the steward approached her with a boy to take her horse. As she started to dismount, Carwell was there, helping.
He steadied her on her feet and turned to the steward. ‘This is Elizabeth Brunson.’
She blinked. She had never been Elizabeth. Always, only, little Bessie. Elizabeth sounded like a different woman.
One who might dance at court, light on her feet.
The steward bent at the waist. ‘This way, my lady.’ He summoned another man to carry her travel chest.
She looked back at Carwell, suddenly reluctant to be separated. ‘Am I to meet the King?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no time now. You’re to join the other ladies as soon as you change your dress.’
As she followed the steward up the stairs and down the hallway, she looked down at her travel-worn wool.
As soon as she changed into what?
With minimal introduction, the steward led her to a building at the far end of the huge stone palace and turned her over to a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who guided her upstairs, chattering in words Bessie had never heard.
‘Excuse me.’ She must interrupt the woman. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘Vous ne parlez pas français?’
Bessie shook her head.
‘Ah. I see.’ They had reached the end of the corridor and the woman opened a door. ‘It’s empty now,’ she explained, in words Bessie could understand, ‘but three of us share it already. We’re all named Mary.’
Bessie felt a moment of relief. She had not seen another woman in the week since she had left home. A female face was a comfort.
‘They call me Wee Mary,’ she said, with a smile that showed a gap between her front teeth.
‘I’m … Elizabeth Brunson.’ So Carwell had introduced her. So she would be.
The woman’s eyes widened. So did her smile. ‘You’re Johnnie’s sister?’
‘Aye. You knew him?’ A woman who knew Johnnie. It felt like coming home.
Mary laughed, deep in her throat. A laugh that said it all. ‘Aye. We all miss Johnnie,’ she said, with smile that spoke of experience. ‘Especially Long Mary and me!’
Although she knew her brother had lived at court, Bessie had never pictured his life here. She had certainly not pictured him with women.
Given the woman’s smile, Bessie decided not to mention that Johnnie was a happy new husband. ‘Long Mary?’
‘She’s the tall one. Stowte Mary and I both serve the King’s mother.’
‘And what does Long Mary do?’
‘As she pleases.’ Her expression teetered between envy and resentment. ‘For now.’
Bessie understood these words no more clearly than the French ones. ‘This is all so … different.’
Wee Mary took in Bessie with one sweeping glance. ‘Has the King seen you yet?’
Bessie looked down at her dress and then at Mary’s. She was wearing something stiff and black with gilded trim and a square neckline that exposed more than Bessie was used to.
This was worse than she had feared. She shook her head.
Mary raised her brows. ‘You are très jolie. Il va vous voir avec plaisir.’
Before she could ask what that meant, there was a knock on the door behind them. A servant entered, carrying Bessie’s chest, put it down and disappeared.
‘You’ve not much time,’ Mary said. ‘What are you going to wear?’
Bessie sighed, lifted the lid, pulled out her best dress and held it up. Next to Mary’s, it looked shapeless and faded. And she heard the echo of what she had told her brother months ago. She had no proper clothes for court.
Mary pursed her lips and raised her brows. ‘I see.’ She turned to another chest and rummaged among the contents. Finally, she pulled out something deep black, shapely, and with a blue inset in the front of the skirt. ‘This is Long Mary’s. She’s more your size.’
She reached out to stroke the fabric, the colours so vibrant they belonged on a bird. ‘I can’t just take someone’s dress.’
Wee Mary shoved it at her. ‘It no longer fits her. Now hurry.’
At the end of the tournament field, Carwell checked his armour, and made sure his men’s green-and-gold colours were firmly attached.
The King, impatient, had not waited to build seating for the spectators, so most would simply stand at the edge of the field in the valley below the castle. The women, perched atop the Ladies Rock overlooking the grounds, would have a better view. He looked, vainly, for Elizabeth.
‘Ah, there you are.’
Carwell turned and bowed in one movement. ‘Your Grace.’
In the chaos surrounding preparations for the tournament, there had been no time for formal presentation to the King. It had been months, more than a year, since he had seen James. All their agreements had been via messages and messengers.
Now, face to face, he could newly assess the man himself. Young. Red-haired, with a long, prominent nose. And carrying a brilliant green-and-gold bird on his wrist.
The King wasted no words. ‘You’ve news?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. News of several kinds.’
The King’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, he was less the excited sixteen-year-old and more the monarch. ‘Imminent danger?’
Carwell shook his head.
Relief touched the King’s eyes. ‘Then we will enjoy the tournament first. News will wait.’
‘A handsome papingo, Your Grace.’
James looked at the bird and smiled. ‘A gift.’ He turned his gaze out over his immediate kingdom. The King took a deep breath as he surveyed it. ‘And who is that lovely lark?’
Carwell followed the King’s glance to see Elizabeth, walking along the edge of the field.
And forced himself to breathe.
Her gown, stark black, set off her fair skin and made her firelight hair even more vibrant.
‘Elizabeth Brunson, Your Grace.’
‘Brunson?’ The word was sharp-edged.
‘Aye, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded appropriately detached. He congratulated himself. ‘John’s sister.’
‘Ah, of course.
