Lady in Waiting

by Denise Domning

  “I want to watch,” Mistress Mary cried out in pleasure, already dragging Mistress Anne along beside her. “Faster,” she pleaded.

  Kit stretched his legs to keep pace with the maids then glanced over his shoulder. Mistress Anne’s servant now trailed far behind them. The servant’s gaze was fixed on her mistress’s back, her brow furrowed in concern. Bertie circled in upon her like an eagle on carrion.

  Once Kit and the gentlewomen reached the crowd around the queen, he used either a look or a shove depending on the man to cut a swath through the watchers. At last the three of them stood behind Leicester’s group. Where Kit dared not trespass, Mary didn’t hesitate. With a gay laugh she inched her way between the earl’s men, going with ease where Kit’s passage would have provoked violence. Once at the crowd’s forefront, Mary clapped to the song’s beat.

  “La Volta!” she cried along with all the rest.

  This was the cue for Sir Thomas to lift his queen by her waist, turning as he did so. Held aloft, her hands braced upon her partner’s shoulders, Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. Instant appreciation fired within Kit, his resentment forgotten for the moment.

  No matter what a man said of her politics, England’s monarch was every inch as fascinating as any woman he knew.

  Almost any woman. He looked back at Mistress Anne.

  Now that Mary was no longer at her side, Anne had slipped as close to him as her hat brim would allow. Was it her dread over their forthcoming ordeal that brought her near, or a liking for him? Either way, there was great pleasure to be had in her nearness.

  In that instant, she raised her head to look up at him. When she saw him watching her, she tried to smile, the motion of her mouth faint. A crease marked the perfection of her brow.

  Kit almost sighed. It was dread, then. Oddly her worry over their upcoming dance worked to ease his own resentment.

  The musicians brought the dance to a halt with a flourish of sound. The crowd called La Volta once more, indicating Sir Thomas should lift his queen for the last time.

  Both Kit and Mistress Anne watched as the yet gasping Elizabeth laughed and curtsied to handsome Heneage. The crowd burst into applause. Together the twosome turned once about to accept this worthy accolade. Calls for another dance were met with a shake of the royal head.

  “Nay,” the queen said, “better that another brace take the field and do their worst.”

  Plying her fan with vigor, Elizabeth’s gaze darted ever so briefly toward Kit. The look was enough to both acknowledge his presence and warn him to await her forthcoming command. With that, England’s queen retreated to her tent followed by her faithful Mary.

  Kit looked past his retreating monarch to see who she’d called to her side to observe this lesson. Stiff and still, the earl of Arundel sat near the tent’s back, his thin face set in harsh lines. Like Nick, this nobleman yet clung fervently to the Roman faith. Not far from Arundel sat his deceased daughter’s husband, Norfolk. The duke, a man only a few years older than Kit, looked unusually tense. Beneath the fringe of dark hair crossing his wide brow, Norfolk’s dark eyes darted as he glanced about him, a coney trying to escape the ever nearing hounds.

  Worried wasn’t all Kit would be feeling were he the duke. Despite that Elizabeth directly forbade England’s highest-ranking nobleman to have any further concourse with the imprisoned Scots queen, rumor said Norfolk persisted with his wedding plans.

  A quiet breath huffed from Kit. Since Norfolk was too honorable a man to be a betrayer, this made him a fool. Should Norfolk dare wed, one queen or the other was sure to have his head.

  Leicester occupied the space nearest his royal mistress. Although Kit knew Norfolk and the earl were no longer sworn enemies it was startling to see them sitting so near to each other.

  Accepting the praise of her nobles with a gracious nod, Elizabeth settled into her chair. After fetching her royal mistress a cup of wine, Mary retreated to stand behind the queen’s small chair. She smiled at Kit.

  As her gaze had warned him, Elizabeth nodded in Kit’s direction. At just that moment, her musicians pealed into another quick tune. All around Kit the crowd yelled in approval, surging forward as everyone hurried to join the ring dance.

  Mistress Anne yelped as a man jostled her with enough force to knock her hat from her head. As she staggered to the side Kit caught his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace to steady her, her back to his front. His body came to violent life with the feeling of her in his arms.

  Her head fit nicely into the curve of his throat. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts above her bodice. With her shirt parted, the sun gleamed against her bared skin. Dear God, but he wanted to touch his lips to her flesh.

  “My pardon, Master Hollier,” said a fiery-haired gentleman, a man Kit knew to be attached to the earl of Northumberland. The rough-hewn northerner held Mistress Anne’s now ruined hat in his hand. “I meant no harm to Mistress Blanchemain.”

  The man shuffled nervously, no doubt hoping his apology would stave off any insult Kit might take. He needn’t have worried. Kit was too busy taming his desires to attack some hapless stranger.

  “No harm is done,” Mistress Anne replied for them both. She stepped out of Kit’s arms to take the battered remains of her headgear from the man then gave it a sad shake. “At least not to me.”

  “No matter,” Kit said, trying to smile. “It’s time to remove it, for our lesson is at hand.”

  Mistress Anne groaned, her eyes softening in pleading. “Do you think we could disappear into the crowd?”

  This made Kit laugh. In the arms of a rapist she fought like a tiger but a dancing lesson left her knees knocking. “Nay, we cannot. Our royal mistress sees us and awaits our approach.”

  With that, Kit extended his arm in the formal manner required to lead a woman into Elizabeth’s presence. Usually, when he didn’t know his partner very well, there was an awkward step or two as he sought to match his pace to his companion’s. Not so with Mistress Anne. From their very first step their movements flowed with startling ease. This boded well for their ability to dance together. As if they’d practiced for years, he and Mistress Anne knelt as one before their monarch.

  “Ah, there you are,” Elizabeth cried out as if she’d not seen them until that instant. Her voice was still breathless with exertion. “Mistress Anne, how pleased you must be that We will oversee your first lesson.”

  “Madame, I am overwhelmed that you should spend your precious interest on one so unworthy,” Mistress Anne replied. If her voice was filled with reverential awe, beneath it hid the hint that it did the queen’s image no good to take on the menial task of her maid’s dancing lesson.

  Kit blinked and fought his laugh. Lord, she was a bold thing. Mistress Anne’s effort was wasted. So enamored was Elizabeth of dancing, Kit doubted it was possible for her to imagine anyone could dread the activity.

  “As you should be,” the queen agreed blithely, proving Kit correct. “So Master Hollier,” she continued, “what is an appropriate first lesson?”

  Here was an easy test to pass. “I think something slow with simple steps. What of a Pavane, Madame?”

  Well pleased by so sensible an answer, Elizabeth smiled and nodded. “A fine choice.”

  She clapped her hands and the musicians left off playing as they waited on her queen’s command. The dancers looked to see what had caused this halt to their pleasure.

  “We’ll have a slow tune,” Elizabeth called out, “but nothing deadly dull. A Pavane, something for one who has not danced before this day.”

  Anne tensed. Lord help her, but did the queen have to announce her backward state to the whole world for a second time? From all across the meadow folk gave up their own amusements without complaint to come and witness Anne’s soon-to-be complete destruction. Anne glanced over her shoulder, only to have her heart drop. Every man who aspired to wed her stood at her back to watch.

  “Up, up,” Elizabeth exhorted teacher and student. �
��Give heed to your tutor, Mistress Anne, and dance,” she commanded, her tone sounding no differently than Christ’s must have as He commanded the dead to rise.

  Taking her hand, Master Christopher drew Anne to her feet. He smiled, but kept his grip tight enough that she couldn’t flee like the coward she was. Only as she regained her feet did Anne realize she yet held her poor hat. She swung around, meaning to give it to Patience. Her keeper stood at the edge of the crowd, utterly unaware of her mistress’s need as she spoke to a breathtakingly beautiful, if short, man. This paragon was smiling and nodding as if fascinated by whatever Patience said.

  Anne turned helplessly back to the queen. However did one rid oneself of a hat before a monarch? It was Mary who came to her rescue, stepping out from behind the queen’s chair.

  “Give it to me, cousin,” she said. As she claimed the battered bit of straw, she leaned near to whisper, “Take heart, you’ll do fine.”

  “Where would you have us, Madame?” Master Christopher asked of their royal mistress.

  “Here,” the queen said, an imperious wave of her hand indicating the forward portion of the tent before her own chair.

  And, why not, Anne thought sourly. She’d always wanted to take a dancing lesson before the country’s highest nobles.

  As servants cleared a path, Master Christopher led Anne to stand at the tent’s far end, facing the musicians. The lute player plucked a few notes then cocked a brow. Her teacher nodded in approval, and the man set to playing in earnest.

  Anne’s heart pounded. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She clenched her jaw to keep from whimpering. Shame was bad enough. She wasn’t going to give way to hysterics atop it, at least not yet.

  Master Christopher lifted her hand and eased a bit to the side. “Now, then,” he said, “when I give the word, you’ll turn toward me, offering me a small honor. We’ll then turn to stand shoulder to shoulder. It’ll be a series of the same steps that will take us all the way to the tent’s end. Stand with your left foot behind you, as so.” He pointed to his own feet. “When we step out, you’ll take one step forward with your left foot, while the next step brings your right foot even with the left. This is all done to the tune’s beat, so listen for the rhythm.”

  Although Anne nodded as if she understood, his words tangled and tumbled in her head. A small curtsy, a slow step. Back foot front with the left, then a second step. She stared at the tent’s opposite end. It seemed a mile distant.

  The music played. Master Christopher nodded slightly. She kept her gaze locked on him, waiting.

  “And now,” he told her, turning to offer her a small bow.

  Anne curtsied too deeply. Before she’d risen, he had turned to face front and was preparing to take his first step. Her gaze leapt from his face to her feet as she straightened and turned. In the time it took to do this, he was already stepping. She hurried to catch up, but something was wrong. Off balance, she collided with him.

  Master Christopher halted. A tiny rumble of laughter rippled across the crowd. The music stopped.

  Not daring to look at the watchers, Anne kept her gaze locked on her tutor as she fought off horror. Although he didn’t smile, amusement glowed in his green eyes.

  “Nay, try again, starting with your other left foot this time.”

  Shame burned in her cheeks. She’d stepped right instead of left. How could she have erred on something so simple? Anne steeled herself to make no more missteps.

  “And the honor,” he said as the music began again.

  She followed his instruction, feeling as wooden and gawky as a pasteboard giant. At least she used the correct foot this time. Up the length of the tent they went. Not once did they move as one.

  “Mistress Anne,” the queen cried, clapping time to the music, “heed the rhythm.”

  Rhythm? Anne couldn’t hear anything except humiliation pounding in her ears.

  Once again laughter rippled over the observers. From the corner of the tent came a derisive titter. Anne glanced toward the source. That corner held a group of ladies, among them Lady Montmercy and the Viscountess of Hereford, who shared the fiery hair color of her royal cousin. Still giggling, the youngest maid among them came to her feet.

  “Here, Mistress Anne, watch me.” With the grace of a swimming swan this babe glided up the tent’s length, doing with ease what Anne could not.

  “Turn and start again,” the queen commanded.

  Master Christopher’s hand shifted until his fingers intertwined with Anne’s. With this more intimate touch his heat flowed into her. Her frozen soul began to thaw. He leaned his head near her ear. “You can do this if you but relax.”

  “I cannot,” she moaned softly.

  “Try this, then. Think of nothing but me next to you,” he told her, his voice low. “Watch my feet, not yours, only listening for my commands. I’ll tell you what to do with each step.”

  As listening to him was infinitely better than listening to folk laugh at her, Anne did as he bid. Once again the music played. She was ready this time.

  “The honor, step, together,” he whispered, his words keeping time to the music.

  Up the tent they went. She kept pace.

  “Step, step, step, and together,” he said, changing the order of their steps. “Step to the right, together. Now the left and together.” Not a cue did she miss.

  Only as the tent’s wall nearly slapped Anne in the face did she realize she’d gone the entire length of the construct and made no error. She whirled on her teacher, her eyes wide in joy. For the second time that day Master Christopher had saved her. He was grinning, seemingly as relieved as she.

  The ladies who’d laughed were now nodding. The queen clapped, long and loud. “Well done,” Elizabeth cried, her voice echoing against the fabric walls, “well done, indeed.

  “Look here, my lord of Norfolk,” Elizabeth called to the nobleman. “Mistress Blanchemain again proves herself a clever lass. This is the sort of woman any man should be proud to take as his wife. Were I a man I’d look no farther.”

  Anne whirled to stare at her monarch. The whole court whispered that the duke considered marriage to the Scots queen. If her court knew then so did Elizabeth.

  Anger roared through Anne. This hadn’t been a dancing lesson, but an opportunity for the queen to drive home a subtle warning to the duke. The queen had used her, thinking no more of her maid’s emotions than a woodsman did his axe!

  Anne whirled on Master Christopher, rage spiraling as she readied herself to protest such abuse. He shook his head. “It’s her prerogative; we are hers to command,” he whispered. “Now, bank that fire in your eyes, and we’ll go bid her thanks for her compliments.”

  At Master Christopher’s third rescue of the day, gratitude swallowed up Anne’s anger. This was the man she needed at her side. With that, she tossed aside all the reasons she could not have Master Hollier as her husband. All that remained were the details, such as what he would think when he discovered she was no maiden. Ah, but that was a worry for later.

  “I’m ready,” she told him, and together they started up the tent’s length toward their queen’s chair.

  May God take the queen and her penchant for early morning walks and surprise audiences. Yawning, Kit leaned against the cold stones of Greenwich’s garden wall, cloaked in what remained of night’s shadows and the grayness of what would soon be a moist morn. Only the servants and the queen were up and about this early, leaving all sensible gentlemen and nobles to their beds.

  Shivering, he crossed his arms. Even with his coat draped over his shoulders, dawn’s chill was deep. At least he wasn’t alone in cursing the queen’s odd habits. He waited on Mistress Anne to appear so he might lead her into the queen’s presence.

  Worry over being replaced as Mistress Anne’s tutor returned. In the four days since the Maying Elizabeth had kept him busy, sending him to London on what seemed a make-work chore. It almost seemed as if she meant to keep him away from Mistress Anne.

 
Kit almost smiled. If so she’d failed, at least in spirit; on every one of the past four nights Kit had visited Mistress Anne in her bedchamber. He ought to be grateful. His lustful, nightly visits to Mistress Anne’s bed kept his nightmare at bay.

  Bertie fared no better than he. His servant gnashed his teeth over Mistress Patience. Instead of giving way to his seduction the woman was doing her best to convert Bertie to her Calvinism.

  Men whistled and women laughed. Kit peered down the red-brick length of the queen’s residence, so called because old King Harry had housed his queens in this building. Near the kitchen at the far end the laundresses, already hard at boiling their linens, conversed with the huntsmen. He watched them, the scent of baking bread filling his lungs with every breath. All but one man climbed the kitchen’s back stairs. The master of the hunt made his way toward Kit and the garden gate, nodding as he passed Kit, on his way to inform the queen of the day’s quarry.

  When he was again alone Kit sighed back into the shadows. Why hadn’t the queen arranged for any more lessons? She’d been more than a little pleased with the outcome of her charade. Although Kit was almost certain his success in his first lesson had settled his position as dancing master, perhaps Old Amyas had succeeded in his protest.

  Frustration rose at the thought of yet another failure in his quest to restore Nick’s title. Kit waited for it to begin its usual gnaw at his vitals. Instead, it almost immediately gave way to a strange sort of relief.

  Startled, Kit pondered the feeling, only to come bolt upright. May God take his soul, but he was relieved on Mistress Anne’s behalf. When had he begun to let himself consider her pain as a factor in the restoration of Nick’s title?

  Well, that simply could not be. Whether Amyas stood in his way, Kit would use Mistress Anne as he must, giving no further thought to her downfall. Jaw firm in his resolution, Kit shifted his coat over his shoulders as the huntsman reemerged from the garden.