by Lucy Jago
She knew she must go down to join Sir Edward, but she did not yet feel ready. The idea of being presented to the Queen frightened her almost as much as blowing up the cellars. Her grandfather had spent many hours over the past days preparing her. She had been given instruction in the geography and politics of the land, the greatest classical authors, and the main characters at court. She was told the Queen’s likes and dislikes, and taught the dances she would be expected to perform. Sir Edward had conceded, regretfully but to Cess’s intense relief, that there was insufficient time to master a musical instrument or a foreign language. When first she had eaten with him, he had grimaced and lectured her severely.
“Those at the top table use pewter trenchers on which to put their food, not a piece of bread. The little dip in the corner is for your salt—it is impolite to dip your meats into the main salt dish.” Cess had carefully speared a small pullet with her knife. “No, child, that dish is for four. You must let those of higher degree serve themselves before you. Do not load up your trencher, for it is impolite, and use the spoon, knife, or your fingers to put small pieces of food in your mouth.” Cess had withdrawn her knife and instead spooned a little sauce onto her trencher, believing her grandfather could not object to that. “Never leave your spoon in the communal dish—that is the height of bad manners, as is putting your leftovers back into the dish that others are eating from.” Cess hurriedly picked up her spoon, splashing a tiny bit of sauce on her bodice in doing so. She wiped at it with the tablecloth and heard Sir Edward tutting loudly. “Try not to dirty your clothes—they are very expensive—and watch the ruffs at your wrists. Everything you do must appear effortless and graceful, to reflect the gentility of your station. Take that napkin beside you and fold it over your left arm or shoulder. Have you ever used one before?”
“Not quite like this,” said Cess, remembering the square of dirty old linen she used to cover her lap as she sat round the fire pit, bread trencher in hand.
“It is to keep your face clean and to wipe your mouth before you drink. You will share your cup with the person sitting next to you and possibly with one or two others. When the Queen dines with us, of course, we shall have no cups upon the table, but you may call a servant to you whenever you wish for a drink, and he will bring you one from the cupboard. Hold it with both hands and do not put your elbows on the table for fear of rocking it.” Cess dabbed at her lips in what she hoped was an effortless manner, even though she had not yet eaten anything.
“Do not spit or pick your nose at table, of course,” continued Sir Edward, “although if you must blow it, be careful to wipe your fingers before putting them in any of the food dishes. And do not throw bones on the floor; there is a bowl for that.”
Cess had, understandably, eaten very little in Sir Edward’s company.
Her only sadness was that she had known Drax Mortain to be her father for just a few minutes before he was taken from her. She had seen into his heart and believed he could have been turned to good if the circumstances had been different. If only for a few heartbeats, he had been proud of her.
Suddenly, she saw Jasper run around the corner and up the steps, looking about, something dangling from his hands. She could not see what it was; it looked like a piece of knotty string. He seemed to be looking for her. Sir Edward had agreed to take him into the household, even when it traveled to court, to his mother’s immense delight. A few moments later, the sound of pounding feet on the stairs announced his arrival in the long gallery. He came to her side, and they smiled at one other. In his hands was a daisy chain, and he put it over her head with great ceremony. To Cess, it was much more valuable than the pearls she now wore.
With a sigh, she got up from her sunny vantage point and headed a little unsteadily to the staircase. She was not accustomed to the weight of the clothes she was expected to wear, now that she was heir to the Montacute estate. Her kirtle was of thick silk, embroidered with so many flowers and seed pearls that it stood up on its own. It stuck out almost an arm’s length away from her hips on a farthingale, a great cage of wood and linen tied round her waist. She felt like an ox with a wooden yoke. She had a bodice as before, but this one had whalebones sewn into it to keep her posture straight and push up what little bosom she had. Her sleeves, so tight she could not bend her arms, were tied to the bodice with silk cords, and the gown dragged on the ground behind her. Two heavy strings of pearls constantly caught the little hairs on the back of her neck. Her headdress was the most uncomfortable change, used as she was to a linen coif. It felt like she had a roof on her head, and the pins to attach it were pushed so firmly into her skull that her scalp ached.
“Perhaps the noble life will be terribly dull,” she worried out loud to Jasper, quite convinced it would be impossible to have any adventures in such attire. The shoes, however, made up for much. They were cut from the softest leather and dyed a deep rose madder to match her sleeves and skirt panel. They were so light she could barely feel them on her feet, and made her want to dance.
As they came down through the house, the rooms were still and watchful. The hubbub from outside was muffled. The last of the servants had gone outside to wave to the Queen as she progressed up the drive, and they had the place to themselves. The House, grand beyond her imaginings, was now her home.
As Cess walked into the sunshine, Jasper squeezed her hand, which was a little clammy with nerves, and together they went to join Sir Edward as he bowed to the Queen.
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
The Weald and Downland Open Air Museum in Sussex is a treasure trove of a place with historic buildings rescued from destruction that bring to life homes of the past. Thanks to this place, I learned what Elizabethan England smelled and tasted like, how drafty were its glassless houses, and also what few crops were harvested in May.
Montacute House in Somerset is owned by the National Trust and is a very beautiful place to visit. I grew up knowing it well, as my grandparents lived in the village. I spent many days getting muddy on Saint Michael’s Hill. The dovecote and priory gatehouse still exist, as, it is rumored, do the tunnels. Thanks to Brendon Owen for old maps of Montacute, and Joseph Lewis for information about Yeovil market.
Vivianne Crowley’s Wicca: The Old Religion in the New Age was informative about witchcraft rituals and beliefs, and was a source of inspiration for the witches’ chants.
Dr. Susan Doran helped me with modes of address, and Sarah Dunant, Gilliam Slovo, Preti Taneja, and Gabrielle Séguin gave me help and encouragement just when I needed it. Thank you especially to Sarah Odedina, Isabel Ford, and Talya Baker at Bloomsbury, my patient and clever editors, and my agent, Eugenie Furniss. Lily, Jasmine, and Cecily, I love you.
