had I been any of these, I would have done as I did. And being what I was, a virgin maid, with but an armoured dream to cherish, I looked that night upon a man, and loved.
Next to the Earl of Warwick he stood, but apart from him. He was solitary, young and slender, of less than medium stature. His face had the fragile pallor of one who has fought sickness for a long time, yet in its high fine bones there was strength, and in the thin lips, resolution. His hair was dark, which made him paler still. He was alone with his thoughts. Ceaselessly he toyed with the hilt of his dagger, or twisted the ring on one finger as if he wearied of indolence and longed for action. Then he turned; I saw his eyes. Dark depths of eyes, which in one moment of changing light carried the gleam of something dangerous, and in the next, utter melancholy. And kindness too... compassion. They were like no other eyes in the world. Like stone I stood, and loved.
The jester was babbling in my ear, and I could not answer him. With my whole heart I hoped that he might not be one too highborn to give me a glance. I longed to know that he was an esquire, mayhap the son of some lesser noble, or a member of his retinue. This, seeing the sumptuous fire of jewels on the restless fingers, the collar of suns and roses about his neck, I knew it all useless; my dreams but vapourings; and he on whom I looked with such love further removed than the topmost star. By rank more distant, and by riches far apart. Above all, by the way in which he stood, solitary, yet dignified by his solitude, among the noisy splendour.
In the face of this, I asked, trembling:
‘Who is that young knight?’
Patch was acting craftily. ‘Which one, madam? Madam, maiden, mistress, honeybee. Names, yea, names for one passing sweet, and she with many names would have a name to play with. Which name, my Venus, cozen and cuckoo-eye, which knight?’
A page was offering him wine. He waved it away.
‘The one who does not drink tonight,’ I said, and my voice was like a frog’s croaking.
‘Ho! a sober knight!’ said Patch, and peered to follow my slowly pointing, wavering fingers. He dug his sharp chin into my neck.
‘Certes, I had forgot you were fresh to the court,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘’Tis young Dickon.’
‘Dickon?’
‘Yea, the sad one. The scant-worded one. The one who beds with his battle-axe. If my eye be not crossed, you point to Richard of Gloucester.’
‘An Earl, a Duke?’ I whispered.
‘Both, and more besides. A prince. He is Richard Plantagenet, the King’s brother.’
I loved. I loved, and to my surprise, the world went on its way as usual. As Elysande had foretold, there was much groaning and head-holding in the morning. Many lay abed, including the Duchess, but the King was up betimes, and after hearing Mass rode out hunting with a large train of knights and nobles, some looking as if they would liefer have stayed quiet in their chambers, nursing the quantities of wine that churned about their bellies. But King Edward was fresh as a flower, calling his friends in a voice like a clarion, mad to spear the otter. Elizabeth was serene, smiling gently with downcast eyes as she wished her lord a successful chase. Her own chase had been wondrous profitable, I thought, as we watched the King, at the head of his entourage, gallop out between the guard and disappear beneath the toothed portcullis. Yet as soon as his back was turned, her expression suffered a brisk change. The matron of Grafton Regis returned, and soon the whole Household was flying about like souls in torment in pursuit of their various duties. Little was seen of her, but her lightest wish was keenly felt. Even so, there was space for gossip—down the corridors it crept, the arras shivering with whispers: who had quarrelled with whom last evening; whose bed had remained bare till dawning; and once again, I came on Patch, whose face served as a beacon in a bewildering world of stares
Next to the Earl of Warwick he stood, but apart from him. He was solitary, young and slender, of less than medium stature. His face had the fragile pallor of one who has fought sickness for a long time, yet in its high fine bones there was strength, and in the thin lips, resolution. His hair was dark, which made him paler still. He was alone with his thoughts. Ceaselessly he toyed with the hilt of his dagger, or twisted the ring on one finger as if he wearied of indolence and longed for action. Then he turned; I saw his eyes. Dark depths of eyes, which in one moment of changing light carried the gleam of something dangerous, and in the next, utter melancholy. And kindness too... compassion. They were like no other eyes in the world. Like stone I stood, and loved.
The jester was babbling in my ear, and I could not answer him. With my whole heart I hoped that he might not be one too highborn to give me a glance. I longed to know that he was an esquire, mayhap the son of some lesser noble, or a member of his retinue. This, seeing the sumptuous fire of jewels on the restless fingers, the collar of suns and roses about his neck, I knew it all useless; my dreams but vapourings; and he on whom I looked with such love further removed than the topmost star. By rank more distant, and by riches far apart. Above all, by the way in which he stood, solitary, yet dignified by his solitude, among the noisy splendour.
In the face of this, I asked, trembling:
‘Who is that young knight?’
Patch was acting craftily. ‘Which one, madam? Madam, maiden, mistress, honeybee. Names, yea, names for one passing sweet, and she with many names would have a name to play with. Which name, my Venus, cozen and cuckoo-eye, which knight?’
A page was offering him wine. He waved it away.
‘The one who does not drink tonight,’ I said, and my voice was like a frog’s croaking.
‘Ho! a sober knight!’ said Patch, and peered to follow my slowly pointing, wavering fingers. He dug his sharp chin into my neck.
‘Certes, I had forgot you were fresh to the court,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘’Tis young Dickon.’
‘Dickon?’
‘Yea, the sad one. The scant-worded one. The one who beds with his battle-axe. If my eye be not crossed, you point to Richard of Gloucester.’
‘An Earl, a Duke?’ I whispered.
‘Both, and more besides. A prince. He is Richard Plantagenet, the King’s brother.’
I loved. I loved, and to my surprise, the world went on its way as usual. As Elysande had foretold, there was much groaning and head-holding in the morning. Many lay abed, including the Duchess, but the King was up betimes, and after hearing Mass rode out hunting with a large train of knights and nobles, some looking as if they would liefer have stayed quiet in their chambers, nursing the quantities of wine that churned about their bellies. But King Edward was fresh as a flower, calling his friends in a voice like a clarion, mad to spear the otter. Elizabeth was serene, smiling gently with downcast eyes as she wished her lord a successful chase. Her own chase had been wondrous profitable, I thought, as we watched the King, at the head of his entourage, gallop out between the guard and disappear beneath the toothed portcullis. Yet as soon as his back was turned, her expression suffered a brisk change. The matron of Grafton Regis returned, and soon the whole Household was flying about like souls in torment in pursuit of their various duties. Little was seen of her, but her lightest wish was keenly felt. Even so, there was space for gossip—down the corridors it crept, the arras shivering with whispers: who had quarrelled with whom last evening; whose bed had remained bare till dawning; and once again, I came on Patch, whose face served as a beacon in a bewildering world of stares
Similar Books
