A VERY TUDOR CHRISTMAS (2 page)

The queen? Meg heard Bea gasp, and she grabbed her cousin’s hand to quiet her. It was all far too much excitement for one day in their tiny corner of the world.

“Her Grace?” Meg’s mother cried. “The queen has a message for us?”

“Aye,” Lady Erroll said, seeming quite as doubtful as Meg’s mother. “She has heard you have a pretty, amiable daughter, as indeed you do, as we have seen her ourselves tonight, and we understand our son met your family at a New Year’s banquet. Queen Elizabeth wishes for her to come to court, to see if she might suit as a new maid-of-honor.”

“Meg!” Beatrice whispered, almost crushing Meg’s sleeve with her enthusiasm. “Did you hear that? You could serve the queen.”

Meg had indeed heard it—she just couldn’t quite believe it. Her, go to court? She couldn’t even wrap her thoughts around it. It was true that once her grandmother had served one of old King Henry’s queens, and her father sometimes went to court to present Queen Elizabeth with a New Year’s gift, but there had never been talk of her doing such a thing.

And—and if she was truthful to herself—she had to admit that wasn’t why she had hoped the Errolls had come to Clifford. She’d dared hope they came to propose a betrothal.

Her throat felt thick, but she refused to cry in front of Bea. She should not cry, not over silly dreams.

But the way his kiss had felt....

Meg shushed Beatrice again and twisted her head so she could see her parents’ faces. They looked at each other in that quiet way they always had together, as if they could communicate with their gaze alone. It was always maddening to try and decipher what they thought.

“Our Meg is young yet,” her father said. “And she has little training for a court life. This news is a surprise, and a great honor. We must think about it.”

Lady Erroll shrugged. “As you think best, of course, Master Clifford. But court is truly the best place to secure a family’s fortune. Our own daughter is but sixteen and has been a maid-of-honor for a year now. And our son...” Her languid voice suddenly turned proud. “Our son has a great career ahead of him. Her Grace is sending him as part of a delegation to Paris. He will be gone for at least a year, and when he returns we have hopes of a very great marriage for him with one of the Howard girls.”

“If he can cease to be such a care-for-nothing,” Lord Erroll grumbled into his wine. “Running about London with those young bravos....”

Lady Erroll shot him a scowl. “Robert is young and handsome. Why should he not enjoy himself now? He has a brilliant future ahead of him. The right marriage will surely...”

Meg could hear no more. She broke away from Bea and scrambled out of the closet. Lifting the heavy hem of her skirt, she ran as fast as she could along the corridors and down the stairs.

“Mistress Margaret!” a maidservant called as she dashed past. “Wait! I have...”

But Meg could not stop. She feared her tears would blind her, and worse, people would see them. Her hood tumbled from her head and her hair fell free, but she scarcely noticed.

On the staircase landing, she paused to catch her breath. She stared out the small window there as she gasped for breath past her stays. The night sky was clear, the stars glittering sharply with the cold, and the moon gleamed on the rutted driveway beneath. Everything was perfectly still, as if frozen.

Suddenly there was one spark of movement, just beyond the line of trees that led to the gates. Meg went up on tiptoe, trying to see what it was.

For just an instant, a stray beam of moonlight caught on a figure on horseback. A face, pale in the night, peered up at the house from beneath the plumes of a fashionable cap.

Meg’s heart pounded again, and she felt the spark of excitement, of distant hope, break over her cold disappointment. Robert Erroll—it had to be. Had she not seen that very hat tumble from his head only that afternoon?

She ran down the stairs and through the doors into the cold night. But there was no one there, no horse, no plumes, only the brush of the wind through the bare trees.

“Hello?” she called. “Are you out there?” Nothing. And her hopes plummeted yet again.

“Meg!” Beatrice cried, and Meg spun around to see her cousin running out of the house after her. “Why did you leave like that?”

Beatrice’s golden hair shimmered in the night, and her blue eyes looked big and shocked in her pretty child’s face. Meg suddenly felt ashamed of her wild behavior, her silly hopes that a man like Robert Erroll, a man going to France on a mission for the queen and with a future marriage to a Howard, could have had serious intentions toward her. It had all been a foolish dream. Lady Erroll was right: they all had to look to their own futures.

But, oh! It had been such a sweet dream while it lasted.

Meg walked slowly back to Bea, her feet feeling as heavy and slow as an old woman’s. She took her cousin’s arm and smiled at her, glad of the covering darkness.

“I just needed some fresh air,” Meg said as they turned toward the house. “It was very stuffy in that closet.”

“But isn’t it exciting, Meg?” Beatrice said, bouncing on her toes. “You might go to court, to see the queen herself! You will dance and sing, and have such pretty clothes....”

Meg had to laugh at Bea’s bubbling enthusiasm. She knew she should feel it herself, and perhaps she would soon enough. If she could let go of her silly dream of being Lady Erroll.

“It’s surely not certain I will go yet,” Meg said.

“Oh, you will! And maybe one day, when I’m older, I shall join you there. Wouldn’t that be so merry, Meg?”

“Aye,” Meg answered quietly. Before they went back through the doors, she glanced back one more time. But the garden was still empty. Surely he had never been there at all. “Merry indeed.”

* * *

Robert drew in his horse once he was sure he was hidden by the trees and looked back to the moonlit house. Margaret still stood poised on the doorstep, staring out at the driveway, and for an instant he was sure she saw him there. The wind toyed with the dark satin fall of her brown hair and caught at her skirts. She rubbed at her arms as if she was cold, but she didn’t turn away.

And he had to fight himself with every ounce of strength he possessed not to wheel his horse around and gallop back to her.

“God’s blood,” he muttered as his fists tightened on the reins. He knew it was a bad idea for him to come to Clifford Manor, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to see her again, and he’d been so sure that once he did he would realize that whatever strange enchantment she’d cast over him when they’d danced was just that—an illusion.

How could it be otherwise? The queen’s court was crowded with beautiful women, witty, sophisticated women it was all too easy to laugh with and tease. To lure to his bed.

And Margaret Clifford was so young, so wide-eyed, so free of courtly guile. When his sister had teasingly suggested he dance with the “country mouse,” he’d thought it might be amusing for a few minutes.

Never could he have anticipated how it would all feel. Her trembling hand in his, the dark eyes looking up at him, her smile, her lithe grace. Her laughter, so open and real, unlike the practiced trill of those court ladies. Enchantment indeed.

And when they’d walked around the hall together after their dance, she’d asked him what he did at the court and he found himself telling her things he had hardly dared even think of. Of dreams and ambitions his parents and friends thought him too indolent to pursue.

Yet Margaret had listened, asked him solemn questions—believed him. Robert had never known such a feeling.

And that was why he could not go back to her now, no matter how much he longed to. If he went back now, begged her to be his, presented his suit to her parents, he would know he wasn’t worthy of her. He had to prove himself in order to win her. To give her the life her pure heart and true beauty deserved. His family had a fine name but no fortune now. They thought he should marry an heiress to help them, but he was sure he had the keys to their salvation within himself.

He had to, if he wanted to marry where he chose.

This voyage to France was the first step. He would show the queen, his family, Margaret, that he could do so much more than dance and preen around court. He would make his fortune, then come back for her when they could be truly together.

The note he had given the maidservant to deliver to Meg would surely tell her what he could not say face-to-face. He could only pray now that she would wait for him, would write to him that she felt the same.

“Wait for me, fair Margaret,” he whispered, and spurred his horse into a gallop, leaving Clifford Manor behind.

* * *

“Nay, we mustn’t!” the maidservant said with a giggle. She backed away from the footman until her hips rested at the stone edge of the well in the kitchen garden, hoping he could see her bosom in the moonlight, prettily displayed above the edge of her smock. He had to follow her now!

And he did. He seized her around the waist, dragging her close to him as she giggled even louder. He growled as he buried his face in her bosom, his beard tickling.

As he tossed her apron aside, the contents of her pockets—a bundle of herbs, a handkerchief and a folded note—tumbled unseen into the well....

Chapter Two

London, December 1571

“Can you believe it, Meg? We are to be goddesses!”

Meg smiled at Bea as her cousin took her arm and pulled her
through the doors of Cecil House in Covent Garden. They were part of a flock of
young ladies and gentlemen of the court recruited to perform in a masque
celebrating the upcoming wedding of William Cecil, Lord Burghley’s, daughter
Anne to the handsome Earl of Oxford. Lord Burghley was the queen’s chief
secretary and closest adviser, and the earl the most eligible of noble
bachelors. It was the wedding of the year, an essential event in the Christmas
festivities, and to perform in the masque was a great honor, a chance to be seen
in front of the whole crowd.

But Meg would just as soon not be seen. After nearly three
years of being at court for part of every year, she had found the chiefest joy
there to be in observing all that went on. The people surrounding Queen
Elizabeth were like a swirl of brilliantly colored glass, dazzling, gorgeous,
enticing, but liable to cut if touched.

“I am just here to chaperone you, Beatrice,” she said. She held
onto Bea’s hand as the other masquerade actors crowded into the entrance hall
around them. Bea was always liable to dash off when she became too excited. And,
being somewhat new to court and eager to see and do everything, Bea was always
excited.

Like now. Bea held tightly to Meg’s hand as she stared around
her with bright eyes, taking in the rich tapestries covering the
linenfold-paneled walls, the thick carpets underfoot, the blazing fire in the
grate that all chased away the icy day outside the grand edifice of Cecil
House.

Beatrice bounced on her toes. Meg smiled at her, and wondered
if she herself had ever been half so excited by life, half so eager to rush out
and grab onto its glittering promise with both hands. Perhaps when she first
came to court, first saw the queen and all the bejeweled splendor around
her?

Nay, Meg remembered sadly. When she first came to court, she’d
been too cast down by the loss of a handsome man who was never hers to begin
with. Who had only been a silly girl’s dream.

A man who never came back from France, but proved himself so
valuable to the queen that she sent him on to Venice and thence to the wilds of
Muscovy, where he formed alliances and gained royal honors. Lady Erroll was
always boasting of her illustrious son.

But Meg was glad he didn’t come back. He would only remind her
of how silly she’d once been. Now she was too busy, too responsible, too old to
have such fancies. As she’d said to Bea, she was only here to play chaperone
now. Beatrice would surely make the glittering marriage Meg could not.

“Nonsense, Meg!” Beatrice cried, at last turning her attention
from the grand house and swinging around to smile at Meg. “You are no elderly
spinster to spend your days clucking at wild young folk. You are much too pretty
for that.”

“Not even a fraction as pretty as you, Bea,” Meg said fondly,
tucking back a strand of her cousin’s golden hair that had fallen from her
velvet cap. “That is why I must keep an eye on you.”

“Nonsense, I say! I am perfectly sensible, dearest cuz. I know
better than to listen to their blandishments.” Bea tossed her pretty head
disdainfully toward the young swains who watched her. “I will take nothing less
than marriage, and a grand one, too. Just like Anne Cecil.”

Meg thought of Anne Cecil, the reason they were all there on
this cold day, to rehearse festivities for her grand nuptials. Her match was
outwardly a splendid one indeed—the handsome young Earl of Oxford. But Mistress
Anne was barely fifteen, sheltered and carefully educated by her protective and
powerful parents, and the earl was known as a fiery-tempered troublemaker.
Mistress Anne would be a countess, true, but would she find happiness?

That was what Meg wanted for sweet Beatrice. Happiness.

“Just be sure you choose a good man, Bea,” she admonished. “A
kind one who will know what a great treasure he has in you.”

“We must find such a man for you first, Meg,” Bea answered.
“You are surely not too old to marry.”

Meg laughed. “It’s true I have no need of a walking stick just
yet. But I have met no man at court whose company I could bear for more than an
hour altogether.”

Bea’s eyes widened. “Is it because of Master Ambrose? It was so
sad...”

Meg shook her head. When, more than a year ago, her parents
proposed a match between Meg and the son of the Ambrose family, she had
tentatively agreed. Why not? Her dreams of grand romance were gone, and Master
Ambrose seemed nice enough. When their barely month-old betrothal was ended by
his sudden passing from a fever, she had felt only sadness for his poor
family.

And realization that she probably was not meant to be
married.

“I have recovered from all that,” Meg assured her cousin. “I am
entirely attentive to finding a good match for you.”

Before Bea could answer, Mildred Cecil, Lady Burghley, wife of
the chief secretary, appeared at the top of the stairs. All conversation and
laughter immediately quieted, for the tall, long-nosed, stern-eyed Lady Burghley
was formidable indeed. She gathered the fur edges of her black velvet robe
closer around her as she studied the courtiers gathered in her hall.

Her daughter Anne hovered behind her, a small, pale-faced girl
whose light brown hair and tawny silk gown blended her into the paneled
walls.

“Thank you all for coming here today,” Lady Burghley said. “The
wedding is only days away and there is much work to be done. If you will follow
me...”

Lady Burghley swept down the stairs, Anne hurrying behind her,
as servants in the green-and-gold Cecil livery leaped to open the doors to the
great hall. Meg and Beatrice were swept along by the crowd into the cavernous
space.

There was scarcely time to take in the painted beams of the
ceiling high overhead, the glowing tapestries of red, blue and green, or the
glittering plate piled on the tiered and carved buffets pushed back against the
walls. They were hurried to the far end of the long room to where a stage had
been built for the wedding masques.

Servants were still putting the finishing touches on the
painted scenery, and seamstresses were huddled over yards of carnation silk and
gold satin for the costumes.

“This is the Grove of Diana,” Lady Burghley said with an
impatient wave at the still-unfinished painted trees. “Over there shall be the
Bower of Flora, and there the House of Night. We shall need nine Knights of
Apollo, nine Hours of Night, nine...”

Suddenly the doors to the hall opened again, and Lady Burghley
frowned at the group who dared to arrive late. Everyone else craned their necks
and went up on tiptoe to try and see. The ladies broke into giggles, hastily
muffled.

Bea was no different. “Look, Meg!” she whispered excitedly.
“’Tis Peter Ellingham.”

Meg bit back a smile. Peter, Lord Ellingham, was a very
handsome young man, as golden as Bea and as eager about life. He had been paying
much attention to Bea of late, asking her to dance with him at banquets, playing
lute duets with her and games of primero, all under Meg’s careful watch. They
laughed and gamboled together like pretty puppies.

Bea pretended not to take him seriously, but Meg wondered.
Perhaps Bea, like Anne Cecil, would be a young bride, but only if Lord Ellingham
proved himself worthy.

Meg turned to study the newcomers. Lord Ellingham was indeed
there, clad in peacock blue and green, grinning at Bea. With him were his usual
friends, young men as good-natured and lighthearted as himself, likely to make
fine Knights of Apollo.

Meg suddenly glimpsed a darker movement at the edge of the
crowd, and she turned to study it closer.

Suddenly the crowded, stuffy room turned freezing cold and she
couldn’t move. Her hands shook, and she clenched them in the folds of her skirt.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from the man who stood at the edges of Lord
Ellingham’s merry group. For it was the one man she had thought—hoped—never to
see again.

It was Robert Erroll.

Like her, he had grown older in the three years since she’d
seen him, but the time sat well on him. His face, framed by a neatly trimmed
fashionable goatee, was leaner, even more chiseled, browned and slightly
weathered by the sun and snow of his travels. His black hair was longer, swept
back from his brow and touching the high black collar of his purple velvet
doublet. His hand was curled around a jeweled dagger at his belt, and he watched
the enthusiasms of Peter Ellingham and his friends with a small, wry smile on
his sensual lips.

Then his gaze swept over the room—and came to land on her. His
eyes, those oh-so-blue eyes she remembered so well, widened a bit as he saw her
there. Despite the crowd around her, she felt horribly exposed with nowhere to
hide. His smile flashed broader for just an instant. But then a veil quickly
fell over his eyes, his smile, leaving nothing but a mask of fashionable
boredom. He gave her a small bow.

“Attention, please!” Lady Burghley called. “We have no time to
lose.”

Meg was so very cold, her head spinning so she feared she would
faint. “Excuse me for a moment, Bea,” she gasped.

“What...” Beatrice said, obviously bewildered. She tried to
catch Meg’s hand, but Meg managed to slip away. She pushed her way through the
crowd, seeking an escape route.

With the new arrivals, the hall was even more crowded and
confused than before, and Lady Burghley was striving to regain control. In the
confusion, Meg was able to slip past the shifting tide of people and through the
still-open doors into the empty entrance hall.

She ran down a long corridor, not knowing where she was going.
The rise and fall of all the voices blending together faded behind her as she
hurried along the darkened passageway. A few servants passed her but paid her no
attention, for they were on their own urgent errands. Everyone was focused on
the wedding preparations, and surely Lord Burghley himself was at the queen’s
side at Whitehall, getting ready for the Christmas season festivities.

Why did Robert have to come back now, after all this time?
She’d been able to put her youthful folly, her romantic dreams, behind her, and
now here he was. Making her feel just as young and giddy as ever, just from one
look from his beautiful blue eyes.

He would just have to go away again. Soon. And in the meantime
she would have to seek to avoid him. That shouldn’t be so hard, should it?

Meg turned down another corridor and then another, until
suddenly she found herself confusingly in the entrance hall once again.
Bewildered, she tripped over the edge of a Turkish carpet and fell forward. With
a startled cry, she shot her hands out to catch herself....

And found herself with a fistful of warm, soft velvet
instead.

Strong, hard-muscled arms came around her and held her steady.
It was Robert Erroll—she knew it even without looking up at his too-handsome
face. She could smell the clean, cool scent of his soap, and her traitorous body
still knew his touch. She made herself go very still, and not panic and run
again like a ninny.

“You must have an urgent appointment somewhere, Mistress
Clifford,” he said quietly, his voice deep and smooth, like spiced wine on a
cold Christmas night. “Is it still Mistress Clifford, or have you a new
name?”

“I— Yes,” she murmured, staring hard at the gold buttons of his
doublet. “And I hear you are Sir Robert now, for all your good deeds to the
queen.”

“I am not sure how good they are,” he said with a hint of
laughter. “But I am indeed Sir Robert now. It’s been too long since we met.”

Since they’d met—and he’d kissed her and trifled with her
girlish affections when she was too silly to know better. If anyone did such a
thing to Bea now, she would beat them over the head with their own bodkin! It
was infuriating how men thought they could play with girls’ tender hearts like
that and then run away, completely unaffected.

“Not quite long enough,” she said. She tried to slide out of
his arms, but his hold on her just tightened, drawing her closer.

“Did you never think of me at all after we parted?” he asked,
the laughter vanishing into a strangely serious tone.

“I have been much too busy here at court to ponder such
trifles,” Meg said, hoping she sounded cold and distant. Dismissive. “There are
so very many people about. Surely you have been busy, as well.”

Busy kissing women from Paris to Muscovy, she was sure.

“I have seen a great deal, ’tis true,” he said, still holding
onto her. “But I never met anyone else like you—Meg.”

“True. I am not most women,” she said, trying once more to tear
herself out of his arms. “I have forgotten all about you.”

“Meg, you can’t mean that,” he said, and for an instant he
sounded truly hurt. But Meg knew better now than to listen to any man.

“Don’t call me Meg,” she said. “I am Mistress Clifford.”

“You’ve always been Meg to me, in my memory. What has happened
to you?”

“What do you mean?” Meg realized she wouldn’t be able to break
free of his arms, so she went very still and stared at the high embroidered
collar of his doublet, at the hard line of his jaw. And suddenly, she wanted to
cry, because she just wanted him to go on holding her. Wanted to feel again the
way he’d once made her feel. So alive and free.

But she knew that could never be again.

“You look like the Meg I remember,” he said. His hand slid down
her arm, rubbing her soft satin sleeve over her skin until his bare fingers
touched hers. “You’re even more beautiful now. But your eyes are so cold.”

In a burst of anger, Meg cried, “You mean I’m not the foolish
girl I once was? The one so easily lured in by pretty words and kisses? I’ve
learned my lesson well since last we met.”