. Beside her, her aunt the Countess looked ruffled and homely; sweat gleamed on her pink cheek, for it was warm in the litter. The Beaufort maiden continued to study Elizabeth. To avoid the penetration of that look, she bent her head and gazed through the window let into the side of the barrel-shaped carriage. London Bridge, with its row of felons’ heads rotting over the drawbridge, lay seven miles behind, and the sparkling river had coiled beside them and finally withdrawn. Now the procession passed on down the long rutted road to Eltham. The way was divided by quickset hedges; fields sprawled on either side, peopled by scores of peasants. They watched as the royal train, with its banners and blazoned arms, went by. They dragged off their caps and knelt in duty as the King, black-clad as usual, rode mournfully past; but as the litter bearing Queen Margaret rolled by, a man, tall, ragged-bearded, took one pace forward and spat covertly towards the daisy-flower emblem. The Countess of Somerset was leaning back with closed eyes, but Lady Margaret Beaufort missed nothing.
‘The fellow is a madman. None the less, had I the power I should have him instantly beheaded.’
Elizabeth glanced at her and could well believe it.
‘It is because the Queen’s Grace is too French ,’ pursued the diminutive maiden. ‘Doubtless that churl’s father fought at Agincourt. Now that our French possessions are well nigh lost, he feels the sting.’ With a candour that made Elizabeth gasp, she said: ‘And of course, the Queen has no issue to set on England’s throne. She’ll not find favour until such time as she bears a prince.’ Musing, she said again: ‘Yea, I would have that oaf butchered where he
At the staircase she saw Queen Margaret’s dog. A slim little whippet that had been frightened by the noisy trumpets, and cowered and snarled as she bent to pick it up. Beaufort came quietly up behind her.
‘I will take the beast,’ he said, quite roughly, and scooped it, thin and trembling, up into his arms. He began to walk slowly back towards the Queen’s chambers. The torches were flaming brightly and the Palace was quiet, so that Elizabeth saw how he buried his face in the little dog’s neck and heard his broken, passionate whisper.
‘Marguerite! My Marguerite!’
Barnaby met Elizabeth at her door. He was in a fury. He had been awakened from snatched sleep to summon the leech to Ismania Lady Scales, who was vomiting and purging. They could find no reason for her malady. It was quite unaccountable, like the work of some mischievous spirit.
She rode to the jousting ground in a litter with the Countess of Somerset and Lady Margaret Beaufort, and she was pleased that the other ladies were somewhere behind in the entourage, more subordinate than she, the Queen’s chosen lady. That evening in Margaret’s private apartments was a covenant of favour which none could gainsay. Her mind often returned to it; to the soft, quicksand conversation going on above her head; to the Queen’s kindness; to her own extraordinary witness of Beaufort in the passage giving way to the festering wound of a forbidden emotion. She held that scene in her heart, like the tales of the old Court of Love.
Upon the rough road the litter swayed suddenly and she was thrown against the stiff brocade side of the Countess of Somerset, who smiled dreamily. What would you say, my lady, if I told you that your lord loves the Queen? She knew, without asking, the answer: We all love her, Dame Isabella. God strengthen her.
‘Is this your first tourney, Madame?’ Lady Margaret Beaufort’s pompous voice broke through. She sat, small and composed, with a massive brow and those dark eyes that probed calmly. Beside her, her aunt the Countess looked ruffled and homely; sweat gleamed on her pink cheek, for it was warm in the litter. The Beaufort maiden continued to study Elizabeth. To avoid the penetration of that look, she bent her head and gazed through the window let into the side of the barrel-shaped carriage. London Bridge, with its row of felons’ heads rotting over the drawbridge, lay seven miles behind, and the sparkling river had coiled beside them and finally withdrawn. Now the procession passed on down the long rutted road to Eltham. The way was divided by quickset hedges; fields sprawled on either side, peopled by scores of peasants. They watched as the royal train, with its banners and blazoned arms, went by. They dragged off their caps and knelt in duty as the King, black-clad as usual, rode mournfully past; but as the litter bearing Queen Margaret rolled by, a man, tall, ragged-bearded, took one pace forward and spat covertly towards the daisy-flower emblem. The Countess of Somerset was leaning back with closed eyes, but Lady Margaret Beaufort missed nothing.
‘The fellow is a madman. None the less, had I the power I should have him instantly beheaded.’
Elizabeth glanced at her and could well believe it.
‘It is because the Queen’s Grace is too French ,’ pursued the diminutive maiden. ‘Doubtless that churl’s father fought at Agincourt. Now that our French possessions are well nigh lost, he feels the sting.’ With a candour that made Elizabeth gasp, she said: ‘And of course, the Queen has no issue to set on England’s throne. She’ll not find favour until such time as she bears a prince.’ Musing, she said again: ‘Yea, I would have that oaf butchered where he
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