Chapter 8 #2
A deep blush stained Elizabeth’s cheeks; at fifteen, she was not yet accustomed to the attention of men.
For years, she had watched from afar as her mother and sister had charmed the vast male contingent in the castle, but none of these males had ever more than glanced in her direction.
In the past months, though, she had noticed a change and it both flustered and excited her in equal measure.
The ever-shifting household of family, friends and visitors was largely male and the curious glances which were now thrown in her direction increased with each passing week.
Her mother had always told her she was beautiful, but, as Elizabeth, Muriel and their cousin Margery agreed, this was the job of a mother, ensuring the next generation was aware of their worth.
Elizabeth was the eldest daughter from the Howard marriage, the daughter of an earl, and whether she had been pretty or plain, her mother would have announced her as the greatest beauty since Helen launched a thousand ships.
Such comments and reputation were necessary for paving the way to impressive betrothals.
Her eldest half-sister, Margaret, had been married when only ten years old and sent to live with her husband, John Sandys’s family.
After she was widowed, she then married Sir Thomas Bryan and now had two children, Francis and Elizabeth, with another on the way.
Elizabeth hardly knew her, but on a brief visit, she had been surprised at the strong resemblance Margaret bore to their mother.
Anne, too, was as tall and slender as the countess, and Elizabeth, smaller in stature, always felt overshadowed by the glamour and confidence Anne exuded as she swept into rooms, commanding attention with a toss of her head.
The countess’s hair was dark, with tentative silver strands making lines through its glossy length; Anne’s was a few shades lighter with hints of auburn, while Elizabeth’s hair was lighter again with blonde and copper lights.
The youngest, Muriel, favoured their mother.
Skelton stood up from his bow, replaced his cap, then bent to the nearest rosebush and removed one of the early-flowering varieties.
He kissed it, offering it up to her before tucking it into his doublet near his heart.
Elizabeth looked away, trying not to giggle at the extravagance of his gesture.
Skelton turned to leave, but before he had moved a few steps, one of her mother’s servants ran up to him, ushering him towards the castle.
Elizabeth turned away, returning her attention to the drawing and, with swift, confident strokes, she finished her sketch of a classical laurel wreath which she had embellished with twists of ivy.
As a final flourish, she added a series of delicate rosebuds.
By the time John Skelton arrived in the countess’s chamber, Elizabeth had regained her composure.
‘I shall regale you with poetry while you work,’ said Skelton after the countess had welcomed him and called for refreshments.
‘My muse guides me towards a great work. I am inspired by the travails of the poet Dante Alighieri in his Divine Comedy. He faced the inferno and purgatory, with its nine circles of hell, until he discovered paradise. There is also the work of our own Geoffrey Chaucer and his poem The House of Fame. With my offering, I shall prove my love and gratitude to the Howard family who has treated me with such kindness.’
‘What is your poem about?’ asked Anne.
‘It is set on a ship of fools where my hero, Drede, faces seven tempters: Favell or Flattery, Suspicion, Harvey Hafter – a rogue, Disdain, Riot, Dissimulation with his two-sided cloak and Deceit. Each in turn welcomes Drede, befriends and betrays him. It’s a lesson about life and how we must learn from every situation, always reaching for virtue. ’
Agnes gave an involuntary giggle before hastily turning it into a cough. Skelton gave her a surreptitious wink.
‘My poem is now midway through and Drede is torn between his twin desires of his longing for immortality and his yearning for earthly fame as a poet. At first, he is melancholic and depressed, before he has a dazzling dream that takes him to the pavilion of Dame Pallas and the palace of the Queen of Fame—’
‘And you say Geoffrey Chaucer wrote a poem called The House of Fame?’ interrupted Margery. ‘How interesting.’
Skelton’s irritation at the incursion on his recital was fleeting.
He forced a smile and continued, ‘Indeed, and this is why I intend to include the great man, Chaucer, in a scene where a jury is called to judge whether Drede is a real poet. The other two wise men will be John Gower and John Lydgate.’
‘I shall look forward to reading it,’ said Margery, neatly stitching a rosebud from a small piece of red satin, her brown eyes wide with innocence.
Elizabeth suppressed a giggle. Margery could not bear artifice and her tone was one of gentle sarcasm. Anyone aware of her wit and humour would recognise she was mocking Skelton’s pomposity.
‘Will we appear in your poem, Master Skelton?’ asked Anne, accepting a laurel leaf made from green velvet, beautifully stitched with silver thread, from Elizabeth before sewing it with the others onto the willow frame they were using to create John Skelton’s garland.
‘Indeed,’ he exclaimed, ‘Lady Elizabeth has inspired me to compare her with Criseyde from the epic poem Troilus and Criseyde by the wondrous Mr Chaucer. I shall describe her as “pleasant, demure and sage”.’
Anne chuckled and Elizabeth squirmed with a mixture of embarrassment and delight at being noticed by a man, who, despite his overblown manner, was undeniably handsome.
‘We shall look forward to reading it,’ said the countess with a wry smile. ‘Lizzie, sit with me a while.’
Elizabeth rose from her position on the floor and walked sedately towards her mother, aware of Skelton’s eyes on her as she moved. Her mother patted the embroidered stool beside her.
‘We shall finish these rosebuds for Anne to add to the garland,’ said the countess.
‘Yes, Mama,’ said Elizabeth.
Skelton made his way around the room as the women talked and laughed.
Elizabeth and her mother sewed in companionable silence for a few moments, then Lady Howard said, ‘You’re growing into a beautiful young woman, Lizzie.’
‘Thank you, Mama,’ she demurred.
‘When your father is next home from London with your brothers, we must begin discussing your betrothal.’ Elizabeth’s heart pounded as her mother continued, ‘Are there any young men who have visited in recent months who have caught your eye? We have entertained many of your older brothers’ friends, many of whom are from Norfolk, where we shall hopefully return one day. ’
Elizabeth hesitated. She knew her parents’ marriage was happy and they were determined to ensure their children found such joy, as well as strategic and politically useful matches, with their unions.
‘Edward’s friend, Thomas Boleyn, is very pleasant,’ said Elizabeth, her cheeks turning a deep pink, her mother gave a satisfied smile.
‘Thomas Boleyn, the son of Sir William and Lady Margaret Boleyn. She is the daughter and co-heir of Thomas Butler, 7th Earl of Ormond; as her eldest son, Thomas might be eligible to inherit the title. He is also creating quite a name for himself at court with his linguistic and diplomatic skills.’
‘You know a lot about of him,’ said Elizabeth.
‘It’s my job as your mother,’ the countess replied with a wink. ‘When your father is home, he and I shall discuss matters. In the meantime, Anne and I will finish polishing you so that when you are called to court, you shall cut a swathe through the nobility.’
Elizabeth focused on the leaf she was embroidering, but she could not stop the smile building deep within her at the thought of the dashing Thomas Boleyn.