Her monarch waved her hand, dismissing the lute as an inconsequential instrument despite the young man who yet strummed softly upon his own instrument in the room’s corner. “The virginals are far more suited to a woman of your consequence. Perhaps We can be your tutor. We’re told that We own a bit of a talent for the instrument.”
Once again, Anne’s gaze shifted to her queen’s hems, this time to hide her mouth’s twist at the thought of more practice on the virginals. She hated the instrument. Her fingers always seemed to knot as she sought the proper notes upon its keyboard.
“And how well do you dance?” Another eager question.
“Not at all I fear, Madame,” Anne replied, so relieved to be on solid ground again that the words left her mouth unconsidered.
“What?!” The exclamation erupted from the queen’s mouth, the sound sharp and startled.
“You do not dance!” Sir Amyas cried in stark surprise as he sat back on his heels. His fisted hands rested on his thighs. “Why did you not tell me?” This was a pained demand.
“You never asked.” Anne replied blandly as she once more named him hypocrite. He decried dancing as the first and most sinful of the queen’s activities.
“This simply cannot be,” Elizabeth protested, truly shocked to discover so great a fault in one she’d begun to admire.
Anne turned her boldest gaze upon her monarch. “Madame, I know it must seem strange to you, but there’s no dancing at Owls House. Once long ago, when my mother served Your Majesty’s stepmothers,” she paused to make certain the queen would be reminded of her mother’s past service, “she was lauded for her fine footwork. It seemed cruel to force one who had so loved the activity to watch others caper and skip to a tune when even the smallest step is beyond her. Thus I never pressed to learn.”
Elizabeth’s face softened at this explanation. “Noble indeed. In this your mother’s blood reveals itself,” she said, referring to her mother’s connection to the Radcliffes and the earl of Sussex, while dismissing Sir Amyas’s far more plebeian roots.
“Still,” she continued with a frown, “we cannot have a maid who does not dance.”
“Majesty, might I offer a suggestion?” The woman who spoke was one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Dressed in green and gray, she was beautiful, being fair of hair and fine of feature, with eyes as blue as the sapphires glinting in her earbobs.
Amyas caught his breath so sharply that Anne thought for a moment he was in pain. He straightened, coming upright on his knees once more, his head bowed. Fingers clenching into his thick gown, he stared at the floor’s matting, his lips moving as if in prayer.
Elizabeth shifted upon her cushions until she could gaze upon this beauty. Although no emotion colored the royal face the queen’s fingers were tight on the arms of her chair. Years of reading her mother’s unspoken messages served Anne well. Now, why would a queen keep a woman she did not trust so close to her?
This was followed by a sudden appreciation for the queen’s subtlety; no whit of what the queen felt showed on her face. England’s queen played those who served as ably as she claimed she worked the keys of the virginals. Anne fought a smile as she realized this could only mean that the queen’s open impatience toward Amyas had been an act, one calculated to make sure he paid with more than coin to place his heiress into royal service.
“And what might your suggestion be, Lady Montmercy?” It was a blank question.
The noblewoman dropped into a deep curtsy. “Mistress Blanchemain seems a worthy enough maid,” she replied, her head bowed, “and an inability to dance is a flaw easily rectified. While a tutor could be hired for her, you have often said there are many men at court who turn their legs with great skill. I find myself wondering whether there’s any difference between the skill transmitted by a man who teaches dancing as his trade,” a touch of scorn colored the word, "and one who dances for the simple joy of movement.”
Interest sparked in the queen’s dark eyes. “A suggestion worthy of consideration,” she agreed. “Who might you suggest for this experiment, my lady?”
The noblewoman shook her head. “Madame, I’m not the one to ask. Well you know that my skill in footwork is marginal. You’re better seeking names of candidates from those more nimble on their toes.” At her words a pair of the queen’s youngest maids giggled and whispered to each other from where they sat at the throne’s side.
“That set you to hissing.” The queen threw this not-unkind comment at the lasses. “Does this mean one of you has a recommendation to make?”
Elizabeth’s words brought the pair of highborn maids around the corner of her chair. Still tittering, they clutched together as if one needed the other to stand. The instant they were within their queen’s eyesight, they knelt, bending heads over bodices yet undisturbed by womanly curves.
“Madame,” one offered, her golden curls resting against her sweet nape, “what of Master Christopher Hollier? You complimented him last week for how finely he turned his leg to music.”
Amyas gasped. “Nay, I’ll have no Papists near my heir!” Even as the words exploded from him her grandfather cringed as he recognized his mistake.
In her chair Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Her neck tensed until Anne could see the blue of her veins. “God’s teeth, but you do tread roughshod over ground you should not tread at all,” she shouted at the one who claimed to be her good and faithful servant. “We’ve had enough of you and your pompous ilk, all of you thinking to command God’s chosen monarch to your will. It is ours to decide who serves us and how they serve.”
With every word, Elizabeth’s voice rose until the sound of her rage echoed about the now still and breathless room. “Not even our councilors have the right to demand otherwise, although God knows they dare to try. We say Master Hollier is your granddaughter’s tutor, and so it will be!”
As the echoes of the queen’s shouts faded, Kit straightened out of his slouched stance against the wall. All around him men cleared their throats or coughed, the more daring whispering to each other. No matter their reaction, every one of them was giving thanks he wasn’t Old Amyas. God knew Kit was.
Although Amyas’s head was bowed, his back was stiff in eloquent declaration of how deeply he resented his queen’s tongue-lashing. Poor old man. He probably had no idea of the sort of morass into which he’d blundered.
Amyas’s arrogant outburst had given Elizabeth just what she needed: a whipping boy on whom to vent her rage over the actions of those more highly placed and powerful than he, and a pulpit from which she could inform her courtiers just how she felt about her council’s attempt to usurp her authority in February, two months past.
The corners of Kit’s mouth lifted. Amyas must be eating at his heart right now, knowing that if he’d held his tongue the queen would have asked the onlookers to submit names for Mistress Blanchemain’s dancing master. Indeed, the appointment would have become like unto a tennis match, hours passing as the highest nobles at court swatted names about like balls until the strongest faction settled the chore upon their favorite.
Against Lady Montmercy’s admonition not to do so Kit glanced at her, his respect for her ability to scheme rising. It was a stroke of genius to use a maid to proffer his name, all the more so since to the best of his knowledge the queen had never offered him a word one way or the other over his footwork. It was Kit’s fellow pensioner of the same name, Master Christopher Hatton, who received all the queen’s praise for his dancing.
The question remained: how did yon devious, amoral viper know that devout old man so well to be certain he’d explode at the mere suggestion of the Hollier name?
John clapped Kit on the back, the congratulatory blow so powerful it nearly knocked Kit from his feet. “By God, that was a neat trick,” John cried in quiet awe as he gave up pounding on his friend to come around Kit, grab his hand, and pump vigorously. “Who did you have to pay and how much did it cost to arrange that?”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Kit
declared, glad his words rang with truth.
Lord Andrew appeared from around John’s back to catch Kit by the arm. “In honor of your appointment I will not pursue the woman,” he offered in his own version of congratulations.
Kit stifled his laugh. “Magnanimous of you, my lord,” he said, sarcasm almost dripping from his words.
Ned’s laugh rang out. “I fear this generosity of yours has more to do with the color of Mistress Blanchemain’s tresses than our Kit’s good fortune,” he said to his charge. “We all know you prefer fair-haired lasses.”
“So I do,” the boy replied with a grin so charming it drove all arrogance from his face.
Near the queen’s chair Sir Amyas mumbled his way through the appropriate humble apologies. When he finished the usher called Mistress Blanchemain forward to recite her oath of service. John looked at Kit.
“Since you’re vowed not to marry do you think you can whisper a good word to her about me? I can even help you with your lessons, being as light on my feet as you.”
Dismay filled Kit. Those lessons were his opportunity to seduce Mistress Anne. Lord Andrew chose that moment to again thrust himself between his taller and older friends. Rather than chide the lordling for his rude interruption, Kit breathed in relief as it served to distract John from his request.
“Look there,” the youth said, his voice low as he shot another glance toward the body of the room. “Leicester’s making his way to the queen. What do you wager, friends? I have a good red angel that says he speaks to her of the Maying, reminding her we’re late in repairing to Greenwich for that celebration. “Aye, and after that, I’ve a pound that says he does so good a job at wooing her we find ourselves Greenwich-bound before the morrow’s sunset.”
“That’s too easy a wager,” Ned scoffed. “Everyone can see she’s finally ready to be soothed into leaving Whitehall.”
Shoving past his friends, Kit stared toward his royal mistress’s chair. That parvenu of all parvenus, Robert Dudley, now Lord Denbigh and Earl of Leicester, was already on one knee before his queen. Elizabeth’s handsome favorite shone like the bright star he was, his doublet yellow, his breeches green and red beneath his brown, fur-lined coat. Bright diamonds served him for buttons, while his buckled garter proclaimed his status as a Garter Knight.
Mistress Blanchemain and Old Amyas were nowhere to be seen. Kit cursed himself for allowing his friends to distract him. With so many men certain to pursue the new maid-of-honor and despite that Amyas could but hate him more for it Kit wanted to make his introductions now.
There was a flash of red near the Presence Chamber’s doorway. It was Old Amyas, taking his heiress from the room.
Panic spiked. What if Lady Montmercy’s ploy was more than the old man’s arrogance could tolerate and Amyas now sought to completely remove his granddaughter from court? The queen would be furious, but her vengeance would likely be heavy fines rather than a request for the girl’s return. If Mistress Blanchemain departed all chance at reclaiming Graceton’s lordship went with her.
“Pardon,” he told his friends, already pushing through the courtiers to intercept Amyas. His path took him close enough to Leicester to overhear his speech to the queen.
“May Day will soon be upon us, Madame,” the earl was saying. “Give way to pleasure, sweet Gloriana. Too long have you shielded your brilliance from us, trapping us in winter’s drear dullness. ‘Tis time to celebrate the coming of summer. Be you our goddess and lead us into gaiety.”
It was a coquette’s smile Elizabeth offered her Master of the Horse as she reached out to trail the royal fingers along her earl’s cheek in a caress that was but a hair’s breadth this side of being too intimate for public display. At this moment Kit wouldn’t have cared if Elizabeth bedded her favorite before all the court; he had his own bedmate to catch.
“You are right, My Eyes,” the queen replied, new huskiness in her voice, “it’s time we finished with all this animosity and strife. Activity is what we need to clear our livers.
“What say you?” the queen asked, raising her gaze to the many men whose only job was to adore her. “Are we for Greenwich on the morrow?”
Her announcement sent a pleased rumble rolling across the room. Half a chamber ahead of Kit Old Amyas and Mistress Anne exited this room for the gallery beyond it. Kit put wings on his feet. If he didn’t catch them now, the chaos of the court’s move would forestall his introduction until after they were settled at Greenwich. It was as sprightly a dance as he’d ever done as he wove through this party and that to catch his quarry.
Amyas pulled Anne toward the Presence Chamber exit. Anne opened her mouth to protest that leaving the queen’s presence before being released was rude, if not dangerous. Before she spoke, she glanced up at her grandsire and thought the better of it.
His breaths came in quiet gasps; sweat beaded on his brow. Just as had happened before he attacked her mother, his face was again pale, only this time so much so that his skin held a greenish tinge. No expression save a strange blankness filled his dark eyes.
Amyas pulled her out of the Presence Chamber door with enough violence to make her stumble. Anne managed a smile to the startled guards as she caught her footing, the movement of her mouth meant to suggest that such an exit was a normal occurrence for her.
Once beyond the Presence Chamber her grandfather’s pace slowed, although not by choice. Those pressing forward to get a better view of their monarch weren’t eager to allow him through their ranks. A flash of drab brown from the glittering crowd’s outer edge caught Anne’s eyes, a cloud against the glittering firmament of Heaven.
Patience Watkins. The thin woman huddled against the wall, her arms tightly crossed before her as if she feared contamination from the group of laughing men crowding her. Amyas bulled his way past a smaller man, who cursed loudly. The profanity drew Patience’s attention. Her eyes widened as she realized Amyas was departing the area without her.
Flustered, the young widow almost leapt from her stance at the wall, hurrying out of her usual moderate pace to an almost obscene trot as she shifted and sidled between the others, trying to catch up.
“Sir Amyas, wait!” she cried, her voice lifted in sinful shrillness as she lifted her heels and jogged just as sinfully after her employer. Patience maintained that only whores ran or called after a man. “I cannot keep pace.”
To Anne’s surprise Amyas stopped at Patience’s call, proving that despite his addled state he could still hear and comprehend. Comprehend perhaps, but as Anne watched him swing his head in Patience’s direction, she was certain he wasn’t seeing this place or time.
Lifting her hand, Anne touched his fingers where they curled into her upper arm. He started and drew a gasping breath. His hold on her loosened just a little.
Patience came to a stop beside them, her expression stricken as she glanced from her employer to her charge. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s had some sort of fit,” Anne replied as she freed her grandfather’s hand from her arm.
He swayed unsteadily. “Jezebel,” he muttered, “Delilah!”
Eyes closing, he clenched his fist and set it against his heart. “Be strong and hold firm upon the path of righteousness.”
Patience gasped at his words. Anne eyed her grandfather in consideration. Who did he mean? For no reason she could name she was certain it was the noblewoman the queen didn’t trust, Lady Montmercy.
Of a sudden the doors to the Presence Chamber opened. Courtiers flooded into the gallery, each man calling to his servants, until the noise became a roar. As folk whirled into action Anne grabbed her grandfather’s hand and led him out of the traffic. He followed dumbly, stopping when she did.
Anne frowned, unnerved by his behavior. Far better for her that he remain the man she despised. “Grandfather, gather your wits,” she demanded, trying to prod him back to lucidity.
“Is he ill?” a man asked.
It was the gentleman with the green eyes, the
one who had welcomed her to court. He was taller than she’d first thought. The top of her head reached only a little beyond his jawline.
“He’s had some sort of fit,” Anne told him.
“Shall I assist you in leading him from the gallery?” he asked.
Amyas turned blankly toward the sound of the gentleman’s voice then blinked rapidly for a moment. Life returned to his eyes in a blaze of anger. His face flushed a bright red.
“You,” he spewed the word as if it were a mouthful of poison. “No Papist will be my granddaughter’s dancing master.”
Anne looked in surprise at the gentleman. “You are Master Hollier?”
“Indeed,” Master Hollier replied with the same slow grin that had so beguiled her only half an hour ago. “Since your grandfather isn’t inclined to do the honors, I’ll introduce myself. Master Christopher Hollier at your service Mistress Blanchemain.”
Sweeping his brown cap from his head with one hand, Master Hollier caught Anne’s fingers in the other, then extended his leg and made a graceful bow over her hand. As he straightened he lifted her fingers to his mouth. A thin leather glove was no barrier to sensation. Anne drew a sharp breath as the touch of his lips sent languid heat spreading to every corner of her being.
Here, her body whispered to her, was the man she wanted.
And here, her mind countered, was one man she dare not take.
Anne fought disappointment as she crossed Master Hollier from her list of potential husbands only an instant after adding him. Sir Amyas could never be brought to accept this man, even if he were no Papist. The queen’s tirade over her grandfather’s protest doomed any possibility of a relationship no matter how perfect the gentleman might prove to be for Anne’s purposes.
Then again, she need not keep the man on her list of potential husbands to enjoy his company. Rather than remove her hand from his and step back, she smiled up at him. He returned her smile, his fingers moving in secret caress in the hidden cup of her palm. Anne caught a shivering breath in reaction.
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