Anne Boleyn came from her seat by the king’s side and linked her arm with Elizabeth’s. “Come, and we will show off our costumes,” she said. “How daring of you to show off your legs in those breeches. Do you see my uncle of Norfolk glaring at us from across the lawn? He is such a handsome man, but he schemes too much. He worries the king will lose interest in me, and then I will bring nothing of worth to him but a bad reputation. How sad it is for all of us.”
“Do you really believe the king will get his divorce and wed you?” Elizabeth asked in a soft voice.
“Aye, one way or another he will be rid of Spanish Kate, and I will be his wife,” Anne Boleyn said confidently. “And they all believe it too,” she said, her dark eyes taking in the courtiers promenading about the lawn. As they passed her they would bow and nod greetings. “I am queen in all but name only,” Anne said low.
The festivities began. The day was bright and the riverside pleasant. Anne had arranged for barge races, and there were several heats between vessels belonging to the nobles until the final race against the king’s royal barge. The courtiers gathered along the riverbank, wagering and shouting as the four barges in the last heat raced down the river, their colorful pendants flying in the light breeze. The oarsmen, their chests bared, bent over the oars, their muscles bulging and flexing as they pulled for home. In the end the last race was between the king’s barge and Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, Anne’s uncle. At the last moment the royal barge sped ahead, and there was much cheering.
Tables with food were set up near the palace itself. There was, as Anne had promised, peacock, roasted and then refeathered. Swans, geese, capons, and crisp ducks in a sauce of sweet Seville oranges and raisins. There were pies of rabbit, small game birds, and eel. Platters of trout and salmon with carved lemons and watercress were served. There was a great side of beef that had been packed in salt, and was roasting slowly over a large fire pit. There was venison, country-cured hams, and mutton stew. There were silver chargers of the king’s favorite—artichokes—bowls of new peas, and lettuces braised in white wine. The breads were hot from the ovens. There were large crocks of sweet butter as well as several wheels of good cheddar cheese, and Brie from France. And when all had been eaten, and the leftovers removed to give to the poor at the king’s gates, bowls of sweet strawberries and clotted cream were brought, along with tiny sugar wafers, marzipan fruits, and spun-sugar subtleties. The wine and ale flowed endlessly from huge kegs that had been set up on the lawns near the tables.
In late afternoon the archery contests were announced: first the ladies, and then the gentlemen. Elizabeth acquitted herself quite well, but the prize was taken by her sister Philippa, and presented by the king himself. It was a gold brooch with a small ruby heart. Philippa was most pleased, and wished Crispin had been there to see her little triumph. Then it was the gentlemen’s turn, and for the first time that day Elizabeth saw Flynn Stewart. He was extremely skilled and won the contest. His prize, a small bag of gold coins, was presented by Mistress Boleyn.
The twilight was long, and now lanterns were brought and lit. Musicians appeared and began to play. The dancing had begun. Elizabeth was delighted to have Flynn Stewart claim her hand in a country dance. They danced well together.
“Is it wise to allow them to dance?” Philippa asked Thomas Bolton.
“She fancies herself taken with him, doesn’t she?” he replied. “No matter. He is a Scot, and unsuitable. She knows it, for your sister is no fool. And we will be leaving in a few days’ time to return to Friarsgate. Will you be traveling with us?”
Philippa shook her head. “I am going to Woodstock to see the queen,” she answered him softly.
“Is that wise?” he queried her.
“Perhaps not, but I will go anyhow,” Philippa answered. “As long as my plans are not known to any they will assume I am returning home, which I will immediately afterwards. I cannot desert her, Uncle.”
“She is a foolish woman,” Lord Cambridge said, “and overweening proud. She cannot win this battle between them, and he will have his way in the end.” Then he turned his head back to watch the dancers, and Philippa joined him.
It finally grew dark. The king had taken up his lute and begun to sing a little roundelay he had written for Mistress Boleyn. Elizabeth thought the tune a pretty one, and suddenly her voice was blending with the king’s as she learned the lines of the chorus. Henry Tudor smiled, for he remembered her father’s clear voice, and was pleased to see Elizabeth had inherited it. His roundelay sounded even better for the sweet female voice joined with his. It had been a good day, and he felt quite the young man again.
“You sing well,” he told Elizabeth when his tune came to an end.
“I hope your majesty did not mind,” she returned. “I could not resist. We frequently sing at night in my hall to entertain ourselves.”
“You have a natural talent for melody, Elizabeth Meredith,” he told her.
The dancing had finally ceased, but the musicians played on, their tunes more for entertainment now.
“I thank your majesty and Mistress Anne for a wonderful day. I shall never forget it,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“Your friendship with my Annie pleases us,” the king said.
“I am honored by her kindness,” Elizabeth replied, and then with a small bow she withdrew from the king’s presence. Moving off onto the lawn, she found herself suddenly accosted by a gentleman in a wolf’s masque.
“Greetings, lambkin,” Flynn Stewart said.
Elizabeth laughed. “Have you come to eat me up?” she teased him.
“Would that I might have that right,” he answered her softly.
“But you are a loyal Scot,” she replied as softly.
“Given where you live, and your family,” he told her, “my nationality should not prevent us from remaining friends, lambkin.” He took her hand in his and tucked it into his arm. “We will never be enemies, Elizabeth Meredith, no matter the differences between our countries.”
“Nay, we will not,” she agreed, “but—”
His fingers stopped her lips, and their eyes met for a moment. “Let those words remain unspoken between us, lambkin,” he said. “I think perhaps it is better that way.”
To her surprise two tears slipped down her cheeks, but she nodded.
“First love,” he told her gently, “is rarely last love, lambkin. You must trust me in this, for I am a man of experience.” He moved his fingers from her lips.
