It tasted delicious.
‘Oi!’ shouted an indignant voice. ‘Ooever you are, leave our jellies alone! They’re only for people oo work in the kitchen.’
I didn’t even deign to glance round, merely holding up two fingers in the devil’s sign. A man in a sackcloth apron, and brandishing an enormous carving knife, seized me by the shoulder.
‘Didn’t you ’ear what I said? Oo are you? Get off back where you belong. Yer master’ll be looking for you, anyway. The mummings and suchlike are about to begin.’
I didn’t feel I could argue with the knife, but managed to sneak a last spoonful of jelly before holding up my hands in submission.
‘I’m going! I’m going! These are very good,’ I added, wiping my sticky chin on one sleeve. ‘You can tell the cook I said so. What mummings? Nobody tells me anything.’
The kitchener, a small man who had had time to assimilate my height and girth, grew less aggressive.
‘Oh, jugglers, tumblers, lutists, singers, the usual sort o’ thing. And a masque to finish.’ He added lugubriously, ‘There’s always a masque. If you turn sharp right when you leave the kitchens and mount the flight o’ steps at the end of the passageway, you’ll find yerself in a room next the great ’all, where all them lot’ll be waiting while the lackeys clear away the trestles and put the benches round the walls, ready fer the performance.’ My companion sniggered. ‘Such a prancing about and clearing o’ throats and tuning up of instruments you’ve never witnessed in yer life! I peeped in on ’em just now. You never saw such antics. Laugh! I thought I should’ve died! Poncy fellows, the lot of ’em. Poxy, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
I thanked him for his information, but said I must be getting back to my master who would no doubt have missed me by this time.
‘Well, tell ’im, ooever ’e is, t’ feed you,’ the kitchener grunted, eyeing with dissatisfaction the havoc I had caused to the first of the jellies.
I promised to do so and edged my way out of the steam and the noise into the comparative coolness and quiet of the corridor. I was about to return to the great hall following the same route by which I had come, using the stairs immediately opposite the kitchen entrance, when a slight noise to my left attracted my attention and made me pause.
‘Who’s there?’ I demanded, peering into the gloom of the passageway, which seemed suddenly, eerily, deserted. I turned around and stared behind me. ‘Is there anyone there?’
There was a rush of movement and I was thrown against the wall, an extra shove with an outstretched hand sending me sprawling on the bottom few treads of the stairs. I was vaguely aware of a strange, mask-like face before struggling to pick myself up.
‘Stop!’ I commanded, but I was badly winded and the word came out in a breathless croak.
I staggered forward a few steps, but of course there was no one there. Whoever had brought me down had vanished while I was getting to my feet. After a moment or two, when I was feeling a little more myself, I recalled hearing the rattle of a latch and the thud of a closing door, and came to the conclusion that my assailant was one of the mummers late for the start of the entertainment, and that I had been in his way. He had most probably been unaware of the force with which he had pushed me aside. I toyed with the idea of going after him, but then realized that not only would I not recognize either him or the mask he was wearing, but I should be laying myself open to ridicule. I was a big, strong man. Was I going to complain because a mummer had accidentally floored me?
Nevertheless, for no good reason that I could fathom, the silly little incident had upset me and made me uneasy. I stared for a few seconds longer into the gloom of the passageway before brushing myself down and mounting the staircase behind me. At the top, I shouldered open the door into the great hall which had now been transformed into a vast empty space, with all tables except the high table, on its dais, folded and stacked away, and the benches arranged around the room’s perimeter ready for the audience to take its seat for the evening’s entertainment. A great number of the guests were still strolling about, exchanging greetings with people they had been unable to come at during the feast, and I noted with relief that my lord Albany, attended by the faithful Davey Gray, had crossed the hall to speak to Master Hobbes, King Edward’s personal physician. (As a matter of interest, I will mention here that there were no less than nine other surgeons in the royal retinue, not one of whom, it is needless to say, was included for the benefit of the ordinary poor bastard of a foot soldier.)
My relief was short-lived. Turning away from Master Hobbes, Albany spotted me and came striding back to the dais, a gathering frown marring his handsome face.
‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded wrathfully, mounting the three steps in a single bound and seizing me by one arm. ‘I ordered you to remain behind my chair throughout all mealtimes. And you have the damned effrontery to disobey me.’
‘Then you should have the grace to see that I’m fed, not left standing while you gorge yourself half to death and I’m nigh fainting with hunger … Your Highness!’ I added as an afterthought.
I heard the page draw in his breath and saw him tense his slim form as he waited for the explosion of royal anger. But this failed to materialize. Albany and I stared at one another, eyeball to eyeball, for several seconds, then he dropped his hand from my arm and gave his charming smile.
‘Roger, forgive me my thoughtlessness. Of course I should have made provisions for your sustenance. Have you managed to forage for yourself now?’
‘I found my way to the kitchens,’ I said. ‘There was enough provender in the waste baskets alone to feed half the starving population of Northamptonshire for weeks, if not months.’
Albany laughed. He knew my opinions on the gulf that existed between rich and poor, and although he naturally didn’t share them, he had let me have my say on several occasions, merely advising me not to be so open with anyone but himself. I wondered sometimes why he was so tolerant, but decided that he found me amusing and, moreover, had need of me.
‘But don’t wander off again without permission,’ he said, resuming his seat at the king’s right hand. ‘I’ve told you, I want you in attendance day and night. Now, stand close. The mummings are about to begin.’
The jugglers came first, tossing a rainbow of coloured balls into the air and catching them again with amazing dexterity. And not only balls, but spoons, knives, beakers or anything else that took their fancy. The leader even begged the use of three of the precious Venetian glass goblets used by King Edward and his most important guests, throwing them, sparkling, into the candlelight while everyone gasped and held his breath. But they were returned to the high table undamaged, and the king took a velvet purse full of money from one of his attendants, tossing it to the man, to be shared out between him and the rest of the troupe.
Tumblers followed, rolling around the floor, balancing on one another’s shoulders, contorting their lithe and agile bodies into a variety of shapes. It all looked very painful and risky, and once or twice I found my eyes watering in sympathy for the agony they must be enduring. But they seemed none the worse for it and departed from the hall to resounding applause.
Musicians and dancers came next, then a group of singers; but I have to admit that my attention wandered during these last two items. I have absolutely no ear for music of any kind and, personally, cannot sustain a tune for more than a couple of notes. But other people enjoyed it judging by the applause and the number of coins tossed to the performers, while the king handed out purses with a liberal hand. It was obvious that no expense was being spared, and if there were any Scottish spies lurking amongst the onlookers — as there no doubt were — word would get back to King James that his brother was being treated by the English as if he were already the reigning monarch.