His Majesty King Henry VIII.
By midafternoon the light had begun to fade again as she trod down the crisp grass, shaking the white crystals off the hem of her skirts and reaching the door in the garden wall just as sounds from the other side made her pause with a hand on the latch. A clatter of hooves in the courtyard, men’s voices calling, her mother’s sharp words of reply. Could it be the king’s party? So soon? Opening the door to look, she saw two men dismounting from horses whose sweat steamed white clouds into the air. Short capes swung from broad shoulders, plumes curled around velvet caps, and long boot-clad legs glinted with spurs.
‘Half an hour away, m’lady,’ the tallest of the men called. ‘His Grace will need wine. A long day’s ride and a fast pace. Whew!’ As distinctive as the build, the voice was rich and deep, the voice Ginny had last heard in the stable yard at Hampton Court Palace. She could not meet him yet. Not here. Not until she was ready. She was at home now and she, not he, would dictate the pace. And the manners.
Swiftly pulling back her pink velvet skirt, she closed the door, hoping he would not hear the loud clack of the latch, yet fearing that he had when she heard the heavy tread of his footsteps followed by a softer click. The door opened slowly, wedging her behind it to merge with the pink brickwork of the wall, flattened like a naughty child evading capture, her expression already defiant.
Sir Jon’s expression was irritatingly amused, though Ginny could tell what else lay behind his lazy scrutiny of her face, her abundant hair splayed over the fur of her cloak, the gentle swell of her bodice beneath one hand. He was experienced. He would know exactly how to assess what lay concealed beneath layers of stiffened fabrics. He closed the garden door and came to stand before her, purposely too close to mask the smell of leather and the sweat of hard riding, handing her the chance to deflate his arrogance with a satisfying shrewishness. His clothes were perfectly tailored and of the finest deep brown velvet with gold edges, his hose clinging to thighs like an athlete’s, which she knew him to be. ‘You should go and wash, Sir Jon, before supper,’ she said. ‘Your fast pace leaves its marks, does it not?’
His mouth twitched at the corners and he was close enough, too, for her to see the creases in his tanned skin, like soft leather. ‘That’s me told,’ he said quietly.
‘Don’t tell me you rode ahead of the king’s party to say that he will need wine,’ she said tartly. ‘When does he not need wine these days?’
‘Then I won’t, Mistress Sharp Tongue. I came early for a private word with you, and you have obliged me. As you will continue to do.’
‘I shall exert no great effort in that direction, sir, be assured.’
‘Then we shall agree to disagree on that point, for the moment.’
‘Oh, do say what you must and let’s go in. I have things to do before the king’s arrival,’ Ginny said with an impatient glance beyond him.
‘Then your things to do will have to wait, Mistress D’Arvall, until I’ve spelled out a few ground rules that are more immediate,’ he said, suddenly changing tone. ‘The first of which is that any infringement of good manners towards me personally will incur a penalty. Is that clear? For a start?’
Ginny’s eyes narrowed dangerously, reflecting the deepening sky in their clear greyness. ‘I do not usually have a problem in understanding rules of any sort, Sir Jon, but for the life of me I cannot see where or how you obtained any authority over me or my good manners. They have always been perfectly adequate, otherwise...’
‘Yes, otherwise you’d not have stayed at court for a month, would you? I’m talking about your lack of good manners towards me, and you know that I am. You also know why I’ve come here and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Once His Grace has decided, no woman will undecide him, so you may as well accept it and come off your high horse, lady.’
‘Or there will be penalties. I see. Well, that must be the most subtle inducement I’ve ever received. Guaranteed to succeed with disobedient hounds, hawks and horses, I suppose, but women? I’m not so sure. Me, I’m quite sure it would fail dismally. So sorry. Try again.’
Like a firework, their conversation had sparked into the antagonism lying dormant between them for weeks, Ginny’s resentment simmering beneath the surface, Sir Jon’s usual assuredness on hold, waiting for the right time. Forced into a confrontation by the king’s own needs, the right time was still some way off, and Sir Jon’s only option was to tackle the problem head-on. Subtlety was going to be of little use here, he’d decided. Bracing himself against the wall with both hands, he effectively caged her with his bulk, making it impossible for her to complete the irritable flounce away to one side. ‘No, mistress! That’s the first thing you’ll learn not to do when I’m talking to you. Stand still and listen.’
‘I shall not listen.’
‘I think you will. Your manner towards me before others will be polite and respectful at all times. I do not care what you try on in private. I can deal with that in my own way. But do not seek to chasten me by pretending I’m not there, as you have done at court.’
‘I can choose who I speak to, sir.’
‘Not anymore, you can’t. None of us can. We must be civil to everyone these days or make enemies of those who have the means to harm us. You should have learnt that by now. You’re about to enter a different world from this—’ he tipped his head towards the silver-grey garden ‘—where a harsher set of rules applies and, if you have the common sense your father tells me of, then you’ll allow yourself to be schooled by one who knows them well.’
‘Yourself, of course.’
‘That’s the king’s wish and your parents’, too.’
‘And how much is the king paying you to take on this onerous task, Sir Jon, since nothing my father could offer you three years ago was enough? How many abbeys has he promised you? Which particular titles did he bribe you with?’
There was time enough for her words to fade away on the ice-cold air before he replied, searching her eyes as if to see behind them. ‘My, you are a bittersweet little termagant, aren’t you, mistress? Is that’s what’s been eating at you for three years?’
‘How could it, sir? We have seen nothing of each other until recently.’
‘And now we have? Still resentful?’
‘I resent being commanded to wed a man who has to be enticed so openly and expensively, sir. What woman could possibly be flattered by that?’
‘Wait a minute. That’s not the answer, is it? You’ve only just found out about the king’s wish, so why the cold shoulder at court?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean. I’m not one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, nor even one of her maids. I have not felt obliged to mingle as they do. We may be neighbours here in Hampshire, Sir Jon, but that doesn’t mean we have to like each other. You made your indifference plain from the start. Why should I not do the same?’
‘I have never been indifferent, Mistress D’Arvall. I was obliged to bide my time, that’s all.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Biding your time. That’s done rather differently at court, I notice. A command from the king can make all the difference to one’s timing, can it not? There, I see that’s hit the nail on the head.’
His head had dropped between
