Jeane Westin

by The Virgin's Daughters (v5)

  From the queen’s privy chamber, they heard the queen calling irritably to her ladies. “Where is my lord Essex . . . that silly boy? Send again to tell him we cannot sleep and require his presence at once!”

  “Majesty,” the usher answered, “word comes that His Lordship is gone from the palace to his manor in Wanstead.”

  “By Christ’s pierced body! Send guards to find him! Drag him back in chains if you must, for he has disobeyed my express command. Meantime bring me Sir John.”

  The usher bowed and rushed to carry out the queen’s shouted commands, followed by yeoman guards at the double, trailing halberds.

  Mary glanced a question at her grandfather, who shrugged and walked her quickly along the hall, speaking in a low voice. “It is said the Earl of Essex is too handsome, too ambitious, too filled with his own consequence . . . but she calls him her Wild Horse and dotes on him. She is all contradiction, punishing impertinence and yet attracted by it.” Sir William waited until a group of drunken revelers staggered past and they were once again alone in the hall. “He flatters her, entertains her and awakens the feelings of her youth . . . an old woman’s last infatuation. I think half her court and many foreign ambassadors joke about it, though not to her face. And they fear the earl’s power, for though she always first denies him appointments for his friends, fearing he will gain too much power, at times she relents when he leaves her suddenly. As with Robert Dudley, she cannot bear to be without him for any time.”

  As they walked to their small assigned rooms, Mary, though saddened by what she’d heard, better understood the emotions she had seen in the queen’s features and behind her words. How could the queen, England’s Gloriana, facing the end alone, not rail against the loss of everything and every man whose adoration had made her fabled virgin life bearable?

  After a fitful night of dreams and waking with the better words she could have said on her tongue, Mary sadly directed her maid to pack their belongings and joined her grandfather to break their fast with a simple meal of porridge and small ale in the great hall, where all at court ate who did not have the rank to have their food delivered from the palace kitchens to their rooms. Thinking of the days-long, bone-jarring carriage ride over wintry roads she must soon endure, Mary avoided many richer honeyed meat dishes and puddings.

  As they ate, those about them talked of nothing but how often the queen had danced like a young girl with Essex at Twelfth Night revels the night before. There was no laughter, only amazement.

  Sir John Harington appeared from nowhere, still dressed for festivities as she had seen him in the presence chamber, and wearily bowed, settling himself on a bench across the table from her.

  “Good morrow, Sir William, Mistress Mary,” he said politely, and called a serving man for bread and ale.

  “Sir,” her grandfather said without rising, his tone not at all welcoming.

  “And I am exceeding joyful to see you again, Sir William,” Harington said, smiling. “But I have not come to rouse your choler. I come bearing news of import for your granddaughter. The queen’s chief lady, the Countess of Warwick, has sent for Mistress Mary. I think there might be a post among the queen’s ladies for her.”

  Her grandfather looked astounded, then sputtered, “Is this your doing, sir?”

  Harington smiled, and Mary knew the answer, though he put his hand over his heart in mock horror. “I beg you, sir, have some pity. Accuse me of a kindness and you damage my exceeding hard-won reputation! But I fear that you do not rate your granddaughter as she deserves. The queen, though she thinks the girl brash, came to her decision with only a trifle added from me.”

  Mary’s heart pounded with excitement. She had given up all hope and now the door to the queen was ajar, opened by this man. “I do not think kindness is a trifle, sir, and I thank you most heartily. If you desire it, I will never mention your consideration where it can be despised, though I will remember it always.”

  Harington looked at her, his eyes sweeping her face, and though she couldn’t be certain, she thought she saw him struggle not to believe her. Finally, he shrugged, tossed back his ale and rose, holding out a hand to her with exaggerated courtesy just short of mockery. But whom was he mocking? Sometimes she thought it was himself.

  “Sir William, I will bring Mistress Mary to her audience and promise on the honor of a fellow Somersetshire man to be a faultless escort.”

  Mary’s grandfather stood, bowed briefly, just short of insult and, with a warning look at her, said, “Mary, I will wait for you in our rooms.”

  She placed her fingers on John Harington’s outstretched hand, walking with him in silence through the labyrinth of halls toward the queen’s apartments. For several minutes he did not speak, and she could not think of a suitable topic to open conversation, or rather she thought of too many. To thank him again would be to grovel. To talk of their former meeting years ago would be to take notice of his remembering. Finally, unable to endure the sound of their wooden heels clicking against marble, she said, “Sir, I believe you are godson to Her Majesty.”

  “Yes, I am so honored. My father was first married to one of Henry VIII’s bastard daughters, though I am the son of his second wife. Both my parents were in the Tower when the queen’s sister imprisoned Her Majesty, and she remembers their loyalty. You will find many such tangled relations in this court, mistress. You have a thin stream of Tudor blood yourself.”

  “That is so, sir, though the Duchess of Suffolk did not think it so thin.”

  “Aye, for all the good it did her family, everyone dead or banished.”

  Mary knew he was half laughing at her, but she showed no such knowledge. Hers was a country pride, but every bit as important to her as Harington’s to him.

  They turned into the gilded presence chamber, walking past small groups of courtiers who stared with interest, whispering among themselves, but gave him no greeting. “Ah, Mistress Mary, I see that I will need to explain myself to all my friends.”

  Was he laughing at her or again at himself? She could not tell, but she had tired of being the quiet country mouse the court expected. “And what will you say to your friends, Sir John . . . that you have helped plain Mary Rogers to a position of importance?”

  “I may say that, Mistress Mary, if you are determined to have the court think me a saint.” His eyes sparkled with roguish mischief. “That motive will not be believed by any in Whitehall.”

  “Your friends may not see you as I do, sir. I do not see a convincing rogue.”

  He looked down at her, his dark brows drawn straight together, whether from temper or surprise that she had challenged him, she could only guess until he responded: “Mary Rogers, you have the spirit of a petulant angel . . . irritating and delightful in turn. I am entirely captivated.”

  For once she had no response . . . petulant angel, indeed. Was he making fun of her? Somehow, she did not think it. “Thank you, Sir John.”

  “Do not be so trusting, mistress. Not of me, not of any in this court.” He resumed his silence until they paused at the queen’s apartments, waiting for the gentleman usher to admit them. “You are something of a little Puritan,” he said, “so be wary, especially of me.” He smiled down at her to soften his words.

  She saw by the lantern that his eyes were not dark, but green as the sea on a misty day. That made defying his charm much more difficult.

  “The queen’s often angry,” he continued, “stabbing her tapestries with her sword and, in a breath”—he bent and blew gently against her cheek—“changeable to deep melancholy. Never think it your doing, Mary, or she will crush that spirit of yours.”

  “I thank you for your warning, and I promise to behave with great care, Sir John. You will have no reason to regret your support.”

  “No, I don’t think I will have any regrets about you, Mistress Rogers.”

  She was very much aware of his lascivious tone, but also how warm his velvet gloved hand was on hers.

  The door to the antero
om opened to them and she heard her name announced. They stepped forward. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “you are not as wicked as they say.”

  He laughed and the charming moment was gone. “Oh, but I am exactly as they speak of me, young mistress. There are two sides of the John Harington coin . . . both, happily, for the same purpose.”

  She glanced up at him. “Then I will remain on my guard, sir.” She certainly would not allow him to mock her further, dizzily pushing her from him, then pulling her to his side.

  At last they walked into an anteroom filled with ladies busy at doing little. All pretended to ignore her, although she doubted they missed a move by John Harington.

  Sir John stopped before the haughty lady from the presence chamber dressed in a new pearl-seeded silver gown. He bowed. “My lady Anne, Countess of Warwick, I present Mistress Mary Rogers of Somerset, as I promised. You will find her eager for her work.” He gave Mary a little shove on her back, and she stumbled forward to dip into a curtsy. When she turned to frown at his presumption, he was disappearing out the door.

  “So, I see . . . The little country mouse with spirit,” Lady Anne said, but her smile was welcoming. “Sir John is a handsome, appealing scoundrel, but do not invite his attentions,” the countess said, watching after him with a wry smile. “He has broken half the hearts in this room . . . and is working to break the other half.”

  From the harsh looks being cast in Mary’s direction, she did not doubt Lady Anne.

  “I fear, my lady,” Mary replied before she could stop her mouth, “Sir John needs little invitation.”

  “Indeed, you have a decidedly pert tongue for a country mouse. Remember that Her Majesty needs no response to her words unless your opinion is invited . . . which it won’t be.”

  Mary assumed a meek pose, or what she supposed to be meek, realizing she needed more practice.

  Satisfied, Lady Anne continued: “Now, mistress, what do you bring to the queen’s work?”

  “A desire to serve Her Majesty, my lady, that I have nurtured since a child.”

  Lady Anne nodded, her face stern, but not unkindly. “You are willing to do any task? We are all servants of the body here.”

  “Any task that pleases Her Majesty.” Mary gathered her courage. “Lady Anne, may I ask why the queen changed her mind about me?”

  “You may never ask that. The queen’s mind does not change; her needs change.”

  Mary tucked this information away for sure use later as the Countess of Warwick gave an impatient tug at her silver gown. Mary bowed her head again in acknowledgment, determined now to keep to submission, as she knew a good servant must.

  “Welladay, my dear, I will hope for all our good that the queen finds you docile enough. You are surely decorous—one of the qualities wanted in Her Majesty’s young serving ladies.” The countess stared about her at the other ladies, who had stopped all pretense of bustle to listen and giggle. “Not loud and flighty, as too many are.” She returned her attention to Mary. “You are to be mistress of the stool at thirty marks per annum. It is the lowest post of the ladies of the bedchamber, but do not think it mean. Many of higher rank would fight for the job and will not take it kindly that they were passed over for one of so much less rank, though a minor kin to Her Majesty.”

  The words were out of Mary’s mouth before she could stop them: “I have not heard of this position, my lady.”

  “Nor would you. It is new created. Her Majesty detests foul odors in her chambers and in the persons who serve her. Her grooms of the stool do not know how to please her. No doubt the queen saw something in you . . . a fresh and honest eagerness. Do not disappoint.”

  “I will not, my lady,” Mary said, trying to remember that she had been willing to take any service, though in her own household this had been the work of the lowliest menials.

  “Good,” Lady Anne said, her hands folded. “You will have three grooms to assist you. They await you through that door.” She pointed past the gathered ladies, who were listening to every word. “When you have seen to your duties, return to me. Lady Margaret, the queen’s mistress of the wardrobe, must determine what we can do about your gowns . . . if that gown is any example. No lady may outshine Her Majesty, but neither must she be disgraced by a style not seen in this court for ten years or more.”

  Mary curtsied again, resisting the proud reply on the tip of her tongue that her apparel was highly regarded in the west country. Instead, she moved quickly toward the rear door, which was opened for her. She gladly left behind giggles and whispers, which was particularly demanding of her determined docility.

  Three men waited in the hall, one stepping forward. “Mistress, my name is Thomas Wright,” he announced with a bow. “I am master of the grooms of the closestool.”

  “And I am the queen’s new mistress of the closestool. You may call me Mistress Rogers, Master Wright. If it please you, show me to my place of service.”

  He preceded her into and through the queen’s soaring vaulted bath, more a small cathedral than a bath, and to the closet that held the royal closestool. No longer able to hide his displeasure, he blurted, “Mistress Rogers, there has never before been one appointed over me.”

  “As you see, Master Wright, it is the queen’s will to appoint me now. Do you disagree with Her Majesty’s choice?”

  He bowed hastily. “Nay, it is not my place to do so.”

  “Exactly, Master Wright.” Once servants were allowed to question their orders, there was no controlling them. She motioned for him to open the door, which, after only the slightest hesitation, he did, bowing her in.

  Although she’d been prepared with her pomander to her nose, knowing how even the best jakes usually stank, she thought the queen very ill-served by this one. There were no fresh rushes, no masking scents, and the tank needed to be emptied . . . badly. Even in her grandfather’s country manor the jakes was better kept. She was relieved. This had not been a make-work position, after all. The queen needed a woman to govern the careless men who kept her closestool. She was surprised they had not landed in the Tower dungeons earlier.

  “When was the tank last emptied, Master Wright?”

  “The tank is always emptied by long custom when the court comes to Whitehall, Mistress Mary.”

  Weeks, it had been. “Now the custom will be that the tank is emptied each day.”

  The grooms looked at one another, one smirking, the others astounded, by the look of their open mouths and wide eyes.

  “Every day, Master Wright, and quicklime added each morning . . . all to be well-done before the queen rises.” She looked about her, walking the length and width. “The rushes are to be changed today and each week hereafter. The walls and floors will be washed with vinegar and fresh lemon . . . and there must be flowers, boughs of them in season, fresh herbs at other times.”

  The youngest groom, a beardless boy, giggled.

  It was time to show these lax servants her authority or she would never be their mistress. “Master Wright, if you cannot control the behavior of your undergrooms, then discharge them immediately for servants who will take seriously their duties for the queen’s good. I will return in two hours to see that all my orders have been followed . . . to perfection, Master Wright.” She swung about, waited for a scrambling groom to open the door and walked out, not wanting to give them time to think that her voice might not have been as strong as it needed to be.

  Mary returned swiftly to the ladies’ anteroom to see a pile of gowns all of white or pale silver laid out everywhere on chairs and chests.

  Lady Margaret, a woman past her prime, for she was at least nearing thirty, was alone save for two serving maids. “My lady Warwick and the others attend the queen in procession to her council,” she announced, and began unlacing Mary’s gown, which dropped to the floor. “The smock and petticoat will do, but not the bodice.”

  “Lady Margaret, these gowns are of the same color. I prefer yellow or blue.”

  The lady’s mouth set in
a firm line. “No lady of bedchamber wears color but Her Majesty. Is that understood?”

  So the queen’s ladies laughed at country mice, but were palace mice themselves, meant to creep about in the background, being decorative, but not too decorative.

  The maids swarmed about to help Mary into bodice, skirt, kirtle and then a gown and puffed sleeves, adding to these a collar, cuffs, stomacher and ruff.

  The mistress of the wardrobe eyed the fit. “You are not as thin as the queen when she wore this gown, not having lost the flesh of youth, but it suits you well.”

  “I am several months past twenty years, my lady,” Mary said as Lady Margaret led her to a large mirror.

  Uninterested in that news, Lady Margaret stood behind her. “These will do. Later, the queen’s glover and shoemaker will take your measure. If you wish, you may attach your pomander, watch or fan to a black ribbon about your waist. Take my advice, mistress, and do not wear the queen’s portrait until she gives you leave, for that is a high favor at court and may be granted only by Her Majesty. Yet a decent pearl would help, a rope necklace even better. That gown once carried hundreds of hand-sewn seed pearls, which were removed for Her Grace’s newer gowns.”

  “I thank you, my lady,” Mary said, looking with astonishment at her changed image from a country knight’s granddaughter into a fine court lady. Her hand flew to her throat and she wondered where she could possibly obtain a pearl necklace.

  Lady Margaret dropped her too-sober look. “I must say the silver gown sets off your dark eyes and hair most generously, indeed. And the country has not ruined your very fair complexion. Indeed, you have the natural coloring desired in this court. The queen will be pleased.”

  “I am glad of it, my lady.” She curtsied. “May I have an hour to take leave of my grandfather?”

  Lady Margaret took her arm. “One further caution, mistress. Do not ever show yourself to the queen fresh-skinned as you are.” She lowered her voice. “Remember, Elizabeth does not like to be reminded of . . . well, fresh young skin.” She raised her voice again. “When you return—and do not tarry—a cosmetic will be applied. Later, you will receive several other gowns and fittings, after which you will be presented to the queen for her approval.”