A Love Most Dangerous (23 page)

For many months Suffolk trembled under the wrath of
the King, fearing for his neck and his fortune. But Henry had need of Suffolk's talents and decided to reconcile with him.  All unpleasantness had been forgotten now, or
so Suffolk believed, and he rode high in the King's favour once more. From the
smug smile upon his broad features the Duke also found much favour in his wife.
Far from proving the cause of his early demise, her young flesh appeared to
have added to his vigour rather than diminished it.

Next to Suffolk sat a clergyman who I had never seen
before.

'Is that the Pope?' Lucy asked.

'Hardly,' answered Susan.  'That is Thomas Cramer, the
Archbishop of Canterbury.'

His mind seemed elsewhere, his eyes half-closed, a
little smile playing upon his lips. He did not look as though he belonged in
this company. But he did not look saintly either.

'I wonder where Lord Cromwell is?' Mary whispered.

I followed her gaze. The chair next to Cranmer's was
the only empty one at the royal table.

'The King's business waits for no Cromwell,' I said
with a smile.

'The King does not seem to let business interfere with
his pleasure,' Lucy said.

'Hush child,' I said. 'It does not do to utter such
remarks when others may easily overhear them.'

I glanced down the table to Wicks and Bray. They were
engrossed in furtive whispering with each other. But that did not mean their
ears were not busy, I thought to myself.

At that moment I caught a glimpse of Thomas Cromwell
arriving at the table. He gave a swift bow to the King and sidled into his
seat. The Duke of Suffolk spoke to him for a few moments while the Archbishop
bent to listen. Cromwell shook his head and that was enough to make the Duke
fall silent. Suffolk might be sitting on the King's left hand, I thought but in
reality Cromwell was far more close to him.

It was almost as if the Archbishop had been waiting on
the arrival of Cromwell. He climbed to his feet and held out his hands for
silence. The Hall fell quiet and he said a prayer suitable for Lent, mumbled a
few words about Jane Seymour and the King's tragic loss, waxed eloquent about
the quality of the young Prince and finally asked blessing on the feast.

There was a heartfelt amen and we all flew at the
platters with good heart.

It was with contented stomachs that we left the Great
Hall and returned to the chapel for the second service of the day. The first
had been concerned with, I know not what to be honest, for the sumptuous feast
had quite elbowed out all memory of what the priests had said. My stomach was
so preoccupied with food and my head so fuzzy with strong claret that I dozed
through much of the service, rousing myself every so often to kneel and mumble
responses but contentedly nodding through the rest.

Because of this I left the chapel quite refreshed. I
felt no embarrassment for I had not been alone in my slumbers and, besides,
everyone knew the real purpose for the second service had been less to fill the
chapel and more to empty the Great Hall.

The horde of courtiers drifted back to the hall and
there discovered the transformation. Every table had been cleared away leaving
an empty space in the centre; the benches had been pushed back against the
wall; the floor swept clean of every trace of food and spilt drink. In place of
the royal table there was now a dais with two steps lined with red cloth. Upon
the dais was the King's throne with the King already sitting in it.

Next to him was the Queen's Throne. Thankfully there
was no sight of the ghost of Jane Seymour, nor either of her two predecessors,
come to that. Beside this throne sat Philippa Bryan, Lady Governess of the
Court, with the baby Prince in her arms. He was fast asleep and seemed the only
creature unaware of what was to take place.

To the left of the dais sat the troupe of court
musicians, decked out in their best finery, wielding lutes, flutes, sackbutts,
hautboys, viols and drums as if they were weapons of war. Beside them stood the
Master of the King's Music, the Master of the King's Ceremonies and their
colleague, the Dancing Master.

The Master of Ceremonies was a courtly elderly man
with a voice like a bull in heat. It was said behind his back that he'd begun
his career as a Town Crier in Southwark and had seduced his way to his present
position. He resembled a bull in more than one way, apparently.

The Dancing Master was a mincing fellow, as thin as a
wand, admiring of his own charms and vain and condescending. He was an Italian
from Verona and when he led the courtiers in a dance was much given to rolling
of his eyes to indicate his terrible frustration and despair at the heavy
hooves of the English.

The Master of Ceremonies bowed before the King and
stamped his mace three times upon the floor for silence. Then he opened his
mouth and his mighty voice echoed from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling.
He had not really needed the silence.

'My Lords and Ladies of the Court, His Majesty King
Henry the Eighth, by the Grace of God, King of England, France, Defender of the
Faith, Lord of Ireland, and of the Church of England and of Ireland in Earth
Supreme Head, has Commanded this day a fete of entertainment and dance. Later
on you will witness a spectacle of jugglers and acrobats, of conjurers and
clowns, of cunning dogs and dancing bears. But first, the celebrations commence
with a dance.'

He stamped his mace upon the floor once again and the
Master of the King's Music turned to the musicians, raised his hands and the
music began.

First of all we danced a Pavan. The Dancing Master
insisted on showing us the steps with a select group of cronies.  I watched
with only half my mind upon the demonstration.  I loved this dance with its
stately measure and gentle intricacies and needed no show to tell me how to
dance it.

Eventually, the Dancing Master completed his moves and
the real dance began. My heart thrilled as we counted the beats and then moved
into the dance. I let the music fill my ears and flow through my limbs. I
snuffed out all thought and gave myself to the dance.

The more the dance progressed the more I felt removed
from everyday concerns, held suspended by the spirit of the moves. Some people
found the Pavan too complex and Susan, in particular, could never master it.
She was the clumsiest dancer I have known and the Pavan was far beyond her
skill and ambition. Mary and Lucy, on the other hand, were adroit and confident
and I began to imagine that we looked like the Three Graces as we stepped
across the Hall.

Unfortunately it was soon to become apparent that I
was not alone in this imagining.

The music stopped and the Master of the Dance
announced a Galliard.

Lucy clapped her hands with delight. 'I've only danced
the Galliard twice,' she said. 'Do you think we will be allowed the Volta.'

'The Dancing Master is Italian,' I said, 'so anything
is possible.'

'But do you like the Volta?' she asked, her eyes wide
with questioning.

'I've only seen it once myself, last Midsummer. It was
demonstrated by the Dancing Master but Queen Jane forbade it at the Court.'

Lucy bit her bottom lip. 'Ooh, I do hope we will be
allowed to dance it, or see it at the very least.'

 We turned and watched the Dancing Master demonstrate
the Galliard. I understood why he felt the need to demonstrate the Pavan for
the moves were complex and easily forgotten. But the Galliard was in the blood
of every Englishman and woman and we needed no tuition from a southerner. Yet
he had to inflict a demonstration upon us, either because of vanity or in order
to justify his salary. It was over swiftly, thank goodness, and the musicians
began their introduction to the dance.

'I don't suppose we will be allowed a Volta,' said Lucy sadly.

I glanced at Seymour's empty throne. So, her web of
woe reached from beyond the grave.

'No Volta,' I said. 'At least not for the present. But
a Galliard is splendid enough.'

I smiled as Susan approached.

'I hope that I will not put you off the dance,' she
said. 'But I like the Galliard greatly and do not think I can spoil it much.'

'You will not spoil it,' I said. 'We shall have fun.'

A gaggle of handsome young men approached and sought
to partner us in the dance. The youngest, a burly yet pretty boy pressed his
suit upon me and I agreed. But no sooner had we taken up position than he was
pushed aside roughly by a newcomer.

The boy turned angrily towards the man but the words
died on his lips and he bowed instead.

'Lord Thomas Seymour,' he said, giving up his place
and retreating from sight.

I gave a cool look at Seymour. 'You wish to dance?' I
asked.

He gave a low chuckle. 'With you, Alice Petherton, of
course.'

The music changed and the dance began.

When Seymour had so brusquely pushed aside my young
gallant I thought for a moment to walk away from him. But that would be an
insult I dare not risk. Besides, the music was getting lively and the spirit of
the dance caught hold of me.

I gave a little curtsy to Seymour and we began.

The Galliard was generally much faster than the Pavan
and the musicians seemed intent on making this the fastest one ever played for
they drove the dance forward at a steady charge.

I glanced at Susan as I danced. Anything was better
than staring at the fox tail of a beard which drooped from his lordship's face.
She was skipping with more gusto than style but her partner managed to keep her
in some sort of order. I smiled to myself and thought that maybe I would offer
to teach her some steps.

'Something amuses you,' Seymour said. His voice
sounded a little cold.

'Indeed it does, my lord; but worry not that it is
you.'

'Then what pray?'

'My friend,' I said. 'She is not the finest dancer in
the hall.'

He glanced over my shoulder and smiled. 'No, she is
most certainly not. The honour of finest dancer belongs to you.'

I gave a fulsome smile and executed a complex series
of jumps and kicks.

'You flatter me, my lord,' I said. 'I think you well
know that the accolade belongs to you.'

He did not trouble to argue with me.

We danced across the Hall and with every step he moved
a little closer to me and his hand squeezed mine more tightly. It felt hot like
meat left out on a slab in hot summer and I was pleased when he released it in
order to perform his sequence of moves. He was skilled right enough if far too
flamboyant, kicking his toes and strutting like a cockerel in a hen-coop. His
left arm was placed nonchalantly upon his hip but I could not help notice that
his long fingers pointed down to a part of his body which seemed to be of
greater concern to him than even his fine legs.

I began my moves in response, skipping most skilfully
and lightly. But as I did so I noticed that his eyes watched me with unbridled
lust. I faltered in my steps and lost my rhythm. Then he clasped my hand and
swung me off towards a different part of the hall.

'I fear you are a little tired,' he said. 'Perhaps you
wish us to retire to your bed-chamber.'

I kicked my heels hard in response to these words and
my steps became almost a caper.

'Not a bit of it, my lord. I could dance until
mid-summer.'

He leaned closer to me and I felt his hot breath
whisper in my ear.

'This is a charming dance, Alice, but I desire a far
more engrossing one with you.'

I was searching my mind for a cutting reply when he
stepped back of a sudden as if struck by palsy. I turned and saw the King at my
elbow.

He held out his hand towards me. I took it in a daze.

I sensed the other dancers falter in their moves and
even the musicians blew false notes. But then all resumed and the King led me
in a promenade across the length of the hall. The courtiers rippled with
applause as we passed.

The King gave his little dance in front of me, and a
deal more elegant it was than Seymour's show of pomposity and preening.

Then it was my turn and, without meaning to, I danced
haughty steps for him, all stamp and defiance while at the same time my eyes
never left his face. I sensed every person in the hall gasp as they watched me
although such gasp never left their throats.

Then Henry cried, 'La Volta' and the musicians segued
into this melody.

The King stepped closer and lifted me in his arms,
half turning me while I gazed down at him and he gazed up. I was seized by a
thrill almost erotic. We moved closer and our movements became linked and
entwined. I could sense the courtiers watching us, wondering that we were so
adroit and easy in our moves.  Some, I thought, would guess the reason for
this.

The music faded, the dance ended and I did a curtsy.
Then the King bowed, took my hand, led me to the dais and sat me upon Queen
Seymour's throne.