by Lee Arthur
Milton showed the king the progress made since last Henry had visited, the workman doggedly following after. Henry was in a good mood and was generous with his approbation. He approved the hammer beam roof going up, arch by richly carved oaken arch. The intricate Italianate foliage on the last beam was examined carefully and pronounced perfect; the workman still hovered nearby. The designs for the stained-glass windows were reviewed, the frames standing by ready to be lifted high within the brick walls: the workman scuffled his feet and waited patiently to one side. Then Molton led the-way to his piece de resistance, a sheet-sheltered structure twice a man's height. Flamboyantly, he tugged at the covering, and the sheet slid off to a chorus of admiring gasps to reveal a close crown atop a vane held by a great crowned lion, standing in the midst of painted and gilded vanes borne by fantastic carved beasts. Henry's jaw dropped, his mouth gaped.
Here in this louver for the central smoke vent had he found a crown worthy of his Great Hall. Like a child with a New Year's present, he must examine every detail, limping about the six-sided structure, fingering first a massive-maned lion tall as he... fierce dragon with tail lashing... sleek, snarling greyhound. Two by two the beasts stood at the comers of this hexagon, their immense size making the gilded vanes they bore seem ethereal. Finally, he stood back and nodded. "Well done, man."
The master builder gloated; such a work must be worth a large reward. The workman, hat in hand, cleared his throat and finding his voice spoke up. "Tain't been paid for, begging the king's pardon. I'll have me wages now, if n it please Your Majesty."
The king limped over to where the workman stood his ground. The king's hearty clap on his shoulder shook the man a bit, but though he wavered, he stood firm. "You did that? My God, man, you impress us. But we should have known. Takes an Englishman to bring a beast alive. We sit at your feet in amazement." The man was dumbfounded. Never had he stood so close to royalty, and now to be talked to and treated like an equal, no, like a superior. He bowed his head in embarrassment, but Henry was not finished with him. "You give us an idea. Needham designed us a good roof, a great roof, but it lacks something. A touch of color, some light. There and there and mere." Hundreds of heads craned to see where the king pointed, nodding sage confirmation of the king's great taste. "You will carve me lanterns, pendants to stand under each hammer beam... and others for the arches above."
"And my pay?" the man put forward hesitandy.
The king roared approval. "Just like one of our Englishmen. We talk of art, he of pounds and pence. Name your price, man; the king does not quibble."
Molton and the Lord Steward exchanged glances. It was up to the former to stall off payment while the Lord Steward of the Household, the Master of the Green Cloth, must find the funds to finally pay for each of the king's follies or favors.
Swallowing hard, the carver named his price.
"Agreed," said the monarch jovially. "Start work immediately. We should like to see samples of each by the end of the week."
"This week?" the man squeaked in dismay.
"Not enough time? Then"—the king fingered his upper hp in thought—"make it one this week, the other next. Now, don't just stand there man, hop to it."
Dismissed, Richard Rydge of London fled the scene, thoughts of his impossible deadline driving everything else from his mind, including the sums he was owed.
The king and his court moved on in royal inspection. Through the Great Hall to the annex at the east end, where foods would be served to the high table. Then down the stairs to the Serving Place where dishes would be received and inspected by the Chief Larderer, then passed on to the Chief Server. Onward they went to inspect the Great Kitchen in line with Wolsey's own, which had proved inadequate, although the cardinal's household had numbered over five hundred.
Under the Great Hall the king went to inspect his new beer cellar. A vast place it was, especially empty, twice the size of Wolsey's cellars, which had proved not nearly ample enough to store the household's daily beer ration. Take, for example, the maids of honor, who each received three gallons daily. One gallon both at breakfast and mid-day's dinner, half a gallon in the afternoon, and the last half at supper when she would also be served from the King's pitchers of wine. These were dispensed from the brick-vaulted crypt under the new Great Watching Chamber beyond the Great Hall. Here the Yeomen of the Guard were stationed overlooking the Kitchen Court and beyond that Wolsey's Chapel, which Henry was redoing, its ceiling being too plain for his taste, not at all indicative of heaven.
While the king made his leisurely inspection, another at Hampton Court Palace had been quite busy. The Scots Herald had continued backing his horse a bit farther, fuming the whole while. He had not missed any of the byplay... either between Anne and Jane Rochford, or Anne and her king when she dismounted. The girl, he decided, was a born vixen. Imagine showing such power over a man in broad daylight. De Wynter was no prude, but he was prudent. And she had been decidedly imprudent. As for Jane Rochford, Anne obviously thrived on other people's troubles. If they did not make enough on their own, she'd make some for them. Ordinarily, he would have avoided this kind of woman; he had no desire to court death. But with Anne, he found himself determined to win control over her and to force her to pay attention only to him.
His immediate concern was for tonight; he would indeed have all of her attention as he introduced an imaginary dance done to yet-to-be composed music for a poem of which he had never heard. Fervently, he prayed that that learned man, Wolsey, had had a library and that it was still intact. Not likely since the king had been industriously tearing down and building up much of Wolsey's famed "Happy Hampton," the massive pink brick palace whose fretwork of chimneys silhouetted against the sky rivaled Fontainebleau. But, if there were a library, wise Wolsey would have had copies of any and everything this vainglorious king'd ever writ. The task then: to select a poem, compose music to it, improvise some sort of believable dance to accompany it—by tonight. De Wynter feared the French Ambassador would not be pleased when he heard the reports of tonight's doings, but there was no choice in the matter.
Unfortunately for de Wynter's plans, Henry had indeed altered Wolsey's personal apartments to the south and east of Clock Court. Only one remained, a room lined high as the hand could reach with linen-fold oak paneling; above that with magnificent Italianate paintings of me Passion of the Lord; above that with a frieze of Wolsey's motto "Dominus Michi Adjutor" repeated over and over again; and above the frieze an ornate gesso ceiling alternating a Tudor Rose and the feathers of the Prince of Wales as centerpiece of each blue and red and gilt panel. The room was exquisite.
"We stored most of the manuscripts and books here, milord, those that the king didn't have put in his own writing closet. But His Majesty had it in mind to redo this room too, so everything was moved."
"Elsewhere in the palace?"
"I really couldn't say. But I doubt it. His Majesty's a great one' for moving things from one palace to another."
Discouraged, de Wynter sought out his own quarters. As was typical of vagabond courts, his room was almost as hard to find as the nonexistent library. There, however, he hoped to find Fionn and devise some plan for the evening. To find Fionn, first he must track down the offices of the Lord Chamberlain of the Household, who had the ordering of quarters for more than a thousand men and. women this day.
As was the case with everything at court, the assigning of quarters was done by order of precedence. As a Scots earl, de Wynter entertained no illusions as to his ranking at court. The understeward checked several lists before determining that de Wynter was quartered with the bachelor knights in the north range of the Great Gate House. Beyond that, the understeward could be of no help.
By trial and error and much questioning, he finally found his room—as he'd expected undesirably on an upper floor. However, by virtue of Hampton Court's having so many single rooms and his position as Scots Herald Ross to Margaret Tudor, he had it all to himself. The room was large, but devoid o
f all furniture except the bed.
Fionn was already there, having been assisted in his searching by many a helpful linen maid impressed by his size and very interested in where he might reside while the court was at table or busy for the evening. He had just begun unpacking.
"Best stop right there, we may not be staying the night," de Wynter said
"No luck?"
"None. Not unless we can find a way to search the king's own writing closet." The prospect did not faze Fionn, who held the king in lower repute than he did his Scottish Majesty.
"A note came for you." Fionn's voice was carefully noncommittal.
De Wynter arched an eyebrow in surprise, bom at the news and the tone of Fionn's voice. He took the note without comment.
Puzzled, de Wynter studied the note. "Did you read it, Fionn?"
The young man laughed. "Nay, I have trouble enough reading Scots without taking on any foreign tongues."
De Wynter read it to him:
The Right Honorable the Earl of Seaforth, The King's Most Excellent Majesty has graciously given his Imperial consent to your Lordship's presentation of His Imperial Majesty's music tonight following the masque.
The Lady Anne Boleyn
Penned across the bottom of the note, as if an afterthought, in a round childish hand identical to the signature was "C'est Bon!" "What do you make of it?"
Fionn shrugged. The message seemed very straightforward to him, but he humored de Wynter. "That you're to do your dance tonight after the masque."
"But I already knew that. And she knows I knew. Why take a risk that the king find her sending me notes for such a purpose, unless... C'est Bon!" He worried the phrase upon his tongue. "Of course, that's it! Continue unpacking, Fionn, and see if you can work your wiles on one of the linen maids to iron the tabard bearing the arms of Scotland's queen. I go to borrow a lute, steal a song, and invent an entertainment."
With the Great Hall still a-building, supper this night was held in Wolsey's Long Gallery, which was almost as long as the soon-to-be-completed Great Hall, but only half as wide. Thus tables could fit along only one wall of the length, and service was slow and clumsy. Still, there were two services from the sideboard, and two from the kitchen, and four changes of plates, many of which bore Wolsey's arms. Each course was preceded by a peal of trumpets and concluded by an extravagant set-piece, depicting Henry jousting or Henry hunting or Henry at tennis, or (and this won the pastry chef a gold piece) Henry in the royal barge racing and winning against a horseman.
Twelve trumpets and two kettledrums made the king's music. The wine flowed freely; the food, although not as good as that at Francis's court or even at Dolour, was plentiful and spiced enough to hide all but the aftertaste of decay. The highlight of the evening, however, came when a large pie was carried in. Four footmen it took to do it. And when the Master Carver cut into it, a score of bluebirds were released to fly about the room. Blinded by light, confused by smoke, lacking place to light or roost, they swooped low, befouling the tables and the heads of two of the startled diners. Just then, the Master of Falcons entered, followed by men bearing the royal Tudor birds as well as the white falcon of Anne Boleyn and those of the dukes in attendance. Then was great sport had by all as each hunter and huntress set his bird at its prey. Much gambling too, as those not hawking wagered on which shrieking hawk would get which fluttering bird, and which bold hawk would get the most helpless birds. The last was not a popular bet for the odds were low and the winner foreordained. Always Henry must win. Still, the Boleyn and the Suffolks flew their birds deftly enough to keep some semblance of suspense.
When the last bird was downed, the last falcon whistled back to lure, the court moved on, leaving behind the bloodied remains of their feast.
For this evening, the entertainment was held in the Water Gallery, a styleless pile of pink brick, planned and executed by Henry VIII’s royal architect and master builder. Although more properly a launching place and landing site for the royal barge, several hundred servants had hammered away the afternoon, hanging tapestries and arrays of gold and green silk from Wolsley's vast stores. Fresh greenery, leaning against the walls, transformed the chamber into a forest bower for this evening's masque.
A gay gossipy group made its way across the moat and down through the Pond Garden to the Water Gallery. Servants with torches lit their way; others stood at hand with ewers of wine lest any grow thirsty on the stroll down to the water's edge. During the short walk, the king and Anne Boleyn and a few others disappeared in full view of a conveniently, momentarily blinded court. De Wynter noticed and cursed it. All evening long he had had the king under surveillance, so as to keep count of the cups consumed. A sober king would see through his planned sham, a totally sodden king might sleep through it; a king drinking too much too fast grows nasty, while one who sips slowly but steadily should be merry and in good humor. Upon the king's humor depended the route de Wynter would take with his improvisation tonight; and upon that route and his reading of the king might depend his life. Now, the king had dropped out of sight!
The night was clear although unseasonably chilly. Most of the court, warmed from within, noticed it not at all. De Wynter did. His dress was for protection against wrath, not for warmth. The breeze whipped and penetrated the thin silk sleeves of his white shirt under the sleeveless white satin tabard embroidered with the Scottish queen's arms, quartered. Scottish lion rampant, English leopard passant-gardant, Stewart thistle, Tudor rose—picked out in thread of gold and gules, the latter the same shade red as his hose. He should have stood out for the boldness of his colorings, but not here, not this night. Not in the company of his fellow heralds—Richmond, Windsor, Lancaster, York, Somerset—for these English heralds
in their gold and green and white and red, outglittered, if only by sheer numerical superiority, the lone Scottish envoy. In their midst he was less noticeable man anywhere else at court. Tonight, the English heralds and pursuivants, having official duties, occupied one end of the musicians' gallery with its panoramic view of the Water Gallery.
Servants moved among the throng of courtiers, refreshing the cups as all awaited the start of the entertainment. Finally, the four pursuivants' trumpets blared, and out of a mass of greenery sprang a group of wild men, gibbering and capering, hair in disarray, jerkins of rough-cut hide barely hiding Tudor livery. Crouching and jumping in a passable imitation of apes, they tugged on garlands of greenery, which pulled a marvelous mount into view.
Atop it, under the shade of a feather-leafed, orange-bedecked tree sat four men, one with the massive unmistakable form of the king. All were in disguise; their faces blackened, their court garb concealed under flowing robes, their hats Turkish turbans. Near spontaneous applause broke out, which grew more genuine as the men struggled to retain their precarious perches—hats as well—as the mount slithered, slipped, and lurched unevenly across the floor. On cue, the musicians began a weird, wailing, reedy music that to de Wynter's ear made the curl of a drunken piper sound good by comparison.
When the mount reached center stage, the "Turks" descended—the other three barely keeping the king from falling. Then, the four mimed a search for partners for the festivities. But when a slightly tipsy dame staggered out of the audience and hjccuping said, " 'Ow 'bout me?" she was courteously refused. Others among the court profferred their ladies—many ribaldry—but alas and alack, the "Turks" would have none of them. They continued searching behind curtains and hangings and among the greenery. But they found no ladies. Finally, the king mimed despair in broad gestures, beating himself on the chest, wiping tears from his eyes—taking care not to get blackface on his robes—and heaving great sighs. The court applauded heartily, for the king was a gifted pantomimist. Then, in the midst of his lamentation, an inspiration struck him. And the musicians replaced their hideous wailings with a suspenseful drumroll.
Gesturing to his trio of fellow Turks to follow, the king advanced threateningly toward the mount. Around it, he and his men ma
rched, none too steadily. Then again, and after a pause to drain tall tankards, still a third time they weaved round it. Finally, waving his companions to stand back, the king dramatically drew sword—a good, English long sword—from beneath his robes, and struck the mount. Once, twice, thrice! With much creaking, the mount split in twain, and out danced four ladies to great applause.
They were all of a size, completely veiled except for their eyes. They pretended great fear of the king and his men, but seemed to calm as the lords made soothing sounds and each selected a lady, and led her to cushions strewn about the king's chair and new ottoman, a gift to Henry VIII from the Sublime Porte.
Now the masque within a masque began. From behind the mount came the Moorish dancers, or Morris dancers as they were more commonly misnamed. With bells on their feet and sashes about their waists, they did handstands and somersaults, cartwheeling and flip-flopping till their audience grew dizzy watching their whirligigs.
Hard on their heels came the king's Singing Men, mostly swarthy Italians and high tenors. One of their treacly songs drew such undeserved applause for its uneven quality de Wynter assumed it must be one of the king's own.
Truly genuine was the applause that greeted a thin little man with dancing black eyes and a nose pointed and sharp. Bowing and scraping and genuflecting, he accepted his applause modestly. Drawing paper from within his sleeve, he addressed the man in the chair. "Oh, great and noble Grand Turk, ruler of the Orient, searcher for truth, giver of gifts, I bring you a poem. With your kind permission?''