To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court by Fiona Buckley

singing in Welsh and preceded by an elderly and gray-bearded harper dressed in an archaic tabard of pale green, with a vetch plant, purple flowers, and darker green leaves, embroidered on it.
    Rafe, arriving late, after the food was on the table, apologized gracefully to his guardian and then hurried to kneel beside Lady Thomasine and apologize a second time, not so much gracefully, as abjectly. He might have turned up late for her coronation instead of merely for a meal.
    “Think nothing of it,” she said, but laid her hand on his head as forgivingly as though he really were being excused for a serious offense. For a moment they stayed motionless, Lady Thomasine gazing kindly down on Rafe, and his profile outlined against her plum-hued gown.
    In profile he was a little less handsome than he was full face, for his nose was too sharp and his chin just too long for perfection, but he and Lady Thomasine made a charming tableau and I wondered if the pose was deliberately meant to echo the figures in the threadbare tapestry just behind Lady Thomasine. It showed a woman resting her hand on the horn of a unicorn, as if bestowing a regal blessing. Except that the woman in the tapestry was much younger than Lady Thomasine,and the horn of a unicorn, I knew, was a symbol which was hardly appropriate in this case.
    When Gerald and I were in Antwerp and Gerald was employed by the financier Sir Thomas Gresham, we had often dined in Gresham’s splendid house and there I had seen some fine tapestries featuring unicorns. Gerald, gleefully, had explained the symbolism to me. I hoped that both Lady Thomasine and Rafe were unaware of it.
    The mastiff chose that moment to get up from its place in front of the hearth, jump onto the dais, sit down on the other side of Lady Thomasine and gaze at her, dribbling hopefully in expectation of tidbits. Beside me, Mattie let out a little snort of amusement, and I repressed a chuckle. Meanwhile, Lady Thomasine, ignoring the dog, withdrew her hand from Rafe’s hair. He rose and took his own seat. Mortimer smiled at his mother, apparently finding nothing strange or laughable in the little playlet with Rafe, and began to recite a lengthy grace.
    At the end of it, as we sat down and the servants crowded around us, offering dishes and pouring wine, Evans strode into the hall. I had the impression that he had been waiting just out of sight until Mortimer had said
amen
. Once more, he was dressed in green, but this time it was clean. He had a hooded falcon on one arm, and from the other hand dangled a brace of hares. He came up the hall, onto the dais, and around the table to Lady Thomasine, where he went down on one knee and gravely presented the hares to her, as a gift from her loyal falconer.
    “Is that what he is?” I whispered to Mattie. “The falconer?” That explained the streaks of bird droppings.
    “Simon Evans? Yes, he’s the head falconer. Mortimer has three of them,” Mattie whispered back.
    “I have asked,” said Evans, in booming tones that could be heard all over the hall and were meant to be, “that these shall be served to my lady tomorrow, cooked in wine.”
    Thanking him, Lady Thomasine formed another tableau by resting her hand, this time, on the falconer’s rough dark head. Once more, Mattie emitted a small, disrespectful gurgle. After posing for a count of about three, Evans stood up, bowed, and withdrew, taking his hares with him. The mastiff leaped down from the dais and went with him and the other dogs also got up and followed him out. I heard him in the courtyard, shouting at someone to for God’s sake feed these animals, before they stole his catch. On the dais, the serving of food and wine resumed. Our goblets were filled and our silver platters loaded. Pugh made it his personal task to look after Lady Thomasine. In my ear, Mattie whispered: “I think she thinks she’s Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
    “Who?” I whispered back.
    “Eleanor of Aquitaine. You know. Henry