SHERIFF HUTTON CASTLE, YORKSHIRE – MAY 1495
The scraping of the curtain rings on their wooden poles awoke Elizabeth.
‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Mihill, who had recently been promoted to Mother of the Maids, a title used at court which the Countess of Surrey had laughingly introduced into her own vast household.
‘We have so many girls, we could rival the ladies of Queen Elizabeth herself,’ the countess had said. ‘Anyway, it’ll be good training for you all for when you’re at court yourselves.’
‘It’s a beautiful spring morning,’ continued Mrs Mihill as she drew back the curtains on the remaining beds. ‘We must make the most of this wonderful day and enjoy every moment. You too, Margery Wentworth,’ she said with a smile as Margery rolled over with a reluctant groan. ‘We all know too much sleep dulls a girl’s wits and makes you ill. The poet John Skelton has promised to entertain us today; you’ll need to be alert while he spins his words into the air.’
Elizabeth, who shared a bed with her younger sister, Muriel, laughed at Margery’s further exaggerated groans from under the pillows. She hurried past the bed to the washstands to preparefor the day. The young women lived in a large chamber, a place of feminine secrets, laughter and intrigues. It was a world within the world of Sheriff Hutton Castle and rang with chatter and exuberance as the girls learned the manners expected of their rank.
Among the other occupants of the room alongside Elizabeth and her younger sister, Muriel, were Elizabeth’s cousin, Margery; another cousin, Isabel Pennel and her mother’s cousin, Agnes Tilney, who boarded with them, even though she was a few years older.
As they poured hot water from jugs into bowls to wash, before cleaning their teeth, they jostled and teased each other in various stages of wakefulness. The only person with sufficient rank to warrant her own bedchamber was Anne Bourchier, Elizabeth’s half-sister, now Lady Dacre of the South since her marriage to Thomas Fiennes, 8th Baron Dacre of the South a year earlier.
Elizabeth was an early-morning person, feeling the zing of excitement with each new day. She would often rise before Mrs Mihill called them and crawl through the heavy draperies covering the windows, squashing herself onto one of the wide window seats which was padded with cushions. Here, she was hidden, undisturbed, cocooned in a place all her own to watch the majesty of the sunrise over the trees of the deer park. Each time she witnessed the uncanny flash of green light as the sun crept over the horizon into the liquid light of morning, she felt she had witnessed pure magic. As the golden rays chased away the gloom of night, painting the sky with colours of such purity, she thought they must have been sent by the angels themselves.
As the sun rose, Elizabeth felt a rush of anticipation. What adventures would she embark upon? Would the hours be exciting or dull, happy or sad? The curiosity about what she would experience before she closed her eyes to sleep again droveher imagination and she would sit in the glowing morning light wondering about all she could do and all she could be.
‘Hurry up, Lizzie,’ said Agnes, bringing Elizabeth out of her daydream. ‘You’ve been hogging the water.’
Elizabeth rolled her eyes at Agnes and nudged her aside with her shoulder.
‘I’ve barely been a moment,’ she retorted. ‘There are other ewers and bowls over there.’ She nodded towards the three large steaming jugs further down the bench.
‘True, but this one is nearest the fire,’ said Agnes with a grin.
‘You’ll have to be quicker tomorrow,’ said Elizabeth and, with good grace, Agnes moved away.
Elizabeth bent forward and picked a soft cloth from the pile on the washstand. She dipped it into one of the small pots of white powder which stood beside them and began wiping it across her teeth. Her mother had a family recipe for this powder – a mixture of chalk, powdered alabaster, ground cuttlefish bones and finely chopped dried mint for freshness – which she claimed had kept the smiles of the women in their family white and bright.
‘When you have a home of your own,’ she had said to Elizabeth, ‘you’ll be able to instruct your own ladies on how it is made.’
Elizabeth rinsed her mouth with water boiled with mint, star anise and vinegar to freshen her breath further and to remove the residue of white powder. She hurried back to her bed, where a fresh cotton smock and light summer stockings waited. Over these, she pulled a new gown in sky blue lined with soft white cotton which was laced up by one of the many maids scurrying around helping the young women to wash and dress.
‘Shall I do your hair, Lizzie?’ said Agnes.
‘Yes, please,’ she replied, ‘then I’ll do yours.’
The next half an hour passed in general mayhem until the bell rang calling the girls to mass in the castle chapel.
‘Hurry, ladies,’ called the Countess of Surrey after breakfast. ‘I have a plan which I think you will all enjoy.’
Elizabeth followed the others into the spacious chamber the women used during the day. Impressive mullioned windows gave views over the vast gardens, the new stained-glass patterns in the top windows glittering with the red and white of the Tudor rose, while intricately carved wood panelling gave the room grandeur. The ceiling was a riot of colour, as were the two walls without panelling, with images of mythical creatures dancing in a narrow band near the ceiling. Criss-crossed beams met in diamond points, each adorned with decorative ceiling bosses echoing the magical and real-life creatures on the walls: a green man, a unicorn, a lion, a mermaid, a yale and, in the centre, a white falcon.
Before their arrival, the countess had directed the servants to lay out thick, soft rugs and cushions, alongside boxes containing remnants of fabric, embroidery silks, wool and a range of other beautiful adornments. Elizabeth and Margery exchanged looks of surprise, wondering what new entertainment the countess had created for them to enjoy.
‘My ladies,’ called the countess from her ornately carved chair, which was positioned on a small dais near the fireplace, ‘to thank John Skelton for entertaining us so well these past weeks, I thought we could create a poet’s garland as a gift.’
My mother is queen of this castle, thought Elizabeth proudly, admiring the elegance and poise of the countess as she spoke,commanding both the attention and the admiration of those she addressed.
‘Do you mean like the laurel wreaths the Greek poets wore?’ asked Margery Wentworth.
‘Exactly, my dear.’
‘We must ensure it is grand and elegant,’ said Margaret Tilney, who, as one of the countess’s senior women, was helping to guide the younger women to positions around the room where they could work.
‘Perhaps Lizzie could draw us a design,’ said Anne, giving her half-sister a beaming smile. ‘She’s the most talented artist among us.’
