by Jane Feather
“There are litters, but they can only take you to the picnic. You cannot ride with the hunt . . . lace me.” Joan turned her back.
Rosamund grimaced at such a tame prospect as she laced Joan tightly. Maybe Jenny had been taken back to Scadbury. Maybe Thomas had decided his sister no longer had need of her and he’d decided to sell the mare at last. In a somewhat melancholy mood she went down with Joan to the parlor, where they broke their fast.
The Countess of Shrewsbury was already presiding over the table when they trooped in. “Mistress Walsingham, Sir Francis has sent word that your mare is now housed in the royal mews at your brother’s expense. She will be at your disposal this morning.”
Rosamund’s spirits lifted immediately. Thomas would not relish the extra expense, she knew, but if their cousin insisted, he would be hard-pressed to refuse. She curtsied and murmured her thanks before taking her place at table.
The royal mews at the start of the hunt was a seething turmoil of horses, riders, huntsmen, groomsmen, and litter bearers. “We wait here and the grooms will bring our horses. It’s not quite as chaotic as it looks.” Joan was as always in her element instructing the newcomer, and Rosamund was far too aware of a need for any information that would help her avoid the numerous and random pitfalls of court etiquette to resent Joan’s faintly condescending manner at such times.
A groom emerged from the apparent chaos leading Jenny, and with a cry of delight Rosamund plunged through the throng to greet her mare. Jenny whinnied and nuzzled and Rosamund took her head and blew softly into her nostrils in her own greeting. The groom helped her mount, and once seated in the saddle, the horse moving easily beneath her, Rosamund felt all her diffidence in the strange atmosphere of the court disappear. She looked around at what became clear was an orderly chaos and urged the well-mannered Jenny through the crowd to join up with Joan.
Joan looked enviously at Rosamund’s mount. “She’s beautiful. I don’t ride very well, so my family will only let me have the use of a very dull pony.”
“As long as you’re not riding in a litter.” Rosamund gestured to the litter bearers gathering at the edge of the courtyard. Then her eyes widened as she saw Lady Leinster climbing the footstep into one of the litters. Never would she have expected the elegant, sophisticated, amusing, and popular Agathe to go to a hunt in a litter. Agathe turned and caught sight of her and raised a hand in invitation.
Rosamund urged the mare forwards towards the litter where Agathe was disposing herself on thick cushions. “Lady Leinster, are you quite well?”
“Oh, yes indeed, Rosamund . . . and you are to call me Agathe, it was agreed.”
Rosamund acknowledged this with a smile. “Forgive me, Agathe. I was just surprised to see—”
“To see me in a litter like some feeble old lady,” Agathe finished for her. She lowered her voice, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “Don’t be shocked, my dear, but in truth, I have some aches and pains from a rather strenuous night, if you understand me.”
Rosamund did and was not so much shocked as fascinated. She’d learned a great deal about carnal matters in the last weeks, but was always ready for further instruction. Greatly daring, she questioned with a raised eyebrow, “A particularly energetic lover, perhaps?”
Agathe went into a peal of laughter. “Exactly so, my dear. Take my advice and beware of particularly energetic nights when a day in the saddle is to follow.”
Rosamund nodded. “I’ll bear it in mind, my lady.”
“Do . . . but stay a moment.” Agathe leaned sideways to speak softly over the side of the litter. “On the subject of energetic ardor, don’t allow a man’s enthusiasm to prejudice you against him. You are still an innocent but you mustn’t be frightened by . . . by, shall we say, more vigorous attentions than you are used to. Men lack subtlety so often, but it is never wise to turn aside a compliment, Rosamund. If you’ll accept a word of advice.” She smiled. “Men trespass, women forgive. It’s the way of our world, my dear.”
“I’ll remember.” Rosamund raised a hand in farewell and turned Jenny back to the gathering group of riders. Had Agathe been referring to the chevalier? Had she noticed the intimacy of his position behind her at the archery butts? Perhaps her own discomfort had been laughably obvious to the worldly Lady Leinster.
The clarion call of trumpets produced a sudden silence over the great throng, who all turned as one towards the palace. Queen Elizabeth rode out on a magnificent white palfrey, her gown of forest green encrusted with emeralds spreading over the perfect white flanks of her horse. Two white plumes adorned her crimson velvet hat, and a collar of emeralds encircled her throat. Around her rode a party of horsemen, the gentlemen of her household, similarly clad in green velvet aglow with emeralds.
Rosamund caught her breath. It was a magnificent sight. She recognized Lord Essex and Lord Leicester among the queen’s retinue but could not as yet put a name to the other noblemen. Instinctively she etched the scene on her memory. She would commit it to paper later. Sir Francis might find something of interest.
The queen’s appearance was the signal for the vast crowd to move off, and Rosamund found all her energies consumed with guiding Jenny among the crush of riders, trying to keep her on a straight course. She caught sight of Joan a few rows back sturdily seated upon a wide-backed, dappled pony who was clearly disinclined for excitement of any kind. The beaters with their dogs would have gone ahead long before dawn to chase up scents and flush out hart or stag, and the huge hunting crowd in their wake made so much noise Rosamund couldn’t imagine how they could ever pin a deer in their sights without it running long before the queen and her retinue, bows at the ready, could expect to reach it.
“I give you good morrow, Mistress Rosamund.” Will Creighton, on a rawboned chestnut gelding, rode up beside her. His teeth flashed in a white smile, and his lively eyes sparked with the reckless mischief that she found so enticing. He was looking particularly fine in doublet and britches of purple velvet, with a high-crowned hat, adorned with a green-dyed feather set at a rakish angle.
Rosamund was in her tawny velvet gown, which she had refurbished with a gold lace ruff that Lady Walsingham had sent her, together with a pair of soft kidskin gloves edged with matching gold lace. Her russet hair was confined at the nape of her neck in a golden netted snood, and she wore a broad, green velvet ribbon banded around her forehead. Her appearance had pleased her that morning and she could see from the appreciative gleam in Will’s eyes that it pleased him too.
“Good morrow, Master Creighton,” she returned, narrowing her eyes a little and fluttering her eyelashes as she’d seen Agathe do.
He bowed and his eyes danced. “May I ride with you?”
“Certainly,” she said, glancing around, wondering if anyone was watching her. She could see no one looking at her in particular; even Joan was preoccupied with her pony as she tried to get it to move beyond a trundling walk. People seemed to be pairing up, or gathering in small groups, as they rode out of the mews towards the riverbank. “How long a ride is it to Richmond?”
“An hour maybe. It will be a long day, the queen likes to hunt and she is indefatigable, often after such a day we don’t return to the palace until nightfall.”
“Is galloping permitted?”
“Anything is permitted,” he responded with a chuckle. He fixed her with a meaningful gaze. “And in the forest there are many paths, many rides away from the crowd. There are so many people and oftentimes the hunt becomes so confused that no one notices an occasional disappearance.”
“I suppose it’s easy enough to stray by accident from the main party,” she observed blandly, keeping her eyes on the space between Jenny’s pricked ears. “Particularly in the excitement of the chase.”
“Particularly then,” he agreed solemnly.
Rosamund couldn’t help it. She went into a peal of laughter, and Will after a startled minute joined her. “Forgive me,” she said through her laughter, “but I have no experience of subtle f
lirtation. It seems so artificial.”
“Because it is. But the game is amusing, or at least most people find it so.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “You’re rather different from most people, though, Rosamund. I think that’s why I find you so intriguing.”
There was nothing subtle or insincere about this statement, and Rosamund felt herself blush with pleasure. Talking with Will felt so much cleaner somehow than any kind of engagement with the chevalier. There was no edge of danger with Will, and she couldn’t deny she found that edge exciting with the chevalier, but Will’s ready mischief was a more than adequate substitute.
“Have you shown your play to anyone yet?” Jenny was frisky and Will’s gelding responded in kind so that they were moving ahead of the main body of the hunt, following close on the heels of the queen’s own party.
“I gave it to Dick Burbage.” Will’s expression was suddenly serious, his eyes no longer lighthearted. “He said he would read it as soon as may be, but I know he’s busy.” He drew back on the reins a little. “We shouldn’t draw too far ahead of the rest. It’s not wise to be conspicuous.”
Rosamund eased Jenny to a more sedate pace without comment, glad that Will had some thought for censorious eyes. “I’m sure he’ll read it soon. I heard him say how they needed new plays.”
Will sighed. “I hope so, but what alarms me is that he has the only copy. If it’s lost, or damaged beyond legibility, I don’t know what I would do.”
“I’m sure Master Burbage will take good care of it. He lives and breathes the theatre, he knows how important a new play is.”
Will nodded. “I know you’re right, of course, but I feel like a new mother whose baby has been put to a wet nurse.”
Rosamund laughed. “An unusual analogy, Will. You have a knack with words and Burbage will recognize it, I’m sure.”
He looked pleased and the gravity left his expression. They were riding along the broad riverbank, stately swans gliding by beyond the rushes, treating the boat traffic with regal indifference as befitted royal property.
The queen’s party was moving quickly and was probably a half mile ahead, getting close to the great green expanse of Richmond forest. It had been the queen’s father’s favorite hunting ground, and Elizabeth’s fondness for it went back to her childhood, when her father, during those random periods when he had looked kindly upon her, had occasionally taken her up with him on his magnificent charger while hunting for his favorite game, the wild boar.
Thomas Walsingham was riding with Kit Marlowe in the rear of the hunting party. He had spent little time at court in the past months; he was fully occupied these days on his cousin’s affairs now that the business of Scots Mary had become so urgent. Between visits to France and immersing himself in the plots of Babington and his fellow conspirators, he had little enough time for the manifold pleasures of bedsport with Kit and the literary delights of the theatre and the poets and writers whose company he loved.
Kit was reciting from his translation of Ovid as they rode and Thomas was torn between amused admiration for the skill of the translation, and the fear that someone around them would recognize it for the publicly condemned obscenity that it was. But Kit was merrily oblivious as he took frequent pulls from the leather flask at his belt and in between bursts of recitation made lyrical observations on the beauty of the morning.
“Where is the fair Rosamund these days?” he inquired, standing up in his stirrups to look over the crowd of riders. “You neglect her most dreadfully, Thomas.”
“She has no need of me,” Thomas declared. “She’s well established, Sir Francis keeps his eye on her. Her tastes are too simple and unformed for her to get into any trouble. Her innocence will protect her from predators. The sophisticates at court have no interest in the innocent, they provide no sport.”
Kit raised an eyebrow, privately thinking that his friend was a little too blasé. He himself was convinced that Rosamund was probably no longer the uninitiated ingenue her brother so fondly believed. She was far too quick-witted and observant not to pick up the trappings of sophistication if she felt it necessary to make her way at court. But then, he reflected, we often know least the people we ought to know best.
The queen’s party had reached the edge of the forest now and had halted for a brief consultation with the chief huntsman and the master of hounds. Then a horn blew and the horses charged forwards after the hounds. The main body of the hunt put spur to their horses.
Rosamund and Will were still a little out in front, and with a spontaneous cry of glee Rosamund set Jenny to a gallop, Will on her heels, as they raced for the entrance to the forest that the queen’s party had taken. It was cool and shady under the trees and they could hear the beat of hooves both in front and behind them.
“Keep up with the queen,” Will shouted as his gelding passed Jenny on the broad ride, and Rosamund urged her horse to greater speed, filled with exhilaration and the freedom of the chase.
Behind them the rest of the hunt crashed through the trees in a melee with curses and confused shouts as horses bumped into one another until a natural order had reasserted itself. Jenny faltered as her front hoof slipped on a patch of mud, and Rosamund pulled her up, leaning over to pat her steaming neck, waiting for the animal to regain her equilibrium. She had lost her place at the front of the pack and there was no sign of Will now. But that was often the way with hunts, and she drew Jenny aside to let the pack thunder past, reflecting that a narrower ride probably ran parallel with this one and she could gain some speed then.
She rode along the edge and soon found an opening in the trees that appeared to lead onto a narrow, grassy path parallel to the main ride. It was clear although the trees hung low, but she kept low in the saddle and encouraged Jenny into a canter, hearing the sounds of the hunt reassuringly close through a band of trees and shrubs that separated the path from the main ride.
The sound of hoofbeats behind her brought her heart into her throat. Despite the real closeness of the hunt, the path she had chosen was deserted as far as she could see, and the trees were dark and thick on either side. She urged Jenny faster but the hooves grew closer and closer, and she knew she was being followed by a more powerful beast than her own mare. A shadow fell across her as the horse came up on the mare’s hindquarters and gradually drew level. She kept her eyes on the path ahead, her heart racing, sweat breaking out on her forehead, as she leaned low over Jenny’s neck.
“Sweet Jesus, Mistress Rosamund, why are we racing?”
The chevalier sounded amused as well as puzzled, and Rosamund with a wave of relief looked sideways. His smile was quizzical, his eyes full of amusement. “May we draw rein a little?” he asked in a mock-plaintive tone. “I’m afraid my horse will founder if we must continue at this pace.”
That made Rosamund laugh at the absurdity of his deep-chested, powerfully shouldered stallion succumbing in such fashion. She drew rein, slowing Jenny to a gentle canter. “You’ll have to forgive me, Chevalier, if I find that hard to believe. He’s a splendid creature.”
“He is,” he agreed simply. “And he’s not met an animal yet that he cannot outrun. But tell me, why were you trying to outrun us?”
Rosamund felt a little foolish, but she told the truth. “I had no idea who was following me. It never occurred to me that someone from the hunt might have decided to take the same path.”
“I saw you take it and I was curious. Curious as to why a young woman should choose to go off on her own down a deserted path in the middle of the forest. Do you perhaps have an assignation? Will I be in the way?” His eyebrows waggled comically as he put the question and she had to laugh.
“Of course not.”
“Why of course not? You’re a very desirable young woman, Mistress Rosamund. There must be many men at court who’d count themselves fortunate to draw your favor.”
It was there again, that frisson, that sense of playing with hot coals. If she could keep them in the air all would be well, but if she held
on too long she would be burned. “You flatter me, Chevalier.” She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but knew she sounded flirtatious instead.
“I swear I do not,” he declared, hand on his heart. Then his expression changed, became serious, his gaze intent. “You stir me, Rosamund, and believe me, I am not easily stirred.” His voice was low, as if, despite their present seclusion, he was afraid they might be overheard. He reached over and touched her hand as it rested on the pommel, and Rosamund felt the touch like the hot coal she had imagined.
“I have no desire to stir anyone, Chevalier,” she managed to say. “But I am complimented, and grateful for it.” She tried for a light laugh, but it sounded more like a donkey’s bray to her ears.
He drew rein, bringing his horse to a stop as he leaned over to catch Jenny’s bridle above the bit. “Let us walk a little, Rosamund.” He dismounted, knotting the reins of both animals before reaching up to lift the startled but unresisting Rosamund from her saddle.
She thought she should resist this firm handling, but that would make her seem a naive simpleton. It wasn’t as if he was going to rape her under the trees. He took her hand and led her a little way along the path to where a patch of sunshine blazed down through a break in the tree cover. The sounds of the hunt seemed to be rather far away, Rosamund thought.
Arnaud stopped and gently positioned her against the broad trunk of an ancient oak. He pushed up her chin with a forefinger and looked long and deep into her eyes. Then he kissed her full on the mouth. She tasted sweet and fresh. He kissed the tip of her nose, ran his tongue in a flickering caress over her eyelids, turned her head slightly to nibble on her earlobes. And Rosamund shuddered with pleasure beneath the careful education of his lips and tongue.
Arnaud was careful. Slow seduction was often its own reward, and something about this girl, something delightfully new-fledged, a little brave, a little timid, pleased him deeply. He would enjoy taking his time. He allowed himself a brief stroking caress across the swell of her breasts over her décolletage, and when she didn’t jump back, he let his lips follow the path of his fingers.