Constant Heart (34 page)

But first the estate needed to be grand enough to engage the imagination of a Queen. Brustleigh, little though I liked it, had become even less pleasant. Everywhere I looked, I was confronted with Her Majesty. She seemed to have taken over the estate. If not with her symbols, then with the expectation that her person would soon be present. It was not enough that I be harassed by her at court; she had invaded my private life as well. Her visit was now the only thing of which Lytham spoke.

“I had thought to turn the workers to your chambers,” my lord stated.

“My chambers!” If there was anything good about Brustleigh, it was knowing that the renovations had to include my own rooms. And in this case, I was more than willing to have my rooms redone to blot the image of another woman, Lytham’s first wife, from them.

“They have the best view of the estate, out over the gardens.”

“I thought perhaps a theme of the three graces? Painted panels in pinks and yellows and greens on a surface of gold, separated by wainscoting? And plasters on the ceiling repeating the images between the ribs.” He did not respond, so I continued on. “The wardrobe as the domain of Joy with an emphasis on pink, the bedchamber to be Radiance, perhaps with more gilt than paint, and the outer chamber to be the Flowering, with green and yellow all over. What do you think?”

“Of what, my sweet?”

“Of my chambers. On the theme of the three graces.”

“For Her Majesty’s Grace?”

“Nay. For my use. Something filled with light. And pretty.” To make my stays at the estate more tolerable.

“But when Her Majesty comes, there will she stay.” His eyes took a tour of the gardens and then he paused, turned round, and stood staring at the house. “Nay . . . not the three graces. On the theme of Flora, perhaps. We could push out that window, there.” He turned to look at the gardens again before looking back at the house. “Come. Let us go up there to look down from that spot.”

We returned to the house and went to my chambers. He walked toward the window in question and, opening it up, leaned out to gaze below. He spent some time in looking about. “There is no view.”

“None but the garden. And the hills. And the trees and the sky.” The world as the Creator himself intended.

“We can make a view. If we push out this window, we can have a garden made that stretches away to the hill. Then place a viewing platform—or better, a banqueting house—on top! And perhaps not a theme on Flora. Maybe . . . pelicans!”

“And have the birds piercing their breasts all over my walls!”

“To feed her young, to nourish her kingdom.”

“Not on my walls. I want no blood dripping forth into buckets.”

“Perhaps Hebe! The goddess of youthful beauty.”

“So the Queen can spend eternity serving nectar to the gods? You know she will serve no man.”

“Then . . . Minerva.”

“Of course. A wise old goddess with a clunky helmet on her head.”

“Then we play upon our loyalty to her person. We will decorate with the royal coat of arms and Tudor designs of green and white. She cannot find fault with that.”

But I could. “I wanted the room to be done . . . fanciful. And pretty.”

Lytham drew me close and kissed me. “And you will have anything you fancy, pretty girl, when we can gain access to Her Majesty’s ear.”

But I did not want access to Her Majesty’s ear. I wanted Lytham’s attentions. I had grown jealous of the time and effort he devoted to a woman who was . . . not me.

The men went quickly to work on my chambers. As my maids and I looked on, they began to dismantle the wall, removing the window and wreaking havoc on the rooms. And while they worked on the interior, an army of men worked below them. Slowly, over the following days, they consumed the ground which spread from the window up to the hill. And then they began to install a garden. I looked on the work with interest until I realized they intended a knot garden. And then I sought Lytham.

I found him in his bedchamber, having his beard trimmed and starched by a barber.

“You do realize that they are laying a knot garden below my window?”

He turned his eyes in my direction though he dared not turn his head.

“You cannot have asked them to do it?”

He put up a hand to stay the barber’s razor blade. “I
did
ask them to do it.”

“But knot gardens are so . . . formal. Why can I not have raised beds with twig fences?”

“Because, my sweet, I cannot have the royal coat of arms worked into a bed. But it can be worked into a knot garden. We spill the theme of your chambers out your window and up the hill. It will be glorious. Think on it.”

I did. And I did not like it. I did not want to gaze each morn on the symbols of someone else’s glory. Did not want Lytham’s interests so fixated on the Queen. But I should not have worried. I should have known that my own glories could never be far from his thoughts.

Once back in London, he leaned close to me one forenoon while we were watching a play,
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. “Did you see Lady de Winter? Wearing velvet?”

“I did.”

“I had wanted you to be the first in velvet this season.”

“It cannot matter.”

“It does to me. I will send for the tailor and have him alter the design.”

“And what would you have him do?”

He drew a finger from my ruff down to the neck of my partlet and tugged upon it. “I would have him make the neck lower.”

I cast a glance to the crowds but found them to be watching the play. I smiled. “By how much?”

“Enough that every man may guess what you have in abundance, but not so far that any man might see it.”

“You would taunt your enemies?”

“Nay. I wish to make friends.”

I unhooked his finger. “You cannot be
my
friend if your new design gives me catarrh. Think on the babe.”

“Your health is not worth my admiration?”

“You must hide your admiration to increase its value. You overplay your hand, sir. You are too generous with your praise.”

But when the gown and partlet came back from the tailor, like the renovations at Brustleigh, my gown had been shaped and reconstructed to better showcase my assets. They were made from a velvet that turned from the color of a pale sky to indigo with every movement. Lytham swore that in the middle of the colors’ change, the hue matched my eyes exactly.

The first day I wore it, I had the chambermaid fasten to it my silver lace sleeves.

Lytham smiled as he approached me that morning. “You look ravishing.”

“Do you not think on it! One movement and all will explode.”

“I can be careful.”

“Nay, you cannot.” I chanced a deeper breath and felt the partlet slide.

“You tease me.”

“Then you are caught in your own trap and I can feel no sorrow.”

Once at court, Lady de Winter saw me and, with a queer smile twisting her lips, glided to my side. “I see you have laid all of your cards upon the table, girl.”

My eyes dove toward my chest, but my ruff blocked it from view. “I am playing partners, so I can only do as I am advised.”

“Then your advisor has no need to bluff.”

“I shall die if I do not breathe, and if I take the breath I need, the force will tumble me from this gown.”

“That is what a fan is for.” She fluttered her own in front of her chest and made a show of taking a breath, letting her eyes roll into her head. “Breathe deep, girl.” She cast me a smile as several women joined us.

Their conversation was also one of fashion. Particularly the pamphlets that had been distributed decrying the use of paint.

“They say it loosens the teeth.”

“They say it grays the skin.”

“And corrupts the bones.”

Lady de Winter used her fan to sweep away their words. “And they also say our Queen is a virgin.”

“Then she has come by it late.”

“After Dudley perhaps?”

“Or has it been since Essex?”

The women around me laughed, hiding their rotted teeth behind the fabulous colors of their ostrich feather fans. But the laughter could not drive away their words.

The paint loosened the teeth?

It grayed the skin?

Surely if it did so, the Queen would not use it. I looked toward Her Majesty’s throne. From my vantage point, she looked as if she had never aged.

The pamphlets could not be true . . . could they? Of course not. Why would one paint one’s self to look more youthful if the paint only stole one’s youth?

But what if it were true?

Had my skin not taken on a certain pallor of late? Had my thumb not become misshapen? And had I not come by more energy when I had been confined to Holleystone, when I had not bothered to have myself painted each morning?

What if it
were
true?

Even if it were, I could not stop painting. Everything I had gained, all the friendships I had made, all the good favor I had received . . . all of Lytham’s attention . . . had come after I had begun to paint. After I had molded myself into the image of a courtier. I could not stop.

Would not stop.

To stop painting would put everything I had won in peril. I chanced one more glance at the throne. Hurry to your death, good Queen, and save us all.

38

A
s he had before, Lytham sent me back to Holleystone for the babe’s birth. It was the first Christmas I had ever spents on my own. Without relations, without husband. At least, however, I was with child. And I intended to stay that way. Daily, I had tansy applied to my belly. Daily, my maids came up with some new scheme for my amusement. Daily, I prayed God would grant me the desire of my heart . . . and that the babe would resemble its father.

Just before Twelfth Night, I gave my maids leave to go home. Perhaps it was foolish, but I was swept away by the good cheer of the season. They made great haste in leaving me. And then it was just Joan and I, whiling away our hours.

“Joan?”

“Aye?”

“Would you not like to go home as well?” I was hoping that she would not, but I felt churlish not to give her the chance. It would be a long trip, and it would keep her away past Christmas, but I could not keep her with me if her heart mourned for home.

“To King’s Lynn?”

“Aye.”

“Nay.”

“Do not feel as if I will not be taken care of. I would survive your absence. Though perhaps not in any great cheer.”

“But I would not survive the visit. King’s Lynn is no longer my home. In truth, it never was.”

And so we spent the season together. But if there were only two of us, there was an estate filled—yea, even a village filled—with people to help us celebrate. And a full twelve days in which to do it.

I did not take part in the dancing nor in the revelry, but I did make certain the Earl of Lytham’s table did not run out but over during those days of Yuletide. There was a small cake of marzipan given to all who called at the house, from the very least to the very greatest.

The constable had been selected the Lord of Misrule by lots, and he chose both the earl’s High Steward of the Courts and the bailiff to be on his council. Together, the men planned the village festivities and managed the revelries, planning a masque and a play and a bonfire for the last day of Christmas on Twelfth Night. There would be babes aplenty in the autumn.

Of a night, Joan kept watch at the gates with me as carolers came to sing. With merry applause, we rewarded them with ale and cakes. There were children among them equipped with bowls, begging. We gave them ale and cakes as well, not chancing to invite bad luck into our estate.

The bailiff commanded felled the largest tree he could find, and I sent men to drag it into the courtyard. It took six men to carry it to the hearth. But once rolled into the fireplace, it burned for all twelve days of Christmas. The parks keeper opened the park gate so the servants could collect holly and ivy, and the house was filled with the greens.

On New Year’s Day, I offered to Joan the present of a purse filled with coin, and she offered up to me a cushion she had embroidered. It was the perfect size for the small part of my back and excellent for easing the strain I had so lately begun to feel.

We were joined by a band of traveling mummers and then a pair of jugglers. Had Lytham been there, he might have asked them to produce a license, but being Yuletide and a season of good cheer, I could not see the sense in heaping trouble upon anyone. And besides, their diversions were well done, though I did warn Joan to tell the servants to be on guard and to keep our silver plate under lock. I did not mind giving food and drink for amusement, but I did not want to be made to overpay. Nor to explain to Lytham how his estate came to be stripped of all things valuable.

That night, amidst the dancing and feasting, I realized that Joan no longer waited in attendance upon me. Curious, I pushed up from my chair and walked away from the table, skirting the crowd, to see if I could spy her. At length, when I had almost given up my search, I saw her in conversation with Falconer. They stood beyond the reach of the bonfire, where there were only shadows to shelter them.

As I watched, he turned several times toward the recesses of night as if he wanted, very much, to leave. But then he would turn his head once more toward Joan. And at last, she clasped his hand and with several tugs succeeded in moving him forward, toward the feasting.

It was perhaps then fate which led Falconer to find a bean in his piece of cake and be declared King of the Bean. And seeing that happen, it was no surprise to me when my own Joan found the pea in hers and was dubbed Queen of the Pea. A dance was called for and a lute player began to play, after which the people persuaded me to lead the chain dance of a carol.

Joan came into my chamber late that night. I had been unable to sleep for pain in my haunches. She was quiet in slipping into her bed, letting only the rustle of her feet crossing the rushes betray her.

The house was soon emptied of all signs of Christmastide. After the yule log had burned itself out, the charm and warmth of the season waned. And so I put my thoughts to the new year. To the babe. To the monies I hoped would soon be ours.