The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien
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by a winter gale. My life as an indulged daughter had come to a breathless halt.
‘Give me your hand, Elizabeth,’ the Duke said softly.
I complied.
Onto my finger, the Duke pushed a ring. A beautiful thing of gold set with a ruby of vast proportions that glowed in the light. An object I would have coveted, but in the circumstances roused no emotion at all beyond the thought that the chains of a marriage I did not want were being fastened around me with this valuable gift. The ring was heavy on my finger.
‘A gift to commemorate this auspicious day. It belonged to your mother, my beloved Duchess Blanche. I thought it was fitting that, as a married woman, you should now wear it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Never had I said so little when in receipt of a valuable gift, when normally I might have been tiresomely effusive. Today I was as wooden as the figure on the quintain on the practice field.
‘I have made arrangements for your new household. You will receive moneys befitting your status …’
But the Earl was fast losing interest in such detail, his eye straying to a minor commotion in the window embrasure, and my father laughed.
‘Such matters can be dealt with tomorrow. There is no hurry. You have all your lives together after today.’ His eye slid to mine as the ice in my belly solidified into a hard ball of dismay. ‘Why not introduce Lord John to what has taken his attention.’
‘Of course, sir.’
I looked away, fearing that he might read the rebellion in my mind, beckoning to the boy to follow me, trying not to hear the laughter and comment behind me as my espousal was celebrated. I was ashamed of the unexpected threat of tears as the chatter reached me.
‘It is good that they get to know each other.’
‘They will make an impressive pair.’
No, we would not. I towered over him by a good three hand spans.
But I dutifully led the Earl as instructed to where a parrot sat morosely on a perch in the window. Much like I felt. It was large and iridescently green with snapping black eyes and a beak to be wary of. It was never cowed by its soft imprisonment, and it came to me that I might learn a thing or two from this ill-tempered, beautiful bird. By the time we stood before it, my weak tears were a thing of the past. This was the platter placed before me and I must sup from it.
Utterly oblivious to the underlying currents in the chamber, and certainly to my thoughts, the boy became animated, circling the stand to which the bird was chained.
‘What is it?’
‘A popinjay. Have you not seen one before?’
But then I could not imagine the Countess of Norfolk allowing such a bird in her solar. A popinjay represented erotic love rather than the romantic or sentimental.
‘Does it speak?’ the Earl demanded.
‘Sometimes.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Benedicamus Domine. And then it sneezes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is what Father Thomas, our priest, says. He tries to teach it better ways. And Father Thomas sneezes a lot.’
The boy perused the bird. ‘Is it an ill-mannered creature then?’
‘They say popinjays are excessively lecherous.’
Which meant nothing to the spritely Earl. ‘Can I teach him to speak?’
‘If you wish.’
He reached out a bold hand to run his fingers along the feathers of the bird’s back.
‘It bites,’ I warned.
‘It won’t bite me!’
It did.
‘God’s Blood!’ The boy sucked his afflicted knuckle while I could not help but laugh, wondering where he had picked up the phrase that sat so quaintly with his immaturity.
‘I warned you.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Undeterred, he tried again and managed to stroke the bird without harm. ‘What’s its name?’
‘Pierre.’
‘Why?’
‘All our parrots have been called Pierre.’
‘Is it male? Or female?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I have one?’
‘If you wish.’
‘I do. And it will wear a gold collar.’
It made me laugh again, perhaps with a touch of hysteria. The bird was more to his taste than I was. He was certainly much taken with it.
‘I will buy you one.’
‘Will you? When you are my wife?’
‘Yes.’ My heart thudded. By this time tomorrow I would be Countess of Pembroke.
‘Can I call you Elizabeth?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I am John.’ His gaze returned to the bird that proceeded to bite at its claws. ‘Perhaps I will call my parrot Elizabeth. If it is female of course.’
What a child he was. Eyes as brown as the chestnut fruit, his bowl of hair rich and curling of a similar hue, he was incongruously charming.
‘Do you wish to wed me?’ I asked, willing to be intrigued by his reply. I had no idea what an eight-year-old child would think of marriage.
The boy thought about it while observing the parrot’s attentions to its toes.
‘I suppose so.’ His smile, directed at me, was thoroughly ingenuous. ‘You are very pretty. And a parrot as a marriage gift would be perfect. Or a falcon. Or even a hound. I would really like a hound. A white one, a hunting dog, if you could. Did you know that if you carry a black dog’s tooth in your palm, then dogs will not bark at you?’
‘No. I did not know that.’ So my affianced husband was an expert in the magical properties of animals.
‘It’s true, so they say. I’ve not tried it for myself.’ He tilted his head, on an afterthought. ‘What should I give you for a wedding gift, Madam Elizabeth?’
I had no idea.
As the welcome audience drew to a rapid close and our guests were shown to their accommodations, my father beckoned me, and in that brief moment when we were alone and out of earshot, I let my frustrations escape even though I knew I should not. Even though I knew in my heart that it would have no effect, my worries poured out in a low-voiced torrent.
‘How can I wed a child? How can I talk to this boy? I would have a husband who shares my love of the old tales, of poetry and song. I would have a husband who can dance with me, who can talk to me about the royal court, about the King and the foreign ambassadors who visit, of the distant countries they come from. You have given me a callow boy. I beg of you, sir. Change your mind and find me a man of talent and skill and learning. You found such a woman in my mother. Would you not allow me the same blessing in my marriage? I beg of you …’
I expected anger in my father’s face as I questioned his judgement, but there was none, rather an understanding, and his implacable reply was gentle enough.
‘It cannot be, Elizabeth. You must accept what cannot be changed.’
I bowed my head. ‘All he can talk about is parrots and hunting dogs!’ I heard the timbre of my voice rise a little and strove to harness my dismay. ‘He has given me a list of things he would like as a wedding gift. They are all furred and feathered.’
‘He