Kissed by Shadows (2 page)

She turned as the door opened behind her. Stuart entered smiling. “Ah, how well we complement each other,” he said approvingly as he took in her costume. “I tried to guess what gown you would choose and I see I guessed right.”

The smile was a facade, Pippa thought. Both the smile and the charming tone. She couldn't tell whether it was simply anger at their earlier argument that lay beneath the surface or something deeper.

However, she offered a responding smile. Their shared pleasure in the luxurious materials and colors of dress had been another factor in their early attraction for each other. Stuart had always gone to great pains to ensure that his own garments complemented hers. This morning was no exception. His doublet of topaz velvet, the sleeves slashed to reveal the lining of dark blue satin that matched his striped hose, was a perfect foil for her own turquoise and rose.

He came over to her and delicately brushed a crumb from her lip before taking her hand and lightly kissing the corner of her mouth. He whispered, mindful of Martha's presence in the chamber, “Forgive me for last night, Pippa dearest. I was overdrunk and careless of your needs.”

She could allow herself to believe him; it was so much easier than dealing with her own doubts and questions. His smile now seemed warm and genuine, and she knew well how fond he was of wine and how much he and his cronies could drink over the card table.

“I would not care for it to happen again,” she said, her own voice low.

He bent his head to kiss her again, and she didn't see the shadow that passed across his eyes.

He said brightly, “Come, madam wife, we are bidden to the queen's presence chamber. I understand the Spaniards are to arrange a tourney of canes later this morning and we are all to take part. Poor sport, I think it, but we must be courteous to our guests.”

There was a brittle edge to his voice that Pippa found a little puzzling, but then she dismissed it. The Spaniards' preference for the tame jousting with canes rather than lances was a matter of ridicule and scorn among the Englishmen at the court and an athlete of Stuart's standard would be particularly contemptuous. But, of course, Philip of Spain was the queen's husband and the vagaries of his retinue must be smiled upon.

They left the chamber arm in arm. The wide corridor outside was thronged with servants and courtiers. The antechamber to the queen's presence chamber was even more closely crowded, but way was made for Lord and Lady Nielson. They passed into the queen's presence and the double doors closed behind them.

Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, stood beside the queen's chair under the cloth of estate. Philip of Spain, however, was absent from the chamber, although the chattering of his retinue resembled to Pippa's ears the sound of starlings giving forth in foreign tongue.

The queen did not immediately deign to recognize the newcomers. Pippa knew that this galled Stuart, however he had no choice but to bite his tongue since his wife was no longer in Mary's favor. Pippa's family had stood by Mary during her troubles and the queen remained certain of their loyalty, but when Pippa had chosen to enter Elizabeth's service it had been seen, however unreasonably, as a defection. She was no longer trusted by the queen or the Privy Council, tolerated only because of her husband and her family.

Pippa was not a whit put out by this withdrawal of favor, although she was sorry that it pained her husband. She looked around the small group in the chamber.

“Oh, there's Robin.” She dropped her husband's arm and made a move towards her stepbrother, who stood to one side of the chamber, slightly apart from the main group.

Stuart seized her forearm and spoke in an urgent undertone. “Pippa, you have not yet been acknowledged by Her Highness. You cannot greet anyone else first.”

It was true and Pippa yielded with a sigh. They stood ignored for what seemed a very long time before a chamberlain approached and indicated that the queen's grace would receive them.

Mary smiled upon Lord Nielson and frowned upon his wife. “You are in good health, Lady Nielson?” Her tone was distant.

“Yes, indeed, I thank you, Your Grace.” Pippa remained in a deep curtsy, head bowed in submission.

“You may rise.”

Pippa rose, her skirts settling in graceful folds around her. She thought that Mary was regarding her with a closer scrutiny than ordinarily.

“Do you have any correspondence with the Lady Elizabeth?”

“It has not been sanctioned by Your Grace,” Pippa responded in a tone that carefully expressed puzzlement at the question.

Mary glanced sideways at Renard, one eyebrow slightly lifted. “No,” she said with a dismissive gesture. “And neither will it be.”

Pippa curtsied again and moved backwards out of the royal presence. Her husband, however, did not accompany her. Mary had retained his presence with a lifted finger.

“You will take part in the cane play this afternoon, Lord Nielson. The king is most anxious to try his skills against such a lauded opponent.”

“It will be my honor to match canes with His Majesty, madam.”

Mary nodded, and hesitated for a moment before saying, “You will ensure, I trust, that His Majesty's opponents understand the intricacies and skill required in the Spanish joust.”

A game of breaking sticks,
Stuart reflected even as he covertly assured his queen that no hint of English contempt would mar the Spaniards' pleasure.

Pippa, now free, hurried to where her stepbrother stood with the French ambassador, the disgruntled and now disfavored Antoine de Noailles. But even as she reached her quarry her eye was caught by a man standing alone against the narrow door behind the queen's chair. The door that led to the queen's privy chamber.

He was leaning his shoulders against the door. He wore a short cloak of dark gray silk over a plain white shirt and dove-colored doublet. His shirt was open at the neck, strangely casual in this formal setting. She gazed at his bare throat, and her skin prickled. Her gaze moved up, and then she was aware only of his eyes. Wide, deep-set, clearest gray.

Her step faltered. Where had she seen those eyes before? How could a stranger's throat seem so familiar? A curious dread crept up her spine, tendrils of fearful confusion tangled her mind, as if she were fighting her way up from a nightmare.

She had never seen him before. She
knew
she had never seen him before. His face, quite apart from the piercing clarity of his eyes, would be impossible to forget. It was strangely crumpled, the features haphazardly put together, and yet there was the oddest symmetry to it.

He didn't stir from his negligent pose against the door, but he looked at her and then he smiled. It was a smile of such surpassing sweetness, of such compassion, of such complete reassurance, that Pippa had to restrain herself from rushing across the chamber to his side.

She stood, her feet refusing to resume their path towards Robin. Bewilderment swamped her. His smile and the dread that had settled upon her shoulders like an almost palpable cloud were connected in some way, and yet how could they be?

“Pippa?” Robin's voice snapped her free. She glanced with relief at the familiar, beloved, untidy figure of her stepbrother.

“I was coming to find you.” Her voice sounded squeaky.

“You looked like Lot's wife,” he observed. “Turned to a pillar of salt. What did you see over your shoulder?”

“Nothing,” she said, shrugging as if she could cast off the shadow. “I just find Mary's disfavor so uncomfortable. And I know it distresses Stuart.”

Robin looked at her closely. It was a reasonable enough explanation for anyone but Pippa. But he knew full well that Pippa did not find her present disfavor in the least uncomfortable, it merely confirmed her in her loyalty to Elizabeth.

“You look peaky,” he observed with some concern. “Are you unwell?”

“No . . . no, not in the least,” she returned firmly.

Experience told Robin that he'd get nowhere by pressing. “I have news from Pen,” he said. “Or at least, the ambassador has a dispatch from Owen and Pen has added a few sentences.”

“Oh, show me at once.” Pippa turned herself away from the man by the door. She found she needed to turn her whole body away, and felt her movements to be stilted, like the articulated limbs of one of her nephew's toy soldiers. And even with her back to him as she approached the French ambassador in the window embrasure, she could feel his eyes upon her.

“Lady Pippa.” Antoine de Noailles addressed her with the casual familiarity of an old friend. “I have here a dispatch from Chevalier d'Arcy. Your sister encloses a few words for you.”

“My thanks.” Pippa almost snatched the parchment from his hands in her eagerness. And then involuntarily she glanced once more over her shoulder before immediately unfolding the sheet.

“Who is that man by the door, Robin?” Her voice was satisfactorily casual, she thought, as she perused her sister's words, for the moment not taking them in.

Robin looked across the chamber. “You mean Ashton?”

“I'd hardly ask you his name if I knew it already,” she retorted in the sparring manner customary between brother and sister. “The man in the dark gray cloak, over by the door to the privy chamber. He just seems familiar, but I don't recall seeing him before.”

“Oh, that's Lionel Ashton, Lady Pippa.” The French ambassador supplied the information. “He has close ties to the queen's husband, although he's by birth an Englishman. He's known for his subtlety, a man who works best from the sidelines. He does not in general frequent the court so it's not surprising that you have not seen him before.”

The ambassador scratched his nose as he continued to look across the chamber. “I wonder what has brought him out in the open now. I believe his task has been to smooth discreetly the path between the English and Spanish courts. But perhaps the ill-feeling has grown so strong it requires more direct mediation.” This last was said in sardonic tones. There was no love lost between the French and Spanish embassies.

“I see.”

An Englishman allied with the Spaniards.
How could he possibly be familiar? She must be imagining things, Pippa decided. She was not in general subject to extravagant flights of fancy. It probably had something to do with the headache powder, which, thank God, was beginning to work.

Pippa determinedly reread her sister's letter. “Oh, this is wonderful. Pen says that they are hoping to be in England by Christmas.”

Robin's face split into a beam of delight. “We must send word to Lady Guinevere and my father.”

“Right away,” Pippa said. “I'll do it now.” She looked towards the queen's chair, wondering if she could slip discreetly from the presence chamber. She had, after all, been dismissed from the queen's immediate presence.

Stuart was in conversation with Ruy Gomez, Philip of Spain's closest friend and advisor. Pippa thought that her husband seemed ill at ease, his full mouth unusually taut, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. As if aware of her regard he turned to look at her. His expression was strained and he didn't acknowledge her smile. Ruy Gomez did not even glance in her direction. His handsome angular and swarthy countenance remained calm, cool as if he were in an ice house instead of this sweltering crowded chamber on an August morning.

As Pippa watched, Stuart left Ruy Gomez and crossed the chamber to where Lionel Ashton stood. He seemed no more comfortable in the Englishman's company than he had in the Spaniard's, Pippa thought, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. Without conscious intention she strolled around the chamber towards the two men standing behind the queen's chair.

She acknowledged acquaintances as she passed, paused for a word or a greeting when appropriate, aware of a fixed smile upon her face. To her annoyance Stuart moved away from Ashton before she could reach them and the opportunity for an introduction was lost.

Lionel Ashton, however, remained in his place. He did not move as she reached him, indeed seemed unaware of her. Then, as she made to pass him, he laid a hand on her arm. It was as quickly removed. He murmured, “Your pardon,” and resumed his calm appraisal of the chamber.

Pippa felt the warm, light touch of his hand through the fine silk of her tight sleeve.

It was a touch her skin knew.

Two

“You have talked with Lord Kendal?” Noailles asked Robin in an undertone. He was obliged to repeat the question when his companion did not immediately respond.

Robin was watching his stepsister's roundabout departure from the presence chamber. She looked strained, heavy-eyed. He saw her pause by Lionel Ashton, saw the light brushing touch of the man's hand on Pippa's sleeve.

Strange that she should have been so interested in a man whose attendance at court was more of a shadow than a substantial presence. Robin had seen Ashton only three times since the man had arrived with Philip in July and he knew nothing of his personal circumstances. Of his business here he knew only what the French ambassador had just told him.

“Your pardon, sir.” He became aware of the ambassador's question and turned his full attention to Noailles.

“Your father,” the ambassador said, moving farther back into the window embrasure. “Did you talk with him as yet?”

“Yes,” Robin replied in the same undertone. “But he will make no move against the queen, although he mislikes the Spanish marriage as much as anyone. He says he supports Elizabeth as heir to the throne, but in the event that the queen has a child then he will support the queen's offspring.”

The French ambassador pursed his lips. “There are too many honorable men of your father's thinking,” he muttered. “Integrity and loyalty are fair enough in their place, but do Englishmen really wish to become a dependency of Spain? Colonized like the Netherlands? Ruled by the Inquisition?”

Robin shrugged slightly. “They do not like it, but they saw what happened to those who would oppose it. Even now the skeletons of those who supported Wyatt in his rebellion hang upon the gibbets in reminder.”

“Surely 'tis not fear that keeps the Earl of Kendal from open opposition?” Noailles muttered.

Robin's color rose. “You would not question my father's courage!”

“No . . . no,” the ambassador said hastily. “Hardly. But without the support of men like Lord Kendal, Lady Elizabeth's situation is perilous.”

“I know it.” Robin's dour gaze roamed the chamber thronged with the Spaniards, haughty and arrogant in their rich plumage. Their English counterparts seemed dull in comparison. His eye fell on Stuart Nielson. He stood now to one side of Ruy Gomez and Simon Renard, and to Robin it seemed that Stuart was in attendance on the two Spaniards, awaiting their pleasure in some way.

He was aware of a flash of anger that a man of Stuart Nielson's lineage, courtly charms, and prowess at arms should appear as a supplicant, somehow subservient to the interlopers. Forgetting Noailles, he took a step forward, intent on disrupting the disagreeable scene by drawing Pippa's husband into conversation.

“So, Robin, have you given thought to what we discussed?” The ambassador laid a detaining hand on Robin's brocade sleeve.

Reluctantly Robin turned back to Noailles. “Aye,” he said, his expression grave, his vivid blue eyes holding the other's gaze steadily. “I will act as your courier to the Lady Elizabeth.”

Noailles nodded briefly. “Then we should not be seen overlong in conversation. I bid you good day, Lord Robin.” He bowed and moved away.

Robin looked again for his brother-in-law but he was no longer in the chamber. The heat was oppressive and there was a heavy scent of perfume in the air, although it did little to combat the odor of flesh perspiring in heavy velvets and brocaded satins.

Robin leaned out of the window and took a deep breath of the summer air. It was not as fresh as it might be either. There had been no rain for days and from the city arose a reeking miasma of rotting garbage. The sluggish river stank of decaying mud and refuse, and the green slime coating its banks. It would be a pleasure to leave London and take Noailles's letters to Elizabeth at Woodstock. Robin turned back to the presence chamber and saw Simon Renard making his way purposefully towards him. He pretended not to notice his approach and with the air of one on important and urgent business made for the door before Renard could reach him.

His errand to Elizabeth would carry considerable risk, as the lady was forbidden to send or receive any communications, or to receive visitors who were not approved by her custodian, Sir Henry Bedingfield. However, Robin knew of several ways to circumvent the gaoler's precautions.

Pippa would be glad of the opportunity to write privately to Elizabeth, he reflected as he strode down the great staircase of the palace. Once he'd arranged the details of his departure he'd tell her. She would have to keep her correspondence a secret from her husband, but Robin didn't think that that scruple would trouble Pippa unduly. Stuart knew where her loyalties lay, she had after all, when only a bride, shared Elizabeth's imprisonment in the Tower.

He stepped out onto the wide terrace that ran the length of the palace, facing the river. The sweep of weeping willows along the bank offered the promise of a cool green shade and a degree of peace from the crowded gardens and chambers of the palace.

Robin made his way across the lawn, his head down as he debated the best way to make his approach to Elizabeth. But his clear thinking was disturbed by a sense of unease. He worried at it for a while, like a terrier with a rat, until he identified it.

Pippa. Pippa was not herself. She hadn't been for the last three or four weeks, now he came to think of it. Perhaps she was pregnant. But she wouldn't keep that to herself. She certainly wouldn't keep it from her husband and Stuart showed no signs of a joyful father-to-be.

The sunless ground beneath the willows was damp and smelled loamy. It was a pleasant smell, only faintly corrupted by the river mud. A bed of pink marsh mallows clustered thickly along the edge of the riverbank and Robin was suddenly reminded of a day long ago when he and Pen had walked through the meadows of her mother's house in Derbyshire and he had picked a bouquet of marsh mallows for her.

He had been twelve years old, Pen ten. They had held hands sticky with heat and emotion and had walked in tongue-tied silence all afternoon.

He smiled now at the memory. He adored all three of his sisters; Anna, his little half sister, and Pen and Pippa, his stepsisters. But Pen's place in his heart was very special. That childhood infatuation had given way after their parents' marriage to the deep abiding love of unbreakable friendship, and he missed her now. She had been in France with her husband and their four children of assorted parentage for almost a year.

But in December, by Christmas, they would be back. He bent to pick one of the pink flowers at his feet.

There came a sudden shout of alarm and then the desperate flapping of a flock of mallards as they rose as one body from the river and skimmed over its surface with hoarse cries.

“Madre de dios!”
The exclamation was followed by a string of Spanish that was beyond Robin's comprehension. The voice, however, was distinctly female.

He stepped to the edge of the bank and peered down at the river some three feet below. A flat-bottomed punt had driven itself, or been driven, prow first into the soft mud of the bank. The punt's occupant was struggling with the pole to push the craft free but with little success.

“How did that happen?” Robin inquired, squatting on the bank.

To his surprise the young woman spoke in perfect English with just the faintest accent. “I don't know. I was trying to steer it into the shallows and a big barge went by and then a great wave came behind and . . . well, see for yourself.”

She gave an expressive shrug as she leaned forward again in renewed effort to free her boat from the mud. The pole in her hand stuck in the mud. She yanked on it with another string of Spanish. It came loose with a great sucking sound and with such sudden violence that she toppled backwards and lay in an ungainly tangle of stockinged legs and rather dirty petticoats.

Robin couldn't help laughing although he knew it was unkind. The unlucky sailor scrambled to her knees and glared at him. “You think it is funny, you? I tell you it is not funny. Why can you not be gallant and help me?”

Robin looked down at his finely tooled leather boots, his cranberry-colored kidskin hose. He regarded the muddy river with disfavor. He looked at the young woman as she knelt in the punt.

A tangle of black hair roughly bound in a kerchief that was already coming loose, eyes the color of midnight, creamy skin smeared with mud and tinged pink with annoyance and frustration.

He jumped down into the mud, resignedly hearing the squelch of his boots as he sank to his midcalves. He leaned on the prow of the punt and heaved it backwards.

“Harder . . . harder!” the girl in the punt exhorted.

She
was
a girl, not a woman, Robin thought from the distance of his own thirty years, as he put his shoulder into the work. “I can do this without your encouragement,” he declared acidly. “And sit still. Every time you move, the balance shifts.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, all contrition, and sat on the thwart, hands folded demurely in her lap.

Robin paused, panting slightly. “'Tis no good,” he said. “'Tis stuck fast. When the tide comes in it will float free.”

“But when will that be?” The girl sounded shocked. “I cannot sit here and wait. Someone will find me.”

“I'd have thought that an outcome to be desired,” Robin observed, wiping his sweating brow with his handkerchief.

“Well, it's not,” she said. “I must return home before Dona Bernardina wakes from her siesta. I just wished to go out by myself for an hour.”

She sounded so distressed Robin lost his desire to tease. “Perhaps if you get out of the punt it'll be easier for me to free it,” he suggested. “I could lift you onto the bank.”

“I did not think I was
so
heavy,” the girl said with a frown. “But if you think it will make a difference . . .” She stood up, holding out her hands.

Robin caught her around the waist and lifted her unceremoniously onto the bank. She was actually no light weight, but he had spent too much time in the company of his sisters to venture a comment on the normality of puppy fat.

“So, where does your duenna lay her head?” he inquired, leaning on the pole, regarding the girl quizzically.

“Up the river a little way.” The girl gestured in the direction of the Savoy Palace. “I found the boat moored along the bank while I was walking and thought to take it just for half an hour. But now . . . Oh, can you not free it?” Her voice rose with sudden agitation.

“Yes, I'm certain I can,” Robin reassured. “But tell me your name. Where are your parents?”

It was clear to him that she must have arrived in England as part of the contingent of Spaniards. It was clear she was not a servant. Spanish servants didn't have duennas, and neither did they speak near-perfect English. But he had never seen her at court, and he thought, despite her present disarray, that he would have remembered such a face.

“You will not tell anyone?” She regarded him closely.

He shook his head. “No, but I will see you safely home.”

She seemed to consider, then said with a touch of the Spanish arrogance that so annoyed him among the courtiers, “I am Dona Luisa de los Velez of the house of Mendoza.”

“Ah,” Robin said. The house of Mendoza was one of the oldest and greatest in Spain. He frowned suddenly. “There are no members of the Mendoza family here at court.”

“No,” she agreed.

Something in her expression made him drop the pole and join her on the bank. He sat beside her. “How old are you, Dona Luisa?”

“I have eighteen summers.”

A woman then, he thought. Not really a girl. “You have a husband?”

She shook her head. “I was betrothed to the Duke of Vasquez, but then he died of the pox when he was thirteen. Then they would have me wed the Marques de Perez, but I refused.”

Restlessly her fingers trawled through the bright pink flowers at her side. “I said I would rather take the veil. He is an old man, past fifty. I would not let him touch me.”

Robin said nothing. He picked marsh mallows, threading them together in a chain as he remembered seeing Pen and Pippa do.

“My father died a few months ago. He left me to the guardianship of Don Lionel Ashton.”

At the name Robin's fingers stilled. “An Englishman?” he queried softly.

“An old and trusted friend of my father's. I have known him all my life. My mother relies on him absolutely. It was decided that he would bring me to England when he came with Philip and that I would thus be diverted.” A note of irony entered her voice but Robin noticed that her fingers quivered slightly among the flowers.

“And are you?”

“How can I be diverted when I am kept immured in a stone mansion on the river, constantly under the eye of Bernardina. I
have
no diversions.”

“Why does your guardian not bring you to court? You are of an age.”

Luisa did not immediately reply. After a minute she said, “'Tis not that Don Ashton is neglectful or unkind, indeed he is not, but I think he's too busy to think of me. He is not often at court himself, and whenever I ask him if I might not meet some of the young ladies there he says he does not know any.”