gasp after the next high leap, turning in Sir Christopher Hatton’s arms with cheeks flushed livid and a hand that trembled, as she commenced the
cinq pas
. Five steps: one two, one two, and Emme sprang with the other ladies, whirling into the cadence, skirts twirling, pulse pounding, her throat raw with gulping at the smoke-sharp air from the open windows. Loose ribbons and hair blurred with white headdresses as she turned. The music flowed and possessed. The thud of tabor and boards; slippers slapping, handsclapping; the flourishes of lute, flute and viol took over from ears to toes, and Emme was glad to lose herself and forget, even if the sound of laughter jabbed at her soul. But how much more would the Queen endure? She had already been out riding at dawn and she had danced four galliards.
Bess Throckmorton took Emme’s hand. ‘Be Sir Walter for me,’ she whispered, stepping close and guiding Emme’s hand to the lip of her busk near the hard point where her bodice tapered. Then, with arched back and half-closed eyes, Bess moved with her in rhythm, preparing for the leap, and Emme helped her when she sprang, using all her strength to lift her friend’s light body high, though she could not resist the temptation to tickle her ribs as she set Bess down.
‘Saucy, Sir Walter,’ Bess giggled, skipping away.
Suddenly Emme felt the music slow, and she noticed Sir Christopher leading the Queen aside. The lute played on alone for a while, petering out as the Queen sat and raised her hand.
‘Let us have a song, Mistress Fifield,’ the Queen said, fanning herself rapidly and fixing Emme with a piercing stare. ‘Something gentle while we rest.’
A song?
Emme froze. Had she gone too far in helping Bess to play out her fantasy? Had the Queen overheard the mention of her favourite’s name?
Emme moved towards her while the others drew away. She tried to quieten her panting and think of a song she could remember in both words and melody, yet her mind was a blank.
‘I … I am sure one of the musicians would sing better,’ she said, gesturing to one of the lutenists renowned for his pure tenor voice. ‘Master Chris Bowen, for instance.’
The Queen tapped her foot. ‘I would like to hear from you, Mistress Fifield. Do not keep me waiting.’
Emme looked wildly around the Great Hall which seemed still to be turning after all her spinning around, with the Queen’s ladies drifting by agape, and Bess gazing at her with her hand over her mouth, and the sunlight throwing daubs of colour through the stained-glass in the palace windows, while outside, above rooftops and twisted chimneys in a clear late-summer sky, she could see the pale disc of a moon left over from the night.
She did not know where the words came from but, after an awkward pause, they issued from her, trembling a little at first, then becoming more certain as she found the melody and Master Bowen picked it up on his lute:
‘With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies! …’
Together they made the song swell, exquisite and poignant, a song of loss and unrequited love.
… Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case,
I read it in thy looks: thy languish’d grace …
The words were Sir Philip Sidney’s, who was now on campaign in the Low Countries, and, as everyone present knew, the ‘Moon’ of the sonnet was Her Majesty whom Sir Philip had idolised in verse, and perhaps the song set the Queen wondering whether she would ever see him again. Or perhaps she thought of others far from her who had once touched her heart – there must have been someone, maybe Lord Leicester, also fighting for the Protestant Dutch: the man thought by most to be the onethe Queen would one day marry, now with his new wife and the Queen still unwed.
Emme reflected on her own lost virtue, and on Drake and his men who had departed for another strike against Spain. Most of all she thought of Mariner Kit who
cinq pas
. Five steps: one two, one two, and Emme sprang with the other ladies, whirling into the cadence, skirts twirling, pulse pounding, her throat raw with gulping at the smoke-sharp air from the open windows. Loose ribbons and hair blurred with white headdresses as she turned. The music flowed and possessed. The thud of tabor and boards; slippers slapping, handsclapping; the flourishes of lute, flute and viol took over from ears to toes, and Emme was glad to lose herself and forget, even if the sound of laughter jabbed at her soul. But how much more would the Queen endure? She had already been out riding at dawn and she had danced four galliards.
Bess Throckmorton took Emme’s hand. ‘Be Sir Walter for me,’ she whispered, stepping close and guiding Emme’s hand to the lip of her busk near the hard point where her bodice tapered. Then, with arched back and half-closed eyes, Bess moved with her in rhythm, preparing for the leap, and Emme helped her when she sprang, using all her strength to lift her friend’s light body high, though she could not resist the temptation to tickle her ribs as she set Bess down.
‘Saucy, Sir Walter,’ Bess giggled, skipping away.
Suddenly Emme felt the music slow, and she noticed Sir Christopher leading the Queen aside. The lute played on alone for a while, petering out as the Queen sat and raised her hand.
‘Let us have a song, Mistress Fifield,’ the Queen said, fanning herself rapidly and fixing Emme with a piercing stare. ‘Something gentle while we rest.’
A song?
Emme froze. Had she gone too far in helping Bess to play out her fantasy? Had the Queen overheard the mention of her favourite’s name?
Emme moved towards her while the others drew away. She tried to quieten her panting and think of a song she could remember in both words and melody, yet her mind was a blank.
‘I … I am sure one of the musicians would sing better,’ she said, gesturing to one of the lutenists renowned for his pure tenor voice. ‘Master Chris Bowen, for instance.’
The Queen tapped her foot. ‘I would like to hear from you, Mistress Fifield. Do not keep me waiting.’
Emme looked wildly around the Great Hall which seemed still to be turning after all her spinning around, with the Queen’s ladies drifting by agape, and Bess gazing at her with her hand over her mouth, and the sunlight throwing daubs of colour through the stained-glass in the palace windows, while outside, above rooftops and twisted chimneys in a clear late-summer sky, she could see the pale disc of a moon left over from the night.
She did not know where the words came from but, after an awkward pause, they issued from her, trembling a little at first, then becoming more certain as she found the melody and Master Bowen picked it up on his lute:
‘With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies! …’
Together they made the song swell, exquisite and poignant, a song of loss and unrequited love.
… Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case,
I read it in thy looks: thy languish’d grace …
The words were Sir Philip Sidney’s, who was now on campaign in the Low Countries, and, as everyone present knew, the ‘Moon’ of the sonnet was Her Majesty whom Sir Philip had idolised in verse, and perhaps the song set the Queen wondering whether she would ever see him again. Or perhaps she thought of others far from her who had once touched her heart – there must have been someone, maybe Lord Leicester, also fighting for the Protestant Dutch: the man thought by most to be the onethe Queen would one day marry, now with his new wife and the Queen still unwed.
Emme reflected on her own lost virtue, and on Drake and his men who had departed for another strike against Spain. Most of all she thought of Mariner Kit who
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