by Jane Feather
Will swore, then with an almighty effort he brought the door’s heavy iron bar down into its bracket. The door stood firm against the first onslaught. Rosamund held on to the door for dear life beside Will, even though she knew her counterweight was no help. She was suddenly clearheaded and terrified, but also determined that the door would hold. She and Will together would hold it.
At last the outsiders gave up and the sound of their receding footsteps was like the sweetest music. Rosamund took a deep breath and whispered, “Where are we, Will?”
“I hope we’re in the stables,” he replied softly, pushing himself away from the door, peering into the darkness. Their eyes were growing accustomed now and they could make out the shape of a building just across the small cobbled yard. “I think it is.”
He walked to the building, Rosamund on his heels. She could smell stable, manure, leather, horseflesh. But quite a few of them were in the area serving the local taverns. Will whistled softly and a horse whickered from behind the door.
“It’s Sam.” He lifted the latch on the door and pushed it open. It was warm inside, thick with the smell of horses and hay. Rosamund followed as Will felt his way down the stalls until he found his chestnut in a stall halfway down. The horse whickered again, pushing his nose into Will’s hand as he leaned over the partition.
“I think we had better stay here until it’s light.” Will peered at Rosamund in the darkness where no starlight however faint could penetrate. “We could try to make a bed of hay if we can find an empty stall.”
Rosamund nodded, taking this as her task. She felt her way down the stalls and found an empty one at the far end of the row. It was swept clean, but a ladder led up to what she assumed was the hayloft above. She climbed the ladder, with the exultant thought that such a maneuver would have been near impossible in skirts and farthingale. The hayloft smelled sweet, and best of all a small, round window offered the sky’s faint illumination.
“Will . . . up here,” she called softly, hitching herself up into the loft.
Will followed to find her spreading hay with a pitchfork to make a mattress under the window. “If we put our cloaks over it, it will keep the straw from pricking.” She had discarded her own and was spreading it over the pile. Then with a moan of exhaustion, she collapsed on the makeshift mattress. “I can’t move, Will. And my head’s spinning.”
Will took off his own cloak and threw it over her. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at her, then said, “I’ll make a bed over there . . . unless, of course, you’re cold?”
Rosamund opened her eyes, gazing straight up at him. “I am cold, but we could bundle.” She moved his cloak aside. “There’s room aplenty on the hay here.”
He hesitated for only a second, then slipped beneath his cloak to lie beside her. The sweet smell of hay, the faint crescent of the new moon in the window, the shufflings and snufflings of the animals below, created a world of its own. Will slipped an arm beneath her, rolling her into his embrace. His eyes were wide and shining in the gloom, as silently he brought his mouth to hers. He murmured against her lips, “Dear God, I want you so much, Rosamund.”
She inhaled his mingled scents of wine and sweat, of the faint lingering aroma of lavender in his linen, of a hint of leather and horseflesh, feeling the roughness of his nighttime beard against her cheeks, and she stretched against him with an unnamed urgency of her own. Her own words were a jumble of confusion as she spoke against his mouth. “I need . . . I feel . . . oh, Will, I don’t have words for this. I’ve never felt like this before.”
She lay on top of him, moved against him, feeling his body delineated against her own, felt the hard, upward press of his loins. Her own body felt much more open, more available in the page’s garments, and she delighted in the sensation.
Will cupped her face between his hands and kissed her again, then he rolled sideways, bringing her with him so that now she lay beneath him. He hung above her, that same light glowing in his blue eyes. “It’s something about these clothes,” he muttered. “Sweet Jesus, Rosamund.”
“I should wear them more often,” she whispered, moving beneath him with more urgency. They were existing in a world apart, their own little space in the universe. Nothing was real but this, the feel of his body, the shape of him, his scent, and the surging, indescribable need to possess him, to have all of him, a part of her.
His hand brushed across her breasts beneath the doublet. His fingers worked the buttons, spreading the sides of the doublet wide. Her breasts, unsupported by a boned bodice, were warm and soft beneath the linen shirt, and her nipples peaked hard against the slightly rough material. He whispered into her ear and her body responded again, moving urgently against him, following its own path. With rough haste he unlaced her hose, and she wriggled out of the garment, giving a little sigh of satisfaction as at last she felt the nakedness of his loins against hers.
Their bodies merged, melded, their limbs intertwined, and Rosamund after a moment’s piercing pain floated on sensation that was and was not part of a dream. She was aware of the moment when he left her body, aware of a stab of loss, then she curled against him, his arm holding her close, and slept, her head buried in the hollow of his shoulder.
Rosamund awoke to the first glimmer of daylight, aware of a crucifying headache and completely at a loss as to where she was. She turned her head with a groan and gazed with incomprehension at Will sleeping beside her, one bare arm flung above his head. She edged up on an elbow and looked gingerly around. Their shoes, stockings, hose, were tangled at the end of the mattress. And Rosamund remembered. Remembered with a flood of delight despite the pain in her head.
She lay down again, touching herself, aware of a soreness now. Her fingers came away sticky with a smear of blood. She was no longer virgin. She must be wicked and destined for hell, but those dreamlike moments in the straw had brought her nothing but pleasure. How could she regret the feel of his body on hers, in hers. The scent of his skin, still in her nostrils, the taste of his tongue, the astounding moment when she felt she had hovered on the brink of some exquisite sensation, and the moment when she had fallen from that brink. Rosamund could think only of how soon she could repeat those moments.
She rolled on her side and touched Will’s eyes in a gentle, fluttering kiss of her tongue.
He woke instantly, looked at her in bemusement, and then slowly recollection flooded him. “Rosamund?” He struggled to sit up. His eye fell on their tangled garments.
Rosamund’s smile was a little uncertain as she read his expression. He looked shocked. She touched his arm, fixing him with her candid gaze. “Is something wrong?”
Will shook his head and winced at the sharp stab of pain through his temples. “No, my sweet, no . . . but, yes, everything. I have taken your virginity. It’s unforgivable.”
“You didn’t take it, I gave it,” she said quietly. “I gave it willingly, Will, and I don’t regret it. Do you regret it?”
He looked at her, her grave expression, the tangled curls tumbling around her pale face, the large, oval green eyes filled with uncertainty. “No, how could I?” He drew her against him, kissing her eyes. “You are lovely. But I have the devil of a headache, and everything looks bad in the morning after a serious bout of overdrinking.” His tone was ruefully humorous, and she couldn’t help a feeble responding smile.
“I have never felt this ill before. It’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is, and I have known it, so I should know better.” He reached for his clothes. “Lord, I must smell as rank as an old beer keg.”
“Me too.” Rosamund breathed into her cupped hands with a grimace. “We need to get back to the palace. My head aches as if Thor’s hammering on his anvil behind my eyes.”
Will fastened his britches. “No one’s about as yet. We may be lucky and manage to take Sam and get out unseen before the first grooms come to work.” He slung his cloak over his shoulders, ignoring the straw clinging to it. He shinned down the ladder and Rosamund fo
llowed, having first brushed the straw from her own cloak.
“How will you pay them?” She watched as he led Sam from the stall and saddled him.
“I’ll leave coin in the stall.” Will reached into his pocket for his purse. It was lamentably lighter than it had been at the start of yesterday’s excursion, the burgundy pitchers had frequently been refilled, but he found a shilling and laid it carefully on the ledge beside the partition door to the stall.
He led the horse out into the yard, blinking painfully in the growing light, and swung himself into the saddle. Rosamund went to open the barred door and, once Will had walked Sam into the lane, grabbed his hand and he hoisted her up behind him.
The lane held no terrors this morning. A few folk were about, a few doors opened to the street as women swept yesterday’s debris into the kennel. Will moved Sam sideways briskly as a cry of “Gardyloo” came from above. He was a little too slow and the night soil contents of the chamber pot splashed up from the kennel.
“God rot their black souls,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Rosamund, her own nose buried against the fine velvet of his cloak, made no sound. She was thinking of a bath. Of how to contrive such a thing in the corridors of Whitehall Palace. Of the joys of a long afternoon’s sleep in a bed she would have to herself until Joan returned that evening.
Whitehall Palace took shape in the early morning, a light mist rising from the river, softening its lines, dampening the lush green sweep of the lawns. They took a narrow lane running along the side of the palace and entered the grounds through a relatively unused gate.
Will dismounted and lifted Rosamund down. He held her for a moment, his hands firm and warm at her waist. His expression was troubled. “Can you manage to get in unobserved, sweet?”
“I’ll slip in through the side door,” she said confidently. “There’s no need to worry, Will.”
“No,” he said, but he didn’t sound reassured and it puzzled her.
“Truly,” she said.
He nodded, but the troubled look in his eye didn’t dissipate. “I’m sure you’re more than capable.” He glanced around to ensure they were unobserved, then bent and kissed her quickly on the lips. “Hurry in and sleep well.”
“Oh, I will.” She reached up and traced the curve of his mouth with her finger. “Until later, Will.”
“Yes, until later.” He watched her flit down the path that would take her to the side door to the palace. He tried to explain away his feeling that something had started that he could neither control nor continue, by blaming it on the depressing effects of too much wine. A solution would present itself. He walked away in search of his own bed.
Rosamund hurried along less-well-used corridors and up to the dorter, seeing no one who might remark upon a hurrying page.
She reached the peace of the attic chamber confident that she had drawn no attention. And then she saw on the dresser a platter of bread and cheese and a cup of milk. Someone had been in to check on her. Would the person wonder where the supposed invalid had gone? Had the person come back more than once, to find the chamber still empty?
Her heart began to pound in time with her head, and for a moment she stood paralyzed by the horrendous implications of such a discovery. Then with an effort she threw off her clothes and washed herself with the cold water remaining in the ewer. It refreshed her enough to clear her head a little. There was no point imagining problems that might well not materialize. She scrambled back into her shift before bundling the page’s garments tightly and burying them in the bottom of the trunk that had accompanied her to the palace. Maybe she would have the opportunity to use them again. She sank back onto the bed, pulling the coverlet over her, closing her eyes. She would sleep, and with any luck when she awoke, blissfully free of headache, she would be able to think of a convincing reason for her absence from the dorter should it be questioned.
Rosamund was awakened from a deep slumber early that evening by the chatter of women as the maids of honor returned from their excursion to Greenwich.
“Are you still abed, Rosamund?” Joan flopped onto the edge of the bed. “Are you still unwell? Lady Shrewsbury will insist on sending for the leech if you cannot get up tomorrow.”
“I am better, thank you.” Rosamund propped herself on an elbow and gazed bleary-eyed around the familiar attic, where the other women were putting away their clothes, the same magpie chatter filling the air. “Did you have a good time?”
“Oh, it was wonderful. The boat ride was delightful and the dancing last night was, oh, heavenly.” Joan jumped to her feet and twirled. “Such a shame you had to miss it, Rosamund.”
“Our dear Joan has a lovelorn swain,” Lettice Asherton said with a sardonic chuckle. “You had better be careful the queen doesn’t get to hear of it, Joan. She does not like it when her ladies find lovers for themselves, even though she tolerates flirting.”
“She does enough of it herself,” Frances Darcy murmured, almost sotto voce. “Essex is young enough to be her own son. And she preens and paints herself for him as if she were a girl of twenty.”
“That’s treasonous talk, Frances,” Lettice warned.
“ ’Tis but the truth and everyone knows it.” Frances pouted as she removed her heavy diamond earrings and hung them on the little silver tree on the dresser.
Lettice regarded her crossly. Frances was related by her father’s third marriage to the Howards, the family name of the dukes of Norfolk, and thus destined for a great marriage of her own, despite her rather plain countenance where the pox scars were clearly visible and her poor teeth, three of which blackened her smile and gave her great pain, which made her irritable and poor company.
But once her family had decided on the alliance that would bring them the most influence and wealth, she would be married, neither bride nor groom consulted in the matter. She had no shortage of jewels or of coin, and when she needed a new gown, it was instantly provided. But her very status and privilege inured her from the envious malice of her fellows. No one dared even gossip about her.
Rosamund had got up from the bed. She hadn’t eaten since the previous evening in the White Horse and she was famished. The now-stale bread and dried-up cheese so thoughtfully left for the invalid was all that was on offer and she began absently to eat. The milk was sour, but she drank it anyway. Who had left this for her? Her stomach began to flutter with fear. Would her absence be reported? If she could discover who had been up to the dorter, she could perhaps persuade the person, bribe the person, to keep quiet about it.
But there was nothing to be done tonight. She finished her supper, such as it was, and returned to bed.
When she awoke in the morning, it was to a familiar cramping ache in her belly. The arrival of her monthly courses would add verisimilitude to her make-believe indisposition, she reflected. Joan, seeing her bring out thick linen clouts from the chest, gave her a look of sympathy. “Do you still have the bellyache?”
Rosamund nodded but said swiftly, “ ’Tis not as bad as yesterday.” She thought longingly of the remedy she had always had at home. Hot, spiced gruel mixed with wine. “A caudle will help. If such a thing is available.”
“Oh, yes. The maids will make you some if you ask them at breakfast. . . . Will you do my laces?”
Rosamund obliged and Joan helped her in turn. They went down to breakfast, where Lady Shrewsbury as usual presided. She gave Rosamund a sharp look. “You are better, I trust, Rosamund. You look a little pale.”
“I am better, thank you, madam.” Rosamund curtsied as she answered before taking her place at the table. “May I ask the maid for a caudle?”
The countess nodded with instant comprehension. It was a universally understood remedy. “That is probably why you were unwell.” She signaled one of the serving maids. “You, girl, fetch a caudle for Mistress Rosamund.”
The morning dragged by. Rosamund ignored her bellyache as best she could, trying to lose herself in her sketching, half hoping that the queen would s
ummon her to her privy chamber to do some secretarial work, which would at least give her something concrete to do. But no summons came and she watched the clock, waiting for the moment when the queen’s ladies would be free to join the rest of the court in the gardens and galleries. She was certain Will would be at court this afternoon. He wouldn’t miss a chance to see her. Their farewell had been of necessity hurried, but she longed for the opportunity to linger a little with him, to exchange the secretive little gestures and glances that made their public encounters so special and would invest them with so much more meaning now.
At last Lady Shrewsbury gave the signal that the queen had no further need of their company and they were at liberty. The ladies flowed in a brightly colored, chattering stream from the queen’s apartments. Rosamund hung back a little, seeming to be part of the group but trying to be inconspicuous. When they reached the head of the stairs that led down to the central hall of the palace, she paused, scanning the groups of courtiers gathered below, searching for Will. Minstrels played from the gallery above the hall, the strains of their music struggling to compete with the rise and fall of voices. Realizing the others had reached the bottom, leaving her standing conspicuously alone, she hastened down the stairs, her gaze still skimming the assembled company.
At first she was disappointed. There was no sign of him, but then through the doors that stood open to a wide terrace she caught sight of a group of younger men.
“Where’s Rosamund Walsingham going?” Lettice Asherton demanded, seeing Rosamund moving towards the terrace.
“I expect she thinks she’s too good for our company now that the queen has noticed her,” Frances Darcy declared.
“She’s only a Walsingham,” one of the others put in. “Her cousin may be the queen’s secretary, and there may be some distant connection with the Boleyns, but that’s no reason to give herself airs.”
“I don’t think she really does that. She never mentions the connection,” Joan offered timidly, and immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Her companions looked at her with annoyance mixed with derision, then, as one, they turned their shoulders and began to chatter in an excluding undertone.