eat?” Princess Mary asked. “Someone must prepare food.”
“They bake much of it in advance. There are minced pies, a traditional dish that has thirteen ingredients to represent Christ and his apostles. It always includes chopped mutton, too, in remembrance of the shepherds.”
“Last year,” Her Grace said, a faraway look in her eyes, “we ate of a large bird called a turkey. My father the king was much taken with the taste and ordered that a flock of them be raised for food on lands he owns in East Anglia.”
I had never heard of a turkey, but when the princess had described what they looked like, I had no difficulty envisioning huge numbers of these birds being walked to London from Norfolk and Suffolk, just as was the practice with other livestock. Sometimes the journey to market would begin months in advance.
“At court the king appoints a Lord of Misrule. He wears motley and organizes the most wonderful entertainments,” Her Grace continued. “I had my own Lord of Misrule one year, when I was six and spent Yuletide at Ditton. My parents were nearby, at Windsor Castle, but John Thurgood, one of my servants, was put in charge of my celebrations. Under his direction, I hosted a feast that was just like the king’s, only in miniature. I even had my own gilded and painted boar’s head. And there were mummers and morris dancers and disguisings.”
I did not understand why the princess should be denied such trappings here. Surely there was no harm in them. As the other maids of honor shared their own memories of past Yuletides, I watched Her Grace closely. She had been animated when she spoke of her parents. Now her spirits visibly drooped. I knew, from listening to the older ladies talk, that in some years Princess Mary saw her father and mother only at Christmas and Easter. Had she expected to join them at her father’s court this December? No wonder she looked so sad.
Her Grace was in dire need of distraction. I hesitated only a moment longer before I reached into the pouch suspended from the chain I wore around my waist and pulled out a velvet-wrapped object tied closed with a ribbon. I had taken it out of my wardrobe trunk that morning because it had been Father’s gift to me one New Year’s Day and keeping it with me made me feel closer to him. This was the first Yuletide since his death, and the first I’d been away from my stepmother.
“What have you there?” Maria asked, peering over my shoulder.
“A deck of cards, fifty-two in number.” I unwrapped my treasure, revealing the blank back of the top card. When I was certain every eye was fixed upon it, I turned it over to reveal a full-length figure painted in bright colors.
“This is the king,” I said, perhaps unnecessarily, since the man in the illustration was dressed in old-fashioned finery and wearing a crown.
The expression of delight on Princess Mary’s face made her almost pretty. The instant passed far too quickly. She was a serious child by nature. After a moment both the quick smile and the twinkle in her eyes were only a memory. “He does not look anything like my father,” she said.
“That is because this deck of cards was made in France. My father brought it back with him after he crossed the Narrow Seas to fight for Your Grace’s father in a war against the French.”
The princess fingered the painted face, marveling at the detail. “Perhaps this is King Francis, then. I may one day wed one of his sons. We were betrothed when I was barely out of swaddling clothes, but the arrangement fell into abeyance.” Even at the age of nine, Her Grace had long since learned that such alliances shifted and changed like the wind, no matter how solemn the vows that had been exchanged. Then she added, “I have never played a card game.”
Hearing the wistfulness in her voice, I at once offered to teach her the ones I knew.
Princess Mary hesitated. She actually glanced over her shoulder to make certain that the Countess of
“They bake much of it in advance. There are minced pies, a traditional dish that has thirteen ingredients to represent Christ and his apostles. It always includes chopped mutton, too, in remembrance of the shepherds.”
“Last year,” Her Grace said, a faraway look in her eyes, “we ate of a large bird called a turkey. My father the king was much taken with the taste and ordered that a flock of them be raised for food on lands he owns in East Anglia.”
I had never heard of a turkey, but when the princess had described what they looked like, I had no difficulty envisioning huge numbers of these birds being walked to London from Norfolk and Suffolk, just as was the practice with other livestock. Sometimes the journey to market would begin months in advance.
“At court the king appoints a Lord of Misrule. He wears motley and organizes the most wonderful entertainments,” Her Grace continued. “I had my own Lord of Misrule one year, when I was six and spent Yuletide at Ditton. My parents were nearby, at Windsor Castle, but John Thurgood, one of my servants, was put in charge of my celebrations. Under his direction, I hosted a feast that was just like the king’s, only in miniature. I even had my own gilded and painted boar’s head. And there were mummers and morris dancers and disguisings.”
I did not understand why the princess should be denied such trappings here. Surely there was no harm in them. As the other maids of honor shared their own memories of past Yuletides, I watched Her Grace closely. She had been animated when she spoke of her parents. Now her spirits visibly drooped. I knew, from listening to the older ladies talk, that in some years Princess Mary saw her father and mother only at Christmas and Easter. Had she expected to join them at her father’s court this December? No wonder she looked so sad.
Her Grace was in dire need of distraction. I hesitated only a moment longer before I reached into the pouch suspended from the chain I wore around my waist and pulled out a velvet-wrapped object tied closed with a ribbon. I had taken it out of my wardrobe trunk that morning because it had been Father’s gift to me one New Year’s Day and keeping it with me made me feel closer to him. This was the first Yuletide since his death, and the first I’d been away from my stepmother.
“What have you there?” Maria asked, peering over my shoulder.
“A deck of cards, fifty-two in number.” I unwrapped my treasure, revealing the blank back of the top card. When I was certain every eye was fixed upon it, I turned it over to reveal a full-length figure painted in bright colors.
“This is the king,” I said, perhaps unnecessarily, since the man in the illustration was dressed in old-fashioned finery and wearing a crown.
The expression of delight on Princess Mary’s face made her almost pretty. The instant passed far too quickly. She was a serious child by nature. After a moment both the quick smile and the twinkle in her eyes were only a memory. “He does not look anything like my father,” she said.
“That is because this deck of cards was made in France. My father brought it back with him after he crossed the Narrow Seas to fight for Your Grace’s father in a war against the French.”
The princess fingered the painted face, marveling at the detail. “Perhaps this is King Francis, then. I may one day wed one of his sons. We were betrothed when I was barely out of swaddling clothes, but the arrangement fell into abeyance.” Even at the age of nine, Her Grace had long since learned that such alliances shifted and changed like the wind, no matter how solemn the vows that had been exchanged. Then she added, “I have never played a card game.”
Hearing the wistfulness in her voice, I at once offered to teach her the ones I knew.
Princess Mary hesitated. She actually glanced over her shoulder to make certain that the Countess of
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