Constant Heart (43 page)

Thankfully, I had a friend who understood my wishes.

“I know, girl, that Lytham has gained some rents, but still, there must be a certain barrenness to his coffers.” Lady de Winter had come to see me at Lytham House.

I did not know how to answer, for she was right. But I did not want to make our humiliation complete.

“There is one way that you could help him.”

“How?”

“He needs, perhaps, influence more than gold. Money might save his estates now, but power will help him line his purse for some time to come.”

“What must I do?”

“Have you never noticed that those closest Her Majesty seem those most able to dispense fortunes in pursuit of their pleasures?”

“I had not—”

“No one approaches the throne except her maids or ladies-inwaiting know of it. And they are always able to turn such audiences into transactions. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I do not know if—”

“Do not be stupid, girl! Could you obtain a position as a lady-inwaiting to Her Majesty, then not only would Lytham gain influence, but
you
would gain money. People will pay, gladly, for a conference with the Queen. And pay even more if they do not have to meet with her, if you pledge yourself willing to speak on their behalf.”

That might solve all of Lytham’s problems! Only . . . I would have to spend all of my hours near the Queen. I trembled at the thought. “She does not like me.”

“She does not know you. As one of Her Majesty’s previous maids, I am willing to recommend you to her, but first . . . well . . .”

“Please, speak freely.”

“You must first be seen to be worthy of such a position.”

“How would I do it? I would not want to presume . . . and I would not want to surpass Her Majesty in—”

“I do not speak of beauty. You have learned that lesson well. I speak of status. You must appear already to have gained the position. You must order the finest gown that your money will buy.”

“But—”

She held out a hand. “I know you have no money, girl, but you must still possess some of your jewels. I will pay you for them.”

“I could not presume upon your kindness.”

“ ’Tis no kindness, I assure you. I have had my eye on one of your rings. I will give you forty pounds for it.”

Forty pounds! I rose, walked to the table, and picked up my coffer. “Which one?” I set it on her lap.

She opened the lid and plunged her hand inside. “This one.” It came out with Lytham’s betrothal gift upon her thumb.

I could not long mourn the departure of Lytham’s ring. There was too much at stake. Quietly, before doubts could overcome my courage, I ordered the draper and the tailor to Lytham House. Together in my chambers, we planned a gown that would delight Her Majesty with its finery. Only the best of satins, the finest of sables, and the most opulent tinsels. It was to be embroidered with silk, dotted with spangles, and bedecked with lace. It took two months to be made, but finally it was delivered.

The day of Lytham’s redemption had arrived.

It took all of the maids to help me into the gown, two maids to dress my hair, and a full hour for Joan to paint my face. My belly had tied itself in knots; I could not eat. Joan tried to converse with me, but I had no words to give her.

“Come, Marget. You will be a great success. How could Her Majesty not deem you worthy?”

She could and indeed she often had declared me very unworthy.

“At least take some bread.”

I shook my head.

“Then drink some wine. ’Twill calm your nerves.”

I pushed the cup back toward her.

She pushed it back to me with more vehemence than I had expected and I fell into the slopswoman.

At least she had not yet completed her chore. She only bobbed her head and continued toward the stool, as was her habit, humming that tuneless melody.

But that day I could not have it. “You!
What
is that irksome tune you sing, you beslubbering shrew? If you insist on singing it, then let us all hear it!”

The woman looked up from her pail with surprise. Shifted first to one foot and then the other.

“Now!”

“Death’s finger paints my lady’s face all white
While underneath the mask, her skin turns gray
’Tis just a matter of time, once all goes tight
She’ll leave this earth’s delights for Grave’s decay.”

Her warbling voice died at the end of the last word. She stood there silent, still shifting first to one foot and then the other.

“Out!” Her words had shaken me to my innards. The image of Death’s finger painting. Skin turning gray, getting tight. It was all happening to me. But Grave’s decay was a matter I refused to contemplate.

After the woman shuffled away, Joan took my hand. “She is a hideous creature, but you cannot fault her for speaking truth.”

“Her truth is terrible.”

“But ’tis truth none the less. Please, Marget, stop painting.”

“How can you ask me to stop on the day I go to see the Queen!” How could anyone ask me to? I wished I could! I wished I could stop plucking my brows and dying my hairs as well. But what would I gain? Only the court’s derision and Her Majesty’s wrath. Only everything I had once suffered. Were the paints robbing me of my health? There were worse pains to suffer in this world than grayed and tightened skin. And besides, I did not paint for myself. Would never have started if it had anything at all to do with me. I painted because I had to; there was no other choice. I painted for Lytham. I painted for his benefit, for his future. I painted for his Queen.

“I just—”

I left her. I walked from the room and went to the stables for my horse.

I had been idling in the gallery waiting for Marget. I had heard that the Queen had once more been speaking of selling monopolies. Excited, I began to speak to one of the other lords of the idea and together we walked into the Presence Chamber. It was not long before we were joined by some others and then the talk had turned from trade to politics.

But once the conversation had turned from Spain to France to Scotland, I confess that my thoughts began to wander, my eyes began to scan the crowd. Across the room, Lady de Winter caught my eye for the simple fact that she was doing nothing at all. Her eyes alone moved as they watched something mid-room. Knowing Lady de Winter, that thing was bound to be a person, and so I turned my own eyes in the direction of that lady’s stare.

It was Marget.

She was dressed in a shimmering, glittering display of jewels, tinsel, and gold spangles. She looked the very picture of the Queen herself . . . some thirty years before. It was a splendor that rivaled the Queen’s own. And it was then that dread clenched its fist tight around my innards.

Although she was not approaching the throne directly, her wandering path put her in danger of attracting Her Majesty’s attention. And if she did, if I knew the Queen as well as I thought, then all was ruined.

I glanced back toward Lady de Winter. She was marking Marget’s progress, a smile lurking upon her lips.

Pushing through the men around me, I was desperate to reach my wife before she caught the Queen’s attention. But even as I broke through the group surrounding me, I saw Her Majesty lean forward upon her throne. And then I saw her stand.

It was too late.

50

I
had tried hard to shake the slopswoman’s words from my head, but they had taken root, had grown, become more voluble on my way to the palace. I looked at the faces of the ladies around me. How many had turned their faces gray from paints? How many had, like me, skin that stretched too tight? How many were speeding themselves upon the way to death?

I felt like one of the Tower’s lions.

All the courtiers were staring at me. They were backing away from me, making a space for me, as if they considered me dangerous. Had I not just then gained the center of the chamber, I might have turned around and left. But now, Her Majesty was standing. She was speaking. To me.

I curtsied as low as I dared.

“Lady Lytham.”

“Your Grace.”

“Come here!”

Her voice did not sound as if she were pleased with my appearance. In fact, it sounded much cooler than Lady de Winter’s promised warm response. I held my curtsey one instant longer and then, eyes lowered, did as I was bid.

“I suppose it is the fashion for monkeys to go about dressed as children?”

“Your Majesty?”

“If I had a face as brown as yours, I suppose the only thing to do would be to dress as a doxy and join some traveling gypsy band.”

“Your Grace?”

“If you wish to play at being Queen, then find your own court in which to do it. And since you appear dressed to travel, I suggest you leave at once and do your maundering elsewhere. Perhaps . . . in Berkshire.”

My gasp joined those of the courtiers behind me. If I was not mistaken, she had just dismissed me from court. Banished me to Holleystone.

Unable to control the trembling in my knees, I curtsied once more and backed away on wobbling legs. I had offended Her Majesty the Queen. Again. And this time, there was no mercy. This time, no grace. My career as a courtier was over. I only hoped Lytham’s still remained.

There would be no hiding of Marget’s error. Her Majesty’s voice had rung so loud, her sarcasm had been so pointed, her command so plain, that no one in the palace could deny having heard it.

But Marget could not have started upon such a course by herself.

She would have had to have been set upon it quite deliberately. And only one person could have done it.

As I watched Marget exit the Presence Chamber, I was torn between following her and confronting the engineer of her downfall. I decided, finally, that I could not leave without receiving an explanation.

I found Lady de Winter, grabbed her by the elbow and spun her toward me.

“Lord Lytham! How pleasant to see you.”

“Did you put her up to that?”

She said nothing, but her eyes shouted defiance.

“How could you do it? Did you not know the Queen would have her head? Why did you not stop her?”

“Because you would have!” She spit the words from her mouth.

“Of course I would have!”

“And why?”

“Because I—”

“Because you love her.” Coming from her mouth, the words sounded vile. “You love her and so you allow her to ruin you. You forget yourself. You forget your position. You forget your Queen!”

“You pinch-spotted trug!”

“You should thank me.”

“For ruining my wife?”

“For doing you a favor. She will be banished from court—and then you can think with your brain instead of your heart.”

“I despise you!”

“Despise me as you wish, but this is twice I have saved you. I saved you from Elinor before I saved you from this girl.”

“This girl is my wife. And so was . . . Elinor . . . What did you do to her?”

“I only helped her to see that the best way she could help you was to detach your heart from her.”

“I will have you—”

“It worked, did it not? When was it you gained the lease on Brustleigh? How was it you were able to remarry and regain Holleystone?”

“You are despicable.”

“There is no place in this court for love. Unless that love is directed toward the Queen.”

She only told me what was true. Chastened, I sighed and allowed my gaze to drop. It fell upon the lady’s hand from which my mother’s ring of rubies and sapphires sparkled. I grabbed at her fingers. “You wear my mother’s ring!”

Her brow rose. She glanced down at her fingers. Withdrew them from my grasp. “I do.”

“How did you get it?”

“It seems Marget needed some money to purchase a new gown . . .”

I dropped her hand and turned on my heel.