The Lady Series

by Domning, Denise

  Bertie caught his breath as he recognized the name. “Are you mad?!” he cried. “Mistress Blanchemain is one of the queen’s maids. You cannot seduce one of those virgins!”

  “Hush, Bertie,” Kit warned. “Who said anything about seducing? All I want is a chance to spend time alone with her. Can I help that my heart is given?”

  “If it’s your heart you intend to give her then I’m the lord of Graceton,” his man snorted, turning in the saddle to study the frail, flat-chested woman.

  Kit looked as well. Having seen the fire in Mistress Anne’s eyes, he didn’t wonder why Sir Amyas set such a pinched-faced jailer on his granddaughter. Mistress Anne’s keeper was as tight in mind as she was in body. He’d seen her twice chide those around her for giving way to laughter, proclaiming that such explosions of gaiety opened the doors of their hearts to Satan.

  “Look how her mouth moves as if she’s speaking to some invisible companion,” Bertie said after a moment, his voice weak. “What’s she doing?”

  “Praying, no doubt,” Kit replied. “Sir Amyas would hardly supply his granddaughter with a servant of low morals now would he? I’ll wager the woman believes as he does.” He grinned at his servant.

  “But he’s a Calvinist,” Bertie cried, a worried line destroying the perfection of his brow.

  Kit reared back in his saddle in mock outrage. “What’s this, Master Cock-too-big-for-his-codpiece? I thought you expert in the seduction of unwilling women. Have I been led astray?” He pressed his hand to the front of his jerkin to display how much the notion of Bertie’s incompetence shocked him.

  “Imagine how stunned your companions will be when I tell them there’s one woman in the world beyond your charms,” Kit continued, “one woman who won’t even look in your direction.”

  Bertie’s eyes narrowed. Only now did he feel himself flopping and flapping at the end of his employer’s line. “You wouldn’t.”

  Kit’s grin widened in triumph. “Wouldn’t I?”

  “I should have known this was naught but a prank on your part,” the man muttered.

  “A week was it you said?” Kit asked, savoring his victory.

  Bertie once more turned his gaze on the tight-minded woman then heaved a martyred sigh. “I’ll think on it as the challenge of a lifetime.”

  It was the Maying, and what a glorious day it was! Early this morn all the men connected to the queen, from highest courtier to lowest scullery lad, left Greenwich Palace to hide among the rolling hills. Later, the queen and all her women, Anne among them, went out to find them. Now reunited, the party set to gathering their flowers and celebrating summer’s start with music, dancing, and laughter.

  Anne swept along the woodland path, seeking another hawthorn tree to strip. With her every step her hems stirred last year’s foliage and released the rich scent of a fertile earth, the aroma so potent she was fair drunk with it. The air above her was alive with the song of lark and thrush, the sweet notes twining with the sounds of lute and flute rising from the nearby meadow.

  Aye, it was a joyous day, and for more reason than just the festivities. A note came from Owls House this morn. In it Lady Frances wrote she was fully recovered from Sir Amyas’s attack, although the bitter tone of her sentences suggested Anne’s mother hadn’t forgiven her former in-law his assault.

  The next hawthorn Anne found was a gnarled oldster, rising from a bed of velvety green moss, sweet violets blooming at its feet. May’s advent left its horny branches clouded in fragrant white blossoms. A line of low bushes stood between it and the path Anne walked.

  Shifting her basket to her other arm, Anne turned to press through that insignificant barrier. Patience squeaked and caught Anne’s arm to stop her.

  “Nay mistress, you must not! We’re already too deep in the shadows,” she complained, her gaze darting about what was in truth a sunlight glade.

  Irritation nibbled at Anne’s fine mood. She yanked her arm free of her keeper’s hold and shot the woman a narrow look. The morn’s bright sun had added a wide-brimmed straw hat to Patience’s usual brown attire, but not a single ribbon broke the plainness of her headgear, and woe to anyone who offered her something so festive.

  “Patience, we’re only a few dozen yards from the clearing. There can be no harm in going a few steps farther.”

  Without a backward look Anne swept through the brush and stopped before the hawthorn. Patience followed, making tiny, fearful sounds as her skirts caught upon the dried bracken. Anne found her clippers in the basket and reached carefully into the tree, preparing to relieve the oldster of a few of its gay arms.

  “Mistress, it’s bad enough that the queen requires us all to attend the Maying, the day being Satan’s tool for claiming ownership of our souls. Why must she also command we wander unprotected in this dank wildness?” Patience asked, sidling uneasily behind Anne.

  “What does it matter why? I am but her servant and must do as my royal mistress commands,” Anne replied, rolling her eyes in frustration.

  Upon their arrival in the meadow this morn Elizabeth had declared her bower not festive enough. Her maids were dispersed into the fields and woodlands to gather more flowers with which to decorate it. It was Anne’s chore to find the mayflowers.

  “What befuddles me is how you can call newborn foliage and glorious flowers a dank wildness.”

  “What else would I call it?” Patience replied, her eyes narrowing and her arms crossing as she gathered momentum in her complaint. “Men and women are wandering unchaperoned among these trees. They could be doing—things—in the shadows.”

  “I’m not,” Anne retorted, wishing to God she were doing anything other than keeping company with her governess. Putting the branch she’d just taken into her basket, she again carefully thrust an arm into the tree, trying not to let the thorns snag at the fine cotton of her shirtsleeves.

  “I daresay it won’t be long before you are.” Jaw set, Patience waited until Anne laid another flower-bedecked bough into her basket then caught her mistress’s oversleeve. It dangled beneath Anne’s arm by the ribbons that tied it into her bodice. “Look how the day’s evil has already tempted you into untying your sleeves.”

  Anne shot her keeper a nasty glance. No matter how right Patience might be about the impropriety of loosening her oversleeves, Anne had no intention of refastening them. “The thorns would ruin them, and this is the first chance I’ve had to wear them.”

  In accord with the day’s pastoral theme she’d paired sleeves and overskirt made of a fragile sky-blue silk with a white bodice and underskirt embroidered with tiny flowers in every color of the rainbow. Her hair was covered with a pearl-strewn red caul, while a wide brimmed hat trimmed with bright ribbons sat upon her head.

  Again, Anne thrust her arm into the hawthorn. The clippers closed on another next branch with a satisfying snap. Would that it were Patience’s neck.

  “This Maying is hardly sinful,” she said, laying the branch atop the others. “Indeed, this celebration is far tamer than those I knew at home. There, it wasn’t to display cold foods that the folk in the village near Owls House spread their blankets. I can think of four lasses who came to childbed nine months after.” She cast a knowing look upon Patience.

  Patience’s eyes widened in shock. “Nay,” she gasped, mortified.

  “Good morrow, Mistress Blanchemain,” a man said.

  As one, Anne and Patience whirled to face the pathway behind them. Three men stood upon that thread of dirt, all awaiting the chance to present themselves to the heiress. The oldest of them bowed, his round belly filling his red doublet to its capacity.

  “Mistress, we were introduced yesterday. I am Sir George Fulmerson.” Only then did Anne remember he was a widower looking for a wife to mother his young children.

  The handsome man at the other end of the wee group swept off his cap. “Master Richard Newton,” he said.

  Anne nodded. Mary had spoken of him, saying he was a good Protestant, although apparently not so st
rict that he shunned celebrations. More importantly, he was connected to the duke of Norfolk.

  As Master Newton rose from his bow, a charming smile bent his lips. “I’d offer you my services in your quest for branches. No doubt you’ll find my assistance more beneficial than that of others.” The slur found its target as Sir George shot him a snarling look.

  Caught between them like a grain between the millstones was young Master Kelway. Although this was a day for tromping about wood and field the slight lad wore silken attire more appropriate to the Presence Chamber. Anne didn’t doubt he’d chosen the more formal dress in the hopes his otherwise meek appearance would be disguised.

  “I’d aid you as well,” the youth proclaimed, grimacing as his voice squeaked up an octave.

  Patience glowered. The opportunity to tweak her pleased Anne well indeed. With a smile she beckoned them to her. “But you must all help me in my first official duty for Her Majesty,” she told them.

  Once through the bracken Sir George elbowed his way past Master Richard to snatch up her basket, holding it out so Anne might lay her next branch into it. “I understand your life was quite isolated with your mother, Mistress Anne,” he said. “Could it be this is your first Maying?”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Master Newton snapped, before Anne had a chance to speak. The young man’s narrow nose nigh on quivered at the indignity he perceived done to her by Sir George’s question. “How can you conceive of anyone in all England who hasn’t been a-maying?”

  Irritation shot through Anne. How dare he speak for her? He didn’t even know her. The next snip of Anne’s clipper cut Master Richard from her list of potential mates.

  “Owls House isn’t as isolated as that,” she said, trying not to give Master Newton the satisfaction of confirming his arrogant statement.

  Sir George’s mouth took a sly twist as he set to driving off the competition. “Speaking of ignorance, it’s said your duke isn’t content to own half of England. I hear Duke Thomas plans a wedding that will give him all of Scotland as well, although I doubt his choice of wives will please our Gloriana.”

  Anne drew a quick breath and turned to look at the middle-aged knight. Three days at court and she’d already heard the rumors that Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, meant to wed the Scots queen. Her gaze darted to the duke’s man as she awaited his answer.

  Master Newton’s eyes narrowed. “Gossip is for old women,” he warned, his voice low and harsh, “and ancient men, like you.”

  His challenge sent new worry tearing through Anne. Another thing three days at court taught her was that Elizabeth’s courtiers owned tempers hotter than any coal. “Peace, gentleman,” she said to them, trying for a soothing tone. “I pray you if you argue before me my heart will break.”

  Her words came too late. Sir George’s face reddened, the second of his chins disappearing as he thrust out his jaw. He dropped Anne’s basket, his hands closing. “Do you dare insult your better?”

  “Better?” Master Newton snarled. “If you are my better, it’s in title only. If you doubt, try me and we’ll soon see who’s the better man.”

  Anne glared at them. Rather that she remained unwed for all her days than choose a husband from these sorts. The desire to encourage them to fight to the bloody end rose.

  “Enough,” she snapped, “begone with you, taking your argument with you as you leave me.”

  Both men started at her commanding tone. While Sir George stared in shock, Master Newton’s eyes narrowed in disgust at such forward behavior in a woman. “As you will, mistress,” he said, then turned on his heel and strode away without a backward look.

  “Mistress Anne,” Sir George tried to protest.

  Anne shook her head, no longer caring what he thought of her. “Nay, Sir George. I’ll not tolerate such violence in my presence.”

  The knight sighed then bowed. “I beg pardon, mistress, praying the insult I’ve done you won’t ruin what remains of your day.” With sadness in his step he started toward the meadow.

  “Good riddance,” Patience muttered beneath her breath.

  “That leaves only me,” Master Kelway crowed quietly, nearly wriggling in his satin at such good fortune.

  He turned to Anne. “I’m your servant, Mistress Blanchemain. Cut your branches.” He snatched up the basket and awaited the chance to collect his bounty.

  His solitary state didn’t last long as brush rattled from beyond the hawthorn. Master John Fayrfax pushed his way through the dry bracken. “Why, Mistress Blanchemain,” he cried as if startled to find her here.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Patience said irritably, not the least fooled by this seemingly chance encounter.

  Anne offered Master John a welcoming smile, then caught the glint of gold from over his shoulder. Her breath snagged. Sunlight gleamed on Master Hollier’s hair as he followed his companion through the woods.

  The man who would be her dancing master looked fine indeed, with a soft leather jerkin atop his blue doublet and gray breeches. There was a sprig of hawthorn in his cap. Like many men this day he eschewed a ruff, opting to wear his shirt collar open. It lay wide upon his doublet, revealing the strong column of his neck.

  Only as her new dancing master came to a stop beside Master John did Anne notice the youth walking between them. This youngling was a pretty dandy no older than Master Kelway. Anne stared at him. He seemed familiar, although she was certain she’d never before seen him.

  “My Lord Montmercy.” Master Kelway bowed toward the young fop.

  Anne hid her smile. Now, why hadn’t she recognized the noble lad’s arrogant pose for what it was? No doubt this was what had made him seem familiar. All the lords held themselves so.

  “My lord,” she said and bobbed him a quick curtsy. As she rose, a tendril of curiosity unwound within her. How strange it must be for Master Hollier to see another nobleman receive the respect he could no longer claim.

  Her gaze again slipped to him. He was studying the foliage around him with an air of disinterest. There was an odd prick in Anne’s heart. It seemed her grandsire’s warnings were more effective than she thought.

  “You look fine this morn, Mistress Blanchemain,” Master John said, his broad face fairly radiating his plea for the invitation to tarry a while with her.

  Again, Anne’s gaze slipped to Master Hollier. Her dancing master now inspected his gloved fingers as if bored by this whole encounter. The pricking in her heart worsened.

  As if he felt her look, Master Hollier’s lifted his attention from his fingers. Their gazes caught for just an instant. There was nothing in his eyes for her to read, no clue as to why he no longer found her worthy of pursuit.

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. Nay, they wouldn’t stay, not if Master Hollier was going to ignore her. She forced her gaze back upon Master Fayrfax.

  “You’re kind to say so,” she told him, smiling at his compliment even as she refused him what he so craved.

  The big man’s face fell. He bowed with great flourish to hide his disappointment. “Enjoy the day, Mistress Blanchemain.”

  “Mistress,” the young nobleman said as he also bent to bid her adieu.

  Anne waited for Master Hollier’s farewell. He barely inclined his head in her direction then turned toward the young nobleman. “What say you my lord? Shall we return to the meadow?”

  “Aye,” the handsome youth replied, already ahead of his companions. “You’re wrong to think anything within these woods was worth seeing. I say you were trying to distract me so my warden could remove Berta.” There was a note of accusation in his voice.

  As Master Fayrfax followed his companions, his steps dragging, Master Hollier laid his arm over the lordling’s shoulders. “Why, the very idea, my lord,” he protested as they made their way to the path. “I meant to seek only exercise in our walk. I’m certain you’ll find the maid right where you left her.”

  Anne frowned as she stared at Master Hollier’s receding back, the pricking in her heart growing worse wi
th each breath. He seemed almost eager to part company with her. Well, if that’s how he felt she’d have no dancing lessons from him.

  Master Kelway turned toward her and thrust out the basket. “I’m ready for your branches, Mistress Blanchemain,” he prodded.

  Struggling to find even a shred of her previous joy, Anne returned to the task at hand. As she again put her clipper’s mouth to a branch, Patience leaned toward her so suddenly their hat brims collided.

  “Did you see how that big one nigh on gaped at you?” her keeper whispered, her reference to Master Fayrfax making him sound more ox than man. “This is all your fault. Didn’t I warn you? Men think you shameless for going about with your shirt sleeves exposed.”

  What remained of Anne’s fine mood evaporated. She yanked on newly cut bough. The branch burst free of the tree in a shower of white petals and a rending of fabrics. With an angry hiss, she whirled on her maid.

  “Look what you’ve done,” she snapped, displaying the new tears in her sleeve and glove. “Now, cease your nagging. I’ll not ruin my attire to please your ridiculous standards.” That said, she thrust the slender limb at Master Kelway.

  The vigor of her offering drove the slight man into a backward step. He steadied himself, his gaze darting between servant and mistress, then cleared his throat. “Mistress Anne, you may tell your maid there’s no wrong in a woman exposing her shirt sleeves,” he assured her, his expression earnest. “Why if there were, no woman at court would wear oversleeves of tissue so fine the garments seem invisible.”

  Anne’s mouth tightened as irritation escalated into anger. Bad enough he listened to what should have been private. Now he dared to contribute? Well, it was a pitiful day when she needed someone so mouse-meek to defend her. With a bold swipe of her imaginary quill, she crossed his name off her list of potential husbands.

  “I think I am finished cutting branches for now,” she told him with a curt nod of dismissal.

  Hurt flashed through his eyes and he clutched her basket close to his chest in refusal. Flowers showered the front of his doublet, one fragrant white petal floating upward to cling to the faint line of his eyebrow. This only served to make him look all the more young and foolish.