‘Thank you, sire,’ she said, surprised at how easily the king offered a solution.
‘It’s my pleasure to bestow upon you all your heart desires,’ the king said, then another grin lightened his face. ‘Now, to celebrate, let us fly our birds from the rise above the trees?’
Without waiting for her answer, he waved to his own team of falconers and cadgers to move towards the low hill.
Why does a man of barely eighteen years unnerve me?Elizabeth thought as she and Wainwright followed.He’s little more than a boy.
She knew the answer; it was not the man but the power of the throne. The centuries of royal blood running in his veins, the arrogance of the Tudor supremacy and the ceremony all those months ago when he was anointed with holy oil and created as God’s representative on earth.
He has been pampered and indulged all his life, she thought.He is accustomed to life being smooth, to his wishes being granted, his desires fulfilled.
A shudder ran through her, then she scolded herself for her stupidity. He had helped her resolve the problems at Cerensthorpe, his mild flirting was the same as every other courtier. Henry was determined to create a cult of courtly love in the manner of King Arthur, and this was simply the king practising his art. Elizabeth focused on these words, even though they did not resonate with any truth in her heart.
Suddenly, the piercing call of a hunting whistle rent the air and Elizabeth felt her merlin stiffen with anticipation on her wrist. The king exchanged a few words with his men. He was serious about his sporting endeavours and Elizabeth was relieved the gyrfalcon had taken Henry’s attention.
Below, a rabbit bolted from shelter. Henry slipped the hood from his bird and the falcon launched into the air, swift and silent. Elizabeth watched the flight – beautiful, sharp and brutal as the bird struck, grabbing the rabbit and soaring high in an arc.
Henry shouted in triumph, punching the air in his excitement. ‘Perfect,’ he said, turning to Elizabeth. ‘Your turn, my lady.’
She rode a few yards from the king, searching for a suitable prey. A rustle in the treetops revealed a pigeon and with a swift movement she unhooded her merlin and lifted her hand high. The bird’s claws were sharp as they flexed against her hand. Elizabeth felt as though she and the bird were one, as with an elegant sweep of her wings, the merlin flew straight and true, snagging the pigeon in a rush of silent death. It circled high before heading back to Elizabeth, whereupon Wainwright hurried forward and caught the merlin, removing the prey before freeing her to fly again.
‘You fly her well,’ Henry said, his gaze on Elizabeth’s hands. ‘If I were your falcon, I would never leave the tender touch of your wrist.’
Elizabeth stiffened slightly and the king smirked.
‘You don’t trust me,’ he said and there was delight in his voice.
‘I trust Your Majesty to behave with honour,’ she replied.
‘Do you?’ he paused, then rummaged in the leather pouch attached to his saddle. ‘Would you allow me to make you a gift? It is in the spirit of the hunt, of the Green Man who protects our flora and fauna. A token to match your skill.’
He held out a small velvet pouch.
Elizabeth hesitated, and Henry proffered it again. With reluctance, she accepted the gift, opening the drawstring and pulling out a golden hawking whistle. It was exquisitely crafted, with vines and tiny birds etched into the glistening metal. Elizabeth swallowed her shock, this was too fine, too personal.
Too much.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice quiet.
‘It’s yours,’ he said, watching her hungrily. ‘Gold for the woman who commands the skies, who would fly with me if I were able to grant us both wings.’
‘Your Majesty, I—’ she began, but he either did not hear the beginning of her protestations or ignored them. Instead, he interrupted as though she had not spoken.
‘I have one that matches.’
He pulled it from the small pocket in his sleeve.
‘Do you see the words engraved on mine?’
He held the whistle up so it caught the light, forcing her to lean closer to him to read the inscription.
‘One for sorrow,’ she murmured. ‘Like the magpies.’
‘See what is engraved on yours, my lady.’
‘Two for joy,’ she whispered, her throat constricting, there could be no denying his meaning.
Elizabeth looked back at him, her fingers tightening around the whistle.
