male odour of skin. Standing upright to release her, he replaced the black-velvet cap on his head as a sign that their conversation must end. ‘Correct,’ he said, smiling still. ‘A king’s command is a powerful thing, but don’t forget who else stands to gain from it, mistress. Your family. All of them. Does that mean so little to you? There was a time, I believe, when you would have needed no persuading.’
Freed from his closeness, she pulled her cloak farther around her neck and faced the door, through which shouts could be heard. ‘Do try to understand me, Sir Jon, if you will. I am as set against the king’s command, and my father’s, as it is possible to be. If I could find a way out of it, I would. Persuasions are superfluous, aren’t they, when consent has been removed? It’s one thing to be noticed by the king and to have the honour of being his friend, but it’s quite another when he tells me who I should marry. It would matter little who you were, sir. My resentment would be the same.’
His arm came across her once more, preventing her first step. ‘And you should try to understand me, mistress, when I say that your reasons are far from watertight. But we’ll let that go for lack of time. Just remember what I said to you about a more respectful demeanour, for I’ll not be made to look foolish by a woman again.’ Dropping his arm, he moved away to open the garden door, and there was no time to ask what he meant by that before the king’s hounds came bounding forwards to greet them. Sir Jon was relieved by not having to find an answer to his slip of the tongue, as he was by the controversial question of penalties, for if she had asked for examples, he would not have been able to invent a single one.
* * *
No one could fail to be impressed by King Henry, for if size alone had been a measure of kingship, he would have won hands down. At forty-nine years old, his girth had expanded to enormous proportions, exaggerated by the winter bulk of padding and furs, making the whippet-like figure of Sir Walter D’Arvall look like a toy beside him. The heavy fur-lined gown was thrown back to expose a chest like a house side, encrusted, embellished, puffed, slashed, and hung with chains and pendants as big as tartlets. Everything about him was large except his prim little mouth and glittering beady eyes that darted over the top of Lady Agnes’s head as he raised her to her feet with gentle courtesy. His eyes alighted at last on Ginny, standing with the escort she had not planned to meet until much later, when it suited her. ‘Ah, there you are, Mistress D’Arvall. Are you glad to see me again?’
Ginny came forwards to make a low curtsy. ‘Indeed, Your Grace. As are we all. Welcome to our modest home,’ she said, already practised in deflecting Henry’s attention from herself to more general themes. This occasion was going to require all her wits to stay out of deep waters, and Sir Jon’s presence would hardly make things any easier. His appearance beside her was immediately remarked on.
‘Raemon! Didn’t lose much time in finding her, did you? Eh? Made any progress, or is it too soon?’
Sir Jon had expected this kind of tactlessness. It was Henry’s privilege. One either had to squirm and accept the humiliation, bluff it out with similar frankness or stand on one’s dignity. ‘Like you, sire, I made good haste,’ he said, smiling. ‘As would any man.’
Henry nodded, satisfied. ‘Your brothers are here, too,’ he said to Ginny. ‘We must have them with us at such a time. Can’t leave them out, can we?’
‘Hawking is one of their favourite pastimes, Your Grace. You have chosen a perfect time for it, while the air is clear,’ she said.
His smile became paternal as he bent his head towards her. ‘Ah, mistress,’ he said, so close that she could smell his sour breath, ‘that was not my meaning. I invited your brothers along to witness your betrothal to this fine fellow here. Surely your lady mother has told you of our wishes?’
It took every ounce of Ginny’s self-control to stifle a cry of defiance at that, having only just learned who her eventual husband was to be, and that there was no way out of it. What was the urgency? Why now? Why the indecent haste for a betrothal, as if she might run away? Forlorn hope. ‘So soon?’ she whispered.
Taking her response for maidenly reticence, Henry glanced at Ginny’s parents, unable to conceal the desire in his piggy eyes. ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘What modesty. She does you credit. Now, Lady Agnes, a glass of your Rhenish would be more than welcome after that long ride. Eh?’ Leaning heavily on the arm of a well-dressed young man, he limped away towards the porch where the warmth of the great hall would begin the slow thaw of fingers and toes.
Yet despite Sir Jon’s recent warning to her, Ginny’s glare of sheer fury could not be held back and, though it was met by the unmistakable caution in his eyes, her snarled question found its mark. ‘You knew of this, didn’t you? Am I to be the last to know what’s going on here?’
‘Later,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll talk later.’
‘I’ll be damned if I’ll talk to you,’ she muttered, ‘or him.’
‘Shh! For pity’s sake, have a care, woman. He’s not deaf.’
Fortunately for Ginny, the hum of voices covered their heated exchange while Sir Jon’s hopes of a more compliant attitude from her seemed as far away as before. Obviously it would take more than a hurried warning to make any impression on this fiery creature with a resentment as deep as a well.
For a crowd of courtiers who had ridden hard all day to reach D’Arvall Hall, they still looked remarkably fine and free from the dust that, in summer, would have covered them from head to toe. Around her, the swish and rustle of rich fabrics mingled with excited chatter as skirts were lifted, cloaks trailed, and feathers waved like so many bright birds in an overcrowded aviary. The sheen of silver and gold woven into the silks caught the mellow light from the hall, though Ginny herself would never have ridden a horse wearing such costly garments. She was glad, however, that she’d taken time to dress with care in the pink velvet with the square neckline, the loose outer sleeves edged with her mother’s honey-coloured squirrel fur, the undersleeves of pale cream brocade. To her mother she had pretended not to care that her hair was of the same paleness, but a glance in the mirror had confirmed the radiant confidence that came with looking her best, no matter how dire the situation. ‘I shall give you Mistress Molly,’ her mother had said in an attempt to thaw the frostiness between them. ‘You’ll need a maid now and Molly knows your ways better than anyone. She can dress your hair.’
Ginny had thanked her without a smile, suspecting that Mistress Molly would be well rewarded for keeping Lady Agnes informed of all that happened, or did not happen, to the new Lady Virginia Raemon. So the sensational hair had been taken into plaits at each temple, then joined at the back to lie over the top of the rest. Now she felt, as well as saw, the looks directed her way from many of the courtiers she knew and who, until now, had thought her too innocent to include in their worldly conversations.
Her mother’s efforts had paid off: gleaming silver and glass on the tables, white napery, liveried servants, musicians up on the gallery, and the delicious aroma of food wafting through the openings of the elaborate wooden screens where tapestries made a splash of colour on adjacent walls. ‘Well, little sister?’ said a familiar voice behind her. ‘You’re going to take us all up in the world, are you? Can’t say I’m surprised. You could give young Kat Howard a run for her money any day. And the Basset girl, too.’ It was Paul, her brother, wearing a doublet of brightest yellow.
Before she could reply to his typically facile remarks, Sir Jon forestalled her with a more apt put-down than she could have devised. ‘Your sister is not in competition with Mistress Howard,’ he said, ‘nor will she ever be. As for going up in the world, that rests with His Majesty alone. Better get that straight, lad, before you get any more fancy ideas.’
Paul
