asked his reason he might have laughed, muttered that he was safeguarding his soul from too much beauty; or that he summoned the saints to protect this woman from all ill; or that he invoked the blessing of God, Our Lady, and even the pagan Venus, upon his own heart-tearing love.
That she had never noticed him, and indeed had not done so on the night when she had fled weeping from the King’s displeasure, did not trouble him unduly. So often had he possessed her in his mind that already it seemed she was wholly his. Had he been told otherwise, he would have been inconsolable, and bemused as a dreamer roughly roused. He was Beaufort’s esquire, he was just twenty years old, and he had never been in love. The posturing amours of court life were to him empty and meaningless. Likewise he had so far escaped the more serious affair of a politic marriage, shaped for the annexation of property and the enhancement of family power. His enthusiasms had lain with soldiering; his horsemanship, unequalled among his peers, and his courage bordering on rashness, were celebrated. Until the night when he had returned with Beaufort from escorting the King’s pilgrimage, his mind had been steadfastly applied to the pursuit of knighthood. Although, unlike many of his fellow esquires, he owned no crazy lust for blood, he had followed with interest the machinations of the House of York, in the vague hope that one day he might show his prowess in battle. Given a stout horse, he fancied himself, not without a little wry humour, leading a victorious charge. Beaufort inspired him, although the Earl, it seemed, had come close of late to breaking his knightly word. He had promised to send his esquire to Calais as emissary and scurrier, for there was information to be gleaned there regarding the humours of France and Burgundy, and the prospect was inviting. Yet this promise had been given a twelvemonth ago, and was not yet fulfilled.
Now, Calais meant nothing. Life was changed utterly, and it was Beaufort himself who had been the catalyst. For the Queen had sent word of her new gentlewoman, and Beaufort had been inspired to speak of her beauty to others. The reality of Elizabeth had been a shock; she was fairer than rumoured, as the vision of a saint outmatches the written legend.
He had never seen a saint, but he had seen Elizabeth, and found in her the distilled essence of his unimagined dreams. Now, at Eltham, she passed before him for a second time, and the whole scene wavered into mist around her, leaving her as the jewelled core, twice as bright, twice as lovely, and the bringer of soft tears.
So did John Grey, son of Lord Ferrers of Groby, stand with the filmed eyes of love, to watch his lady shining in the sun.
She descended from the litter with the Countess and her niece. Outside the jousting ground, folk had come to watch the sport through knotholes in the palisade. There were a few mendicant friars, a cluster of sore-ridden beggars, and some amateur entertainers, jugglers, a bear stumbling on a chain. Near the entrance were a half-dozen gypsies, darkeyed and filthy. One, a woman, broke from the rest and ran towards Elizabeth. Thomas Barnaby cursed her, dealing blows from his staff; but she dodged him and threw herself down before the three ladies.
‘Your future, worships, for a handful of silver!’
‘Silver be damned,’ growled Barnaby. The woman knelt upright, eyes knowing and unafraid, rat-gnawed kirtle stained with berry juice. Lady Margaret Beaufort held a muskball to her nose against the gypsy’s earthy reek. Yet Elizabeth looked for a moment into the strange eyes with their courage and calmness, and heard the woman say, softly:
‘Why don’t you wear your proper token, my lady?’ The eyes were set upon Elizabeth’s brooch, the tree-root emblem of the Bedfords, enclosed in a pearl frame. The woman moved closer, emitting the scent of woodsmoke and rank herbs.
‘The serpent,’ she whispered. ‘The beautiful serpent.
That she had never noticed him, and indeed had not done so on the night when she had fled weeping from the King’s displeasure, did not trouble him unduly. So often had he possessed her in his mind that already it seemed she was wholly his. Had he been told otherwise, he would have been inconsolable, and bemused as a dreamer roughly roused. He was Beaufort’s esquire, he was just twenty years old, and he had never been in love. The posturing amours of court life were to him empty and meaningless. Likewise he had so far escaped the more serious affair of a politic marriage, shaped for the annexation of property and the enhancement of family power. His enthusiasms had lain with soldiering; his horsemanship, unequalled among his peers, and his courage bordering on rashness, were celebrated. Until the night when he had returned with Beaufort from escorting the King’s pilgrimage, his mind had been steadfastly applied to the pursuit of knighthood. Although, unlike many of his fellow esquires, he owned no crazy lust for blood, he had followed with interest the machinations of the House of York, in the vague hope that one day he might show his prowess in battle. Given a stout horse, he fancied himself, not without a little wry humour, leading a victorious charge. Beaufort inspired him, although the Earl, it seemed, had come close of late to breaking his knightly word. He had promised to send his esquire to Calais as emissary and scurrier, for there was information to be gleaned there regarding the humours of France and Burgundy, and the prospect was inviting. Yet this promise had been given a twelvemonth ago, and was not yet fulfilled.
Now, Calais meant nothing. Life was changed utterly, and it was Beaufort himself who had been the catalyst. For the Queen had sent word of her new gentlewoman, and Beaufort had been inspired to speak of her beauty to others. The reality of Elizabeth had been a shock; she was fairer than rumoured, as the vision of a saint outmatches the written legend.
He had never seen a saint, but he had seen Elizabeth, and found in her the distilled essence of his unimagined dreams. Now, at Eltham, she passed before him for a second time, and the whole scene wavered into mist around her, leaving her as the jewelled core, twice as bright, twice as lovely, and the bringer of soft tears.
So did John Grey, son of Lord Ferrers of Groby, stand with the filmed eyes of love, to watch his lady shining in the sun.
She descended from the litter with the Countess and her niece. Outside the jousting ground, folk had come to watch the sport through knotholes in the palisade. There were a few mendicant friars, a cluster of sore-ridden beggars, and some amateur entertainers, jugglers, a bear stumbling on a chain. Near the entrance were a half-dozen gypsies, darkeyed and filthy. One, a woman, broke from the rest and ran towards Elizabeth. Thomas Barnaby cursed her, dealing blows from his staff; but she dodged him and threw herself down before the three ladies.
‘Your future, worships, for a handful of silver!’
‘Silver be damned,’ growled Barnaby. The woman knelt upright, eyes knowing and unafraid, rat-gnawed kirtle stained with berry juice. Lady Margaret Beaufort held a muskball to her nose against the gypsy’s earthy reek. Yet Elizabeth looked for a moment into the strange eyes with their courage and calmness, and heard the woman say, softly:
‘Why don’t you wear your proper token, my lady?’ The eyes were set upon Elizabeth’s brooch, the tree-root emblem of the Bedfords, enclosed in a pearl frame. The woman moved closer, emitting the scent of woodsmoke and rank herbs.
‘The serpent,’ she whispered. ‘The beautiful serpent.
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