by Jane Feather
Agathe made a moue of disappointment and drank from her goblet. “What work?”
“Nothing too arduous.” He turned from the bed and walked to the window, where the night sky was lightening in the east. Agathe’s gaze was fixed on his back, the light trail of black hair down his spine and into the cleft between the tight muscles of his buttocks. “I want you to cultivate the new maid of honor, Mistress Walsingham. Make her your friend, offer to teach her the ways of the court, the less formal ways of the court, you understand. Act as her guide and mentor in the generally approved paths of dalliance.”
“Why?”
“Because, ma chère, I intend to seduce her, and I wish you to prepare her for me.” He still didn’t turn from the window as he spoke, each word dropping clear as a bell into Agathe’s astounded silence.
She managed to speak at last. “Seduce her? Why?”
He chuckled. “I’m minded to take a virgin to my bed.”
Agathe swallowed. “Am I not enough then?”
He turned, and a dark concentration in his gaze unnerved her. “You are exquisite, everything a man could wish for, but even so a palate becomes jaded and needs refreshing. I am in need of refreshment.”
Agathe felt the first stirrings of unusual rebellion. “I do not like it, Arnaud.”
He came over to the bed again, leaning over, resting his flat palms on the pillows on either side of her head, his mouth hovering just above hers. “You will find me all the better for it, mon amour, I promise you. I shall pleasure you in ways you have not yet dreamed of.”
A delicious shiver ran across her skin. Arnaud always kept his promises. But still she protested, “She is too young and innocent for you, Arnaud. Can you not . . . refresh . . . yourself with someone a little more experienced?”
He shook his head. “That would defeat the object.” His eyes, the tawny gold of a jaguar, held hers, and she felt her resistance melting. It was not only the power he held over her, the power of sweet pain that was her pleasure. It was not only that he understood her, understood her needs and desires as no one else had ever done, or ever would again. She was quite simply incapable of refusing him anything that would please him, even something as against her self-interest as this.
“I will try,” she said. “But perhaps she cannot be persuaded.”
His gaze darkened. “Do you think that possible, ma chère?”
And of course she did not. Who could resist Arnaud when he set out to charm? She didn’t answer.
Arnaud straightened, accepting her silence as consent. He glanced at the window. “It’s time for you to leave, mon amour, the dawn is breaking.”
Agathe set her goblet aside and got out of bed, reaching for her night-robe. She was suddenly cold and, most strangely, didn’t want to display her nakedness to Arnaud. Ordinarily she reveled in his eyes on her, but at the moment all she could think was that he wanted another woman in his bed. She drew the robe tight around her and slipped her feet into the backless satin slippers.
Without saying anything she went to the small door at the rear of the chamber that led onto a flight of back stairs, but before she could reach the door, Arnaud caught her against him, his mouth pressed hard against hers in a fierce embrace. She struggled to resist but as always it was futile and she yielded with a little sigh of submission. When finally he released her, she touched her bruised and swollen lips and gazed silently up at him.
He regarded her gravely for a moment, then said, “Indulge me in this, ma chère. It has nothing to do with you, this strange desire I have for an innocent. It is but a whim and will in no wise keep me from you.” He touched her eyelids with the tip of his tongue, a moist, brushing caress. “Believe me, Agathe, nothing could do that.”
“I can refuse you nothing,” she murmured, half to herself. “When is this seduction to start?”
“Immediately . . . I shall hope to find you with her by the river this afternoon when the queen’s ladies are at liberty.”
“Very well,” she whispered, and slipped away through the door to the back stairs, which took her down little-used corridors to her own apartments. They were much smaller and less desirable than the chevalier’s. The steward of the queen’s household allocated accommodation partly according to rank, but more important according to where a courtier was positioned in the queen’s favor. Almost always the gentlemen favorites were well housed, the single ladies rather less so.
Rosamund lay awake in the gray light of the false dawn, listening to Joan’s heavy breathing beside her, the rhythm interspersed with little snores. The mattress crackled as she shifted on the straw and she tried to lie still, afraid to wake her bedmate. She was going to keep her rendezvous with Will Creighton, but at some point during the night her blithe agreement to the clandestine dawn meeting in the privy garden had begun to seem foolhardy if not downright insane. She had known all along that she must tread carefully in this new life, so what had possessed her to throw that caution carefully acquired at the feet of Lady Walsingham to the four winds?
And yet, cold feet or not, she was somehow compelled to follow her impulse. She slid from the bed, standing the instant her feet touched the bare floorboards. She had left her clothes ready on the chest at the foot of the bed before retiring and dressed quickly, barely breathing in case she disturbed one of the sleeping women. They had all come late to bed after the evening’s dancing and seemed to be sound sleepers. Carrying her shoes, she tiptoed to the door, opened it a crack, and slid out onto the landing.
It was deathly quiet up here, the doors to the dorters housing other members of the royal household firmly closed. Rosamund crept to the head of the stairs and paused to put on her shoes. She hadn’t bothered with stockings in her haste to escape without notice.
She ran lightly down the stairs and stopped at the bottom. There was no Will Creighton. She cursed herself for a fool. Either he had never intended to make the rendezvous and was merely making game of her, which seemed the sport of choice in this palace, or he was still sleeping the sleep of the just.
Well, she was up now. There was no point wasting her freedom. She thought for a moment, trying to remember which way to go to reach the garden. A low whistle, like a birdcall, came from an embrasure down the deserted corridor. She turned sharply and Will Creighton stepped into the corridor. He grinned at her and strode towards her, swinging a jaunty hat adorned with a pheasant feather.
He bowed with a flourish of his hat. “I give you good morrow, Mistress Rosamund. I was afraid you’d still be abed after last night’s dancing.”
He looked none the worse for wear, Rosamund reflected, as she said lightly, “I am not made of such poor stuff, Master Creighton.”
“No, of course not. You are of Walsingham stock after all.” He was regarding her with close intent, his full mouth curved in a smile whose invitation only a fool would miss.
“I know you’re acquainted with my brother, but are you also acquainted with our cousin Sir Francis, the secretary of state?”
“Not as well as I would wish. I would like to be in his service,” Will said, serious now, the flirtatious manner vanished. “He employs men such as myself from time to time, and I have already written to him, offering my services, but he has not as yet responded.”
“You should talk to Thomas then. Or even Master Watson, the poet. I have seen him in Seething Lane visiting my cousin.”
Will looked thoughtful, but said easily, “It seems, Mistress Rosamund, that you are destined to be my good angel. I will seek out Master Watson this afternoon when I go to the play.”
“Oh, you are to go to the play?” She sounded wistful.
“I try to go most days. Of course sometimes her majesty’s own players will perform at court, but they haven’t done so for several weeks now.” He began to walk down the presently deserted corridor towards a flight of stairs. “Will you walk a little in the garden with me?”
“I thought you were to show me your play.”
“I have it here.”
He patted his doublet. “But we will be more private in the garden. ’Tis too early for any but gardeners to be about.”
Rosamund nodded and they made their bewildering way down corridors, up and down short flights of stairs, across antechambers, and finally down a flight of outside stairs that led directly into a small, enclosed garden where at its center a fountain surrounded by stone benches played into a fishpond.
As Will had said, the garden was deserted. The grass was still moist with dew and the eastern sky glowed red. The air was fresh and Rosamund wished she had brought a shawl. They sat on one of the benches and after a moment’s silence Will said, “So you have a love of the theatre, Rosamund.”
“A passionate love,” she averred. “I would spend every afternoon there if I could. I love everything about it, backstage, the players’ talk, the arguments over the versifying, the swordplay. It is so . . . so romantic,” she finished, hearing how lame it sounded but quite unable to think of a better way of expressing herself.
“I understand exactly. ’Tis how I feel myself. But, sometimes I fear I shall never make a play good enough to be performed.” He sighed heavily as he drew a packet of papers from his doublet. “When I listened to Master Marlowe reciting that passage from his play, Tamburlaine, I think he called it, I knew I would never write anything so powerful.” He opened the papers tentatively. “But I hope there will be scope for lesser works.”
Rosamund was touched by Will’s humility, such a contrast to his customary self-confident swagger. She said swiftly, “My brother says that with all the new theatres coming up the players are going to be desperate for plays. There is one being constructed, the Rose, by a man . . .” She wrinkled her forehead. “Henslowe, I think he is called.”
“Aye, Philip Henslowe. He has a finger in many pies, that one.”
“Well, will you show me your play?”
Again he hesitated. “I think I’m a little afraid to. You appear to be on easy terms with Kyd and Watson, not to mention this Master Marlowe. Whereas I can do no more than hang on to their coattails.”
Rosamund was greatly flattered at this assumption, but honesty obliged her to say, “I am on easy terms with Master Marlowe, Will, but not with the others. My brother has been very reluctant to permit me into their company, and I have always kept silent in dark corners lest I draw attention to myself.” She extended her hand. “Show me your play.”
“The subject is the archery contest when Odysseus returns to find Penelope trying to decide among her many suitors.” He put it into her hand and stood up. “I will take a turn around the garden while you read.”
Rosamund read quickly. The verse certainly lacked the power of a Marlowe or a Kyd, but nevertheless had a pleasing cadence. The story was simple and romantic, with scope aplenty for some dashing scenes at the archery butts. That would surely please the groundlings . . . she had noticed how they reacted to grand flourishes.
“Well?”
She hadn’t heard his return across the grass and looked up with a little start. “Oh, I was so absorbed, I forgot where I was.”
“Truly?” He looked pleased, turning his hat over between his hands. “Do you like it?”
“There is much to please an audience. The story is full of life and passion. It will stage well, I think.”
“And the language? What of my verses?”
“Good,” she said simply.
He frowned and took back his sheets. “But it’s obviously not the work of Master Marlowe, or Master Kyd.”
Rosamund wasn’t sure whether it was a rhetorical question or a statement, but before she could respond, Will turned on his heel and strode off across the grass.
After a minute Rosamund decided he wasn’t coming back and stood up, wondering how she would manage to retrace her steps without her guide. She wandered across the grass to a gap in the hedge at the far side of the garden, and just as she reached it, Will’s voice said from behind her, “Rosamund. Don’t go.”
She turned around. He came across the grass towards her. “I was churlish to leave you like that, but sometimes I feel so frustrated at my lack of skill, forgive me.” He took her hands, enclosing them in his own. He gave her a smile, half-apologetic, half-coaxing, infinitely inviting.
“But indeed I don’t think you should be frustrated,” she demurred. “It will stage well and has everything in it to please an audience. Rather than showing it to my brother or Kit Marlowe, who will look only at the versifying, why not take it straight to Master Alleyn or Master Henslowe, who will look at it with a different eye? They’ll look for the audience appeal, and it has plenty of that, and they’ll see what the possibilities are for staging it.”
Will frowned, but a flicker of interest crossed his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe this afternoon I’ll summon the courage to show it to Ned Alleyn or Dick Burbage.”
“I wish I could be there. I would be a most vocal advocate.” Rosamund laughed and shook her head in resignation.
Will grinned, once more the self-confident, slightly risqué young courtier. “If you dressed in disguise . . . let me think . . . ” He paused, hands outstretched in triumph. “I know . . . in a page’s doublet and hose, hat pulled low, no one would recognize you. Not even your brother.”
Rosamund stared at him as if he were on display at Bedlam. “You are not serious, are you?”
“It’s up to you whether I’m serious or not,” he responded with another wicked grin. “I could procure the disguise, but you would need the courage.”
Rosamund felt a momentary fizz of excitement that as swiftly died. It was impossible, of course. Will was only teasing her. “A tantalizing idea, Master Will, but no more than that.”
He shrugged. “Not necessarily. If you change your mind, let me know.”
She shook her head with a smile, saying only, “I had better return to the dorter, my bedmates will be up and about by now. You must needs show me the way, but go slowly so that I may memorize it.” This time she would commit the route to memory, and as soon as time and opportunity permitted, she would map it out with pen and paper. In fact, she would map out the entire palace in time.
Will directed their steps back to the side door. “The queen’s ladies usually take the air in the middle of the afternoon. It is customary for them to mingle with the court in the gardens or, if the weather is inclement, in the Long Gallery. If I don’t see you this evening after dinner, I will look for you tomorrow afternoon and tell you how the good theatre masters responded to my play.”
“I shall await your news most eagerly.” She gave him a quick smile and he responded with a little bow.
The corridors and hallways were busier now and they walked quickly without speaking, trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves, although everyone moved so fast and so purposefully, intent on their own business, that it was unlikely two young courtiers would attract so much as a glance of curiosity. At the end of the corridor leading to the stairs to Rosamund’s dorter, Will turned aside, laying a conspiratorial finger on his lips before sauntering away in the opposite direction.
Joan was half-dressed as Rosamund entered the dorter. “Heavens, where have you been? I have been so afraid you would be late, and we have to break our fast before attending the queen.”
“I woke early. I went for a walk.” Rosamund glanced at the other women, willing to offer a morning greeting, but she was pointedly ignored. “Is there water, or must we fetch it?”
“No, it is brought for us.” Joan indicated a basin and ewer on the dresser. “It’s not clean because we have all used it.”
“Oh.” Rosamund looked with distaste at the scummy water in the basin. Clearly one needed to be on one’s toes in the morning to get the first wash. But then seniority was probably the rule, so it wouldn’t matter what time one awoke. She decided to forgo washing this morning. She’d had the luxury of a bath in Seething Lane the previous day before her presentation to the queen. The benefits would have to last a little longer.
; The queen’s ladies broke their fast in a small parlor attached to the large chamber where they spent their days in attendance upon her majesty. This time Rosamund stuck close to Joan and took her seat at the end of the table, which was presided over by the Countess of Shrewsbury.
As they ate, the countess discussed the day’s events, allocated individual tasks, and delivered several reprimands, which were received with downcast eyes and murmured apologies. “And you, Rosamund Walsingham . . .”
Rosamund almost choked on her veal cheek. She had not expected to hear her own name. “Yes . . . my lady?”
“Her majesty requires your presence in her privy chamber at eleven o’clock this morning. I will conduct you there.”
Rosamund was aware of a sea of eyes on her. They were unfriendly, envious, calculating. This upstart newcomer who should be hiding in a corner had attracted the queen’s notice. She could be about to face banishment from the court, which would concern them not at all except as a delicious topic of speculative gossip, or she could be singled out for some royal favor. And that was not the way matters were conducted among the queen’s ladies.
“I wonder why she wants you,” Joan whispered. “Can you think?”
“No.” Rosamund shook her head and set down her knife. She had quite lost her appetite.
When Lady Shrewsbury rose, they all followed suit and took their places in the big chamber. There was no sign of the queen. The countess directed someone to read aloud, another to play on the virginals, and instructed the rest to take up their needlework. Rosamund sighed and was about to set her first stitch when the countess spoke her name.
“Yes, madam?”
“The queen has said that you may pass the time in drawing, and you are to practice your calligraphy.” The lady sounded none too pleased at this diversion from usual practice, but Rosamund felt sweet relief.
She jumped to her feet. “Thank you, madam. I will fetch my paper and pens.”
“You will find everything you need at the desk over there.”