by Olga Daniels
“He has already seen this gown,” she said. Then immediately wished she had not spoken.
“All the better. His imagination will run riot. Come, Lady Margaret, let us parade.”
The place of honour where Richard had sat when she first arrived, and which all too soon had been taken over by Thurton, was now prepared to receive the King. A great canopy dominated the end of the hall, erected to add to the exaltation of His Majesty. Additional tables had been set up and draped with white damask cloths to accommodate the most important members of his entourage: the courtiers and their ladies, his ministers and the nobility from far and wide. Lesser beings, Thurton’s servants and guards, were relegated to the back rooms, out of sight of the main guests. There, doubtless, Sarah would eat her meal. No conspiratorial winks could be exchanged between maid and mistress on this occasion.
Thurton and Nancy were waiting inside the Hall. Her uncle looked her over with a delighted expression on his florid face. With pride and triumph he puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders; he seemed to grow in stature as Gervase handed her over. She placed her hand on the crook of Thurton’s arm and he patted it with a proprietary air.
“My, but you’re a beauty, Meg!” he said. “No one in this room comes near you for looks and class. That gown does wonders for you, adds that touch of worldliness you were lacking before.”
More with self-importance than affection he strutted with her to their places at the top table. Gervase followed with Nancy on his arm. Meg had been aware of the leering expressions with which the gentlemen had surveyed her on her arrival at Bixholm. Now their thoughts were even more open, so that she was actually thankful for the protection afforded by her uncle. The effect of that gown was frightening.
Soon after they were seated the trumpeters sounded a fanfare. Everyone rose as the King entered and bowed or curtsied. He progressed slowly to the top table, accompanied by the nobles who were his personal attendants. He sat down heavily as soon as he reached his chair. Meg’s natural sympathy was awakened, for undoubtedly his legs were causing him pain.
“Greetings, good friends,” he said. “Pray, be seated.”
Meg was on His Majesty’s left. He turned to her immediately. She was grateful that his eyes did not rove over the gown. Indeed he did not at first seem to notice what she was wearing. He was gazing into her eyes and smiling.
“It is such a pleasure to see your sweet face again, Meg. Did you think of me, my dear, when we were parted?”
“I have thought of you every day,” Meg replied. That was true, though she did not elaborate on the line her thoughts had taken.
“Kindly, I hope?” he enquired.
“How could it be otherwise, sire?” she replied. Again it was not untrue, for he had not been in any way unkind in his dealings with her. It was not in her nature to speak ill of anyone unless she knew for certain that they deserved censure.
“I missed you when you left so suddenly.” Henry leaned towards her and whispered the words.
Her instinct was to draw back, for his beard almost tickled her cheek. Only self-control and instilled good manners prevented her making the movement. “I must apologise, Your Majesty. I had no intention of causing you any distress. Indeed I did not expect my departure to be of any importance to you.”
“Ah, there you are wrong. I have hopes that we may come to know each other a great deal better, little Meg.”
Involuntarily a shudder ran over her. The King noticed. He reached out one hand and lightly touched her arm, and for the first time his eyes moved from her face, roving lower.
“It is a wonderful gown,” he said solemnly. “You look even more beautiful than before.”
“Thank you, sire.” Her voice was low. His reaction was exactly as Thurton and Nancy had anticipated. She trembled. He moved his hand from her arm and caressed her cheek.
“You are cold, sweetheart,” he said.
It was true, though it was not the only reason she shivered. Two huge fireplaces blazed with log fires, but they were placed at each end of the room, far from where she sat. No other lady in that assembly was exposing so much nakedness.
“I am s-sorry, Your Majesty.”
Henry clapped his hands. One of the pages who stood behind the royal chair answered immediately. “Yes, sire?”
“Send for Lady Margaret’s maid. Tell her to bring a wrap for her mistress. Immediately!”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Meg breathed her gratitude.
“I can’t have you catching a chill. I hope to enjoy your company whilst we are together.”
Within minutes Sarah appeared. She was not permitted to approach the royal presence, but the wrap was passed from hand to hand, coming finally to Henry himself. He placed it around Meg’s shivering shoulders and gave them a little friendly squeeze. She was overcome with gratitude and could think no ill of him after that.
The feast was elaborate, necessitating a constant procession of men and boys who carried in steaming dishes from the kitchens. The King’s own food-tasters tested each item against the fear of poison. Four courses were served, each offering to the diners ten or more choices. In pride of place was the head of a boar, with tusks in place, decorated and served with a batter pudding and gravy. In addition there were cygnets, capons and pheasants, sturgeon, baked custard with dried fruits in a pastry case and other dishes too.
The King was served first, then Meg chose sturgeon with vegetables and sauces. Whilst she waited to be served Henry speared a bite-size portion of roast boar on the point of his knife and offered it to her.
“This meat is sweet and tender, Meg. You need more than fish to keep fit and healthy. Try it, my sweet, and see if it isn’t as good as any you’ve ever tasted.”
She could not refuse. She took a deep breath and allowed him to place the meat into her mouth. He watched, smiling his approval as she chewed and swallowed.
“It is indeed excellent, sire, and you are very kind. But please look after yourself. I believe my dish is being brought to me now.”
Throughout the meal he continued to supervise her food, as if he feared she might not be properly served. More than once he insisted on sharing small portions from his own platter with her. Sometimes he passed them to her with his fat greasy fingers. Meg wished with all her heart that it wasn’t so, especially as his actions revealed so openly that he had developed a strong affection for her.
All the time at the back of her mind was the harrowing recollection of Richard, held in that abominable dungeon. For his sake she had to pretend an affection for the King, and she was excruciatingly conscious that it did not spring from her heart. It was entirely against her nature to deceive.
When the company had eaten all they wished for from those dishes the residue was cleared away completely and the second course was borne in. Venison cooked in a stew of corn, stuffed suckling pig, peacocks, the white meat of rabbits, bitterns and chickens cooked with saffron and egg yolks. Among items in the third course were curlews, perch and pigeons; quails, snipes, larks and other small birds. Plovers’ eggs in aspic. There were more sweetmeats, marzipan and fancy cakes, quince pie, white curd with almonds.
Finally came the soltette. This was the most amazing concoction Meg had ever seen; she found it hard to believe it was edible, made of pastry and sugar. It was shaped like a castle, with turrets and battlements, and brightly coloured flags flew on and around it. To flatter the King his coat of arms had been delicately contrived on the castle roof. Four men from the kitchen staff held it aloft and carried it around the Great Hall, receiving loud applause and exclamations of admiration. On a side-table it was cut into pieces and served by pages on individual dishes. Henry was served first, and at once he picked the most luscious wild strawberry from his portion and insisted upon popping it into Meg’s mouth.
Wine had flowed freely throughout the feast, and continued to be served after the tables had been cleared. The musicians had played throughout, and voices rose as at last everyone had eaten the
ir fill, and more. The entertainment began. The King’s mood became more and more mellow. He had eaten and drunk well, and he laughed heartily at the antics of the jester and the travelling players. A space was cleared for dancing and some of the company began to step it lightly: pavanes, galliards and the more adventurously performed lavolta.
“Will you not dance, Meg? Where is that young fellow you danced with when we first met? What’s his name?”
“Sir Richard de Heigham.” To mention his name was both a pleasure and a sadness. If only he were here! Would she ever dance with him again?
The King turned to Thurton. “Where’s de Heigham? Lady Margaret would like to dance.”
“My apologies, sire, I’ve had to send him back to my main house at Bixholm. Urgent duties, you’ll understand. If you wish my niece to dance for you, Your Majesty, I’m sure another of the gentlemen will be only too happy to oblige.”
Henry turned to Meg. “Do you wish to dance, my dear?” he asked. “You may take your pick of the gentlemen to partner you.”
It was not a prospect that held even the slightest appeal to Meg. She made her excuses hastily. “Thank you, sire, but I have never practised with any other partner and I would not wish to displease you by making a wrong step.”
“Nothing you did could possibly displease me,” the King said. “But I defer to your wish. If you are content, then let us watch together.”
He lounged back in his big comfortable chair, took hold of her hand and held it lightly. He closed his eyes and Meg sat very, very still. She glanced at him quite often, and was not sure whether he was awake or asleep.
After some minutes he opened his eyes and yawned. “I am a trifle tired. If you will excuse me, sweet maid, I shall seek my bed.”
The departure of the King awoke a flurry of movement, not always steady. Some of the company had celebrated so well they had difficulty in standing, and wobbled in performing the requisite bow or curtsey as the trumpeters accompanied the royal progression. When the doors closed behind him most of the company resumed their seats and the music, dancing, fun, laughter and ribaldry continued as before. More wine was brought in, and it seemed as if the revelry would go on unabated into the small hours of the morning.
Meg had no wish to stay on, but was uncertain what her uncle’s reaction would be if she asked permission to leave. She was pleased, therefore, when her uncle and Nancy approached her.
“You did well, Meg,” Thurton said. “The King could scarcely take his eyes off you.”
“You shouldn’t have put that terrible wrap over your gown,” Nancy complained. “Spoiled the whole effect.”
“It was His Majesty’s suggestion,” Meg defended herself. “He noticed I was cold.”
“It was a loving gesture,” Thurton said smugly. “He saw enough to whet his ardour. You go along with Nancy, now; she’ll help you get ready for bed.”
“Sarah will help me. There’s no need for you—” Meg began.
Nancy took hold of her arm. “Don’t stand there wasting time.”
She hurried her out of the Great Hall and turned in the direction of Meg’s chamber. Sarah, always watchful for her mistress, saw them leave and quickly followed.
Inside the room Meg saw, with a sense of surprise and shock, that a flimsy nightgown of a clinging silken material had been laid out on the bed. It was decorated with lace and delicate cutwork, very beautiful—and very revealing. Meg had never yet worn it. She had assumed it was intended as part of a trousseau, for her marriage night. A fearful suspicion leapt into her mind.
“Quick, wench,” Nancy snapped at Sarah. “Help your mistress out of that gown—and take care, for it cost more than I wish to think about.”
“What—what am I to do?” Meg breathed hoarsely.
“Get changed, of course. And be quick about it. I’ve told Thurton to stay outside until you’re in your nightgown, but he’s not the most patient of men. If you keep him waiting too long he’ll probably come in anyway.”
Sarah worked as quickly as she could, her fingers less nimble than usual. She was unnerved by Nancy’s unfriendly eyes upon her and the horror of why she was having to assist her lady out of the immodest golden gown and into this even more improper garment.
Meg’s mind was in turmoil. She was being prepared as if for a wedding night, but no contract had been made, no ceremony performed. Her mouth was dry. She shivered, and this time it was most definitely not because of the temperature.
Even Nancy noticed. “Put a light woollen shawl around your mistress,” she ordered.
Sarah obeyed. Nancy opened the door and called the Earl in. Meg fell to her knees at his feet.
“I beg you, Uncle—do not make me—”
He was unmoved by her supplication. “Get up, wench,” he growled. “It’s time you grew up. You know what you have to do.”
“Please, Uncle. I cannot. Truly I cannot—”
“You can and you will. What could be more simple? Just be pleasing to His Majesty; that is all I ask.”
“I beg you, Uncle—not like this—”
“You know what will happen if you continue to cross me in this matter.” He paused significantly. “They tell me a traitor’s death is ugly and painful.”
Again, dramatically, he paused. His words seared Meg’s brain. Either the block or—worse—hung, drawn and quartered. She could not allow Richard to be tortured and mutilated! Her own sacrifice would be small by comparison.
“Get up,” her uncle commanded.
She obeyed and stood before him with her head bent. She was defeated. Further protest would be useless.
“That’s better,” Thurton commended her. “You’re not the shrinking violet you’d like me to believe. You’re a Thurton, as I am, and we are made of tough material.”
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they were two of a kind. If she had to do—this—this thing—then so be it.
Thurton continued, “The time is right. Henry is entranced by you. He’s dined well, drunk his fill. He’ll fall into your arms, if you play your cards right. Now, no more of this squeamish nonsense. You don’t need me to repeat what will happen if you disobey. Come.”
They made one concession. Her feet were thrust into sheepskin slippers, for they had to walk along the cold stone corridor to reach the apartments which had been given over to the King. Meg could scarcely make her legs move, she was in such abject misery. Yet she did as she was told. She knew it was no empty threat Thurton had issued; he meant what he said. Richard was already his prisoner. Thurton would trump up some charge of treason, and Henry would order him to be beheaded. If that could not be managed Gervase Gisbon would like nothing better than to thrust a knife deep into his back. Thurton did not give a jot what happened to her—and at that moment nor did she.
One of the King’s attendants opened the door when Thurton knocked. There followed a murmured conversation which Meg could not hear.
“Very well. You assure me she carries no knife or other weapon to cause harm to His Majesty?”
“Nothing. See for yourself.” Thurton whipped the shawl off Meg’s shoulders; Nancy pulled the woollen slippers from her feet. She was so barely covered the attendant was satisfied. He held the door open.
Thurton gave Meg a shove between her shoulder-blades, precipitating her forward. The door was closed behind her. She was in a comfortably furnished parlour. There was no bed, no sign of the King. For a moment her heart lifted.
“This way, mistress,” said the attendant. He led her through to another room, smaller, more personal. There was still no sign of the King.
“His Majesty is already in bed,” said the attendant. “I will see if he is awake. Wait here. What name is it?”
“Meg,” she answered. “Just Meg.”
She prayed that the King would be asleep and that the attendant would not wish to waken him. That hope was short-lived. He returned quite quickly.
“You may enter.”
She moved slowly, silent on her bare feet, through t
he communicating door and into the bed-chamber. The flame of a single candle made a circle of light; all else was lost in shadow. One of the King’s attendants was seated beside a big four-poster which dominated the room. She saw an immense hump under the pile of bedclothes. It moved. Henry’s face, topped by a scarlet nightcap with a golden tassel, rose from a pile of pillows.
“Meg?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Her voice was low, but he heard her. She fell to her knees.
Henry spoke to his attendant. “Leave us.”
The young man stood up. He bowed and left the room with a soundless, gliding movement, as if he was some sort of spectre, adding to her impression that it was all a dream.
“Are you still there, Meg?” the King asked.
There was no doubting the reality, then. He was peering towards her, as if he doubted her existence.
“I can’t see you. Give me your hand, my dear.”
She moved towards the bed, still on her knees, and reached up one hand. His soft, plump fingers closed over it.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “You’re still cold. Come into my bed. Let me warm you.”
Chapter Sixteen
There was no escape. The King threw back the bedclothes, reached out and fumbled about until he caught hold of both her hands. Gently he drew her up, towards him, into his bed and into his arms.
“How lovely you are! My lovely, lovely Meg. How sweet you smell, so soft and beautiful. But so cold—let me warm you.”
He cuddled her shivering body against the heat of his massive bulk. She felt a strange comfort in the homeliness of his flannelette nightshirt. Solicitously he tucked the down-filled quilt around her. Then, to her surprise, he sank back into the deep softness of the feather bed with a great sigh. She was enclosed tightly within his embrace, cocooned with him. She listened to his heavy breathing, felt the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and forced herself to stay very still, though her pulse-rate had quickened. He seemed to be in no hurry to make any further move.