The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (14 page)

“Look, Nell!” She tossed hair bound with silk water lilies behind her bare shoulder. “See who steps into the light!”

Heralds trumpeted, announcing the final hero destined to step from Olympus’s heights. “Come forth, ye noble Pericles, builder of the Acropolis, champion of the Parthenon, ye who raised the city of Athens nigh above the gods.”

Pericles, the Athenian general whose wisdom carried Greece to greatness after the first Polypenisian War, the leader who fed the hunger for freedom in men’s souls. Homesickness tugged as I recalled my father’s worn copy of Pericles’s funeral oration, and the horror on Mother’s face when he told me of Pericles’s great love: a courtesan with an intellect as fiery as his own.

When the curtains of the Parthenon drew back there could be no question which courtier had been chosen to play the Olympian general’s part. Sir Gabriel Wyatt circled the company. “I seek a consort with a mind to mate with mine. Tell me, gods, have you fashioned a woman with courage to hold fast to the tail of a comet? Whom should I choose? A lady wife with unassailable virtue? Can she bring the light of learning to the Greeks? Or a vestal virgin to wing me on my way to greatness?”

Sir Gabriel laid his finger along his jaw, considering one prospect here, another there, leaving nothing but disappointed sighs in his wake. “No. I care not for the food most men eat. I crave fruit juicy as the apple Eve plucked in Eden, a pippin stolen far beyond the walled garden virtue would imprison me in. Is there a woman who craves learning above a marriage bed?” Pericles demanded. “Who would dare . . .”

“Dare what?” Mary Shelton asked. I would wager every maid within the Great Hall wondered the same. Sandal-clad feet stopped before me. “Who is this vision with the light of learning in her eyes?” Gabriel asked.

I shook my head, but he was not to be dissuaded. He appealed to the queen. “I have searched all of the heavens for my worthy mate, my equal, Goddess Diana. Now that I have found my inspiration my Aspasia can be no other. Appeal to her in my favor.”

The whole chamber stared at me, the queen’s eyes most piercing of all. I tried to discern what emotion I saw in those royal eyes—displeasure?

I could hear Kat Ashley’s warning:
Do not run afoul of the queen over the attentions of a man
.

“Goddess Diana,” I implored. “I beg you command Pericles to choose another.”

Her black eyes were impenetrable. “The man has obviously decided to pursue you. Whether in Olympus or in the deer park he is eager to spirit you away.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“My Aspasia rejects me and I cannot blame her,” Gabriel cut in. “A woman whose mind outstrips even her beauty? I am not worthy to lay a hand on such a paragon.”

“A man who knows his own worth is rare indeed,” Elizabeth said in frosty assent. “Such insight must be rewarded. Arise, Aspasia. Aid Pericles in his noble task.”

I climbed to my feet, unsettled by the queen’s displeasure. Sir Gabriel grasped my hand, his own flesh hot against my icy fingers as he led me to the Parthenon. He plucked a torch from an iron bracket upon the wall, but instead of lighting the final cauldron himself, he pressed the shaft with its bright crown of flame into my palm. I lowered the torch. The flames blazed up. I felt them scorch me—the writhing orange tongues symbols of knowledge, wisdom. But as I glimpsed the queen through the vivid flare I feared I saw something more.

Anger, bright as live coals in her gaze.

Chapter Twelve

Later that Evening

T
HE CONSORTS MATCHED IN THE MASQUE PARTNERED
for the rest of the evening—eating from a single plate, sipping from a single goblet of wine. Sir Gabriel’s attention made the queen’s mood darken, filling me with foreboding more troubling still.

When at last the revelers began wandering off to bed, Kat Ashley summoned me. “The queen is retiring and wishes you to attend her in the Privy Chamber.” She said it so formally that it congealed my dread. “Her Majesty expressly wished you come without delay.”

“I shall hasten to her.”

“May I escort my Aspasia to her duty?” Sir Gabriel asked.

“You have done quite enough, Sir Pericles, and well you know it,” Lady Ashley said.

The Angel helped me to my feet, then kissed my hand. I pulled away and fled from the Great Hall, glad to escape, yet in my haste I got separated from Lady Ashley in the crowd. I had no idea where I was going in this unfamiliar palace. Not wishing to irritate the queen further by making her wait while I searched for Lady Ashley, I looked for a servant to direct me. I saw Thomas Keyes, the Sergeant Porter who had directed me the day I arrived from Calverley. The colossus of a man wore the Cyclops mask shoved atop his head, its eye pointing at the vaulted ceiling. He reclined upon his own store of cushions. Plundered strawberries stained his big hand red.

“Sergeant Porter,” I called. “Could you direct me to the queen’s Privy Chamber?”

I was stunned when a smaller figure stepped from behind Keyes’s bulk—Mary Grey, her gown of pink damask rumpled. “Take her yourself, Thomas. I have watched Mistress Nell with her maps and believe she could chart every border on them until the world ends, but she is hopeless finding her way to the end of the corridor.”

“Gentle, Lady Mary,” Keyes said. “Mistress Nell is but lately come to Hampton Court. She has much to learn.”

“I wager she will learn what matters here the hard way,” Mary said. “The workings of court cannot be found in one of her precious books.”

“They can,” I argued. “There is a volume by a woman named Christine de Pizan.
The Three Virtues
. My mother made sure I read it on my way to court.”

Something in Mary’s face stopped me. Sympathy? Or did my imagination run wild? I wondered what admonitions Lady Frances Grey had packed off to court with her youngest daughter after she and her husband had gotten their eldest child killed.

“Consult your book later,” Mary said. “Her Majesty hates waiting. She is already in a fury over some seditious pamphlet Walsingham delivered to her and last week she went into a rage when William Cecil told her of the queen of Scotland’s foolishness. Queen Elizabeth pounded on Walsingham with her slipper,” Mary warned. “She could do the same to you.”

“Her Majesty would have to have a strong arm indeed to match the beatings I got when my mother was in a rage.” I was doing what Eppie had called “shouting down the thunder,” my jest an attempt to conceal my dread. I was not certain whether giving in to the impulse before Mary Grey should make me more wary or ease my nerves. I know only that it was the first time I saw Mary Grey soften.

“They beat my sister Jane nigh unconscious when she refused to wed Guilford Dudley. But in the end, what could Jane do but surrender to our parents’ will and the will of a man powerful as the Duke of Northumberland? She lost her head for their ambitions, when all Jane ever wanted was to be left in peace with her books.”

I started down the corridor through torchlight that set gold threads on the tapestries gleaming. Danger crowded me, thick as storm clouds, a distant rumble of thunder. Keyes shortened his ground-eating stride so I could keep up.

“Nell,” Mary called, startling me. I turned; her hands twined together as if to keep from reaching out to me. “Good luck.”

I tried to brace myself against the queen’s anger as the gentleman usher outside the Privy Chamber announced my presence. I guessed the queen was angry about Sir Gabriel’s attentions to me, but I had done nothing to seek them out. Yet did innocence matter when a courtier incurred royal displeasure?
Surely a scholar great as Elizabeth Tudor would be ruled by logic,
I told myself. That calmed me. Elizabeth Tudor’s intellect was the main inducement that had brought me to court. Surely I could right whatever was wrong between us with a simple explanation. But the timbre of the queen’s reply shook my resolve. “Leave us,” Her Majesty commanded.

The ladies of the bedchamber fled, flashing me curious glances as they skirted around the vast bed of state, its curtains even more elaborate than the bed at Whitehall: Cloth of gold paned with white, blue, red, and green velvet. Fretwork ceilings with intersecting ribs dangled pendants picked out in gold. Its shimmer caught in the mother-of-pearl writing table and danced across the curio cabinet laden with musical instruments. Everywhere I looked were symbols of the queen’s royal estate, plush velvet cushions and cloth of gold embroidered with crowns and roses, fleur de lis and portcullises. How many hours had women labored with their needles to create such intricate work, the cloth when it was finished as unique and valuable as the finest jewel?

I recognized the figures on one of the fine tapestries that covered the walls to keep out drafts—an exquisite rendition of David, the boy shepherd with his slingshot ready to confront the powerful Goliath. What fire was lacking in the Great Hall, the queen had splashed into her cheeks, her color hectic beneath the white ceruse upon her face. I curtseyed, feeling exposed in my sea nymph’s garb. “Your Grace wished me to wait upon you?” It astonished me, how level my voice sounded.

The queen did not answer, merely stalked to a table laden with documents. Atop them sat a pamphlet that looked as if horses had trampled it.

I waited in silence as she held it to the light of a branch of candles and rifled through the pages, ignoring me. After a time, the queen smacked the pamphlet against her open hand. “If Cecil had his way I would spend eternity sifting through such writs, and I would do it gladly if I never had to look upon such wretched filth as this pamphlet again.”

For a moment I thought she would fling the offending article into the fire. The queen glared at me over the edge of the ink-smudged cover. “Your reputation as a scholar preceded you to court. My tutor, Roger Ascham, met you when you visited Cambridge with your father. You were about nine years old, or so he said. Shall we see if he exaggerated his praise of you? Answer me this, Mistress. What is the vilest curse a woman can fall prey to?” Her voice chilled to ice.

“There are so many perils a lady must beware of that I do not trust myself to choose just one. I would be guided by Your Majesty in all matters.”

“A fine vague answer, that. One would think my Gypsy’s Angel had been tutoring you in evasive tactics. Perhaps when you had your rendezvous by the stream?”

Indignation nipped heat into my cheeks. “Nay, Majesty. I swear, by God himself—”

“Hold your tongue. I have heard such vows until I want to retch. I only hope God is as sick of broken promises as I am and punishes the offenders accordingly.”

I stared down at my hands.

“What surprise is this?” the queen raised a brow. “You remain silent when ordered? That is to your credit. From what Roger Ascham said of your disposition, holding your tongue cannot be easy.”

I clenched my teeth against a reply.

“I had great hopes for you, Mistress Elinor, based on my old tutor’s descriptions of your temperament. When you came to court, I thought, ‘At last—I shall have one honest voice to count upon.’ You disappoint me.”

“That is the last thing I would wish to do.”

She dismissed my reply with a wave of her hand. “I have heard the same words a hundred times. Yet those who should be loyal deceive me, plot against me. Defy me.”

“Your Majesty, I would never—”

“Do not say it!”

A log in the fireplace fell apart as if in warning, hissing and crackling, filling the chamber with the scent of apple wood. “Majesty, I am sorry if I have displeased you, but I cannot think how I did.”

She swept a hard glance from my head to my toe, searching for what I could not guess. That black gaze lingered on my scarred hand. “We will test your good faith. I shall pose a question and you shall answer.”

Never in the years Father examined my progress in lessons had I felt this sinking alarm.

“If a maid of honor becomes a thief should she be punished or go unscathed because of her station?”

Did the queen believe I had stolen something? “Your Majesty is the best judge of what such a crime deserves.”

“Look at this.” Elizabeth thrust the pamphlet into my hands. I drew near a taper, scanning the smudged print: “Concerning the Marriage of Lady Katherine Grey.” Katherine Grey—Mary’s middle sister. “Surely news of my cousin’s treachery must have reached even to Lincolnshire?”

“My mother did not allow gossip, and considering her aversion to court, no one spoke of such things. I have heard something of Lady Katherine since I arrived at court.”

“They are a rebellious lot, the Greys. Proud and reckless, reeking with ambition because royal blood flows in their veins.” Real hate filled Elizabeth’s eyes. I averted my own so she could not read my thoughts. There were those in England who thought Lady Katherine would make a better queen than the one who now sat upon the throne. Lady Katherine was unquestionably legitimate and Protestant.

“You know that all those who serve me and all those related to me by blood must have my consent to marry.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“It is the only way to keep the wolves away from the royal ewes, to curb rampant ambition. Search through history. The moment a monarch names a successor, the country begins to splinter. Malcontents who believe their lot would be bettered with a different ruler vie for power, not caring what ruin they leave the country in when they are through.”

The Wars of the Roses were not so far in the past. I knew what battles for power between different branches of the royal family cost England.

“Lady Katherine Grey defied me. Became infatuated with the Earl of Hertford.”

The Earl could trace his bloodline to Edward VI, thus was another who—some might claim—was more royal in blood than Elizabeth herself.

“She got herself with child, then flung herself on my mercy. She claimed she and Hertford were married! Married, by God’s wounds!”

If that were so, the babe Katherine Grey carried would mean double peril for Elizabeth: two legitimate contenders for the crown producing a child who carried both their lineages.

“Do you know what I say to their claims, Mistress? I say Hertford and my cousin are liars! Could either of these betrayers produce the priest who wed them?” Elizabeth demanded. “No, I tell you. And their one witness died. How convenient! They pleaded for mercy. Mercy, after the way they had betrayed me! I threw them in the Tower. What kind of fool do they take me for?”

“No one would take Your Majesty for a fool.” I imagined Katherine Grey in the fortress where her sister Jane lay buried. To suffer such imprisonment alone would be terrible enough. But to know your lover—husband if the marriage they claimed was true—was locked behind stone walls a little way distant, and that the babe you carried would be born in such a grim place . . .

“Now I have this wretch of a pamphleteer declaring the bastard son Katherine Grey bore is legitimate?” Elizabeth ranted. “Bah! She can rot in the Tower forever. Hertford is lucky I do not take his head for deflowering a virgin of royal blood!”

Fixing my gaze on the pamphlet, I thought of Mary Grey. Did Mary love Katherine? Miss her? Did Mary fear that this sister might suffer the same fate as the first?

Katherine was probably safe as long as her son was judged a bastard. But God help her if the pamphleteer’s assertion was caught up by the rest of England. I felt Elizabeth’s gaze on me, knew she expected me to speak. “Your cousin Katherine is fortunate in Your Majesty’s mercy,” I said carefully.

A flicker of something I would later recognize as vanity sparked in Elizabeth’s face. “God knows how long she will have it, if fools like this pamphleteer keep spreading lies. Walsingham will find the knave. I will take the hand that wrote this!”

The queen took the pamphlet from me and flung it back on her desk. “Vexing as this matter may be, I did not summon you here to rake over such family coils. I only speak of my cousin’s fate because you are an apt student, Mistress. Learn from her mistakes. You would do better to leap into a bear pit in Southwark than trust a man.”

“Men do not interest me, Majesty.”

“If you have not come to court to seek a powerful husband why defy your mother to come here?”

“I came to be near you.” I met her gaze unflinching. “It was tales I heard of you—a woman with learning, knowledge—a mind fine as any man’s. Mayhap finer.”

“You flatter me.”

“I mean only to tell you why I fought to come here. The world is changing so fast, Majesty. I am hungry to understand.” My words poured out. “At Cambridge, Father’s friends would debate everything from philosophy to science. He would hold me on his lap so I could listen. And when Dr. Dee wrote letters about his discoveries in the years after our visit to London, Father would read them aloud, so I could share in the wonder. Dr. Dee held many magical keys to share back then—keys to the mysteries of the universe. Keys to a wide world of everything I had yet to learn. He even gave me a book on dragons. I near wore the pages to rags. I did so with all my favorite books. I wanted to prove my mind was sharp as any boy’s. Mother warned that I must satisfy myself with the station God gave me. A woman must not reach beyond the bonds of home. But after all I had seen in London I could not believe in a God so selfish he would only give men keen minds. If God gave women intellect, then surely He meant us to use it! When I said so Father insisted he could prove it. You were the finest scholar his friend Ascham had ever taught. I strove to be like you from that moment on, Majesty. When Father died, being left in ignorance was like being locked away from light and air. Worse than any Tower cell could be!”