The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [83]
The portly Cardinal approached Neville. “It seems to me the gentleman with the black cloak should be even he,” he said, offering his chair to Neville.
Neville hesitated, unsure of what further action to take. I rescued him by laughing and pulling off my visor. The entire company joined suit.
The Cardinal turned, discomfited. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “I see I was deceived in you.”
Years later he was to claim that moment as an omen.
But all things are seen in retrospect as omens. I could say Katherine’s initial delay in her sailing to England, my having had the dream of a white-faced woman ... all were omens. Should we think in such fashion, all of life would become one giant omen, and we should fear to stir.
Regardless, the fête must proceed. After the initial embarrassment, Wolsey was able to cover his awkwardness and signal for the festivities to continue.
There was to be masked dancing, and the musicians assembled in the gallery. Twelve of us were to lead partners in an intricate round. We were free to choose unknown ladies.
Where was Mistress Anne? I searched the company and still did not see her. Wolsey had solicitously ordered a number of torches damped. The resulting dim light merely shadowed all faces and turned each person into a trimmed headdress and a gleam of satin. They all stood two and three deep near the walls, and it was impossible to see a single face behind the first row.
Mistress Carew was in front, smiling. She danced well; I supposed she would do as well as any other. I made my way toward her and was on the point of asking her to join me when all at once I saw Anne. At first she was but a row of pearls gleaming like a supernatural halo. Then within that circlet I saw her face.
She was standing well back from the others, as if to forestall being chosen as anyone’s partner. There was no torch near her to show her. Nothing betrayed her presence save the luminous pearls encircling her head.
I pushed my way over to her, to everyone’s surprise, not the least her own. She stared at me as I approached.
“Your Majesty.” She lowered her head. I took her hand and together we went to the middle of the dance-floor.
In the brighter light, I could see that the startling crownmine. Her voice was low—unlike the fashionable high voices of our court ladies. Her gown was also different; it had long, full sleeves which almost completely obscured her hands. She had designed it herself. Then I thought it charming. Now I know why she needed to do so—to hide her witch’s mark! But as I took her hand to dance, I did not discern the small sixth finger, so skilfully did she conceal it beneath the others....
She danced well—better, in fact, than any of our Englishwomen. When I praised her for it, she shrugged, and once again gave the credit to France.
“I learned there. Everyone dances well in France. There I was accounted of little accomplishment in the art.”
“France,” I laughed. “Where all is false, where artificiality is elevated to an art form. Because they are hollow at the core, they must celebrate the exterior.”
“You are too harsh with France,” she said. “Too quick to dismiss its very real pleasures—among them, the ability to appreciate the pretend.”
“A polite word for ‘the false.’ ”
She laughed. “That is the difference between an Englishman and a Frenchman!”
“The French King is a case in point,” I muttered. What had she thought of Francis?
“Exactly! And he is delightful!”
Francis? Delightful?
“At least your sister thought so,” I said censoriously.
She drew back. “Yes, I believe she did,” she paused. “And she was certainly in a position to compare.”
“As you could be,” I said. “Although you must begin on our shores.” There, I had said it. Her presence, her nearness, inflamed me. I must have her! “Unless ... you know already of Francis’s ... ?” I must know now, it was important that I know now. I did not want that, I could not bear it....
“No. I know