sugar in the form of St. George and the Dragon that was slowly carried down the hall on an enormous platter balanced on the shoulders of four of the kitchen lads. Bright orange sugar flames belched from the dragon’s mouth, and where St. George’s lance had pierced the beast’s side, wine dribbled out like blood. The guests applauded and Alfred, who followed the masterpiece, bowed low left and right. Bowls of oranges, preserved damsons, nuts, raisins and comfits were placed on the tables, and when the subtlety reached the head table, Richard rose to his feet to propose a toast.
“Health to all here tonight and good fortune in the year ahead.” His voice rang down the hall, and the guests raised their cups and drank.
When the tables had been pushed back, Edgar called for the music to begin for dancing. Kate and Anne were flushed from the small amount of wine Richard had allowed them with dinner, and both looked anxiously at the young men who were standing farther down the hall, eyeing them as possible dance partners. Instead, it was an older gentleman who approached Kate and invited her to take his arm. She felt Elinor’s eagle eye on her and so tried to look demure, but she could not resist a jaunty tilt of the head and a daring arch of an eyebrow. Then believing Martha to be hovering somewhere above her, pleading with her to mind her manners, she stopped her flirtation. She drew herself up to her full height and tried to look as stately as the other ladies moving down the length of the hall. Her partner seemed amused, and he bowed and introduced himself.
“Thomas Draper, mistress. I am come from Tunbridge as a guest of Dame Elinor. May I know your name?”
“I am Kate—Katherine Bywood, an it please you, sir, companion to Mistress Anne Haute. I live here,” she said proudly, expecting the smelly old man to be impressed.
“Ah, yes, Dame Elinor did mention you. May I compliment you on your choice of gown, Mistress Kate? I am a mercer, you see, and I know quality when I see it.” He was pleased to see the effect his flattery had on his young partner.
In truth, Thomas had been staring at Kate all evening, unnoticed by her. There was something about the combination of innocence and sensuality that had caused his heart and other parts of his anatomy to come out of the doldrums. And he could swear she was flirting with him. He was right. Kate felt so safe with the old dodderer that she could not resist trying out some of the looks she had observed passing between other ladies and gentlemen at the feast. It was amusing to have someone ogle her, even someone of his advanced years, and soon her good intentions to Martha’s memory were forgotten as she flashed a smile here and fluttered her eyelashes there. Thomas was enchanted. The dance was over too soon for him. She flitted away like some emerald bird.
There was movement now at the doorway. Stamping snow off their boots, a group of mummers advanced into the hall. Edgar banged his staff on the flagstones and begged the company to “Make way for St. George!” A cheer went up as the players pranced around the hall in their costumes—a youth dressed up as a fair maid, a knight in white armor emblazoned with a red cross, and two men in a dragon suit, the front one rearing up and pawing the air. To set the scene, Will and his musicians began to sing the carol of St. George.
“Enforce we us with all our might,
To love Saint George, our Lady’s knight.”
The company listened to the story of the knight who became England’s patron saint by saving a fair damsel from the dragon’s teeth. Then the mummers began to enact the tale, the dragon frightening the children with its roars and St. George receiving verbal encouragement to slay the beast.
But as the player held his sword aloft, ready to do the fabled deed, there was a pounding on the great oak door. A cold blast blew into the hall, a breathless messenger in its wake. All eyes turned to him, and the mummers ceased
“Health to all here tonight and good fortune in the year ahead.” His voice rang down the hall, and the guests raised their cups and drank.
When the tables had been pushed back, Edgar called for the music to begin for dancing. Kate and Anne were flushed from the small amount of wine Richard had allowed them with dinner, and both looked anxiously at the young men who were standing farther down the hall, eyeing them as possible dance partners. Instead, it was an older gentleman who approached Kate and invited her to take his arm. She felt Elinor’s eagle eye on her and so tried to look demure, but she could not resist a jaunty tilt of the head and a daring arch of an eyebrow. Then believing Martha to be hovering somewhere above her, pleading with her to mind her manners, she stopped her flirtation. She drew herself up to her full height and tried to look as stately as the other ladies moving down the length of the hall. Her partner seemed amused, and he bowed and introduced himself.
“Thomas Draper, mistress. I am come from Tunbridge as a guest of Dame Elinor. May I know your name?”
“I am Kate—Katherine Bywood, an it please you, sir, companion to Mistress Anne Haute. I live here,” she said proudly, expecting the smelly old man to be impressed.
“Ah, yes, Dame Elinor did mention you. May I compliment you on your choice of gown, Mistress Kate? I am a mercer, you see, and I know quality when I see it.” He was pleased to see the effect his flattery had on his young partner.
In truth, Thomas had been staring at Kate all evening, unnoticed by her. There was something about the combination of innocence and sensuality that had caused his heart and other parts of his anatomy to come out of the doldrums. And he could swear she was flirting with him. He was right. Kate felt so safe with the old dodderer that she could not resist trying out some of the looks she had observed passing between other ladies and gentlemen at the feast. It was amusing to have someone ogle her, even someone of his advanced years, and soon her good intentions to Martha’s memory were forgotten as she flashed a smile here and fluttered her eyelashes there. Thomas was enchanted. The dance was over too soon for him. She flitted away like some emerald bird.
There was movement now at the doorway. Stamping snow off their boots, a group of mummers advanced into the hall. Edgar banged his staff on the flagstones and begged the company to “Make way for St. George!” A cheer went up as the players pranced around the hall in their costumes—a youth dressed up as a fair maid, a knight in white armor emblazoned with a red cross, and two men in a dragon suit, the front one rearing up and pawing the air. To set the scene, Will and his musicians began to sing the carol of St. George.
“Enforce we us with all our might,
To love Saint George, our Lady’s knight.”
The company listened to the story of the knight who became England’s patron saint by saving a fair damsel from the dragon’s teeth. Then the mummers began to enact the tale, the dragon frightening the children with its roars and St. George receiving verbal encouragement to slay the beast.
But as the player held his sword aloft, ready to do the fabled deed, there was a pounding on the great oak door. A cold blast blew into the hall, a breathless messenger in its wake. All eyes turned to him, and the mummers ceased
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