Smitten, heâd meant, by the dowdy lady who had, against the odds, just become its queen.
My mother claimed a headache but I was curious and keen to stretch my legs after two long days in the saddle. Even keener, if truth be told, to delay venturing on to the water, which was to be a new experience for me. Surprisingly, I didnât have to argue too hard: my mother agreed I could go with Henry as long as we promised to stick close to our Fitzalan minders.
Our own goodbyes didnât detain us, so there I was, minutes later, leaving the gatehouse in the company of the funny little Fitzalan heir, although, as I teetered on the threshold, there seemed to be no place in that packed lane for a single extra footfall. Somehow I managed it, took the first step and pitched myself in. Once inside the crowd, I discovered it to be built of shoulderblades. United, too, those shoulders: everyone hugging everyone else as if they were long-lost friends, but me in the midst of them knowing no one, not a soul. My heart drummed a warning but I kept calm: it had been a mistake to think Iâd be up to this, but no harm done, easily remedied, all I had to do was reverse that single step of mine back up into the gatehouse. I turned but, behind me, my minder misunderstood and pressed what he intended as a helping hand into the small of my back, and dodging it took me a couple of steps further adrift. Get me back , I shouldâve said to him , please, but my mouth had shut itself against the viscous stench: the lane reeked like a ditch, like skin and bone dumped, although actually the source was broad grins and armpits opening up for all that hugging.
Dancing, too, even in that dense crowd; a rhythm being beaten on something and a handful of people barging into bystanders, of which I was about to become one. On tiptoe, I glimpsed the feather of Henryâs cap: no chance of me catching him up, saddle-sore as I was and sweltering and swollen inside my boots. Boots which then blundered into a body down on the ground, battering at a clutch of child-ribs, bringing my heart to a screeching halt; but no, I saw, looking down,thank God, no body: a child, yes, but busy, unbothered, filching coins from the cobbles. Coins: that was what they were, then, those splashes of glare: handfuls of coins chucked into the air. But something else was in the sky, too, and rushing our way: black smoke, a great roiling of it. âBonfire,â the minder blared into my ear. He could prod all he liked but I was going back. Glancing round, though, I found the gatehouse had gone from view: my tiny steps, with which Iâd been keeping my ground, had in fact been taking me deeper into the city. We were too close to the fire, its shocking incandescence, and I saw that whatever was at the heart of it was keeling over, rigid, as if agonised. But that was when Henry Fitzalanâs hand took mine, and how heâd made his way back through the crowd to me I simply couldnât imagine: but there it was, his hand in mine and his smile over a strangerâs shoulder, and from then on we were on the move, we were unstoppable and I was tripping over my own boots, my breath no longer hampering me but blowing me along the streets. Little Lord Maltravers threaded us expertly between elbows and then, when we turned a corner, there it was, above our heads and higher than the rooftops: a gilded tower topped with a cross. And then came the roar â Mary Tudor proclaimed Queen â and my bones were singing with it and me too, yes, even me: I was yelling, because you couldnât not, you just couldnât not.
Weâd been at the Partridgesâ for a week when the invitation came, via Mrs Partridge: the boy husband wished his wife tojoin him for a stroll. They were free to meet, weâd been told on our first evening, as long as they remained in public â the herb garden in front of the house was Mrs Partridgeâs suggestion â and under proper
My mother claimed a headache but I was curious and keen to stretch my legs after two long days in the saddle. Even keener, if truth be told, to delay venturing on to the water, which was to be a new experience for me. Surprisingly, I didnât have to argue too hard: my mother agreed I could go with Henry as long as we promised to stick close to our Fitzalan minders.
Our own goodbyes didnât detain us, so there I was, minutes later, leaving the gatehouse in the company of the funny little Fitzalan heir, although, as I teetered on the threshold, there seemed to be no place in that packed lane for a single extra footfall. Somehow I managed it, took the first step and pitched myself in. Once inside the crowd, I discovered it to be built of shoulderblades. United, too, those shoulders: everyone hugging everyone else as if they were long-lost friends, but me in the midst of them knowing no one, not a soul. My heart drummed a warning but I kept calm: it had been a mistake to think Iâd be up to this, but no harm done, easily remedied, all I had to do was reverse that single step of mine back up into the gatehouse. I turned but, behind me, my minder misunderstood and pressed what he intended as a helping hand into the small of my back, and dodging it took me a couple of steps further adrift. Get me back , I shouldâve said to him , please, but my mouth had shut itself against the viscous stench: the lane reeked like a ditch, like skin and bone dumped, although actually the source was broad grins and armpits opening up for all that hugging.
Dancing, too, even in that dense crowd; a rhythm being beaten on something and a handful of people barging into bystanders, of which I was about to become one. On tiptoe, I glimpsed the feather of Henryâs cap: no chance of me catching him up, saddle-sore as I was and sweltering and swollen inside my boots. Boots which then blundered into a body down on the ground, battering at a clutch of child-ribs, bringing my heart to a screeching halt; but no, I saw, looking down,thank God, no body: a child, yes, but busy, unbothered, filching coins from the cobbles. Coins: that was what they were, then, those splashes of glare: handfuls of coins chucked into the air. But something else was in the sky, too, and rushing our way: black smoke, a great roiling of it. âBonfire,â the minder blared into my ear. He could prod all he liked but I was going back. Glancing round, though, I found the gatehouse had gone from view: my tiny steps, with which Iâd been keeping my ground, had in fact been taking me deeper into the city. We were too close to the fire, its shocking incandescence, and I saw that whatever was at the heart of it was keeling over, rigid, as if agonised. But that was when Henry Fitzalanâs hand took mine, and how heâd made his way back through the crowd to me I simply couldnât imagine: but there it was, his hand in mine and his smile over a strangerâs shoulder, and from then on we were on the move, we were unstoppable and I was tripping over my own boots, my breath no longer hampering me but blowing me along the streets. Little Lord Maltravers threaded us expertly between elbows and then, when we turned a corner, there it was, above our heads and higher than the rooftops: a gilded tower topped with a cross. And then came the roar â Mary Tudor proclaimed Queen â and my bones were singing with it and me too, yes, even me: I was yelling, because you couldnât not, you just couldnât not.
Weâd been at the Partridgesâ for a week when the invitation came, via Mrs Partridge: the boy husband wished his wife tojoin him for a stroll. They were free to meet, weâd been told on our first evening, as long as they remained in public â the herb garden in front of the house was Mrs Partridgeâs suggestion â and under proper
Similar Books
