QUEEN'S CHRISTMAS SUMMONS, THE

by MCCABE, AMANDA

  ‘Ah.’ Sir Matthew’s smile faded in a look of concern. ‘It is most natural that you should be grateful to her, to admire her. But our work here is most vital and there can be no distractions. We must root out this spy forthwith.’

  John took a deep breath, forcing all emotion away until he felt his heart grow chilly again. Alys here at court—would she be a target for the spy, if they knew how she had saved him in Ireland? ‘I will not be distracted, Sir Matthew. You have trained me well enough.’

  ‘Aye. You are a professional, John, I am most assured of that. In your work for us abroad you always kept a cool head in the most dangerous of circumstances. But a pretty face can often wreak havoc on the coldest heads.’ Sir Matthew shook his head ruefully. ‘I do remember well when I met Lady Alys’s mother...’

  ‘Lady Elena? Aye, you did speak of her in Ireland.’

  ‘Yes, Elena. A truly gentle, angelic lady, with such dark eyes, like the night itself. Lady Alys rather reminded me of her.’

  There was a wistfulness to his voice that made John realise what he should have long ago—Sir Matthew had been in love with Alys’s mother. ‘Sir Matthew...’

  ‘Go now, you must prepare for tonight’s banquet. Muddy boots and a dusty cloak will never do for Her Majesty,’ Sir Matthew said, turning abruptly back to his papers. He waved John away, signalling the end to their interview. ‘Keep close watch on everyone tonight. We must find Master Peter’s spy soon.’

  John nodded, and bowed as he left the room, his thoughts turning over and over. Sir Matthew had given up his love to help keep England safe and now he expected John to do the same. And he would do it, he had vowed his life to it. But now there was something even more precious he would have to keep safe in the midst of the viper pit of court—Alys Drury.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alys sat bundled in her new fur-lined cloak at the back of the barge as they slid along the half-frozen, sluggish Thames. The wind was icy and biting, but she pushed her hood back to watch the scenery as it glided past. The weather made her think she might never have left Ireland at all, it was so grey and windy, spitting with sleet and snow, but the buildings were decidedly different. Red brick faced with pale stone made up the newer homes of the Queen’s courtiers, half-hidden up steps from the river and behind gates. There were older mansions, more like palaces with their towers and narrow windows, and in the distance she could glimpse smoke from the chimneys of villages and towns.

  The people were different, too, ladies and gentlemen in passing boats, swathed in velvets and furs, laughing, listening to the strains of lute music as they travelled. On the walkways and waiting at the docks she saw clergymen in stark black and white, merchants’ wives in warm woollens, beggar children skittering around in their rags and pale faces, fine ladies carrying lapdogs. People of all sorts and stations, all mingling as they hurried about their days, and so many of them, too. It was very different from Dunboyton.

  Yet she had savoured the journey, even when it was stormy or the people strange, for it took her away from thoughts of John for a while. He always waited when she closed her eyes at night, keeping her from sleep with memories of him. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that his tales of courtly life, his small dance lesson, had been a comfort to her. It felt as if she knew court life a tiny bit now and would not be entirely taken by surprise.

  She shivered now as she wondered what waited at court.

  The barge slowed as the oarsmen eased around a turn in the river and Alys caught her first glimpse of Greenwich Palace itself.

  She remembered tales her mother would read her when she was a child, of enchanted princesses caught in ancient castles, held by spells in its old halls. Surely this was the sort of palace those tales spoke of. It was not like stout, squat Irish castles, meant to defend sieges and house regiments, but vast and low, elegant in its pale grey stone, with fanciful towers at each corner and windows shining in the pale sunlight. The pitched roof was as dark grey as the winter sky, the curls of smoke from the dozens of chimneys drifting into the clouds. It seemed all made of grey, but the walls were faced in red brick and white stone carved into curlicues and flowers, more warm and welcoming.

  There was no moat or fortifications, as Irish castles would have, for the stretch of the river past Greenwich’s walls was serene and silent. Instead, a sea of windows glinted like diamonds. Alys couldn’t help but imagine the many eyes that watched from behind those panes, waiting.

  The barge pulled up to a dock, rocking in the water as the rowers leaped out to tie it fast to its moorings. One of them held out his hand to help her to the dock. For an instant, she swayed dizzily. It had been so long since she stood long on solid land, her legs seemed to have forgotten how to balance! First the long, stormy voyage across the Irish Sea, and then the river voyage to London, which she only glimpsed from its outskirts. But she was there now, at her destination at last.

  She glanced back down the river, half-wondering if she could flee back the way she had come. Yet she knew she could not. She was summoned to court and could never shame her father by such behaviour—or herself. She was a Drury. The thought gave her courage and she straightened her shoulders and marched up the steep wooden steps to the bottom of the walls of Greenwich’s gardens.

  And then—she knew not quite what to do. It was silent there, she could hear nothing beyond the gate and only faint footsteps of the guards on the walls above. She knocked hard on the gate and waited. It became harder to hold on to her bravado with every moment that passed, until a guard peered outside.

  ‘I am Lady Alys Drury, the new Maid of Honour to the Queen,’ she said. ‘I am to meet the Mistress of the Maids here.’

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ the guard said as he swung open the gate and ushered her into a covered corridor at the end of another narrow staircase. ‘If you will wait here.’

  Then there was more waiting. Alys shivered in her cloak, listening to the whine of the wind on the wooden roof above her head. She wondered if she should have come in more state, instead of just with three guards and Molly as maid, but no more could be spared. And even an entourage of hundreds couldn’t lessen the flutter in her stomach now.

  At last she heard the click of fine shoes against the wooden floor and whirled around to see a lady hurrying down the stairs. It wasn’t a maidservant, or a guard like the one who had left Alys like a package at the gate. This was an older lady, wrapped in solemn dignity along with her dark green velvet gown trimmed with yellow silk. Her grey-streaked dark hair was pinned beneath a lace-edged cap and her blue eyes, though faded, seemed to take in everything around her.

  Her gaze swept over Alys, quiet and quick, taking in her face, hair and attire in one sweep. Her lips pursed and Alys felt every grubby inch from the very long journey. She remembered her father’s warnings, the importance of her work here, and she quickly smoothed the creased folds of her red-wool skirt and pasted on a smile. Her mother had been the daughter of ancient nobility, albeit Spanish nobility. She would not disgrace her now.

  ‘Lady Alys Drury?’ the woman said and her voice, while brisk, was not unkind. ‘I am Mrs Jones, Her Majesty’s Mistress of the Maids. We have been expecting you these last few days.’

  Alys dipped into a polite curtsy. ‘I am sorry, Mistress Jones, the journey proved longer than expected. I am most honoured to be here.’

  A small smile curved Mrs Jones’s lips. ‘And so you should be. Dozens of families write every month seeking places for their daughters. There has not been a vacancy among the Queen’s ladies for some time and I can recall no ladies from Ireland who have served here.’

  Alys tilted up her chin. ‘My father’s family estate is actually in Devon. He has long been posted as governor to the Queen at Dunboyton.’

  ‘Is it? Then I hope you shall know something of our ways here. We will keep you very busy, Lady Alys, with the Ch
ristmas festivities upon us and Her Grace still celebrating her great victory. The Queen has ordered every lavish trimming for the holiday and there will be little time for you to learn courtly ways.’

  ‘I have always much enjoyed Christmas, Mistress Jones, and my parents celebrated every year with banquets and dancing,’ Alys said. ‘I am most eager to serve Her Grace.’

  ‘That is good, as I am to take you to the Queen now so she can inspect you. One of the other maids will then show to your lodgings.’

  ‘Now?’ Alys gasped and struggled to grasp the shreds of her pride again. She was to meet Queen Elizabeth now, in her travel-stained gown and cloak?

  Mistress Jones sniffed. ‘As I said, Lady Alys. This is a very busy time. Her Grace has few spare moments.’

  ‘O-of course,’ Alys stammered. ‘Whatever the Queen wishes.’

  Mistress Jones nodded and turned to hurry up the stairs without another word. Alys scrambled to follow, surreptitiously trying to smooth her hair beneath its knitted caul and flat cap, to brush the dust from her skirt.

  At first they followed narrow, bare, winding corridors, nothing like what she would imagine to find in a palace. Until they turned a corner and she found herself facing a wide gallery, bright with tall windows looking down to the river and filled with every colour, every shimmering bit of gold and silver imaginable.

  Alys could scarcely take in the luxury around her, the fine tapestries on the wood-panelled walls, the gilt ornaments displayed on tall chests, the crowds of satin-and fur-clad courtiers who paused in their laughing chatter to stare at her curiously. It was all so very different from Dunboyton’s rough simplicity, its everyday bustle and noise. Alys longed to sink into the floor, to hide under those plush carpets under her feet, but she knew she could not. She held her head high and smiled, looking neither to right or left, and glided onward.

  For an instant, she remembered another, very different place—a tiny, bare, cold abbey dairy that had felt like the grandest palace for all too short a time. She remembered laughing with Juan next to their fire, talking to him about her innermost feelings and secrets as she could never have talked to anyone else. Remembered his kiss, the touch of his hand.

  She pushed those memories away. That place did not exist now and to keep longing for it was of no use. She was at the royal court now. She had a duty to help her father, and that was all that mattered.

  It had to be all that mattered. Remembering Juan would only drive her mad.

  ‘The maids’ chamber is just over there, along that corridor,’ Mistress Jones said, gesturing to the left. ‘Your maidservant will be waiting there for you with your baggage.’

  Her words pulled Alys fully back into the present, into the crowded palace, and the laughter and noise was loud in her ears again, a discordant song. She glanced back towards where her lodgings would be and saw two young ladies in white-and-silver silk gowns emerging from the doorway. Their heads, dressed with piled-up curls and decorated with pearls and ivory combs, bent together as they giggled.

  They vanished as Mistress Jones led Alys down yet another twisting hallway, up and down stairs. Alys was sure she would soon enough forget Juan and their dairy sanctuary. She would be too occupied with being lost.

  They went up one more short staircase and emerged into another crowded chamber. ‘These are the royal apartments,’ Mistress Jones said. ‘When the Queen sends you with a message for someone, they will probably be here in the Privy Chamber.’

  Alys stared out at the long, narrow room, filled with yet more lavishly dressed people playing cards, sewing, chatting, so careless and idle. She could sense the taut air of anticipation, the desperation that hovered just beneath the expensive perfumes. Everyone here needed something; everyone waited, hoped, feared the Queen’s favour.

  Just like Alys’s father.

  ‘How will I ever know who is who?’ she said. The brilliant colours, blue, red, green, yellow, black, all the large, starched lace ruffles and plumed caps, all the curled hair and rouged cheeks, made everyone look alike. It was all a blur.

  Mistress Jones laughed. ‘You will learn soon enough. We all do. Come along now.’

  Alys hurried to follow her from the crowds of the Privy Chamber, through a smaller room filled with fine musical instruments: a set of lovely inlaid virginals, a harp, a lute on its stand. A narrow doorway led into a room obviously meant for dining. Carved tables and cushioned chairs were lined up against the panelled walls, carved with cornucopia of fruit in the fine-grained woods. Buffets were laden with shining gold-and-silver plate, ewers, salt cellars, covered goblets, too many to count.

  For a moment, Alys was distracted from feeling nervous by the beauty of it all. All the chilly fears returned in an icy rush, like the winter river outside, when Mistress Jones said, ‘Hurry along!’ They moved into the mysterious hush of the Presence Chamber, where a red-velvet throne waited empty beneath a green-and-gold cloth of state.

  Beyond that had to be the royal bedchamber itself.

  As they stepped through the door, Alys was surprised to see the Queen’s bedchamber was not large and there were only a few small windows to let in the grey, wintry sunlight. A fire blazed merrily in the large stone grate, crackling and snapping as it tried valiantly to warm the small space.

  The whole room was dominated by a grand bed set high on a dais, which Alys was sure must be larger than her whole chamber at Dunboyton. It was a carved edifice of pale wood, carved vines and flowers twisting up its posts, thick as tree trunks. It was piled high with satin cushions and velvet quilts, edged with fur. The green-and-gold hangings were looped back with thick gold cords.

  A dressing table in the corner glittered with bottles and pots of jewel-like Venetian glass and a gilded box spilled out creamy pearls and a rope of rubies.

  A few stools and cushions were scattered by the fireplace, occupied by a cluster of ladies and their prancing lapdogs, tumbling over their flower-petal silk skirts. They all looked up eagerly as the door opened, as if longing for any distraction, even a travel-rumpled maid from Ireland.

  Alys glimpsed a lady writing at a table by the window and realised it must be the Queen herself. Alys only knew her from portraits and from her parents’ tales of their days at court before they were sent to Ireland. The reality was not entirely what she had expected.

  Alys quickly swallowed her surprise and put back on her careful smile. She knew the Queen was no longer young, of course. Queen Elizabeth was now fifty-five. Yet she was Queen, ageless. This Queen was still as slender as a girl, upright and willowy, dressed in a loose gown of white silk trimmed with glossy sable fur, pearls looped around her neck. Her hair was still a bright red but was obviously false, curled very tightly and pinned with more pearls.

  The quill went still in her bejewelled fingers and she glanced over her shoulder. She wore a thick mask of white make-up with spots of bright pink slashed across her high, sharp cheekbones. It gave her a ghostly, otherworldly air. But her eyes were dark, burning and alive.

  Alys gasped on a breath, afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak. It would be like trying to converse with the statue of a Greek god come to life.

  ‘Is that Lady Alys Drury?’ the Queen called. Her voice, too, was still young, soft as velvet but filled with a steel, unmistakable authority.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Mistress Jones said, curtsying deeply.

  Alys hurried to follow. She had been preparing for this moment for so long. She couldn’t make a mess of it now. ‘Your Majesty. My father sends his most reverent greetings to you. We are very honoured to serve you.’

  ‘I do remember your father. He was a handsome man, though I dare say the climate of Ireland has done him little good.’ The Queen rose from her chair, moving a bit slowly, stiffly. She held out her hand, long, elegant, white fingers decorated with rubies and emeralds, the heavy, dark stone of her coronation r
ing. The tips were stained with ink.

  Alys quickly kissed the offered hand and the Queen drew her impatiently to her feet. Queen Elizabeth smelled of a jasmine scent, richer than any Alys could distil in her stillroom, along with the sugared fruit suckets everyone said she liked, and the violet-like tinge of her powder and rouge.

  ‘We are in need of new company for the Christmas season, Lady Alys. Hopefully you are eager to celebrate with us.’

  Celebrating had been the furthest thing from Alys’s mind for many months. The fear of the approaching Armada and its aftermath, her sweet moments with Juan and then their sudden vanishing, had held her under a cloud. But now, with the Queen’s burning dark gaze on her, she would have agreed to anything at all.

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ she said.

  ‘Very good. We do have much to celebrate this year, with England’s deliverance from Spain.’ Queen Elizabeth sat back down at her desk. She glanced at her whispering ladies clustered by the fireplace. ‘Tell me, Lady Alys, do you wish to marry? Have you come to court to seek a husband?’

  Alys swallowed hard. A vision of Juan again flashed through her mind, his green eyes smiling at her, the touch of his hand. Perhaps, if life had been different, if they two had been different, she might have married him and rejoiced for it. But he was almost certainly a betrayer, who had let the village be burned and left her without a word. He did not deserve her tenderness. And she would give it to no one else now.

  The ladies went very quiet, as if they held their breath to hear her answer.

  ‘Nay, Your Majesty,’ she said firmly. ‘I have no thoughts of marriage.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ The Queen reached for her pen. ‘The married state has its uses and is necessary for some, of course. But I do not like to lose my ladies to its clutches. I must have their utmost loyalty.’

  Alys curtsied again. She had heard tales, even at Dunboyton, of some of the Queen’s ladies and courtiers who had landed in the Tower for marrying without her permission. It was surely a good thing Alys had other thoughts now, thoughts of making a finer future for herself and her father. She would need no husband for that, not yet.