Assassin

by Lady Grace Cavendish

  By this time, my mouth was so dry and my stomach so clenched up about the dancing (and whatever the Queen was going to do), I couldn’t eat anything at all except a bit of manchet bread and butter and a few candied carrots and potherbs, like the ones decorating the sallet. So it was wasted.

  The only good thing that happened was that when the serving man brought me the candied carrots, he had a very strained expression on his face. Then, when he leaned over to get the plate of fried-bread sippets, he farted very loudly—which made me and Mary Shelton giggle.

  And as for swan-meat—ptui! (Mrs. Champernowne says a lady must only spit discreetly into her handkerchief, but I can spit in writing, if I want.) They only have it because it looks so pretty. It’s all put back together after carving and covered with a suit of swan’s feathers with a cunningly carved head and neck as well, so it looks as if it’s still alive and swimming on the silver platter. But I don’t care if it is a royal bird, it tastes fishy and horrible—even worse than turkey!

  Lady Sarah would not talk to me at all during the two covers of food; she just kept chatting to Mary Shelton and Carmina, who was next to Mary. It was fine—at least I didn’t have to try to chat back with my mouth so dry. Mrs. Champernowne told the page to give me watered wine, which helped a bit. I had to sip it really carefully, though, because I was terrified of spilling any on my gown.

  After the first set of dishes, there was a pause. I was just beginning to relax, thanks to the wine, when bam-bam-da-da-bam-bam! I nearly fell off the bench with fright.

  In came French Louis with a big drum, banging on it like a madman. Behind him were the dwarf twins, Peter and Paul, juggling with red satin hearts, and behind them was Mr. Will Somers, the Queen’s Fool, flipping slowly over and over and jumping up to turn over in the air. And then, with the drum going bam-da-da-bam-da-da-bam and the trumpets making an even more awful noise than they did to start with, in came Little John, the huge strongman, holding a pole on his head. And at the top of the pole, standing on a little platform about the size of your two hands, was Masou. I stared with my mouth open. I was already tense! I thought this was really too much. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ellie watching, too, white as a sheet, hands to her mouth.

  And as if that weren’t dangerous enough, Masou stood on one leg and started juggling with batons. He saw us, grinned, and winked at me. And then he tilted, waved his arms, wobbled, and fell …

  I couldn’t help it—I screamed. Everybody else was screaming, too. But then, in midair, Masou turned a backwards somersault and landed perfectly on his feet like a cat. And then he caught the batons he’d been juggling and carried on—while doing a jig. Everybody whooped and clapped; even the Queen was laughing and clapping.

  I clapped, too, but only a bit because my hands were shaking so much. Ellie looked as if she’d nearly fainted. I don’t know what gets into Masou when he tumbles for an audience. I think he goes wood-wild in the head.

  The Queen spoke to one of the pages and Mr. Somers brought Masou up to the dais to be presented to the Queen. I didn’t hear what she said, but when all the tumblers bounced and jumped and cartwheeled off again, Masou turned somersaults in the air and his face was shining.

  And then it was time for the banquet course and we all stood up and processed out to the Banqueting House in the garden. They had taken it out of storage and put it up specially, and the rude pictures on the canvas walls of Venus and Cupid had lasted quite well—the paint had hardly cracked and Venus’s naked bottom was still quite pink.

  I like the banqueting course usually, with all the jellies and sweetmeats and custards—and the beautiful marchpane subtlety in the middle. This one was a sculpture of Venus again, with Cupid aiming an arrow made of liquorice, all made in pink sugar plate and really pretty. Except I could see that there were three blue velvet cushions lying on the table in front of the banquet, and little squares of white silk covered the things that were resting on them.

  So that meant I couldn’t even enjoy the sweetmeats—like the marmelada of quinces, which is my favourite, or the vanilla egg creams. I was too busy trying not to stare at those cushions. On one was a sort of roundish lump, on the second was a long and pointed shape, and the thing on the third one just looked like a heap of peas!

  They had laid a floor of polished wood to dance on and the musicians in the corner began a Burgermeister dance to break the ice. It’s such a silly German dance; you can’t be dignified when you’re wagging fingers and linking arms.

  All the Maids of Honour swept off in a long line to face the gentlemen and bow and curtsy. Somehow, Lord Robert had managed to barge into the row facing me, so we partnered and, while I held his hand and did the first bit of dancing, he stared at me and went red and said, “Umm … er … Lady Grace … um…”

  “What?” I said breathlessly. But by that time it was his turn to hop and point his toes, and by the time he’d come back to me he’d missed his chance because we had to go back and change partners.

  It was like that every time he looked at me, or we took hands in the dance: he was trying to say something he’d clearly made up beforehand, but each time he just stammered and looked sweaty. It was very irritating. I think that a lot of Lord Robert’s manly silence is Lord Robert not knowing what to say. Still, at least he’s only twenty. That’s something. And he has quite good legs. The other girls say he has high birth and low pockets—by which I suppose they mean he has no money and his estates are mortgaged. But I don’t care about that as long as he loves me. I’ve got plenty of money of my own. Though it would be nice if he could say something other than “Um…” occasionally.

  Next there was a Pavane, otherwise known as the most boring dance in the world. Dances are for jumping about and getting breathless. What’s the point of all that stately walking to and fro in lines, holding hands, turning, bowing, curtsying, and stepping backwards and forwards? Yawn! For this one I got Sir Charles, who was looking unusually sour and bad-tempered.

  “At least this is a tune we know,” I said to him, as he walked me back and forth.

  I’d realized that the musicians were playing “Greensleeves.”

  “Hm?” He looked puzzled. “What do you mean, my lady?”

  I nudged him in the ribs. “It’s ‘Greensleeves,’” I said. “The song you always sing when we go riding?”

  He smiled wanly. “Oh yes, how silly of me to forget. ‘Greensleeves,’ of course … Ta dah, di dah, di dah, dah dah dah …” His voice was flat.

  I tutted. “You seem to have a bad throat, Sir Charles,” I said. “You really should not sing. And nor should you dance.”

  Not that he can. A Pavane is about all he can manage, though his knees seemed a bit less stiff.

  Next thing, the Master of Ceremonies announced a Volta. We’ve just done it in dancing class. It’s very scandalous because you have to show your knees! But the Queen loves it. I myself don’t like the bit where you have to dance while the gentleman stands there, or the bit when he gets to show off. What I like is when the gentleman takes hold of the lower edge of your stays and lifts you up as you jump and bang your feet together. That’s great fun. Though last Tuesday morning the dancing master was very upset. “You are supposed to come down like a feather! A feather!” he shouted at me, when a painting fell off the wall of the Long Gallery.

  As we lined up, ready to go round to our partners, I thought that Sir Gerald was going to partner Lady Sarah (whose bosom was nearly hanging out over her bodice again—honestly, I know not why Mrs. Champernowne doesn’t chide her for it). But then Lord Worthy moved next to Sir Gerald and said something in his ear, and he changed places with another gentleman, who looked very pleased.

  So for the Volta I got Sir Gerald. He smiled and bowed and looked straight at me. The new gentleman was staring at Lady Sarah’s chest, but Sir Gerald was looking at my face. (Well, I’ve got nothing to see further down, even in a French-cut bodice.) He has one of those very handsome faces, all straight lines and angles, with quizz
ical black eyebrows. He’s tall, so it looks as if he’s staring down his nose at me. I’ve played some Primero with Sir Gerald (I won! Ha ha!) and walked in the Privy Garden for our formal meetings, but that’s all. He’s quite old—though not as ancient as Sir Charles. I think he had a wife, but she died in childbirth. At least he’s neither fat nor tongue-tied.

  “Your ladyship is more beautiful than I have ever seen you,” he said. “Rose velvet becomes you, Lady Grace.”

  I tried to blush, but couldn’t. “Thank you, Sir Gerald,” I replied.

  I’d done my bit of the footwork so he did his. The thing about a Volta is, if you can dance, it gives you a chance to show off. Sir Gerald can certainly dance. I’ve never seen anything like it, the way he jumped and kicked and moved his feet in time to the fast drumbeats. Then it was time for me to jump and, when he caught hold of my stays and lifted me, I went higher than I ever do with the dancing master, who’s always complaining that we’ve utterly undone his back. I went right up, twirled, and came down quite well, too, because I’d gone up so straight. He steadied me as I landed and lifted me again, so I was breathless by the time the jumping bit was over.

  “Do you think Lord Robert could do that, my lady?” he whispered, and he wasn’t even breathing hard as we paced around in a circle with others of our set. “Or Sir Charles?”

  I know Sir Charles couldn’t—he makes heavy weather out of helping me into the saddle. But Lord Robert? He’s young and quite skinny but I think he’s strong, too. I saw him tossing Mary Shelton into the air without much difficulty. And she’s no slender reed.

  “Don’t throw yourself away on rustics,” Sir Gerald went on as we joined up once more. “Lord Robert is poor and Sir Charles will always love horses more than you. Marry me.”

  And then the dance parted us, leaving me rather annoyed. I really don’t like being told what to think. Besides, I knew who I liked more and it certainly wasn’t Sir Very-very-sure-of-himself Gerald. Let Lady Sarah have him.

  At last the Queen clapped her hands, the dancing music stopped, and she beckoned me forward. “Good friends,” she said, while the musicians in the corner played a pretty, soft tune on their viols. “Today is a joyous day for our dear Lady Grace. She has petitioned me to marry her to some gentleman of my choosing…”

  I hadn’t, but I know that’s what my father put in his will before he died serving the Queen in France in the first years of her reign.

  “… and I have chosen three goodly nobles, each of whom would be a fine husband for any woman. But which man will kindle our Lady Grace’s young heart?”

  There was a murmur and then Lord Robert came forward and dropped to one knee. “Umm … I will, Y-your Majesty,” he stammered.

  Behind him came Sir Gerald, who also kneeled. “Your Gracious Majesty … who by offering Lady Grace increases her own grace …,” he began. I saw Lord Worthy smile fondly at his nephew’s charm. “My Lady Grace needs a man to her bridal bed, not a mouse. I am the most manly of the suitors,” Sir Gerald declared.

  At this, the other Maids of Honour giggled a little, and Lord Robert went purply red and looked at the polished floor.

  Sir Charles then came forward and put his knee down firmly. “But I will be the best husband for Lady Grace, Your Majesty,” he said. “Because she and I have friendship in our favour.”

  I looked at Sir Charles, feeling very uncomfortable. Yes, we were friends—of sorts—but he did look particularly old tonight. And his face looked not nearly as pink and jolly as usual. Perhaps he was nervous, too.

  The Queen clapped her hands and smiled. “You offer yourselves, but what of your inmost hearts?” she said. “And what of Grace’s young and unschooled heart? We shall try if heart can speak to heart upon this Feast of St. Valentine.” She turned to me and beckoned, so I went forward and curtsied to one knee.

  She caught my hand and raised me up. “Each of Lady Grace’s lovers has presented a gift, unmarked and unknown. Now it is for Lady Grace to select the gift that likes her heart best, and so, the man who will have her heart.”

  My heart went thump! lurch! and I wanted to be sick, which I obviously couldn’t, standing next to the Queen like that.

  “Come, my dear, make appraisal of the gifts,” the Queen commanded.

  I went and looked at the cushions, pulling the white silk squares off each gift. One was a small, silver-chased ivory flask with a lid that took off and became a cup—the sort of thing the Queen carries in her sleeve when she hunts, with aqua vitae in it.

  The second was a small jewelled knife, set with garnets and pearls, with a pearl Cupid on the end—very pretty. Of course, I have an eating knife, but it just has a bone hilt and a plain leather scabbard, so it isn’t pretty enough to wear on special occasions. I liked the knife—I picked it up and drew it to see whether it was just for show. There was a sharp steel blade, so I put it back carefully.

  The third cushion bore a pearl necklace with gold links—quite simple, but very long, so you could wrap it round your neck and have it dangle all the way to your waist, or wear it as a snood round your hair. I touched the pearls. I am very fond of pearls; my mother used to wear them. I always wear a little pearl ring that she gave me. And what was it Masou had said? I glanced across at him, playing a lute in the corner with the musicians. Why wasn’t I wearing a necklace? Good question.

  Then I stepped back and curtsied to the Queen. “May I explain what I judge from these gifts, Your Majesty?” I asked, and tried to think of something clever to say. “This flask, Your Majesty, is beautifully made for bringing spirits to revive one’s spirits when hunting. Perhaps Sir Charles, who has been helping my poor horsemanship, is hoping I will need it soon. From this, I guess a great ability to love, a heart deep enough for anyone to drain, a generous and kindly nature.”

  Sir Charles bowed.

  “But I fear it will be a long time before I can ride well enough to keep up with the Queen’s Hunt,” I concluded.

  I turned to the long necklace of pearls with the gold links. “Here is a rope of pearls. He who gave it knows my favourite jewel is the pearl and has given a long enough length that I will not feel constricted by it. I read sensitivity to my likes in the giver. But, nonetheless, is the rope of pearls meant to bind me tight, my Lord Robert?”

  As usual, Lord Robert reddened and bowed. Sir Gerald was looking very smug now.

  “And the beautiful dagger. Surely it speaks of a keen intelligence and a cutting wit. I was tempted because I would like so pretty a knife—but who woos with a blade? Surely a knife cuts the knot and does not tie it, Sir Gerald?”

  Now Sir Gerald was scowling. It gave an ugly sneer to his mouth. He knocked back another silver cup of wine and held it out for a pageboy to refill.

  I turned to the Queen and went down on one knee again. “In conclusion, Your Majesty, I am happy in your service. I yet have no desire to marry.”

  The Queen shook her head, smiling sadly. “It was my promise to your parents, Grace,” she said. “You must have a husband to look after your estates.”

  “Well, in that case…” I stood, sighed, trailed my fingers along the dagger and the flask, and then picked up the lovely pearl necklace and looped it carefully round my neck. “I choose my Lord Robert’s gift.”

  He looked absolutely moonstruck. Quite like a calf with the bellyache, as Masou described him. I had to squash the urge to laugh.

  He came forward with his face as red as ever to kiss my hand. “Um … Lady Grace … I, um … Um,” he said.

  The musicians struck up another dance tune as Sir Gerald rolled his eyes and drank another cup of aqua vitae. Lord Worthy hurried over and whispered in his ear again, which provoked a snarl.

  Lord Robert and I danced a passage of the Volta, which got everyone staring, but that’s what the musicians were playing. And yes, when Lord Robert lifted me, he felt strong enough and he steadied me when I landed—but he still didn’t manage to say anything except “Um” and “Er.” I felt quite sorry for him,
though at least when I’m married to him I shall be able to talk as much as I like.

  The other courtiers joined in and other couples went jigging and jumping and whizzing past us. I saw Sir Charles sitting at the side near a bank of candles, watching us rather sourly. Then Sir Gerald came through with a rather stout Lady-in-Waiting, and barged Lord Robert out of the way and trod on his foot. Off he went again.

  Nobody else had noticed, but Lord Robert was gripping his sword. “I h-hate him,” he sputtered.

  I put my hand on his, gripping his sword hilt. “But you won and he lost,” I said. “Why not be kind and forgiving?”

  “My Lady Grace …,” said Lord Robert, “you … are … so … w-wonderful.”

  Well, it was the longest speech he has ever made me, and it was quite flattering, so I smiled and kissed his cheek.

  Dancing makes me thirsty and so, when the music stopped, I fanned myself and asked for something to drink. Lord Robert went to the sideboard where the pages and serving men were pouring wine. He waited patiently for Lord Worthy to get himself some mead, turning to survey the hall before taking a goblet for himself and a little Venetian glass cup of a flower water for me.

  Sir Charles and Sir Gerald were collecting the gifts I had turned down. I was sorry I had offended Sir Charles, because usually he really is a nice old thing. Sir Gerald looked furious—pale, eyes glittering, with little patches of colour on his cheeks. He rocked as he swept up the dagger and stuck it in his belt. “Only a silly little chit of a girl chooses a stripling boy over a man grown,” he snarled. “Does she think Lord Robert will look after her? She’ll be wiping his bum for him.”

  He glugged back his wine, not noticing some pink spots on his ruff. He held it out to be refilled, but the pages and serving men are given strict orders by the Queen that anyone who looks drunk is not to be served. She won’t have scenes at her Court as they do at the King of Scotland’s, for instance.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, have we run out of booze already?” Sir Gerald demanded vulgarly.