Lady Gallant (13 page)

Nora took the empty posset cup from the Queen and adjusted the blanket around Mary's shoulders. Her hands brushed the cold metal of the armor the Queen had donned that morning after seeing the latest pamphlet calling upon all godly subjects to overthrow her. Shortly after her father left, Nora had been called to attend Mary, but was having difficulty thrusting aside her own unhappiness in favor of courtly decorum.

"It's that daughter of sin who puts them up to such indecencies," Mary said. She hurled a pamphlet to the floor. Resting her hands on her swollen stomach, she cursed and hunched down in her chair. "What ails you, girl? Your nose is red and your eyes are swollen. I can't have sick people around me, you know. I must think of the babe."

"I'm not sick, Your Majesty."

"What then? Have you been weeping? Why? Out with it, Nora. I have enough sorrow to contend with without my ladies adding to it."

Nora studied the posset cup in her hands. "It's naught, Your Grace."

"Nonsense. You're unhappy, and I want to know why. Tell me at once."

"Oh, Your Majesty, I'm to marry Percivale Flegge," Nora said. Once she started, she couldn't hold the words back. "I know a daughter's duty to her father, but—but Percivale Flegge."

"And what's wrong with Flegge? I saw him a few days ago. He's a well-looking man."

"But Your Majesty, everyone says he is diseased."

"God's blood, this court is a wasps' nest of rumor. Flegge himself assured me that the report was a lie spread by the Howards because he is a son of the true church. And I saw for myself that the man has a nose, and all his other parts, too: Be comforted, Nora."

Placing the posset cup on a sideboard, Nora expelled a long breath. Only some of her fear was dispelled. What if Percivale Flegge saw her and didn't want her? Plain, possessed of no great wit or charm, how could she hope to inspire admiration and love?

"Another long face," the Queen said. "By the rood, Nora, I'm glad you're going to the de Rivers banquet tonight, for it will cheer you."

"I don't think so, Your Majesty."

"And why not? Quit biting your lip and speak up, girl."

"I'm not worthy, Your Majesty. I'm such a mouse."

The Queen made a grumbling noise. "Look you, Nora. It's true that women are inherently the Devil's instrument and not God's, but as long as a girl is chaste, obedient, and intelligent, there's no reason she can't also be pretty. God delights in beauty devoted to His works."

"Think you so, Your Grace?"

"My father used to say so all the time. And he was, after all, the great King Harry."

Nora contemplated this new idea. If England's powerful and fearsome Henry VIII approved, it wasn't for her to question. Tentatively, she said, "I have thought about altering my gown for the banquet. There's to be a masque, and the Duchess of Suffolk says my dress is more suited to a funeral than merrymaking."

"Begone with you, silly baggage. My good Frances knows what benefits a woman. If she says your dress is lacking, you may be sure it is. I'll send my seamstress to you."

Hours later Nora stood in front of the Queen's full-length mirror and surveyed the results of her newfound audacity. She wore a gown remade from one of her mother's. The white silk overgown fit tightly to her arms and torso, then swept over her hips to her feet. Split in the front, the overgown revealed a petticoat of black silk beaded with pearls that matched those covering the outer dress. A matching French hood with a white silk fall set off the black curls that tumbled from beneath the veil.

As she gazed at her reflection, she suffered misgivings about her chemise. Of fine black lawn, it had been designed to hug her neck and chest, concealing what the low, square-cut neck of the gown revealed. She'd had the seamstress adjust the chemise, and it hid beneath the neckline of the gown. The chilly draft on her bosom told her she was fashionably dressed. The black sleeves of the chemise peeked out from beneath the full oversleeves of her gown but were no comfort. She would have been far more comfortable if she could have reversed the adjustments and pulled the neck of the chemise to her chin and bared her arms instead.

A waiting woman interrupted Nora's worries. Bearing a casket engraved with Queen Mary's initials, she proffered it to Nora. Nora opened it and gasped at the string of pearls that lay within. Cascades of them rippled from a central pendant containing a cabochon ruby. It was a piece Mary rarely wore, for it had been taken from her mother by King Henry and given to Elizabeth's mother.

"The Queen says," the waiting woman said, "to tell you the pearls should be worn by a lady of both beauty and virtue."

With the servant's help, Nora donned the necklace. It wound around her neck so that the ruby pendant rested just above the cleft between her breasts, and strands of pearls draped down her shoulders to disappear beneath the neck of her gown.

Nora gaped at her reflection. "Why, I'm pretty."

The waiting woman looked at her as if she were addled. "Of course, my lady."

Blushing, Nora clasped her hands together and chastised herself for her foolishness. Hadn't her father always said females were inherently sinful? She had just proved him right by boasting.

The waiting woman touched Nora's sleeve. "Pardon, my lady, but don't you go letting those other ladies chide you. You're as pretty as any of them. All the servants think you're the sweetest lady of the court."

Nora murmured her thanks, and the woman left her alone. Wrestling with the experience of unfamiliar praise, Nora tried not to feel undeserving. The woman didn't know that Nora secretly hoped to attract the interest of someone other than Percivale Flegge that night. Even if all those rumors of Flegge's disease weren't true, she didn't want to marry a man who spent so much time at trugging houses that his friends accused him of owning them.

Gathering her skirts, Nora slipped out of the robing chamber. This evening would be a night of trials. Not only had she to face Percivale Flegge, but also somehow she must survive another encounter with Lord Montfort. As she walked through the palace in search of Arthur, she cringed inwardly at the thought. That last time in the garden, Christian had interrupted her when she'd been about to conceal Cecil's message. And the things he'd done to her.

He'd given her a contagion. That was the only explanation. Otherwise she wouldn't have fevered dreams at night and search for his violet eyes in the countenance of every man at court. Once, when she was seven, she had allowed an older boy to touch her leg. Her mother had whipped her with a willow switch. The experience hadn't been worth the punishment, but now she thought she'd endure any number of whippings if they brought her the feel of Christian's hips against hers and the warmth of his lips.

"Stop!" she told herself. "Don't think such things."

"My lady?"

She looked up to see Arthur hurrying toward her across the gallery where she'd stopped.

"It's naught," she said. "Please fetch my cloak."

Merciful Savior, she couldn't go to the banquet thinking ribald thoughts about the infamous Lord Montfort. She'd seen at least five different court beauties, their breasts heaving and lips slack, offer themselves to him in the past month.

She had other worries. God knew she had troubles enough without succumbing to a man who had merely to walk into a room to seduce a woman. Mayhap they wanted him because of his lurid reputation. Christian de Rivers carried about him the allure of the forbidden. The Duchess of Suffolk speculated openly about his career as a highwayman and cutpurse, while the light in her bean-sized, piggy eyes revealed an unspoken curiosity about the compelling sensuality of the man.

Nora was no match for him, as he'd told her plainly, so she wouldn't pit herself against him. She would seek the admiration of a good man who would protect her and take her away from court. If she escaped the court, she would escape Lord Montfort, and then perhaps she wouldn't dream about him anymore.

Wedged between her father and Percivale Flegge, Nora started at the trumpet call that announced the next course of the Earl of Vasterne's banquet. Her hands shook as she raised a silver goblet to her lips. While her face was partially concealed by the vessel, she glanced at Flegge. He had a nose. It was a small, straight nose as free of disfigurement as the rest of his body. Indeed, he was almost as desirable as Lord Montfort. He was long of leg, and his hose covered knots of muscle built in hours of fencing and riding. As she watched Flegge, her father said something to him over her head, and the man laughed.

"Ah-ha hie ah-ha hie ah-ha hie, ah-ha hie. "

Nora closed her eyes and prayed. Heads turned nonetheless.

Nora opened her eyes and ducked her head. On the dais, Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, sniggered. Draping a fat hand on Christian de Rivers's sleeve, she whispered to him. Christian speared a piece of roast boar and offered it to the woman. He murmured something to her, but did not turn his attention to the noise at the table so near his own.

She couldn't marry that laugh, Nora thought. Especially when Flegge's idea of amusement was a story about the antics of dying animals at a bear baiting. But what could she do?

A stuffed peacock sailed by her on its way to the dais. Beak gilded, feathers shining, it stared out at the revelers in frozen dignity. At that moment, Nora felt like the peacock—all garnished and gilded on the outside, and minced on the inside. It mattered not that Roger Mortimer had complimented her, or that her appearance in the hall had caused Christian to stutter and forget his address to the Duchess of Suffolk. Nora loathed Flegge.

Only a few times in her life had she taken an immediate dislike to someone. There had been the false beggar who'd accosted her in the village near her home. There was the distaste she'd suffered upon meeting Bishop Bonner, the churchman engorged with sweat and sadism. And now there was Flegge. In spite of his pleasing appearance, he disgusted her. His mind dwelled in the gutter, where his body lay so frequently. And, of course, there was that laugh.

More courses passed through the hall—swan, partridges in wine, artichokes, salads, veal, and kid. Nora was still toying with an artichoke when four men bore in a confection of marchpane formed into a castle surrounded by dragons.

Soon after the appearance of the marchpane castle, but not soon enough for Nora, she was able to leave the table. The earl invited everyone to follow him, and the whole party adjourned in order of precedence. Flanked by her father and Percivale Flegge, she trudged into the Montforts' disguising house, where a masque was to be held.

Built a short distance from the earl's palace, the disguising house was a small theater much like the one Henry VIII had built. Rows of cushioned benches ringed a central stage, and behind the stage were storage closets and changing rooms for actors. The whole building was alight this evening in preparation for the masque. Nora took her place in the tiers of seats reserved for the ladies, relieved of Flegge's company for the moment.

From behind a curtain erupted a howl and a roar. The women seated near it shrieked. The curtain jerked aside, and a man in golden armor burst into the theater pursued by a dragon. The ladies stopped shrieking and began to cheer the hero. The gentlemen took wagers on whether the dragon or the man would win.

Two women in front of Nora ignored the dragon. They were more intent on talking about Christian.

"It's no use," one said. "He won't see me. This morning his father sent me away. Last night Roger Mortimer and that awful Inigo Culpepper slept in his room. The man has more defenders to protect the sanctity of his body than a virgin princess."

"His friends have always guarded his privacy, Jayne," the other replied.

"He wanted me not a fortnight past. What has changed him? Do you know what he said to me? He said the only way I could have him again would be to make him a present of Jack Midnight's head. Then he'd whore for me as long as I wanted. Think you a man should treat a lady so?"

"You knew he had a viper's tongue when you sought him out. Take heart, my dear. He cast a spell over Lady Sybil and then kicked her out of his bed one night, naked into the streets. And all because he said she stank of lilac and horse sweat."

A roar from the dragon drowned out Jayne's reply. By the time Nora was able to eavesdrop again, the two women were discussing their husbands. Sitting motionless except for her hands twisting in her lap, Nora discovered something about herself. She could boil with fury.

The lecher. He knew nothing but swilling, gulling, and carousing. He shouldn't touch her if he was going to touch someone else. By God's mercy, she wanted to reach down and yank Jayne's hair from her scalp. Balling her hands into fists, Nora eyed the top of Jayne's head. She wasn't so pretty. Christian's appetites had led him astray if he would have this skinny, buzzard-faced harlot in his bed.

The satyr. Cuckolding innocent husbands. He was fast transforming the court into his own bawdyhouse. Nora's fury overcame her. Growling, she rammed her fist into her thigh and kicked the bench in front of her, earning herself a glare from Jayne. Nora scowled back at the woman, and Jayne blinked in surprise. Then the woman's eyes narrowed, and she tried to shove Nora off her bench. Nora caught herself, cursed, and drew back her fist.

As Nora took aim at Jayne's nose, a blast from a hunting horn sounded, and a gang of men dressed in the rough wool and leather of highwaymen invaded the hall. Sliding down ropes hanging from rafters and burrowing out from under seats and tables, the brigands attacked the maskers dancing before the company, as well as the men in the audience.

One man in a leather jerkin and kid boots dropped from the air, to land at Nora's feet. Masked in black, his hair covered by a red scarf, the knave sprang up and drew his sword.

"I have the ladies!" he yelled.

Jayne and her friend squealed, popping up from their seats to scurry away from the man. The highwayman leaped onto the bench the women had vacated and shouted for silence. Nora got on her hands and knees on the bench and eased backward to stand up. As she got to her feet, the man in front of her twisted snakelike and pointed his sword at her throat.