Isolde Martyn - Mistress to the Crown

‘Hmmm,’ he put a hand on my backside again and shook me playfully. ‘We could disguise you and it’s a very pretty costume. I took your advice and got rid of the breast cones. Except.’

‘No!’

How many times can a woman say no? Clearly, denial was not a word in Hastings’ vocabulum. Next day at three o’clock, the shop had two visitors. The first was a servant of Sir Edward Brampton’s requesting Shore to bring sample cloths to his house without delay. The second was one dainty Master Matthew Talwood, who carried an urgent letter from the Lord Chamberlain asking me how he could put on The Siege of Troy without the Lady Helen? What’s more, Hastings pledged he would buy me a wagon of lawyers and a score of girdles if I saved his reputation as Master of the King’s Revels.

Ha, I did not believe a word but Talwood was insistent: my lord’s barge was awaiting me at Puddle Wharf beside Beaumont’s Inn. His barge ! He’d sent an entire barge?

‘A word for the wise, Mistress Shore,’ said my visitor, flicking back his long grey locks. ‘Save for his grace the King and his royal brothers, Lord Hastings is the most powerful nobleman in England. That letter is not a request, it’s a command. There are plenty like you, Mistress Shore, but only one of him.’

The rebellious wench inside me was prancing with gleeful excitement as we boarded the barge, but behind my veil my lips were tense, and my knuckles gleamed white in my lap as I seated myself beneath the awning. Talwood started to tell me about the play and what was expected – just one dance, he said. Did he realise it could destroy my reputation forever if word reached the city? Just one dance! Be brave , I chided myself, if you stumble and they laugh at you, it doesn’t matter. At least you may glimpse King Edward in all his magnificence . Yes, I admit I had been thinking much about King Edward.

Talwood had passes that saw us through a succession of courtyards and sentries until we reached the postern of a half-timbered building adjoining the Great Hall. The players’ chamber proved a chaotic hell of spangles and peevish hubbub. At one end, men in wigs and leather kilts were in mock combat; at the other a large man with faux breasts and a wig that Medusa would have envied, was having red powder rubbed below his cheekbones. My destination was a side chamber where a baker’s dozen of minstrels were practising.

Talwood introduced me to Walter Haliday, the hoary-headed Marshall of the King’s Minstrels, and delivered a warning to the rest: ‘Be diligent with our dancer, my masters. This is her only chance to practise and then she needs to get into costume with great haste. The disports begin in an hour.’

An hour! I could have encircled Hastings’ neck with a cord and tugged it tight.

I was supposed to rattle a timbrel as I danced but I asked Haliday if the tabor player could provide the rhythm instead.

‘Pretend you have a mirror, dear. Gives you something to do with your hands,’ suggested Talwood, and he kept directing me until he was satisfied.

The sound of clapping coming from the doorway made me turn. Hastings was standing behind me in his full court dress.

‘As always, you underestimated your ability, mistress.’

I stared speechless at his splendour – the high-crowned, black hat with a jewelled band; the silver collar of Yorkist sunnes-and-roses straddling his shoulders; and the Order of the Garter encircling his thigh. Such tailoring, too; the way his slashed, damson sleeves were stitched in – pouched to give breadth at the shoulders.

He thanked the musicians and ushered me from the room. As no one was in sight in the passageway, he kissed me on the mouth. I imagine he tasted my nervousness.

‘You are doing well, sweetheart.’

‘My lord, in all honesty I am fearful.’

‘Elizabeth, you will outshine the rest, believe me.’

I tried to smile. ‘It’s just that in your magnificence, you are like a stranger. Is every noble lord like to be dressed so? It dazzles me. I feel like a country mouse.’

‘But I know you are a proud little city mouse.’ He pinched my cheek. ‘You will surpass us all, believe me. And Talwood will look after you throughout. Do exactly as he says and all will go smoothly. Now, we must make haste. There’s a tailor standing by to make adjustments to your costume.’

I followed him back to the confusion of the greater chamber. The instant he entered, the room hushed. I swiftly curtsied to him with the rest.

‘Friends,’ Hastings began, addressing the players, ‘Remember the purpose of the disguising is to provide joy and laughter. If aught goes wrong, do not put on a grim visage but bluff it out. Are the battlements and wooden horse at the ready, Master Curthoyse?’

An officer straightened and stepped forward. ‘They are, my lord.’

‘Excellent. As you were, good friends. I leave you in the Master of the Wardrobe’s capable hands.’

No one moved.

‘Your pardon, my good lord,’ called out one of the actors, ‘but we ‘ave no Helen.’

Hastings gave a nod to Talwood to deal with the matter and left the chamber.

Talwood gestured me to my feet. ‘This is Helen.’

‘But she’s a woman.’

O Blessed Christ, I thought, I’m the only woman here. This is wrong, very wrong.

Beside me, Talwood bristled, ‘And your point, sirrah?’

‘Our point,’ yelled someone else, ‘is that only men can be players.’

Talwood was primed. ‘This woman is a dancer. She has no lines. Pirouette, darling, pirouette !’ he hissed. Scarlet-faced, I turned, swirling my skirt as gracefully as I might.

A dancer ! I blew the actors a kiss and sank in a deep curtsy. Christ’s mercy, what if this reached the Guild? Shore would turn me out of doors. I could find myself begging on the streets tomorrow. I must be lunatic.

Appeased, the players returned to their preparations.

‘Thank Heaven for that,’ Talwood said, fanning himself. ‘Oh, they are so precious. Now, let’s get you dressed.’

There was no privacy and I had to swallow my sense of niceties. I had imagined a gorgeous robe with purfiled hem; the tailor presented me with two lengths of thin blue silk. Secured at the shoulders and cinched with a narrow cloth-of-gold belt, this was Helen’s costume. That unravelled my excitement. The fabric scarcely covered my knees; the side slits – ‘devils’ windows’–would expose me to the thigh; and the flesh-coloured hose and garters had gone missing. I refused to dance without a petticote.

‘You’re a beautiful ancient Greek, remember, dearie,’ clucked the tailor from his knees as I insisted he close up the side seams. ‘Them maidens went bare-legged because of the heat, and bare-arsed too in case they met any of those lovely pagan gods. There, I’m not sewing the windows any lower.’

I refused the uncomfortable saffron wig. At least the pretty half-mask of white satin, edged with silver braid, was perfect, but as I began to tie it on, Master Talwood twittered in protest. Frantic gestures on his part summoned a man with several tubby facebrushes poking out of his waistcloth. Along with him came a boy with a peddler’s tray – a minute woodland of charcoal sticks, kohl and pastes of all colours.

They smudged blushes across my cheekbones, puffed a fulsome shimmer of gold dust wherever my skin was uncovered and added red to my lips. Fine dark lines were gently drawn around my eyes and my hair was unbraided, draped over my right shoulder and tethered with a golden clasp.

Finally, Talwood took out a wrapper from his doublet and drew back its folds to reveal a necklace of gilded leaves. ‘It’s only lent to you by my lord, you understand,’ he warned.

The boy offered me a silver mirror. Mistress Shore had vanished behind the pagan artifice. Caparisoned in mask and silks, I felt as skittish as an inexperienced tournament horse, and these last moments of waiting while the trestles of the great hall were stacked away could have been torture save some of the players joked with me in friendly fashion and smoothed away my fears.

Hastings came back to make a final inspection of us. ‘Is Lord Paris not here yet?’ he exclaimed wearily. ‘Curthoyse, fetch him hither NOW!’ He moved along the line and halted before me. ‘Where in Hell is Helen’s coronet?’

‘Lordy!’ The tailor scuttled out and returned with a circlet of tinsel threaded with artifice cornflowers, poppies and laurel.

‘Princess.’ Hastings clicked his fingers for the diadem. With the smile of a sinful archbishop, he crowned me.

Westminster Palace Hall was in shadow save for the bright ring of candles in the centre where we were to strut. We were herded behind a screen and there we huddled awaiting the return of the royal retinue. I was not the only player who gasped at the massive dimensions of the hall. Huge oaken beams, carved with angels’ heads, thrust out from the walls above our heads and higher still was a great row of embrasured windows, set in jowls of stone, and in each stood a stern, crowned statue.

I knew from Father that a huge stone table ran along the dais. Peering between my companions’ shoulders, I made out the glimmering stretch of white cloth. No one was seated there; the two thrones and benches were empty.

Below the dais at the sides of the hall stood massive cupboards with shelves of glinting platters and flagons. Every other inch of wall was lined with trestle tables propped lengthways. In front of these were the benches and here sat the rest of the court using the trestle supports as backrests.

A trumpet sounded. I heard the assembly rise in a rustle of apparel to make obeisance. Crammed as I was amongst the sweaty bodies jostling for a view, my mouth went dry and my heart panicked, but then the small pipes began and the Greek kings stepped forward leaving me space to breathe. I forced my lungs to calm and crossed myself against evil. Vigilant Talwood patted my arm; I had no choice but to screw up my courage.

Our disport began with poetry but no one in the court was listening. Only when several gentlemen began to call out ribald comments to the players, did the fine lords hush to listen to the jests.

As each Greek king was introduced, I had the chance to distinguish the chief players. The man portraying my husband, King Menelaus of Sparta, was a scrag end of a creature. His brother and blustering overlord, King Agamemnon, looked fit to run a tavern. Achilles had such a magnificent body, all bronzed with metallic paint, that he had me wondering if the King, England’s own ‘Achilles’, had stooped to play a part. No, as the warrior drew back, I heard a shrewish whine: ‘‘Ere, why ‘as ‘ector been given betta armour than me?’

Prince Paris, thank Heaven, was sufficiently manly to be Helen’s lover. He drew great applause as he swaggered forth. Except for a glittering baldric, his chest was bare. I was shocked by his immodest kilt. The leather straps scarcely covered his breech clout.

‘Be ready!’ Talwood whispered as the Greek kings returned behind the screen.

The flute’s voice sounded sensuously.

And now Prince Paris, blessed by moonless sky ,

Like a night thief hides among the shadows

To see this beauteous lady—

‘Now!’ Talwood shoved me forth and there were whoops and cheers as I curtsied .

Hill, the tabor player, began a sensual beat and the beguiling notes of the small pipes softly slid into the rhythm.

Snared in the circle of light, I lifted my invisible hand mirror at arm’s length and danced with my reflection. Hidden behind my mask, Elizabeth Lambard was unshackled, free to become Helen of Troy, a princess who knew she could make men kill to possess her. As I stilled, sensing Paris’ presence, like a doe hearing her hunter, it was no longer Hastings’ face in my make-believe mirror but a lover I’d always dreamed of.