Page 30 of The Queen’s Witch

“Send for hot water,” she said. “I will bathe and dress to sup with the king.”

The court was keeping the Christian rite of Advent, but not keeping it very well. In Tydd Saint Stephen, the most devout followers of Father Redmond took no meat, eggs, or milk for the forty days before Christmas, eating instead soup or fish. At Greenwich Palace, hearty meals continued with little change. Advent was supposed to be a time of atonement, but if anyone at court contemplated their spiritual sins, it was not evident. Perhaps for Queen Katherine, Princess Mary, and their followers it was different, but the queen and her daughter had been sent to the palace at Richmond. Once again, the king was rowed back and forth between palaces, back and forth, like some variety of waterborne tennis ball.

If the court observed Advent only lightly, it was consumed with Christmas preparations. A Lord of Misrule was chosen to preside over the twelve days of entertainment and revelry. Ladies and their maids sewed elaborate evening dresses and even more elaborate “disguisings” for masques and pageants. Vast amounts of food, including oranges and exotic spices, arrived to stuff larders and dairies. Swans were fatted, candles purchased by the wagonload, chambers hung with greenery, bay, holly, and ivy. Mistletoe, banned in churches because of its long association with the Sisterhood, was twined with greenery to make “kissing balls” hung from ceilings. Musicians and the Children’s Chorus rehearsed. Bands of itinerant players arrived at court, accompanied by more musicians. I ached with memories of Mark. He had wanted to leave Tydd Saint Stephen to make his way in London. Had he joined such a troupe as these?

Anne, no less than others, worked feverishly on an entertainment to pleasure the king. She ordered materials, oversaw carpenters and seamstresses and musicians. She sent for acrobats, tumblers, and dancing dogs, witnessed their offerings, and selected those to perform on the night allotted to her secret entertainment. The chosen dog shat in her privy chamber and was sent away, but another, better trained, arrived the next day.

She conferred daily with the Lord of Misrule, and once I glimpsed her pass a purse to him. That was unusual—what was she asking that required payment? I was not, of course, told.

Anne dined every day with the king, in his chambers or hers, with a merry crowd of courtiers. Often she supped with him as well. She ate little, and her dark eyes shone with mockery, with promise, with fascination. At every gathering, she was at the center. The king could not bear to be without her for more than a few hours.

On the night the Sisterhood held Yule vigil, the longest night of the year, I could not endure the merriment and bustle. Anne was closeted all day with those preparing for her masque. The king was at Richmond, and Anne went to bed early. As did I, with the help of a tisane. Sleep came swiftly, but without peace. I dreamed not of Grandmother but of the king. Henry held a dagger to Anne’s throat, his face distorted by fury. “You are a witch,” he said, and my cry jolted me awake.

The rest of the night, I walked around the empty tiltyard, keeping motion to counteract my tisane and the winter cold. It was better than my dreams.

A few days later, the queen returned to Greenwich Palace from Richmond, and the twelve days of Christmas burst upon us.

11

Greenwich Palace

Feasting on Christmas Day lasted five hours, all of which I spent crouched at Anne’s feet.

On this official occasion, the king sat flanked by Queen Katherine and the noble guests of honor. Anne headed her own table, surrounded by all her ladies and favorites. Not once during the long feast did Katherine smile. Henry spoke to her occasionally, to his guests often, but he could not look away from Anne. Dressed in crimson velvet over white satin, the new diamond-and-ruby necklace around her long, slender neck and more rubies on the French hood on her shining black hair, she sparkled and laughed and kept her table in lively merriment, all without looking at the king. It may have passed for discretion, but I had seen Anne do this too often. She was fanning both his jealousy and his desire. Then, when she did look at him, it was such a saucy, intimate look that I half expected him to rise and go to her right then.

Hundreds of people ate at tables jammed into the great hall. A thousand candles burned; musicians played; tumblers and acrobats performed between courses. First a boar’s head with an apple in its mouth, bedecked with bay and rosemary, was carried to the high table with trumpeted fanfare. Then came swan, larks, partridges, baked eels, roast beef, prawns, a peacock in its full plumage. Mince pies, brawn, frumenty. Oranges and dried fruits. Comfits, marchpane, a dozen kinds of jellies, all in fantastic shapes: castles, dragons, flowers. Spiced ale and expensive wine. I tasted everything that Anne ate and drank, and by the end of dinner, my belly ached with unaccustomed richness and my knees were scraped raw from the stone floor.

After the feast came archery, the only sport permitted on Christmas Day. The king won. No one seemed surprised. Anne cheered loudly for Henry, who bowed to her as he received his prize.

Each evening, the Lord of Misrule presided over pageants, gambling, plays put on by troupes of actors, dancing, tumblers, and acrobats. And so, we came to the fourth day of Christmas, Childermas, and the entertainment Anne had arranged for the court.

“You are not needed,” Emma said as dusk fell outside the palace. “My lady will not be eating or drinking until the masque is over. Go.”

“Where shall I—”

“I care not! Go!”

Tiered benches had been built in the great hall, already filling with hundreds of Yuletide guests, jostling to obtain the best view. The king’s and queen’s chairs under the cloth of estate still stood empty, but citizens and palace servants, those not immediately needed, thronged the other side of the hall. It was easy to slip among them. For weeks Anne had kept this grand entertainment a secret, and I was curious.

Eventually trumpets blew, and the royal couple and their most honored guests entered in procession and took their places. The king, splendid in blue velvet slashed over cloth of gold, outshone Katherine, dumpy in black and gray despite the glitter of her jewels. She never smiled.

More trumpets, and masked young men wheeled in a great pageant car. The car bore a huge mountain with grass, flowers, and boulders. It must have been constructed of cloth, wood, and papier-mâché, but it looked real.

The musicians began a lively tune as six masked women, all dressed in white, danced into the hall, their faces and hair obscured by elaborate headpieces. I could not tell which was Anne. They were followed by an old woman, tall but bent and scowling, making scolding gestures at the girls, who laughed and danced.

Six young men ran into the hall, seized the girls, and they began dancing with unusual verve: the men lifting the girls high overhead, flinging them from one man to another, as the girls laughed. It became clear that these were not ladies of the court but professional dancers. From where had Anne obtained them? The bent old woman circled the group, waving her cane as the dancing grew wilder and wilder. Some watchers cheered; others frowned as lifted kirtles exposed garters and shapely legs. The hired dog capered around it all, barking.

Suddenly, a great roar, and a dragon burst from the mountain, flames unfurling from its gaping mouth. Several ladies screamed in either fear or delight. The dog ran from the hall. The dragon, far more realistic than was usual, menaced the dancers, and the young men sprang into action, drawing wooden daggers and attacking. For several minutes the battle continued as the dragon seized girl after girl, only to let each go to battle the men. Finally, when the dragon had been backed against the mountain, the dancers ran from the hall, leaving the old woman to face the dragon alone.

But not for long. As the beast crept closer, the six men returned, this time armed with genuine swords, and the battle resumed until the dragon lay dead.

Then, before the watchers could react, the old woman, suddenly straight and tall, walked directly to the king. She kicked the pattens from her feet, threw off her gray cloak, and removed her mask. Anne. She knelt before the king and looked up at him with mischievous glee.

The Lord of Misrule said loudly, “I give you, Your Majesty, your young and devoted servant, since all the world knows you would not want an old one.”

The great hall went deadly silent.

How dare she? The reference to Katherine was missed by no one. But it came from the Lord of Misrule, and even Anne looked shocked. She was always a skilled actor.