Wildwing (24 page)

The Jester’s Cap

B
eatrix has been turning the trunks inside out, searching for cloth for my veil. Finally, I run down the stairs, through the great hall—where Timothy and Ralph have already set up the last trestle table and are pulling out benches—and out the armored door. And there, thank God, is Mr. Greenwood, walking out of the stables with Eustace.

“Sir Alec,” I call. “A word!”

I’m in luck, because Eustace gives a little bow and heads back into the stables. Mr. Greenwood comes bounding up the stairs.

“Addy,” he says fervently, “I’ve been hoping for a moment.”

We find a spot in the hall where we’re out of the way and the boys can’t hear us. Before I can speak, he grabs myhands and says, his voice deep with feeling, “How can I ever thank you? I would never have come here if it weren’t for you, never have known James—I mean, William—is alive! And not just alive, but a fine young man, with skill in his hands and passion in his heart.”

The intensity of his joy pulls so strong, I find myself asking, “Why don’t you want him to know? To look at you and say, ‘Father’?”

He shakes his head, and a touch of sadness comes into his eyes. “He’s got a father. And a good one. Did you see the look on Harold’s face as he watched William during the hunt? There was pride there, and affection, and love. How could I rip my son away from that, from a father who raised him so well?”

Timothy and Ralph are setting out napkins. Soon the room will be filling with people.

“I don’t need to own him,” says Mr. Greenwood. “I see him growing into a good man, with a rewarding life. It’s enough for me to be near him.”

“Near him,” I say, grabbing my chance. “You won’t be near him if you go back to our time.
Could
you go back? Has the lift—”

“Go back?” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing for me there. Indeed, I’m glad to tell you Sir Hugh has asked meto stay on at Berringstoke, and I have accepted. There’s so much to be done here. Addy, you’ve given me back my life.” He squeezes my hands; there are tears in his eyes. “Now the question is, what do you wish to do with yours? I sense you don’t enjoy Sir Hugh’s company quite as much as I do.”

As he speaks, people are flowing around us, washing their hands, gathering by the tables. I haven’t much time! “The lift,” I say, urgently. “When did you set it to—”

“There you are!” booms a voice from across the hall. I look up. Sir Hugh is rapidly closing in with his seven-league strides.

“?to come back and get you? Has it left or is—” But his lordship is already here, taking Mr. Greenwood’s arm, leading him to the dais. “I’ve rearranged our seats to put you between Eustace and myself,” he says. “Now, as we were saying about crop rotation …”

I bite my tongue and follow. The high table gleams with polished silver; neatly cut trenchers wait obediently; the dragon ewer stands guard. I take my seat between Sir Hugh and Father Bartholomew, feeling miles away from Mr. Greenwood. The meal begins, but I have no appetite; I’m too anxious to know about the lift. Did it already appear in the field, only to return as empty as it came? Or is there still a chance for a miracle? I need to go through with the wedding, but after that …

I bring my attention back to the hubbub at the table. Sir Hugh is asking about new developments in cattle breeding. Cattle breeding! I can’t wait any longer. I lean in front of him, cutting him off mid-sentence, and ask, “How long are you planning to stay with us, Sir Alec?”

“What kind of question is that to ask a guest?” says Sir Hugh, stabbing a piece of meat from the platter. Before Mr. Greenwood can answer me, Eustace starts in on dairy conditions, and now the three of them are back in lively discussion.

I can’t help but admire Mr. Greenwood, so vibrant and engaged. As I sit watching him, I realize his transformation is about more than finding his son. Before, he tried to reach this time through paper and ink; now it’s in his senses: the clamor of the great hall, the scent of the fresh-turned soil. He’s living the life he was meant for, using his head and heart to their fullest. He should stay here. But not me. No, not me.

Capon, venison, eels: dish after dish is served, eaten, and cleared. And I still haven’t found a way to ask Mr. Greenwood about the lift. The meal is drawing to a close. The king is on his way.

Father Bartholomew passes a tray of marzipan sweets, breaking into my thoughts. “And for you, my lady?”

The almond paste is shaped into elegant little figures: aminiature castle, a prancing horse, a flower. And then I see a jester’s cap, its bells picked out with bits of candied peel. A hat for an actor. That’s what I’ve been doing here, I think, as I pick it up: playing a part, and playing it so well, I’m about to be trapped in it forever.

“Go ahead, eat it!” urges Father Bartholomew.

There’s only one hope for me now, and words like
slow
and
quiet
and
remember your place
aren’t going to get me there. I lean right across Sir Hugh’s blather, catch Mr. Greenwood’s eye, and say in a piercing tone, “When
would
you have gone home, had you been going?”

He realizes what I’m asking. “Tomorrow,” he says, as clear as Pilgrim’s bell. “At sunset.”

Sunset. After the king arrives, after the ceremony at the church, but before night brings the curtains closing around the marriage bed. Could it work?

I bite into the marzipan. As its sweetness bursts into my mouth, there’s a rush at the door and a man-at-arms hurries to the dais, begging his lordship’s ear. “King’s messenger,” I hear him murmur. “… inform us … not far now … just before dusk.”

A Veil of Mist

G
ray clouds darken the horizon, low and heavy with the threat of rain. The king’s party must be almost here, with their land-granting parchments, their ladies-in-waiting, their purses of gold. But I’m staying in my solar as long as I can.

I thought the bailey was busy before, but now I look down on a world swarming like an anthill under siege. All the ovens are going full blaze, and the spit strains under an ox so massive, the boy struggles to turn the handle. There’s Timothy toting more rushes, and the pantler’s boy at a full run, and one of the kitchen lads at the well for the fourth time. Eustace seems to be everywhere at once: in the stables, at the kennels, striding out of the guardhouse, marching up the stairs to the keep, and down again, as tireless as a mechanical windup toy. A wagon clatters over thedrawbridge and unloads a pyramid of barrels; Eustace counts each one as it’s lugged into the keep. That should last Sir Hugh another day or two.

“Almost finished,” says Beatrix, her voice pulling me back into the room. She turns the veil and starts stitching on the final bit of gold trim with rapid-fire flicks of her needle.

I think how an actress steps onstage and the audience sees her for the first time. They take in how she’s dressed, how she stands, the tilt of her head. In that split second they decide who it is that they see. It will be like that when I don this veil and appear before the king.

“It’s about making an entrance,” I say out loud.

“It’s about hiding your face, is what it is,” Beatrix says in her no-nonsense way. She bites off her thread and holds the veil up proudly. “There!”

It’s perfect. Nothing more than a floating wisp of innocent white with a sparkle of noble gold.

Beatrix sits me back on the stool to braid and coil my hair. Then she floats the gauzy shimmer of cloth over my head. It’s so light, like wearing a bit of mist. She pulls out a thin circlet woven around with golden ribbon, and settles it atop the veil, the thinnest of crowns.

She nods, pleased with her work. “Though I miss your bright eyes already,” she says. “And so help me, I wonderwhat Sir Hugh will say. He’s the type of man to snatch it off if he has a mind to.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure he hasn’t the mind to,” I say, thinking of those impulsive hands. It’s going to take something big to stop him, more important than he is, higher up the ladder… . Of course! I smile at Beatrix. “And he won’t dare. Not once he knows God wills it.”

“God wills it?” She tilts her head sideways, looking for all the world like a plump, curious chicken. “And what do you mean by that?”

“I believe I feel another vision coming on.”

“Believe you feel …” Her voice drifts off.

“Oh, Beatrix, you didn’t think I
really
had a holy vision that first time, did you?”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “By my faith,” she says, looking all disgruntled.

“I’ll say I was praying again here in the solar, and suddenly I knew I had to honor my holy experience by wearing a veil until after I wed.”

Her eyes have that look I remember from Mum, the one that’s all steel and certainty. She uncrosses her arms and walks to the center of the solar, to the exact place where I demonstrated my so-called vision.

“If you’re going to say you did it, you might as well doit,” she says. “Heaven knows you need all the help you can get.” With that she sinks to her knees and closes her eyes.

Something like peace seems to flow from the spot where she’s kneeling. Not a miracle. Nothing worthy of a letter to the pope or even a carved plaque for the church. No, it’s something simple calls to me, as bright and clear as birdsong.

So I walk over and sink to my knees beside her. I close my eyes. I don’t even pray. I just kneel there on the wooden floor, my head strangely free of thought. And then there’s the warmth of her rough, calloused hand holding mine.

Trumpets burst out in a bold brass fanfare, and my eyes fly open. I jump to my feet and run to the window. The drawbridge is lowering, and it looks like everyone in the entire castle is rushing into place in the bailey. Sir Hugh, all green and yellow in his finest, is striding to the front of the gathering crowd. Not far behind come Eustace with his mincing steps, and Mr. Greenwood, his new green cloak flapping in the rising wind. I search until, at the back of the crowd, I make out Will’s golden hair.

Sir Hugh turns this way and that, then lifts his head and stares straight up at my window. Even from here I can see the impatience on his face.

It’s time.

I walk down the stairs, Beatrix close after; across the sweet-smelling rushes newly laid on the great hall’s floor, through the door held wide by the fancy-dressed guard, down the stairs, and through the parting crowd to Sir Hugh’s side. I hear a low rumble from beyond the walls as wagons and riders approach. Tension traces currents around Sir Hugh’s shoulders, down his arms to his clenched, ring-laden hands. The lord of the castle, awaiting his lord.

“About time,” he grumbles. Then he does a double take. “What’s that for?” he demands, staring at my veil.

Before I can answer, the trumpets blare again, and the clatter of hooves and creak of wheels are suddenly huge in the air, amplified by the walls into a riot of noise. A bold white stallion prances through the gate, reins and saddle glittering all in gold, and on its back, clad in a richly embroidered burgundy cloak, rides King Henry himself.

The master of the horse runs forward to take the reins as the king dismounts. Sir Hugh sweeps into a bow. At his side I curtsey, deeper and lower than ever before. But there’s nothing low inside me; my mind and heart are too busy racing, readying for the next step.

The king takes my hand, and I rise. He’s not a giant after all, but a man of medium height, and much younger than I expected. His build is slight and his face not particularly strong; one of his eyes seems to droop.

“My, how you’ve grown,” he says.

So, he
did
know her. I thank God for the dream, and my veil.

“Your Majesty.” Not a curtsey this time, I think. I lower my head.

When I look up again, his hand is reaching toward the corner of my veil. I gasp, barely keeping myself from taking a step back; but he only fingers the floating fabric briefly.

“What’s this, then?” he asks.

Sir Hugh has moved to his side, so he’s facing me as well. “I wondered the same, Your Majesty. Why should she hide that beautiful face?”

At the word
beautiful
, an amused look sparkles in the king’s eyes. But they’re both waiting. It’s time to deliver my lines, in a way that radiates both confident nobility and sweet, pure innocence. I stand taller.

“I wear it to honor this important moment, Your Majesty. This step I am taking into a new world.” I lower my head a fraction of an inch, the modest maiden. “After I marry, the veil will be removed from my eyes.”

The king turns to Sir Hugh, more amused all the time.

“She’ll be losing more than the veil, if this man has anything to say about it!” And then they both give those hearty laughs that are always barreling out of pub doors. If the king weren’t so noble, I bet he’d be elbowing Sir Hugh with a nudge and a wink.

I breathe again.

A gust of wind swirls dead leaves through the gate, and in their wake rolls a canopied wagon with gaily painted sides. The air smells damp; the sky grows darker.

“The ladies,” says King Henry. “I shall introduce you.” As we walk toward the wagon, I hear him whisper to Sir Hugh, “If I remember her looks, you might encourage her to keep the veil on!”

Sir Hugh turns a confused face his way, but luckily the king is already focused on the first woman being helped from the wagon. This must be the widow. She’s a woman of thirty or so, the elegance of her kirtle and wimple only emphasizing a certain grim set to her thin lips. “The Lady Winifred,” says the king.

As we curtsey to each other, her eyes are busy appraising the value of my kirtle.

“Welcome to Berringstoke, Lady Winifred,” I say.

“His Majesty tells me there is good hawking in these parts,” she says. “I am an excellent huntswoman.”

The next woman to step down is something different altogether. Nearing twenty, I’d say, with rose-flushed cheeks, her golden hair still worn loose and flowing over a more than ample chest. There’s an intake of breath next to me; Sir Hugh’s eyes are dancing over her figure with obvious pleasure.

“My ward the Lady Hildegard,” says the king. “She’ll be pleased to be part of your household until I figure out whom she’s to wed.”

“You are most welcome, Lady Hildegard,” I say.

“Indeed!” says Sir Hugh, a little too fervently. Clearly the man inhales buxom women as eagerly as he inhales his wine.

I turn to the ladies. “You must be exhausted. Do come to the solar and rest from your difficult journey.”

Lady Hildegard grabs my hand. “I hear the wedding is tomorrow!” she exclaims, as excited as a schoolgirl. “So soon! Can we see your kirtle?”

We all walk to the great hall, and the men reach for their wine and worldcraft as I lead the ladies up the winding stair. It’s time to tell them about the veil and my vision. If all goes as I’ve planned, they’re the ones who will spread the news and prepare everyone for the miracle yet to come.

After they’ve oohed and aahed over my wedding dress—well, Lady Hildegard oohed and aahed; Lady Winifred just gave a stingy nod of approval as she fingered the needlework, pausing over the pearls—after they’ve settled down comfortably and made serious inroads into the wine, I announce, “I believe I shall bear my peregrine on my arm tomorrow.”

“You have a peregrine?” exclaims Lady Hildegard, pouring her third goblet. “That will look wonderful. Especially with those pearls. What is its name?”

“Pilgrim.”

“A pilgrim to a church; how fitting,” says Lady Winifred, still thin-lipped in spite of the wine. “I wonder if His Majesty will carry his gyrfalcon. Now
that
would be grand.”

“I suppose I should speak with the falconer before the ceremony,” I say. “To work out the details. I’d ask you to join me, but you must be exhausted.”

Lady Winifred closes her eyes and sighs, showing how wearying the journey has been. Beatrix pours the very rosy-cheeked Hildegard yet another goblet.