York Place, London, England
It was the day before the beginning of Lent, Shrove Tuesday, and we’d been at court nigh on a fortnight. We’d settled into the queen’s retinue, Anne as one of the queen’s many maidens of honor and I as a highborn friend there to assist and to make friends that might help my father or my future husband. Our days thus far had consisted of going to Mass with the queen, playing cards in her chamber, sewing shirts for the poor, and, of course, providing modest feminine companionship at meals and jousts. For the most part our time had been a disappointment.
The queen did not enjoy high spirits, preferring to spend dark hours in her chapel on her knees and favoring those who did likewise, most of whom had come with her from Spain a lifetime ago. Ash Wednesday would mark a period of little merriment and no meat. The king desired to indulge so as to carry us through till the celebration of the Resurrection. Cardinal Wolsey had planned an extraordinary masque. Even to me, a woman comfortably estranged from God, it was unseemly that the cardinal spent more time preparing for Henry to gorge his senses than preparing for the forthcoming denial of those same pleasures in honor of our Lord the next day. I’d heard it said that his solicitor, Thomas Cromwell, attended to Christ’s business while Wolsey attended to the more important matters of the king.
Somehow, someone had whispered a strong suggestion in an important ear and Anne was to be one of the principal players in the masque.
“How does the cardinal have enough money to entertain so lavishly?” I asked as I helped Anne into her shift and then went on to ensure that her gown sat perfectly. “There are legions of people to attend this evening and he is sure to serve dozens and dozens of courses to please the king. And he’s got hundreds of servants!”
Anne nodded and then laughed. Her laugh was pleasant to hear but not filled with merriment as an ordinary woman’s laugh might be. Rather it was a mix of joy and sophistication and maybe a little bit of challenge to the listener. It was compelling and altogether different since she’d returned from France. I’d seen the men at court respond to her laughter and to her presence, almost against their will, in a way unlike the manner in which they approached the other ladies in the queen’s household.
“The cardinal’s servants are better dressed than I,” she teased. Although it was not exactly true, they were finely attired, for certes. Just then, another young woman burst into the chamber, her sickly strong jasmine perfume preceding her arrival.
“Do you know where Mary has gone?” she asked.
“Hello, Jane,” Anne replied, reminding Jane Parker that she had forgone the civility of a greeting in order to bleat out a demand, as usual.
“Hello, sister,” Jane replied impatiently. “’Tis a short time till we’re required in the dining hall. Have you seen our sister Mary?”
Anne looked at me and even though her expression did not change, I, who knew her well, could read her impatience with the woman soon to be betrothed to Anne’s beloved brother, George.
“She left some time ago. Mayhap she’s with the king.”
“Indeed!” Jane’s eyes lit up at the idea of inserting herself into the king’s close orbit. “I’ll see to her.” She took her leave but not afore reminding us to hurry. It was a credit to Anne’s discretion that she held her tongue.
“You’d wish better for George,” I said. I understood. In spite of the fact that my brother Thomas had a sweet son by his wife, Elizabeth, they spoke not at all and I had already seen Elizabeth in a dark hallway with one of the king’s privy counselors.
“I’d wish him happiness, in all ways, in great measure,” Anne said. “And I fear he’s not going to get that with Mistress Parker. But my father is sure to get a great dowry, and one that he supposes to use in part for my marriage portion, so he warns me to say nothing at all to my sister Jane but to welcome her into our family. For his sake, and for George’s, I do.” She stood and turned in her gown, her long black hair flowing majestically around her shoulders, her eyes played up with the tiniest bit of kohl in each corner. “How do I look?”
“There will not be an eye with the free will to look away from you,” I said, suddenly feeling very dowdy in my sapphire gown.
“Don’t fret, you look lovely, Meg,” Anne said, reading my mind. “Let us go ere Mistress Parker brings herself to a fit.”
We first went to dinner, the king and queen on a dais at the head of the room and the rest of us stratified according to rank outward from their position. Anne was several tables in front of me, and I sat with a group of happy young ladies-in-waiting, next to a table of the king’s gentlemen, who laughed, and yes, we parried with one another, well out of the queen’s earshot and gaze.
“I hear that there are to be sixteen women who are costumed for roles at the masque,” one young courtier said. “And yet only eight men.”
“Perhaps that is because it takes two women to subdue one man!” another courtier offered, to the general laughter of the rest of us.
“What think you, mistress?” The first young man trained his eyes on me and smiled flirtatiously. I was unused to courtly manners. Did he intend to pay me such intense attention? Or was this a part and parcel of the illusory world of the court, where nothing was as it seemed?
“I should rather not offer my opinion,” I said. “I know that one of the maidens shall represent malebouche, a sharp tongue, and should she fall ill I’d not like to be pressed into service.”
The tables erupted in laughter and I smiled.
“Never,” the young man thrust back. “I find your bouche to be anything but sharp.”
For him to comment on my mouth, especially implying that it was soft, was perhaps a step further in this game than I wished to go, so I nodded toward him. “Touché,” I said, and left it at that. His eyes did not leave me for some time, and I allowed myself to suppose that my gown was not as dowdy as I had feared.
I glanced at Anne. She had been seated next to Henry Percy, the heir to the Earl of Northumberland. One glance at Percy’s face told me that he was smitten with Anne, which was unsurprising. What was surprising, however, was the look on Anne’s face. Underneath her practiced court luster I could spy honest interest. I made note of it because Anne did not waste her affections.
After dinner we made our way from the dining room into the large chamber in which the performance would be held. Each masque had a theme, and the theme that Cardinal Wolsey had determined for this celebration was that of unrequited love. How fitting! I scanned the room, both wishing for and hoping against Will’s being in attendance, as he well might. When I saw that he was not, I relaxed and allowed myself to be transported, along with the other guests, by the story.
In one end of the hall had been built a replica of a castle, covered with green foil, which concealed the court musicians. Within were eight women, representing the feminine virtues to which we were supposed to aspire and to which, I admit, I did strive, though I often fell short. The king’s sister Mary, as the highest-ranking of the masqued women, played Beauty. Jane Parker played Constancy, something I found difficult to believe, and I wondered if the choir master had known her well, or at all, when appointing her to the position. The Countess of Devonshire, wife of the king’s cousin, who still had the smell of treason about him, was strangely nominated to be Honor. Anne’s sister, Mary, played Kindness, and I agreed that was a suitable role. She had not much wit, nor principles, but she was kind.
Anne had been selected to play Perseverance.
The eight costumed men attacked the eight women dressed as unlovely feminine vices, throwing dates, fruits, and other sweetmeats at them till they yielded, allowing the eight feminine virtues, headed by Princess Mary, to escape into the willing arms of the men. At the victory, the queen stood and led the crowd in applause. After she had recognized the end of the performance she was free, by custom, to take her leave, and she did. When she left, the cool air of disapproval left with her, leaving behind a warm current of gaiety.