The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [45]
A change in tempo: time to break, again. This time I chose a young maiden, blond and soft. She did not dance well.
“Are you new to court?” I asked. There were many come for the festivities, cousins and relatives of those already in residence.
“Yes, Your Grace. I have come at the invitation of my uncle, Lord Mountjoy.” She nodded toward the man Katherine was now dancing with. He was the chamberlain of her household.
“Ah, yes. A Yorkshire man,” I said.
“Lincolnshire, Your Grace.” She stumbled against me. Her body felt tender.
“You do not dance in Lincolnshire?”
My teasing fell flat. She tried to pull away, thinking I scolded her. I pulled her back. “I will teach you,” I said. “Here at court we all dance. You will need to learn, if you stay, Mistress—what is your name?”
“Bessie Blount,” she mumbled. Still she tried to pull away, and then stumbled over her feet again. In embarrassment, she stopped dancing entirely. I held her and danced the steps for her, the way a child does its doll. She was as limp and unmoving as any doll. “I shall not stay,” she whispered.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Do not spend your beauty in Yorkshire. We need you here.”
“Lincolnshire, Your Grace.”
The beat changed; the drum thumped. She quickly slid away, and not to another partner, but to shadows.
When all the company (excepting only the old and infirm) were at last part of the dance, we went on to other steps and other rhythms. The French ambassador was easily persuaded to demonstrate “la Volta,” which he had learned in Louis XII’s court only last summer. Everyone danced there, except Louis himself, who was too aged and fragile to bend his knees.
Whilst the company was engrossed in the dances, I slipped away to oversee the preparations for the masquing to follow. As I moved along the high walkway connecting the Great Hall with the antechamber, I could see the huge crowd gathered outside, waiting to be let in, as they had been promised. Beyond them, on the hills surrounding the city, the bonfires blazed yellow, red, pink, ordering the skies themselves to rejoice with us.
“Your Grace.”
I turned quickly to see Don Luis Caroz, the Spanish ambassador.
“A word with you, por favor.”
“Indeed.” I smiled, giving permission for him to proceed.
“I have not had the opportunity to wish you, in person, my congratulations. It is a great day for Spain, as well.”
“The daughters of Spain are fair,” I said, “and bring Ferdinand fine grandsons.” Katherine’s older sister Juana had a ten-year-old son, Charles, who was said to be clever, and was likely to become Holy Roman Emperor someday. That is, if he had not int>
“Ummm. Yes. I believe I had promised”—a glance out the window, at the dancing bonfires, the happy crowd—“fifteen hundred archers. With longbow, of course.” There was no limit; I could do anything now, and I would. Something sang within me, something that had never been there before. “But I think three thousand would be more helpful. With”—go on, do it, you want to—“new cannon as well. We can test them in the field.”
“Oh! Your Grace!”
Had I not promised Father on his deathbed to fight the Infidel? Could I do less, now that God had so clearly shown his favour