‘And what would you be, Queen Kat?’ Edmund asked, when I stood, still undisguised—for what would I choose?—but with a vast length of red and black velvet in my hands and draped over one shoulder. Edmund was already clad in a cloak painted with stars as if he were a magician, his face covered with a lion’s mask so that his voice echoed strangely and his eyes glittered through the leonine stare.
‘What on earth is this?’ I asked, lifting the heavy cloth. I could not make out its shape.
Edmund growled with lion-like ferocity. ‘I’ll not tell you. Not yet. But you’ll see on Twelfth Night. Now—for you.’
‘I don’t know.’ I admitted forlornly, surrounded by so much glamour.
‘This, I think.’ Relieving me of the red and black, he cast a silver cloak over my shoulders and fastened a silver-faced angel mask with silver ribbons over my face. ‘Turn round.’ I did so, and I felt him fastening something to my shoulders.
‘What are you doing?’ I tried to turn my head, but could only see, and that indistinctly through the mask, some gossamer material stretched over a wooden frame.
‘Giving you wings,’ he replied. ‘Angels need wings.’ And he whispered in my ear. ‘How would you fly without? And I need you to fly, my silver Queen.’
He came to stand before me again and bowed low, hand on heart. I curtsied. We were King and Queen.
How I was re-created, remoulded by Edmund Beaufort, an acolyte in the hands of a master.
By Edmund’s decree—and because we discovered enough for all—we spent the festivities draped in green velvet robes, each embroidered from head to foot in peacock feathers, as if we were devotees of some strange mystic sect.
And thus clad, the days merged into one breathless intoxication of pleasure. We played disguising games, St George slaying the reluctant dragon, King Arthur discovering his magic sword. How was it that Edmund was so often St George or King Arthur? Young Henry, my astonished son, joined in with eyes as big as silver coins, a dragon’s head perched on top of his curls, wings askew on his shoulders—until he fell asleep in my lap and the music went on around him.
We danced endlessly, and sang, arms linked, carolling the chorus as Edmund laid down the verses in a bright, true tenor. We wove our paths between an intricate pattern of cushions laid out on the floor, the penalty for disturbing any one of them being to obey some dire command of our misruling lord.
I was dispatched to the kitchens to fetch wine and ale, instructed to carry it myself in true reversal of roles, a queen serving her subjects. Which I could have done, except that Edmund accompanied me and carried the platters himself, ordering me to follow, bearing my steward’s staff of office and also the grace cup, which I presented to everyone present with a maidservant’s curtsey.
Nothing existed without his hand to it. Jokes and pranks and laughter. He wooed, seduced and charmed through an unending storm of activity. We ate and drank as we stood, not stopping for formal meals, and on a day when dark clouds lowered and might have driven us to the fireside, our young men fought out a Twelfth Night
Amidst the sword thrusts and trampling hooves, Edmund capered in the feathered costume of a vast golden bird, his vivid features hidden behind a golden beak and crimson crest as he tripped the unwary with his golden stave. A ridiculous prank that reduced everyone to helpless laughter.
We were exhausted, but who could not admire him? Who could not worship at his feet?
‘I must sit down.’ I sank to the cushions on the floor, my own feet aching after a tempestuous leaping and stamping, as far from a dignified court procession as it was possible to be. My shoes had rubbed against my heel.
‘We will dance till dawn,’ Edmund decreed.
‘You might. But I—’
‘We are young. You are no elderly widow, destined for prayer and endless stitchery, whatever Gloucester might tell you. It’s a sin for you to hide yourself away.’ I looked up, immediately unsure at the very personal nature of the jibe. ‘Tell me you are not enjoying yourself. I swear you are, even if you deny it. You were going to deny it, weren’t you?’
I frowned, thoroughly ruffled, but he would have none of it.
‘When did you last laugh, Queen Kat? Dance? Play the fool without thinking who might be watching and commenting on your behaviour or decency?’
‘Not since I was a child,’ I admitted ruefully, ‘when I cavorted recklessly with my sister, without constraint.’ Not since then. Since then it had been as if my life had been shackled into good behaviour and moral rectitude. To my horror, tears stung my eyelids. ‘I have forgotten how to play. And now my sister is dead.’
