The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (39 page)

“Jeffrey,” Henrietta Maria began, fiddling with the cross at her throat. “This war between my brother and husband has cost so many lives. Now, Will Evans tells me that your brother died in the siege.”

“So Master Ware tells me. It is ill news, but at least now I know what happened to John. I would still be waiting to hear his fate were it not for Your Majesty. I’m grateful for your kindness.”

“Do not be.” She wrapped her arms tight around her middle. Her shoulders slumped. “None of those soldiers—French or English—should have died. I should have been able to prevent the war.”

“Wars are not the provenance of queens. Kings are born to conquer; commanders like His Grace thirst for glory. You cannot stop them.”

She crossed to the window, traced a diamond pane in the leaded glass. I remembered the day Buckingham had driven her French ladies away, how Henrietta Maria had pounded on the glass until it shattered, how her hand had bled. “I cannot tell you how many times I wrote to my brother, pleaded with him to end hostilities. My husband, as well. But His Grace is right. I failed them both.”

I bristled in her defense. “The duke dared say that to you?”

“The duke, my lady mother, my French family. People all over this kingdom are saying it in public houses, in cottages, outside their churches. I am a barren queen. A hated Catholic. A traitor who smuggled letters from the palace to Richelieu and the king of France.”

I masked my shock at the confession, knowing what such letters would cost her if they fell into Buckingham’s hands.

“There are many who would like the king to cast me off,” she said.

“His Majesty never would. He has proven most loyal.”

She did not look comforted. “They say that the king embraced Buckingham upon his return to court after the defeat at Ile de Ré. Before all the lords, as if to dare them to attempt to punish Buckingham for the men he’d lost. I wonder if my husband would be so loyal to me, especially if he discovered what my enemies say is true.”

“True?” My pulse faltered.

“I did not betray military secrets, but I did promise my brother that I would try to win some concessions if France made peace. The Pope himself advises me now.” She rubbed her hands on her arms as if she were suddenly cold. “If I fail this time, I will fail God. My lute master says—”

“Say no more,” I blurted out, so frightened, I dared to interrupt the queen. “It is dangerous to speak of such things with anyone. Even me. There are ways.… Your enemies might try to make even your most devoted servants betray your secrets.”

Her eyes widened, and I wondered if a commoner had ever spoken to her thus.

“Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty,” I said. “I am so deep in grief for my brother that I have forgotten my manners. But I could not bear it should any harm come to you.”

“There is only one way I can be truly safe. That is what they all tell me—Father Philip, the Holy Father in Rome, my family in France. But it is not safety I think of when I come to the chapel and light candles, asking our Holy Mother to fill my womb. I pray to have one part of my husband that the duke of Buckingham cannot touch.”

I thought of the rumors of sexual liaisons between King James and Buckingham, rumors never proved. Surely the queen did not suspect that kind of impropriety between the duke and her husband. I had to be careful, though, how I reassured her. “His Majesty’s fidelity to you is a thing all other wives envy.”

“The king can be the kind of husband that brides dream of winning: so attentive and generous and passionate. When the duke was fighting at La Rochelle, things between His Majesty and I grew so much better. Now that Buckingham has returned, everything in the king’s life seems to revolve around the duke—more than ever now that Buckingham is so hated by everyone else.”

She gave a ragged laugh. “His Grace has even overtaken this time I meant to spend with you. I have spoken far more of him than of your brother. I did not wish to laden you with more troubles.”

The hint of shame in her face made my heart ache. “I would take all your troubles on my own shoulders if I had the power.”

“I know that you would. I would spare you pain, as well. Just know that I grieve your loss.”

She was small in stature. It took far less for her to lean down than it had taken Will to make the same gesture. I had seen her lavish her affection on her spaniels, scooping them into her arms, burying her face in their fur. I had seen her frolic with her maids of honor, giving the girls embraces, as well. I held my breath, scarce daring to hope. She wrapped slender arms around me as she had in my most secret dreams. With infinite sweetness, she kissed my cheek.

I had not really cried for my brother. I wept as she held me and stroked my hair.

My queen.

My love.

The betrayal that would damn me.

T
WENTY-
T
HREE

Christmas came and went in a welter of confusion—quicksilver emotions sweeping me from dark to light each day. John’s death haunted me. Clemmy’s disappearance frightened me. The queen’s embrace filled my dreams, while Will’s betrothal reminded me of all the attentions I would never have the chance to show the woman I loved. I should have known a Welshman schooled in legends of Arthur’s court would want to woo his lady with the courtliness of Sir Gawain. It moved me to see the changes Will made in his chamber for when they were married—how he ordered softer linens so the bed wouldn’t chafe Dulcinea’s skin, how he got Sara to find a looking glass for the wall—this ugly man who had never looked at his own reflection if he could help it.

He’d neatened his beard and trimmed his wild mane as best he could, but no matter what care he took, he could never compare to the great court gentlemen who still paid attention to Dulcinea every day.

Yet in spite of that, Dulcinea seemed to notice Will’s efforts. I was glad to see her smile at him more often, touch him whenever she passed near. Eat with gratitude the fruits and sweetmeats he tucked about our lodgings for her, hoping to tempt her appetite. Only Will and I knew she was still recovering from the sick mornings of those weeks last summer when the babe began to grow. She thought the child would be born in late March. By my calculations, the child had been conceived the month before Buckingham had sailed to France. But Will seemed to have put such thoughts from his mind. Even Dulcinea’s belly did not remind him, thickening so little that no one else had guessed her secret.

It felt bittersweet, watching my friend woo his lady while the rest of the palace looked on. It seemed the giant could not go two hours without somebody, from the most pimply-faced scullery maid to the most elegant courtier, offering him congratulations. Even the queen took interest in the wedding plans, one of the few subjects that drove the concern from her eyes. All of England had noted that Buckingham was soaring in the king’s favor more than ever.

The queen insisted that her sergeant porter be fitted for a new suit of clothes, and Dulcinea be garbed in something new. It seemed a losing proposition—Her Majesty’s efforts to turn poor Will into a handsome bridegroom. Dulcinea would look beautiful alongside my friend if she stood before the priest in a swath of sacking with her hair uncombed.

There were moments when old women embraced Will, their chapped hands cracked and ugly as he was, that made my heart feel too big for my chest. Their rheumy eyes filled with gratitude for his many kindnesses, with hope that he might be happy, with fear that once he wed flirtatious, luxury-craving Dulcinea he never would be.

They must have suspected the truth. But it made me think how let down some people would feel if they believed Will had put a babe in Dulcinea’s belly, then married her because the king’s strict code left him no choice. I could not decide which reaction was more painful—pity or disillusionment.

But as Twelfth Night came, it was a far different emotion I saw darkening Buckingham’s eyes. His recklessness danced along the brink of sanity as he raced back and forth between Plymouth and the court, mustering the fleet that would make another assault on La Rochelle. Buckingham was untouchable now.

As we gathered for our performance, I wondered how many goblets of wine the duke had drained as he waited for the entertainment to begin. What bitter muttering had he overhead? Tales of soldiers billeted in houses on the coast, Buckingham’s shattered army spreading contagion wherever they went. Irish troops and Scots were all but naked, enraged by lack of pay. Men who had stormed the citadel ran wild through the towns, many dropping dead in the streets. When people spoke of the horrors those brutish soldiers wrought, they laid that lawlessness at Buckingham’s door.

The queen feared the duke’s return, as well, her voice trembling as she confessed, “I know Charles loves His Grace more than me. I try not to grieve or feel envy, yet every time Buckingham is near, I can feel Charles’s love slip a little more beyond my grasp. Do you think I am a very silly woman?” I could not look her in the eye.

Tonight, I could see the queen’s uncertainty. Her gaze, so watchful, so wary as it traveled between Buckingham and the king.

I was grateful when the time came to excuse myself from her side and slip behind the curtain that hid the space where the menagerie would soon perform. Simon held a hoop he would soon set aflame and soothed the dog that would leap through it. Will climbed down the piece of scenery where he’d just checked Dulcinea’s rope. Boku sat, cross-legged on the floor, murmuring words, which Pug listened to and seemed to understand.

Dulcinea, garbed in green and blue, swept over to Will and gave him a distracted smile. Will touched her belly ever so gently with the tips of his fingers. I had never seen such pleasure in my friend’s eyes.

“Ah, at last I find the happy couple!”

I started at the sound of an aristocratic voice. Dulcinea stiffened and Will seemed to grow larger as Buckingham drew near, his moves a little less graceful than usual, his words a trifle slurred from too much wine. What in the name of God is he doing back here? I wondered.

“I believe I am the only one in the whole court who has not had a chance to wish the lovers well. At least my wife tells me so. She claims that everyone from the queen to the spit boy is overjoyed to see the loyal sergeant porter win such a beauty for his bride.”

I could imagine how much it cost Will to be civil. “The duchess is very kind.” Will placed his hand on the small of Dulcinea’s back ever so lightly. I knew he wished to draw her into the crook of his arm, to shield her from the nobleman, but he did not dare so much familiarity in a duke’s presence. “I am fortunate in my bride and in my friends, Your Grace.”

“I confess I have encountered one small difficulty mustering the same enthusiasm as the rest of the court. But I am much involved in practical details, fitting out the fleet that is to sail to La Rochelle.”

Any other jester would find more opportunities for satire embedded in that single comment than I could count. I could not think of anything funny in this situation at all.

Buckingham smoothed the lace at his cuff. “I cannot help but imagine your bridal night, good sergeant. As men—be they highborn or low—always do. How the … ah, mechanism will fit, if you will.”

Will’s face darkened. “His Majesty would hardly consider such a subject an appropriate discussion for a bride’s ears.”

“Yet King Charles tells me his own
relations
with the queen grow more satisfying. He may play the prig, but we men are alike—we’ve a great interest in where we place our cocks, whether it is a king’s or a duke’s or a giant’s. That is my concern, you see. You must not rend our sweet Dulcinea in two. She is not without friends of her own who would take any damage most personally.”

Is Buckingham mad? I wondered. Tweaking a giant this way? Or does he think himself invincible? Why shouldn’t he, protected as he is by the king and by Will’s lesser station?

I could not stop myself from leaping in. “Your Grace need not be concerned with Dulcinea. She has found a far more deserving husband than many a fine lady.”

Buckingham looked down at me, his eyes narrowed the way my father’s had when he’d come home from the public house after one of his dogs had run from the bull. “You sound as if you have a particular ‘fine lady’ in mind,” Buckingham observed.

“I cannot think of any man in Christendom worthy of Her Grace or Her Majesty.”

I wanted the reproach to have teeth, to drive Buckingham back to his place beside his wife. I wanted him to think, for a moment, what that lady was owed. I wanted to drive him as far away from Will and Dulcinea as I could.

“My dear Lord Minimus,” Buckingham drawled. “I did not know you were a romantic. A true Sir Lancelot sprung from the Oakham gutter.”

I met the duke’s gaze, held it. “You were the one who dressed me as the queen of England’s knight.”

The first notes of music sounded from the loft above us. Buckingham took his leave, and for the first time since he’d approached Will, I was able to draw a deep breath.

Dulcinea raised a hand to her hair, straightening the silk butterfly pinned in the coppery strands. Did her fingers tremble, or was it my imagination?

“I must go,” she told Will.

He bent down, brushed her lips with his. “Dance well,” he said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Take c—”

Dulcinea interrupted. “Don’t say it! It’s bad luck.”

“I love you,” Will said.

She gave him a preoccupied smile, then climbed the ladder and mounted the soaring platform that held one end of her rope aloft.

Ever so graceful, she stepped onto that impossibly small strand that crossed the audience and was fastened above the queen.

A basket hung upon a hook at the far end of the rope, just as Dulcinea had asked when she’d laid out her performance. I had helped Sara fill the basket’s cup with the rest of the butterflies Goodfellow had painted when he had fashioned the ornament for Dulcinea’s hair. We had cast the silk butterflies into the air time and again in the lodgings, testing to make certain the effect would work as planned. Butterflies would flutter down upon the queen, lifelike as if they’d been gathered from a meadow.