THE GREAT HALL at Greenwich Palace was massive, not only in size, but in its flagrant ostentation as well. Everything seemed to be done on a grand scale, which was only fitting for the dining of a King and his court. Garland wreaths were placed on the walls, and the great, high fireplaces were roaring to stave off the late autumn chill in the air. The ceiling of the hall was constructed of yellow roof timbers, offsetting the darkness of the hall itself and the glowing candlelight. Fresh rushes had been lain just for the occasion. Several long tables were set with bowls and goblets. The balconies above the hall were for the lesser people at court - servants, footmen and fools - while the nobility was seated according to stature nearest the King.

Naturally, the King held the place of honor at the head of a large table set in a three-sided square dais. His chair was laid with red velvet, the arms studded with small diamonds. The back was high, the top ridge carved with intricate lions heads. Gold plate and silver goblets were at the King's table setting, as was a small glass bowl and white cloth for the discreet washing of hands after eating each course.

Sir Thomas Bryan held a reserved place next to Harry Guildford and Meg, just six seats from the King. While Robin was relegated to the balcony, Francis would be able to sit next to Meg, thanks to the intervention of Harry. The chairs were of lesser elegance than the King's, of course, but they were cushioned in silver-and-white tapestry just the same.

Francis entered the Great Hall, trailing his father, sister and Harry. He was barely able to conceal his amazement. The hall seemed to take on an omnipresent glow from the many candles placed strategically on the tables. People filled the room, but there seemed to be a more subdued air than there had been in the entry way of the palace earlier. Lords and ladies were more circumspect, more controlled, in the regal atmosphere even though the King had not yet arrived. Voices appeared muted and calm, and every so often Francis would hear the faint whispers of awe from others. He felt reassured that he was not the only one present who felt the compelling anticipation of being in the presence of King Henry VIII.

"How long does the banquet last?" Francis whispered into Meg's ear.

"Several hours," Meg replied, her tone hushed. "There is the meal, of course, but there are also revelries and celebrations. You will see."

Francis took notice of his sister's appearance at that particular moment, surprised at Meg's glowing beauty. Having seen her as just his older sister all of his life, he had never thought of her as a "woman." He tried to be sensitive and not stare at her so, but he could not help stop himself. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time not only as a woman, but as a bone fide member of the gracious royal court. Meg had on a dark-blue velvet gown, cut square in the bodice as was the fashion, while a dainty white lace covering adorned her plaited hair. The folds of her skirt were different shades of blue, which only seemed to heighten the glowing beauty of her face. It struck Francis that Meg was as exhilarated as he was. Despite her own time at court, and the prestige of being lady-in-waiting to the King's sister, Princess Mary, she was under the magic spell of royalty the same as he.

He had to admit he felt confidence in his own attire. His hose was dark blue, with the lighter blue of his doublet almost matching Meg's dress. His breeches were black and slit with gold color, handmade by Robin Havers. It was another one of the valet's hidden talents, although not one he bandied about. Unaccustomed to the confines of such a uniform, Francis had at first felt self-conscious but realized everyone was dressed in the same manner, as befitting the occasion of the royal banquet. Francis' normal dress while at Marsworth - or anywhere else, for that matter - had been the typical dark brown hose and a beige doublet, comfortable and yet very practical. An amusing idea crossed his mind, almost making him laugh out loud: "If I stay with the royal court," Francis thought to himself, "I will have to become a mincing fop like the rest of the nobles. Smelly, with powdered body and all."

As no one was allowed to sit before the King arrived and sat himself, people were milling about, seemingly casual, although most eyes often strayed to the double-doors made of oak, which was the King's private entrance to the Great Hall. Francis was among them.

"Is the Queen at court?" Francis asked his sister. "I have heard no mention of her."

Thomas Bryan spoke up before Meg could reply. "Queen Catherine is at Windsor, son. She is heavy with child, and no doubt will give birth to a fine prince before too long."

Francis nodded absently, his eyes going to the royal doors involuntarily. He was expectant, just like everyone else in the room, and growing a trifle impatient with the wait.

"The King keeps his own time, Francis," Harry said, noticing Francis' gaze. "You will soon learn it well. We all dance attendance on him."

The doors suddenly opened, causing a hush to fall over the Great Hall. It was then, in that moment, that Francis Bryan laid eyes upon Henry Tudor, King of England.

Francis would remember this instant in time for the rest of his life. Years later, when he was old and musing, the memory would be one of those most fondly and vividly recalled. In simpler terms, it could easily be said it was where Francis' life began, or rather his life experiences and the formation of his true and complete character.

Henry VIII was perhaps the most magnificent and extraordinary specimen of a man for any age or time. His very presence in the room made the grandeur of Greenwich pale in comparison. As the King entered the Great Hall, flanked by four footmen resplendent in gold-and-black uniforms, all eyes were riveted to him.

Taller than any man in the room - save perhaps Francis himself - Henry VIII carried himself with an air of majesty as was befitting his station. He had  a natural air of self- confidence and authority. He had red-gold hair and bright blue eyes set in a squarely handsome face, with a small mouth and a long, narrow nose. His Majesty's muscular and athletic form was clothed in the greatest and most elegant of state. His shirt was of the finest silk, with a woven drawstring at the base of his neck. His doublet was of cloth of gold. Sewn amongst the ruffles of the puffed sleeves were studded rubies that shimmered off of the meager light in the room. Several gold chains adorned his neck, matching the small gold ring bands on every other finger of his hands. The King's breeches were also gold, slit with black and a dark red, the golden threads knotted and silky. The hose was a dark brown and made from satin, trimmed in white to match his gold-colored shoes. A velvet robe was draped over one shoulder, sloping downward toward his waist and lower body. The gold fringes of the robe swept behind him over the rushes on the floor, sending the footman behind him to pick up the slack.

The slender and fit King seemed to glide to his place at the table. As he moved, he nodded perceptibly to several of the nobles who stood with their wives, all of them bowing from the waist. The women dipped into the lowest of curtsies, spreading their skirts around their feet as they sank to the floor, heads appropriately lowered.

Once the King had seated himself, he draped the robe back over his shoulders. His bejeweled hand went up, signaling that the rest of the company could also be seated. There was almost a collective sigh of relief as people began to take their places. A small mistral in the gallery above the hall began to play music softly.

"God almighty," Francis whispered in Thomas Bryan's ear. "I never thought to see the like in my entire life."

"The King is quite impressive, is he not?" Thomas agreed, pleased by his son's proper awe in the face of royalty.

Impressive was beyond the comprehension and scope of words available for Francis to grasp. The King embodied majesty - as well he should - but it was more than that. Henry Tudor was natural King. Had he not been born to it, he would have surely found his way there somehow.

Next > (Chapter Eight)