The Lady Series (12 page)

“Nan,” Mary said, patting her arm, “don’t panic over it. It won’t be as bad as that.”

Mary was wrong. This would be worse than enduring Deyville’s attack. Why, she’d die of embarrassment were she to stumble before all the court. Everyone would think her graceless and fumble-footed.

Master Christopher caught her bruised hand with its tattered glove and pressed it to his chest. Anne felt his pulse against her fingers, while her skin tingled where his hand held hers. He smiled that slow smile of his.

“Mistress, anyone who can survive an encounter with a maid-eating hawthorn can weather with ease something as mild as a dancing lesson,” he told her, then once more tucked her hand into the crook of his arm to lead her into the meadow and certain shame.

Kit hoped his assurances eased Mistress Anne’s mind, for they did nothing to change his own resentment over this impromptu lesson. With the certainty that a single misstep meant he’d be Mistress Anne’s tutor no more, he led the two young women into the meadow.

At this end of the field stood the wagons and horses that had carried them to the meadow. Nearby lay what had once been a fine, straight tree. Now stripped of branches and bark, and wrapped in ribbons, it waited to become the morrow’s maypole. Alongside it was a full wagonload of birch and sycamore boughs.

The pasteboard giants lay nearby. Gog and Magog they were, each nigh on as tall as a house when manned. Right now their fearsome painted faces were turned into the sod. By custom they preceded the queen’s party to Greenwich at the Maying’s end.

Would that it were already time for departure. Kit shot a hopeful glance into the sky. The sun yet held its own, although clouds billowed in the east. Aye, there’d be rain, but not soon enough to save him.

Beyond the wagons the meadow opened up, its expanse awash in sound and motion. Folk sat about upon the grass, gamed or strolled, enjoying the fine day. Music rose from not one but three flower-bedecked wagons, each group of musicians vying to outplay the others. Near one, a stomping, shouting ring of folk turned, the gentlemen in their finery dancing shoulder to shoulder with servants just as vibrant in their brightly dyed worsteds. Screaming with joy, royal pages forgot their status to run with the grooms and scullery lads, whilst a full pack of tiny lapdogs chased them, nipping at their heels.

Bertie appeared out of the crowd. Dressed in his better blue doublet and brown breeches, with sprigs of hawthorn thrust into his hatband, Kit’s servant looked handsome indeed. He sent but the briefest glance toward his master then began to carve his way through the crowd toward Mistress Anne’s governess.

The intensity on his face surprised Kit. Not even when three lovely young things tittered, their voices rising as they sought to attract his attention, did Bertie waver. Kit glanced over his shoulder at the frail Patience Watkins. Her shoulders were bent, her head bowed. Deyville’s attack might have failed to quell Mistress Anne’s spirit, but it had broken the spine of her servant’s pomposity. It seemed almost a shame to set Bertie on her now, when her resistance was so low. Still, Kit supposed she could say nay as well—if not better—than any other woman.

Onward, Kit led the gentle maids, steadily nearing the queen’s tent at the field’s opposite end. The royal construct was made of fabric so heavily decorated with flowers and leafy branches that it seemed a woodland bower. This illusion was aided by the trilling of caged songbirds that hung from the tent’s supports.

There was but a single small chair beneath the bower’s canopy. Given the day’s relaxed atmosphere, when the highest nobles were content to take their ease upon the ground or on small stools as they drank summer into being from their bejeweled cups, this wee seat was enough to satisfy the royal need to be lifted above all others. At the moment the chair was empty.

Elizabeth danced with Sir Thomas Heneage before her musicians’ cart. The couple was encircled by royal admirers and sycophants, alike. It was a quick tune, requiring much fast and furious footwork. The queen’s yellow skirts flashed as she moved. The gems on her white bodice glinted, their color nearly as fiery as her hair. Beneath the narrow brim of her brown hat Elizabeth’s face was alive with joy, her dark eyes sparkling.

“I want to watch,” Mistress Mary cried out in pleasure, already dragging Mistress Anne along beside her. “Faster,” she pleaded.

Kit stretched his legs to keep pace with the maids then glanced over his shoulder. Mistress Anne’s servant now trailed far behind them. The servant’s gaze was fixed on her mistress’s back, her brow furrowed in concern. Bertie circled in upon her like an eagle on carrion.

Once Kit and the gentlewomen reached the crowd around the queen, he used either a look or a shove depending on the man to cut a swath through the watchers. At last the three of them stood behind Leicester’s group. Where Kit dared not trespass, Mary didn’t hesitate. With a gay laugh she inched her way between the earl’s men, going with ease where Kit’s passage would have provoked violence. Once at the crowd’s forefront, Mary clapped to the song’s beat.

“La Volta!” she cried along with all the rest.

This was the cue for Sir Thomas to lift his queen by her waist, turning as he did so. Held aloft, her hands braced upon her partner’s shoulders, Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. Instant appreciation fired within Kit, his resentment forgotten for the moment.

No matter what a man said of her politics, England’s monarch was every inch as fascinating as any woman he knew.

Almost any woman. He looked back at Mistress Anne.

Now that Mary was no longer at her side, Anne had slipped as close to him as her hat brim would allow. Was it her dread over their forthcoming ordeal that brought her near, or a liking for him? Either way, there was great pleasure to be had in her nearness.

In that instant, she raised her head to look up at him. When she saw him watching her, she tried to smile, the motion of her mouth faint. A crease marked the perfection of her brow.

Kit almost sighed. It was dread, then. Oddly her worry over their upcoming dance worked to ease his own resentment.

The musicians brought the dance to a halt with a flourish of sound. The crowd called La Volta once more, indicating Sir Thomas should lift his queen for the last time.

Both Kit and Mistress Anne watched as the yet gasping Elizabeth laughed and curtsied to handsome Heneage. The crowd burst into applause. Together the twosome turned once about to accept this worthy accolade. Calls for another dance were met with a shake of the royal head.

“Nay,” the queen said, “better that another brace take the field and do their worst.”

Plying her fan with vigor, Elizabeth’s gaze darted ever so briefly toward Kit. The look was enough to both acknowledge his presence and warn him to await her forthcoming command. With that, England’s queen retreated to her tent followed by her faithful Mary.

Kit looked past his retreating monarch to see who she’d called to her side to observe this lesson. Stiff and still, the earl of Arundel sat near the tent’s back, his thin face set in harsh lines. Like Nick, this nobleman yet clung fervently to the Roman faith. Not far from Arundel sat his deceased daughter’s husband, Norfolk. The duke, a man only a few years older than Kit, looked unusually tense. Beneath the fringe of dark hair crossing his wide brow, Norfolk’s dark eyes darted as he glanced about him, a coney trying to escape the ever nearing hounds.

Worried wasn’t all Kit would be feeling were he the duke. Despite that Elizabeth directly forbade England’s highest-ranking nobleman to have any further concourse with the imprisoned Scots queen, rumor said Norfolk persisted with his wedding plans.

A quiet breath huffed from Kit. Since Norfolk was too honorable a man to be a betrayer, this made him a fool. Should Norfolk dare wed, one queen or the other was sure to have his head.

Leicester occupied the space nearest his royal mistress. Although Kit knew Norfolk and the earl were no longer sworn enemies it was startling to see them sitting so near to each other.

Accepting the praise of her nobles with a gracious nod, Elizabeth settled into her chair. After fetching her royal mistress a cup of wine, Mary retreated to stand behind the queen’s small chair. She smiled at Kit.

As her gaze had warned him, Elizabeth nodded in Kit’s direction. At just that moment, her musicians pealed into another quick tune. All around Kit the crowd yelled in approval, surging forward as everyone hurried to join the ring dance.

Mistress Anne yelped as a man jostled her with enough force to knock her hat from her head. As she staggered to the side Kit caught his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace to steady her, her back to his front. His body came to violent life with the feeling of her in his arms.

Her head fit nicely into the curve of his throat. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts above her bodice. With her shirt parted, the sun gleamed against her bared skin. Dear God, but he wanted to touch his lips to her flesh.

“My pardon, Master Hollier,” said a fiery-haired gentleman, a man Kit knew to be attached to the earl of Northumberland. The rough-hewn northerner held Mistress Anne’s now ruined hat in his hand. “I meant no harm to Mistress Blanchemain.”

The man shuffled nervously, no doubt hoping his apology would stave off any insult Kit might take. He needn’t have worried. Kit was too busy taming his desires to attack some hapless stranger.

“No harm is done,” Mistress Anne replied for them both. She stepped out of Kit’s arms to take the battered remains of her headgear from the man then gave it a sad shake. “At least not to me.”

“No matter,” Kit said, trying to smile. “It’s time to remove it, for our lesson is at hand.”

Mistress Anne groaned, her eyes softening in pleading. “Do you think we could disappear into the crowd?”

This made Kit laugh. In the arms of a rapist she fought like a tiger but a dancing lesson left her knees knocking. “Nay, we cannot. Our royal mistress sees us and awaits our approach.”

With that, Kit extended his arm in the formal manner required to lead a woman into Elizabeth’s presence. Usually, when he didn’t know his partner very well, there was an awkward step or two as he sought to match his pace to his companion’s. Not so with Mistress Anne. From their very first step their movements flowed with startling ease. This boded well for their ability to dance together. As if they’d practiced for years, he and Mistress Anne knelt as one before their monarch.

“Ah, there you are,” Elizabeth cried out as if she’d not seen them until that instant. Her voice was still breathless with exertion. “Mistress Anne, how pleased you must be that We will oversee your first lesson.”

“Madame, I am overwhelmed that you should spend your precious interest on one so unworthy,” Mistress Anne replied. If her voice was filled with reverential awe, beneath it hid the hint that it did the queen’s image no good to take on the menial task of her maid’s dancing lesson.

Kit blinked and fought his laugh. Lord, she was a bold thing. Mistress Anne’s effort was wasted. So enamored was Elizabeth of dancing, Kit doubted it was possible for her to imagine anyone could dread the activity.

“As you should be,” the queen agreed blithely, proving Kit correct. “So Master Hollier,” she continued, “what is an appropriate first lesson?”

Here was an easy test to pass. “I think something slow with simple steps. What of a Pavane, Madame?”

Well pleased by so sensible an answer, Elizabeth smiled and nodded. “A fine choice.”

She clapped her hands and the musicians left off playing as they waited on her queen’s command. The dancers looked to see what had caused this halt to their pleasure.

“We’ll have a slow tune,” Elizabeth called out, “but nothing deadly dull. A Pavane, something for one who has not danced before this day.”

Anne tensed. Lord help her, but did the queen have to announce her backward state to the whole world for a second time? From all across the meadow folk gave up their own amusements without complaint to come and witness Anne’s soon-to-be complete destruction. Anne glanced over her shoulder, only to have her heart drop. Every man who aspired to wed her stood at her back to watch.

“Up, up,” Elizabeth exhorted teacher and student. “Give heed to your tutor, Mistress Anne, and dance,” she commanded, her tone sounding no differently than Christ’s must have as He commanded the dead to rise.

Taking her hand, Master Christopher drew Anne to her feet. He smiled, but kept his grip tight enough that she couldn’t flee like the coward she was. Only as she regained her feet did Anne realize she yet held her poor hat. She swung around, meaning to give it to Patience. Her keeper stood at the edge of the crowd, utterly unaware of her mistress’s need as she spoke to a breathtakingly beautiful, if short, man. This paragon was smiling and nodding as if fascinated by whatever Patience said.

Anne turned helplessly back to the queen. However did one rid oneself of a hat before a monarch? It was Mary who came to her rescue, stepping out from behind the queen’s chair.

“Give it to me, cousin,” she said. As she claimed the battered bit of straw, she leaned near to whisper, “Take heart, you’ll do fine.”

“Where would you have us, Madame?” Master Christopher asked of their royal mistress.

“Here,” the queen said, an imperious wave of her hand indicating the forward portion of the tent before her own chair.

And, why not, Anne thought sourly. She’d always wanted to take a dancing lesson before the country’s highest nobles.

As servants cleared a path, Master Christopher led Anne to stand at the tent’s far end, facing the musicians. The lute player plucked a few notes then cocked a brow. Her teacher nodded in approval, and the man set to playing in earnest.

Anne’s heart pounded. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She clenched her jaw to keep from whimpering. Shame was bad enough. She wasn’t going to give way to hysterics atop it, at least not yet.

Master Christopher lifted her hand and eased a bit to the side. “Now, then,” he said, “when I give the word, you’ll turn toward me, offering me a small honor. We’ll then turn to stand shoulder to shoulder. It’ll be a series of the same steps that will take us all the way to the tent’s end. Stand with your left foot behind you, as so.” He pointed to his own feet. “When we step out, you’ll take one step forward with your left foot, while the next step brings your right foot even with the left. This is all done to the tune’s beat, so listen for the rhythm.”

Although Anne nodded as if she understood, his words tangled and tumbled in her head. A small curtsy, a slow step. Back foot front with the left, then a second step. She stared at the tent’s opposite end. It seemed a mile distant.

The music played. Master Christopher nodded slightly. She kept her gaze locked on him, waiting.

“And now,” he told her, turning to offer her a small bow.