The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir

Elizabeth, looking up from her book. “I could wear my new blue gown.”
    “I’m not sure, my lady,” Kat replied uncertainly. “You must wait to be summoned.”
    “I hope I am,” the child said. “It’s Twelfth Night tomorrow. There will be feasting and revels. I do so want to be there!”
    She waited, fretting. The hours passed. Nothing happened. The King did not send for her.
     
    Elizabeth was bitterly disappointed to discover, late the next morning, that the wedding had already taken place, in a private ceremony in the chapel.
    “Never mind,” said Kat, “the good news is that you are to attend His Majesty in his presence chamber this evening. There will be a masque and dancing and the usual revelry for Twelfth Night.”
    Elizabeth clapped her hands in glee. This was what she loved best…
    “The blue gown, I think,” said Kat, smiling.
     
    The King, flushed with fine wine, sat glowering at the masquers, who were nervously performing a piece in which Hymen, the God of Marriage, was blessing the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice and encouraging them to be fruitful. Young girls of good family in flowing white robes were trilling in praise of nuptial bliss while weaving in and out in an intricate dance.
    Elizabeth thought the players were enchanting and the singing beautiful, but she was equally interested in the new Queen, who sat stiffly beside the King, her angular face set in a smile that did not reach her heavy-lidded eyes. She was not much like her picture, Elizabeth thought, and her outlandish German gown was frightfully unflattering, and lacked the long train that was de rigueur at court. Worse still, worse than the deep, guttural voice with which Anna had greeted her on her presentation the previous day, was the unsavory odor of unwashed linen and stale fish that the Princess carried everywhere with her. Yet she was amiable enough, and seemed well disposed toward her new stepdaughters, so Elizabeth steeled herself to overlook that, wondering only what her father, that most fastidious of men, would have to say about it.
    He certainly did not appear very pleased with his new bride, and that unfortunate lady now looked plainly terrified, as well she might, for Henry’s good manners—stretched to the limit these past days—had finally failed him, and no one could be in any doubt that he was in a very bad temper indeed. Contrary to his normal fashion, he had not applauded the masquers once, and consequently they had played to a silent court.
    Hymen was now addressing His Majesty, reminding him of the joys to be had in the marriage bed. Elizabeth couldn’t understand much of what he said, but her father didn’t seem very pleased by it; in fact, he looked anything but joyful.
    After the masque had ended and the relieved players had fled the chamber, the King’s jester, Will Somers, tried to raise a smile by telling some jokes, but Henry still sat with a face like thunder, eyes narrowed. Somers rashly decided to take advantage of his fool’s immunity and plunged on.
    “Are we keeping you from your sport, Harry? Go to it, man, delay no longer! Take your sweet bride to bed and swive her lustily!”
    The King banged his fist on the table, and everyone jumped.
    “Enough!” he snarled. “Hold your tongue, Fool. Remember, the Queen and the ladies are present.”
    He waved Somers away and signaled to the musicians once more.
    “Play!” he commanded.
    The music began, a lilting melody with a lively drumbeat. Henry surveyed his courtiers with a jaundiced eye.
    “What ails you all?” he barked. “Up, up, dance!”
    Several gentlemen rose hastily, bowed to their ladies, and led them onto the floor. Elizabeth was tapping her foot in time to the music, praying that someone would ask her to dance, when she saw the King turn to the Queen, a malicious twinkle in his eye.
    “Will you do me the honor, madam?” he asked.
    Queen Anna looked perplexed and turned to her interpreter, the stately German matron