“I suppose I must. The mother of a king should be above reproach,” Anne Boleyn murmured, but her dark eyes were dancing with mischief as she spoke. Then suddenly she changed the subject. “I have told you I will be twenty-five in November. I was born beneath the sign of the Scorpion. You have not told me your age or natal day.”
“I will be twenty-two on the twenty-third day of this month,” Elizabeth answered.
“Your birthday is in May?” Anne cried. “Then we must have a celebration, dear Bess! I shall tell the king, and we shall have a masque! A theme. I must have a theme! Ohh, I know! It shall be a country fair, and the guests must come as animals! We shall have wonderful masques made. How wonderful to be born in the month of May!” She jumped up from the bench where they had been seated. “Come along now! It’s just two weeks until your natal day, and we have a great deal to do.” Catching Elizabeth’s hand, she hurried her back into the palace.
The king was with his council, but it meant nothing to Mistress Anne. She brushed by the guards at the door to the council chamber and burst in, dragging Elizabeth Meredith behind her. The younger girl’s eyes swept the room, and she saw the deep disapproval in the eyes and on the faces of those present, including the Duke of Norfolk.
But the king smiled and held out his hands to Anne. “Why, sweetheart, what is it?” he asked her.
“Bess Meredith has a natal day before the month ends, my lord. I should like your permission to hold a masque.”
“His purse,” Elizabeth heard a voice murmur, and low laughter.
Anne Boleyn released her companion’s hand and drew herself up. She had heard too, but she gave no indication of it. “I though that since Bess is a country girl we would hold a country fair and all wear animal masques. We shall dance, and there will be an archery contest for both the ladies and the gentlemen, my lord. What say you?” She looked up at him, her dark eyes meeting his blue ones, and she smiled her little cat’s smile.
“I think it is a wonderful idea, sweetheart,” the king enthused. Then he turned to Elizabeth. “And how old will you be, Elizabeth Meredith, or should I not ask?”
“Your majesty may well ask,” Elizabeth told him with a smile and a deep curtsey, “but I shall not necessarily answer. But if pressed I would admit to being as old as my nose, but much older than my teeth,” she said.
Laughter erupted among the council, and the king grinned broadly. “Aye, you are your mother’s daughter, mistress, and you may tell her I said so.” He chuckled. His glance went again to Anne Boleyn. “Now, sweetheart, you must leave, for the council and I still have unfinished business to complete. If we are to spend the summer at Windsor and on progress I must finish the tasks a king has.”
The two girls departed the council chamber.
“So you are to be feted,” Flynn Stewart said to Elizabeth later that day as they met before the meal. “It is all over the court that Mistress Boleyn is to give you a masque. Usually such entertainments are reserved for visiting royalty, but then you are an heiress from the north,” he teased her. “What does your family think? For I am certain your sister has an opinion on the matter.” He grinned at her.
Elizabeth smacked him with her hand upon the arm. “Philippa is furious,” she replied. “Uncle Thomas, however, is already working very hard with Will designing our costumes and masques. I am excited, but embarrassed, I will admit. All I did was mention that my natal day was at the end of the month, and suddenly she was crowing about a masque and dancing and archery.”
“And what shall you come as?” he asked her with a grin.
“Uncle Thomas’s masque will be that of a ram sheep, and mine that of a ewe sheep. Philippa says she will not go, but she will in the end, for she would rather die than miss such an affair,” Elizabeth explained. “She will have a peacock masque, and her gown is to be an iridescent blue-green silk. When she stops sulking, Uncle Thomas will surprise her with it. He loves surprising people, and Philippa loves surprises.”
“Can you shoot a bow?” he asked her.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I never learned, although my sisters can.”
“Then I must teach you,” he said. “You cannot go to your own fete and not take part in the archery contest that will be held for the ladies. It does not matter if you are good or not, for in order for you to be polite, someone else should win. There are some butts set up by the river. Come, and I will teach you.”
Servants brought them bows, and Elizabeth’s was a smaller version of the longbow they handed to Flynn. A large quiver of arrows was set on the wooden bench near them.
“It is really quite simple,” Flynn said to her. “Watch me, and then you will try.” He picked up the longbow, took an arrow from the quiver, and notched it carefully. Standing sideways, he slowly drew the bowstring back, and then suddenly he let the arrow fly. It struck the target neatly. “Now it is your turn,” he said. “I will help you.” He handed her the bow and, standing next to her, first showed her how to hold it. “Now take an arrow, and we will notch it,” he said. His arms were around her as he helped her.
Elizabeth selected the arrow and fitted it neatly, as she had seen him do it, in the bowstring. She could feel his breath on her skin, and wondered if he should be standing with his arms about her, his long, lean body pressed against her in so intimate a fashion. She could sense her heart beating faster than it ever had.
“Draw the string back slowly,” he said in her ear. “That’s it. Now release!”
“Ouch!” Elizabeth cried as the arrow flew, and the bowstring scored her arm with a small burn.
“You should really have gloves on,” he said, turning her wrist over to inspect the damage. It was not great, but he knew it probably stung. Boldly, he placed a kiss on her injury. “To make it better,” he told her.
“Did I hit the target?” Elizabeth wanted to know. She pretended to ignore the little kiss, but her cheeks were burning, and her pulse had raced when his lips touched the sensitive skin of her wrist.
“I think your arrow went into the river,” he said, laughing. “We are going to have to make a better archer of you if you are not to be teased.”
“Give me another,” she demanded. “If I must play this game at Anne’s masque, I will not disgrace myself. I must simply learn to hit the target.”
He handed her the requested arrow, and she notched it into her bow. “Now draw it back slowly, slowly,” he instructed. “Move your hand just a bit or your wrist will be burned again by the bowstring. That’s it. Now release!”
This time the arrow flew straight, burying itself into the butt.
