Feud (2 page)

We all trooped out to the antechamber, where the gentlemen were playing dice. Lady Jane was tutting at me and Penelope was too, and Sarah rolled her eyes until Mary Shelton said sensibly, “Well, I think the Queen was just looking for an excuse to get rid of us. And I think Lady Grace has saved us all,
because that Scot looked like he was settling in for another two hours at least!”

“Poor Queen,” said I. “She has to sit there and listen. But what did she mean about the ‘players’?”

Everybody looked at everybody else. “Perchance the Master of the Revels has asked a band of players to entertain the Scots Ambassador?” suggested Penelope.

When Lady Jane was quite certain she had no specks on her kirtle, she went off with Penelope to investigate the matter of the players. Meanwhile, Mary Shelton went to visit Carmina, and I went with Lady Sarah—who was still complaining about the Queen's bodices being too tight—and Mrs. Champernowne, who was rubbing her back where it ached with the change in the weather.

We had to go to the Lesser Courtyard to get to the limners' and stainers' Workroom. (Lady Jane told me that in France it would be called an
Atelier
, but the Queen will have no truck with such Frenchified stuff and nor will I.) We had to climb a great many stairs, for it is on the very top floor, one side overlooking the Court, and the other overlooking the orchard at the rear of Nonsuch, planted by the Queen's father, King Henry.

And so that's where I am now. There is a
Workroom at Whitehall as well, but this is newly set up so that Mrs. Teerlinc can properly supervise the Queen's portraits while we are in Surrey.

We arrived and curtseyed to Mrs. Teerlinc, who is a kind plump lady with a Netherlander accent. For someone who has been a gentlewoman at court since Her Majesty was a princess, and so must be terribly old, I always find it amazing how much she laughs and shakes her shoulders. She is wearing the most beautiful spring-green silk gown, with not the smallest speck of paint on it anywhere. I wonder how on earth she does it!

There is a great deal of puffing going on behind the screen where Mrs. Champernowne is helping Sarah to dress. It's true that the Queen's bodices are much narrower than Sarah's and it seems to be taking a tremendous amount of heaving by Mrs. Champernowne—and sucking in and holding her breath by Sarah—to get the stay laces fastened.

The Workroom is a high-ceilinged room, all whitewashed, with large windows fitted with glass to let in more light, though that means the room is always cold. The floorboards are bare, not covered with rushes or mats, so the easels can stand steady holding the stretched canvases upon frames—and holding wooden panels, too, for the better-quality
paintings. There are five easels set up—as many as can fit round the dais—all with part-begun paintings of the Queen in her robes. It would be terribly foolish to paint only one at a time as there is such a demand for them. Every town hall in England wants one. And ever since the Queen saw a portrait of herself which, as she put it, made her look “like a half-witted strumpet from the South Bank” she has insisted that all must come from the palace and be approved by her. So there is a never-ending stream of portraits being painted, and mayors are always trying to bribe their way up the waiting list.

There are sinks and counters on both sides of the room for the apprentices and journeymen to grind and mix the paints. Further back, there are wooden arches being painted for a masque, and designs for another bodice for the Queen, and some first outlinings for tapestries. The Workroom does smell very strange—of turpentine and oils and the things they use for colours—but it is a fascinating place to be. Unfortunately, Lady Sarah is not much interested, except in the designs for kirtles and gowns, which is a shame as she must stand in for the Queen so often. She has just come out from behind the screen, fully arrayed in the Queen's gown—which I must admit
looks well on her, even if it is too tight. And now I must start reading to her so she will stay still.

I think that was a wonderful morning, no matter what Lady Sarah might think. Mrs. Champernowne left as soon as Sarah was ready in the Queen's robes, which are most magnificent in black and white velvet and brocade, and heavy with pearls and jewels of all kinds.

The five painter-stainers were preparing their palettes with odd-smelling pigments. They all wore brown smudged smocks to protect their clothes. Three were quite old—at least forty!—Another was
very
old and grey, and the last was Nick Hilliard, who is tall and slim but has the remains of a black eye.

I happen to know he got it in a tavern brawl ten days ago, because Ellie told me all about it. She heard of it from one of the other laundrymaids who knows a lad who works in the stable, who has a friend in the smithy whose brother was in the tavern when Nick got the black eye. She said that Nick was boasting of all the money he would make—because he has next
to none at present—when he got himself a patron with his latest great Classical painting. One of the other card-players said he couldn't wait that long for his money, and Nick said he didn't pay cheats! So the other man hit him and there was a big brawl, which broke up the game. And that was just as well, Ellie said, because the cards were marked and Nick was too drunk to know it. “An' it served him right to get his eye blacked,” she added darkly, “for not knowing what a terrible coney-catcher that man is and 'ow you shouldn't play him at anything— 'specially not cards and dice.”

I glanced cautiously at Nick, who looked well enough for a drinking man.

He caught me looking at him and smiled ruefully, touching his cheekbone. “Do you like my battle scar, my lady?” he asked.

“I heard you got it in a fight over a card game,” I said. “Is that true?”

“In a way,” he admitted. “Lord knows, some men get very impatient for their money. Do you like to play?”

“I play a little Primero with the Queen sometimes,” I told him. “But she generally gives me the money to play in the first place.”

He smiled again, and shook his head. “But
where's the excitement in that,” he asked, “if you can afford to lose?”

I didn't know what to say to that.

Lady Sarah, who was perched on a stool on the little dais, sighed, and I remembered I was supposed to be reading to her. I had a new book about brave warriors and magical lands and a quest for a magic sword.

Mrs. Teerlinc went to her desk in the corner and began to cast up her accounts with an abacus and a long list of bills. I tried to watch her as I read aloud, attempting to learn how she could write accounts with pen and ink and not get ink on her at all.

Mrs. Teerlinc is the Head Limner at Court and has a pension from the Queen, so all the other limners are jealous of her, especially as she is a woman. Because of her position she has little time for actual painting, so she mainly creates beautiful, tiny portraits and pictures on vellum stuck to playing cards.

It's the latest thing to have a miniature portrait of your love to carry with you. Daft gentlemen are always saying they want to carry Lady Sarah's beauteous visage next to their devoted hearts. Ha!

I tried to concentrate on reading. The book is translated from the French and has some very long words in it. I quite like romances, if only they could
get to the fighting sooner and leave out some of the description of the beauteous lady's golden locks, wondrous samite gowns, and tiny feet clad in Cordova leather and so on. Of course, Lady Sarah loves those parts.

I read and read, but I also kept looking up to see Nick Hilliard painting. It is interesting, for he is intent, like a cat watching a bird before pouncing, and his hand moves so fast with the brush, it is as if he can't paint fast enough to catch the colours in front of him.

Lady Sarah was scowling at me, her cheeks pink from wearing the Queen's heavy robes, and I realised that watching Nick Hilliard had stopped me from reading. So I started again hastily.

“You've read that bit,” she snapped crossly. “Twice!”

I coughed, skipped a paragraph, and read on. One of the stainers tutted because Sarah started fanning herself with the Queen's ostrich fan instead of staying still.

Mrs. Teerlinc had finished her accounts and now had her hand on the shoulder of the stainer who was painting nearest to me. He was an old man with a tangled grey beard and eyebrows like birds' nests.
He squinted at Sarah, and then squinted up close to the panel he was painting, as if he could hardly see what he was doing. I thought the pupils of his eyes looked odd, as if there were milk in them.

“I think you should rest your eyes now, Ned,” said Mrs. Teerlinc. “You go for your pipe and a bit to eat.”

“Ay, well,” he said. “My eyes are tired. Maybe the morning mist will have cleared when I come back.” He cleaned his fingers on a rag, tucked the brushes into the easel so they wouldn't touch anything else, and went out of the Workroom.

Mrs. Teerlinc looked at his painting and sighed. “Nick, my dear,” she said sadly, examining some mistakes in Ned's painting, “would you mind?”

Nick came over from his own easel, bringing his palette and brushes. He scowled at Ned's painting. Then he grabbed a brush and painted like lightning, right over Ned's mistakes—which you can do with paints that are mixed with oil, for they don't run at all.

And the result was so much better. As Nick used his colours and lit the sheen of the pearls with silver in resin, the jewels seemed to grow there on the panel, hanging on the bodice like the real jewels!

“Oh, really, Grace,” snapped Sarah, “please, will you stop
stopping
?”

Guiltily, I returned to reading some elaborate speeches about lady-loves while occasionally sneaking glances at Nick Hilliard's work.

I read about the terrible dragon and the beauteous lady in its clutches, and I tried to concentrate, but every so often I'd forget to read as I watched jewels and brocade spring up from Nick's brushes as if burning through the wood panel.

By the time Ned came back, smelling of that horrible henbane of Peru that some people smoke to cure their phlegm, Nick had finished reworking all that the old man had done that morning and was back at his own easel, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

I remembered Mary Shelton's embroidery pattern and forgot all about reading again. “May I have some heavy paper for pouncing an embroidery pattern for Mary Shelton?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Teerlinc, and she beckoned one of the two apprentices to bring some scrap paper to me. “You Maids certainly do a great deal of embroidery work,” she added.

“Well, it is the only way we can make pictures with colours,” I explained, a little sadly, for I would
love to do some painting myself. “I wish I could learn to paint with the beautiful, bright colours you use.”

Mrs. Teerlinc smiled and shook her head. “Ah, no,” she said. “I'm afraid they are too valuable. The blue for the sky is made of ground lapis lazuli. Besides, it takes years to learn how to use all the colours. And at least embroidery silks will not stain your kirtle.”

“No, thank the Lord, or I would never have a clean one!” I declared ruefully. “I have trouble enough with pen and ink.”

“Grace,” moaned Sarah. “What happens next? Stop chatting about drawing and painting and read to me.”

But Mrs. Teerlinc was patting my arm. “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “Here is a graphite pen—see, it makes only a grey dust if you brush it. You can write with it and never need to dip your pen in an ink bottle.”

“How wonderful!” I exclaimed. “It would be marvellous not having to use ink.” Of course I tried it— and that is what I am writing with now! No ink at all!

“You can draw with it, too,” Mrs. Teerlinc added with a smile, and gave me two more graphite pens from her little table, which I put straight in my
penner. “Now, be careful with them, for they are quite easy to break and
very
expensive, so I will not be able to give you more.”

“Gra-a-ace!”
moaned Sarah once more. “What happens with the dragon?”

So I sat there for another hour, burbling speeches from the beauteous damsel, and even more speeches from the brave knight who rescued her.

At last the Queen's kirtle was done and we could leave. I helped Sarah change her clothes again—it's lucky she doesn't mind doing that, at least. It is terribly fiddly: lifting off the heavy gown and putting it on its stand, unlacing the sleeves and drawing them off, unhooking the bodice down the side, and then unhooking the back of the kirtle and drawing that off. Finally, I untied the Queen's stay laces so Sarah could stand in her shift and bumroll and farthingale and sigh and breathe again. And then, of course, I had to do her up again in her own stays and bodice and kirtle. It's agonisingly boring, wearing fine clothes, really it is. I wish I were like Ellie and could put one thing on in the morning and wear it all day. In fact, I don't think she even puts it on in the morning. I think she just wears it day and night until it falls apart or she grows out of it and has to find a new kirtle.

I went back to the parlour for a bite of dinner with Lady Sarah. Olwen was waiting for us, and Sarah decided I hadn't been very good as a tiring woman, so after we ate, she had Olwen dress her all over again. But the good thing was that I managed to sneak a little time in my chamber to try out my new graphite pen. And so here I am, and this pen is a wonder of the world, for it never blots nor runs at all!

Mary Shelton has just come in from visiting Carmina, who has a terrible megrim, poor soul, and was not with us for dinner. “Penelope says there is to be a play tonight in honour of the Scottish Ambassadors!” Mary has just said excitedly. “And Her Majesty desires you to walk the dogs, Lady Grace.”

So, off I go.

Lady Sarah and Mary Shelton are painting their faces and readying themselves to see the play. I am ready now, so I have time to write in my daybooke.

I changed into my old hunting kirtle, put my graphite pens into the petticoat pocket, with my daybooke and some sugared almonds for Ellie, and then
ran on tiptoes downstairs and along the Painted Passage to the door to the Privy Garden, where a Chamberer was waiting with the dogs.