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but never near like this. The deVeres were a blaze of lace and gold and jewels. The Baron’s doublet was brocaded with roses, his hose were blue, there were red rosettes on his silver shoes, his long curled hair and pointed beard glistened above the wired Valenciennes collar. The Baroness wore one of the enormous new-style farthingales Queen Anne had introduced; it stood out around her hips like a silk tent. Her greased hair was swept up high over pads and studded with sham jewels. The neck of her pointed bodice was cut so low you could see a little bit of her stomach between her breasts. Elizabeth thought that interesting, and she noted too that the lady did not seem very clean. There were shadows in the creases of her neck, a large stain of what looked like wine on the embroidered skirt; a strong smell of sweat mingled with the musk, and the heavily beringed hand had black fingernails. It must be that she was so rich and grand she did not have to wash, thought Elizabeth enviously.
    So entranced was Elizabeth by the deVeres that for awhile she did not notice they had brought people with them, two ladies and a gentleman. These weren’t nearly as impressive. The younger lady wore red silk edged with gold lace, and had some little pearls around her neck, yet she was somewhat dowdy. She was dark and plump and had a motherly air, like the Winthrops’ little spaniel bitch, Trudy.
    Jack, as the elder grandson and eventual heir to Groton Manor, had been taken around and introduced to all these people, but being now dismissed, he came back to Elizabeth, who greeted him eagerly, “Who’s them?” she whispered, “that came with the lord ... I like the red one, she looks like Trudy.”
    Jack’s brown eyes crinkled. “Mayhap she does! ‘Tis a Mistress Margaret Tyndal, and her brother, Arthur, and their mother, Lady Tyndal. They’ve come with the deVeres from Essex near Castle Hedingham where the Earl of Oxford lives.”
    “Are these Tyndals noble too?” asked Elizabeth, thinking how gloriously she could boast to her friend the goldsmith’s daughter when she got back to London.
    “No,” said Jack. “Lady Tyndal’s husband was a knight, a Master of Chancery ... He was murdered last year by a madman.”
    “Oh,” breathed Elizabeth, staring with all her eyes at Margaret Tyndal, who didn’t look at all like someone whose father had been murdered.
    Healths were drunk to King James and his Queen, and to their children: Charles, the Prince of Wales, and Elizabeth, the Queen of Bohemia. The Baron praised the Winthrop malmsey, and after several cupfuls proceeded to tell an exceedingly coarse story. It was about his Sovereign, and two pretty Scottish lads. Mistress Winthrop did not hear the anecdote; Lucy, the children and most of the neighbours did not understand it, but Anne, who lived in London, blushed, while Adam roared out between dismay and laughter, “Damme, my lord - d’ye mean our King must have his catamites? . . I’d thought him a roystering, full-blooded wencher!”
    “Ah, that’s as may be,” answered the Baron smiling, but with a shade of reserve to indicate that this country squire could scarcely be supposed to know what occurred at court. “What of the dancing, now?” went on deVere. “Let’s see how Groton music sounds . ..” His pale eyes roved over the assembled women and lit on Anne. “Mistress Fones shall dance with me. I’ll teach her the latest galliard.”
    Anne’s heart sank. The wine she had drunk no longer sustained her, an aching tiredness flowed through her bones, but there could be no refusal. She accepted the Baron’s moist hand, followed his high prancing steps as best she could and tried to avoid both his foul breath and the amorous looks he bestowed on her. Adam danced with the Baroness, the rest of the company paired off; the fiddler squeaked, the gittern plinked, the piper tooted, and the village drummer, much awed by the grandeur of the occasion, timidly thumped his tabour