Her uneasy eyes traveled down the long table in the middle of the hall, in search of her husband. He caught her look and smiled reassuringly. She breathed easily again. John was there, now she could enjoy to the full all the magnificence surrounding her.
Behind a railing that ran around two sides of the room were a crowd of humble citizens, come to view their sovereign as he feasted. Among them was Adam, watching intently the honors paid to Pocahontas.
“Truly this is a queersome world. There sits a savage from the wilds feasting with the King, and poor Adam Clotworthy, a citizen of London, has to stand with the gaping crowd behind the railing. But she is a jewel, God bless her. Adam has not fallen so low as to envy her good fortune.” Something to this effect were the ruminations of Adam as he leaned against a balustrade to enjoy the scene.
The walls of the hall were hung in tapestries of gold and purple silk garnished with pearls and amethysts. In a gallery opposite the chairs of state musicians were playing Christmas ditties to aid the digestion of the courtly guests seated at the long table extending the entire length of the hall. Movable buffets, holding gold and silver plate, stood near the King’s dais. His table was set with rich gold plate once the property of the House of Burgundy. Agate cups held sparkling wine from the vineyards of Bordeaux. From the door leading to the buttery issued the Lord Chamberlain, followed by a host of servants bearing both delicate and substantial viands to tickle the palates of the diners.
“My Lord of Suffolk, fill the cup given us by the Constable of Castile and present it to the Princess Rebecca. We drink her health,” said James.
Filling a dragon-shaped goblet of crystal and gold with sparkling wine, the Lord of Suffolk presented it to Pocahontas, who drank in acknowledgment of the good-natured monarch’s toast.
Leaning across his Queen, James said to Pocahontas, “Your royal father hath used the scalping-knife somewhat freely upon our liege subjects, we have heard.”
“Powhatan worships Okee. He bends not the knee to the Royal Christ. When warriors offend, he kills. Therefore he is feared, not loved,” she answered, sadly, unconscious of the irony of her reply.
“She has you there, Cousin,” laughed the jester, Archie Armstrong, shaking his hooded head until the bells jangled. “According to our copper-colored relative, a Christian prince should not deprive his loving subjects of breath whereby they may abuse him. Therefore, your reign has been a failure, as many heads on London Bridge can testify. Shut up the Tower—banish the hangman—give yourself over to hawking, and place the reins of government in my hands.”
“Ay, and a likely time they wad have of it, I warrant, you auld rattlepated loon!” retorted the King.