The Queene's Christmas by Karen Harper

Author:Karen Harper
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: mystery, cozy, recipes, women sleuths, historical, holiday
ISBN: 0312994729
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2003-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Despite being strung tight as a lute string, Elizabeth enjoyed the evening. The roast suckling pig was good—the first solid meat that had appealed to her in days—and naught appeared under silver serving lids on platters that should not be there. She had a double helping of the rich date-and-cinnamon Yule fool, the music pleased her, and everyone seemed happy to be wearing splendid costumes, Kat especially. Vicar Bane was the only one not so attired, though he did deign to don a plain half mask with huge eyeholes, the better to spy on everyone, she thought. But evidently the fun and gaiety were too much for him, for she saw him rip his mask off and depart in a huff after dinner.

She soon began to breathe even easier. At Robin’s sign, while the ladies waited, the men who would return as the mummers slipped out to prepare their grand entrance. For some reason, the audience waited for an inordinate amount of time. She supposed she should have kept Ned as Lord of Misrule, for Robin was surely a novice at all this.

But everyone oohed and aahed when the men piled into the room helter-skelter, laughing and singing about “Good King Wenceslas,” though the second time through they changed the chorus to “Good Queen Elizabeth.” Along with everyone else, she tried to pick out who was who, but the mummers wore matching armored breastplates and helmets with their visors down. Identical bouncing white plumes made them look like knights ready for joust or battle. Yet everyone was soon laughing that their singing, echoing strangely, came from inside those domes of steel.

“I should think they would all go breathless and deaf in those!” Rosie cried, holding her sides she was laughing so hard.

Occasionally, two or more of the mummers would stage a willy-nilly sword fight between songs, or open a visor just enough to gulp down more ale or mulled cider. Cecil, nervous as a cat, came up to stand beside her chair.

“Ordinarily, they’d all be in the Tower for so much as drawing a sword in the monarch’s presence,” he groused.

“My dear Cecil, it’s Fools day,” she chided gently, “and the Lord of Misrule is in charge tonight, not me. Besides, my yeomen guards stand at the ready all around the room should someone step out of line.”

Even though she was tempted to give a sign to Robin to stop the swordplay, she couldn’t be sure which knight he was. Their tall helmets and feathers made them look the same height, the same build, and they all wore black hose and shoes. She supposed that was why her father finally halted the mumming years ago. Men got away with drunken or raucous deeds and were completely disguised. But she could tell the mummers were running out of strength and breath in those hot shells. Soon they would lift their visors and be done with this tomfoolery.

She was wrong, though, for they were leaving, being herded out by someone, though that knight didn’t carry himself like Robin.

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