QUEEN'S CHRISTMAS SUMMONS, THE

by MCCABE, AMANDA

  In truth, she had not been in good spirits herself. The village houses were being rebuilt and life at Dunboyton was slowly returning to its old routines. There were tasks to do, meals to be cooked and gardens to be tended. Yet something so deep and fundamental seemed to have changed. The days did not have their old smooth rhythms and distrust and fear seemed to hang in the air like smoke from the village fires.

  Alys touched the ring she wore on its chain beneath her gown, then abruptly dropped her hand. She had to push away all thoughts of Juan, as she always did when his face appeared in her mind. She put down her sewing and turned to her father. ‘Good news is welcome indeed, Father. What has happened?’

  ‘What I have been waiting for so long.’ He sat down in the chair across from hers and gently touched her hand. ‘You are summoned to court as Maid of Honour to Queen Elizabeth.’

  Alys stared at her father in shock. She shook her head. Surely she had not heard his words right? ‘What? Now? But I thought...’

  ‘As did I. Yet it seems I am not without friends in London after all.’

  Alys frowned in suspicion. ‘Did Sir Matthew...?’

  Her father sat back in his chair with a huff. ‘I know you think he had something to do with the village that night, Alys.’

  ‘He must have! He vanished soon after.’ And he took Juan with him. The uncertainty, the not knowing who they really were and what really happened, nagged at her.

  ‘Sir Matthew has his own work. But we have known each other for many years. It does seem he has helped me now.’

  Alys did not want such a man’s favours. But then again—what if Juan was at court? ‘I should not leave you now, Father. Not with everything that has happened of late.’

  ‘That is exactly why you must go, Alys! Now more than ever. There is nothing here for you.’

  ‘There is you.’

  ‘And I am old. My dearest daughter, to see you settled and happy is all I long for now. There are prospects at court, many paths you could take, and there are none here.’ His face, so set in worried lines, softened as he smiled at her. ‘And you could help me much, when you have the Queen’s ear.’

  Alys hurried over to hug him close, her heart torn. For one thing, she did worry about her father, worried he would have no one to watch over him. For another—he was right. She could help him at court, make friends for them, perhaps find him another post in a warmer place where his health could improve. How could she not do that for him?

  And that feeling of adventure she had pushed down so firmly since Juan left, it was calling her again, the faint song of a siren. London, court, the Queen. Anything could happen there.

  ‘Oh, Father, I would do anything to help you, you know that. And it does sound exciting, I admit. But what do I know of court life? I have nothing to wear, for a start.’

  ‘Perhaps you can use some of your mother’s old things to make some travelling clothes? She had some fine velvets and furs, I remember. You can order a whole new wardrobe from London merchants once you are there.’

  ‘When must I leave?’

  ‘As soon as may be. The Queen says many of her ladies have left court of late and she requires your attendance at the Christmas celebrations.’

  Christmas—only weeks away now. She would have to travel fast. She glanced around the great hall, the room she had known all her life, and felt the cold prickling touch of those doubts. Yet still, there was the prospect of what she might find at court. What she might learn. ‘I should start to pack, then.’

  Her father patted her hand with a wide smile. ‘I knew you would not fail me, my Alys. You will enjoy court life, I promise you that.’

  Alys was not quite so certain of that. She would have to learn so much so fast, dances and deportment, and she would have to find friends. It was daunting, but also intriguing. And there, amid the bustle and splendour of court, maybe she could start to forget.

  She hugged her father again and made her way out of the great hall to instruct the maids on the dinner preparations before she hurried up to the attic chambers where her mother’s old trunks were stored. She sorted through them, finding old satin gowns trimmed with laces and furs, pearl-edged sleeves and brocade robes. They were of old styles, to be sure, but she could use them to make new underskirts and bodices, remake the trims for new girdles and the lace for ruffs in the wider fashion.

  As she held up a length of forest-green velvet to her shoulders, it reminded her of the colour of Juan’s eyes. Before she could push it away, she remembered his kiss, the soft feel of his lips on her hers, the sweet excitement of it.

  Perhaps he was at court? He had hinted he had secret work for the Queen. Mayhap it had taken him back to her royal side. But if she did see him...

  ‘God’s teeth,’ she cried and tossed down the velvet. She hoped he was not at court. She had finally ceased to dream of him at night and court was to be a new beginning for her. He had left her, with the village aflame behind him. Surely, if he was indeed an English spy, he was gone on another mission, cozening other ladies. And if he was a Spanish spy—surely then he had vanished for ever.

  Either way, it would do her no good to see him again. Her father has asked for her help at court and that was what she had to concentrate on now.

  It was a new life for her. She would not waste it on old, fantastical dreams that could never have come true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Greenwich Palace

  The court was a buzzing hive today, John thought as he left the boat and climbed the water steps to the walls of Greenwich Palace. He could hear it even outside, even in the winter-bare gardens. The high-pitched music of constant voices, punctuated with laughter and the strum of lutes. It was a tune that played constantly at court, from a group of troubadour courtiers who never rested, and he had become accustomed to it in the last few weeks. It had become mere background buzz to his own thoughts.

  But now, after a few days in London, John found the noise and excitement had grown to near deafening levels. It was the Christmas season and the Queen had vowed it would be the most merry, the most lavish one ever in her reign. God had driven the Spanish from England’s shores, Queen Elizabeth was victorious and the world would see it all for the festive season.

  As John strolled down the corridor, he saw it all, heard it all, just as he was trained to take in everything around him, but it felt like a scene in one of the Southwark playhouses. A masque put on to impress, but little to do with him.

  It was obvious the Queen was in residence at Greenwich, for the winding corridors were lined with the richest tapestries, scenes of summer winemaking and dancing glittering with metallic threads. The flagstone floors were covered with red-and-blue Turkey carpets meant to warm the old rooms and muffle the velvet shoes of the courtiers. Portraits of the Queen’s ancestors stared down from their gilt frames and lapdogs ran past barking.

  The Queen’s ladies gathered together near the windows of the gallery, a flock of exotic birds in their jewel-trimmed velvets and satins, feathers and tinsel ornaments shimmering in their fashionably high-piled curls. They paid no attention to the view of the winter-grey river and pale sunlight outside the tall windows, for they were too busy creating wreaths and swags for the Yule decorations. They looped red-and-gold ribbons through the boughs of evergreen branches and holly, and laughingly created kissing balls of mistletoe.

  But they were not too busy to notice the gentlemen strolling past, who gave them elaborate bows and flirtatious smiles. They were just as brightly arrayed as the ladies, for the styles of the season were for slashed satin doublets and striped stockings, tall plumes in their velvet caps.

  John eschewed such styles for simple black and purple velvet doublets and embroidered short cloaks, plain caps, but he did not go unnoticed either. One of the ladies, a pretty, peachy blonde, waved her be-ringed fingers at him as
he passed and giggled. John gave her a bow, and a flirtatious smile automatically touched his lips. He, too, had long ago learned to play his part in the masque. The part of a gallant, courtly favour-seeker, not seeing beyond the plumed edge of his cap. It was a part he knew he played well and no one ever questioned his activities at court. What he did behind the gaudy painted sets.

  And perhaps, before the Armada, before Ireland, he would have taken advantage of the small rewards of that role. Coin for a game of primero; a fine horse won in a race. Beautiful ladies-in-waiting, eager for admiration, well-versed in their own games.

  But now—now when he looked at those ladies, heard their practised laughter, all he could see was Alys. Her open smile, her endless night-dark eyes, her sweetness. He tasted her kiss every night in his imaginings, as he tried in vain to find sleep. He knew nothing now could compare to it.

  He turned away from the lady’s giggles and walked away along the length of the gallery. Alys followed him even now, as truly as if she held his arm and smiled up at him. He hoped she gave him a kind thought now and then, but he doubted it.

  ‘Sir John!’ he heard a lady call out.

  He turned to see Lady Ellen Braithwaite, one of the Queen’s most sought-after Maids of Honour. She was a great beauty, tall and slim with waving red-gold hair and a ready laugh. But John always sensed something behind her laughter, from one actor to another. There were rumours her brother was in financial straits and her role at court, her search for a fine husband, was most vital to her family. Perhaps it was that that gave a desperate edge to her smile.

  Such tales at court were too common and John certainly sympathised greatly with those who fought singlehandedly to rescue their family honour in such perilous times. He had been fighting for that himself for years.

  Yet still there was something about Lady Ellen he could not trust, a hard edge to her charm. She stood with her usual circle of admirers, a fantastical figure in red-and-gold brocade, rubies dotted in her hair. As he bowed to her, she waved him over with her feathered fan.

  ‘You have been gone from court for many days, Sir John,’ she said.

  ‘I had business to attend to in London that could not wait,’ he answered.

  She gave him a shrewd glance over the edge of those feathers. ‘’Tis fortunate you missed none of the Queen’s Yule revels, then. It all promises to be most splendid.’

  ‘So I see,’ John said, gesturing to the feverish preparations going on around them.

  ‘So many new people have arrived at court of late, I am quite giddy trying to remember them all! Have you met Lord Merton and Sir Walter Terrence? They have just arrived from their estates in Kent, and before that they were in Paris. Their tales are quite wondrous. Did you not visit Paris in your own travels, Sir John?’

  John bowed to Lord Merton and Sir Walter, both of them dressed in the height of fashion, both of them hard-eyed as they bowed back. ‘Once or twice, my lady. Paris has its beauties, but nothing like those to be found right here before us in England. Or in this very corridor, I would vow.’ He bowed low again over Lady Ellen’s hand as she giggled, but surreptitiously he studied her new companions again. They did not look familiar to him, under those names or any other, and that planted a small seed of suspicion in his mind. He knew that many things went on abroad that had to be known to Walsingham and, if they had gained passports, now they had to be of some import.

  Sir Walter looked rather young, wide-eyed, with angelic blond curls and a quick smile. Lord Merton was older, bearded, harder, but still clad in the elaborate satins and furs court demanded. They smiled and he could read nothing behind those polite gestures. Perhaps a bit of jealousy on Sir Walter’s part, as Lady Ellen seemed to favour a newcomer over him.

  Aye, they had been abroad, but he himself had been gone for a long time and they all had secrets. The world of the Armada, the too-brief shelter of Ireland, had been like a different world entirely. He still had not adjusted entirely to court life, and his instincts needed honing.

  ‘We must exchange tales of Paris soon, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am eager to hear of some friends I left there.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lord Merton answered. ‘It is a fascinating time to be abroad. Perhaps now Europe will take England seriously at last, as she deserves.’

  ‘I would so love to see Paris.’ Lady Ellen sighed. ‘Or Venice! Or anywhere but here. Until the dancing begins, it is dull. Will you walk with us now, Sir John?’

  ‘I fear I have an appointment I must keep and thus must tear myself away,’ Johns said, kissing her hand again.

  ‘Then perhaps we shall have a dance together at the banquet tonight,’ she said lightly. ‘I would like to hear more of London. Greenwich is not so far from the city, but it feels so, does it not?’

  ‘It only feels far when I am separated from the joys of court,’ he said. ‘A dance tonight, then.’

  He walked away from Lady Ellen and her little group, greeting other friends he saw in the gallery as he tried to figure out what it was that bothered him about her new friends. It was most odd.

  He found his godfather in a small office along a winding corridor in one of the palace’s towers. Sir Matthew sat at a desk behind a towering pile of documents, while two black-robed secretaries wrote feverishly in the corners.

  It was a stark room, furnished only with the desks and benches, but with a warm fire blazing in the hearth and rich draperies at the window to keep the river draughts away. Sir Matthew matched his chamber, clad in sombre dark grey in contrast to the brilliant court, a simple cap on his head, but with fine fur at his throat and wrists. He glanced up and before his smile of greeting crossed his face John could see the lines of strain.

  ‘John,’ Sir Matthew said, his smile widening. ‘You have returned from London. Any news?’

  John sat down in the chair across from his godfather’s desk and stripped off his gloves, sighing at the welcome warmth of the fire. But even the heat could not burn away the frustration inside of him for every dead end he had encountered in the city in his search for Peter de Vargas’s English contact.

  He had gone to London following a lead, only to find a shopkeeper who had recently—and suddenly—died and no new clues. ‘Not as yet. The man was dead, most of his household vanished. Have your secretaries had luck breaking the code?’

  ‘They have broken it, but we can tell little from the messages. They seem a muddled mix of love poems and exhortations to remain faithful to the true church.’

  ‘Perhaps it is a double code,’ one of the secretaries said. ‘We are still working on it. It will break before us, as all do.’

  ‘Or perhaps it was the mere rantings of a poor man whose mind had snapped,’ Sir Matthew said. ‘You said Master Peter was not well.’

  ‘Those ships were a floating hell,’ John answered quietly. ‘The hunger and the stink. It would drive anyone mad. Yet Peter was always so—so afire about this person he wrote to, about the importance of their connection. He knew what he was about when it came to that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Sir Matthew frowned. ‘And we do know there was a spy here at the heart of the court, who must have been his contact. They did not have enough information, but they did pass on ship movements we would rather were not known. Someone as fanatical about Spain and the Catholic cause as Master Peter could still cause much trouble if they are not found.’

  ‘Or just as fanatical about some rich Spanish reward,’ John said, thinking of Westmoreland and Paget, and their conviction that if they helped King Philip he would return their estates.

  ‘Either way, we are agreed this could make them even more dangerous now, if they feel they are denied their rightful reward,’ Sir Matthew said. ‘I have seen such things over and over. The vipers strike when they are trod upon.’

  John remembered the snake that had fallen from the ceiling of the dairy, Alys trembling in his
arms. What would happen to people like her, innocents, if such serpents were allowed to escape? ‘Perhaps they have left court now.’

  Sir Matthew shook his head. ‘Nay, they are still lurking here. I can feel it and my sense of danger has never yet failed me in my work. It is how I have stayed alive this long. Mayhap they have gone to ground, but we shall root them out before they cause more harm. Now, have you messages for me?’

  John handed over the letters from London. As Sir Matthew sorted through them, he asked, ‘How fares Walsingham?’

  ‘Most ill, I fear,’ Sir Matthew muttered. ‘He has taken to his bed with the stones again. I think we won’t see him this Yule season.’

  If Walsingham died, it would leave England in a perilous position indeed, one spies such as Peter’s friend could take advantage of. ‘There do seem to be many new people at court now.’

  ‘It is a time of victory. Many will be seeking rewards they have not earned. Though a few have been given what is long overdue.’ Sir Matthew looked up, a strange smile on his face. ‘I have heard from my old friend Sir William Drury.’

  John was surprised to hear that name so suddenly, but he managed to smile back politely, blandly. Managed to not demand to know how Alys fared. ‘Indeed?’

  That smile widened. ‘I know you have much reason to be grateful to that name, as I am. It seems his daughter will soon be at court to serve the Queen. Perhaps even in time for the Christmas revelries.’

  Alys would soon be there? John pushed down the excitement that rose in him at the thought that he might see her again. It felt like a marvellous thing, but he knew well it was not. ‘She does indeed deserve reward. She saved my life.’

  Sir Matthew sat back in his chair, his hands folded neatly. ‘A most courageous and kind lady. I think we did agree back in Ireland that I should help her if I could. Not as pretty as most court ladies, mayhap...’

  John felt a rush of anger. ‘She is far lovelier than any woman I have yet seen here.’