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untouched by the sun, his skin had a weathered look. Both he and his squire, I surmised, spent many hours out of doors, hunting, hawking, and riding.
    Mistress Shelton’s face was not as full as the duchess’s and her nose was longer and more tapering, but she shared that pale complexion. Along with Master Clere, they were all of an age, and it was nearly twice my years. I managed a curtsey and a mumbled greeting, but apart from that I found myself tongue-tied. This was very grand company indeed for a merchant tailor’s daughter.
    Several others soon joined us. I cannot now recall which members of the earl’s circle they were. Surrey often held impromptu musical and literary gatherings. Some of those who attended never came again. Others were part of an intimate group always in attendance on the earl or on his sister.
    At first the talk was all of the tournament.
    “M’lord Surrey was magnificent.” Mistress Shelton addressed this remark to me in a friendly fashion, attempting to draw me out. Edith had retreated to a corner, effacing herself as any good servant must when in the presence of her betters. “He rode onto the field behind an exquisite float depicting the Roman goddess of arms. His pennant and shield had a silver lion emblazoned upon them and other Howard emblems were embroidered all over his white velvet coat.”
    “My father may have made that coat,” I ventured, trying to overcome my shyness around these glittering strangers. If Jack was comfortable with them, so should I be.
    “Your father?” Confusion had her brow furrowing.
    “Master Malte, the royal tailor.” There was no apology in my voice. I was proud of Father’s work.
    She gave me a peculiar look, but if she thought I should go join Edith in the corner, she was kind enough not to say so.
    By then, the general conversation had turned away from jousting onto poetry. An earnest young woman begged the Earl of Surrey to recite some of his verses.
    He stood and declaimed:
    Give place, you lovers here before,
    that spent your boasts and brags in vain:
    my lady’s beauty passeth more the best of yours,
    I dare well sayn,
    than doth the sun, the candle light,
    or brightest day, the darkest night.
    “Mary is working on a new poem,” Lady Richmond announced, nudging Mistress Shelton.
    “It is not yet ready to be heard,” Mary Shelton protested.
    “Let us judge that.” Thomas Clere slung a familiar arm around her shoulders and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek.
    She pushed him away, and none too gently, but after a moment she closed her eyes and recited:
    And thus be thus ye may assure yourself of me.
    No thing shall make me to deny that I have promised thee.
    “It needs work,” Surrey said.
    “It is the worst sort of doggerel,” Mistress Shelton admitted in a rueful voice. “I am a better copyist than I am a poet.”
    Jack Harington cleared his throat. “I wish to present to this company a new poet.”
    I looked at him expectantly, and then in slowly dawning horror as I realized I was the one he meant. “Oh, I cannot. My verses have no more merit than an amateur artist’s sketches.”
    Thanks to Jack’s lessons, I had discovered talents I’d never dreamed I possessed. Not only had I shown an affinity for playing the lute and for singing, but I also had begun to develop the knack of setting words to music. Encouraged by my tutor, I’d tried my hand at composing my own verses, but they were poor, pitiful things.
    “Come, Mistress Malte,” Mary Shelton urged me. “Your attempt can be no worse than mine and we are all friends here, united in our poor efforts to emulate the great poets of antiquity.”
    “My efforts are worse than poor and were intended only to be set to music.”
    “There is nothing ignoble about writing lyrics,” Lady Richmond said. “Why, the king himself wrote the words to ‘Pastime with Good Company’ and many of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s verses have been set to music.”
    “Thomas Wyatt the Elder,” Surrey