‘I thought you had to be chosen,’ James observed as he breathed on his fingers. ‘A heathenish practice…’ he grinned ‘… but one I’ve learnt to live with.’
‘Chosen? I choose myself.’ Edmund’s brows rose, as if he was daring anyone to defy his decision, and then his stare fixed on my face. ‘What do you say, Queen Kat? Am I your Lord of Misrule, from this day on?’
‘Not allowed.’ I shook my head solemnly, caught up in the game, but I thought there was more than a hint of petulance in the set of his mouth when his heart’s desire was denied him. There was no laughter in him. His scheming was not going as he wished, and I felt a mischievous urge to thwart him, whatever his intended plot. ‘You know how it works,’ I stated.
‘And you will hold me to it?’ he demanded, as if force of will could change my mind.
‘I will. No cheating. We will all abide by the rules.’
I sent a page running to the kitchens while we retired to a parlour, casting aside cloaks and gloves, where Thomas, my page, bearing a flat cake of dried fruit, discovered us and placed it on a table in our midst with a wide grin. There was an immediate rustle of interest, of comment. Of excitement. The outcome would affect the whole tenor of our celebrations.
‘Behold the Bean Cake.’ Edmund brandished his sword as if he would cleave it in two. ‘Do I slice it?’
I smiled graciously with a shake of my head. ‘I choose the King of Scotland to cut it.’
And James responded promptly: ‘And I give the honour to my affianced bride. She’ll do it with more elegance than you, Edmund. And with more skill. You don’t need a sword to cut a cake.’
Edmund tilted his chin, eyes gleaming dangerously. For a moment I thought he would resist. Then he laughed.
‘Go to it, Queen Joan!’
James slid his dagger from his belt, passing it to Joan, who wielded it with sure expertise and cut the cake into wedges. The pieces were passed around. We ate carefully, looking from one to the other. Within one piece lurked the bean that would confer the honour on the Lord of Misrule.
‘Not I.’
‘Or I.’
There was much shaking of heads, some in palpable relief. James shrugged in disappointment. I said nothing. I waited. I knew what would happen. He kept us waiting, for what a master of timing he was. And then:
‘There! What did I say?’ Edmund fished a bean from between his teeth and held it up. ‘I am Lord of Misrule after all.’
‘Now, there’s a coincidence!’ Beatrice observed.
‘Do you call me a cheat?’ Edmund swung round, his expression as fierce as if he would attack any who dare point the finger.
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
Neither would I, though I knew he was. Edmund had come prepared with a bean of his own, trusting to the force of his own will to impose silence on the true winner. It was a risky venture that could have ended in his discomfiture. But I held my peace.
My piece of cake had held the bean.
‘I am the Bean King. I am the Lord of Misrule.’ Full of wild satisfaction, Edmund leapt onto a chair, sword in hand. ‘And my first command will be…’
‘Who will be your Queen?’ someone asked.
There was not a moment’s hesitation. Again I knew what he would do before he did it. As I drew in my breath, because I did not know what I wanted, Edmund circled the point of his sword towards me. He stared along its length.
‘You. I choose you.’
A sigh ran through the group.
I swallowed against a moment of panic. My habitual response. ‘I cannot.’
‘Why not?’
Because I could not romp and cavort and play the fool. ‘Because I do not know how.’
‘Then I’ll teach you, Queen Kat. My golden queen. We will reign together.’ Colour rushed to my face and I think he saw it, for he immediately turned to the practical to draw all eyes back to him.
‘My first decree, my miserable subjects, as Master of Misrule. We’ll take the Old Year out with mirth and jollity. We’ll dance and sing and break all rules. We’ll make these old walls resound and shiver.’ He leapt down from the chair, whirling the sword around his head. ‘And I know where there’s treasure to be had.’
With a key obtained from Alice, who looked askance as if we were no more than a bunch of irresponsible children, Edmund, taking my hand in his and pulling me along in his wake, led us down increasingly dusty passages until we came to what had once been an antechamber. As he opened the door, we saw that it was now used for storing the detritus of lives past. We crowded in, the women lifting their skirts and stepping away from the dust-ridden coffers and tapestries. Edmund was oblivious, entirely wrapped up in his own intent.
‘Let’s see.’ He took stock of the boxes and bundles. ‘I command you to open up the chests, because unless I am ill-advised…’
We did as we were bidden, soon forgetful of the dust, exclaiming with admiration and astonishment, much as children might. Packed into the chests were layer upon layer of costumes intended for some long-distant royal procession or a mummers’ play.
‘Whose are these?’ I asked, holding a pheasant’s mask to my face, which muffled my question, feathers nodding over my head.
