Betrayal (2 page)

I am not sure where Tilbury is, but we are travelling there by boat, which is exciting, except I will be wearing my third-best gown—the russet woollen one with the velvet trimmings—and pray it is not splashed too much.

Lady Sarah’s tiring woman, Olwen, has almost finished squeezing Lady Sarah into her white Court damask. We have been told to wear our third-best clothes, but Lady Sarah is insisting on her best kirtle.

Mary Shelton has just whispered to me, “Somebody hopes for a handsome sailor.”

Lady Sarah heard us giggling and has just told us to shut up. She is still moaning about having to rise so early. Hell’s teeth! She is applying more of that foul-smelling ointment to the spot on her chin—Clown’s All-Heal and woodlice mashed together, I think. I wish I had a stopper for my nose.

Time to end—Olwen is coming over to help me with my stays.

What a day this has been!
So
exciting and unusual. I shall carry on where I left off:

Once Olwen had laced me into my stays, I pulled on my outdoor boots and struggled to get my kirtle straight over my bumroll—I didn’t bother with a farthingale because I thought I might have a chance to explore a ship or something, and anyway, the kirtle’s a bit short for me and it shows less if I don’t wear a farthingale. Olwen then tackled my hair, which, as she is first to say, is hardly my best feature, being rather fine and mousy. She decided to hide as much of it as she could under a sweet green velvet hat with a feather.

I then rushed into the passageway, where Mrs. Champernowne was standing tapping her foot and sighing, as we were all late.

Lady Sarah emerged resplendent in her gown, and Mrs. Champernowne tutted.

“Did you not hear my message, Lady Sarah?” she asked. “We will be taking the Queen’s galley down to Tilbury and the damask is sure to be splashed by the water, look you, and be all spoiled and spotted and spattered.”

Lady Sarah only tossed her head and said, “I am in need of new apparel. This English-cut bodice is last year’s fashion, so of no great moment.”

It’s all French cut and doublet-style this year—but
I don’t call a year particularly old for a whole kirtle and bodice. And I know for a fact that Lady Sarah has five kirtles and any number of stomachers and sleeves and false fronts and petticoats. In fact, most of the mess in our bedchamber consists of Lady Sarah’s clothes. Who needs five kirtles? I know the Queen has hundreds but she’s the Queen. The Wardrobe is a Department of State, after all!

We’d already eaten breakfast in our chambers, so Mrs. Champernowne led us down the stairs and along the Painted Passage, all holding candles and yawning fit to burst.

The Queen was just leaving her Withdrawing Chamber, with the Chamberers still pinning her bodice. She had chosen brocade-trimmed black wool, so everyone who was wearing silk or velvet looked worried, and serve them right: silk or velvet shows water splashes even more than good wool, and any fool should know better than to out-dress the Queen.

We passed through the palace and into the garden. Torches were burning all the way down the watersteps to where the Queen’s galley was waiting. The harbingers and trumpeters were already in rowing boats and wherries, while the Gentlemen of the
Guard, in their red velvet, were climbing into gigs. It was funny to watch them cursing each other: they were having trouble fitting their long halberds into the narrow boats that were to carry them.

The Queen’s galley is very handsome—all silver-gilt and red paint—and rowed by the Queen’s Boatmen, ten of them, who wear red and black livery and a badge. Some of the other Maids of Honour were nudging each other and pointing out the good-looking ones.

We all had to climb in before the Queen. It wasn’t easy getting into a boat that wobbled underneath me, especially when I couldn’t see my feet for my petticoats and I couldn’t really bend in the middle because of my stays. The Chief Boatman steadied each of us with his arm, and at last we were all sitting down, two by two, along the middle of the boat.

As usual, the Queen had asked one of her favourite gentlemen, Mr. Christopher Hatton, to accompany her. He helped Her Majesty to board, and once the Queen was settled on the cushions under her canopy, the oarsmen pushed off and started to row.

The sun was just coming up and turning the river silver-grey and gold. Every bit of the Thames was full of boats, and wherries with red lateen sails, and
gigs, and Thames ferryboats—and little private craft, all overloaded with people. The courtiers still on the watersteps were politely fighting over the few remaining craft, and the boatmen were asking shocking amounts to take them.

I loved it. There was quite a strong wind so I had to hold onto my hat, but it was so exciting to be skimming the water and rocking a bit as the oarsmen bent to the stroke. I always love going by boat. I wanted to trail my fingers in the water, feel how cold it was, but I couldn’t reach past the gilded carving on the side, and Mrs. Champernowne was glaring at me something horrid. A swan flapped its wings and honked at her, probably because it didn’t like the look on her face, either.

Lady Jane Coningsby and Lady Sarah ignored each other pointedly for the whole journey. Lady Jane has only lately come to Court. Another Maid of Honour, Katharine Broke, went home in disgrace after a scandal with the Duke of Norfolk’s nephew, and so Lady Jane arrived to make the number of Maids of Honour up to six again. It’s as good as a play to watch her with Lady Sarah because the two of them hate each other so. Lady Sarah has beautiful red hair—like the Queen’s, but less inclined to frizz—whereas Lady Jane has wonderful blond curls
“foaming down her back,” as one of the dafter Court gentlemen wrote in a poem. Lady Sarah has more womanly curves than Lady Jane, but Lady Jane is taller and more elegant. The worst of it is that they always like exactly the same gentlemen!

When we reached Tilbury there was a strong smell of paint. Most of the houses had been newly whitewashed in honour of the Queen’s visit—rather badly, as they all had splatters on their shutters. A crowd had gathered at the side of the muddy road, and litters were ready and waiting next to the Gentlemen of the Guard, who were all lined up.

As we climbed laboriously out of the galley and up the steps, Lady Sarah nearly tripped on a bit of rope.

“Do try and watch where you’re going, Lady Sarah,” sniffed Lady Jane.

Oh, how pink Lady Sarah’s cheeks went! And her “rosebud lips” tightened into a thin line.

Then, as Lady Jane was herself being helped ashore, a wave from a nearby boat, overloaded with courtiers, made the galley dip suddenly. She would have fallen in the water if the Queen’s Oarsman had not caught her!

“Dear, dear,” said Lady Sarah loudly from the
quay. “
Somebody
had a bit too much beer at breakfast.”

“I bet you sixpence that Jane slaps Sarah first,” whispered Mary Shelton at my elbow, her eyes shining.

I thought about this. Lady Sarah has fiery red hair and a temper to match. “Done!” I declared. “Sixpence on it.” We shook hands.

The Queen often rides side-saddle in processions, but today she had ordered a litter with a canopy over it to shade her from the sun or keep the rain off her (far more likely!). I was praying we wouldn’t have to ride and, thank goodness, there were litters for us as well. We climbed in, arguing over who should sit in front. But while the rest of us were quarrelling, Lady Sarah had pushed her way to the front of one litter, and Lady Jane established herself at the front of the other, looking very elegant and aloof. Grumbling, the rest of us crammed in behind, then the littermen hoisted us up, and off we went.

As is usual when the Queen goes anywhere, it was quite a procession. The harbingers and trumpeters led the way with the Royal Standard, blasting away on their trumpets, banging drums and shouting, “The Queen! The Queen! Make way for the
Queen’s Majesty!” It wasn’t really necessary, because the people looked as if they had been camping out all night to see the Queen, but it did serve to wake a couple who were still asleep, wrapped in blankets, as we went past.

After the trumpeters marched half the Gentlemen of the Guard in their red velvet, carrying their halberds and looking miserable because their smart red hose was getting badly splashed with mud. Then came the Queen in her litter, then more Gentlemen of the Guard, then us, then the courtiers, and, at the very back, boys and dogs running along, shouting and barking.

Everybody was waving and cheering, and the Queen was smiling and waving back and blowing kisses. It’s wonderful to watch her whenever she processes anywhere. She lights up and seems somehow bigger and more Queenly—and she never minds how muddy the road is or how smelly the people might be (though she might complain about it afterwards).

A little girl ran out with a posy of flowers for her. But as Mr. Hatton reached out to take it from her, the Queen stopped him and gave an order for the procession to stop. Mr. Hatton then dismounted and
lifted the little girl up for the Queen herself to take flowers from her sticky, outstretched paw. The Queen then gave the little girl a kiss. All the people roared at that. The Queen pinned the posy to her bodice with a flourish.

I watched Mr. Hatton put the little girl back down on the ground. She curtsied and then, with a shining face, rushed back to tell her mamma and grandmamma all about it.

Her Majesty then smiled and waved and bowed as the procession moved on.

Mrs. Champernowne sighed. She was uncomfortably squashed in next to me at the back of the litter. “Tut. We’ll be needing to burn a stick of incense inside that bodice to have all the fleas and lice and nits out of it now,” she moaned.

We eventually arrived at the dockyards, where they build merchantmen to sail to Spain and New Spain and the Netherlands, and France and Muscovy. All the workmen were lined up in front of the ships, wearing their Sunday best to meet the Queen.

Mr. Hatton helped the Queen down from her litter. Mr. John Hawkins was there to greet her. I recognized him from the time he had come to Court to
ask the Queen, personally, to visit her Royal Dockyards.

“Oh!” Lady Sarah gasped in front.

Mary Shelton and I craned our necks to see if anybody was slapping anybody.

Typical Lady Sarah: she was simpering and batting her eyelashes because there were two handsome young men standing behind Mr. Hawkins. One was tall with fair hair and a slightly receding chin. The other was shorter and broader, with a cheerful round face and disarmingly bright blue eyes. They looked to be good friends for I caught the shorter one exchanging appreciative looks with the taller one, who winked back.

“Your Majesty,” said Mr. Hawkins, “may I present Captain Hugh Derby?” The tall man bowed low. “And Captain Francis Drake.” It was the stockier one’s turn.

The Queen let them kiss her hand and then stepped onto the planks they had put down to preserve her from the mud. She walked along the line of workmen as they all doffed their blue statute caps and bowed. Mr. Hawkins moved along beside the Queen, introducing and explaining.

Mrs. Champernowne beckoned Mary and me forward
to help with the Queen’s train, which was wider than the walkway she was standing on.

“Hold it high, the mud is terrible!” growled the Queen. Then she glanced at Lady Sarah and Lady Jane. “Whatever are those two ninnies at now?” she snapped, frowning at them.

I looked at the two ninnies. Lady Jane had a very haughty expression on her face, in spite of the fact that she had her foot in a muddy puddle. It was a pity she was wearing such a pretty pair of high-heeled shoes with pompoms on the front, because one heel now appeared to be stuck. And Lady Sarah had somehow caught her petticoat on a bit of wood. Captain Drake and Captain Derby were practically bumping heads as they tried to unsnag it, both of them quite ignoring Lady Jane.

We walked on through a very battered and splintered gate. It had the Royal Coat of Arms carved above it, but the paint and gilt was all cracked and peeling. We were entering a dockyard. There were no ships, just empty pits where they would have been built and which would then have been filled with Thames water to launch them. Some old bits of wood lay scattered about, and a coil of rope was being used as a nest by seagulls.

The Queen stopped dead and looked around, her hands on her hips. “Good God! What a desolation. Why has this happened?”

“No money, Your Majesty,” burred Mr. Hawkins. “No money and no interest. And what’s more, all the ships your Royal Father built are near ready to sink from shipworm.”

The Queen was frowning. “I had no idea. And I pay thousands of pounds every year to the Royal Dockyards for the fitting out of my warships.”

Mr. Hawkins didn’t say anything to this, only stared into space.

The Queen’s frown became positively menacing. I would hate to be whoever is Secretary of the Navy at the moment.

Mary Shelton nudged me. I looked to where she was pointing and saw that Lady Jane now had her muddy foot firmly on the back of Lady Sarah’s damask kirtle, where it would leave a nice clear imprint. Her face was pure innocence, of course.

“I’m going to win when Sarah sees that,” I whispered to Mary. “Hope you’ve got sixpence to pay me.”