The Tutor by Andrea Chapin Page A

trying to tame the noisy crowd. “We are so honored,” she repeated shrilly. Then she walked unsteadily over to Edward’s chair and climbed up on it.
    “Friends,” she shouted. “Friends!”
    The room quieted.
    Katharine glanced at Matilda to see what her reaction was to the doeskin soles of Ursula’s velvet pantofles stepping and stumbling upon Edward’s newly upholstered chair. But Matilda’s profile was pointing away from Ursula.
    “Our poor Edward gone.” Ursula sighed. “Not dead yet, but gone.”
    Richard rose. “Ursula.”
    “He never liked me,” she continued. “Never, ever . . .”
    “Ursula, my dear . . .” Richard gazed up at her. He was shorter than Ursula. His neck disappeared into his shoulders—a mushroom without a stem. The ruff he wore seemed to cut into his skin.
    “I never liked him,” said Ursula, who, standing unsteadily on the chair, almost fell off while trying to sit on it. She landed sideways, with her skirts over the chair arm, as though she were sitting on someone’s lap. “Oh, Edward, how you glare at me.” She poked the air with her finger. “Never one pleasant word from de pleasant man. How he loathe me.” With the drink, Ursula’s Dutch accent had returned.
    Few hid their sniggering. Master Shakespeare may have had the night free, but there was theater for the guests nonetheless.
    “Ursula, my dear, come outside. The breeze might heal your mood.” Richard was standing by the chair now. “Ursula, come.”
    “No,” she said simply.
    “Ursula, come with me,” Richard pleaded.
    “No, no, no, no.” She held her head high, pointing at her husband. “Thou art a ghost like your father—flesh but no blood. Who flees conflict? Who banishes himself? I thought banishing was the business of a queen. Men whose spirits are like feathers, I ssssssuppose—not those made of sssssssteel and ssssssstone. Men whose bones have no marrow. We have learned tonight, with the birth of his son, that our brave duke is of different mettle than this family. His sword is strong and valiant.”
    There was hooting and hollering. Men held their goblets and tankards in the air, as if to toast; several made obscene gestures. Ursula swung her legs to the front of the chair and with difficulty landed her two feet on the floor. Then she grabbed a goblet off the table.
    Katharine couldn’t help but be impressed by Ursula’s warblingoratory; at least she seemed honest. Perhaps she was not the anointed family fool after all.
    “To the De Malois offffffsssssspring, may they ffffflourish and proudly carry their mighty father’s mantle upon their shoulders.” Ursula downed her drink, then vomited all over the table.
    Richard winced. His passion was falconry; they often trained the hawks by sealing their eyes with a needle and thread, a temporary blinding. As the servants rushed to Ursula’s side, Katharine wondered if at this moment Richard would have preferred to have his eyes sewn shut.
    Laughter turned to whooping. Several Frenchmen stood, bowed, cheered and clapped, as though Ursula had just recited a beautiful piece of poetry. For a moment she looked startled, but she waved a servant away, calling instead for more wine.
    The feast was finishing, and it was Matilda who gave the sign to the musicians in the balcony to start the song. Katharine caught Matilda’s eye. With Edward gone, there seemed to be a warmth growing between them.
    While the women withdrew to the gallery adjacent to the balcony to listen to the music through the grillwork, Katharine planned her escape from their chatter. Ursula would not be joining the women. Her heavings had been cleared, and now her head was on the table, her eyes shut, her cheek resting upon a piece of yellow cheese.
    When Katharine had last looked at Will, he was in conversation with a Frenchman. She was almost out the door when she heard his voice.
    “And how fares my lady?” he said.
    She turned. “You are looking very . . . full of