been planted. Was that the only reason Jack Harington spent time with me?
As our lessons continued through that summer and into the autumn, Bridget elaborated upon this refrain. She made me wonderwhy Jack was so careful never to be alone with me for more than a few minutes. If Bridget was not with us, Edith was. Usually both of them were present.
For some inexplicable reason, Bridget grew even more hostile when Jack taught me to play the rebec, an instrument with three strings and a right-angled pegbox that was played at the shoulder with a bow. “It sounds as if you are strangling a cat,” she remarked, holding her hands over her ears.
“Do you think you can do better?”
Jack, his face hidden from Bridget’s view by the angle of his head, grinned at me and said, “It is true the pitch is high and has a shrill quality, but the sound is more usually compared to a woman’s voice. Most men find it most pleasant to the ear.”
Bridget glared at me.
“The rebec is best suited to duets with the harp, the lute, other rebecs, or the voice,” Jack added. “Shall we try a tune together, Mistress Audrey?”
Left out of this duet, Bridget stomped away from the hall. Edith looked up from her sewing long enough to watch her go and roll her eyes.
And so that summer passed into autumn. In spite of Bridget’s snide remarks and overt resentment, I eagerly anticipated each and every one of those twice-weekly music lessons.
17
Watling Street, October 1542
W yatt’s dead.” One hand braced on the casement next to the window seat, Jack stared out at the rooftops beyond.
Startled by the abrupt statement, I could think of nothing to say. I set the rebec on the small table beside the window and made room beside me for him to sit. He did not notice. His eyes closed, he rested his forehead against the back of his upraised hand.
“Who is Wyatt?” Bridget demanded.
We both ignored her. Edith intervened before my sister could say something even more intrusive, and took her aside to summarize, in a whisper, the life of the courtier-poet Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder.
“Surrey is writing a sonnet in his memory,” Jack said.
“He . . . he wasn’t executed, was he?” I remembered all too well the concern Wyatt’s friends had shown when the poet was imprisoned in the Tower of London. And their joy upon his release. And the wagering. Wyatt had never gone back to his estranged wife, king’s command or no. Was that treason? I feared it might be.
Jack gave a short, humorless laugh. “No. He caught a fever while on an errand for the king. We’ll not see his like again.”
“There are other poets—”
“And how long will they survive?”
Without straightening, he ran his free hand through his hair, disordering the strands. My fingers itched to set them to rights. I frowned. Something I’d heard in his voice made me reconsider the words he’d just spoken and leap to an ominous conclusion. “Is the Earl of Surrey in danger of being arrested again?”
“Just at present, I suppose, he is in greater danger of dying in battle. The Duke of Norfolk is being sent to Scotland and his son will go with him.”
“Is there to be a war?” I knew little about Scotland except that the Scots were England’s traditional enemies, along with the French. Many bloody battles had been fought in the north, and good men had died on both sides.
“Word is that the king hopes to avoid it by attacking first. More than twenty thousand men march out with the duke. It is a formidable force, certain of victory.” He glanced my way, the ghost of a smile flitting across his mouth. “I asked to go with them and was refused permission.”
“To war? To be killed?” Of its own volition, my hand lifted to my throat.
“Being a woman, you cannot understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” I sounded annoyed, but deep in my heart I felt a little thrill of pleasure. He had called me a woman. He had finally stopped thinking of me as a girl.
Jack
As our lessons continued through that summer and into the autumn, Bridget elaborated upon this refrain. She made me wonderwhy Jack was so careful never to be alone with me for more than a few minutes. If Bridget was not with us, Edith was. Usually both of them were present.
For some inexplicable reason, Bridget grew even more hostile when Jack taught me to play the rebec, an instrument with three strings and a right-angled pegbox that was played at the shoulder with a bow. “It sounds as if you are strangling a cat,” she remarked, holding her hands over her ears.
“Do you think you can do better?”
Jack, his face hidden from Bridget’s view by the angle of his head, grinned at me and said, “It is true the pitch is high and has a shrill quality, but the sound is more usually compared to a woman’s voice. Most men find it most pleasant to the ear.”
Bridget glared at me.
“The rebec is best suited to duets with the harp, the lute, other rebecs, or the voice,” Jack added. “Shall we try a tune together, Mistress Audrey?”
Left out of this duet, Bridget stomped away from the hall. Edith looked up from her sewing long enough to watch her go and roll her eyes.
And so that summer passed into autumn. In spite of Bridget’s snide remarks and overt resentment, I eagerly anticipated each and every one of those twice-weekly music lessons.
17
Watling Street, October 1542
W yatt’s dead.” One hand braced on the casement next to the window seat, Jack stared out at the rooftops beyond.
Startled by the abrupt statement, I could think of nothing to say. I set the rebec on the small table beside the window and made room beside me for him to sit. He did not notice. His eyes closed, he rested his forehead against the back of his upraised hand.
“Who is Wyatt?” Bridget demanded.
We both ignored her. Edith intervened before my sister could say something even more intrusive, and took her aside to summarize, in a whisper, the life of the courtier-poet Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder.
“Surrey is writing a sonnet in his memory,” Jack said.
“He . . . he wasn’t executed, was he?” I remembered all too well the concern Wyatt’s friends had shown when the poet was imprisoned in the Tower of London. And their joy upon his release. And the wagering. Wyatt had never gone back to his estranged wife, king’s command or no. Was that treason? I feared it might be.
Jack gave a short, humorless laugh. “No. He caught a fever while on an errand for the king. We’ll not see his like again.”
“There are other poets—”
“And how long will they survive?”
Without straightening, he ran his free hand through his hair, disordering the strands. My fingers itched to set them to rights. I frowned. Something I’d heard in his voice made me reconsider the words he’d just spoken and leap to an ominous conclusion. “Is the Earl of Surrey in danger of being arrested again?”
“Just at present, I suppose, he is in greater danger of dying in battle. The Duke of Norfolk is being sent to Scotland and his son will go with him.”
“Is there to be a war?” I knew little about Scotland except that the Scots were England’s traditional enemies, along with the French. Many bloody battles had been fought in the north, and good men had died on both sides.
“Word is that the king hopes to avoid it by attacking first. More than twenty thousand men march out with the duke. It is a formidable force, certain of victory.” He glanced my way, the ghost of a smile flitting across his mouth. “I asked to go with them and was refused permission.”
“To war? To be killed?” Of its own volition, my hand lifted to my throat.
“Being a woman, you cannot understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” I sounded annoyed, but deep in my heart I felt a little thrill of pleasure. He had called me a woman. He had finally stopped thinking of me as a girl.
Jack
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