by Jane Feather
“Your sketch pleased the queen. Therefore you must have an uncommon talent.” A smile flickered across his eyes. “You were not at Greenwich yesterday?”
“No, I was indisposed.” Rosamund had the familiar sensation of playing with fire, and the familiar thrill in the play.
Arnaud stepped closer. “I’m glad to see you have recovered, ma fleur.”
The endearment caressed her, his eyes seemed to delve into her innermost self, and the crowded hall seemed to become distant, leaving them standing alone in their own space. “Shall we walk a little?” He held out his hand. He still wore a bandage over the almost healed wound on his forearm, but the white cloth was tightly wrapped and well concealed beneath his shirt and the closely fitted sleeve of his turquoise and silver satin doublet.
Rosamund hesitated. How could she feel so drawn to this man when all her feelings were inextricably linked with Will?
“Come.” His voice was softly insistent and she was about to put her hand in his when Lady Leinster emerged from the faceless throng, taking shape and substance as she stepped up to them, resplendent in a gown of ivory damask opened over a gold underskirt, crimson undersleeves embroidered with jet. Her eyes were deepest purple in the candlelit hall, and a jeweled headdress set far back from her forehead set off the richly luxuriant blue-black lights in her hair.
“My dear Rosamund . . . Arnaud. Do I interrupt?”
“How could you, ma chère Agathe?” Arnaud casually moved the hand that Rosamund had been about to take and took Agathe’s hand instead. He bowed, raising it to his lips. “There isn’t a moment in the day that is not enhanced by your presence.”
“You have such a sweet tongue.” Laughing, she tapped his arm with her closed fan. “Be careful, Rosamund. Arnaud could charm the bees from the hive.”
“I don’t doubt it, Agathe.” Rosamund’s light laugh concealed a disappointment strongly mingling with relief at this interruption. “But if one enjoys the game, then one can only appreciate a superb player.”
“Oh, beautifully said, my dear.” Agathe nodded her approval. “What think you, Arnaud? Mistress Rosamund is learning our little ways remarkably quickly for one so new to court.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, looking between them. They were so different, yet each had a most powerful allure. “And with two such beautiful women, what is a man to do but retire defeated by beauty and wit.” He bowed and moved away, wondering why Agathe had moved in like that. Had she seen . . . intuited . . . something he had missed? Or had it simply been impulse? She was not a jealous woman. She had certainly never given him reason to think so, and she would never do anything to spoil a conquest for him.
Agathe watched him go. He had not seen Will Creighton’s gaze so fiercely fixed upon him as he talked with Rosamund. The hunger in the younger man’s eyes spoke volumes to the more experienced Agathe. She had seen Will and Rosamund together at the picnic, had seen them wander off to the other side of the hill, and had watched them return. At first she had thought it was simply two attractive young courtiers taking advantage of the relaxed atmosphere, but now she was not so sure it was that simple. Arnaud would certainly not like the idea of being in competition with such a green and relatively insignificant young courtier, and if Creighton chose to confront the chevalier, it would be an ugly scene.
Will was approaching them, threading his way through the crowd. “Lady Leinster, Mistress Walsingham.” He bowed as he reached them. Perspiration still glowed on his forehead from the game of bowls. He glanced up at the dais, saying with a smile, “You seem to have pleased her majesty, Mistress Rosamund. What did she wish you to do for her?”
“She wished me to make a drawing of her . . . a portrait for Lord Essex to keep next to his heart on his mission to Ireland,” she returned, keeping her tone lightly conversational.
“Of course,” he said. “I was forgetting about your uncommon artistic talent.” Of course he’d only seen it displayed in relation to the theatre, but Lady Leinster was not to know that.
“Indeed,” Agathe said. “It’s a talent you keep well hidden, Rosamund. One should not, in this court, hide one’s light under any bushels.” She gave her musical trill of laughter. “Believe me, my dear, it’s every man and woman for themselves here, and whatever will make you noticed must be cultivated. . . . If you’ll excuse me, I see Lady Markham beckoning to me.” She bestowed a smile between them and walked away.
“Lady Leinster gives good advice.” Will’s gaze flickered across Rosamund’s countenance. “You seemed to be very engaged with the Chevalier de Vaugiras earlier. I didn’t realize you were so closely acquainted with him.”
To her chagrin Rosamund felt herself blush. “Indeed I am not. Lady Leinster introduced us, and I have some occasional conversation with him. I would not count him a close acquaintance by any means.” That was not exactly a lie, she reflected. She certainly didn’t feel a close friendship with the chevalier despite the stolen kisses. He affected her most powerfully, it was true, but not in the comfortable way one would associate with friendship. Nothing at all was comfortable about being in the chevalier’s company, there was too much dangerous excitement for comfort. And that of course was exactly where his power lay.
Will frowned, sensing something wrong with her denial . . . and why would she deny it anyway? She had every right to be acquainted with de Vaugiras, every right to enjoy a little dalliance with such an accomplished courtier. He himself had no rights, particularly after what he had said to her down by the river. But she looked almost guilty.
Rosamund averted her gaze from the puzzled question in Will’s. She looked to the dais again and caught Master Secretary’s eye. Sir Francis crooked a finger at her.
“My cousin summons me,” she said with ill-concealed relief. “Excuse me, Will.” She pushed her way to the steps to the dais where Francis came down to her. “A word in private,” he said in his curt fashion. “Follow me.”
Rosamund followed him through a narrow door next to the grand staircase. It led into a small antechamber, little bigger than a closet.
“You pleased the queen this afternoon. It is good,” he stated without preamble. “You must keep in her favor if you’ve a mind to make a decent match for yourself.”
Rosamund hesitated before saying, “Forgive me, Sir Francis, but how am I to make a match without a dowry?”
She was afraid he would be offended, but instead he nodded. “That is a difficulty, I agree. But if you keep the queen’s favor, and she approves a match for you, then she may well be persuaded to make you a wedding present.”
“But not if she doesn’t approve the match,” Rosamund said slowly.
Her cousin’s expression darkened. “If the queen does not approve the match, it will not be made. Don’t ever imagine for one minute that you will be left to make your own choice in such a matter. Her majesty disposes of her ladies as she chooses. If you keep her favor, she may well agree to keep you at court after your marriage. Something devoutly to be hoped for.”
Rosamund wondered if this devout hope was for her own sake, or his, because she could continue to work for him. She wasn’t at all sure she hoped to remain a maid of honor, married or unmarried, for the rest of her existence. But she knew that once appointed she served at the queen’s pleasure. It was not for her to decide when that service should end.
“You understand, Rosamund?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. Well, as I said, you are doing well and the queen is pleased. Have you any further sketches for me?”
“I have several, sir, but nothing of significance, I believe.”
“I will be the judge of that. Fetch them for me, I’ll await you here.”
Rosamund hurried to get the sheaf of sketches from the chest in the dorter, reflecting that she should have known better than to offer any opinion to Master Secretary. She returned in a few minutes to the antechamber, where her cousin awaited her, impatiently drumming his fingers on a small inlaid table. Rosamund
handed over the papers with a curtsy.
Francis riffled through them, a deep frown corrugating his brow as he absorbed the subjects. One in particular caught his eye. He examined it closely, his frown deepening, then he folded it and tucked it inside his doublet. The rest he handed back to Rosamund, saying sharply, “Why were you not with the court at Greenwich? I had some work for you to do there. The atmosphere is more relaxed and people are not always on their guard. I was interested in capturing the movements and exchanges of Cháteauneuf, the French ambassador. But you were not there.”
“I was unwell, sir. I kept to my bed.”
Sir Francis frowned. “That was unfortunate. Try not to let it happen again.”
As if I would have any choice in the matter if my sickness had been genuine. Rosamund said merely, “I will do my best, sir.”
He grunted and turned to the door. “By the way, Lady Walsingham has requested that you visit her on Wednesday afternoon, three days hence. Lady Shrewsbury has given leave. I will send a litter for you.”
“Could I not ride, sir? My horse is in the royal mews.”
He shrugged his angular shoulders. “It matters not to me. Thomas must escort you. You will be ready to leave at three o’clock.”
Rosamund curtsied and said to his departing back, “I haven’t seen Thomas at court since I arrived.”
“You’ll see him in three days.” The words drifted over his shoulder as he left.
Rosamund looked through the drawings, wondering which one had interested her cousin sufficiently for him to abstract it. But she couldn’t remember what sketches had been there in the first place. She was always drawing, from memory as well as from life, following her instructions to the letter. Anything, any individual, any time, was grist to her mill and by definition Master Secretary’s.
At this moment, Thomas Walsingham was in the north, in the village of Chartley, talking with a brewer on the ale bench outside the tavern. Robin Poley listened to the conversation, one hand circling his tankard, the other idly flicking at his boots with his riding whip. Nothing that was being said was news to him.
“The deliveries are every Friday, sir,” the brewer was saying. “I takes fresh kegs in an’ brings out the empty ones.”
“And it is possible to create a hiding place in the bung of one of the kegs?” Thomas twisted to pick up the ale jug behind him and winced as the movement pulled at the newly healed sword scratch across his ribs. It was a shallow enough wound and had bled little, but it was still sore. He harbored the vicious hope that de Vaugiras had contracted an infection in the cut Thomas had inflicted on his forearm.
“Aye, Master Walsingham, sir.” The brewer reached into his britches pocket and took out a small leather pouch. “This ’ere, see, can be inserted easy enough before the cork goes in. It’s been pitch-tarred to keep out the wet.” He dipped it into the rain barrel standing beside the ale bench, lifting it out to show how the water ran off. “An’ then the barrels come out, or go in on my drays, and no one need be the wiser.”
“Not quite no one,” Poley murmured with a soft chuckle. “You have talked with Paulet, Thomas?”
“Aye, he’s ready for our good honest man here to play postman.”
“That I’ll do right readily.” The brewer tugged at his cap. “As a good honest servant of her majesty, Queen Elizabeth.”
“You are indeed an honest man,” Thomas declared. “The queen will not forget your service.” Even as he promised this, he doubted its truth. The queen would not want to know anything about this clever trap for traitors and her queen cousin.
The man stood up. “Well, I’ll be leavin’ you gentlemen to your work. Send word when I’m to start.” He strode off out of the yard.
“Salt of the earth,” Poley murmured with a touch of sarcasm.
Thomas merely raised his tankard and drained it. “Without men such as he, Poley, we’d be hard-pressed to keep the realm safe. Mark my words, this listening device will bring this troublesome matter of state to an end. I go to Paulet now.”
“And I to good Queen Mary.” Robin uncurled himself from the bench. “Paulet has given permission for her to take the air for half an hour a day in the orchard. There is a brick in the wall that can be pried loose and we whisper through it, a veritable Pyramus and Thisbe.” He laughed without mirth. “Sometimes I can find it in my heart to feel sorry for the lady. She has no idea how she is beset at every turn.”
“Your sympathies are misplaced, Poley,” Thomas said curtly, rising and settling his sword more comfortably on his hip. “I return to London in the morning. You?”
“I have our master’s instructions to assist in the encouragement of Babington. Will Creighton is doing well enough, but Master Secretary wishes to close any possible breaches in the wall.”
Thomas nodded. The two shook hands and parted company. Thomas rode to the imposing front door of Chartley Hall and was greeted as an honored guest by Sir Amyas Paulet. Robin Poley took the lane that led to the far edge of Chartley Hall property.
Mary Stuart was walking in the orchard, her ladies accompanying her, the little Skye terrier bounding ahead, rooting in the undergrowth. The day was warm and dry and Mary felt the sun warming her bones, easing the ague that plagued her year-round. She was reading aloud from her book of psalms as she walked, relishing the words on her tongue, the comfort of their familiarity. But her steps were deliberate, taking her to the far corner of the orchard. Her ladies followed at a discreet distance, talking softly among themselves.
“I pray that there will be some hope for our lady today,” Charlotte murmured. “Every day for the last two weeks she has come to the wall and been disappointed.”
“God’s son will bring her comfort,” one of her companions said, making the sign of the cross.
“If he doesn’t, there is no one else to provide,” Charlotte said rather tartly. She paused as Mary reached the wall at the end of the orchard. “Stay back.” The other women took a step back and they all waited under the trees, watching as Mary stepped up to the wall.
“Master Poley?” Mary whispered, not daring to hope that he would be there, but her heart lifted as a brick slid out, leaving a gap.
“Madam, I am here. Are you well?”
“As well as may be, Master Poley. What news?”
“Listen well, madam. We have established a safe means of communication between you and your supporters. It is impregnable.”
Mary leaned in closer, her ear close to the gap in the wall, as she listened. “Every Friday, you say?”
“Rain or shine, madam. The brewer is a most loyal Catholic and loves your majesty dearly. He will ensure the safe delivery of all correspondence.”
“My maid Barbara, she will act as go-between. She will secrete my letters in the pouch in the keg and will retrieve the others. Her presence in the buttery will draw no remark.”
Mary’s voice was stronger now, filled with hope. So often hopes had been dashed during her long imprisonment, but always someone had come to her aid with a fresh plan. “My dear Thomas Morgan in Paris works tirelessly on my behalf. Does he know of this secure means of communication?”
“I have written of it myself, madam. He has not yet replied, but the courier is a most trusted subject of your majesty, and I expect him to return with a reply any day now.”
Mary leaned her forehead for a moment against the rough brick wall. She wanted to believe this, but experience warned her to be careful. “Are you certain, Master Poley, that this is impregnable?”
“As certain as ’tis possible to be, madam. The brewer is your most devoted friend. As long as you can ensure that your maid is both discreet and clever in the depositing and retrieval of the pouch, no one will have any idea.”
“And how soon will this mail delivery begin?”
“From now, madam. Make sure your maid checks the kegs every Friday from now on. Should you wish to send to your supporters, here is the pouch to be used.”
Mary took the little leather pouch
that was pushed through the wall. She examined it carefully before saying, “Thank you, my friend. I wish I could reward your loyalty and devotion.”
“Your safety and the success of our enterprise is all the reward I need, madam.” Robin slid the brick back.
Mary tucked the pouch into the pocket of her skirt and walked back to where her ladies remained on the path.
Chapter Eighteen
LETTICE ASHERTON WAS alone in the dorter changing her stockings. A hole in the heel was causing a painful blister, and Lady Shrewsbury would not look sympathetically upon a hobbling maid of honor. She had only three pairs of stockings and examined the hole with a rueful grimace. It was almost too big to darn, but it would probably survive one more mending. She sat on a stool and eased the clean stocking over her foot.
The click of the door latch startled her and she glanced over her shoulder. A young maidservant came in carrying the chamber pots that she had emptied that morning. She curtsied. “Your pardon, madam. I didn’t know anyone was ’ere.”
“I won’t be in a minute,” Lettice said carelessly, taking up the second stocking.
The girl bent to push the chamber pots beneath the beds. “Is the young lady what was supposed to be sick better now?” she ventured from beneath Joan and Rosamund’s bed.
“Who was that?” Lettice looked over at her.
“The young lady what was supposed to be in this bed when you all went to Greenwich.” The girl backed out. “I was told to look in on ’er a couple o’ times, bring ’er some food. I brought milk an’ cheese, but she weren’t ’ere. An’ when I looked in again, she still weren’t ’ere and the food not touched.” She stood up, brushing a lank lock of hair from her perspiring forehead. “Ain’t it ’ot in ’ere.”
“Yes,” agreed Lettice impatiently. “When did she come back?”
“Never, not while I was lookin’. . . . Will that be all, madam?”
“Yes . . . no, get rid of those cobwebs in that corner. They’ve gone black with age. Aren’t you supposed to keep this place clean?”