In the Garden of Iden (21 page)

“Certes, so we were.” Sir Walter picked up his cue (for all I know, he believed it by this time) and emerged from the throng. “Come, Doctor Ruy, there is excellent muscadel here, none better may be had at the Emperor’s table. And we shall have a Spanish viand later,” he announced to his guests.

This did not help the smell. Yet we edged our way down with tiny frightened steps, and the mortal guests drew away from us as though Joseph had a cloven hoof.

“How festive it all looks,” he remarked gamely.

And here came Nicholas in his severe Protestant black, towering head and shoulders above the guests. He met my eyes. People stared at him now, and the fear smell sharpened to anticipation. They were expecting a clash, but he took both my hands and kissed them.

“Well met here, Lady Rose. Doctor Ruy, I will be so bold as to carry your daughter away for a cup of hippocras.” And he pulled me after him. The crowd registered astonishment. The tension broke.

“Ha ha ha,” rattled Joseph. “Yes, go on. These young folk
will
be kissing in corners,” he explained to the crowd.

It was all right now. Mortals love lovers, especially young ones. Everyone made way for Nicholas and me as we went in search of a punch bowl. “Thy hands are ice-cold,” said Nicholas under his breath.

“And so should thine be, facing so many English,” I replied. “If gazes were cannonballs, they’d have blasted us off the stairs.”

“Oh, fear not.” He located a steaming flagon of wine and filled a goblet for me. “These folk are the best small gentry of Kent! They’d no more harm thy father than wear a doublet that was out of fashion, which is to say they durst do neither.”

“Good.” I gulped at the wine. He watched me drink.

“Aye, sup that down. Thy face is pale as milk.”

“If you think of anything else to build up my confidence, please tell me,” I snapped in Greek.

He considered. “I like the aglets,” he offered.

The operative words for this phase of the merriment seemed to be drink and mingle, as the scullery boys set up the long trestle tables in the hall. All we lacked was a cocktail waitress with a tray of little sandwiches. I took Nicholas’s arm, and we moved cautiously around the edges, looking for a quiet place to talk. This soon proved impossible, however, because no less than four mortals came up to wave their crucifixes at me and tell me how their parents had been gardeners, or ladies-in-waiting, or household-account keepers to poor old Queen Katherine.

“God’s my life, is it Nicholas Harpole?”

Nicholas turned abruptly, carrying me with him. We beheld a stout young male with a full beard, very steel-and-leather military in his bearing. Nicholas regarded him with narrowed eyes. “And he knoweth me not,” added the speaker. “But I’d have known thee, Nick. Jesu, man, it’s Tom!”

And he put out his hand, but Nicholas drew back as though he were a snake, and radiated such anger I was nearly knocked down. The other only laughed.

“What, art afeared still? I can tell thee, I’ve well washed away the stink of our tutor’s blasphemies. I see thou hast done the same.”

“Why are you here?” asked Nicholas, very quietly.

“I am a wooer.” Tom jerked his thumb at a crowd of girls around Sir Walter. “Sweet Anne yonder. Not any goddess Venus, as you see, but I’ll warm myself with her dower lands. Time to turn one’s thoughts to such things, eh? I wot well we are not boys anymore.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “How does it go? ‘When I was a child, I spoke as a child’—”

Oh, Nicholas was going to hit him. There went the arm muscles contracting! I braced myself, but his back molars clashed together like boulders, and he said:

“In Christ’s name, be silent.”

“Tush, man, no one will mark me. And who’ll mark thee? Thou hast found thyself the warmest bed in the house, and a Spanish bed to boot.” He swept my knuckles to his lips. “Lady, buenos días. Nicholas, thou wast ever a lad of excellent common sense. With any luck, wilt wear a cardinal’s hat before thou’rt forty.”

That really did it. Nicholas grabbed the front of Tom’s doublet and yanked him up to eye level. I said, “Nicholas!” and Tom said, “Peace, man, remember!” and one or two people turned to stare. Nicholas put him down.

“If I insulted thy lady, Nick, I’m sorry on’t.” Tom shrugged his doublet back together. “And Christ be my witness, I meant no harm. But what I said in jest, my heart meant.” With a sincerity that was worse than his bantering he put a hand on Nicholas’s arm. “Thou wert ever the best scholar among us. There’s new men at Court, Nick, the old papists die and make room for young ones. There’s benefices, Nick, there’s gold, there’s Dame Fortune with her knees wide apart! Get thee to Court and try her, Nick, and shalt rise higher than poor Tom with his plain wife and two farms in Kent.”

He looked across the room at his girlfriend and sighed. “God grants each man his gifts. I have only a prick; thou hast both a prick and a brain. Get thee to Court, I say.” And with a final melancholy smack on Nicholas’s arm he wandered away, and so just missed having his head ripped off. My turn then to drag Nicholas to a sideboard and pour him a drink. Some Christmas so far, eh?

By this time the tables were all set up and ready, so we were seated in order of our status, and the first of the dishes were brought in with great ceremony.

“A dish of small birds!” announced Master Ffrawney from his post by the hall door. In came the small birds, pigeons probably, all roasted and set on end with little pasteboard heads and wings. “A dish of pike in gallantine!” cried Master Ffrawney next, and in it came: phew, week-old fish in a sauce that smelled of cinnamon candy. “A dish of pie Caneline!” ushered in one of the aforementioned industrial-strength pies, borne by a gasping server who just barely made it to the table.

And after that we were brought a dish of olives of veal, and a dish of boar Porpentine, and the very boar’s head itself: splendid as on a Gordon’s gin bottle, with big bulging eyes of half lemons stuck in its blind sockets. I’d have given a lot for a gin and tonic as the sweet cavalcade of indigestion rolled on.

They brought in the peacock: the whole skin had been flayed off, then tucked back, feathers and all, on the roasted bird to make it look lifelike. Only, they hadn’t been able to unclench the little sphincter or whatever kept the tail folded up, and the plumes moreover had become sadly draggled on the ride from the poulterer’s, so they had taken the tail apart and stuck the remaining feathers on a big pasteboard fan, and painted in the missing ones.

Ducks by the dozen, chickens by the tens, packed like sardines into dreadnought pies or propped up in little mounds of golden dead bodies. Peculiar combinations of fish and flowers. Clods of roast beef colored blue with heliotrope juice to make them look like venison. Wonderful eggy pancakes, dusted with cinnamon and sugar. Cinnamon and sugar were in nearly everything, actually.

They brought in a trumpet to fanfare the arrival of the Spanish viand, a nice digestible recipe they’d coaxed out of Joseph, and when it hit the table, everyone really stared: it looked great, a sort of sweet rice pilaf, a big mound of rice and nuts and raisins, but all around the edge of the dish were perched big insects sculpted out of almond paste. “Rice after the fashion of Saint John the Baptist!” screamed Master Ffrawney triumphantly. “A pudding of Biscay!” There was polite silence as everyone tried to figure out what the bugs were there for.

“I do not recall that I specified such a curious subtlety as this,” said Joseph at last.

“Please you, signior, but you said that we must have syrup of locusts to pour about the top, signior, and we had it not, wherefore Mistress Alison made locusts out of marchpane,” explained the serving boy. “It were the best we could do, signior.”

“The locust I meant is an evergreen tree bearing sweet beans,” Joseph informed him.

“Oh,” said the boy.

It was a great success anyway. The guests had drunk so much hippocras by this time that they thought the bugs were funny, and walked them up and down the table until their little toothpick legs fell off, or set them on ladies’ headdresses or bosoms.

Nicholas was not amused by anything. He sat beside me looking dangerous, with the corners of his mouth pulled down from bad temper and a bright flush on his cheekbones from wine. I smiled at him timidly, but he sat staring unblinking into the fire.

When the first lull fell in the eating and drinking, Sir Walter lurched to his feet, rubbing his hands together. “Now, my neighbors, my friends, we shall have some diversion, shall we not?”

There were shouts of “Aye!” and general jolly laughter, and Sir Walter peered down the table at Nicholas. “Nicholas, my boy, what have we?”

“A cockfight, sir.” Nicholas stood and signaled to men who waited at the door. Then he sat down beside me and folded his arms. In came two men, each bearing a gallant little bird with a bright cockade tail. They were held up for the guests to view, and what howls, what wagers, what quantities of coins were flung down on the banquet table!

I looked at Joseph. He was gazing into space with a vague smile, but his eyes were utterly blank. Nef was staring fixedly into her goblet and would not lift her head. The men put the cockerels down and backed away fast. The shouting in the hall grew deafening, and what happened next was as bad as you can imagine. Blood spattered everywhere, feathers flew. The little birds cut each other to ribbons, and one was blinded before the fight was done.

I leaned back shaking and found Nicholas’s arm about me. “Take heart, Rose, and play the Spaniard. Whatever shalt thou do at a bull baiting?” he muttered. I burst into tears, but it least it got him out of his rage; he was contrite and kissed me, while the hall rang with bloodthirsty laughter.

A lamprey pie and maumany were served up next, as the blood was hastily mopped away. Then we were treated to an exhibition of fencing by two Frenchmen, very exciting, especially since they had no buttons on their foils. At least they didn’t blind each other.

Then we had hasletts and troycream and date justles, just in case we hadn’t had enough sweets to suit us, and the Four Tumbling Brothers of Billingsgate came in and vaulted all over one another for a while. People applauded greatly and threw them pennies. I saw a few spoons disappearing into the brothers’ sleeves and hats as well.

By this time the tables were long highways of gnawed bones and fragments of piecrust, so Master Ffrawney entreated us all to decamp to the other corner of the great hall. There, arrangements had been made for card games in various nooks and crannies for those inclined to sit sensibly quiet after such a meal. For those not so inclined, the consort began to play dance tunes. At last!

But nobody began. People stood milling about as a good old-fashioned morisque opened; heads were lifted uncertainly, but not a foot moved, not a hip swayed.

I couldn’t bear it. I seized Nicholas’s arm. “Is this the way you dance in England?” I cried.

He looked around. “It is the custom for the master of the house to dance first,” he explained, as his eye lit upon Sir Walter just sitting down to a nice game of primero with Nef and some other lady. “Sir Walter! Would you dance, sir?”

“What?” The little knight glanced around and became conscious of the gaffe. “Oh.” He looked longingly at the cards in his hand but then brightened. “Nicholas, thou shalt lead for me. Hark ye, gentles, this tall fellow shall be lord for a little while in my place! Do you all take your steps from him!”

The master of the consort, who had been watching for a cue all this while, stopped the music abruptly. Nicholas stood aghast as all eyes turned to him. I took his hand. “Come, love.”

The music began again, and I drew him into the dance. In those days dancers saluted each other first, as fencers do, very stately. A little stylized kissing of hands, the fellow bowing and the lady making a curtsey, then into the patterned intricate steps.

It was slow for a morisque, which was good because Nicholas hadn’t danced in—how long? But the music caught us up, and the grace of his body came back to him. What bliss.

It disturbs me to remember how happy I was, how my blood moved in that hour. Music at that time was still brazen with colors picked up in the East during the Crusades, harsh with rhythms in a way it would not be again until the classical rock of the twentieth century. Dancing was erotic, formal, and feverish together. Nothing much more than hands touched, but what tension can crackle in fingertips. I forgot all about the terrible Christmas and the stinking food: there was only the music and my lover, who might as well have been naked there beside me, so fine he looked. Other couples had moved out beside us and were following in the steps. The music shook the very house; the bass rackett vibrated in the walls. Unreal at the corners, all kinds of little dramas were being acted out. Over there by the window at primero, Nef was beating the trunk hose off Sir Walter. Her face perfectly impassive, she accepted a card from him.

Over there by the carved panels, Joseph was surrounded by four or five anxious old males who had got enough of a look at Sir Walter to know that whatever physick he had, they had to have it too. Joseph’s face was bland and slightly apologetic. I heard cracked elderly voices offering him many things, strange things, some of them.

And over there by the fire, nasty Tom was talking to someone, grinning and pointing at Nicholas. A bad man. Dangerous. His face went pale suddenly, and he clutched at his throat, and the concerned friend had to thump him on the back. We kept on dancing.

A basse-dance, a tourdion, a saltarello; bransles in sets of threes, and allemandes. Night fell early and black beyond the windows. Cressets were brought in, to flare and smoke. They made the dance more sensual, with complications of moving lights and shadow.

Pavanes we danced. A pavane is an ideal dance for lovers, because it’s so slow, you can flirt or talk without losing your step. My very favorite pavane was “Belle Qui Tient Ma Vie” (the one from
The Private Life of Henry VIII, Romeo and Juliet
, the Leslie Howard version, and
Orlando
, both the 1993 version with Tilda Swinton and the 2150 remake with Zoë Barrymore), and it had just begun when Nicholas said: “Thy father will not give consent for me to wed thee.”