Conspiracy (4 page)

“I dunno what them Swedes is up to,” said Ellie. “They're building a shed as well as their pavilions. What would they need a shed for?”

“Oh, that's the Prince's private stews,” I told her. “Lady Helena was talking about it. They think you should bathe every single week! They'll put a brazier in the shed to heat it up, so the Prince can raise a sweat as the Turks do, and then he will take a dip in the lake.”

“Load of nonsense, if you ask me,” sniffed Ellie. “Everyone knows it's unhealthy to wash all the time. I think the Queen is wood-wild for bathing every month. Every week! The Prince will wash his skin away. And anyway, isn't he embarrassed about his tail?”

“Eh?” I asked.

“He's a foreigner, ain't he? So he's got a tail-stands to reason,” Ellie explained.

I wasn't sure about that. “Well, I don't think the Queen would be considering marrying him if he—”

“All foreigners have tails,” stated Ellie firmly. “It's a well-known fact.”

“But Ellie, if that's true, then Masou would have one and he hasn't,” I argued.

That made Ellie pause. “Well, he's not
very
foreign, is he?”

“He's just as foreign as Prince Sven,” I pointed out. “Anyway, let's go and see him.”

Ellie gulped down the last of the pastry—which
you aren't even supposed to eat because it's just for holding the meat together—and we went off to find the tumblers;

They were down by the lake, having their own supper and complaining that the tents put up for them looked likely to leak. Mr. Somers, the Queen's Fool, was having an argument with the man in charge of putting the tents up. Masou was practising walking on his hands, still in his bright, ribboned Puck suit.

Ellie and I watched him for a moment. He spotted us, winked, and walked on his hands right round some trees and into a little grove, where he jumped onto his feet again.

“My lady,” he said with an elaborate bow. “How wondrous—”

“Stop it, Masou,” I interrupted, giving him a punch on the arm. “You know I don't like you to call me ‘my lady’ when we're alone.”

“Masou,” Ellie put in suddenly, “is it true that you don't have a tail, even though you're a foreigner?”

Masou's eyes opened wide and then he laughed. “Of course I don't,” he said. “Where would I put it when I sat down?”

Ellie blushed and shrugged. “I dunno. It was just
some nonsense Mrs. Fadget was talking about,” she mumbled.

Masou laughed again, and I couldn't help it—I roared with laughter, too. Ellie scowled for a moment, but then she saw the funny side and laughed as well. Masou stood on his hands again and paced up and down, still chuckling.

Somebody shouted Masou's name and, still upside down, he said, “Come and meet the newest tumbler.” So we followed him as he walked on his hands back to where the other tumblers were practising.

As he came right-side up, he looked critically at the pyramid they were building. Then he turned to me. “I shall have very little time for talking with you, my lady,” he said. “I have so much to do in these entertainments.”

“I know, you're Puck, the Spirit of Mischief,” I told him. “You nearly hit me in the eye with a sugared almond!”

“No, I didn't. I was aiming very carefully for your ears,” Masou said, and grinned. “There he is—what do you think of him?”

He was pointing to the top of the pyramid, where the two dwarves, Peter and Paul, were holding up a tiny little boy with a mop of black curls. I had seen him somersaulting behind Masou at Oxey Hall.
Now he had his arms out and was balancing on Peter and Paul's hands with a look of concentration on his face.

The dwarves counted loudly, “One … two … three!” and threw him up in the air. He turned over once in midair and landed slightly unsteadily on his feet where French Louis was waiting to steady him.

“I taught him that,” Masou said proudly.

The little boy came scampering over to Masou, doing a couple of cartwheels just for fun as he came. “Did you see it, Masou? Did you see what I did? Did you see? Wasn't it good?”

“It was brilliant,” Masou said, clapping him on the back. “You only need to turn a little faster and you won't need French Louis at all!”

The little boy beamed with pride. He was very small and I wondered how old he was to be working in Mr. Somers's troupe already.

“This is Gypsy Pete,” Masou said with a flourish. “Gypsy Pete, these are my friends, Ellie and … urn … Lady Grace, who will be my patron one day.”

Gypsy Pete did a somersault. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Wasn't that good?”

“Have you practised standing on your hands yet?” Masou asked. The little boy jumped up and tried to do a handstand but fell over.

Masou tutted. “Your arms need to get stronger, Pete. Go and find a tree and stand on your hands against it for practice. I'll come and help in a minute.”

“Yes, Masou,” the little boy said, and he ran off looking very determined.

“When did he arrive?” I asked.

“We found him doing a few tumbles with some Gypsies we saw a few days ago, and Will Somers thought he had promise,” Masou explained. “He doesn't have any parents, so the Gypsies sold him to us. He's older than he looks. He's about eight or nine, he thinks, and very nimble.”

Ellie had a long list of things that Mrs. Fadget wanted her to do, so we left Masou to work with Gypsy Pete, and headed back to the castle. As we did so, we saw Mr. Secretary Cecil arriving late, with all his attendants and bags of letters. He is very old and balding and boring! But he is one of the Queen's most trusted advisers. We watched as he dismounted wearily and then headed straight to his own quarters higher up in the keep.

I got back to our parlour a little later than everyone else, and found that the Maids of Honour were sitting at embroidery to keep the Queen company. The Earl of Leicester was there with the Queen as
well, so I settled down to wait until she should dismiss us to go to bed.

“Now, what are your plans for tomorrow, my lord?” the Queen enquired.

The Earl rubbed his hands together, looking very pleased with himself. “On the morrow,” he began, “we shall have the hunt and dinner
en plein air
, as they do in France. And in the evening, there shall be entertainment and fireworks and then—”

“When will Prince Sven be arriving?” interrupted the Queen. “I should be sure and welcome him myself, or he will think I am not interested in his suit.” And she smiled at the Earl to let him know she was only teasing.

The Earl sighed. “Of course. I shall send the messenger this evening to say that you will receive him tomorrow morning. He is only three miles away and can be ready to greet Your Majesty within the hour.”

“Hmph,” said the Queen, taking another grape and popping it in the Earl of Leicester's mouth. “He had better not come too early as my toilette will take longer—I shall be at my best for him.”

“But “four Majesty, how can there be any way of improving perfection?” asked the Earl with a look of false innocence.

The Queen smiled. They always play this kind of game when they are together, and the Queen is at her most relaxed when she is with the Earl. Mrs. Champernowne doesn't like him—and I don't, either, when he's being bad-tempered—but I think it's a pity he can't marry the Queen because of the scandal over his wife. I'm sure the Queen is only pretending to be interested in Prince Sven's suit for her hand—it's all about diplomacy and alliances being forged, as marriage always is for everybody except peasants. That's why half the courtiers talk so wistfully about being shepherds and shepherdesses who don't have to care about such things, and can wed purely for love if they choose.

So that is what happened yesterday evening, and now the sun is up and everyone is getting dressed for a new day.

And Mrs. Champernowne is scowling at me, so I must stop writing.

Well, that was most interesting! I have just changed into my hunting kirtle—my black wool, because the green wool is too disgraceful to be seen, according to Mrs. Champernowne—and I am writing this while
I wait for the other Maids of Honour to do likewise. It takes some longer than others—especially Lady Sarah, who must have everything just so.

I shall begin with where I left off writing as we were dressing for to meet the Swedish Prince. We were told to wear black and white, and the Queen wore black velvet and white sleeves and forepart, so we all looked like a chequerboard when we were ready. Despite what she had said, she was up very early—and bad-tempered about it—because she didn't want to miss any hunting. The Earl had been up even earlier, of course, because he was to escort the Prince into Kenilworth.

I think it is very funny when the Queen is engaged in a courtship. Sir William Cecil fusses horribly over the arrangements. I'm afraid he is very dull— ditchwater is exciting by comparison. He never talks about anything except business and politics and administration, which is why the Queen has him as Secretary to the Council.

Anyway, as I was explaining to Mary Shelton, a courtship is like an elaborate game: the Prince or Duke, or whatever, has to pretend to be madly in love with the Queen. And the Queen has to pretend to be a shy, timid maiden! Mary thought that would be a sight to see.

This one had been carefully planned. The Queen would be casually taking the air in the garden, which has been hew planted with roses to scent the air, and we would be with her. Then Prince Sven, so full of love for her that he couldn't wait for an audience, would come to find her there.

While the Chamberers finished dressing the Queen, we were all making ready in our own chamber. My ankle was still quite sore, but I was desperate to see this Swedish Prince, so I was hobbling about while Sarah and Jane sat with their backs to each other fussing about hair and smearing beeswax—pounded with little beetles from the New World—onto their lips to make them red and beautiful.

“Good morning, my lady,” said a friendly voice from the door. “May I be of service?” I turned to see John Hull bowing to me. There was quite a flutter, and both Lady Jane and Lady Sarah turned to give him very gracious smiles because both thought he meant them. “Mrs. Champernowne asked me to help you,” he explained. “Because of your injured ankle.”

Jane and Sarah scowled at each other. As for me, I must say I think I am sickening of some distemper
or other, for I suddenly felt very hot. “Um … my ankle is still very sore,” I said, wishing it were a bit more swollen so I could show him. My voice sounded quite odd when I spoke. Definitely a distemper—I hope not plague.

I leaned on his arm to hobble down the stairs and, at the bottom, thanked him. I felt fine once we were on flat ground in the courtyard, but I did a bit more hobbling anyway as he went away.

The Queen came down with Lady Helena and we all went into the walled garden, where there are apricots trained on the south-facing walls and new roses in raised beds.

The Queen started pacing around as she always does, walking very fast, with the lapdogs skittering about behind her. Mary Shelton took the leads. As arranged, neither the Earl of Leicester nor any of the other courtiers were there, although the Gentlemen of the Guard were standing by the gates, of course, and their Captain, Mr. Hatton, wouldn't be far off.

We heard all the clattering and neighing when the Prince's entourage arrived, but of course pretended not to. And then the gate swung open and a very tall handsome man, dressed all in black velvet, with
crimson lining showing in his trunk hose, came hurrying in, followed by a couple of noblemen, one carrying a long package. Prince Sven has the most amazing long legs and broad shoulders, and he has bright blond hair and quite the palest blue eyes I have ever seen.

“Vere is she, the Goddess Diana, the fairest Queen?” he demanded, in English spoken with a strong Swedish accent.

The Queen turned and put her hand to her mouth as if she were shy. Then she turned back again.

Prince Sven came striding past the rose bushes and threw himself on his knees in front of her—after one of the noblemen we met yesterday had discreetly pointed the Queen out to him.

“Your Majesty, forgive me!” he said. “I could not vait for your gracious audience. I had to come and see you in the garden, vere all the roses are ashamed to bloom if you are near.” He gabbled this speech in a sort of shout, as if he were afraid he might forget the next words. I was sure he did not know what it all meant.

The Queen smiled and gave him her hand to kiss, which he did very passionately.

“Rise, Your Grace,” she said. “Your presence is most welcome to us in this our realm of England.”

Lady Helena was at her side, translating now, and the Prince answered in Swedish, rolling his eyes at the Queen very romantically.

It sounded funny when Lady Helena said in her sweet, gentle voice, “When my lord of Leicester came to say that you would receive me, my joy was infinite.”

“Will you join us in our pleasures and revels here, then, Your Grace?” asked the Queen, and Lady Helena translated.

“Yes,” said the Prince, nodding vigorously, and he beckoned over his shoulder to the nobleman carrying the long package.

Lady Helena said, “His Grace begs you will accept a small token of his love, most beauteous Diana—Artemis, maiden of the chase.”