As Mary had described, the tennis court was a large space that may have served as a banquet hall in ancient times. There was no roof, but all four walls were at least partially intact, forming a rectangular space. A few chairs and benches had been set off to one side. The queen arranged herself, then looked about until she spotted Isabel. She gestured. Isabel looked at Frances for guidance.
“You have been summoned to sit beside her.” She gave Bel a little shove. “Go.”
Isabel curtsied, then lowered herself beside the queen. They were the only two who had chairs. The others sat on benches, pulling their skirts close to make room for each other.
“Ah,” Mary gestured, “here are the competitors.”
Isabel glanced up and, for the second time that day, was rendered speechless by what she saw. Both Gavin and Philip were wearing shifts which they’d knotted at their sides. Trunk hose and tight canions emphasized their muscular thighs and…other parts of their anatomy—parts that were normally concealed by doublets. Isabel had to force herself not to stare. Both men approached the queen.
“Your Majesty, you will honor me with your favor?” Blake asked.
She cooed like a lovesick young lass. “Oui, Philip,” Mary said, gracing him with her handkerchief. He bowed and stepped back.
Gavin moved forward and bowed to the queen. “Your Majesty.” Then, unexpectedly, he turned to Bel. “Mistress Isabel, would you honor me with a favor?”
She was stunned, and worse yet, she’d forgotten a handkerchief. An embarrassing silence reigned, although Isabel heard giggling from some of the ladies. She had only one personal item with her, and it was a ridiculous thing to give a man who would be involved in vigorous exercise. But it was all she had, so she pulled it from a pocket in her petticoats and held it out.
“A book,” Gavin said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Christine de Pizan.”
Raucous laughter broke out among the other ladies, and Isabel spoke hastily to cover up her embarrassment. “It is my most valued possession, but perhaps not suitable as an honor.”
Gavin raised his voice, which quelled the mirth. “On the contrary, I’m certain it will bring me luck. Thank you, mistress.”
Both men bowed and walked off, taking their places on the court. Isabel could not see what Gavin had done with the book, but she was certain he had it somewhere on his person. And then she did not think of it again, so absorbed was she in the match.
The queen whispered to her. “One man serves and one receives, at the opposite end. Philip is serving first.”
The game was played with long-handled rackets and an odd-looking ball. The action was lightning fast, the two players vigorously smacking the ball back and forth over the net. Isabel’s head moved to one side of the court and then the other. Whap! Bam! Several times, the ball flew over their heads and struck the wall behind them. Every so often, a man standing off to one side called out the score, and the ladies would clap and cheer. At first Philip seemed to be the superior player, but he tired faster than Gavin, who quickly gained the upper hand.
Isabel was mesmerized by the agility and strength of their bodies. By Gavin’s body, because he was the one she watched. Every time he swung his racket, his shoulder and back muscles flexed. And all the running, leaping, and diving showed off his tight buttocks, thighs, and calves. He was sweating, running his sleeve across his forehead. Even that seemed titillating. Isabel clapped when she heard the others clapping, cheered when appropriate, but it was secondary to the spectacle before her eyes. So when the heavy tennis ball smacked her square in the forehead, she never saw it coming, never even had a chance to duck.
They told her that Gavin had carried her back to the lodgings after she’d been struck by the ball. That the queen had been very solicitous of her well-being. They’d summoned a physician, who pronounced her concussed, but said she would recover with a few days’ rest. Isabel remembered none of this. She woke up periodically, with either Ann, Frances, or Dorothy standing by with doses of strong herbal tea for the pain. When she regained full consciousness at last, an entire day had passed, and she suffered a raging headache. Ironically, there was no one about. She lay back down and tried not to dwell on the pain.
She could not recall what, precisely, had happened. What she did remember was the tennis match and her excitement at watching the men at their sport. Then, darkness. If she’d been paying attention to the match rather than masculine attributes, perhaps this would not have happened. She groaned. The door opened and Frances entered.
“You’re awake! The queen—all of us—have been so worried.”
Isabel thought it was more likely that her latest faux pas had only intensified their poor opinion of her, but she kept that to herself. “My head. May I have more of that remedy?”
“The willow bark tea? Of course, I’ll see to it. And your bandage needs to be changed. We’ve been applying oil of clove to the wound.”
“No wonder I smell like an apple tart.”
Frances laughed. “I’ll see to the tea and send Ann in to change the bandage.” She paused on the threshold. “Gavin has been waiting to see you. He’s most concerned, because it was he who struck the ball that hit you.”
Isabel’s heart beat a little faster. “Of course. Later, after I’ve drunk the tea and Ann has changed the bandage. And I’d like to wash.”
“I’ll tell him,” Frances said, smiling.
…
Gavin waited outside the chamber Isabel shared with Frances, pacing back and forth. He still could not believe his ball had struck Isabel so hard she’d been knocked unconscious. By the Virgin, he hoped there were no lasting effects. At length, the door opened and Frances gestured to him to come in.
“Don’t tire the patient, Master Cade,” she admonished, slipping out and closing the door.
Momentarily, Gavin paused on the threshold, studying Isabel. She was sitting up in her bed, propped against some pillows. Her long, dark hair lay in billowy waves about her shoulders. A woolen shawl covered her chemise, and a white linen bandage was wrapped about her head. Suddenly, she turned her head toward him. He felt like a school boy caught out by the master.
“Gavin?” she said. “You may come in.”
He gave his head a shake and strode toward her. A heavy oak chair rested at her bedside, but he ignored it and lowered himself to the bed. Taking hold of her hands, he said, “Isabel. I am so terribly sorry. What a cods-head I am.”
That drew a smile from her. “You didn’t mean to do it, sir.” She drew back and squinted at him. “Did you?”
Now it was Gavin’s turn to laugh. “Had it been anyone but you, I may have.” She was truly quite extraordinary when she smiled. “Tell me, how do you fare? Is it painful?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. But the tea helps, and so does the salve they’ve applied to the wound. The physician visited me and said he thought after a few days’ rest, I would be fine.”
“May I see it?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea—”
He cut her off. “Nonsense. I’ve dealt with all sorts of injuries.” Very gently, he slid the bandage up and away from the wound, and when he glimpsed the damage he’d done, he gasped. “God’s breath, Isabel, I’m surprised I didn’t kill you.” He re-covered the wound and said, “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
Her brandy-colored eyes sparkled. “Aye. You can get me out of this bed and walk about with me. I feel as if I’ve been lying here for days.”
He cocked his head at her. “Is that wise? You were unconscious for some time.”
“I will tell you if I feel weak or dizzy, I swear. Pray, let me. They are treating me as if I’m on my death bed.”
“Very well, but you must do as I say. Agreed?”
Isabel nodded. Gavin stood and turned back her covers. When she made as though to climb out of bed, he tutted like his grandmother. “I’ll carry you to the passage, and then we shall see.”
He set her down in the
passage, which was deserted, and pulled her arm through the crook of his elbow. He was impressed. She made it all the way to the stairs.
“Pray, let’s go outside.”
Hands on hips, Gavin glowered at her. “Out of the question. The queen would have my head. Not to mention Frances and the others.”
“They don’t need to know. Please, Gavin. The fresh air will do me good.”
He gave her his most intimidating look for another few seconds, and she returned it in kind. Trying to dissuade her was hopeless; she would not change her mind, so he may as well give in. “As you wish.” Before she could protest, he picked her up and carried her down the stairs, alerting the guard to their destination. “Queen’s Garden.”
Luxuriating in her scent, he was loath to let go of her. Her hair brushed his cheek, and her arm rested on his back. Isabel’s mere touch shot a bolt of desire through him. He hadn’t had a woman since his wife had died, and that had been long ago. He’d like nothing better than to lose himself in her, but that would be a major distraction, ultimately bringing him nothing but trouble.
“Gavin. You may put me down now.”
He set her down, but held on to her arms. “Are you sure about this, mistress?”
“Aye.”
“And you remember your vow?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Vow?”
“That you will tell me if you—”
“Ah. If I feel dizzy, and the rest. I will, but what if it’s too late? I may simply die right here, and you would be forced to carry my lifeless form to the burial ground.”
“Not funny.” He let go of her, and she looped an arm through his. They set off, moving slowly. “Did you enjoy the tennis match?”
God’s teeth, why had he asked such a thing? Fool. But if she thought him callous, she hid it, answering the question with no reference to her injury.
“I loved it.” She smiled to herself, and he wondered what she was thinking.
“Tell me more.”
She glanced up at him. “It was exhilarating. The fast pace, the energy and excitement, from the players and the audience.” Her generous mouth was enticing, and Gavin thought he could look at it all day. “Do females play?”
“What? Nay, none that I’ve ever heard of. Ladies would be hindered by their clothing. I’m afraid it would be judged unladylike in the extreme.”
Real disappointment flickered in her eyes, surprising him. But then, she surprised him in many ways. “For someone who was flattened by a tennis ball, you are most eager to subject yourself to further injury.”
“But the players were not injured, neither you nor Philip. We females are left out of all the fun.”
Gavin knew he should not offer, but he couldn’t stop himself. “When you are fully recovered, I will teach you. We’ll need to find you some appropriate attire.”
She halted abruptly. “Honestly? Oh, thank you, Gavin. I shall look forward to it!”
He chuckled and patted her hand. “Not until you are feeling back to normal.” He paused a moment, then said, “How are you faring with the ladies?”
Isabel shrugged. “I can only imagine their amusement over what happened at the match. They will think I was to blame, and perhaps I was.”
“You are too hard on yourself. Any of them could have been struck.”
“To answer your question, since my injury, I’ve only seen Frances and Dorothy, and they’ve been kind.”
“Good. Stand your ground with them, Bel. But don’t lose your temper. That is what they want, because they hope you will look a fool before Queen Mary.”
“How does that benefit them?”
He scrubbed a hand across his face, thinking. “They are thrown so much together. A rivalry has taken root among them. I’ve only been here a month, but even I see it. And they’re jealous because Mary has shown a preference for you.”
“She’s simply being kind to make me feel welcome.” Isabel sighed, and he regretted being so forthcoming. “What do you do here, Gavin?”
There, she’d surprised him again. “I am equerry to Shrewsbury and do whatever he requires, especially in regard to supplying the castle. Mary and her entourage require an inordinate amount of food and drink.”
“I detect a slight Scots accent in your speech,” she said innocently. “Are you English or Scottish?”
“Some of each. My mother is Scots to the bone, and my father is English and just as loyal.”
“I thought it was against the law to marry a Scot. And vice versa.”
“Supposedly, it is. But there are countless marriages among Scots and English at the border. How could we expect anything else?”
“May I ask why you were eavesdropping on the queen’s conversation with the bishop?”
Gavin should have anticipated this question, but given Isabel’s injury, he’d hoped she’d forgotten about it. Expedient to be honest, as much as possible. “The earl asked me to. They fear Mary may involve herself in an escape plot.”
“So it’s true—she is a prisoner rather than a guest of Queen Elizabeth?”
“I don’t believe anybody is certain of her status.” They had been walking for several minutes, and Gavin thought it was time to return her to the castle. She protested, but feebly, and he interpreted that as an admission to feeling tired. At the castle entry, he picked her up and carried her to her chamber. Outside the door, he fished in his pocket for something. “Here is your book, Isabel. Thank you for honoring me with it. I believe it brought me luck. I won, if you didn’t know.”
“I did not. Well done, Master Cade.” Her smile was beguiling.
He glanced down at the book, written in French, as he handed it to Bel. “Christine de Pizan. She was quite an accomplished woman. An illuminator and writer.”
“You’re familiar with her work? Most people have never heard of her.”
“I am an admirer of hers. You read, write, and speak French, do you not? Yet you haven’t revealed that.”
Isabel looked embarrassed. “I am waiting for the right moment.”
“I won’t give you away.” He glanced up and down the passage to see if they were alone before saying one last thing. “Have a care around John Lesley. It is rumored he has fathered more than one bastard, and he’s as cunning as the slipperiest of eels.”
Isabel’s face blanched. Had he shocked her? “You must get some rest.” Brushing a lock of hair back from her face, he said, “Until later, Bel.”
Chapter Six
A fortnight passed, and November was full upon them. The days grew short, and the hours of daylight fewer. Lady Shrewsbury returned from her respite at Sheffield, drew Isabel aside, and asked how she fared. Isabel was honest with her but, sadly, the lady did not offer any suggestions that were helpful. Only the same advice the queen and Frances had already given her regarding Mary’s ladies-in-waiting. The vixens-in-waiting, as Isabel had come to think of them.
Don’t let them intimidate you. Ignore them. Laugh along with them.
Meanwhile, Lady Shrewsbury and the queen spent their days in each other’s company embroidering. They seemed consumed by it. The two women reclined on fine upholstered chairs, chattering about designs and stitches, while everybody else, Isabel included, sat on footstools. After several attempts by various ladies, including the queen, to teach Isabel the art of embroidering, Mary decided they would all be better served if Bel read to them while they sewed. Humiliated by her clumsiness with the needle, she was much relieved.
Mary, like Isabel, was an early riser, and on most mornings, they ate breakfast together. In truth, Isabel ate while Mary regaled her with stories of her youth. Isabel did not mind—the queen’s life was full of adventure, romance, and, regrettably, lost hopes.
Mary told Bel of her first husband, Francois, the dauphin, later king, of France. How they had been devoted to each other from childhood and married when they were only in their teens. He died suddenly a few years later. “Love inevitably leads to heartbreak, Bel. Never let anyone say otherwise.” S
he sighed. “Mon dieu, I wish you could have seen my wedding—it was at Notre Dame Cathedral! My dress, so elegant! White, with a sweeping train, and embroidered with jewels. All the dignitaries in Paris were in attendance—from the monarchy, the church, the ruling class. Oh, how I long for those days!” Mary lapsed into a reverie.
That was the beginning of Isabel’s compassion and sympathy for Queen Mary.
The ladies-in-waiting frequently conversed in French among themselves, assuming Isabel had no idea what they were saying. While they talked, she played with the queen’s spaniel, whose name was Bisou. She was growing exceedingly fond of him.
Sometimes the women talked about Isabel. She didn’t mind the jokes about her incompetence with the needle, or her rudimentary dancing skills, but she hated it when they made fun of her looks or her background. Her hair was a great source of amusement for them, although between Frances and Ann, Isabel thought the style greatly improved from the day of her arrival. They said she was too studious for a lady, and there was nothing about her that would attract a man. Wasn’t it odd, Cecily asked, that Gavin spent an inordinate amount of time watching her?
Isabel had noticed that, too. And wondered. Since Gavin’s visit after her injury, he’d kept his distance. He danced with her, but not as often as he did with the other ladies. He flirted outrageously with them, but never with her. Yet she often looked up and found him gazing at her. Once she’d caught his eye and held it. When he’d smiled, she’d ducked her head.
“It’s simple,” Alice said. “He wants to bed her. Have a little taste of something different. But he doesn’t want to waste his time wooing her or even flirting.” Isabel felt the sting of tears and quietly departed the room with Bisou before anyone suspected. She sat in one of the window embrasures in the passage to gather her emotions. At least Frances was kind to her. She’d been teaching Isabel how to play primero and sometimes, with Philip Blake’s assistance, instructing her in dancing when the others weren’t around.
Game of Spies Page 5