‘Aye, my heart. I like it well.’
She dressed with care for the evening. The scarlet sarcenet was revived, with no fear of gloomy Henry’s curses. She bade Renée brush her hair and leave it loose to befit the maidenhood soon to be willingly relinquished. Shy little Renée, made bold by her mistress’s gaiety, chattered, exclaiming: ‘Like a queen, madam, like a queen!’ Incongruously the face of the dirty gypsy at Eltham returned to her, and she smiled. A royal prince, fair lady, shalt thou wed! She had proved the woman a charlatan, and was glad of it. She turned to embrace Renée briefly, crying: ‘Yes! I am a queen! Queen of Bradgate! My king is John!’
‘You are my prince,’ she said later to John. They sat at their own high table, surrounded by friends, eating spiced heron. Elizabeth had been drinking deep of the deceptively flowery Rhenish. The well-wishers were admiring her, envying John.
He said, a little gloomily: ‘Sweet, it’s as well I am your prince. For myself, I am not even knight as yet. I pray I may be sent on campaign, where I may be dubbed … Calais again, though ’tis quieter there than for many months …
She said aghast: ‘Already you talk of leaving me!’
The company roared. John smiled adoringly, foolish. ‘Not yet, my lady, and not tonight, certes.’ He, the obliging host, began to sing.
‘Sweet mistress mine, ye shall have no wrong,
But as yet grant me, sith we be met,
That fair flower that ye have kept so long,
I call it mine own as my very debt …’
Under the applause, the laughter, he looked at Elizabeth and felt his manhood falter in awe. Sitting there in the candlelight with her pure pale face and shining hair, she seemed unfleshly and remote. He motioned for more wine, feeling a kind of anger at the sight of this spirituality; it made his own desire seem crude and unchivalrous.
His steps were a little unsteady as he followed her up the flaring shadowed spiral to their chamber. He was weary from the journey, from wine and joy. The company bade them a merry good night, before themselves retiring to envious beds. The proud, fey delicacy of Elizabeth was apparent to them all; thus they refrained from all but the mildest of marriage jests, called from the stair-foot. Alone with Renée, she was unrobed of the scarlet dress and attired in a loose white robe de chambre . In the adjoining room John cursed under the ministrations of Giles, his page, a shortsighted youth who fumbled with knotted laces and mislaid his master’s bedgear.
Then John sought Elizabeth and found her chamber empty save for Renée, sparkling nervously, arms full of discarded garments. He knew a swift irrational dismay, and thought: I imagined it all; the wedding was a dream, the ride here, her face against mine at the table. There is no Isabella; she was but my own desire made flesh. Renée saw his sadness and said gently: ‘Sir, my lady has gone to the chapel to pray.’ He smiled again, and gave her a gold half angel. She merged with shadows and left him alone.
He walked to the window-embrasure and looked out. A full white moon shed its weird light on the lawns, the sleeping flowerheads, and turned the lake into crystal. He stood breathing in the spring light, unaware that the scene on which he looked was the same which had caused Elizabeth, moments earlier, to quit the chamber murmuring of prayer. He wondered whether he should join her in the chapel, to give thanks for this, the greatest of his life’s blessings, yet he was loath to leave the whiteness, the stillness. Then, at the edge of the lake, something moved. He craned forward with a stifled exclamation at sight of it. It was small and shimmered; it caught the moonlight and blazed in it like a slim white flame. He began to tremble. Others of his acquaintance had seen spirits, wraiths that played in the moon’s full and could take a man’s wits away for ever. He had scoffed at these tales. And yet, this thing was real, fixed in
She dressed with care for the evening. The scarlet sarcenet was revived, with no fear of gloomy Henry’s curses. She bade Renée brush her hair and leave it loose to befit the maidenhood soon to be willingly relinquished. Shy little Renée, made bold by her mistress’s gaiety, chattered, exclaiming: ‘Like a queen, madam, like a queen!’ Incongruously the face of the dirty gypsy at Eltham returned to her, and she smiled. A royal prince, fair lady, shalt thou wed! She had proved the woman a charlatan, and was glad of it. She turned to embrace Renée briefly, crying: ‘Yes! I am a queen! Queen of Bradgate! My king is John!’
‘You are my prince,’ she said later to John. They sat at their own high table, surrounded by friends, eating spiced heron. Elizabeth had been drinking deep of the deceptively flowery Rhenish. The well-wishers were admiring her, envying John.
He said, a little gloomily: ‘Sweet, it’s as well I am your prince. For myself, I am not even knight as yet. I pray I may be sent on campaign, where I may be dubbed … Calais again, though ’tis quieter there than for many months …
She said aghast: ‘Already you talk of leaving me!’
The company roared. John smiled adoringly, foolish. ‘Not yet, my lady, and not tonight, certes.’ He, the obliging host, began to sing.
‘Sweet mistress mine, ye shall have no wrong,
But as yet grant me, sith we be met,
That fair flower that ye have kept so long,
I call it mine own as my very debt …’
Under the applause, the laughter, he looked at Elizabeth and felt his manhood falter in awe. Sitting there in the candlelight with her pure pale face and shining hair, she seemed unfleshly and remote. He motioned for more wine, feeling a kind of anger at the sight of this spirituality; it made his own desire seem crude and unchivalrous.
His steps were a little unsteady as he followed her up the flaring shadowed spiral to their chamber. He was weary from the journey, from wine and joy. The company bade them a merry good night, before themselves retiring to envious beds. The proud, fey delicacy of Elizabeth was apparent to them all; thus they refrained from all but the mildest of marriage jests, called from the stair-foot. Alone with Renée, she was unrobed of the scarlet dress and attired in a loose white robe de chambre . In the adjoining room John cursed under the ministrations of Giles, his page, a shortsighted youth who fumbled with knotted laces and mislaid his master’s bedgear.
Then John sought Elizabeth and found her chamber empty save for Renée, sparkling nervously, arms full of discarded garments. He knew a swift irrational dismay, and thought: I imagined it all; the wedding was a dream, the ride here, her face against mine at the table. There is no Isabella; she was but my own desire made flesh. Renée saw his sadness and said gently: ‘Sir, my lady has gone to the chapel to pray.’ He smiled again, and gave her a gold half angel. She merged with shadows and left him alone.
He walked to the window-embrasure and looked out. A full white moon shed its weird light on the lawns, the sleeping flowerheads, and turned the lake into crystal. He stood breathing in the spring light, unaware that the scene on which he looked was the same which had caused Elizabeth, moments earlier, to quit the chamber murmuring of prayer. He wondered whether he should join her in the chapel, to give thanks for this, the greatest of his life’s blessings, yet he was loath to leave the whiteness, the stillness. Then, at the edge of the lake, something moved. He craned forward with a stifled exclamation at sight of it. It was small and shimmered; it caught the moonlight and blazed in it like a slim white flame. He began to tremble. Others of his acquaintance had seen spirits, wraiths that played in the moon’s full and could take a man’s wits away for ever. He had scoffed at these tales. And yet, this thing was real, fixed in
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