‘Step back, girls,’ came Mistress Ellyn’s Welsh vowels.
‘Lady Boleyn, may I present, Mistress Ellyn, and one of our most treasured possessions, a copy of Mr Chaucer’sCanterbury Tales, once owned by the author himself and with his notes in the margins.’
The book was bound in pale brown leather and the pages were edged in gold.
‘Master Chaucer presented the book to Cerensthorpe Abbey after they cared for his wife, Lady Philippa, when she suffered an ague. We have treasured it ever since and have added illuminations of our own. In fact, Lady Reynolds herself illustrated the tale which your daughters have said is your favourite,The Squire’s Tale.’
Without waiting for a reply, Mistress Ellyn opened the book to a bookmarked page, as Mary and Anne watched her eagerly. Elizabeth smiled, excited by their enthusiasm, but when Mistress Ellyn moved away and she saw the illustration, she felt numb with shock.
An entire page was filled with the most exquisite drawing of a white falcon she had ever seen. The feathers appeared to ripple on the page, the sharp eyes glistened with desire and she could almost feel the grip of the yellow talons on her arm. Yet, despite its beauty, Elizabeth was overwhelmed with nausea. In the corner were two perfectly drawn magpies and around the neck of the falcon was a slender gold whistle. A Latin motto at the bottom read:
Si metu flatus emittitur,
Periculum mox subsequitur.
Si flatus fervet ex furore,
Appareat diabolus ore.
Si flatus datur ex amore,
Frangatur maledictio more.
Elizabeth whispered the translation, staring at the image in transfixed horror.
‘“If breath is loosed in trembling fear,
Then danger soon will draw it near.
If breath is loosed in wrathful fire,
The devil shall appear in ire.
If breath is loosed in love sincere,
The ancient curse shall break – and clear.”’
It was as though the message were for her.
‘Isn’t it stunning, Mama?’ said Mary in delight. ‘The bird is similar to your falcon, Dorcas.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Elizabeth agreed, trying to force her voice to sound calm, untroubled, to offer praise to the two women who had shown her such kindness and hospitality. ‘When did you draw this, Lady Reynolds?’
‘When I was a novice, Lady Boleyn,’ she replied, but there was concern in her voice.
‘And the Latin?’
‘A poem, a small trifle which came to me,’ she said. ‘Along with the images of the magpies. They were portraits of two tame birds we raised here, called Night and Day. Are you quite well, Lady Boleyn?’
‘I feel faint,’ Elizabeth admitted. ‘Girls, stay here as long as you require, I shall retire with Lady Reynolds.’
Lady Reynolds offered Elizabeth her arm and led her back to the octagonal space, calling for refreshments. As Elizabeth walked, she recovered from her shock at seeing the image, and as Lady Reynolds sat beside her, an idea began to form in Elizabeth’s head, one she thought might protect her from the gathering storm of the king’s dark passion. She owned a scriptorium, there were scribes at her disposal, she could write her version of the truth, tell her tale,The Mother’s Tale,and leave it safely here, in the pages of the Chaucer for her daughters to find. Should anything ever happen to her, they would discover the true story of her life.
‘Lady Reynolds,’ she said, accepting a glass of mead, ‘would you and Mistress Ellyn be able to help me write a tale of my own?’
29
GREENWICH PALACE, LONDON – FEBRUARY 1516
