The Queen's Gamble (13 page)

She shivered, watching him ride off until the fog swallowed him up.

10

In the Presence of the Queen

W
hitehall Palace teemed with the activity of a town. Built three centuries before by the Archbishop of York as his London house, it eventually became the home of Henry VIII’s chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey, who had enlarged it and made it magnificent. So grand was the place that when King Henry abandoned Wolsey to ruin and death, he took Whitehall for himself and made it his principal London residence—it was convenient for hunting in his nearby forested deer park, St. James’s. The palace kept growing, with additions and constant rebuilding, and by the time Queen Elizabeth took the throne it contained well over a thousand rooms. Every day it housed scores of courtiers—lords and gentlemen and their ladies—with their retinues of serving men and women, as well as a resident army of clerks and servants, all of whom jostled in its corridors and courtyards alongside visiting foreign dignitaries, merchants, and place seekers, each with an entourage. The site included houses, shops, barracks, stables, gardens, brewery, an outdoor banqueting pavilion, bowling alley, tennis courts, a pit for cockfights, and a tiltyard for jousting. These sprawling precincts, like a burgeoning village, straddled the public road that ran right through the palace and on to Westminster.

Isabel barely took it in, so anxious was she about meeting the Queen. She walked beside her mother, who was leading her and Nicolas through the labyrinth of busy streets, alleys, and courtyards. They passed a group of splendidly dressed lords chatting under a scaffold where workmen were hammering at an eaves trough. Isabel tightly held her son’s hand to keep him from dashing into the path of a farmer’s cart clattering by to deliver sides of mutton and baskets of cabbages.

“Look!” Nicolas pointed to a company of mounted horsemen of the Palace Guard trotting in under a stone arch. He strained at Isabel’s hand to pull away. “It’s Papa!”

“No, it’s not,” she said, tugging him back. “Hush!”

Her mother shot her a look of concern. She had been highly displeased when Isabel had told her that Carlos had gone to Scotland to see to the interests of Spain. Isabel herself still felt stricken. His mission had cracked her world apart. Then, last night her mother had come home from the palace in an angry state, saying that in her presence Sir William Cecil had told the Queen how he had sent Isabel to Ambassador de Quadra. “How dare he?” she had fumed to Isabel. “He had no right to press this problem on you.”

“He pressed nothing, Mother,” Isabel had insisted, relieved, at least, to be lightened of the burden of the secret. “The country could face an invasion, and that endangers you and Father. And since you won’t come to Peru, I did what little I could to help.”

Her mother had looked at her in surprise, but with a touch of admiration. “You did it . . . for me?”

“Of course. For you—for England. And I managed to get some useful information.”

“Yes, Sir William explained. Spain’s true position.” She shook her head in sad acceptance of the fact. “Elizabeth needed this news, however unwelcome.” Impulsively, she embraced Isabel. “I hate to see you involved, Bel, but I do thank you. You did well.”

Now, as they entered the palace’s main block, Isabel felt horribly on edge about this audience with Queen Elizabeth.
What will she ask of me? And how much do I dare do for England, with Carlos pledged to Spain?
Adding to her unease, the royal summons had included her mother and Nicolas. Isabel did not appreciate the Queen’s insistence on making this a family visit. It would only agitate her mother more. She would far rather have come alone.

They went up a broad staircase crowded with courtiers and their servants. Two angry gentlemen were shouting at each other, apparently over a gambling debt. Isabel had heard that gambling was a passion here at court, among men and women alike. People laid bets on everything from cockfights, dice games, and tennis matches to a courtier’s chances of landing an earl’s daughter as wife, and since all gentlemen went armed with sword or dagger, their disputes, when tempers flared, could get bloody. As Isabel’s little party reached the door of the Queen’s private apartments, she heard scuffling and shouting and the clanging of swords, and she glanced back toward the staircase to see officers of the Queen’s chamberlain pulling the brawlers apart.

Guards stationed at the Queen’s door ushered her and her mother and Nicolas into the antechamber. A few courtiers were lounging, looking over maps on a table. One of the royal gentlewomen approached, her arms outstretched. “Lady Thornleigh, what a pleasure. I have been at home in Devon so long, I missed you.”

They clasped hands. “I trust your family is well, Kat?”

“All hale, I thank you. Is this lady your daughter?”

Introductions were made. The gentlewoman was Mistress Katherine Ashley, the Queen’s former governess and her longtime friend. Isabel nudged Nicolas to bow to her, which he did, and Mistress Ashley looked charmed but faintly distracted. She led them through to the Queen’s private chamber. Isabel’s stomach tightened. In a moment she would be face-to-face with Queen Elizabeth.

As they entered the room, though, she saw only young ladies-in-waiting amusing themselves. Three stood chatting at a sideboard, inspecting bolts of silk in gorgeous colors of peacock blue and cherry red and spring green. Two more sat in a wide window seat, tossing a yellow ball back and forth. Between them was a basket where a plump calico cat lay suckling a litter of kittens. Servants bustled, laying covered silver dishes of food on a small table by the fire, presumably for the Queen’s dinner, since it was almost noon. Isabel smelled onions and a fresh scent of thyme. Mistress Ashley introduced her to the young ladies, and they welcomed her and made a spirited fuss over Nicolas, laughing as he caught the yellow ball. One of them tousled his hair. Isabel knew they were daughters of noble families who would have lobbied hard to win them these choice positions. She guessed that all of them were under the age of twenty. At twenty-six, she felt quite the matron.

“An anxious morning for Her Majesty,” Mistress Ashley explained. “She has been shut up since eight with her councilors.” She lowered her voice and added, “Scotland.”

Isabel and her mother shared a glance. Scotland had them all on tenterhooks.

“Some wine, ladies, while you wait?” Mistress Ashley asked, beckoning a maid.

“Thank you, Kat.”

They sat on cushioned stools to wait, sipping claret, as the young ladies at the window seat enlisted Nicolas in their game, tossing the ball back and forth to him. Isabel almost relaxed as she saw him join their fun, for there was nothing he liked better than playing with a ball. He soon became a kind of live net between the two young ladies, his face aglow at the challenge of jumping higher each time to try to catch the ball.

Mistress Ashley expressed an interest in Isabel’s life in the New World, and Isabel answered her questions politely but briefly, her thoughts everywhere but there. She had learned that people were usually interested in only three things: the heathen Indians, the treasure hoards of silver and gold, and how do you bear the dreadful heat? Once she had satisfied the lady’s curiosity about these topics, Mistress Ashley turned to chat with her mother about the latest suitors who were vying for the Queen’s hand in marriage. Archduke Charles of Austria. The Duke of Saxony. King Eric of Sweden. Isabel barely listened. Scotland was all she could think of. What had happened to make Queen Elizabeth and her council deliberate all morning? Since Carlos had left, Isabel’s thinking on the Scottish crisis had crystallized. Before, she had only an inchoate hope that the rebel Scots would win their fight against their French overlords, because that would stop the French in their tracks before they could invade England. Now she wanted a Scottish victory more than anything, and fervently wanted it to be a swift one, because that would bring Carlos home.

Nicolas darted past her, running for the ball as it sailed high, right across the room. One of the ladies, laughing, cried out, “Catch it!” and Nicolas jumped, but missed. He landed unsteadily, his arms windmilling to stay on his feet, when the door opened and the ball hit the floor and bounced up into the face of a young woman. She lurched back in alarm, and Nicolas skidded head first into her skirts.

There were gasps from the young ladies. The ones who were seated shot to their feet. The servants bowed low. The young ladies bobbed curtsies. Isabel’s mother and Mistress Ashley rose from their stools. Isabel rose with them, appalled at her son’s blunder. This was Queen Elizabeth!

Nicolas thumped down on his backside at the Queen’s feet. The ball had rolled between her embroidered shoes, and he scrambled onto his hands and knees and thrust his hand between her feet and grabbed the ball. He jumped up, grinning, and turned to his playmates with the trophy held high. “I got it!”

The Queen snatched the ball from him. “No, young sir, I have it.”

He gaped at her, stilled by her imperious tone. The room was utterly silent.

“Nicolas, come here!” Isabel ordered in a whisper.

He looked around at all the grave faces, bewildered by what was happening.

“Nicolas,” Isabel said tightly.

“Do not move, sir,” the Queen ordered him. “I know this yellow ball. It is Mistress Arnold’s. Are you a thief?”

He stared at her.

“Speak up. Is it the stocks for you, Master Thief?”

“No, madam. She . . . we were just playing.”

“Playing catch?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, let’s see how high you can catch.” She tossed the ball high in the air. Nicolas leapt and caught it, a perfect reflex despite his baffled state. Landing on his feet, he hesitated, his eyes flicking between the Queen and young Mistress Arnold as though uncertain which one had the better claim to the ball. After a moment he boldly held it up as an offering to the Queen.

“Ha!” she laughed. “A little courtier!”

The young ladies giggled. The older ladies laughed. Isabel had to smile, too.

A clerk hustled into the room behind the Queen with an armload of papers. He stopped and took in the scene with the look of a man who knows he has just missed something. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Avoid a career in the theater, man,” the Queen said wryly. “You lack a sense of timing.”

More laughter from the ladies. Nicolas sensed the light new mood and came to Isabel and pressed against her leg with a contrite look up at her. She kissed the top of his head to show him he was forgiven. He glanced with curiosity back at the Queen, and Isabel, too, felt intensely curious. She knew that the Queen was exactly her own age, but was surprised at how young she looked. Perhaps it was her slender body, or the quickness of her movements, or the straightforward interest that shone in her dark eyes. Just as surprising was the way she was dressed, not in the opulent raiment Isabel had heard she wore for her public appearances, but in a simple dress of black velvet with white satin sleeves embroidered with tiny flowers. Isabel had the feeling that the unfussy black-and-white effect was deliberate, because it beautifully set off the Queen’s red hair, coiled at the nape of her neck. A monarch, she thought, but still a woman.

Isabel was startled to see Sir William Cecil in the room. He had entered so quietly behind the clerk. He stood by the table where the clerk had put down the papers. He kept his gaze on the floor, and his rigid stillness and the hard line of his mouth told her he was seething with anger. From the council meeting? The Queen ignored him—quite pointedly, it seemed to Isabel. Why? She knew from her mother something of the close relationship between Cecil and the Queen. He had been her adviser since she was a princess in her teens and he had held the honorary post of steward of her lands, and during the perilous years of her sister Mary’s reign, when many feared that Queen Mary would execute her, Cecil had stood by the Princess. For half her life she had relied on his counsel. What had happened to come between them now? Isabel longed to know.

“Lady Thornleigh,” the Queen said, “is this lady your daughter?”

“She is, Your Majesty.”

Isabel sank into a deep curtsy. Etiquette forbade her speaking until the Queen addressed her directly.

“Señora Valverde, is it not?” she asked Isabel.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Isabel answered, catching the emphasis on her Spanish name.

“You may rise. And this is your son?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His name is Nicolas.”

The Queen kept her eyes on the boy even as she continued to question Isabel. “I hear that your brother is newly a father. It is a girl, I understand. His wife, is she well?”

“Very well, Your Majesty. Mother and child are thriving.”

There was a trace of sadness in her eyes. “What joy for your brother.” Isabel was sure she heard regret beneath the words. She remembered the warmth in Adam’s voice when he had spoken of the Queen. What secret current flowed between these two? she thought in wonder.

The Queen lifted her head with a snap of pride, as though to banish unwelcome thoughts. “You are most welcome here with us,” she said with fresh energy, “for your mother is my well-beloved friend. Indeed, your whole family has done me stout service.” She cast her eyes over the three of them—Isabel, her mother, and Nicolas. “So, three generations, eh? Yes, I heartily welcome all branches of the Thornleigh tree, thorny or smooth.”

Isabel felt a little overwhelmed at this effusive greeting. Had she been wrong in thinking she had been brought here to speak to the Queen about Quadra? Was this audience to be merely a casual family visit instead? She glanced at her mother, who was smiling fondly at the young Queen. It gave Isabel the tiniest prick of jealousy to see the bond between them, almost like a mother and daughter, a bond forged in the five years that she had been away.

“Leave us,” the Queen told her ladies. “All but Lady Thornleigh and her daughter. And the lad.”

There was a flurry of skirts and perfume as the young ladies swept out of the room. Mistress Ashley followed, and then the servants.

Cecil, however, did not move. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I would speak with you.”