Twelfth Night is more than just a holiday; it's a vibrant spectacle of joy and tradition, as I covered in my previous post. In my novel The King's Mistress, this day not only celebrates the end of Christmastide, it's also my heroine's birthday.
Did I offer a nod to The Bard in this novel? In so much as Twelfth Night celebrations traditionally illuminate themes of love and transformation - and these are showcased wonderfully by Wil Shakespeare himself, I like to this so, but you can have a read and let me know.
The Magic of Twelfth Night
Twelfth Night, or the Feast of Epiphany, signifies the end of the Christmas season, celebrated on January 5th. This occasion is steeped in history, involving merrymaking, feasting, and vibrant celebrations.
Historically, community feasts have marked this day, with lavish banquets that often feature roasted meats, pies, and rich desserts. Consider that in 1600s England, it was reported that upwards of 60,000 festive celebrations occurred on Twelfth Night alone. These events frequently included masquerade balls filled with music and dance, making it a time when societal norms relaxed, allowing for playful interactions and merriment.
In A King's Mistress, the heroine's birthday falls right in this enchanting time frame, intensifying the celebrations. The festive spirit enhances her character's charm and resilience, highlighting both the joy of the moment and the undercurrents of intrigue.
Happy Birthday to Lady Lydia Clifton
Lydia's keen insight allows her to see beyond the masks people wear, revealing a strength she never believed she possessed, until she had to find it within herself. Themes of transformation and renewal are inextricably linked to Twelfth Night festivities and traditions - and they go back centuries. The timing of Lydia's birthday was no accident. The date represents both her personal growth and the dynamic of her romance with Valkin.
She confronts her desires, aspirations, and the influence of those around her. As she embraces the joyous spirit of Twelfth Night, her character evolves in tandem with the seasonal change—an important transformation that I hope resonates deeply with readers.
Your Free Extract from The King's Mistress
Twelfth Night (January 5), 1821, Forest of Bowland, Lancashire
Snow clouds swirled above Lydia’s head like some sort of otherworldly portent. Blinking flakes from her eyes, she turned at the sound of voices and footsteps. Two pairs of boots approached with another, heavier tread.
“Easy, girl.” Valkin’s deep drawl sent heat through her belly.
Lydia smiled in anticipation of his kiss. “Koshti Sarla, gentlemen.”
“Good evening, Lydie.” Her brother Wil was the first face she saw through the mist. He bowed, stepping closer, and it was only then that Lydia saw who accompanied him—or rather, what.
The fine-boned head of a high-stepping bay horse followed behind him. Valkin led the animal carefully by the bridle. The mare stamped two hooves in the freezing air, her graceful neck stretching as she began an exploratory sniff of Lydia’s hair.
“Oh.” Lydia gulped ice-edged air, moving a step closer to the brazier, gaze riveted on the beautiful creature. “Oh, Valkin. Is she—” She swallowed, breathing deeply. “Is she my horse?”
“She is indeed.” Valkin smiled, bowed, then took her hand in his and placed a soft kiss at her temple.
Lydia shook her head slowly, releasing his hand. “It is impossible,” she whispered, walking round and round the animal. “Utterly impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible, pireni.” Valkin laughed gently. “If you are stubborn enough.”
She grinned. “Some might call it determination.”
“Happy birthday, pireni.” Valkin lifted her fingers to his lips, kissing them before placing the reins in her palm and curling her fingers around the leather strappings.
“Yes, happy birthday,” Wil added, kissing her cheek.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, staring at the horse as though the mare were a dream. “How—how did you…?” She stroked the animal’s velvety nose. “Hello there.” She laughed as the mare rubbed hairy lips over her gloved fingers. “What is her name?”
“She is not yet named, nor registered, but she is yours, Lydie.” Valkin smiled gently. “Yours, absolutely.”
Lydia smiled back. Yours, absolutely. Wil cleared his throat, and she returned her attention to the horse.
“His Grace attempted to sell her abroad,” her brother explained. “I found it out and Valkin fetched her back for you. The mare foals in the spring and ought to journey no farther. Your bride price is met.”
Lydia breathed out quickly, inhaling another gasp of desperately cold air to dilute this delicious tension. Better. Definitely better, and she knew now precisely what she wished to do. She soothed her horse with rhythmic pats on her flank, then reached beneath her to unbuckle the girth. The mare shifted and snorted, horsey breath steaming beside Lydia’s own.
“What are you up to, Lydie?” Wil asked.
Lydia smiled to herself. “Unlacing her stays.” She kept her gaze on her fingers at Valkin’s burst of laughter.
“There.” She stood upright, removing the bridle as well. Once she’d placed the leather and silver finery on the bare ground, she led her horse by one confident hand beneath the mare’s head.
When she reached Valkin, she stopped, curtseying low and deeply. His gaze followed her movement, lingering over the swells of her breasts without a trace of self-consciousness. Desire flared in his eyes, matching the hot tingles in her belly.
“Will you accept this mare’s foal into the your stock, sir?” Taking his hand, she placed his large palm beneath the animal’s chin. “For all you have done for me,” she whispered. She couldn’t explain why she needed him to accept her gift, to allow her contribution. “Surely you have a use for this bloodline?”
“Your thoroughbred foal will make a valuable addition to our racing stock. I’ll train her him myself.” Valkin spoke with an urgency she’d not heard in his voice before. He reached for her hand, his warm gaze overflowing with love.
Lydia smiled at the sensation bubbling up from the sweet well inside her, flowing outward until she couldn’t contain her happiness, chose not to, and released her delight in a peal of infectious laughter. She turned to Wil.
“Does this mean we no longer require a chaperone, Wil? Oh—”
They stood alone, just her and Valkin. Her pulse skittered as he drew her close.
I hope you enjoy The King's Mistress.
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