The Tournament Read Free Page B

betrothed. One who will be a moral example to Elizabeth. Not some silly strumpet who will be tempted to stray in an exotic land or liaise with the guards on the journey there—wait, I know! Primrose Ponsonby and her husband, Llewellyn.’
    My teacher groaned at the suggestion. ‘The Ponsonbys . . .’
    Miss Katherine said, ‘They are model Christians, tragically childless, yet ever keen to be of service to the king. If they go with you, Roger, my fears will be somewhat assuaged.’
    ‘Very well. Agreed.’
    A moment later the two of them entered our study.
    Mr Ascham nodded at me. ‘What say you, Bess, since we have to leave this place anyway, would you like to go on an adventure?’
    ‘To where, sir?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.
    ‘You know exactly where, young miss. You have been listening from behind the door.’ He smiled. ‘You need to gasp more quietly if you are to become a master spy, little one. To the chess tournament in Constantinople. To watch Mr Giles compete.’
    I leapt up, smiling broadly. ‘What a splendid idea! Can Gwinny and Elsie come, too? Can they? Please?’
    Mr Ascham frowned, glanced at Miss Kate. ‘I fear I am already bending far too many rules just by taking you, my young princess,’ he said. ‘It is too much to ask of your chaperones to govern three of you, but two would be manageable. You may bring one friend along.’
    I hesitated, glancing at my two friends. There you were, Gwinny, shy and sweet, a wallflower if ever there was one, looking at me with quiet hope while Elsie’s entire being blazed with excitement; her eyes wide, her fists clenched in desperate anticipation. She adored romantic tales about dashing princes in glittering palaces. A trip to an exotic city in the east was her dream come true. I had her undivided attention and I liked it.
    ‘I shall take Elsie!’ I cried, and Elsie squealed and threw her arms around me in utter delight. As I struggled in her embrace, I confess I did notice how you bowed your head in dismay.
    The young make mistakes. This is what they do. And given the awful things that occurred in Byzantium, perhaps this choice was a mistake.
    But having said that, given the true and lasting friendship that we have forged over the course of our lives, Gwinny—and mark my words, queens need true friends—there is a part of me that is glad for that error, for in choosing Elsie, I spared you the trauma of witnessing firsthand the events I beheld in the Moslem sultan’s court.

THE JOURNEY, OCTOBER 1546
    WE LEFT HERTFORDSHIRE ON the 1st of October in the year of our Lord, 1546, with a small caravan of two wagons and six guardsmen to protect us on our way.
    Mr Ascham rode out in front astride his beloved courser, a big mare that had failed woefully as a jouster. My teacher didn’t care; he had bought her for her gentle temperament. He rode with his longbow slung over his shoulder. He had written a book on the subject of archery in which he argued that every male of adult age in England should be compelled to become expert in the use of the bow. Indeed, whenever he travelled, he always wore his leather archer’s ring on his right thumb and a bracer on his left forearm should ever he be required to notch an arrow at short notice.
    Riding in the main wagon with Elsie and me was Mrs Primrose Ponsonby, who even in that bouncing cart sat with perfect poise, her back erect, her hands placed neatly in her lap. She was twenty-six years old, married but childless, and was more pious than a nun. The hood of her sky-blue travelling cape was perfectly pressed (its pale blue colour brought to my mind images of the Virgin Mary and I wondered if this was her intention), the powder on her face was flawlessly applied, and her lips were, as always, pursed in a scowl of disapproval. Everything offended her: the low neckline of Elsie’s stomacher (a sign of the loose morals of the day), the mud-spattered armour of our escorts (lack of discipline), and, of course, Moslems