Feud (11 page)

I narrowed my eyes and stared at him suspiciously. Was it possible he was stealing poisonous paint … to paint with?

“Come and see,” he said. “I'll show you what I'm doing with it.”

For a moment I hesitated. Ellie stepped forwards and I could see she'd quietly picked up a rock, which she was hiding in the folds of her old blue kirtle.

“What'll you do to m'lady if she comes into your lodgings with you?” she demanded rudely.

Nick stepped back a fraction and spread his hands. “Nothing, I swear,” he replied. “I just want to show her what I need the paint for.” There was a pause while Ellie glowered at him suspiciously. “Look,” he said, “the only thing I care about is my painting. I would not risk my position at Court for anything else.”

“Masou,” I said, quietly, “would you wait five minutes until we come down?”

Masou nodded, folded his arms, and leaned against the wall, staring at Nick threateningly through narrowed eyes.

Nick turned and led the way up the stairs. Ellie and I followed. We went in through a small door at the top where Nick had to duck his head.

Inside, a straw pallet and some blankets lay on the paint-splattered wooden floor. The rest of the room was filled with canvases and panels, all half-finished, as we had seen from the scaffolding. There were some miniatures, painted on vellum backed with a playing card, and I saw one, nearly finished, of the Queen herself in the robes Sarah had been wearing in the Workroom—he must have done it from memory.

In the centre of the room was an easel with a truly enormous canvas upon it. Brightly coloured warriors fought across the canvas, and a big wooden horse towered over everything.

“While I am working for Mrs. Teerlinc at the Workroom, I have no time to seek a patron,” he explained. “And so I must … borrow for my art. See, this picture has a Classical theme—the Sack of Troy!” He gestured at the big canvas and looked proud of himself.

“So why was Richard Fitzgrey here?” I asked.

“He was modelling for me, in exchange for a miniature I am making of him,” Nick told me. “I needed a well-looking man for the face of Paris. Look—here are a few chalk and graphite studies I have done of him.”

It was very odd—when I looked at the big canvas I could see that the figures and colours were good, but somehow the picture didn't fit together properly. It looked rather jumbled. But the small studies of Richard Fitzgrey were marvellous—it was just as if he were looking out of the paper at us.

“What do you think?” Nick asked, with a funny, nervous expression on his face.

“Well … ,” I began, slowly, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

“I think the limnings you've done of Mr. Fitzgrey are beautiful,” breathed Ellie. “I wish I could have one. They make him look even more handsome than he is already!”

“But the big painting? The Classical theme, my lady?” Nick pressed.

“Well,” I said. “It's just that, there's so much happening, and it's all a bit mixed up.”

“That's the Italian style!” he told me, sounding annoyed.

“Hmf !” said Ellie. “I dunno why you want to go wasting your time making huge great canvases when you can draw a picture of someone what could be breathing, it's so good.”

I couldn't have put it better myself. Nick blinked at her for a moment.

“I mean,” continued Ellie, waving a skinny arm at the Sack of Troy, “who'd want that on their chamber wall? It'd give 'em nightmares for sure. But if I had any money—which I don't, mind—I'd give you all of it just for one of these here limnings of Richard to keep after 'e's gone away.” And she sighed a bit.

“But with my gift, I … I should be painting important subjects,” stammered Nick.

“Why?” demanded Ellie. “And what's more
important than people? I'd do anything to have a limning of myself as good as that one of Richard, so my children could know what I looked like when I was young.” And she wiped her nose on the back of her hand and crossed her arms.

Nick looked at me, confused. “What do you think, Lady Grace?”

“I think Ellie's right,” I said frankly. “Everybody wants a picture of their love—or their mother, father, or child—for themselves and to show to their friends. If you can do these little paintings so beautifully, why not?”

Nick was staring at us thoughtfully, and I didn't really want to interrupt his musings, but I had to ask. “You don't seem to be using a lot of yellow, so why did you steal more orpiment today?” I demanded.

He looked confused. “But I didn't.”

“Yes, you did. Masou saw you sneak it into your belt pouch. It's why we followed you.”

Nick laughed. “It wasn't orpiment I stole,” he said. “I don't need orpiment yellow for what I'm painting. Look!”

And he felt in his belt pouch, pulled out a bit of paper, and unscrewed it to reveal a lovely bright lump of …

Blue lapis lazuli.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, starting to feel annoyed with Masou for bringing us on a wild goose chase. But then I hadn't told him what colour orpiment is, and when he saw Nick stealing, he must have assumed that Nick was taking orpiment.

“Lapis lazuli is terribly expensive,” Nick was saying. “And I need a lot of it for the sky above Troy. I just can't afford to buy enough paint. Please don't tell Mrs. Teerlinc. She might have me dismissed.”

“Hmm,” I murmured.

Ellie was wandering about the room, being careful not to step in the wet paint spots, and looking at the smaller studies Nick had done of other people from Court. There were some studies of the Queen—one of her laughing, which was very undignified and not like her usual portraits, but so real you could practically hear the roar of it.

“All right,” I said finally. “But only if you promise not to steal any more paint. Couldn't you paint some more of those little portraits for a while, and sell them and get money that way?”

He smiled. “Perhaps I could,” he said eagerly. “Mrs. Teerlinc thinks so. I will certainly think again about struggling to finish my masterpiece of Troy after your friend's comments.” He looked across at
Ellie, who was gazing soulfully at the study of Richard again. “You can have that,” he said, “in thanks for your wise advice.”

Ellie turned to him with her eyes shining. “Can I?” she breathed. “Can I really? I never had anything so beautiful before.”

“You can,” he told her, and took down the piece of paper very carefully, pinned it to a small piece of wood, and then wrapped it around with another piece of paper to protect it.

Ellie put it reverently into her petticoat pocket and curtseyed her thanks and then we clattered back down the stairs.

Masou sprinted away to his tumbling as soon as we'd told him everything. Ellie and I went a little more slowly back to the garden, where she then disappeared to the laundry, and I went to find the other Maids of Honour.

I found them all whispering outside Carmina's bedchamber. Even Lady Jane was looking worried. There was an awful sound of somebody groaning and being sick within, and then we heard my Uncle Cavendish's voice. He was talking very softly to Mr. Durdon.

“They're bleeding her some more,” said Mary Shelton. “I don't think they know what to do—she's
so much worse. She has terrible cramps in her belly.”

I bit my lip, because it reminded me of what Nick had said about the pains feeling as if a rat were gnawing its way out of your belly. My eyes filled with tears. It will be so awful if I don't solve the mystery in time to save Carmina.

Just then Mrs. Champernowne came out, looking weary and drawn. “Poor child,” she said. “Perhaps her mother will help her a little.”

“Have you sent for her?” I asked anxiously.

“Yes, my dear,” she said. “The messenger left this morning and will be there by nightfall, since he is riding post. But her mother will likely not be here for another two days at the earliest, for she cannot ride like a young man.”

It is rather squashed in our bedchamber tonight, for the Queen ordered truckle beds to be brought in, and now we have Penelope and Lady Jane sleeping here with us, so that Carmina may have some peace and quiet. Mrs. Champernowne will be with her overnight. For a wonder, everyone is so worried about Carmina that Lady Jane and Lady Sarah are not even quarrelling!

“The Queen is worried she may have left it too
late,” Mary Shelton has just whispered to me as I write.

Perhaps Her Majesty delayed to see what I could do. And I really thought I was on to the truth with Nick Hilliard's thieving, but it turned out to be nothing to do with the poisoning. I feel dreadful.

I've just woken up and it's still dark. I only have the watch candle to write by and I simply must make a note of what came to me while I slept. Nick said he didn't need the yellow you get from orpiment, but Mrs. Teerlinc definitely said orpiment was missing. So somebody else must have taken it from the Workroom. I just need to work out who. This puzzle is becoming more and more of a mystery. Every time I think I may be on to the poisoner, I seem to reach another blind alley. I'm not giving up, but I know that I am running out of time—and so is Carmina.

Mrs. Champernowne has just been really rude to me—and I don't think it is only because she was up all night looking after Carmina!

To begin at the beginning: I was attending the Queen at her toilette this morning and very, very carefully brushing her hair, when I overheard something interesting. Lady Helen was bringing the Queen her bread and beer, while Mrs. Champernowne mixed the paints for Her Majesty's face. As Ladies-in-Waiting sometimes do, Lady Helen went on one knee to the Queen, and asked very prettily if there was to be a jousting contest soon. Her uncle is the Queen's Champion, and I happen to know her brother is considered good at jousting. I expect her brother has laid out thousands of pounds on jousting armour and a charger, so he can impress the Queen.

But Her Majesty made a face and shook her head. “Not soon, I am afraid,” she said. “Since that terrible tragedy with the young Lord Harrington and Carmina's father, Piers Willoughby, I think it would not be tactful.”

Lady Helen sighed but said, “Yes, Your Majesty,” and withdrew.

I was so shocked I stopped brushing for a moment. I had forgotten that Harrington was the name of the young man killed. I had a terrible cold when the joust happened, and, besides, the name meant nothing to me at the time. But now I remembered that Harrington was the name of the family that Carmina's family were at feud with, until the Lord Protector composed the quarrel. And I wondered if, perhaps, the feud could have been revived— in which case, it could be that the Harringtons were behind the poisoning of Carmina! It made a lot of sense. Mayhap they did not believe that the jousting tragedy had been an accident and were now seeking revenge on the Willoughbys.

I realised I had to find out more about which Harringtons might be at Court. But I didn't dare ask any of the other Maids, because I knew it would immediately start a great deal of gossip. Besides, they might not even know. I needed to talk to someone who knew everything about everyone at Court.

I thought about it all through the Queen's toilette. In the end, I decided there was nothing for it but to ask Mrs. Champernowne, who knows pretty
much everything about the people around the Queen, having served Her Majesty since she was only a girl herself.

So I made sure I was the one nearest to her when we all gathered in the Queen's Withdrawing Chamber. One of the other Ladies-in-Waiting was sitting with Carmina now, and although Mrs. Champernowne was looking tired, she wouldn't admit it. She asked me to help her by holding a skein of wool, so she could roll it up into a ball. It's a boring thing to do, but, for once, I was pleased, as it gave me a chance to talk to her.

“Um, Carmina said something about the Harringtons when I was sitting with her the other day,” I began. “Is that the same family as the young Lord Harrington who got killed in the jousting accident?” I asked it as innocently as I could, but even so, Mrs. Champernowne gave me a sharp look.

“Why, yes, it is,” she said, and sighed. “John Harrington was the only son. The terrible thing was that even though the tragedy was pure accident, because Piers Willoughby survived and John did not, there was a lot of ill-favoured whispering about it. Some suggested that Willoughby had caused it deliberately, to be avenged on the Harringtons—there used to be a feud between the families, you see. Of
course, Carmina's father would never have done that, for he is a most gentle, kindly soul, but people will gossip. And the boy's mother took it worst of all—”

She broke off suddenly.

“And if you behave yourself, Lady Grace, and keep your new kirtle clean and unspotted, look you, I shall teach you to knit your own stockings as Mary Shelton does,” she finished, as if that were what we had been talking about all along.

I'm afraid I was so bored by the wool-winding I wasn't very quick this morning. “Yes, but didn't the Harringtons … ?” I pressed.

But Mrs. Champernowne frowned at me, “Shhh!” she said, looking very significantly at Lady Horsley, who had just come in with Lady Seymour.