bequest.”
“Yes,” she said, almost to herself. “I myself have goaded Leicester with the term peacock when he vexed me sore. But I will not have sniping among my subjects in my court during this holiday time. Is that understood, my lord Sussex?”
“It is. Of course,” he said and punctuated that promise with a brief rattle.
“Then what more do you have to say to me today?”
“Only that I am heartened to see how lovingly my dear cousin Rosie serves you as maid of honor, Your Majesty. That is all, for we Radcliffes are ever grateful for your leading and wise counsel.”
“Who could not favor your Rosie?” Elizabeth responded, though she knew full well he’d hardly requested this interview for that.
“Ah, she is a lovely girl,” he added lamely.
“Lovely in her heart, that is what I value,” Elizabeth said as she moved toward the door to her privy rooms. “Those of us who were children of great loves—even if that love was lost,” she added quietly, “are ones who care deeply for others, my lord. Perhaps I shall have Rosie tell her parents’ story again during this Yuletide, for I refuse to let jealousies and hatreds so much as creep in at court right now. We shall have only camaraderie for Christmas, that is my decree.”
But her words rang hollow in her head. She feared murder had been committed in the precincts of her palace. Whether or not it was aimed at the “peacock” Leicester, the attack on the queen’s privy dresser could threaten her court or even her crown.
For the Christmas Eve banquet that would begin the Twelve Days of Christmas, the front half of the Great Hall was cheek by jowl with the most powerful nobles of the land. Larded in among them at the elaborately set trestle tables were ambassadors, envoys, church legates, and senior servants. For minor courtiers and, behind them, other household servants, the rear of the vast hall held similar tables, though not quite as sumptuously appointed.
At the front of the hall, at the dais table with the queen, sat those of most noble rank: Margaret Stewart and Lord Darnley; Leicester; Sussex and his wife, Frances; the queen’s Boleyn cousin, bluff, red-haired Henry Carey, Baron Hunsdon, whom Elizabeth called Harry, and his wife, Anne; and, as a special honor, Sir William Cecil and his lady, Mildred. Bur anyone in the hall who believed such seating paired her off with Leicester was much mistaken.
At the queen’s behest, the musicians in their lofty gallery were momentarily silenced, the hall was hushed, and Cecil stood to read the announcement they had decided on:
H ER G RACIOUS M AJESTY DECLARES THAT THIS T WELVE D AYS OF C HRISTMAS SHALL BE CARRIED ON AS PLANNED WITH SEVERAL EXCEPTIONS . D UE TO THE MOST UNFORTUNATE DEMISE TODAY OF ROYAL SERVANT H ODGE T HATCHER , D RESSER OF THE Q UEEN’S P RIVY K ITCHEN, THE COURT WILL HONOR HIS MEMORY IN THESE WAYS: T O WIT, THERE WILL BE NO PEACOCK SERVED THIS YEAR; SPECIAL PRAYERS WILL BE OFFERED FOR HIS DEPARTED SOUL AT CHURCH SERVICE TOMORROW; AND THE BRINGING IN OF THE Y ULE LOG TO THE CENTRAL HEARTH IN THIS HALL WILL BE DELAYED UNTIL AFTER THAT TIME OF REMEMBRANCE . A LSO, FESTIVITIES UNDER THE AEGIS OF THE L ORD OF M ISRULE, THIS YEAR THE E ARL OF L EICESTER, ASSISTED BY THE QUEEN’s PRINCIPAL PLAYER AND M ASTER OF R EVELS , N ED T OPSIDE, WILL BE POSTPONED UNTIL THE DAY AFTER C HRISTMAS, THOUGH L EICESTER WILL THEN NOT RULE BUT MISRULE FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS Y ULETIDE SEASON .
Murmurings and whispers assailed the queen’s ears. At the Lord Chamberlain’s nod, lutes, shawms, gitterns, drums, and pipes began to play again from the musicians’ second-story gallery.
“I believe this is a fair blend of mourning and yet letting life—and Christmas—go on,” Elizabeth said to Cecil, raising her voice to be heard. “I suppose they’re vexed about waiting for the Yule log, but everyone gets so giddy over that I couldn’t countenance it, even if Hodge’s body will be held for
“Yes,” she said, almost to herself. “I myself have goaded Leicester with the term peacock when he vexed me sore. But I will not have sniping among my subjects in my court during this holiday time. Is that understood, my lord Sussex?”
“It is. Of course,” he said and punctuated that promise with a brief rattle.
“Then what more do you have to say to me today?”
“Only that I am heartened to see how lovingly my dear cousin Rosie serves you as maid of honor, Your Majesty. That is all, for we Radcliffes are ever grateful for your leading and wise counsel.”
“Who could not favor your Rosie?” Elizabeth responded, though she knew full well he’d hardly requested this interview for that.
“Ah, she is a lovely girl,” he added lamely.
“Lovely in her heart, that is what I value,” Elizabeth said as she moved toward the door to her privy rooms. “Those of us who were children of great loves—even if that love was lost,” she added quietly, “are ones who care deeply for others, my lord. Perhaps I shall have Rosie tell her parents’ story again during this Yuletide, for I refuse to let jealousies and hatreds so much as creep in at court right now. We shall have only camaraderie for Christmas, that is my decree.”
But her words rang hollow in her head. She feared murder had been committed in the precincts of her palace. Whether or not it was aimed at the “peacock” Leicester, the attack on the queen’s privy dresser could threaten her court or even her crown.
For the Christmas Eve banquet that would begin the Twelve Days of Christmas, the front half of the Great Hall was cheek by jowl with the most powerful nobles of the land. Larded in among them at the elaborately set trestle tables were ambassadors, envoys, church legates, and senior servants. For minor courtiers and, behind them, other household servants, the rear of the vast hall held similar tables, though not quite as sumptuously appointed.
At the front of the hall, at the dais table with the queen, sat those of most noble rank: Margaret Stewart and Lord Darnley; Leicester; Sussex and his wife, Frances; the queen’s Boleyn cousin, bluff, red-haired Henry Carey, Baron Hunsdon, whom Elizabeth called Harry, and his wife, Anne; and, as a special honor, Sir William Cecil and his lady, Mildred. Bur anyone in the hall who believed such seating paired her off with Leicester was much mistaken.
At the queen’s behest, the musicians in their lofty gallery were momentarily silenced, the hall was hushed, and Cecil stood to read the announcement they had decided on:
H ER G RACIOUS M AJESTY DECLARES THAT THIS T WELVE D AYS OF C HRISTMAS SHALL BE CARRIED ON AS PLANNED WITH SEVERAL EXCEPTIONS . D UE TO THE MOST UNFORTUNATE DEMISE TODAY OF ROYAL SERVANT H ODGE T HATCHER , D RESSER OF THE Q UEEN’S P RIVY K ITCHEN, THE COURT WILL HONOR HIS MEMORY IN THESE WAYS: T O WIT, THERE WILL BE NO PEACOCK SERVED THIS YEAR; SPECIAL PRAYERS WILL BE OFFERED FOR HIS DEPARTED SOUL AT CHURCH SERVICE TOMORROW; AND THE BRINGING IN OF THE Y ULE LOG TO THE CENTRAL HEARTH IN THIS HALL WILL BE DELAYED UNTIL AFTER THAT TIME OF REMEMBRANCE . A LSO, FESTIVITIES UNDER THE AEGIS OF THE L ORD OF M ISRULE, THIS YEAR THE E ARL OF L EICESTER, ASSISTED BY THE QUEEN’s PRINCIPAL PLAYER AND M ASTER OF R EVELS , N ED T OPSIDE, WILL BE POSTPONED UNTIL THE DAY AFTER C HRISTMAS, THOUGH L EICESTER WILL THEN NOT RULE BUT MISRULE FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS Y ULETIDE SEASON .
Murmurings and whispers assailed the queen’s ears. At the Lord Chamberlain’s nod, lutes, shawms, gitterns, drums, and pipes began to play again from the musicians’ second-story gallery.
“I believe this is a fair blend of mourning and yet letting life—and Christmas—go on,” Elizabeth said to Cecil, raising her voice to be heard. “I suppose they’re vexed about waiting for the Yule log, but everyone gets so giddy over that I couldn’t countenance it, even if Hodge’s body will be held for
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