the cause of York, so the queen recalled him—and tried to murder him on the way back.
During these weeks, I also received an education in the perils of life at court as I learned more about the reckless and violent men around the queen. Dalliances and amours abounded, and wary of competition, the women threw me hard looks as they swished past in their gaudy damascenes, with their noses lifted in disdain, while the men paid me bold and unwelcome attention. As a result, I dared not befriend anyone, lest they proved false, or worse—dangerous. Half-hidden hatreds and jealousies charged the air, and I watched as many a person was dispatched to the Tower for a carelessly spoken word. Fearful of joining their ranks, I kept very much to myself. Never was I as lonely as in those early days at court, facing an uncertain future, my heart filled with thoughts of the one I could not have, and with no company save Ursula and, on rare occasions, Sœur Madeleine.
Abruptly, one day in mid-September, the king reappeared at court. Although he didn’t attend council meetings, he was frequently seen at mealtime, sitting meekly on his throne, as demure as a damsel. Initially, during these appearances, he gazed at his queen with lackluster eyes, then turned and stared at the ground, seemingly oblivious of what went on around him. As I learned, the queen had brought him back to court before he was completely well in order to rid herself of the Duke of York, who was about to take over the reins of government.
Gradually, however, I witnessed a change in King Henry. His expression turned cheerful and gentle, and he smiled kindly at everyone who approached. As he became more the man he had been, he gave out an impression of great goodness. Although still a prisoner of the darkness of his mind and feeble in his will, he struck me as a compassionate figure. The queen, always so austere and proud with others, also changed in his presence, exuding a solicitous and maternal side, so that the king’s eyes, when they alighted on her, shone with affection and implicit trust. One night, in our chamber, I mentioned this to Ursula, with whom I’d come to share a deepening friendship.
“Aye, such trust,” Ursula whispered, glancing around our empty room before she spoke, “that he cheerfully allows himself to be pillaged into debt.”
“Hush!” I said fearfully. “’Tis treason what you speak, Ursula!”
“Then I’ve just put my life in your hands.”
Indeed, court seethed with turmoil and traps, and I was reminded of that fact when the queen sent for me one evening after supper. A fat cleric round as an egg was leaving as I approached, attended by two hooded monk manservants who followed after him, heads bowed. I did not see him at first, for he was cloaked in shadow as he glided noiselessly through the hall, and his sudden greeting, coming forth from darkness, jolted me. I recoiled with a cry.
“Ah, my child, forgive me for startling you. The queen is free now, and you may enter.” He gave a wave toward the queen’s apartments, scrutinizing me in a manner I found most unpleasant. Nor did his fish eyes soften his demeanor as he murmured, “Benedicite,” in dismissal. I curtseyed, gave my thanks, and hurried away greatly discomforted, for there was something sinister about the man.
The queen paced to and fro in her chamber, dictating to her scrivener, who was perched at a high desk near the window. With a wave, she indicated that I should take a seat and wait.
“—and cease your threats on the life of our bailiff of the lordship of Hertingfordbury and leave our other tenants in peace there, or you shall know our displeasure to your peril, Edmund Pyrcan, squire—” she continued, gesticulating with her hands in the French manner as she spoke. She paused and, exhaling sharply, picked up a sheaf of papers. Leafing through them, she selected one. “Ah, here it is—from the abbess of the convent of Stratford le Bow. Direct this letter
During these weeks, I also received an education in the perils of life at court as I learned more about the reckless and violent men around the queen. Dalliances and amours abounded, and wary of competition, the women threw me hard looks as they swished past in their gaudy damascenes, with their noses lifted in disdain, while the men paid me bold and unwelcome attention. As a result, I dared not befriend anyone, lest they proved false, or worse—dangerous. Half-hidden hatreds and jealousies charged the air, and I watched as many a person was dispatched to the Tower for a carelessly spoken word. Fearful of joining their ranks, I kept very much to myself. Never was I as lonely as in those early days at court, facing an uncertain future, my heart filled with thoughts of the one I could not have, and with no company save Ursula and, on rare occasions, Sœur Madeleine.
Abruptly, one day in mid-September, the king reappeared at court. Although he didn’t attend council meetings, he was frequently seen at mealtime, sitting meekly on his throne, as demure as a damsel. Initially, during these appearances, he gazed at his queen with lackluster eyes, then turned and stared at the ground, seemingly oblivious of what went on around him. As I learned, the queen had brought him back to court before he was completely well in order to rid herself of the Duke of York, who was about to take over the reins of government.
Gradually, however, I witnessed a change in King Henry. His expression turned cheerful and gentle, and he smiled kindly at everyone who approached. As he became more the man he had been, he gave out an impression of great goodness. Although still a prisoner of the darkness of his mind and feeble in his will, he struck me as a compassionate figure. The queen, always so austere and proud with others, also changed in his presence, exuding a solicitous and maternal side, so that the king’s eyes, when they alighted on her, shone with affection and implicit trust. One night, in our chamber, I mentioned this to Ursula, with whom I’d come to share a deepening friendship.
“Aye, such trust,” Ursula whispered, glancing around our empty room before she spoke, “that he cheerfully allows himself to be pillaged into debt.”
“Hush!” I said fearfully. “’Tis treason what you speak, Ursula!”
“Then I’ve just put my life in your hands.”
Indeed, court seethed with turmoil and traps, and I was reminded of that fact when the queen sent for me one evening after supper. A fat cleric round as an egg was leaving as I approached, attended by two hooded monk manservants who followed after him, heads bowed. I did not see him at first, for he was cloaked in shadow as he glided noiselessly through the hall, and his sudden greeting, coming forth from darkness, jolted me. I recoiled with a cry.
“Ah, my child, forgive me for startling you. The queen is free now, and you may enter.” He gave a wave toward the queen’s apartments, scrutinizing me in a manner I found most unpleasant. Nor did his fish eyes soften his demeanor as he murmured, “Benedicite,” in dismissal. I curtseyed, gave my thanks, and hurried away greatly discomforted, for there was something sinister about the man.
The queen paced to and fro in her chamber, dictating to her scrivener, who was perched at a high desk near the window. With a wave, she indicated that I should take a seat and wait.
“—and cease your threats on the life of our bailiff of the lordship of Hertingfordbury and leave our other tenants in peace there, or you shall know our displeasure to your peril, Edmund Pyrcan, squire—” she continued, gesticulating with her hands in the French manner as she spoke. She paused and, exhaling sharply, picked up a sheaf of papers. Leafing through them, she selected one. “Ah, here it is—from the abbess of the convent of Stratford le Bow. Direct this letter
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