Authors: Mari Griffith
‘Ooooh, look!’ Kitty suddenly squealed, nudging Jenna out of her memories. ‘Look! Here’s the plum cake. Now the fun will begin!’
Slabs of plum cake were being brought in on trays and grabbing hands reached out on all sides, everyone wanting to have a chance to become King of the Bean or Queen of the Pea for the evening. It meant a seat at the top table and a complete reversal of roles where the workers could lord it over their masters for once and the masters would have to do what they were told. It was an annual opportunity not to be missed.
William Jourdemayne regarded his slab of cake warily. He was a man who respected those who worked for him, but he didn’t relish the prospect of being ordered about by any of them. They had been drinking far more strong ale than they were accustomed to and the younger ones, certainly, would abuse the privilege of being king for the evening. He raised his piece of cake to his mouth and bit down on something hard. A dried bean! Good. So there would be no dilemma, no having to obey stupid commands from the young farmhands. He was still the man who gave the orders, still the king, even if only King of the Bean.
But who would be his queen? Not Margery, by the look of it because there was a sudden commotion among a group of young women at the end of the room.
‘Oooooh!’ shrieked Kitty. ‘It’s you, Jenna! You have the pea! You are to be Queen of the Pea!’
Jenna had spat out a small, hard pea and was staring at it as it lay in the palm of her hand. She really didn’t want this, in fact the last thing she wanted was to sit at the top table, behind that repulsive boar’s head, with everyone looking at her. She had done her best to remain inconspicuous since running away from Kingskerswell and she just wanted to sit in a corner and watch everyone else enjoying Twelfth Night. She certainly did not want to be the centre of attention.
‘Here she is!’ carolled Kitty. ‘Here’s the Queen of the Pea. Queen Jenna!’
Excited hands pushed Jenna towards the top table as Margery Jourdemayne rose from her seat with a distant smile.
‘Sit down, girl,’ she said quietly, gesturing Jenna to take her own place at the table. ‘And do try to stop my husband falling asleep!’
‘I beg your pardon, mistress?’
Over the excited hubbub in the barn, Margery repeated, ‘I said try to stop my husband falling asleep. He’s exhausted.’
William Jourdemayne rose to welcome the flustered, self-conscious Jenna, taking her hand and showing her to the place at the table so recently vacated by his wife. He was being kind, but Jenna’s cheeks were flaming. She would have given her eye teeth to be elsewhere.
‘Well met, Queen Jenna,’ William greeted her. ‘Don’t feel nervous. You’ll soon settle down and get used to giving orders. And you’ll find it’s a great deal more agreeable than taking them, I promise you!’ He smiled. ‘I’m the King of the Bean, by the way.’
Jenna smiled back at him. ‘Yes, I realise that,’ she said, still flushed with embarrassment, but grateful that he had tried to put her at her ease.
‘Here,’ said William, reaching for a nearby jug, ‘a goblet of Lamb’s Wool for the wassail.’ He poured a generous measure of spiced ale with cream and apples into her goblet. Then he turned and banged on the table with the handle of his knife.
‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, raising his glass, ‘pray be upstanding to drink the health of Her Royal Highness, Jenna Harding, who is to be crowned Queen of the Pea. Wassail!’
‘Wassail! Wassail!’ The cry echoed around the barn and now the two young cowherds, Seth and Piers, were approaching the top table, marching in time to clapping and whooping calls from all sides, each bearing a crudely fashioned crown of entwined withies, one decorated with holly for the king, the other trimmed with ivy for the queen. They skirted around the table to place the crowns clumsily on William and Jenna’s heads then, giggling, Seth held a large sprig of mistletoe over the two of them. Piers, almost doubled-up with his hand over his mouth, was finding it difficult to contain his laughter, embarrassed by causing discomfiture to the Master.
‘I’m sorry, Jenna,’ said William, ‘but I’m afraid the King of the Bean has to kiss the Queen of the Pea. It is expected.’ He leaned towards her as a great cheer went up from everyone in the room. It was the first time Jenna had felt a man’s mouth on her own since she had fled from Jake’s bruising caresses but William’s lips as they brushed hers fleetingly, felt as light as thistledown.
Surprised and blushing furiously, she pulled back from him just as Geoffrey the Carpenter, who had been declared Lord of Misrule for the evening’s festivities, leaped in front of them, waving an inflated pig’s bladder on the end of a beribboned stick.
‘By your leave, Your Highnesses?’ Geoffrey had grabbed Seth by the scruff of the neck and was bouncing the bladder balloon on his head. ‘Your loyal subjects wish to indulge themselves in a thrilling game of Hoodman Blind, with young Seth here as the first hooded man. Do we have the permission of Your Gracious Persons so to do?’
William looked at Jenna and raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, my Lady?’ he said. ‘Shall we grant our royal permission for the game?’
‘I think we might, my Lord,’ Jenna replied, beginning to enter into the spirit of the occasion and doing her best to sound regal and haughty. ‘Yes, I think we might.’
William raised his hand to give his blessing to the game and the Lord of Misrule turned the wriggling Seth’s hood around to the front of his head then pulled it up over his face so he couldn’t see a thing. William watched their antics with an indulgent smile on his face. Plough Monday would be here soon enough and they’d all have to buckle down once again to the daily grind of life on the farm. They might as well relax and enjoy themselves while they had a chance.
The party disrupted into a scuffle of young farm hands, boys and girls, giggling and squealing in anticipation of spinning Seth around in circles several times before letting him go to stagger, disorientated around the barn, trying to catch one of them. Amid the hubbub, the King of the Bean turned to the Queen of the Pea and raised his goblet again, gazing at her over the rim with an enquiring lift of his eyebrows.
‘Is everything to Your Highness’s liking?’ he asked.
Jenna smiled and inclined her head graciously. ‘Indeed, it is, my Lord.’
It was the start of a topsy-turvy evening of great merriment and, after a while, Jenna quite forgot her misgivings about being Queen of the Pea. What she couldn’t dismiss from her mind was the thrill of William Jourdemayne’s lips brushing hers.
***
T
his Christmas had been busier than the Abbot of Westminster had ever known it. Back in October, he had assisted Cardinal-bishop Henry Beaufort at the memorial service for the Duke of Bedford and soon afterwards there had been all that dreary business of negotiating the realignment of the Paddington stream to make more water available to the monastery. With Advent came the pressure of the extended Christmas festival itself, quite the busiest period in the Christian calendar, so he was feeling very tired by the time he reached La Neyte for a few days’ relaxation – perhaps because he was getting old or, perhaps, because the young King was very demanding.
Of course, Abbot Harweden approved of the fact that His Highness was ardently devout, but despite the opportunity to worship in the royal chapel of St Stephen’s as often as he wished, the King still seemed to want to attend Mass in the Abbey very frequently. And each time he did, it was expected that the Abbot would entertain the royal visitor and provide a sumptuous meal for him and his entire entourage. The King brought all his youthful energies to his Christian worship but the Abbot, so much older than his monarch, felt very drained.
After several days of relaxation at La Neyte, and for the first time in many weeks, he was beginning to feel reinvigorated, he was not even slightly irritated by the distant sounds of seasonal revelry which were quite audible on the early evening air. The Jourdemaynes were clearly holding the traditional Twelfth Night celebrations for the estate workers in the barn. Abbot Harweden preferred to dine quietly with a friend or colleague and, again, his companion was Thomas Southwell. They knew the Feast of Epiphany on the morrow would be a busy day for them both.
‘They do seem a noisy crowd down at the home farm this evening,’ observed Southwell between mouthfuls of beef stew. ‘I can hardly hear myself chew! Incidentally, Richard, this stew is excellent.’
‘You’re always so appreciative, Thomas,’ smiled the Abbot. ‘My cook loves to hear the kind things you say about the food here at La Neyte.’ He paused while Southwell continued to chew with enthusiasm, then leaned back in his chair, his fingertips together. ‘It doesn’t seem like three months since we last ate together, Thomas,’ he said. ‘So, tell me, how was the season of goodwill for you? Were you at St Stephen Walbrook? I didn’t see you here at Westminster.’
‘Yes, I was here,’ replied Southwell. ‘It is still not possible to use St Stephen’s because of the building work, but it’s going to be a magnificent church when it re-opens.’
Abbot Harweden nodded approvingly. ‘It’s always good to know of improvements to places of worship. So, you were here at Westminster? You were very quiet about it.’
‘I also attended some services at Southwark,’ said Southwell, wiping grease from his mouth, ‘I made a point of it. It’s always a pleasure to hear Cardinal Beaufort preach a sermon. I try to attend St Mary Overie whenever he is there.’
‘Indeed, his addresses are always excellent,’ agreed the Abbot. ‘It’s just a pity his political manoeuvring is not always so skilful these days. He’s getting old, like the rest of us.’
‘A great pity. And he was always so successful at these things in the past. It’s a shame that the whole English delegation stormed out of the Congress of Arras last September then had to come home with their tails between their legs.’
‘Yes, very unfortunate,’ said Abbot Harweden.
The Abbot was as aware as anyone else that the Congress of Arras had been a near disaster. Cardinal Beaufort and the English delegation had done their best to reach a peaceful agreement with the Duke of Burgundy, but the Frenchman proved himself a wily negotiator. He was clearly determined to rid France of her English overlords so that his cousin, the Dauphin, could legitimately call himself King Charles VII of France. To that end, the two had recently signed a treaty, pledging their absolute loyalty to each other.
‘It seems,’ observed the Abbot, ‘that they’re both pressing very hard to break the cordial relationship between France and England.’
‘Cordial relationship?’ Southwell snorted. ‘Hardly that. Our young King may rule over both countries, but it has never been a “cordial relationship”.’
The Abbot sighed. ‘I would like to take refuge in the Epistle to the Romans, Thomas,’ he said. ‘“If God is for us, who can be against us?”’
‘The French,’ replied Southwell grimly. ‘No doubt about it. Though Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester confided in me that her husband thinks it imperative that France should be kept under English rule.’
‘Not so Cardinal Beaufort,’ said the Abbot, ‘especially since everything went so dreadfully wrong at Arras. And I do tend to agree with him. Perhaps we ought to make a clean break away from France and let the wretched country fend for itself. Where exactly do you stand on the issue, Thomas?’
Southwell, soaking up beef gravy with his bread, wore a frown of concentration. ‘I’m not at all sure,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
The Abbot regarded his companion with cynical amusement. He knew Southwell would always sit firmly astride the fence, not taking sides with one or the other until he was certain who would win the argument.
Beaufort and Gloucester were both very influential men and Canon Southwell had ambition. He would always want to side with the winner.
***
K
ing Henry disliked the feeling of having grease on his hands and beckoned his ewerer to bring him a bowlful of water. As he rinsed away the last slimy traces of roast swan and dried his fingers carefully on the proffered towel, he looked around him at the excited, happy faces of the revellers seated at the table on the royal dais, enjoying the last merry celebration of the long Christmas festival. These were his close family and there were few enough of them. His father’s only remaining brother, the Duke of Gloucester, was listening with rapt attention to something his wife was saying and Henry heard the Duchess laugh delightedly, a laugh which started on a high, fluting note and tinkled down the scale like a peal of little silver bells. He liked that.
Catching his eye, his aunt Eleanor made a great show of stroking the new brooch once again and he snatched his eyes away from her, only to find his cousin, the seventeen-year-old Antigone, waving her hand excitedly to attract his attention. Humphrey’s natural daughter was seated between her brother, Arthur Plantagenet, and her fiancé, the Earl of Tankerville.
‘Your Highness!’ she called to him, ‘This time next year I shall be a Countess!’ Antigone, rather a strident young woman, seemed hardly able to wait to marry the Earl. In Henry’s opinion, Tankerville was welcome to her, though he nodded, smiled and kept his uncharitable thoughts to himself.
The only face that was missing, the dear face he wanted to see more than any other, was his mother’s. The Dowager Queen Catherine should be here on the royal dais, watching the dancing, her slim fingers tapping the table to the rhythm of the music. She loved music and always charmed everyone when she sang the songs of her native France in her pretty Parisian accent. But she was spending Christmas in the country and no one but her son seemed to care that she wasn’t in Westminster; no one even mentioned her name.
At least Henry now knew the reason why she wasn’t here, and he was the only person seated at the table who knew the truth.
When he was younger, the King had been very distressed by his mother’s frequent absences from court and he had prayed earnestly that she was not ill. Then he reasoned with himself that she was probably still mourning his father’s death. Or maybe his mother disliked him and couldn’t bring herself to say so? Perhaps she was disappointed that he wasn’t growing up to resemble his late father. He had been told many tales of his father’s bravery and of the high regard in which the people had held him. Henry really, really wanted to grow up to be resolute and steadfast like his father and he had always wanted to please his lovely, gentle mother. But he was afraid she didn’t care for him.