Thomasin had also spotted the Astons at the other end of the terraces. “The hearing might be scheduled soon, and there is a lot of money at stake.”
“I suppose so. I am tempted to feign illness and return to the room.”
“You would not be feigning. He is enough to make anyone ill. At least he has the decency not to bring your sister with him.”
“She lost the baby, did you know?” said Ellen softly.
“I am sorry for that, but it doesn’t excuse their deception.”
A trumpet sounded. Loud, long peals thrust through the air like arrows. The crowd fell silent. Charles Brandon and King Henry had mounted their horses and were ready to ride. In the centre of the lists, a small hoop hung above the ground, tied with colourful streamers. It swayed very slightly in the breeze. Setting his eyes upon it, Henry lowered his lance, kicked at his horse and began to charge. The horse’s hoofs thundered down the lists, building momentum. As he approached the ring, he leaned in to direct the tip of his lance. The crowd followed his progress with bated breath as the distance closed. But the king’s lance only glanced off the side of the hoop, sending it spinning away in a mass of colour, and the king rode disappointedly on, kicking his horse in frustration.
“Well, that won’t please him,” said Thomasin, although everyone broke into applause. “He will have wanted to be the first to take it. Let’s see if Suffolk can do any better.”
Brandon was ready, resplendent in red and gold, looking even more regal in the saddle than Henry. He waited until the crowd were quiet again, then lowered his visor and began to ride forwards. His pace started slower than the king’s but increased until his lance was level with his shoulder, pointing forwards to where the ring dangled temptingly. The breeze stirred again. It looked at first as if Brandon was going to miss his mark, and Thomasin felt a sting of disappointment for him. At the last moment, though, he corrected his lance and speared the ring through the centre, lifting it in triumph, with the streamers flying. The audience went wild with applause.
“Look, he’s impatient.”
Thomasin had spotted King Henry, waiting at the side. It was Henry Norris’s turn, but the king had told him to stand aside. Ushers rushed forward to reattach the ring as Brandon circled round.
King Henry awaited the signal, then was off again at once, the moment the lists were clear. But his energy was too intense, too tightly wound, and Thomasin could feel that he was not rightly placed for success. He rode furiously at the ring, but again it glanced off his lance and was left swinging in the air as the horse and king passed by. An awkward silence followed.
“Suffolk should not succeed again,” whispered Ellen. “The king would be furious.”
“You’re right. If he must ride again, he should deliberately fail, and pass off his first success as a lucky strike. I’m sure he knows the king well enough.”
But it was not Brandon who lined up to take the next ride, nor Norris. Hugh Truegood, in his tawny orange and black suit, made a dazzling figure on horseback, his ride also dressed in the same colours.
“It’s Hugh,” said Ellen, blushing.
“So it is,” smiled Thomasin.
They watched Hugh lift his lance effortlessly to his shoulder and position it with ease. Like Brandon, he gave the impression of a man who was in command in the saddle. When he began to ride, all eyes were fixed upon him, as he headed towards the ring. His lance was positioned perfectly for success.
“He will take it for sure,” beamed Ellen.
But at the last moment, the lance shivered slightly and Hugh carried on serenely past the ring.
“He did that on purpose,” said Thomasin. “He wouldn’t take it, so as not to upset the king.”
“Yes,” said Ellen, still smiling. “He did, didn’t he?”
Over on the other side of the stands, Thomasin spotted that her mother and Cecilia had got to their feet and were applauding Hugh most enthusiastically.
King Henry was lining himself up to ride for a third time. The other riders waited at the sides, allowing the king to take their places in his quest for success. Thomasin glanced over at Catherine, but her eyes were set firmly ahead, as if she was oblivious to her husband’s efforts. Anne still had not appeared to witness the display.
A groom adjusted the king’s stirrups, while another slipped in and replaced the original ring.
“Is it me, or is that ring slightly larger than the one before?” asked Thomasin.
“I believe it is,” nodded Ellen, “although the ribbons are there to try and disguise it. Surely a bigger target? He can’t miss it now!”
Henry rode again. Head bent forward, shoulders hunched, squat in his saddle, he hurled towards the ring like the embodiment of anger. Thomasin felt herself curling up inside. If he did not take this ring on this strike, the embarrassment would be almost palpable. The crowd shifted with discomfort.
The king bore down upon the lists, lowering his lance, driving the tip through the air. The ring came closer, closer, and then finally, to everyone’s relief, he pulled it clean away on the tip of his lance. A cheer went up, but no one celebrated more than Henry. Instead of returning the ring to a groom, he slowly rode back the length of the lists, proudly displaying his achievement.
“Now at least he is equal to Suffolk,” Ellen whispered.
Rafe was to ride next. Dressed in the livery of the Boleyns, on a horse trapped in blue and silver, he lifted his lance in one hand and took the reins in his other. Thomasin had never seen him perform this way before. He wasn’t skilled in the sense that Charles Brandon and Hugh Truegood were, after their chivalric training, but there was a connection between him and the animal, and a clear sense of mastery. The horse moved as if it was an extension of him.
