By Royal Command (15 page)

I nodded. ‘As much as I know of your appearance.’

He didn’t pick up on this tiny rebuke. ‘Then we must think further on this and be on our guard.’

‘I am already!’

‘Of course. And you’re doing excellently well.’

We smiled at each other. ‘And now we must concentrate on the evening ahead. Are you ready to enjoy yourself?’ he asked.

‘I am! Where shall I stand?’

He pointed above us, to the far side of the courtyard. ‘A fair number of the queen’s ladies are on that terrace, so I suggest that you go there to get the best view of Her Grace’s arrival.’

‘She will enter through these castle gates?’

He nodded. ‘So the Lord Chamberlain says. She’ll then go under the stone arch and be escorted on to the platform, where she’ll watch some entertainment before going upstairs to join her ladies for supper.’

I tried to make my enquiry sound casual, so that anyone who overheard us would not know the import of it. ‘And what of that certain lady?’

‘She is wearing emerald green velvet, with a spray of feathers on her fair hair.’

I glanced across to the terrace that he’d indicated, but there was a press of people there and I couldn’t see anyone in that shade of gown. ‘Is she truly there?’ I asked.

‘She is.
Now
she is. But in an hour’s time she may not be, so when you discover her, watch her closely.’ He stood back a little and took in my appearance. ‘You are looking very fine, Lucy, and will find yourself in equally elegant company. Come, I’ll escort you to the steps.’ And so saying, he took my arm and led me through the throng towards a stone staircase twisting its way up to the terrace.

Pausing at the foot of it I suddenly became afeared. ‘Supposing I am noticed and suspected?’

He shook his head. ‘There are hundreds of people here tonight: some who live and work in the palace, many more invited guests and some who’ve come along just to glimpse the queen. A lone girl will not stand out in such a pell-mell.’ He smiled. ‘Even though she might be a very pretty one.’

I felt my cheeks colour. ‘And . . . and will I see you again tonight to tell you what occurred?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said before he disappeared back into the crowds.

I climbed the stone staircase, which was very steep, with as much elegance as I could muster. At the top I found myself on a paved terrace alongside perhaps forty or fifty other people all excitedly awaiting Her Grace’s arrival, and I leaned on the parapet here and tried to make myself as unobtrusive as possible.

After a moment, the lady I was standing beside touched my arm. It was certain that she was not my quarry, for this lady was above middle age and wore a deep red dress enlivened by embroidered Tudor roses. ‘’Tis most exciting, is it not?’ she said. ‘And there are fireworks later, I’ve heard.’

‘I have never seen fireworks!’

‘But have you seen Her Grace before?’ Before I could reply to this she went on, ‘I have never seen her in my life, and would not be here now but my daughter is newly made a dressmaker at the palace, and it was she who bid me come along tonight.’

‘Your daughter helps make the queen’s gowns?’

The woman nodded proudly. ‘Although there are many seamstresses in the sewing room. Eight women alone to stitch the royal buttonholes!’

We stood admiring the scene below us, pointing and exclaiming by turn. Several musicians were grouped together on a farm cart, tuning their instruments, and on another was set some scenery and furniture so that it looked like a room in a grand house. Indeed, I was so fascinated by what was going on below that for several moments I forgot what I was there for, then, suddenly remembering, turned to study the young ladies who were standing on the terrace. I saw green gowns – but not velvet. And velvet gowns aplenty – but not green. And then a little huddle of people parted and I saw a girl standing apart from anyone else, also looking down into the courtyard. She was tall, slender and dressed in a gown of bright emerald velvet with a jewelled belt at her waist and a high, flyaway ruff. Her hair, pale blonde, was set up with feathers. As if to confirm I was looking at the right girl, someone called from the group, ‘Madeleine! Look here!’ and she turned and smiled at the speaker. She had a lovely face – but was somewhat troubled in her mind, I thought, although I had no idea how the latter notion came to me.

I moved my head slightly, as if looking elsewhere, but concentrating all my attention on her.
This
was Mistress Madeleine Pryor; the girl I had to follow. Where would she lead me? Was she – though seemingly lovely and innocent – an enemy to our queen? Was she part of a larger plan to put Mary Queen of Scots on the throne of England?

It didn’t seem possible. But how could I tell?

A heavy cart came through the gates and trundled over the cobbles, coming to rest just before the platform on which the queen was to stand. On this cart was a great barrel of earth and, growing out of this, a full-sized evergreen tree, tall as a house, pinned here and there with paper blossoms.

‘Why ever is that tree there?’ my companion in red asked as they removed the dray horses that had pulled the cart.

I shook my head, then said in surprise. ‘I believe I see someone sitting in it!’

From behind us came some laughter, and I turned to see a stout, elderly man wearing a black velvet doublet glossed with silver embroidery. ‘That is poor Lord Stamford,’ he said to us. ‘Two years ago the queen was so greatly displeased with him that she banished him from Court, and now he seeks to regain his place in her heart.’

‘By sitting in a tree?’ I asked.

‘Not only that. I believe he is to perform a pretty song commending Her Grace’s charms, and also recite a poem seeking her forgiveness.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, ‘tis a terrible thing to be banned from Court!’

‘Indeed!’ the older woman said. ‘My daughter told me that only this week Her Grace had shut someone in the Tower for daring to marry without her consent.’

‘Aye,’ said the portly man. ‘That’s young Elsbeth George. She is in the Tower, and her husband is fled to France to escape the queen’s wrath!’

‘But what was their crime?’ I asked.

‘Just to marry, I believe,’ said the woman.

The man looked down at his velvet doublet and brushed it with a fussy, finicky motion. ‘If I may attempt to explain. It appears that our Gloriana – may God bless her name – does not wish to marry at the moment. While she keeps her single status, she holds her virginity very dear and expects her ladies to do the same.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She also expects unstinting love and attention from the men who surround her. If one of them marries, then that means one less suitor for herself.’

‘They cannot all be her suitors!’ I said.

He laughed. ‘Do you not think so? But we all adore her! You should see us clustering around her like drones around a bumble bee.’ He sighed again. ‘The Court is like the sun – ‘tis the centre of all glory.’

‘So they say,’ the woman returned.

‘And are you, too, Sir, one who craves the queen’s love?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Alas, I am too old! And when I was not, I was not sufficiently well-born, nor rich, nor elegant enough to attract the queen’s attention.’

‘You need all those attributes, then?’ I asked, somewhat amused.

‘All those and more. Her Grace likes a man to be handsome, and beyond that he must also be a wit, poet, musician, dancer, linguist, horseman and tennis player. Ah, and he should have Italian manners.’

‘’Tis difficult to be
all
those things!’ the woman and I exclaimed almost as one.

‘’Tis damned difficult! And ‘tis only the Master of the Queen’s Horse, Robert Dudley, who has managed to stay the course over these past years. He remains the most loved and favoured courtier of them all.’

‘But my daughter said there are rumours about Dudley . . .’ the woman murmured, and the man alighted on this eagerly.

‘Indeed! There are rumours everywhere that he has secretly married, and if that is true and Her Grace discovers it . . . well, there will be greater fireworks about the palace than ever you will see tonight.’

I looked at him, marvelling, anticipating conveying all this gossip to Isabelle. Was the queen’s French suitor not enough, then? Did she wish to retain Robert Dudley as her lover as well? And what of he? If he had married, was it for love, or just to get even with the queen?

‘You say Her Grace will not marry,’ I said, ‘but what about the French suitor who has come a-wooing with a bag of pearls?’

‘There you have said it:
French
,’ said the man. ‘French and Catholic. Though Her Grace seems fond of him and will take his pearls, I wager she will not marry him in the end.’

‘She is coming!’ someone in the crowd shouted. A ragged cheering broke out from the balconies and terraces and, looking to the horizon, I saw bobbing lights in the distance which, coming closer, turned out to be a small party on horseback riding across the park with lanterns aloft.

The tension and excitement grew and, as the riders neared the palace, bells from the nearby churches began ringing and the musicians below us struck up a tune. Hearing this, everyone within the courtyard set up a frenzied cheering which, had we been inside, would surely have lifted the very rafters.

Her Royal Majesty the Queen of England was within our sights!

Chapter Twelve

I
joined in the excited cheering and waving, all the while watching Mistress Pryor to see if there was less fervour in her greeting; to see, perhaps, if her heart was elsewhere and she responded to the arrival of Her Grace with less enthusiasm than did everyone else. I could not detect a whit of difference, however.

The little group on horseback paused at the gateway and was greeted by a tall man wearing the queen’s livery, who our male companion said was the Lord Chancellor. Bowing very low, he unrolled and read out a parchment commending Her Grace’s return to Richmond and acknowledging that, of all her palaces, it was her favourite. In flowery language it bade Her Royal Majesty the compliments of the season and announced that the festivities which followed were the first of twelve nights of revelry to be enjoyed before the Court moved to Whitehall in January.

This speech over, the men surrounding the queen slipped from their horses, but she stayed on her white mount and was led by a man dressed in black and gold (‘Robert Dudley!’ everyone whispered) towards the platform in the centre of the courtyard. I stared very hard at him, hoping to see something of the charm and charisma which made him the favourite of the queen, but could not, for although he held himself proudly and was dressed mighty fine, with shining buttons on his doublet and glittering braiding across his chest, he was too old and grey for me to consider handsome.

The queen, in black and ermine riding jacket, was helped from her horse and escorted to a throne which had been set upon the platform. As she sat down, we all – inside the courtyard and without, wherever we were standing – set up a cheering and a cry of ‘God bless Your Majesty!’ which was given so fervently and lovingly that it brought a tear to my eye.

Her Grace looked round at us and silence fell. ‘I thank you all, my good and faithful people,’ she said, then added, ‘You may well have a greater prince, but you shall never have one who loves you more than I do.’

We were all much affected by these words, and I saw several lusty men reduced to tears. Under the cover of feeling in my pocket for a kerchief, I stole a glance at Mistress Pryor and saw that she, too, was dabbing at her eyes. So either she loved Her Grace as entirely as everyone else – or was feigning very well indeed.

There was a little pause while a fur-lined purple cloak was placed around Her Grace’s shoulders by a maid of honour, following which she was joined on the stage by those gentlemen who had escorted her. All were of noble stature, great striding men who seemed very well aware of their own worth in the world. The portly man behind us named them Hatton, Essex and Ralegh, though I could not have said which one was which.

As all the courtyard grew hushed, I was charmed to see Tomas appear in front of the stage with about twenty little children dressed in white. He set them in their proper places with some difficulty, for they kept wandering off, sitting down or engaging each other in conversation, thus eliciting much amusement from the crowd. Once settled, however, they sang a carol, and then a Christmas greeting to Her Grace, their pure voices floating upwards and enchanting us all. The songs over, they were invited on to the stage and allowed, each in turn, to kiss the queen’s hand. Most did so, although two or three were just too young and overawed to do such a thing and ran away before they could be called forward.