Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ vocabulum. Next day at three o’clock, the shop had two visitors. The first was a servant of Sir Edward Brampton’s requesting Shore to bring sample cloths to his house without delay. The second was one dainty Master Matthew Talwood, who carried an urgent letter from the Lord Chamberlain asking me how he could put on The Siege of Troy without the Lady Helen? What’s more, Hastings pledged he would buy me a wagon of lawyers and a score of girdles if I saved his reputation as Master of the King’s Revels.

      Ha, I did not believe a word but Talwood was insistent: my lord’s barge was awaiting me at Puddle Wharf beside Beaumont’s Inn. His barge! He’d sent an entire barge?

      ‘A word for the wise, Mistress Shore,’ said my visitor, flicking back his long grey locks. ‘Save for his grace the King and his royal brothers, Lord Hastings is the most powerful nobleman in England. That letter is not a request, it’s a command. There are plenty like you, Mistress Shore, but only one of him.’

       VIII

      The rebellious wench inside me was prancing with gleeful excitement as we boarded the barge, but behind my veil my lips were tense, and my knuckles gleamed white in my lap as I seated myself beneath the awning. Talwood started to tell me about the play and what was expected – just one dance, he said. Did he realise it could destroy my reputation forever if word reached the city? Just one dance! Be brave, I chided myself, if you stumble and they laugh at you, it doesn’t matter. At least you may glimpse King Edward in all his magnificence. Yes, I admit I had been thinking much about King Edward.

      Talwood had passes that saw us through a succession of courtyards and sentries until we reached the postern of a half-timbered building adjoining the Great Hall. The players’ chamber proved a chaotic hell of spangles and peevish hubbub. At one end, men in wigs and leather kilts were in mock combat; at the other a large man with faux breasts and a wig that Medusa would have envied, was having red powder rubbed below his cheekbones. My destination was a side chamber where a baker’s dozen of minstrels were practising.

      Talwood introduced me to Walter Haliday, the hoary-headed Marshall of the King’s Minstrels, and delivered a warning to the rest: ‘Be diligent with our dancer, my masters. This is her only chance to practise and then she needs to get into costume with great haste. The disports begin in an hour.’

      An hour! I could have encircled Hastings’ neck with a cord and tugged it tight.

      I was supposed to rattle a timbrel as I danced but I asked Haliday if the tabor player could provide the rhythm instead.

      ‘Pretend you have a mirror, dear. Gives you something to do with your hands,’ suggested Talwood, and he kept directing me until he was satisfied.

      The sound of clapping coming from the doorway made me turn. Hastings was standing behind me in his full court dress.

      ‘As always, you underestimated your ability, mistress.’

      I stared speechless at his splendour – the high-crowned, black hat with a jewelled band; the silver collar of Yorkist sunnes-and-roses straddling his shoulders; and the Order of the Garter encircling his thigh. Such tailoring, too; the way his slashed, damson sleeves were stitched in – pouched to give breadth at the shoulders.

      He thanked the musicians and ushered me from the room. As no one was in sight in the passageway, he kissed me on the mouth. I imagine he tasted my nervousness.

      ‘You are doing well, sweetheart.’

      ‘My lord, in all honesty I am fearful.’

      ‘Elizabeth, you will outshine the rest, believe me.’

      I tried to smile. ‘It’s just that in your magnificence, you are like a stranger. Is every noble lord like to be dressed so? It dazzles me. I feel like a country mouse.’

      ‘But I know you are a proud little city mouse.’ He pinched my cheek. ‘You will surpass us all, believe me. And Talwood will look after you throughout. Do exactly as he says and all will go smoothly. Now, we must make haste. There’s a tailor standing by to make adjustments to your costume.’

      I followed him back to the confusion of the greater chamber. The instant he entered, the room hushed. I swiftly curtsied to him with the rest.

      ‘Friends,’ Hastings began, addressing the players, ‘Remember the purpose of the disguising is to provide joy and laughter. If aught goes wrong, do not put on a grim visage but bluff it out. Are the battlements and wooden horse at the ready, Master Curthoyse?’

      An officer straightened and stepped forward. ‘They are, my lord.’

      ‘Excellent. As you were, good friends. I leave you in the Master of the Wardrobe’s capable hands.’

      No one moved.

      ‘Your pardon, my good lord,’ called out one of the actors, ‘but we ‘ave no Helen.’

      Hastings gave a nod to Talwood to deal with the matter and left the chamber.

      Talwood gestured me to my feet. ‘This is Helen.’

      ‘But she’s a woman.’

      O Blessed Christ, I thought, I’m the only woman here. This is wrong, very wrong.

      Beside me, Talwood bristled, ‘And your point, sirrah?’

      ‘Our point,’ yelled someone else, ‘is that only men can be players.’

      Talwood was primed. ‘This woman is a dancer. She has no lines. Pirouette, darling, pirouette!’ he hissed. Scarlet-faced, I turned, swirling my skirt as gracefully as I might.

      A dancer! I blew the actors a kiss and sank in a deep curtsy. Christ’s mercy, what if this reached the Guild? Shore would turn me out of doors. I could find myself begging on the streets tomorrow. I must be lunatic.

      Appeased, the players returned to their preparations.

      ‘Thank Heaven for that,’ Talwood said, fanning himself. ‘Oh, they are so precious. Now, let’s get you dressed.’

      There was no privacy and I had to swallow my sense of niceties. I had imagined a gorgeous robe with purfiled hem; the tailor presented me with two lengths of thin blue silk. Secured at the shoulders and cinched with a narrow cloth-of-gold belt, this was Helen’s costume. That unravelled my excitement. The fabric scarcely covered my knees; the side slits – ‘devils’ windows’–would expose me to the thigh; and the flesh-coloured hose and garters had gone missing. I refused to dance without a petticote.

      ‘You’re a beautiful ancient Greek, remember, dearie,’ clucked the tailor from his knees as I insisted he close up the side seams. ‘Them maidens went bare-legged because of the heat, and bare-arsed too in case they met any of those lovely pagan gods. There, I’m not sewing the windows any lower.’

      I refused the uncomfortable saffron wig. At least the pretty half-mask of white satin, edged with silver braid, was perfect, but as I began to tie it on, Master Talwood twittered in protest. Frantic gestures on his part summoned a man with several tubby facebrushes poking out of his waistcloth. Along with him came a boy with a peddler’s tray – a minute woodland of charcoal sticks, kohl and pastes of all colours.

      They smudged blushes across my cheekbones, СКАЧАТЬ