LITMIR.BIZ

      The Palace of Placentia, Greenwich

      IGNORING THE SUMPTUARY LAWS – again – Edmund chose to wear a purple doublet for the Christmas Ball although he called it violet.

      ‘We are royalty,’ he retorted when I questioned this. ‘The king confirmed it last night. We are “in the purple”.’

      ‘We have not yet been knighted or belted,’ I persisted. ‘You will be considered presumptuous.’

      ‘Bah! I do not care what people think. The colour suits me and I will wear it. I guarantee the queen will compliment me on my choice.’

      To ensure that his appearance attracted even more attention he wore the same yellow hosen that had frightened the sheep in Wales. The belt slung around his hips was set with amethysts and the doublet was trimmed with something that looked suspiciously like sable, which was in the same sartorial category as purple, but Edmund claimed it was marten.

      My own appearance was probably unremarkable beside my brother’s but I was pleased with the belt I had found, studded with stones of polished green agate to match my emerald green doublet with cream-panelled sleeves and with my parti-coloured hose of dark red and blue. The barber had trimmed my hair and shaved my cheeks smooth and I had bathed in lavender-scented water for the occasion.

      Mellow with food and wine from the feast, I stood aside to observe Edmund lead the queen onto the floor and tried to steady my nerves at the prospect of doing the same in my turn. Judging by her dimpled smiles, Queen Marguerite was delighted with the nimble-footed Edmund, and I feared my ability on the dance floor would not match his, despite much effort on the part of a French dancing master.

      However, I forgot these qualms as my attention was drawn to the charming sight of a tiny girl with long dark chestnut hair, which swung as she danced and was held off her perfect little face by a slim gold circlet. I recognized the man she danced with as one of the king’s household knights who rejoiced in the name of Sir John St John but it was the girl who caught my interest. Her pink gown was trimmed with pearls and figured with gold daisies, and the bodice was cut straight across her chest in the fashion ladies adopted to show off the swell of their breasts. But this girl was too young for breasts. She could have been no more than ten years old and I wondered what she was doing at court at such a tender age; then I forgot my curiosity, absorbed in the gracefulness of her dancing. Erect and straight-backed, her small feet seeming barely to touch the floor, she danced the estampie, a lively French dance involving intricate stamping steps as the name implied, that built to a crescendo of energetic jumps and whirls. The girl’s slender body began to sway and leap with supple strength, keeping perfect time as the pace increased, completely at one with the music, smiling all the while, a sweet, secret smile as if delighted with the place it took her to. The girl’s demure presence seemed dominant in the dance; she was always in the right position, yet she seemed unaware of who took her hand or with whom she turned but danced as if she alone were on the floor. Even the queen’s glittering and glamorous figure was outshone. I could not take my eyes off her.

      ‘Congratulations on your impending ennoblement, Master Jasper; I see you are enjoying my daughter’s dancing.’

      I turned in surprise. At first glance the woman who stood beside me appeared to be an adult version of the same girl, except her hair was hidden under a black turban headdress studded with jewels and her gown was a darker pink with old-fashioned trailing sleeves. She stood as slight and straight as her daughter but her face was wrinkled and faintly mottled.

      I made her a bow. ‘You have the advantage of me, my lady, in that you know my name.’

      ‘I am Lady Welles but my daughter’s name is Beaufort, Lady Margaret Beaufort. Her father was the first Duke of Somerset, the present duke’s late brother.’

      The music raced to a climax, accompanying my moment of enlightenment. ‘Ah – the Somerset heiress,’ I found myself saying and then wished I had not.

      Lady Welles frowned. ‘Indeed. Most men measure her worth by her estates but I thought you had discerned something more. You did not appear to be counting her fortune as you watched her.’

      ‘She is very young,’ I said, feeling the accursed blush creep up my neck. ‘But even so, yes, there is certainly something remarkable about her.’ The music crashed onto its final chord. It was over, and the dancers made their acknowledgements. I bowed politely again to Lady Welles. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I am obliged to the queen for the next dance. I hope we meet again.’

      Walking away, I cast a last glance at Margaret Beaufort as her partner escorted her from the dance floor. She was not in the least out of breath. Suddenly I wished it was her rather than the queen that I was pledged to dance with, naively believing that so young a girl would not judge me or compare me with my brother. She appeared to be a creature of the air rather than the earth, reminding me of one of the hovering angels illuminating my psalter.

      As I had anticipated, the next dance was a slow one. Edmund had performed all the leaps and kicks demanded by the estampie and now I was able to relax into a bass, performed to a largo given by a piper and a solo singer. It began with alternate men and women holding hands and circling in a series of short and long steps first one way then the other, interspersed with graceful individual spins and regular

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