Setup: Spring, 1517.
Bess Llewelyn, sold to the king by her father, has been with the
court for several months. She has undergone intensive training and is
about to sing for the king and court for the first time. Her future
rests on the success of her performance.
***
The
still morning air was shattered by the winding of the horn as the
hunt thundered from the stables. The sky was pink-tinged, the grass
soaked with dew.
I
watched as the horses streamed up the slope of Shooter’s Hill, the
gaily dressed riders looking like figures from a tapestry. Despite
their pace, the attitude was leisurely; everyone knew there would be
no real sport. King Henry was at the head of the field, splendid in
Lincoln green velvet, a jaunty plume in his cap. He kept a close hand
on the reins of his black horse as it twitched and bounded with
contagious excitement. I clapped my hands when he stood in the
stirrups and let the horse have its head and prance along. After
everyone had admired his prowess, the king pulled his mount back to
ride alongside the queen’s well-mannered gray mare.
The
murmur of voices behind me ebbed and flowed like the Thames, but I
was all impatience like the king’s horse and turned from the
window. “Mistress, are we leaving?”
“Does
it appear that we’re moving, Bess?” came the reply from across
the chamber. “Don’t fuss. You’ll spoil your gown.”
Mistress
Keith, rounded and glowing like an apple, placed a circlet of leaves
and gillyflowers on my head. “You’re lovely,” she said with a
pat of approval. “You look like a young lady in that gown.”
I
thrilled to her words, for hadn’t I thought the same? I didn’t
often care how I looked, but this gown was beautiful, and I felt more
tolerant than usual of the girlish chatter of slippers and sleeves.
The heady scent of the wreath made me sneeze, and I did so stiffly,
careful not to disturb the ornaments sewn to my willow-green bodice
and skirt.
The
performers left in a series of carts, traveling along the worn
roundabout path. We arrived ahead of the hunting party and were
hidden away when we heard the horn. Henry Guildford, dressed as Robin
Hood, shouted a challenge to the royal party to join his merry men.
I
experienced a moment of disbelief that I should be a part of such a
world and felt in my stomach a fluttering much like the wings of the
captive birds netted for the occasion. I prayed I would not disgrace
myself when the time came.
Soft
music filtered through the trees as the king and queen were led to
the dais inside the vast silken tent. I stayed hidden behind my
tent-flap, dreamily watching the grand spectacle, wishing it was what
the king pretended it to be: an innocent hunting-party overtaken by
robbers and whisked into the forest.
The
outlaws served the party with course after course of sumptuous fare
carried apace from the palace kitchens. I lost count of the number of
peacocks, cooked and reunited with their feathers, their beaks and
claws turned to gold. There were courses of fish and fowl, lark, and
pheasant, and a special dish of stewed lampreys, the king’s
favorite. There was much wine and laughter, until I thought the
performances forgotten, but at last, Guildford rose and bowed before
the king.
“Your
Grace, if a poor man may make so bold as to attempt to please his
sovereign, I would offer you a little entertainment.” He flung his
arms wide, and three musicians entered. Harry and Gilbert looked well
in their outlaw garb, but I was most proud of Tom, who was tall and
fine in green hose and a leather jerkin over a soft white linen
shirt.
Their
music was gay and light and rang out marvelously in the enclosure. I
judged no one need strain to hear and would pitch my own voice
accordingly. When the trio began the last of their songs, joined this
time by a group of girls in white flower-bedecked dresses, I readied
myself for my entrance.
The
king shouted his approval, and Gilbert and Harry bowed their way out
of the tent, while Guildford took the stage again, his handsome,
fleshy face smiling at the success of the entertainment thus far. “I
would offer another treat for His Majesty,” he said. “A small
sprite, found in the wood. Fairies, as Your Grace knows, cannot be
tamed, but this one has consented to sing for us.”
Someone
pushed me forward, and in small, springing steps, I joined Tom before
the king and queen, dropping into the low curtsy that was now second
nature. Master Fayrefax’s tune emerged from lips and lute as
perfectly as it had sounded in the composer’s mind when he wrote
the piece. I knew it without vanity, knew it as well as I knew Tom’s
songs were better.
There
was silence as we performed, and when we finished, King Henry broke
into hearty applause. Tom put his hand on my shoulder, and we made
our bow together, then retreated to let the next performers come
forward. Before we ducked out of the tent, I heard the king say,
“Methinks I have heard that sprite before. She sings exceeding
well.”
I
threw my arms around Tom. “He liked it!”
“Of
course, he did.” Laughing, he pulled me loose and set me down on a
felled tree, gently, for fear of my gown. “You’ve an angel in
your throat, Bess, and King Henry is too much a musician not to know
it.”
I
leaned back and looked up at the sky, seeing it only as chinks of
bright blue through the thick trees. “I would not sing so well were
anyone else to play for me.”
“Silly
child,” he said, kneeling and brushing grass from my skirt. “I
can’t play for you forever, Bess. They won’t allow it. You must
learn to stand on your own.”