this, I sent the girls indoors saying I’d follow directly.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Why have you come?’
‘Have you anything to tell me?’
I shook my head, not knowing what he meant.
‘You have to watch someone . . .’
‘Yes,’ I said, puzzled.
‘Can you recall the name of this person?’
‘Of course,’ I said straight, thinking this some testing of my sense or my memory.
‘Are you sure?’
I nodded assuredly.
‘And that name is . . . ?’
I was about to blurt out the name Madeleine Pryor when I heard a voice inside my head, a voice clearly telling me not to reply, and I looked more closely at the white mask of Jack Frost . . . through the eyeholes to the eyes underneath . . . which were not grey , but brown.
‘Come, Mistress, have you forgotten?’ he said briskly.
‘I have not.’
‘Then tell me.’
I put out my hand and would have snatched off his mask, but he judged what I was about to do and stepped back. ‘You are not Tomas!’
He tried to make light of it. ‘No, indeed, I am Jack Frost.’
‘You are not he, either!’ I said. I wheeled around and, taking hold of the handles of my cart, would have pushed it into him, except that he sprang away from me and I heard his laughter echoing down the empty riverbank as he ran off.
Chapter Nine
A t the frost fair Tomas had told me to trust no one, but I’d hardly heeded his words. I would from now on, however, for clearly someone had seen him speaking to me – someone who knew that he was not only the queen’s fool, but also acted as her emissary, and thus had reasoned that I’d been asked to engage in some secret work. Realising all this, I would have written to Tomas to inform him, except that I had no parchment nor quill. Besides, I realised, if I was being watched, any letter might be taken straight to the counterfeit Tomas.
I did nothing, therefore, but used what little leisure time I had in the worry of what I was going to wear to the palace and how I was going to behave while I was there, for I had begun to fear that I might show myself up through not knowing what was mannerly. I didn’t know what the entertainments at the palace might consist of: music, dancing, a masquerade, mummers singing Christmas songs? Even, perhaps, jousting in the tiltyard. Each of these would demand a different response from the onlookers and, the Court being so conservative in its customs and etiquette, I had next to no idea of what this response might be.
That evening, when the girls had gone to bed, I laid all my clothes – bodices, kirtles, sleeves and smocks – on my bed, held my candlestick high and scrutinised them for some time, unhappily coming to the same conclusion as Isabelle: nothing I owned was in any way suitable to wear to an entertainment in front of the queen at Richmond Palace. The style of the kirtles – and the necklines, lacing, embroidery, bodices and ruffs, too – was dated, the fabric dull and faded, and those items of clothing that were not darned had either grease spots or marks around the hems where I’d endeavoured to brush away the winter’s mud. I looked at them, and then I thought about the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and maids of honour, those bright young women who acted as an attractive and elegant backdrop for Her Grace, and sighed heavily. I’d been to the palace before, that was true, and had not worried about my gown to that extent, but then I’d just been one of a couple of hundred other ordinary citizens seeking an audience in the presence chamber. This time I was actually going to be part of the Court.
My eyes fell on the only costly and fashionable thing I owned: the sable mittens given to me by Miss Charity, and I suddenly remembered how grateful she’d been to me. She’d told me I must go to her if I ever wanted anything. Had she meant what she’d said?
There was, I thought, only one way to find out.
‘Good morning,’ I said politely when Thomas Mucklow’s front door was opened the
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Why have you come?’
‘Have you anything to tell me?’
I shook my head, not knowing what he meant.
‘You have to watch someone . . .’
‘Yes,’ I said, puzzled.
‘Can you recall the name of this person?’
‘Of course,’ I said straight, thinking this some testing of my sense or my memory.
‘Are you sure?’
I nodded assuredly.
‘And that name is . . . ?’
I was about to blurt out the name Madeleine Pryor when I heard a voice inside my head, a voice clearly telling me not to reply, and I looked more closely at the white mask of Jack Frost . . . through the eyeholes to the eyes underneath . . . which were not grey , but brown.
‘Come, Mistress, have you forgotten?’ he said briskly.
‘I have not.’
‘Then tell me.’
I put out my hand and would have snatched off his mask, but he judged what I was about to do and stepped back. ‘You are not Tomas!’
He tried to make light of it. ‘No, indeed, I am Jack Frost.’
‘You are not he, either!’ I said. I wheeled around and, taking hold of the handles of my cart, would have pushed it into him, except that he sprang away from me and I heard his laughter echoing down the empty riverbank as he ran off.
Chapter Nine
A t the frost fair Tomas had told me to trust no one, but I’d hardly heeded his words. I would from now on, however, for clearly someone had seen him speaking to me – someone who knew that he was not only the queen’s fool, but also acted as her emissary, and thus had reasoned that I’d been asked to engage in some secret work. Realising all this, I would have written to Tomas to inform him, except that I had no parchment nor quill. Besides, I realised, if I was being watched, any letter might be taken straight to the counterfeit Tomas.
I did nothing, therefore, but used what little leisure time I had in the worry of what I was going to wear to the palace and how I was going to behave while I was there, for I had begun to fear that I might show myself up through not knowing what was mannerly. I didn’t know what the entertainments at the palace might consist of: music, dancing, a masquerade, mummers singing Christmas songs? Even, perhaps, jousting in the tiltyard. Each of these would demand a different response from the onlookers and, the Court being so conservative in its customs and etiquette, I had next to no idea of what this response might be.
That evening, when the girls had gone to bed, I laid all my clothes – bodices, kirtles, sleeves and smocks – on my bed, held my candlestick high and scrutinised them for some time, unhappily coming to the same conclusion as Isabelle: nothing I owned was in any way suitable to wear to an entertainment in front of the queen at Richmond Palace. The style of the kirtles – and the necklines, lacing, embroidery, bodices and ruffs, too – was dated, the fabric dull and faded, and those items of clothing that were not darned had either grease spots or marks around the hems where I’d endeavoured to brush away the winter’s mud. I looked at them, and then I thought about the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and maids of honour, those bright young women who acted as an attractive and elegant backdrop for Her Grace, and sighed heavily. I’d been to the palace before, that was true, and had not worried about my gown to that extent, but then I’d just been one of a couple of hundred other ordinary citizens seeking an audience in the presence chamber. This time I was actually going to be part of the Court.
My eyes fell on the only costly and fashionable thing I owned: the sable mittens given to me by Miss Charity, and I suddenly remembered how grateful she’d been to me. She’d told me I must go to her if I ever wanted anything. Had she meant what she’d said?
There was, I thought, only one way to find out.
‘Good morning,’ I said politely when Thomas Mucklow’s front door was opened the
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