Christie Dickason - The King’s Daughter

‘I didn’t know such things existed!’ I told Henry under my breath, when we met once at the door of the Royal Chapel before evening prayers. ‘Please tell me that you don’t think all the ways of the world are wicked!’

Sometimes the king was present with my uncle at these performances, though he would often fidget violently, then spring up in the middle of a song and leave before the final dance. Sometimes he stayed away altogether, reportedly locked in debate with his attendant wits or drinking in his lodgings, with or without my uncle. Sometimes, he vanished altogether to hunt at Newmarket or Royston, or at Theobald’s, Cecil’s great estate in Hertfordshire. I heard whispers that he disliked crowds and found excuse to avoid them, fearing a sudden assassin.

Whatever the reason for them, I rejoiced in his absences, which let me forget fear. With whole-hearted pleasure I could then attend tilts and applaud my brother fighting in the lists. I could marvel at fireworks where dragons spat flames at each other, Catherine Wheels blossomed on trees and rockets briefly imitated the stars. I could listen to music that made me want to weep with joy, as if the vibrating strings of the viols were the strings of my own heart. My body would lie singing under those bows.

‘Was that not fine music tonight?’ Anne would ask as we bedded down for sleep. ‘You could almost sing the tune along with the players. I do prefer the old songs, don’t you?’

One night, freed from my father’s heavy-lidded gaze, I danced for the first time with a man, in the general dancing that followed the masque. None of Lady H’s warning words had armoured me against his smiling gallantry nor against the disturbing yet exciting smell of a heated adult male body so close to mine. As we turned around each other, carried shoulder-to-shoulder on the music, face looking into face, I felt my future quiver with sudden, unexpected brightness.

We danced again. His blue eyes pressed into mine but shifted away just before I could grow awkward with self-consciousness. I glanced at his mouth, under his fair, curly moustache. He bowed over my hand and delivered me back to my chair. I danced with other men. Smiled at Anne as I passed her in a figure. Then I danced with my first partner again. And again. Whenever the drums began, I flew.

‘Elizabella.’ Henry arrived at my side when I sat down to catch my breath. He looked magnificent in cream-coloured silk embroidered with pearls. His russet hair gleamed. He studied the heaving mass of dancers below us. Nodding and smiling at acquaintances, he said under his breath, ‘It’s fitter exercise for women than for men.’

I scarcely heard him. I was watching the slim lean shape of my first partner as he danced with a fair-haired young woman. She had full breasts, I noted, trapped quivering behind her bodice top. And a knowing look in her eyes that I envied.

Henry followed my gaze. ‘A Seymour,’ he said, meaning the man. ‘William, has a brother, Thomas. Distant cousins who carry royal Tudor blood.’ He stared at the girl, but did not name her.

We watched William Seymour duck his neatly barbered head to lead his partner under the arched arms of another couple.

‘I’m told that he has hopes of marrying you,’ said Henry.

‘If marriage means nothing but dancing,’ I said, ‘he would suit me very well.’

Henry shook his head earnestly. ‘Our father will never let an ambitious English noble get so close to true power.’

‘Then I must be content to dance with him.’ But in truth, I was sobered by the cold purpose I now knew lay behind that smiling gallantry. I felt foolish, out of my depth. I could never lower my guard.

After that night, I lost much of my taste for masques and dancing and began to take refuge whenever I could in a more familiar haven, the royal stables in Scotland Yard. They held wonders never seen at Combe. Rows and rows of shining flanks. An entire barn full of saddles and tack. War saddles with sheaths for weapons. Ceremonial saddles set with gold. Ladies’ side-saddles with curved heads and X-shaped heads. Embroidered saddlecloths and jewelled cushions.

Wearing an old gown, with my farthingale left off, I persuaded the grooms to let me curry and brush my own horses several times a week. When finished in the stables, I wandered into the royal kennels where a greyhound bitch had just whelped, to watch the pups clamber over each other and nose for the teat. The King’s Master of the Hounds welcomed me and let me select a pup to have when it was weaned.

I chose one of the two dogs. I watched him wriggle to the top of the squirming pile, latch on to a teat and hang on undeterred even when another pup stepped on his face. ‘Mars,’ I said.

The Master of the Hounds also told me that the lioness in the menagerie at the Tower, named Elizabeth after me, had whelped. Poor Anne had to come with me from Whitehall and attend me for hours as I sat by the stacked-up cages, on a chair carried there for me, watching the infant lions suckling and learning to play.

‘I can’t think why you like it so much here,’ muttered Anne in a rare moment of rebellion. ‘It stinks.’

‘You just want to go back to Whitehall so you can flirt,’ I said. I had spoken lightly and was startled to see my old play-mate’s cheeks burn as red-hot as a sunset.

Then, I saw my first play, performed by the king’s own company of players in the temporary Banqueting Hall, built when the old one burned down. Not a mix of songs, dances and poetic declamations like the masques. Just bald, unadorned words, spoken as we speak ourselves, if a little more loudly. With the exception only of the murderous queen in the story, who struck me as strange until I finally saw that she was played by a boy, the players seemed to live as we did, progressing through time, breathing, loving, loathing, fighting, scheming, suffering, murdering.

But what braced me upright in my chair was the whiff of truth that drifted down from the trestle stage of the King’s Men. Not all men at court were flatterers after all, even when they wore flatterers’ clothes. This play had been written for my father, to be presented before him and my Danish uncle. It was tricked out in the usual flowery dedication. And yet it spoke terrible truths, more truth than any of the flattering poetry of the masques I had seen.

I looked around the Banqueting Hall. I could not believe that no one else noticed. An ambitious, Scottish would-be king. From a place described as ‘too cold for hell.’ A king who killed his rivals for the throne. A man with a vast and fearful imagination that showed him vividly what horrors might await him. A man of foreboding. Of changeable purpose.

‘Faith, here’s an equivocator,’ complained the player Porter. ‘…that could swear in both scales against either scale…’

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