his shield upon the tip of Lord Rivers’s lance. Gloucester’s horse—its rider suspended above it—galloped on. Then he fell, heavily, a pile of dark crashing metal. He lay motionless.
Bessie froze, though chaos howled all round her. She turned to see the king on his feet, he, tightly clutching Lady Anne’s white-knuckled fingers.
On the field, Gloucester’s second and his grooms rushed to their master’s side. His helmet was lifted gently from his head.
There was blood at the corner of his mouth.
Bessie could hear Lady Anne groan piteously.
“There is no blood from his ear,” she heard her father say to Anne. “Thank Christ, none from his ear.” Silence descended on the assembled. Six men were gathered round Richard of Gloucester’s supine form. Lord Stanley strove to remove Richard’s chest plate. A leg moved. A cry went up
from the crowd! An arm rose feebly, but the man’s eyes were still closed. Without warning, the lifted arm arched violently, the metal gauntlet smashing his groom hard across the cheek and nose. The man fell back with a cry, bloodied. But now Richard was stirring, coming back to life. They helped him to sitting.
Even from where she sat, Bessie could see confusion still clouding Gloucester’s eyes. He was raised up by his men, all groaning metal joints and parts straightened as well as possible.
How quickly they put him to standing, she thought, then realized that standing dazed was far more comely for a proud knight than—for one moment more than necessary—lying helpless and supine in the center of a jousting field. An armored knight on foot was a clumsy, clanking sight, and Gloucester’s defeated walk from the tilt yard was horrible to watch. Another cheer went up from the risers. It was sincere enough, thought Bessie, for it was not a bloodthirsty crowd, this. Her uncle would live down the shame of the fall and defeat at Rivers’s hand. The pathetic flailing arm giving injury to his groom would be far harder for him to bear.
But few eyes were following Gloucester now.
Lord Rivers was the great and glorious victor of the day. Helmet held proudly under one arm, he rode his prancing horse for a second time before Nell Caxton. In his metal fingers he clutched her jeweled pendant, then raised it high as the approving roar grew louder. Now he touched it to his lips, then his heart.
Nell must be swooning, Bessie thought. There’d be no sleeping tonight.
Then, with a graceful swivel of the beast underneath him, the champion began parading before the adoring crowd, the chant of his name, “Rivers! Rivers! RIVERS!” sundering the bright afternoon.
Never, thought Bessie, had she ever felt so torn, both joyful for her dear friend Nell and miserable for her defeated and dis-graced uncle Richard.
he Wednesday Westminster market was a great living Tbeast, thought Bessie as she and Dickon, followed by four guards, picked their way through the crowded thoroughfare.
The castle and abbey together were the beast’s head, Totehill Street its long torso, the small lanes and alleys jutting from it, its writhing limbs. Farmers had traveled many miles the night before to bring their produce, meat, and fowl to the makeshift stalls. They were careful to leave clear the windows of the per-manent shops, or else face loud, angry protests from those merchants whose displays might be compromised. But all hawked their wares with equal fervency.
“Wet fish here, caught this morning with me own hands!”
“Fresh bread, brown and black, and manchette white as snow!”
“Cabbages, onions and cabbages!”
“Fat hens here! Duck eggs! Chicks for sale!” All who saw Bessie recognized her as their princess and not only called out friendly greeting to her, but bade her send their regards to her friend and theirs, Nell Caxton.
Westminster precinct itself was a thriving corridor, what with the royal residence housed next door. Totehill Street ran east, paralleling the river, to the Tower of London,
Bessie froze, though chaos howled all round her. She turned to see the king on his feet, he, tightly clutching Lady Anne’s white-knuckled fingers.
On the field, Gloucester’s second and his grooms rushed to their master’s side. His helmet was lifted gently from his head.
There was blood at the corner of his mouth.
Bessie could hear Lady Anne groan piteously.
“There is no blood from his ear,” she heard her father say to Anne. “Thank Christ, none from his ear.” Silence descended on the assembled. Six men were gathered round Richard of Gloucester’s supine form. Lord Stanley strove to remove Richard’s chest plate. A leg moved. A cry went up
from the crowd! An arm rose feebly, but the man’s eyes were still closed. Without warning, the lifted arm arched violently, the metal gauntlet smashing his groom hard across the cheek and nose. The man fell back with a cry, bloodied. But now Richard was stirring, coming back to life. They helped him to sitting.
Even from where she sat, Bessie could see confusion still clouding Gloucester’s eyes. He was raised up by his men, all groaning metal joints and parts straightened as well as possible.
How quickly they put him to standing, she thought, then realized that standing dazed was far more comely for a proud knight than—for one moment more than necessary—lying helpless and supine in the center of a jousting field. An armored knight on foot was a clumsy, clanking sight, and Gloucester’s defeated walk from the tilt yard was horrible to watch. Another cheer went up from the risers. It was sincere enough, thought Bessie, for it was not a bloodthirsty crowd, this. Her uncle would live down the shame of the fall and defeat at Rivers’s hand. The pathetic flailing arm giving injury to his groom would be far harder for him to bear.
But few eyes were following Gloucester now.
Lord Rivers was the great and glorious victor of the day. Helmet held proudly under one arm, he rode his prancing horse for a second time before Nell Caxton. In his metal fingers he clutched her jeweled pendant, then raised it high as the approving roar grew louder. Now he touched it to his lips, then his heart.
Nell must be swooning, Bessie thought. There’d be no sleeping tonight.
Then, with a graceful swivel of the beast underneath him, the champion began parading before the adoring crowd, the chant of his name, “Rivers! Rivers! RIVERS!” sundering the bright afternoon.
Never, thought Bessie, had she ever felt so torn, both joyful for her dear friend Nell and miserable for her defeated and dis-graced uncle Richard.
he Wednesday Westminster market was a great living Tbeast, thought Bessie as she and Dickon, followed by four guards, picked their way through the crowded thoroughfare.
The castle and abbey together were the beast’s head, Totehill Street its long torso, the small lanes and alleys jutting from it, its writhing limbs. Farmers had traveled many miles the night before to bring their produce, meat, and fowl to the makeshift stalls. They were careful to leave clear the windows of the per-manent shops, or else face loud, angry protests from those merchants whose displays might be compromised. But all hawked their wares with equal fervency.
“Wet fish here, caught this morning with me own hands!”
“Fresh bread, brown and black, and manchette white as snow!”
“Cabbages, onions and cabbages!”
“Fat hens here! Duck eggs! Chicks for sale!” All who saw Bessie recognized her as their princess and not only called out friendly greeting to her, but bade her send their regards to her friend and theirs, Nell Caxton.
Westminster precinct itself was a thriving corridor, what with the royal residence housed next door. Totehill Street ran east, paralleling the river, to the Tower of London,
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