Conspiracy (5 page)

As soon as he was gone, we had to come up here to change. I'm not looking forward to the hunt at all. I'm really not a very good rider, despite all the lessons I've had, so I always try to trail along at the back. Last time I fell off my horse into a bramble bush, and had to spend ages pulling thorns out of my bum.

I've just had a brilliant idea for getting out of the hunting party. The Queen is in her Withdrawing Chamber, and the Chamberers are bringing in her hunting kirtle, so I'm going to see her now….

My plan didn't work. I must go hunting, after all. Hell's teeth!

I was so pleased with my plan to get out of hunting. I got one of the Chamberers to let me bring in Her Majesty's choice of gloves, and hobbled in pathetically with them laid out on a velvet cushion.

The Queen was in a hurry, and smiled fiercely at me as if she was expecting me, though I don't know why. “Yes, Lady Grace?”

“Um … Ybur Majesty …” I curtsied with what I'm sure was a very realistic wobble. “May I be excused from the hunt?”

“What have you against hunting?” asked the Queen, picking up some white kid gloves with spring flowers embroidered on long cuffs.

“Well, nothing, Your Majesty,” I said awkwardly. “I know it is the best way to get venison for the Court, and if deer were not hunted they would eat all the crops, but, urn, I hate looking at the deer being killed.”

The Queen shook her head. “You are too soft for this world, Grace, my dear. Here it is kill or be killed.”

“Er, yes, but I am not at all good enough to hunt with you and my riding is still very poor …,” I gabbled.

“It will only amend with practice,” said the Queen, drawing on the other glove and wriggling her fingers.

“And, urn, my ankle is sore where I twisted it, Your Majesty.”

She smiled. “Which makes no odds at all, since it
is your horse that will be running, not you. Come, Grace, I desire to have all my attendants to make a good show for the Prince. And you must overcome your timorousness with horses. I would do you no favours by listening to your fears.”

I sighed. It's not that I'm afraid; it's just that I'm embarrassingly bad at it. But there was no point arguing, so I curtsied again and withdrew.

Still sighing, I went to the stairs with the others and found John waiting for me. I leaned on him and hobbled all the way down the stairs, reminding myself which ankle was the sore one as I went.

Behind me, Lady Sarah was laughing with Carmina. “At last we shall have a good run. I am so weary of ambling along roads in the sun,” she was saying.

I wanted to kick her. It's not fair, she loves to ride and, what's worse, she's good at it. Her horses always do what she wants.

“Urn … are you hunting too, John?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “I shall follow you if it likes your ladyship.”

“Oh, er, yes,” I said, wondering what had happened to my tongue, which felt as if Mary Shelton had been knitting with it. Really, John Hull makes me feel quite uncomfortable and flustered, though
he is most pleasant. I think it might be his eyes that unsettle me—I've never seen any so bright.

I leaned on John all the way to the Earl of Leicester's enormous stables, which turned out to be the cleanest I have ever seen, even compared to the ones at Charing Cross. The stones were gleaming and there was not a wisp of straw out of place. Our palfreys were standing waiting. I had one called Borage, with small twitchy ears, who sidestepped as I came near.

John took the bridle and brought Borage up to the mounting block. Then he helped me get myself settled into the saddle—which is always the tricky bit. The one good thing about side-saddles is that they are very hard to fall out of—though I've managed several times.

Then I had nothing to do but wait. John went off—to see about the hounds, he said—and a little while later the Queen's horse was led up to the mounting block. Then some pages arrived shouting, “The Queen! The Queen!” And everyone stood, or sat up straighter, as the Queen came into the yard.

The Earl of Leicester held the Queen's stirrup for her, as she mounted and settled herself in the saddle with her whip in her hand.

The ladies dropped back as the gentlemen rode
up to surround the Queen, each more upright and dashing than the last, all desperately trying to impress her with their horsemanship.

The Queen was now surrounded by gentlemen, with the Earl of Leicester and Mr. Hatton the closest. Sir William Cecil wasn't there—he doesn't like hunting, and was probably busy with paperwork. When everyone was ready we rode out and through the village, towards the forest.

Borage snorted and trotted to keep up with the crowd of other horses. I sighed. I much prefer lazy horses to eager ones.

The Queen was chatting to the Earl as he rode beside her, her face all lit up with excitement and pleasure. She beckoned to one of the grooms, who was carrying her quiver for her, and took out the bow to show the Earl.

He examined it gravely.

“Isn't it beautiful?' she demanded. “I have never seen a bow like it.”

“It is very pretty,” agreed the Earl loftily. “But will it shoot?”

“We shall try it, my lord. But do you not like it?” the Queen persisted teasingly.

“It is well enough—a fair toy for a maiden,” said the Earl, scowling now. “But I fear “four Majesty
shall find it bends but stiffly, and is not so apt to your hand as it may be fair to your eye.”

Mary Shelton caught my eye and her eyebrows went up at this. We'd both guessed that the Earl was speaking in riddles. He was really talking about the Swedish Prince.

“String it for me,” ordered the Queen.

The Earl did so immediately, pushing the bottom end against his saddle-horn without much effort, which was quite impressive. Normally you string a bow by pushing the bottom end against the ground. He passed it back to the Queen, who twanged the string a couple of times, then took an arrow, nocked, drew, and loosed. It thunked into a tree nearby. “I think it is apt for the purpose,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

““four Majesty is a true Artemis,” replied the Earl, bowing from the saddle.

We had come to the edge of the forest. Waiting there was the Swedish Prince with five of his men, looking dashing and handsome in their hunting jerkins. I couldn't see John anywhere, although I had seen him going to mount.

I prefer it when the Queen waits in a hide for the beaters to drive up the game, and then shoots whatever tries to run past. But really, to Her Majesty,
hunting is just an excuse to ride as fast as she can through woods and across country. She has no fear. If it would not make Sir William Cecil faint with horror, I think she would even hunt boar as the King of France does.

The Earl had organized everything in advance, so the deer had already been found by the men with lymer dogs. One of the huntsmen showed us where to go as the dogs milled around snorting and trying to find the scent. I settled myself with my whip and found John riding nearby on a strawberry roan. I was quite pleased to see him there, though I really really hoped I wouldn't end up head-first in a nettle bed.

At last the hounds gave tongue and started running. The huntsmen blew their horns, and the Queen showed off by blowing her own horn, and then grinning at Prince Sven. She used the whip, because her horse was sidestepping a little, and the gelding bunched himself straight into a canter and then a gallop.

Borage saw all this and got excited, lurching into a canter himself. And then, when I tried to pull on the reins to slow him down, he just put down his chin, took the bit with his teeth, and ignored me. Typical. I didn't want him to run fast—but there was the Queen racing ahead with the Earl of Leicester and
Prince Sven. And Borage had decided to keep up with them, instead of sticking with the Maids of Honour further back.

The Queen was leaning low in the saddle as she raced both the Earl and Prince Sven, and they went hammering through the trees and across the grass sward between them, with the Queen ahead by a neck and shouting with laughter.

Suddenly, Prince Sven's horse checked—and would likely have thrown him if he hadn't been such a good rider. He urged the animal on, but he was behind now—while I was ahead of everybody except him, the Earl of Leicester and the Queen herself! And all I could think of was hanging onto the saddle-horn and trying to move my bum in time with Borage's mad bumping as you are supposed to do. It was exciting, but also very annoying because it was Borage's idea, not mine.

I was staring ahead at the Queen, trying to do the same as her, when suddenly I saw that there was something wrong with the way the Queen was sitting. It seemed as if she wasn't as erect as she usually is. Then I realized that her saddle was slipping sideways.

I shouted sharply, “Yout Majesty! Your saddle!”

The Queen looked once over her shoulder at
me—and that was when she knew her girth was broken. If she had tried to stop immediately, she would have gone straight over the horse's head, saddle and all. So she took her foot out of the stirrup and held onto the horse's mane. Her face was white, as her saddle continued to slip sideways. She looked ahead to the Earl of Leicester, but he hadn't seen what was happening.

But Prince Sven had noticed by now. He spurred his horse on and the chestnut gave a burst of speed, bringing the Prince alongside the Queen, just as the saddle went completely sideways. The Prince leaned over and caught the Queen round the waist so she could unhook her leg and then, as the saddle came off, he lifted her bodily out of it and pulled his horse to a halt.

Borage decided to stop, too, so quickly that he nearly unseated me.

I saw the Earl as he spotted the Queen's horse careering past with no rider. He turned his horse on its haunches, his face as white as milk, and hammered back to see what had happened.

He found the Queen sitting on Prince Sven's saddle-bow, pink-cheeked and breathing hard, but her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Elizabeth!” he shouted. “Thank God, for a moment I thought you
had fallen. …” He rode close, still very pale. “Are you all right? What happened?”

I had never seen the Earl so upset. And I had certainly
never
heard anyone at all call the Queen plain “Elizabeth,” as if she were an ordinary person.

“My wretched saddle fell off, my lord,” said the Queen. “But His Grace the Prince caught me, as you see, and saved me.”

“I am in your debt, Your Grace,” said the Earl to the Prince, and even his lips were still pale. “If my sweet Queen had been hurt my life would have been a burden to me.”

The Prince probably didn't understand the words but he inclined his head courteously.

“Meantime, I am without a horse and the hunt is up,” said the Queen crossly. She looked across at my horse, which I would gladly have given her— except now the aggravating nag was limping as if he had strained one of his legs in his mad dash. Serve him right.

“For Heaven's sake, which of you will give me a horse?”

“Please!” Sven at once jumped down from the saddle, leaving the Queen still there. “You are welcome to take my horse,” he said. “But I have no side-saddle.”

You can't ride side-saddle without a proper saddle for it. But the Queen was very poor when she was young and out of favour with her father, King Henry. Because she couldn't afford side-saddles, she learned to ride astride as countrywomen do. So she simply smiled at Sven and gathered up her skirts, lifted her leg over the horse's neck and settled herself astride.

Prince Sven looked surprised at first to see that such a high-born lady knew how to ride like a peasant, but then his gaze became admiring. The Queen smiled down at him, took the reins, and kicked her heels. The chestnut sprang away, followed by the Earl.

I thought Prince Sven would wait for the grooms who were bringing up the remounts, but no, he started running at the Queen's stirrup as if he were a gi-oom himself. I have to admit, he's got such long legs he's a very good runner. But when the Queen laughed and upped the pace, he turned back.

I caught sight of John coming up quite close by and so did Prince Sven. The Prince grabbed the horse's reins, then lifted John's foot out of the stirrup and tipped him off! Which I thought was quite rude of him, seeing that John isn't even one of his own attendants but the Earl of Leicester's henchman. Then he vaulted into the saddle and laid on
with his whip. John's horse at once speeded up and Prince Sven galloped out of sight, bending low over the roan's neck.