stands. Or better, have his tongue out so he can spit no more.’
She seemed set fair for a long homily. Elizabeth frowned. She would rather not hear of tongue-cuttings and butchery; her spirits were high. Her gown was a poem in dull pink and gold, she wore a new curved cap given by the Queen as a reward for one of Jacquetta’s old receipts. Lately the Queen had been smitten by pains in her breast.
‘Take woodsage and horehound equally much. Stamp them and temper them with wine and drink it three days fasting.’
This leechcraft she had shown to the Queen, and Margaret had been pleased. She had been raising the cup to her lips when Beaufort of Somerset entered. As before, with the sleeping potion, he had nipped the vessel from her hand to taste it with a fierce concentration. Then, nodding, he had thrown one of his bronzed smiles in Elizabeth’s direction, and had allowed the sovereign to drink.
‘If my lord has an evil of the breast, I can cure it,’ Elizabeth said, nervously jesting. ‘My mother swears on this draught.’
‘And for a pain in the heart?’ Still Beaufort smiled, but as if the smile hurt him. ‘Has la sage Jacquette simples to drive that ill away? Potions to steady the weight of government upon a frail head? Herbs against the canker of a realm divided?’
‘My lord?’ She had looked at him, only half-comprehending the reason for his sudden savagery. Then unexpectedly, King Henry had entered the chamber with John Faceby, his own doctor and the inevitable retinue of sombre-clad priests and monks. He had shuffled across to take the Queen’s hand as a child might seek the clasp of its mother. He had given Elizabeth one glance that held no recognition of the fact that she was even female, much less that the last time she had so desperately offended the eye. He was, she thought, an enigma.
The procession halted at the tiltyard. At the head of the line, Henry was squired from his horse. This day they had managed to part him from his black skull-cap, and a thin diadem on his head caught the sun in a sad little flash of fire. He murmured to himself, a prayer, and his eyes roamed to the great loges which had been built for the spectators on either side of the lists, to the flaring pennoncelles surmounting each pavilion, and to the royal standard above his own state canopy. He looked, and murmured, then cast his eyes down at the velvety grass, where his gaze remained.
‘Come, your Grace,’ said Beaufort crisply. Henry stood, pointing to something in the grass, visible only to himself, for all the lords peered, mystified. Then, urged, he took one faltering step, and another, and walked towards the royal loge, while heralds sounded his advance.
Elizabeth stood poised upon the step of the litter, stunned by the gaudy scene; the surging colours of tapestry and standard, the tall pavilions flinging round shadows on the emerald grass. A small figure in her wild-rose dress and golden cap, she gazed at the panoply of mock war; the great destriers caparisoned to the hoof in cloth of gold and silver, the knights already armed for the tourney, unwieldy yet magnificent in their ceremonial harness; the hundred different arms displayed on bright shield and pennon. The King, now joined by Queen Margaret in slow procession across the ground and seeming comforted by her presence; the Queen herself, divinely encompassed in a mist of teardrop pearls and silver tissue. Beaufort and his son Edmund; Piers de Brezé, James of Wiltshire, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Great Talbot, with his white head and veteran armour. Elizabeth looked only at the royal pair, the principal courtiers; those who stood in shadow went unnoticed. She did not see, very near and fixed upon her, the unknown eyes of love.
The young man in the sky-coloured tunic had waited long, yet at the shattering moment of seeing her emerge from the litter he felt the impact so keenly that he actually shivered and signed his breast with the Cross. Had any
She seemed set fair for a long homily. Elizabeth frowned. She would rather not hear of tongue-cuttings and butchery; her spirits were high. Her gown was a poem in dull pink and gold, she wore a new curved cap given by the Queen as a reward for one of Jacquetta’s old receipts. Lately the Queen had been smitten by pains in her breast.
‘Take woodsage and horehound equally much. Stamp them and temper them with wine and drink it three days fasting.’
This leechcraft she had shown to the Queen, and Margaret had been pleased. She had been raising the cup to her lips when Beaufort of Somerset entered. As before, with the sleeping potion, he had nipped the vessel from her hand to taste it with a fierce concentration. Then, nodding, he had thrown one of his bronzed smiles in Elizabeth’s direction, and had allowed the sovereign to drink.
‘If my lord has an evil of the breast, I can cure it,’ Elizabeth said, nervously jesting. ‘My mother swears on this draught.’
‘And for a pain in the heart?’ Still Beaufort smiled, but as if the smile hurt him. ‘Has la sage Jacquette simples to drive that ill away? Potions to steady the weight of government upon a frail head? Herbs against the canker of a realm divided?’
‘My lord?’ She had looked at him, only half-comprehending the reason for his sudden savagery. Then unexpectedly, King Henry had entered the chamber with John Faceby, his own doctor and the inevitable retinue of sombre-clad priests and monks. He had shuffled across to take the Queen’s hand as a child might seek the clasp of its mother. He had given Elizabeth one glance that held no recognition of the fact that she was even female, much less that the last time she had so desperately offended the eye. He was, she thought, an enigma.
The procession halted at the tiltyard. At the head of the line, Henry was squired from his horse. This day they had managed to part him from his black skull-cap, and a thin diadem on his head caught the sun in a sad little flash of fire. He murmured to himself, a prayer, and his eyes roamed to the great loges which had been built for the spectators on either side of the lists, to the flaring pennoncelles surmounting each pavilion, and to the royal standard above his own state canopy. He looked, and murmured, then cast his eyes down at the velvety grass, where his gaze remained.
‘Come, your Grace,’ said Beaufort crisply. Henry stood, pointing to something in the grass, visible only to himself, for all the lords peered, mystified. Then, urged, he took one faltering step, and another, and walked towards the royal loge, while heralds sounded his advance.
Elizabeth stood poised upon the step of the litter, stunned by the gaudy scene; the surging colours of tapestry and standard, the tall pavilions flinging round shadows on the emerald grass. A small figure in her wild-rose dress and golden cap, she gazed at the panoply of mock war; the great destriers caparisoned to the hoof in cloth of gold and silver, the knights already armed for the tourney, unwieldy yet magnificent in their ceremonial harness; the hundred different arms displayed on bright shield and pennon. The King, now joined by Queen Margaret in slow procession across the ground and seeming comforted by her presence; the Queen herself, divinely encompassed in a mist of teardrop pearls and silver tissue. Beaufort and his son Edmund; Piers de Brezé, James of Wiltshire, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Great Talbot, with his white head and veteran armour. Elizabeth looked only at the royal pair, the principal courtiers; those who stood in shadow went unnoticed. She did not see, very near and fixed upon her, the unknown eyes of love.
The young man in the sky-coloured tunic had waited long, yet at the shattering moment of seeing her emerge from the litter he felt the impact so keenly that he actually shivered and signed his breast with the Cross. Had any
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