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Authors: Barbara Kyle
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hollows in the powdery snow as they joined the twenty or so people milling in front of a low scaffolding at the wall opposite the gallery.
Honor rested her bundle on the gallery railing. “But men quarrel round the palace all the time, then pay their fines and walk away. None has lost a hand for it.”
“This one will,” Margery said with quiet relish. “The King is in a fume. He says he is ill served by the pack of jackals at his court, and he’s told the lord steward and the palace marshal that he’ll have order.”
It was the first Honor had heard of it. She studied the bright, bird eyes of her friend with a quizzical smile. “You don’t miss a single flurry of the nonsense that goes on around here, do you?”
Margery tossed her head complacently. “I know that the gentleman who’s to forfeit his hand wagered five pounds on a tennis match with Reginald Quince and that Quince lost the match, but would not pay. And I know that Quince got his ugly nose broken for his impudence. Which he heartily deserved, in my book. I’m sure he owes my brother five pounds and more for a night of cards last week.”
“And who’s the unfortunate young brawler?” Honor asked, scanning the crowd, though there was no sign yet of a prisoner.
Margery pouted her ignorance on this point. “One can’t keep up with every wild fellow that roars into court,” she said. “Although,” she winked, “I have heard that he married into money, and while he sports and sparks here to his heart’s content, his wife obligingly waits at home at Norfolk.”
The hubbub below grew more raucous as courtier friends hailed one another and ladies swirled out of the palace in tittering knots. On men and women alike, brocades and silks and velvets in riotous shades of marigold, ladyblush, and popinjay blue set up a hum of color, as if a flock of exotic birds had fluttered down in place of the drab pigeons that regularly pecked here at the granary refuse. The scullery doors stood partway open, and the barefoot boys who scoured the cauldrons peeked out through clouds of steam and dared one another, giggling, to dart out into the throng.
Honor shook her head with a wondering smile. Even after six months with the Queen she was still astounded and appalled by the chaos of the King’s court. As both a private household and a public organization it was a seething snarl of humanity surrounding the royal person. Bishops and peers; priests and prostitutes; astrologers, minstrels and falconers; vendors, wonder workers and sages—all were drawn to forage for the acorns of patronage under the royal oak. The place teemed with intrigue and violence, for every gentleman, nobleman, and churchman was attended by a throng of hangers-on, and this army of servants in various employs lounged and diced and quarreled through the crowded corridors, staircases, and courtyards. Up to a thousand people were fed each day at the King’s table, where grooms armed with whips and bells patrolled the great hall to fend off scrounging dogs and rascals who tried to pass as servants. All men went armed, and daggers were drawn over every slight, real or imagined.
This tennis quarrel was no surprise to Honor; gambling was almost a religion here. Courtiers bet on everything from wrestling matches, to a lady’s virtue, to the amount of wine a banqueting ambassador would consume, and both gentlemen and ladies were expected to play coolly, and for high stakes. The King himself often lost many pounds a day at dice. Tennis, the game most threatening to a man’s purse, was not for the faint at heart.
There was the rumble of a single drum. Honor and Margery craned over the railing at a small procession snaking out under their gallery. Seven men emerged and started to walk across to the scaffold. Honor recognized their white-bearded leader as the royal surgeon. He supervised the maiming of state prisoners. She winced, thinking of the poor, quaking victim who had yet to appear. The grim
Honor rested her bundle on the gallery railing. “But men quarrel round the palace all the time, then pay their fines and walk away. None has lost a hand for it.”
“This one will,” Margery said with quiet relish. “The King is in a fume. He says he is ill served by the pack of jackals at his court, and he’s told the lord steward and the palace marshal that he’ll have order.”
It was the first Honor had heard of it. She studied the bright, bird eyes of her friend with a quizzical smile. “You don’t miss a single flurry of the nonsense that goes on around here, do you?”
Margery tossed her head complacently. “I know that the gentleman who’s to forfeit his hand wagered five pounds on a tennis match with Reginald Quince and that Quince lost the match, but would not pay. And I know that Quince got his ugly nose broken for his impudence. Which he heartily deserved, in my book. I’m sure he owes my brother five pounds and more for a night of cards last week.”
“And who’s the unfortunate young brawler?” Honor asked, scanning the crowd, though there was no sign yet of a prisoner.
Margery pouted her ignorance on this point. “One can’t keep up with every wild fellow that roars into court,” she said. “Although,” she winked, “I have heard that he married into money, and while he sports and sparks here to his heart’s content, his wife obligingly waits at home at Norfolk.”
The hubbub below grew more raucous as courtier friends hailed one another and ladies swirled out of the palace in tittering knots. On men and women alike, brocades and silks and velvets in riotous shades of marigold, ladyblush, and popinjay blue set up a hum of color, as if a flock of exotic birds had fluttered down in place of the drab pigeons that regularly pecked here at the granary refuse. The scullery doors stood partway open, and the barefoot boys who scoured the cauldrons peeked out through clouds of steam and dared one another, giggling, to dart out into the throng.
Honor shook her head with a wondering smile. Even after six months with the Queen she was still astounded and appalled by the chaos of the King’s court. As both a private household and a public organization it was a seething snarl of humanity surrounding the royal person. Bishops and peers; priests and prostitutes; astrologers, minstrels and falconers; vendors, wonder workers and sages—all were drawn to forage for the acorns of patronage under the royal oak. The place teemed with intrigue and violence, for every gentleman, nobleman, and churchman was attended by a throng of hangers-on, and this army of servants in various employs lounged and diced and quarreled through the crowded corridors, staircases, and courtyards. Up to a thousand people were fed each day at the King’s table, where grooms armed with whips and bells patrolled the great hall to fend off scrounging dogs and rascals who tried to pass as servants. All men went armed, and daggers were drawn over every slight, real or imagined.
This tennis quarrel was no surprise to Honor; gambling was almost a religion here. Courtiers bet on everything from wrestling matches, to a lady’s virtue, to the amount of wine a banqueting ambassador would consume, and both gentlemen and ladies were expected to play coolly, and for high stakes. The King himself often lost many pounds a day at dice. Tennis, the game most threatening to a man’s purse, was not for the faint at heart.
There was the rumble of a single drum. Honor and Margery craned over the railing at a small procession snaking out under their gallery. Seven men emerged and started to walk across to the scaffold. Honor recognized their white-bearded leader as the royal surgeon. He supervised the maiming of state prisoners. She winced, thinking of the poor, quaking victim who had yet to appear. The grim
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