Lady Gallant (33 page)

"What will ye have, fair maids? Come buy, come buy, else I'll take my wares and fly."

The kitchen yard continued to fill with excited servants. Christian paraded masks for wearing abroad, perfume, pins and threads, lace, stomachers, and gold bracelets. He was dangling a scarlet ribbon in front of a milkmaid when one of the windows three floors above the yard was thrown back with a crash. A vase hurtled at him, and Christian jumped aside as it shattered on the cobblestones at his feet. A woman's deep voice shouted at the group below.

"By Great Harry's beard, what discord and noise is this?"

A pale face framed by red-gold hair poked out of the window, and Christian's customers scampered away, all except the sentries. Those two tried to hide behind their pikes.

"Peddler," the woman called, "begone with you."

Christian swept an arm out and bowed low. "Fine lace and gold pomanders for my lady," he said in his wheedling voice. "Rainbow ribbons and mysterious spices I have."

"Guard, beat this man for his impertinence and cast him out." The red-gold head retreated.

"Sweetmeats!"

The head reappeared.

"Delicacies from the East, my lady. Figs dipped in honey and Persian wine, sweet marchpane, cherries preserved in spices obtained from Greece and Turkey, tart of almonds."

"Bring the fellow up at once."

Christian was bundled into the manor house, his arms still laden with trinkets. Several older men in velvet gowns clustered at the entrance to the lady's suite, and one of them lifted a hand, halting the sentries.

"Search him."

Rough hands pawed at his body, and Christian set up a yowling protest until one of the guards cuffed him. His wares were inspected and tossed back into his pack. A guard shoved him into an antechamber and slammed the door, shutting Christian inside. A maid beckoned to him, her manner that of a harried cat.

"Quickly, man. The Lady Elizabeth's grace has been discomfited by your noise. She threw a book at my head."

Christian hurried after the woman and into the princess's closet. As he stepped into the chamber, Elizabeth turned from the window. He bowed to her and set his pack down. The princess said nothing. Walking around him in a circle, she inspected his dusty jerkin and the worn hose that clung to his thighs.

"A ragamuffin peddler. A cheap-jack with the tongue of Judas and the wiles of a doxy, I trow. Your sweetmeats must needs be finer than your sweet self, my man, or I'll have you clapped in the stocks."

Christian pulled an ivory box from his pack.

"Alas, my lady, the poor comfits in this box can never rival your sweetness."

"A pox on you. Give them to me."

Christian held out the box with both hands. The princess took it and settled into a panel-back chair. Lifting the lid, she smiled and plucked a comfit from its nest. It disappeared into her mouth, and she chewed while surveying him. Between chews she demanded to see his wares, but when her lady-in-waiting squealed at the sight of a gold pomander, the princess hurled a chair cushion at her.

"Out with you, silly woman. Your shrieking will stop my heart or make me puke."

The maid squeaked and trotted from the chamber. A silence fell as the Princess stuffed a fig in her mouth and fingered a bottle of scent. With her mouth full, she addressed Christian.

"One of the jewels in my shoe is loose. Have you silk thread the color of a bluebird's wing?"

"Aye, gracious lady."

Elizabeth rose, jerked her skirts up, and rammed a velvet-clad foot down on a stool. "Amend it at once."

Kneeling at the Princess's feet, Christian grasped the shoe lightly. Elizabeth pulled her foot out of the slipper and stepped on his hand. Holding him trapped, she whispered while glancing around the room.

"The hose fit you better than the habit, my Lord of Misrule."

Christian spread his fingers out on the stool beneath Elizabeth's foot and kept his eyes down. "Your acquaintance remains in France and none has heard from him."

"Have you taken to wearing jester's paint, or are you trying to match the color of your eyes with those smudges under them?"

"King Philip takes the Queen to task for refusing to settle the succession. The council rant at her night and day to name your heir, though there are some who have sent missives to the Queen of Scots."

"She calls me bastard, does my cousin Mary of Scotland." Elizabeth removed her foot and sat back down in her chair. "She'd bring war to England and put the people to the French yoke."

Christian sank back on his haunches and took up needle and thread.

"I have counted your supporters, Your Grace. That is, I have stopped counting them, for they are too many."

Elizabeth pounded the chair arm with her fist. "They do me no good if my sister kills me before she dies."

"But that is what I've come to tell you, Your Grace. I've word that the Spanish have decided they hate you less than they hate the French, and that a weak young woman on England's throne is preferable to a young woman on England's throne who also has a French King for a husband."

"Who told you this?"

Jabbing his needle into the velvet shoe, Christian said, "De Ateca."

"And how did you persuade the
conde
to bare anything but his body to you?"

"I threw younger bait at him, and he tried to devour it. While he was stalking it, his tongue came loose from his brain."

There was a pause while Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. Christian plied his needle and kept his senses alert for the faintest sound that might herald an intrusion.

"The more ill she becomes," Elizabeth said at last, "the more nobles skulk away from court to throw themselves at my feet. If she hears of it, she might lose what is left of her mind and kill me."

"But Philip won't allow it."

"Mayhap."

"And your jailers seem more afraid of you than you of them."

Elizabeth grinned, then threw back her head and laughed. "God's arse, Christian, I thought to have you swearing to protect me and mouthing all sorts of comfort."

"Your Grace had a lion for a sire, as I well know. You'll devour this nest of rabbits they've set about you."

Biting off the knotted thread in Elizabeth's shoe, Christian moved to kneel before her. He slipped the shoe on her foot, then kissed her hand. As he made to rise, she put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. She searched his features.

"You look to play the ghost, my Lord of Misrule? I see pain in those violet eyes where once I saw mischief and wickedness."

"A trifling matter, Your Grace. Unworthy of your notice."

She lifted his chin with her fingers and forced him to look at her. "What few men I can trust, I can't afford to squander. You're in trouble."

"Bonner tried to get his hands on me."

"But he hasn't, and Bonner wouldn't rob you of your appetite. God's blood, you can't afford to waste that spare flesh of yours. What's wrong? Tell me quick, for my maid will return soon."

Christian sighed, and his shoulders sagged. "I've taken a wife, Your Grace."

"Beshrew you, what possessed you to do that?"

"She spies for someone, an enemy. And she nearly killed my father."

"Who is she?"

"Nora Becket."

Elizabeth shook her head. "You lie. You and little Nora the mouse? Nora and Kit? Impossible. And she couldn't hurt anyone. You're addled, my boy."

Shoving his sleeve up to his elbow, Christian bared a long scar and held it up for the princess to inspect. "This is a token of her love for me. I have several, but she marked my father as well—a dagger in the back that just missed his heart."

Long fingers traced the scar, and Christian shivered.

"There is no suffering at another's betrayal where there is no love," Elizabeth said. "I've spent a lifetime on the edge of a chasm, balancing, spinning, teetering. I've learned to judge people. Nora brims with innocence and kindness, two qualities I've learned to prize since I don't possess them myself."

"I hate her."

"I know." Elizabeth paused to listen to the sound of women's voices in the next room. "They're coming back. Listen to me, my wild one. Take no action before you consult our acquaintance. He'll know the truth of it."

"As Your Grace wishes."

Christian kissed Elizabeth's hands, then turned to his pack. He was stuffing baubles in it when the Princess's ladies entered with the guards behind them. He was shoved out of the house and into the kitchen yard, where he was surrounded by household servants again. It was several hours before he could leave the manor and pretend to saunter along to the nearby village.

Anthony Now-Now waited for him in the forest with horses and fresh clothing. Christian threw his pack at the giant and stripped off the patched cloak.

"We got her to Falaise," Anthony said before Christian could ask, "but she weren't happy about it."

"And my guests?"

"Aye, Kit. Simon Spry, Inigo and his band, and Mag and her doxies. Most of them's there already."

Christian settled a black cloak on his shoulders and fastened its silver clasp. He cinched his belt tight and adjusted the scabbard that held his sword.

"And my father?"

"Walked about his chamber today. Sends his love."

Taking the reins of his horse from Anthony, Christian mounted. He removed a sealed letter from the pouch in his belt and handed it to his servant.

"Take this to the Earl and return to me at Falaise. And remember, not a word about our sweet traitor. And quit shying away from me, you dolt. It's not you I'm going to punish."

"We all jump and shrink in your presence these days, every whip-jack and bawd."

"Marry, sirrah, you've not the courage of a nursing babe."

"Nay, Kit. Every one of us owes you a life. Glad to pay back a little of your care, we are. It's just that we all seen you take vengeance before and feel sorry for the lady."

Anthony barely dodged a blow from Christian's whip.

"Sorry?" Christian hissed. "Sorry, is it? By God's mercy, it's my father you should feel sorry for. She put him in Hell, and me, too. I tell you I watched his life drain from him, slowly, knowing he suffered because of me." Christian's horse danced sideways at the sound of the whip and his raised voice. Christian subdued the animal without taking his eyes from Anthony. "Know you this, I'll hear no more mewling about my bitch of a wife and her misfortune. The next man to give her so much as a comforting look will find his eyes carved from his head."

Hauling his horse about, Christian kicked him into motion, leaving Anthony Now-Now to choke on dust and his master's fury.

No one was going to stop him, Christian told himself. He would listen to no persuasions from weak fools. His soul craved vengeance, and he would have it in spite of the voice in his head that whined and howled in protest. He wouldn't listen, for to listen was to weaken, and he'd promised himself long ago never to be weak again.