Rose Bride (27 page)

Virgil sat a moment longer in thought, then went swiftly after the physician, spurred by a sudden thought. ‘Master Greene?’

Master Greene turned in the corridor, frowning. ‘Yes?’

‘If a young woman suffered from such shortness of breath that she could barely leave her bed, and was fatigued by ordinary tasks, plagued by a feeling of sickness, and constantly pale,’ he said, listing Christina’s usual complaints, ‘how would you treat such a condition?’

The physician rubbed his chin. ‘Are the lips and fingertips sometimes tinged a faint blue?’

‘I have seen that once or twice, yes.’

‘Well then, I would prescribe bleeding first,’ Master Greene said firmly, ‘to excite the flow of the blood which governs the heart’s activities. And with every meal, a cup of strong coarse wine in which a bulb of fennel has been steeped overnight. To be repeated every three days over a month’s duration, and the results noted.’

Uncertain, Virgil hesitated. ‘When I was a scholar at Oxford, I recall a suggestion that a small amount of foxglove might strengthen a weakening heart.’

‘No, on no account should foxglove be introduced into the body!’ Master Greene shook his head vigorously. ‘It is a poison, and even the smallest amount can kill, as well you know.’ He put his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, his voice not unkind. ‘Remember your Hippocratic Oath, my friend.
Nec alicui medicamentum lethale propinabo
.’

‘
Nor shall I administer any deadly drug
 . . .’

Virgil nodded his agreement, and put that dangerous idea aside. He had thought perhaps to alleviate Christina’s breathlessness with a mild infusion of foxglove, which in small doses had been rumoured at university to hold undiscovered properties. But his master was right; the foxglove was a powerful poison, and he dared not risk killing her with too strong a dose.

‘Thank you, Master Greene. Your advice is excellent, as always.’

It was early March and the weather was no longer so chilly, much to everyone’s relief, for it had been a bad winter. After the feast, the tables and long benches were pushed back to make room for dancing. The king led out the queen to a stately measure, and everyone applauded politely, though the king still limped after his jousting fall the year before, and the queen danced like a wooden puppet, both her face and her limbs stiff.

Margerie looked at the queen with new eyes. There had been rumours that she was with child, but no formal announcement had yet been made. The court waited eagerly for news, and wagers were being placed on the likely month of birth, many jesting that the especially cold winter they had suffered would bring a crop of swollen bellies that summer.

Nor would those ladies be alone, she thought grimly, resisting the urge to drop her hand to her own belly. There was no swelling yet to indicate her shame. But she had missed her monthly courses some weeks ago now, and had begun to feel sick and light-headed on rising.

At first she had refused to believe the signs, telling herself it was simply nerves or that she had miscounted. But the days had stretched on with no sign of blood, and eventually she had conceded the truth: she was with child by Virgil Elton.

She was ruined, of course. To act the wanton behind closed doors was one thing; quite another to flaunt a swollen belly about the royal court.

Ruined twice over. It was quite ironic.

But she would not drag the doctor down into her hellish disgrace. None need know the child was Virgil’s, for everyone at the court believed her to be another man’s mistress. It would be unfair to ask Munro to acknowledge the child as his bastard, when they both knew such a thing to be impossible. But perhaps his lordship would at least keep to their agreement and allow her to retire discreetly to the country for her confinement, even though a twelvemonth had not yet passed since the start of their ‘affair’.

It would be a cold and lonely existence, returning to a life spent hiding and in disgrace. But at least she would have Virgil’s babe to comfort her in her solitude.

How long before she must leave court? Another month, perhaps? Any longer and her shame would begin to show.

Queen Jane herself looked pale and sombre in a high-necked gown of black velvet, and had barely picked at her food tonight at high table, while the king had feasted with his customary good appetite, laughing with gusto as they were entertained by a troupe of Cornish mummers.

As soon as the king and queen had taken their seats on the dais, the musicians struck up a more lively tune. The courtiers began to cavort instead, flirtatious, light on their toes, rich silken bodices brushing fine doublets, their feet keeping time to the lilting hautboys and the tabor.

Someone sidled up behind Margerie while she watched them dance, her mind possessed by dark imaginings . . .

‘A penny for your thought,’ Kate Langley murmured in her ear, smiling when Margerie turned, startled out of her reverie. ‘You were far away then, my love. In the arms of one Master Elton, perhaps?’

‘Don’t!’ Margerie looked back at the dancers, her face carefully blank. ‘He is not for me, and you know it.’

‘I know no such thing. But I do know you will not be Lord Munro’s lover much longer.’

Shaken, Margerie stared at her friend. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I have heard whispers this past sennight about Lord Munro and a certain young Alice Holsworthy, new come to court to serve the queen as one of her maids of honour. A wealthy girl and of high birth, but too pious by half. In Queen Katherine’s reign, she would have made an excellent nun.’

Kate looked at her with satisfaction, nodding as she saw the realisation dawn on Margerie’s face. ‘Yes, their families are in agreement, and they are soon to be betrothed. His lordship will make the announcement any day now. He waits merely for the queen to give her permission.’

‘I did not know.’

Kate looked at her closely, perhaps wondering if Margerie was hurt by this news, for she did not know that she had been Munro’s mistress in name only. ‘I hope Munro offers you something in exchange for your good service to him,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘Something worth the loss of your last shred of reputation?’

She knew she ought to tell Kate the whole truth: not just about Munro, but the babe growing in her womb. And she would soon. For now she needed to hug that secret to herself, to dwell on her hurts in silence. And to own the truth, she dreaded seeing the inevitable look of dismay and condemnation on Kate’s face.

Though she deserved to be condemned for this pregnancy. She had behaved foolishly, and she knew it.

‘A home for life, Kate,’ she whispered back. ‘That is what Munro will give me. A goodly estate, and the wherewithal to keep myself alive there, without need of employment at the court.’ Her eyes sought her friend’s face, looking for reassurance. ‘Does that make me a whore?’

‘Aye, my love, but a very well-paid one.’ Kate slipped an arm about her waist, her feigned laughter light and amused. ‘Only do not look so stricken. Keep smiling. You do not want anyone to guess what we are saying.’

Margerie stood straight, forcing a smile to her lips for the sake of pretence. So young Munro was soon to be married, which meant his need for pretence was at an end. But all might still be well. If Lord Munro kept his side of their bargain . . .

Her smile faded a moment later when she saw Munro himself, looking about with a bored air. She had thought him still in the country, visiting friends. He had not told her he would be back at court so soon. She tried not to let her dismay show. Did this mean she would be required to spend another night with him as his false mistress? Her heart was so fragile these days, she did not think she could bear much more pretence.

But to her relief Munro did not appear to have noticed her. Instead he hailed Thomas Wyatt, a bold courtier known for his verses and his penchant for the company of ladies, and the two men stood in conversation, only a few feet away.

‘Thomas Wyatt is looking less grey-faced these days,’ Kate whispered, looking in that direction too. ‘They say when he was released from the tower, he could barely walk, his torturers had gone at him so hard. Yet he swore throughout his questioning that he had never lain with Queen Anne. Nor so much as kissed her lips in jest.’

‘The others denied it too. That did not save them, God rest their souls.’ Margerie crossed herself, thinking of those dark, horrifying days the previous spring when Anne Boleyn had lost her head and the court had lived for weeks under the shadow of that terror. ‘I am surprised Master Wyatt did not go to the block.’

‘There was a letter sent to Thomas Cromwell, they say.’ Kate’s lips were barely moving, her voice a thread of sound. ‘After that, they left Wyatt alone, except to insist he return home to his estranged wife after his release, and make all well between them.’

‘He is a skilled diplomat, of course,’ Margerie pointed out. ‘He would have been a loss to the throne if he had been executed with the rest of those accused.’

‘Such considerations have never stopped the king before.’ Kate shrugged. ‘I do not know from whom that letter came, nor what it contained. But I would wager some kind of promise was made in exchange for Wyatt’s life.’

‘But that would have been a very dangerous thing to do. Why would anyone risk themselves for Wyatt, but not the others?’

‘You might as well ask why does the sun shine or the rain fall? There is always someone powerful to champion a poet. For without poetry, what are we?’

The two men were wandering towards them now, still talking, Wyatt charming and handsome, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, his dark beard trimmed to a point in the latest fashion, and Munro splendidly attired as always, a gold chain about his neck shown off by a black velvet doublet, his own beard worn boyishly short.

Suddenly Munro looked up and saw her.

His eyes narrowed on her face and he frowned, as though unhappy at this encounter. She felt a chill run through her and wondered what she could have done to offend her benefactor.

Munro hesitated before nodding his head in greeting. ‘Mistress Croft, Mistress Langley.’

‘Lord Munro,’ Margerie murmured, and both women curtseyed low. ‘Master Wyatt.’

Wyatt greeted Margerie again with cordial good humour, his eyes heavy-lidded as they lingered over her red hair, then he took Kate’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

‘Mistress Langley,’ Wyatt said smoothly, ‘it is good to see you again. You please a weary man’s eyes.’ He glanced across at the dancers, watching one or two of the younger women with a melancholy air. ‘There are not enough beauties at court these days.’

‘That is perhaps as well, Master Wyatt, for a new queen should always be the fairest.’

Kate was smiling, but there was a bite to her words. She had liked Queen Anne, Margerie remembered, and no doubt held it a fault that men like Wyatt had openly and recklessly flirted with the queen, leading in the end to her death.

‘Indeed,’ Thomas Wyatt said softly.

‘I heard you had returned from the country, though somewhat earlier than expected. Your wife, Elizabeth, is well?’

Wyatt’s gaze hardened on Kate’s face. ‘I thank you, yes,’ he said curtly, ‘my wife is well enough.’

With a curtsey so brief as to be an insult, Kate abruptly excused herself. ‘It hurts me to leave you, Margerie, but I have duties to attend to,’ and with that, she vanished into the crowd of courtiers. Margerie watched her go, somewhat astonished at her friend’s abrupt departure, and saw Wyatt’s dark gaze turn to follow her too. Had there been some intimacy between those two in the past? That would explain Kate’s hostility towards Wyatt after his involvement in Anne Boleyn’s trial.

Munro had been looking about the room again, as though avoiding Margerie’s eyes. Was he ashamed to be seen with his supposed mistress in public, she wondered?

Then his face changed, and he looked almost scared for a moment. ‘Mistress Holsworthy,’ he muttered under his breath, glancing at Margerie. ‘Forgive me, I must . . .’

Without further explanation, he dropped Wyatt’s arm and turned away, bowing instead to Alice Holsworthy, a soberly dressed young woman with pale fair hair beneath her neat hood, accompanied by an older woman in black, no doubt her widowed mother.

Alice Holsworthy paused and curtseyed to her new suitor, smiling shyly. ‘Good evening, my lord.’

Their match must have been mutually agreed, Margerie thought, watching them with interest. For there was no animosity between the couple. Then Alice glanced curiously at Margerie and Wyatt, her mouth pursed, her small dark eyes almost black, and she curtseyed to them as well.

‘I know Master Wyatt,’ she said in a well-bred voice, ‘but not this lady. Do introduce us, my lord.’

There was a hard colour in Munro’s face now. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered, then steered his new lady hurriedly away to dance, leaving Margerie alone with the poet.

He is ashamed by our association, she realised, and felt ludicrously hurt, even though she had never been his lover. Was this how low she had sunk at court? To have become
persona non grata
?

Thomas Wyatt glanced at her shrewdly. ‘Permit me to fetch you a cup of wine, Mistress Croft. His lordship did not mean to offend you. He is a young man, and quite naturally loath for his mistress to meet his betrothed, that is all. I believe the match is important to his mother.’