by Jane Feather
“No, not at all.” Rosamund shook her head, biting her tongue. The chalky white powder certainly covered Joan’s freckles, but it made her look at death’s door. However she didn’t think Joan would wish to know that.
Joan patted her cheeks with her fingertips. “Arbella won’t notice any missing. It’s only a few grains. Come, we must hurry. We have to be in our places before the queen enters.”
Rosamund retained vivid memories of that evening for many years. It was a jumble of impressions, some of which made her cringe with embarrassment, as when she took a seat above the salt at the long board below the royal dais in the Banqueting Hall of Whitehall Palace. Joan had gone in ahead of her, having been summoned by Lady Pembroke to carry her train, and Rosamund did not immediately see her at the table when she entered the vast candlelit hall. She was aware only of a colorful blur and the rich aroma of roasted meat as she walked up the interminable length of the hall to where the royal dais stood at the top. The body of the hall was lined with tables all packed with chattering courtiers.
Her companions on the board reserved exclusively for the queen’s ladies sniggered behind their hands as she chose a spot in the middle of the board, but they said nothing until a chamberlain approached and informed her too loudly that her status did not qualify her to sit above the salt.
Scarlet with mortification, Rosamund struggled off the bench trying to manage her wide skirts and long train, and made her way to the bottom of the table, where she now saw that Joan was already seated.
“I should have warned you,” Joan whispered as Rosamund maneuvered herself onto the bench. “We are the lowliest of the low here. Never presume, or they’ll make sure you pay for it.”
Grimly Rosamund nodded, praying that her scarlet cheeks would soon cool. She wondered how many in the crowded Banqueting Hall had witnessed her humiliation and caught herself praying that Will Creighton had not seen it.
Dinner went on for many hours. The queen, dining in state with the French ambassador on her right, ate and drank only sparingly. A lute player strummed behind her chair and she appeared disinclined for conversation, occasionally looking out over the hall at her assembled court as if committing something to memory.
At last she rose from the table and the court rose instantly. She disappeared through a tapestry-shielded door at the rear of the dais, the great ladies of the privy chamber accompanying her.
It was the signal for the court to break up, and Rosamund heaved a sigh of relief. It had been the least enjoyable experience of her entire existence thus far. But other memories as the evening progressed were much pleasanter.
On a dais in another massive hall musicians were playing as the court in a body entered from the Banqueting Hall. A troupe of jugglers and acrobats entertained throughout the evening and the queen sat in state, smiling occasionally at some witticism of her fool, who sat at her feet in his motley, his belled hat tinkling merrily at every movement.
Rosamund looked around the crowded hall, her eyes searching for Will, but she could see him nowhere. “Come on, let’s dance,” Joan prodded eagerly, and Rosamund, afraid she would be conspicuous if she stood to the side, gave up her search and followed Joan into the line for a stately galliard.
She had had dancing lessons in her childhood and was naturally light on her feet, but the galliard was complicated and she was concentrating so hard on her steps she barely raised her eyes from her feet until a faintly accented voice commented with a laugh, “I must protest, Mistress Walsingham. I may be impossibly vain but I would have thought I might be more interesting than a pair of admittedly very dainty feet.”
She looked up into a pair of tawny eyes, deep set in an olive complexion. Startling white teeth were revealed in a slightly crooked and most attractive smile. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize . . . ,” she stammered, not making much sense even to herself, then she frowned in puzzlement. “You seem to have the advantage of me, sir. I do not recall our introduction.”
He laughed, taking her hand and turning her with him along the line of dancers, his own steps enviably sure. “Because we have not had one. I happen to know your name because I asked someone who has been introduced to you. Lady Leinster. You will remember, perhaps, that you met her this afternoon?”
His smile was attractive, but so was his voice, with that lilt of an accent, and his eyes seemed to see nothing but her, Rosamund thought, somewhat bemused by this barrage of impressions.
“Yes . . . yes, of course, I remember.” She looked up at him now with full attention, a question in her eyes.
“Ah, you are wondering why I would ask for your name, but not for an introduction,” he guessed, lifting a perfectly arched black eyebrow. “I am right, yes?”
“Yes,” she said frankly. “But if you thought now would be a good moment to introduce yourself and redress the balance, I would not disagree with you, sir.”
An appreciative smile danced across his eyes. “I am remiss. My most humble apologies, Mistress Walsingham. The Chevalier de Vaugiras at your service, madam.” He bowed, managing to make the movement blend with the steps of the dance. “And I asked who you were because I am always curious about newcomers to the court. I do not like to be behindhand in the gossip, you understand?”
“Oh, I am flattered, sir,” Rosamund exclaimed, her own eyes sparkling. “To be considered worthy of gossip on one’s first day is such a compliment. I doubt I shall recover my composure for quite some time.”
“And I am most effectively put in my place. I did not mean to imply anything so insulting.”
She regarded him thoughtfully. “Really, Chevalier. I wonder if I believe that.” Rosamund realized suddenly that she was behaving quite unlike herself, and enjoying every minute of it. The air seemed to crackle around them as the music continued, and he turned her slowly as the dance steps took her around him.
Then the music slowed, and the dancers gracefully completed their last steps and came to a halt as the last note died. Rosamund curtsied, her partner bowed.
“Shall we dance the next one?” He took her hand in a light clasp.
Rosamund remembered Ursula’s gems of advice. Do nothing to cause comment, never let yourself be singled out for any reason. She smiled and curtsied again. “I fear not, Chevalier. I am fatigued.”
He released her hand immediately and bowed again as she stepped out of the line. “Desolated, madam, but I trust we shall continue our acquaintance at some other time.”
She smiled and walked away, feeling rather pleased with herself.
“Rosamund . . . Rosamund?”
She turned at the urgent whisper. Will was beckoning to her from behind an arras that concealed a window embrasure. She glanced around. No one seemed to be looking in their direction, but that didn’t mean that people weren’t. She gestured that he should come out into the open. It was one thing to have a conversation in front of everyone, quite another to slip behind tapestries.
“Oh, I would never have believed you to be so timid, Mistress Rosamund,” Will grumbled, emerging fully from the arras. He came over to her with a laugh in his eyes. “I was hoping for a secret assignation. I wanted to show you how it was possible to escape the rigid rules at court if one was bold enough.”
“I’m not bold enough as yet. This is all so new to me, it seems there are traps at every corner.”
“You seemed to be having an amusing conversation with Arnaud de Vaugiras,” Will remarked, watching her closely.
“Did I?” she said carelessly, then couldn’t help herself. “Well, perhaps it was amusing.”
Will raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure it was. He is generally considered to be one of the most cultivated of courtiers. Her majesty enjoys his company.” Will gestured to the dais and Rosamund saw that her former partner was leading the queen into the dance.
“Then I suppose I must be flattered he deigned to converse with me at all,” she remarked. “If it’s not too bold for a newcomer to make the suggestion, let us join the dance. They’re
playing a country dance that I happen to know well.”
“I am honored, madam.” Will bowed, took her hand, and led her into the dance.
“My brother tells me you have aspirations to be a playmaker,” she said when they came together in the line of dance again.
For once Will seemed to lose a little of his self-confident composure. “I have a play almost completed, but I have yet to show my work to anyone,” he confided.
“You could perhaps ask Master Marlowe to read it. Or my brother. Thomas is generally thought to be something of a patron of the theatre.”
Will’s smile was rueful. “I own I shrink from being my own advocate. I’m too nervous myself to ask anyone with influence in the theatre to judge my puny efforts.”
“I could ask my brother, or Master Marlowe, for you. If that would be any help.”
“Would you really?” His blue eyes seemed to deepen in color with the sudden intensity of his voice.
“Of course,” she responded simply.
“But perhaps you should read it yourself first, before you commit yourself?” He smiled that self-deprecating smile again.
“Of course, if you wish it. I should be most interested.”
His hand tightened on hers and his eyes glowed with pleasure as he led her out of the dance line. “Will you meet me in the morning in the privy garden? Just after sunup. No one will be around and I will show you my play.”
Rosamund’s look of dismay was almost comical. “Where is the privy garden?”
“I was forgetting, this is your first day.” Will frowned. “I will meet you at the bottom of the staircase to your dorter at five. You will not be expected to attend upon the queen until after breakfast.”
“How do you know that?”
He chuckled. “I have been at court these last three years, Mistress Walsingham. I am well acquainted with her majesty’s routines. You will learn them soon enough.”
“I’m sure I shall . . . eventually. It all seems very confusing at the moment.” She saw Joan standing to one side of the hall, watching them. “I had better go now,” she said swiftly. “I will meet you in the morning. I bid you good night, Will.” Without waiting for a response, she walked quickly away.
As Rosamund reached her, Joan said on an accusing note, “You seemed very close with Will Creighton.”
“Not so . . . I was merely dancing with him. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Only that he’s a terrible flirt. I should warn you that he tries to take up with every female newcomer to the court. But he gets bored very quickly, and just when they think he is making a definite play, he drops them like a hot brick.”
“Oh. Thank you for the warning.” She looked curiously at Joan. “Did that happen to you?”
Joan’s angry flush was answer enough, and as they made their way upstairs, Rosamund was in no doubt of the need to keep her dawn rendezvous to herself.
Robin Poley sat in the taproom of the Red Lion in the hamlet of Chartley. Opposite him Thomas Phelippes nursed a tankard of ale. “You’ve had no contact with Mary Stuart since you arrived this time?”
Poley shook his head. Good-looking, he was dark-haired, swarthy, richly dressed with cobweb lawn at collar and cuffs, and gold buttons to his crimson doublet slashed to reveal gold undersleeves. Only his eyes, small, close-set, and a pale watery blue detracted from the overall impression. “Paulet said she’d taken to her bed. He will send to me when she’s up and about again, and I’ll make contact with the girl Barbara Curle, who serves the lady. She will do anything for her since Mary baptized her child when Paulet refused to permit a Catholic priest to perform the ceremony.”
Phelippes nodded. “I remember. The lady has courage, one must admit. Paulet’s enmity is no light burden to carry.” He took a sip of ale. “You look well yourself, Robin, for a man recently released from the dungeons of the Fleet.”
Poley chuckled. “ ’Tis easy enough to get relief in there with coin to grease the jailers’ palms. And I made some good conversions. Two priests, terrified out of their godly minds by my tales of Topcliffe’s racks and screws, are already on their way to the English College in Rheims to listen in to the plots and conspiracies of the Catholic priests and their followers. They will report faithfully, and I shall follow them there soon enough to ensure that they do.” He took a draft of ale. “How is our lord and master?”
“Walsingham spins his webs,” Phelippes said. “And he draws in the flies. There is talk of conspiracy, and he listens in. Father Ballard, the missionary priest who hides himself under the name of Captain Fortescue, is at work again, and Walsingham has Barnard Maude stuck closer than skin to Ballard’s side. And he has a new man . . . one Christopher . . . Kit, they call him . . . Marlowe. A Corpus man.”
Poley nodded. “Walsingham always did cleave to Cambridge men. A scholar is he, this Marlowe?”
“Aye, a scholar, a writer of verse, a playmaker too. And a man who holds heretical views, atheistic views, and when in his cups is not afraid to declare them.” Phelippes banged his tankard on the table to attract the wench’s attention. “He is often in his cups.” He smiled. “He is disinclined to accept his destiny, a Church living that might bring him five pounds a year, if he’s lucky.”
“So he’s ripe for the spider’s web.”
“Indeed, Robin. Indeed. He works with the young Walsingham, but our master talks of putting him in tandem with Gilbert Gifford to sow some provocative seeds among Ballard’s troupe.”
A movement at the door drew Robin’s eyes and he gave an infinitesimal nod to Phelippes as he rose and crossed the taproom. “Mistress Curle. Do you look for me?”
“Yes, Master Poley. A letter from my lady’s majesty. I hardly expected to see you so soon.” She glanced anxiously around before sliding the letter into his hand. “Sir Amyas has removed her chair and cloth of state.”
“Ah, the poor lady. How she must feel it.” Robin’s voice was low and sympathetic, but his eyes slipped sideways. That might explain Mary’s letter. She had not committed herself to writing to her supporters for many weeks.
He nodded to Barbara, who quickly slipped out of the tavern, and returned to Phelippes. He laid the letter on the table, pushing it across to the other man. “For Scotland. You will decipher it, if it’s in code.”
“Her codes are too simple,” Phelippes said, tucking the letter into his doublet. “I will look at it later.”
Robin hid his disappointment. He knew his place in Walsingham’s web. It was important, but not sufficiently so for him to be considered a confidant of the master’s. He was a tool, no more. But it paid well enough and the work pleased him. He enjoyed the deviousness, the sleight of hand, the confusion he could create. He knew he wasn’t wholly trusted by anyone, not even his master, the secretary of state. And that suited him well enough. Robin had only one interest, his own well-being and advancement, and like any mercenary he would take that on whichever side of the fence offered the best opportunity.
He said now, “Paulet has taken away the royal symbols.”
“Yes, on her majesty’s instructions . . . or rather, Walsingham’s. Master Secretary suggested it and I understand that her majesty put up no objections.”
“It is a first step then?”
“A first step. Walsingham lays the bricks carefully one upon the other.” Phelippes rose. “I am to dine with Paulet. I may have instructions for you in the morning. And I will return the letter to you then for delivery.”
Robin bowed his head in acknowledgment and called for more ale. This journey as courier would not be as arduous as many he had taken. Scotland was but two days’ ride from the north of England, and it would not, thank God, involve another wretched crossing of the Channel.
Chapter Eleven
AGATHE SHIFTED BENEATH her lover’s body. Arnaud seemed to be asleep, his head in the hollow of her shoulder, his chest crushing her breasts, his long legs twined with hers. He had given her everything she could have wished for and more dur
ing the long hours of the night, bringing her again and again to the peak, holding there as only he could do, before bestowing the caressing touch that would send her tumbling into the rushing black waters of fulfillment. And when he had finally allowed himself to climax, he had seemed to lose consciousness afterwards, falling heavily, a deadweight, onto her exhausted body.
She stroked down his back, reveling in the play of muscles beneath the taut flesh, inhaling the earthy scent of his hair, a strand of which was tickling her nose. She sneezed, her body jumping beneath him.
Arnaud nipped the soft skin of her shoulder, his lips warm against her skin. Playfully she struggled to heave him off her and he laughed softly, letting her struggle for several minutes before he raised his head and murmured, “You have had enough of me so soon, my sweet?”
“Never,” she denied, pulling his head down to hers.
He kissed her slowly, languidly, before rolling sideways to swing himself off the bed. Agathe sat up against the pillows, watching as he poured wine into two silver goblets from a crystal decanter on a gilded table against the lead-paned window. The window was open to catch what breeze there was in the muggy night, and the fishy smell of the river below drifted into the chamber.
Agathe took the goblet he offered her with a murmur of thanks. He took a swallow of wine, then leaned over her, pressing his mouth to hers in a wine-infused kiss that sent a shiver of delight across her skin. He straightened slowly, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “So, ma chère, I wish you to do something for me.”
She gazed hungrily along the long, lean length of him. Even at rest his penis was thick and powerful in its black nest of tightly curled hair, and as she leaned forward to touch it with a fingertip, it twitched and hardened, rising slowly.
Arnaud chuckled and stepped back. “Not that, ma chère, at least not at present. I want you to do some work for me.”