A Court Affair. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ rosemary tied with a blue silk ribbon as a wedding favour, and a new pin, which I gave out myself from a pincushion made to look like a pomegranate, the fruit of fertility. The men, as was the custom, wore these favours upon their hats, while the women pinned theirs onto their sleeves or bodices.

      And there was another trestle table set up, draped in gold-fringed white linen, to display our wedding presents. There were gifts of gold and silver plate, all of it most ornate. Tall, weighty salt cellars in a variety of shapes like castles high on mountaintops, and one with a mermaid resting on a rock, dispassionately watching a sailor drown in the sea below her, drawn to his death by her song. Spoons with ornamental handles topped with animals, from the ordinary, everyday sort like rabbits, horses, and leaping fish, to fanciful beasts of legend such as unicorns and dragons, crests for both our families, including the Dudleys’ bear and ragged staff, and also some with gilded acorns and oak leaves as Robert’s personal emblem, and beautiful damsels with flowing hair, and a similar set with mermaids instead, and even a set topped with golden apples and another with silver sheep from my father. I don’t think I ever saw so many spoons in my whole life! And there were all sorts of vessels made of beautifully enamelled and glazed pottery, so that our cupboards would house a rainbow. And fine Venetian glassware, including a set of jewel-coloured cups and bowls—ruby, emerald, amethyst, and sapphire—each with a silver cover and swirls of silver gilt painted upon the glass. And, my favourite of all the gifts, a complete table service made of Venetian Ice Glass. I had never heard of such a thing. I remember when I first opened the straw-stuffed crate, I gave a long and loud wail of dismay—I thought it all cracked and broken—until Robert laughed at me, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. “Everything is as it should be, my silly little chick; it is the fashion,” he said, and he went on to explain how, as the glass was being blown, the glassmakers rolled it over cold water to produce cracks that made it look as though it were actually made of ice. I was simply amazed by it! And, after I understood, whenever I reached out to touch it, I half expected to find it cold and wet like ice just beginning to melt. I thought they were the cleverest, most beautiful glasses I had ever seen, and I could not wait to see them upon our table, to host my first grand banquet as a wife, with our table fully laden with a fine meal and all these beautiful things; already I was planning the menu in my dreams.

      There were also gifts of linen for our household, cushions of velvet and damask, and rich fabrics for us to have made into clothing, gifts of jewellery, and costly and rare perfumes in ornately carved crystal bottles. There were even games, including beautifully inlaid chess, draughts, and backgammon sets, even one made entirely of crystal and silver, decks of beautifully painted playing cards, some embellished with real silver and gold paint, and, my personal favourite, a Fox and Geese game board with little ivory geese and a fox carved out of carnelian. And there were musical instruments—richly adorned virginals with ivory keys and painted panels, and lutes inlaid with mother-of-pearl—and pretty gilt and enamelled boxes to hold all manner of things like comfits, documents, jewellery, and playing cards. There were even a set of exquisitely carved crossbows, great and small, perfect for a lord and lady to hunt together, and a pair of beautiful trained falcons with a keeper to attend them—“a big, handsome, docile fellow trained to serve both a lord and a lady, if such is desired,” the giver explained with a wink, though I wasn’t sure why. Some gave us books filled with humorous or wise homilies about marriage, volumes of advice on being a good housewife, and venery, which Robert told me was a fancy word for hunting; there were books of Scripture and song, and even a beautifully embellished book writ in Italian that Robert whispered in my ear was filled with fun and bawdy stories that, if I were good and “buxom and bonair in bed and at board” as a bride should be, he would translate and read to me in bed at night to enhance our pleasure. Some of the guests even gave us Turkey carpets and tapestries; my favourite had a beautiful, golden-haired maiden petting a unicorn as he trustingly laid his noble head in her lap.

      It was a truly astounding array; I had never expected even half so much, but the Dudleys were an important family—the power behind the throne, some might even go so far as to say—so many went to great, even extravagant, lengths to impress so that they might be remembered for the lavishness of their gifts, should they ever need a favour from the Dudleys someday.

      And there were gifts from the royal family as well. King Edward sent us a life-sized portrait of himself to hang in a place of honour in our home and a big black-bound copy of his Book of Common Prayer. His elder sister, the pious Princess Mary, sent us a gold-fringed embroidered hanging of damned souls writhing in Hell, being tormented by flames and leering, pitchfork-wielding demons, to adorn our chapel. And the Princess Elizabeth sent us a cunning little clockwork device, a small gold and silver cart on wheels with pretty pink enamelled and mother-of-pearl roses, that, when wound, would travel the length of our table and, when a little tap was turned, would dribble rosewater for our guests to wash their fingers. I had never seen the like of it before, and, just like a child, I kept winding it again and again to watch it roll, until Robert laughed and bade me stop, else I wear it out before it ever had a chance to grace our table.

      I walked across the meadow that day as a barefoot bride in a frothy, fanciful rendition of a milkmaid’s garb, a gown that blended court elegance with country charm in creamy brocaded satin festooned with golden lace and embroidered all over with gilt buttercups, with a dainty lace apron trimmed with silken ribbons and seed pearls. I wore my golden curls in a careless, carefree tumble cascading down my back, crowned with a wreath of buttercups, the customary gilded rosemary, and gold-lace butterflies whose wings moved ever so slightly in the breeze and shimmered with diamond dust, and long ribbon streamers trailing down my back. And I wore a heavy necklace of golden oak leaves and amber acorns that matched the betrothal ring on my finger, the one folk said contained a vein that ran to meet the heart, like a pair of lovers running to embrace and kiss one another. And in my hand I carried a great bouquet of buttercups, their stems tied together with gold ribbon and frothy white lace. Sweet little barefoot pageboys in white silk raiments with rainbows of long silken ribbons streaming from their sleeves ran alongside me, and little girls in white dresses, with wreaths of gilded rosemary and wildflowers crowning their free-flowing hair, carrying trays of golden honey cakes baked full of red currants, raisins, and nuts to share with our guests, and musicians in merry motley satin stitched together with gold capered and danced around me, serenading my every step.

      Blissfully happy, I walked in a dream with pink clouds of love swirling round my head. I was so happy, so light of step, I felt as if I were floating, my feet never once touched the ground. I can’t even remember the green grass tickling my toes that day, the way it always did, or the hard-packed earth beneath my soles, or even the cool, smooth wood and stone floors inside the manor house; I have not one single memory of feeling solid ground beneath my feet that entire day.

      I went out amongst our guests with a gilded wooden yoke about my shoulders, carved with cherubs, garlands of flowers, and frolicking sheep and goats, from which hung two gilded pails, and served them delicious cold milk from our dairy. And Pirto, smiling as proudly as if she were my own mother in her new spring green damask gown, followed alongside me with a big gilded tray of specially made clay cups fashioned and painted to look just like a woman’s full, bountiful breast. These were a souvenir, a special wedding favour, for our noble guests to take home with them and keep to remember this day by, and to wish us all luck, happiness, and fertility. Some years ago, my father had met a man, a scholar of ancient lore, at a wool fair who had told him a story about cups moulded from the perfect breasts of Helen of Troy. The tale caught Father’s fancy, and he never forgot it and vowed that I should have such cups made for my wedding day, and I knew it pleased him much to see his promise fulfilled. Though some seemed startled and even embarrassed when presented with these most unusual cups, I didn’t care; the smile on Father’s face was worth more than all the cups in the world to me.

      I served the King first, as he was the guest of honour, though when I knelt before him with a tentative smile, timidly offering up milk in one of the special cups to him, he never once smiled. Instead, he sat there stiff-backed in his bower of white roses, evergreen boughs, and softly fluttering gold lace and creamy satin bows and streamers, glowering at me, with his СКАЧАТЬ