The Mer- Lion (34 page)

With the Great Hall still a-building, supper this night was held in Wolsey's Long Gallery, which was almost as long as the soon-to-be-completed Great Hall, but only half as wide. Thus tables could fit along only one wall of the length, and service was slow and clumsy. Still, there were two services from the sideboard, and two from the kitchen, and four changes of plates, many of which bore Wolsey's arms. Each course was preceded by a peal of trumpets and concluded by an extravagant set-piece, depicting Henry jousting or Henry hunting or Henry at tennis, or (and this won the pastry chef a gold piece) Henry in the royal barge racing and winning against a horseman.

Twelve trumpets and two kettledrums made the king's music. The wine flowed freely; the food, although not as good as that at Francis's court or even at Dolour, was plentiful and spiced enough to hide all but the aftertaste of decay. The highlight of the evening, however, came when a large pie was carried in. Four footmen it took to do it. And when the Master Carver cut into it, a score of bluebirds were released to fly about the room. Blinded by light, confused by smoke, lacking place to light or roost, they swooped low, befouling the tables and the heads of two of the startled diners. Just then, the Master of Falcons entered, followed by men bearing the royal Tudor birds as well as the white falcon of Anne Boleyn and those of the dukes in attendance. Then was great sport had by all as each hunter and huntress set his bird at its prey. Much gambling too, as those not hawking wagered on which shrieking hawk would get which fluttering bird, and which bold hawk would get the most helpless birds. The last was not a popular bet for the odds were low and the winner foreordained. Always Henry must win. Still, the Boleyn and the
Suffolks flew their birds deftly enough to keep some semblance of suspense.

When the last bird was downed, the last falcon whistled back to lure, the court moved on, leaving behind the bloodied remains of their feast.

For this evening, the entertainment was held in the Water Gallery,
a
styleless pile of pink brick, planned and executed by Henry VIII’s royal architect and master builder. Although more properly a launching place and landing site for the royal barge, several hundred servants had hammered away the afternoon, hanging tapestries and arrays of gold and green silk from Wolsley's vast stores. Fresh greenery, leaning against the walls, transformed the chamber into a forest bower for this evening's masque.

A gay gossipy group made its way across the moat and down through the Pond Garden to the Water Gallery. Servants with torches lit their way; others stood at hand with ewers of wine lest any grow thirsty on the stroll down to the water's edge. During the short walk, the king and Anne Boleyn and a few others disappeared in full view of
a
conveniently, momentarily blinded court. De Wynter noticed and cursed it. All evening long he had had the king under surveillance, so as to keep count of the cups consumed. A sober king would see through his planned sham, a totally sodden king might sleep through it;
a
king drinking too much too fast grows nasty, while one who sips slowly but steadily should be merry and in good humor. Upon the king's humor depended the route de Wynter would take with his improvisation tonight; and upon that route and his reading of the king might depend his life. Now, the king had dropped out of sight!

The night was clear although unseasonably chilly. Most of the court, warmed from within, noticed it not at all. De Wynter did. His dress was for protection against wrath, not for warmth. The breeze whipped and penetrated the thin silk sleeves of his white shirt under the sleeveless white satin tabard embroidered with the Scottish queen's arms, quartered. Scottish lion rampant, English leopard passant-gardant, Stewart thistle, Tudor rose—picked out in thread of gold and gules, the latter the same shade red as his hose. He should have stood out for the boldness of his colorings, but not here, not this night. Not in the company of his fellow heralds—Richmond, Windsor, Lancaster, York, Somerset—for these English heralds

in their gold and green and white and red, outglittered, if only by sheer numerical superiority, the lone Scottish envoy. In their midst he was less noticeable man anywhere else at court. Tonight, the English heralds and pursuivants, having official duties, occupied one end of the musicians' gallery with its panoramic view of the Water Gallery.

Servants moved among the throng of courtiers, refreshing the cups as all awaited the start of the entertainment. Finally, the four pursuivants' trumpets blared, and out of a mass of greenery sprang a group of wild men, gibbering and capering, hair in disarray, jerkins of rough-cut hide barely hiding Tudor livery. Crouching and jumping in a passable imitation of apes, they tugged on garlands of greenery, which pulled a marvelous mount into view.

Atop it, under the shade of a feather-leafed, orange-bedecked tree sat four men, one with the massive unmistakable form of the king. All were in disguise; their faces blackened, their court garb concealed under flowing robes, their hats Turkish turbans. Near spontaneous applause broke out, which grew more genuine as the men struggled to retain their precarious perches—hats as well—as the mount slithered, slipped, and lurched unevenly across the floor. On cue, the musicians began a weird, wailing, reedy music that to de Wynter's ear made the curl of a drunken piper sound good by comparison.

When the mount reached center stage, the "Turks" descended—the other three barely keeping the king from falling. Then, the four mimed a search for partners for the festivities. But when a slightly tipsy dame staggered out of the audience and hjccuping said, " 'Ow 'bout me?" she was courteously refused. Others among the court profferred their ladies—many ribaldry—but alas and alack, the "Turks" would have none of them. They continued searching behind curtains and hangings and among the greenery. But they found no ladies. Finally, the king mimed despair in broad gestures, beating himself on the chest, wiping tears from his eyes—taking care not to get blackface on his robes—and heaving great sighs. The court applauded heartily, for the king was a gifted pantomimist. Then, in the midst of his lamentation, an inspiration struck him. And the musicians replaced their hideous wailings with a suspenseful drumroll.

Gesturing to his trio of fellow Turks to follow, the king advanced threateningly toward the mount. Around it, he and his men marched, none too steadily. Then again, and after a pause to drain tall tankards, still a third time they weaved round it. Finally, waving his companions to stand back, the king dramatically drew sword—a good, English long sword—from beneath his robes, and struck the mount. Once, twice, thrice! With much creaking, the mount split in twain, and out danced four ladies to great applause.

They were all of a size, completely veiled except for their eyes. They pretended great fear of the king and his men, but seemed to calm as the lords made soothing sounds and each selected a lady, and led her to cushions strewn about the king's chair and new ottoman, a gift to Henry VIII from the Sublime Porte.

Now the masque within a masque began. From behind the mount came the Moorish dancers, or Morris dancers as they were more commonly misnamed. With bells on their feet and sashes about their waists, they did handstands and somersaults, cartwheeling and flip-flopping till their audience grew dizzy watching their whirligigs.

Hard on their heels came the king's Singing Men, mostly swarthy Italians and high tenors. One of their treacly songs drew such undeserved applause for its uneven quality de Wynter assumed it must be one of the king's own.

Truly genuine was the applause that greeted a thin little man with dancing black eyes and a nose pointed and sharp. Bowing and scraping and genuflecting, he accepted his applause modestly. Drawing paper from within his sleeve, he addressed the man in the chair. "Oh, great and noble Grand Turk, ruler of the Orient, searcher for truth, giver of gifts, I bring you a poem. With your kind permission?''

As the king raised a finger in approval, Skelton spoke out boldly so that all might hear, reciting a long wise honor of the king's stay at Hampton Court.

Why come ye not to court?

To which court?

To the king's court

Or to Hampton Court?

Yae,' but the king's court

Is Hampton Court!

All noble men, of this take heed

And believe it as your creed:

He who rises too high

Plummets from the sky.

Only the king stays.

The king plays.

The king prays.

The king pays.

Verilay!

Your kind do obey.

All noble men, of this take heed

And believe it is your creed!

The applause rang out at these lines, but Skelton ignored the interruption, for his time allotted was short

Hither and thither,

I wot not whither

Do and undo, both together.

I blunder, I bluster, I blow and I blother

I make on the one day, I mar on the other,

Busy, busy, and every busy,

I dance up and down until I am dizzy.

With that he began pirouetting round and round and up and down. The king laughed,.the court clapped, and nothing would do but that Skelton repeat his piece. After that, he must recite the king's favorite whenever at residence in Wolsey's palace:

To his Eminence, the former Cardinal Wolsey, where'er he may now be:

He crieth and he creaketh,

He prieth and he peeketh,

He chides and he chatters,

He prates and he patters,

He clitters and he clatters.

He meddles and he smatters,

He glosses and he flatters;

Or if he speak plain,

Then he lacketh brain,

He is but a fool;

Let him go to school,

On a three footed stool

That he may down sit

For he lacketh wit!'

The approbation was loud and general, and Skelton watched his audience closely. He who was stingy with plaudits would feel the bite of the poet's wit shortly.

All applause must eventually die. A coin-filled bag, token of the king's approval, was snared in midair by Skelton's thin talonlike fingers. A final bow and the poet laureate was off to quench his thirst. Throughout the entertainment, the king had not neglected his own cup. Now, when his part of the masque was to continue, he had difficulty getting up from his chair.

The ladies drew back, fearful, as their Moorish escorts dragged them to their feet with exclamations of lust. Pulling free, they would have run, but the king commanded them "Halt. Fear not. For I am not he whom you think I am." Throwing his Turkish robes from himself, he stood there bejeweled and befurred, living proof of that Tudor proverb, "Rich apparel, costly and precious, maketh a man lusty, comely, and glorious."

Suffolk, Norfolk, and Somerset followed suit. The ladies gushed great cries of joy and dropped their veils, revealing themselves proper Englishwomen; who did proper English obeisance to the king. The king himself unsteadily lifted Anne Boleyn to her feet, the others, their wives. The musicians struck up a lively dance tune, and the four couples formed themselves a set.

On cue, men appeared and pulled the mount out of the way. Not until the first dance was done did the chamberlain's staff knock thrice on the floor, inviting the rest of the court to join in. The food, the wine, the gout, and the day's activities had taken its toll on the king, for he soon sought solace in his chair, Anne on the ottoman beside him. As the dancing continued and his court made merry, his bead nodded now and again, finally slumping against his chest. The usual six ushers appeared to lift the chair and carry it and the snoring king, who weighed close to twenty stone himself, to his chamber. At least two of his court were greatly relieved to see the king bed-bound; de Wynter for escaping making a fool of himself this evening, Anne for escaping making a mistress of herself in tram this night.

Officially, the evening was over. In twos and threes the court dispersed, but Anne Boleyn found her way barred by an elegant courtier in herald's tabard.

"Mistress, I am desolate. We did not dance."

"Be glad," she said. Noting their encounter causing raised eyebrows, she did not tarry but brushed on past him. He, not at all rebuffed, fell in beside her.

"Thanks to a timely note from a fickle lady, I spent the afternoon massaging a poet's ego and composing music to another's inferior rhymes."

"If I had known," she retorted, walking faster, "I would have watered the wine so he might have stayed awake and your afternoon not gone to waste."

Easily de Wynter matched his pace to hers. "Frankly, I was just as happy to see him off to bed. Weren't you?"

She was practically trotting now, as were the curious behind them. He merely lengthened his stride to accommodate hers. "Aren't you at all curious to know which song I chose?"

"I am not," she snapped back. "Now, let me be."

"Only if you promise to join me later in my room."

In shock, she stopped dead in her tracks, those behind them narrowly avoiding bumping into them. Drawing him away and ignoring the curious stares, she said, "You're mad, stark, raving mad."