marriage was a formidable achievement for any household, however noble? Constanza stood and kissed my cheek in as maternal a manner as she could accommodate. Meanwhile the Earl, the boy, stood stiffly to well-drilled attention and watched the proceedings with a fleeting interest. It made me wonder what he had been told of this visit. How much did he understand of its significance?
And I?
I smiled with every ounce of grace I could summon, even when my face felt like the panel of buckram that stiffened Constanza’s bodice in the old Castilian style that she often resorted to in moments of stress. Dame Katherine would have been proud of me as I acknowledged all the greetings. But below my composure I seethed with impotent anger, laced through with fear at what such a marriage would hold in store for me. Was I not old enough for a true marriage, in flesh as well as in spirit? Wallowing in the troubadours’ songs of love and passion, my blood ran hot as I yearned for my own knowledge of such desire. How could I find it with a child?
‘Allow me to present you to John, my lord of Pembroke.’
This boy would not make my heart flutter like a trapped bird. My blood, cold as winter rain, ran thin as I smiled more brightly still, allowing the boy to take my hand and press his lips to my knuckles with a neat little bow.
Certainly he had been as well instructed in the arts of chivalry.
‘This is your betrothed husband.’
I swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord. It pleases me to meet you,’ to the boy. ‘I am honoured that you would wish to wed me.’
No! I wished to shriek. I am not pleased, I am not honoured. I am in despair. But daughters of Lancaster did not shriek. Plantagenet princesses did not defy their father’s wishes.
‘I will endeavour to make you a good wife.’
He was a child, barely released from the control of his nurses. How could I wed such a one as this? I had always known that I would wed at my father’s dictates but never that he would choose a boy who had not yet learned to wield a sword, who was certainly not of an age to live with me as man and wife. There would be no consummation of this marriage after the ceremony.
‘It is I who am honoured that you would accept my hand in marriage,’ the boy replied, pronouncing each word carefully. So he had been informed and trained to it, much like our parrot.
‘When will we be wed, sir?’ The Earl looked up at my father, who smiled.
‘Tomorrow. It is all arranged. It will be a day of great celebration, followed by a tournament where you will be able to display your new skills.’
Tomorrow!
The boy John of Pembroke beamed.
I took a ragged breath.
So soon. So final. Could my father not see my anxieties? Could he not see into my mind and know that this was not what I wanted? If he could, my wishes were as inconsequential as leaves blasted into the corners of the courtyard by a winter gale. My life as an indulged daughter had come to a breathless halt.
‘Give me your hand, Elizabeth,’ the Duke said softly.
I complied.
Onto my finger, the Duke pushed a ring. A beautiful thing of gold set with a ruby of vast proportions that glowed in the light. An object I would have coveted, but in the circumstances roused no emotion at all beyond the thought that the chains of a marriage I did not want were being fastened around me with this valuable gift. The ring was heavy on my finger.
‘A gift to commemorate this auspicious day. It belonged to your mother, my beloved Duchess Blanche. I thought it was fitting that, as a married woman, you should now wear it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Never had I said so little when in receipt of a valuable gift, when normally I might have been tiresomely effusive. Today I was as wooden as the figure on the quintain on the practice field.
‘I have made arrangements for your new household. You will receive moneys befitting your status …’
But the Earl was fast losing interest in such detail, his eye straying to a minor commotion in the window embrasure, and my father laughed.
‘Such matters can be dealt with tomorrow. There is no hurry. You have all your lives together after today.’ His eye slid to mine as the ice in my belly solidified into a hard ball of dismay. ‘Why not introduce Lord John to what has taken his attention.’
‘Of course, sir.’
I looked away, fearing that he might read the rebellion in my mind, beckoning to the boy to follow me, trying not to hear the laughter and comment behind me as my espousal was celebrated. I was ashamed of the unexpected threat of tears as the chatter reached me.
‘It is good that they get to know each other.’
‘They will make an impressive pair.’
No, we would not. I towered over him by a good three hand spans.
But I dutifully led the Earl as instructed to where a parrot sat morosely on a perch in the window. Much like I felt. It was large and iridescently green with snapping black eyes and a beak to be wary of. It was never cowed by its soft imprisonment, and it came to me that I might learn a thing or two from this ill-tempered, beautiful bird. By the time we stood before it, my weak tears were a thing of the past. This was the platter placed before me and I must sup from it.
Utterly oblivious to the underlying currents in the chamber, and certainly to my thoughts, the boy became animated, circling the stand to which the bird was chained.
‘What is it?’
‘A popinjay. Have you not seen one before?’
But then I could not imagine the Countess of Norfolk allowing such a bird in her solar. A popinjay represented erotic love rather than the romantic or sentimental.
‘Does it speak?’ the Earl demanded.
‘Sometimes.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Benedicamus Domine. And then it sneezes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is what Father Thomas, our priest, says. He tries to teach it better ways. And Father Thomas sneezes a lot.’
The boy perused the bird. ‘Is it an ill-mannered creature then?’
‘They say popinjays are excessively lecherous.’
Which meant nothing to the spritely Earl. ‘Can I teach him to speak?’
‘If you wish.’
He reached out a bold hand to run his fingers along the feathers of the bird’s back.
‘It bites,’ I warned.
‘It won’t bite me!’
It did.
‘God’s
