“I wanted you to know that I believe in you, but I need to leave. What with Christmas revelry and the wine, I made a mistake last night and should not show my face around the palace for a time. I did not want you to think I had abandoned you as well.”
“What did you do? And where will you go? You have no family.”
“I will make my way—I always have before.” The sparkle was gone from his eyes again. He looked so miserable. Lost.
“Here now.” Mary reached into the deep pockets of her overskirt and found her coin purse. Checking its contents, she continued, “You will go to Holme LeSieur and tell Mistress Frances LeSieur that I have sent you.” She shoved her purse into his hands. “Take this, but wait for me. I will be back anon with a letter of introduction. Wait.” Mary turned and ran before Girard could argue with her. She may be a ruined woman, a strumpet, and a murderess, but she would still be a good friend.
In no time at all, she had penned the missive and sealed it.
Mary made her way through the palace corridors. It struck her that she rather hated the palace, packed full of the privileged, titled, and wealthy. Sycophantic lap dogs all looking for a spot in the Queen’s circle, more concerned with the cut of their sleeve than extending any human kindness. They cared more about a person’s rank than the actual person. Was Anne, Lady Oxford, even her friend anymore? She hadn’t realized it before, but she honestly looked forward to leaving. Holme LeSieur, while not grand and stylish, was a place where she would feel loved. Thank God Christmas would be over soon. She just wished she would be leaving on her own terms instead of running away in disgrace.
Like Girard, apparently.
But what about Charles? Would their romance be over after Twelfth Night too? Would she never see him again? Or she could stay in the palace, in this viper’s nest, and continue with him. As what? His mistress? No, she was better than that. Then again, she was already ruined at court, how could it get worse? Only by accepting the role others had cast for her. She may have shown her love for Thomas by giving him her virginity, or embraced a shared passion with Charles, but she was no whore.
“Mary.”
Mary looked up at the sound of her name. Standing squarely in her path was a man clad in the red tunic of the Queen’s Guard. Tall. Imposing. Dangerous. Charles.
She wanted to cry. She had never seen him in the light of day. She had never thought about his duty to the Queen and the court. Now she saw him as if for the first time. Did he know about Oxford? Did he judge her too?
Opening his arms, he enfolded her as she tentatively stepped into him. “What really happened?”
With a sigh of relief, Mary leaned farther into him. “You are the first person that has bothered to ask.”
“Why would they ask? You are guilty, so of course you would lie.”
Mary stepped back, stunned he would have so little faith in her. If he believed her guilty, why did he greet her with so much warmth? She looked up at him in shock and saw his eyes smiling into hers. Charles hugged her close again, laughing his words against her hair, “Mary, you cannot let this upset you. It is ridiculous, and eventually all the fools at court will forget. Besides, and no offense is intended, you are not important enough for them to care about for long.”
Mary laughed. “True. No offense taken.” Mary sighed and relaxed into his embrace. Charles ran his hands up her back and onto her shoulders. She felt tingles down to her toes as his fingers moved in slow circles.
“I had to find you.” Charles took a deep breath against her hair, inhaling the soft scent of lavender. “I am on duty with the Queen tonight. I will escort Her to Hampton Court for a play. So I will not see you at tonight’s festivities.”
The heat from his touch seeped into her skin, warming her. What was he saying? She would not see him tonight? It was almost too much—she needed to see him. “I cannot stomach the idea of going to the festivities myself. I think the rest of the twelve nights will be very quiet indeed. Alone, in my room.”
Mary’s distress and obvious invitation did not go unnoticed. Charles smoothed his hands down her back, pressing her body against his more firmly. “May I come to you tomorrow night, then?” His voice was deep, his breath hot against her hair. “I could get to your room discreetly. I would come with no expectation—I just want to see you.”
Mary held him close. “Yes. Please, yes. I will wait for you.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her brow and stepped back. His attempt to resume his guardsman stoicism was ruined by his grin. Mary laughed and stepped on tip-toe to press a quick kiss to his lips and whispered, “Tomorrow night.” With that, Mary turned and continued on to meet Girard.
• • •
Mary returned once again to the Oxford apartments after giving Girard the promised letter of introduction. He’d never told her why he had to leave, but she felt secure knowing that he would be safe and receive a warm welcome at Holme LeSieur. She would miss him, but she’d be following soon enough. Tonight was the third of the twelve nights, and those nights would fly by, even if the days seemed impossibly long.
Mary entered the sitting room quietly. The bustle of activity had finally died down, but a pall still hung in the air. The earl kept his own set of rooms and a house in London, but Anne had had him installed in her own bed chamber for his treatment. Anne must be ecstatic to get him to herself, his undivided attention—even if he was unconscious. Mary hoped she would never be such a fool over a man.
With a soft sigh, Mary thought about Charles. He would be here, in her room, tomorrow night. With him, maybe she would be able to ignore the memory of Oxford’s blood on her hands. Or the fact that someone had done such violence in her room.
Mary sat down on the edge of her bed and kicked off her slippers. With a wicked smile, she considered that she should get some rest now. She was going to have a long night. Mary reached around to unhook her bodice . . .
Her door burst open to reveal an excited but haggard looking Anne Cecil. “He’s awake! He’s awake!” Anne rushed to Mary, and Mary greeted her with open arms, falling onto the bed beside her. For a moment, Anne was again the young girl Mary remembered, her friend. Anne laid her head on Mary’s shoulder and wept with relief. “He’s awake,” was all she could say.
Mary gently patted her disheveled hair. “Hush now. I am here with you,” she crooned as Anne continued to weep. Mary stayed still until Anne’s weight against her became more solid. Anne had fallen asleep.
With a soft laugh of resignation, Mary gently laid Anne back on the bed and left the room. So much for trying to get any rest before the night.
The sitting room was filled with Anne’s exhausted ladies in waiting. Mary walked over to the most senior of the group and gave a respectful reverance. She couldn’t remember the name, but was sure the woman outranked her significantly. “Lady Oxford informed me that the earl is awake? Will he recover?”
She afforded Mary a sharp stare. With a look of disdain, she gestured for Mary to rise up. “He will mend.”
Mary crossed herself quickly and murmured, “Thank God,” ashamed that her relief was more for herself than for Oxford’s well-being.
The physician stepped out of Oxford’s sick room. His black scholar’s cap cast a heavy shadow over his weathered face. “He will live so long as the wound does not turn putrid. But he needs rest.” He fixed Mary with his hard gaze. “That means no strenuous activities, if you understand my meaning, mistress.”
Was he implying? “God’s teeth, I am not his lover!” Mary blurted before she could stop herself. This was too much.
“Of course, mistress,” the physician muttered politely as he crossed the room. “By the by, he has cleared you of any violence against him.”
Mary gave a sharp intake of breath. “Well, at least there is that.” Mary paused, unable to be truly relieved. “Did he say who his attacker was?”
“He would not say. Good day, ladies.” With that, the old man gave a wobbly reverance and left.
T
hank goodness Oxford was in recovery, but everything was still as terrible as before. The servants and Anne’s ladies all still believed she was Oxford’s mistress. Oxford had cleared her name, but would not name his real attacker. The gossips would just say that he lied to protect his lover. Of course, anyone who actually knew Oxford at all would know he would never put any effort into protecting anyone but himself. Mary wanted to go cry herself to sleep—she was so exhausted and the world seemed out to get her. She turned back toward her room and stopped, remembering that Anne was sleeping in her bed. Drawing a deep breath against the onslaught of emotion that threatened, Mary calmly crossed the room to sit in the window and work on her embroidery like a proper lady.
Deep in thought, Mary realized there was just one course of action available to her if she wanted to piece back together the shreds of her reputation: She must find out who really attacked Oxford.
Chapter Seven:
On the Fourth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Four Colly Birds . . .
Until the thaw, the Thames would be closed to water traffic. Large sections were frozen solidly enough to allow for people to walk or skate across. Usually travel between Whitehall and Hampton Court was simple. Both palaces butted right up against the river, both with water steps and royal barges ready for noble passengers. With the Thames as it was this winter, the royal entourage was forced to travel by land. It was still not a long journey, but the weather added that extra obstacle. Apparently an angry snowstorm would not even pause for a queen.
Charles remained mounted, his horse one of the three to the right side of the royal carriage. His red tunic was covered by layers of thick cloaks, his face partially obscured by a heavy fur-lined scarf. Charles was not fazed by the severe cold, but it did make escorting the Queen more difficult and the idea of returning to the warmth of Whitehall that much more enticing. He had to stop thinking about that—it was not good to be distracted from one’s task when the life of the monarch was potentially at stake.
Queen Elizabeth had enjoyed the play and festivities at Hampton Court and stayed the night and next day for an encore. It had been presented as a Christmas gift by some playwright and his noble patron. All in all, it had been a passable performance, but Charles had been distracted throughout: he knew Mary was in her room, alone and friendless. He also knew that her reputation was in tatters. He knew very little of her past—he was curious, of course, but didn’t think it was relevant to what was between them now. He had never been so sure of anything before, but what he and Mary had—well, he couldn’t question or deny it. It was what it was.
“Sir Charles, are you deaf?” His friend and fellow guardsman, Yeoman O’Neil, sidled his horse up alongside Charles. “I’ve been calling you for some time.”
Charles pulled the scarf down over his chin. “My apologies, Paddy. My entire head is wrapped in this scarf.”
“Of course. We can’t have the gallant Sir Charles catching the ague. Can’t kiss properly with the sniffles.” Paddy’s smile was invisible in the dark night, but Charles could hear it in his voice. He was in for some good natured, masculine harassment.
Charles tried to stave it off. “Paddy, leave it until later. We are on duty.”
“Protecting the Queen, aye. And who would attack in this weather?”
“Perhaps it is the weather we should guard against. The road is treacherous.” Charles fixed his scarf so that only his eyes were exposed under the brim of his cap. “And the Queen’s carriage is an arm’s reach away.”
“She cannot hear a word over the wind.”
“I cannot hear much over the wind. Honestly Paddy, we have a job to do. Take up your jibes again later.”
“Later you will be in the arms of a certain young lady, if I’m not wrong. She’s a tasty piece, she is. I cannot picture the lass harming a fly, but I heard tell that she’s the one who stabbed that earl.”
Paddy spoke as if the man was not Charles’s brother and just some nobleman. “Believe me when I tell you, Mistress Mary had naught to do with it. She is a victim in this as much as that earl. Now, mind to your business and focus on the job at hand.” Sir Charles was in no mood for this. The road was icy and the carriage cumbersome. Yeoman O’Neil had better remember he was on duty and fast before Charles was forced to pull rank and discipline the fool.
Paddy slapped his hand to his chest. “No, do not tell me. Could our Sir Charles be in love?” The guardsman shouted to be heard over the wind. “And will the maid have you? Will you move to the country and raise your babes?”
Paddy’s words were silenced by sudden panicked whinnies from the horses. Charles had already spurred his mare forward. They had hit a patch of ice and one of the team of four had lost her footing. Her terror threatened to infect the other three matched grays leading the Queen’s carriage. Charles laid a soothing hand on the neck of the frantic mare, crooning to her, letting the sure footing of his own horse calm her as she found her own feet again. It was hardly a major disaster—still, Charles prayed that the Queen would be none the wiser. Glancing at the carriage, Charles saw the thick curtain draw closed.
Charles signaled his men, and they regained formation. This time Paddy stayed in his place and kept his mouth shut. At this rate, they should reach the palace at Whitehall just after midnight.
Would Mary be waiting for him?
• • •
Mary jumped out of her seat as Sir Charles entered her room. “I am so glad you could come.” Crossing the room, she stopped just shy of touching him, unsure of what to do.
Charles closed the door quietly behind him and put something on the chest near the door. Goblets and a bottle. “It was a close thing. The Queen almost elected to stay on at Hampton Court for a second night.”
“I would have understood.” She moved, this time with more practiced grace, back to her seat by the fire. She was so relieved he had come. Yes, she would have really understood, but she would have been upset. She simply had to talk about this with him tonight.
“In truth, it would have been the wise thing to do. There was a near accident with the horses on the ice. All is well, but still, it is a treacherous night. But She would not stay—we had to make the return journey because She missed the company of a certain courtier.”
Mary met Charles’s eyes at that last statement and both smiled quietly. Both of them were too wise to speculate further on the Queen’s personal business. As the silence followed, Mary could feel the pull toward him. He was a lodestone, and she found it hard to resist. But she had to finish this first. It should not be so difficult to ask.
Breaking the gaze, she sat back down in front of the fire. “Please join me.” She looked up briefly with a smile, then focused on straightening her skirts.
Mary was confused. She had thought tonight would be more relaxed, just time together one way or another. But she was anxious, not herself tonight—she couldn’t calm her jitters, talking too fast and too loud. He took the offered seat by the fire and waited quietly. His hands clasped in his lap, he raised an eyebrow in question.
Mary would have laughed if she hadn’t been so tightly wound. Talking to Charles about this should be easy—in fact, he was the image of patience. “The Earl of Oxford has cleared my name.”
He sat forward with excitement. “That is good!”
“But he has refused to name his attacker. So the court still thinks I am responsible.”
Charles sat back quietly, digesting the new information. “That is not good.”
Mary continued, “The new rumor is that I am Oxford’s lover and he lied to protect me.”
Charles choked back a laugh unsuccessfully. “Oxford would not put effort into protecting anyone but himself.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Mary punctuated her words with a fist. She rose and started pacing. “But it does not change the whispers.” Mary paused to calm the desperation that threatened to break through. “I am ruined at court and I cannot be. I simply cannot be ruined. I have nothing left but my reputa
tion. Without my good name, I can never be accepted as a gentlewoman companion, and without that I have no prospects. Frances might not even take me back—she shouldn’t if she wants to maintain the good name of her household.”
“What of your family?”
Mary fought to be stoic. She had hoped to discuss this in a practical fashion, but the hurt had just resurfaced and she just couldn’t do it. She would not cry. “My family disowned me years ago.”
“Do you want to tell me why?” Mary winced at his question. She wanted to conceal her flaws but, at the same time, be nothing but her true self with him. Would he still be here if he knew about her scars?
Mary did not hesitate to answer. She and Charles seemed to share an understanding—he would not judge her. Would he? In for a penny . . . “I became pregnant with the babe of my betrothed.”
Charles was silent for a little longer than Mary liked. Finally, he asked, “Where is the child now?”
“I lost the babe.” Mary took in a sharp breath, stopping abruptly. For some reason, she just could not bring herself to say the words that made up the next part of the story, that she was on her way to abort the pregnancy. Go on. Tell him.
Shocked at her cowardice, Mary continued, “Everyone in my family’s circle knew of my disgrace, and that was enough for my father to cast me out. I was lucky to find a position with the Countess of Spencer’s daughter, Frances LeSieur.”
Charles nodded, clearly accepting the information. She could not predict how he would take all of this; she could only hope. Trust didn’t come easily, but with Charles it was natural. The idea that she couldn’t tell him everything seemed wrong . . . and yet she could not make herself say all of it. She either believed in him or she didn’t, but as she struggled to let everything out, she wondered if she trusted herself. She met his eyes, ready to tell him that there was more. Then he asked, “Will you return to her, then?”
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