The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (21 page)

The Gentleman Pensioners filed in, stationing themselves about the room, cutting off the path to the door. I saw the French courtiers shift their feet like creatures who know they are cornered. None more thoroughly trapped than the queen, caught in the king’s furious glare.

“So, Madam, have you nothing better to do than dance today? No riots to incite among our subjects?”

“As you see, I am not dancing.”

“Can it be that after three weeks you are still worn out from tromping through the muck to honor the traitors who attempted to murder my family?”

The queen swallowed hard. “I only wished to show my fellow Catholics that I have not forgotten the promises made to them in our marriage contract.”

“I have told you—and your brother—that I made no such promise! Do you—my own wife—dare call me a liar?”

For all her boldness, Henrietta Maria took a small step backward. “No, Your Majesty. But there was an understanding—”

Buckingham broke in. “Perhaps His Majesty should follow the example you set by going to Tyburn. He could honor the Protestants your brother has under siege at La Rochelle. Or shall I arrange a parade through the street to honor the fanatic who assassinated your father, my queen?”

Henrietta Maria gasped. “How dare you speak to me of such horrors?” She turned to the king. “You allow him to gloat over the murder of my father?”

“It is no different from what you have done before all England,” the king said. “At least a zealot’s knife is tidy. It strikes down only one person. The kegs of gunpowder some of your ‘martyrs’ meant to set off are a good deal less discriminating. When ignited, they kill anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. I was four years old when the plot was foiled, but I have imagined my family blown to bits many times since.”

I could see the queen flinch. “I had not thought of it that way,” she said.

“The death of a few extra people does not trouble a good Catholic, I suppose. In fact, remind me, madam. What religion was your father’s assassin?”

“A Catholic,” she said in a quavering voice.

“Why would a Catholic kill a Catholic king? Oh, I recall. Henri was not ruthless enough in persecuting the Huguenots. It seems Catholics resort to murder whatever side their target is on. Tell me, wife, whose idea was it to march to Tyburn? Your priests? Your French ladies? Did they spur you to make this grand gesture?”

I wondered if the queen would show the king the Tyburn medal and tell him of my part in her decision. I would have done so if I had been in her position—anything to shift blame off of myself.

Even the king’s stammer could not soften his words. “You prayed for the courage to die as those traitors died, madam. Is that what you wish? To be made a martyr? Will that satisfy your brother, the French king? Your flock of priests? The Jesuits who invade my shore on every tide to stir up dissention in this kingdom? Will Madame Saint-Georges finally be happy when she no longer merely denies me your bed on holy days, but sees you locked up in a cell?”

“You cannot understand what it means to be Catholic and be denied the sacraments. I was only—”

“Perhaps if you would speak English, I would have a better chance of understanding your words, if not your actions. If you had taken the duchess of Buckingham into your household as I advised, she would have prevented such madness, instead of urging you to every folly.”

“My marriage contract assured me the practice of my faith, and my brother is determined I should have my own French household.”

“Your brother’s opinion is of no concern, since he has not aided England against Spain as he intimated he would. It seems His Highness and I are both destined to be disappointed. Madam, you will accompany me into more private quarters.”

“Majesty, let me attend—” Madame Saint-Georges began.

But the king slashed his hand through the air to silence her. “You have caused trouble between my wife and me for the last time.” He grasped the queen and forced her into her bedchamber.

Mitte attempted to follow, but Buckingham shoved the dog aside with his boot. Never before had I heard Mitte growl in anything but play, but the spaniel was in earnest as it barked and snarled, attempting to fling itself at the door. For a moment, I hoped the gentle dog would sink her teeth into Buckingham’s ankle. But what would the penalty be for biting a duke? I did not want to find out. I flung my arms around the spaniel to pull her out of harm’s way.

Buckingham blocked the door with his broad shoulders, then turned back to the French courtiers. I could see what an avenging angel must look like, surveying the battlefields after Armageddon. “Gentlemen, remove these papist dogs. They are not to set foot upon palace grounds again.”

“You have no right to order us away from Her Majesty!” Madame Saint-Georges hands knotted in fists. I knew she would like to strike that sneer off of Buckingham’s face. “We serve the queen! We do not bow to a pandering upstart like you!”

I could hear muffled voices beyond the door Buckingham was blocking, the king’s hard tones, the queen in distress.

Saint-Georges flung herself at the door, but Buckingham grabbed her by the wrists.

“Be grateful your diplomatic status prevents His Majesty from sending you to the Tower.”

“I will speak with the king!”

“Attempt to fill either of Their Majesties’ heads with Catholic nonsense again and the king will see you condemned as spies. As soon as ships can be made ready, you will be exiled to France.”

“But the queen and I have loved each other from the time she was a babe.”

“Her Majesty is no longer a child. It is time she realized that.” Buckingham signaled to the other men and they began to herd the French courtiers from the room.

“I will not go!” Madam’s chin quivered. “I will not!”

“Sergeant Evans.” Buckingham signaled to Will. “It seems madam has lost the use of her legs. You will carry her to the coaches waiting to carry these French troublemakers away.”

I sensed Will’s reluctance, but what could he do? He was bound to carry out the king’s wishes. He closed the space between himself and the Frenchwoman. “I do not want to humiliate you as His Grace commands, but I must if you do not obey the king’s orders.”

“Do you not love the queen?” Saint-Georges shrilled. “Have you no shred of loyalty?”

Will’s eyes filled with sorrow, but he reached out his big hands to gently grasp madam by the shoulders. The woman shrieked French curses, swinging her fists in a futile effort to reach him. The distance was too far. He maneuvered her toward the door, the rest of the queen’s ladies herded along behind them by the other guards.

I raced to the window, where I could see coaches waiting. The queen must have seen them, as well. Her screams grew more desperate as her ladies and their guards spilled into the gardens below.

Buckingham’s voice sounded, low just behind me. “You have done well, Jeffrey. I predict the queen’s new household will be far more amenable to English interests. My Kate, my lady mother, my sister, the countess of Denbigh, and the countess of Carlisle.”

He would sic his mother on Henrietta Maria? God help her. And the countess of Carlisle, his mistress? It offended me, the idea of that ruthless woman in the service of the queen.

“I can see from your expression I have given you food for thought. Lucy Hay will make a fine mistress for the king. Don’t you agree?”

I had heard of Henry the Eighth making his mistresses ladies-in-waiting to his wives. But I could not think whom I felt more sorry for in this instance—the queen or the duchess of Buckingham.

A loud crash sounded from behind the door, Mitte yelping in alarm. I could not bear it. I ducked around Buckingham, bolted to the unguarded door. I wrestled the portal open and slipped inside. Neither royal noticed.

The queen was on her knees beside an overturned table, pleading with her husband, who stood, resolute as stone. “I beg you, Majesty. Do not send them away.” The queen sobbed. “I will be good. I will be good.”

Only the twitch at the corner of the king’s eye betrayed how those screams tortured him. He grasped her puffed sleeve to urge her to her feet. “Compose yourself! You are the queen of England.”

“You English hate me! You all hate me!” She wrenched away from the king, her gown tearing under his grasp, exposing a crescent of bare shoulder. She flung herself at the window. “Mamie! Oh, blessed Virgin, don’t let them take Mamie away!” She pounded on the glass like a bird fighting to get free.

I cried out in horror as her fist shattered the pane, her hand driving through the starlike hole. Glass struck the floor with a tinkling sound, a horrible echo of the dancing measure that had played in the next room what seemed an eternity ago. Terror that she would fling herself to her death shot through me.

I raced to grab her skirts, knowing I was powerless to stop her, but the king circled her around her waist, hauling her backward. A metallic scent filled the room, one that had clung to my father in the shambles.

“Majesty, the queen is hurt!” I cried as she crumpled in his grasp, the fight draining out of her like the blood streaming onto her skirt.

The king’s surprise at my presence was tempered with horror—at the queen’s wound or her unbridled show of emotion? I did not know. He looked at me with stunned helplessness and I understood. No one had ever dared fight him this way, flailing and screaming, with no guard to step in. He had been surrounded by servants his whole life, could not even make water in the chamber pot by himself. He was no more use in dealing with the queen’s wound than the spaniel racing about in frenzied circles, whining.

“The wrist is full of veins,” I said, remembering lessons learned near the slicing blades in the shambles. “We must stanch the wound, lest she bleed to death.”

Stricken, the king lowered her gently to the floor. I ripped off my white Holland collar to wrap around the wound. But it was not her wrist that was bleeding, thank God. A dagger-shaped shard of glass was buried in the fleshy mound above her thumb. I pulled the shard free, slicing my own finger as I threw the bloodstained glass aside. I barely felt the sting as I pressed the wadded-up collar against the queen’s wound. She choked out a pained cry.

“Jeffrey!” Henrietta Maria wept, finally seeing me through the tangle of hair that had tumbled from its pins. Her eyes flayed my conscience, their dark depths wide and sick and haunted. “He sent them all away. He sent Mamie away.”

I had to push words past the lump in my own throat. “Majesty, I am sorry I hurt you,” I said over and over again. “I am so sorry.”

“Now you are my only friend.”

I looked up at Charles Stuart, stiff as the wooden puppets in the shows at the Oakham Fair. Beyond him, in the doorway, stood the duke of Buckingham—the puppet master who now held all of our strings in his capricious hands.

F
OURTEEN

Where do we go from here? The queen? The king? Me? I wondered as I stared across the wreckage my mischief had caused. I could not imagine any future but misery for all three of us.

A surgeon could stitch up the queen’s hand, but he could not get to the poison that threatened the queen’s world, along with the new household the king insisted upon. I imagined pus gathering beneath the queen’s bandage, red streaks traveling up her arm. Briefly, I even feared my mistress might be grateful for the escape death offered.

No. I brought myself up sharp. Even the wound in the queen’s hand would heal. Had I not held her other hand and watched as her surgeon stitched it up with care? The king had also watched the shining, curved needle, as if His Majesty was suffering his own brand of penance.

But now that the stitching was done, a more painful ordeal loomed before the queen.

“Majesty, you must collect yourself before you meet your new household,” I urged as I heard the duke beyond the chamber door, commanding one of the guards to fetch the queen’s new ladies. I leaned so close to Henrietta Maria’s ear that her curls brushed my lips. “I beg you, Majesty, do not let Buckingham and these ladies of his see you like this.”

Did my words have power? Or was it years of royal upbringing in France that gave her the inner strength? I could see her change from petulant child to courageous woman.

“By Your Majesty’s leave, I will receive the ladies in the withdrawing chamber,” she told the king. “Jeffrey will accompany me.”

“As you wish,” the king said, and I could tell he wanted to get as far as possible from female hysterics and painful scenes.

She had no one to pin up her hair, no one to put her gown right. She might have been Joan of Arc facing the Inquisition as she walked past the broken trinkets and overturned table, evidence that she had dared fight against the king.

As she stepped into the chamber that had been filled with dancing maids an hour before, I could hear the ghost of their laughter. Did Buckingham hear echoes, as well? Had the women’s helpless cries caused the half smirk on his lips? He stepped into the chamber with an air of invincibility, confident that no one could refuse him anything he desired—surely not the women that trailed in his wake. How long had they known about the plan to eject the queen’s French attendants? Long enough to secure gowns that were elegant even by court standards—gowns that rivaled anything the queen might wear. Buckingham bowed so low before Henrietta Maria that it was almost a mockery.

The queen’s dignity in the face of her tormenter broke my heart. It affected the king as well, though in what way, I could not guess.
No man chosen by God to rule should display mere human emotions,
Archie Armstrong would have scoffed. His Majesty crossed his arms over his narrow chest as he watched Buckingham’s women sweep forward to make their curtsies to the queen. Did they mean to demonstrate the queen’s powerlessness by presenting themselves without the queen’s permission? Ignoring the order protocol demanded? Such formalities had seemed unbreakable.

First, the countess of Buckingham put herself forward, any likeness to her son rasped off of her face by ambition. I had seen the old dragon browbeat duchesses and soldiers. I suspected she would have made any seventeen-year-old cringe. But my mistress looked down her Valois nose, making no secret of her contempt for a mother who had gained high station by pandering her son to a lecherous king.