The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (23 page)

“Do you know what Frances Grey did after Lady Jane died on the block?” Mother demanded, bitter. “That vile bitch carried Mary Tudor’s train. The train of the woman who had executed her daughter. If Frances could do such a thing without plunging a dagger into the woman’s chest, I can only imagine what evils she must have dealt your wee Mary. And yet, Frances survived it all—stealing a crown for her child, seeing it ripped from Jane’s head. Two rebellions and her husband and daughter dead upon the block. She even married her Master of the Horse mere weeks after her husband was executed. Frances managed to thrive when far better people were trampled by fate. There are times, Nell, I wish I were more like you. With a list of questions to take to God on judgment day. There is so much I do not understand.”

She took my hand beneath the fall of our sleeves, and I was glad for the warm press of her fingers as we wended our way toward the dais where Elizabeth sat, her face aglow with the delight of an overindulged child. A mechanical toy made of gold gleamed in her hands, a unicorn perched atop a mountain of cabochon jewels while a maiden reached to touch the mythical beast.

“Look, you! All of you!” the queen cried, working its mechanism. The unicorn’s delicate gold forelegs buckled, kneeling to kiss the maiden’s feet. “See what Lord Robert has given me? How can any of you bid me marry when it would deny me the worship of such a magnificent creature?”

“Say the word and you shall exchange it,” Dudley said. “A creature of fantasy for a man of flesh and blood who would be faithful to you forever.”

Lettice tittered, other maids hiding giggles behind their hands. The laughter echoing through the rest of the chamber was stiff, ended far too sharply. I glimpsed Sir Francis Walsingham and Robert Cecil, both scowling. Behind them, I recognized another familiar figure ranging through the crowd—Sir Gabriel Wyatt, garbed in his finest raiment, the pearl dragon dangling from his ear. His gaze caught mine. Held. He had not troubled me while my mother was about, yet small, mysterious things had begun to happen. The finest bits of marchpane found its way to our plates, a new pair of gloves appeared when I mislaid a pair. A book was delivered upon the subject of botany, a segment marked on propagating unfamiliar plants. I remembered the pine apple and wondered. Who but Wyatt would know to tempt me so?

Yet such silent acts of generosity were over; I could tell from his expression. I fought the instinct to flee. It was pointless to attempt it in such a crush of humanity, all straining to get closer to the queen. Instead, I held my ground, feeling braced by the presence of my mother beside me. “Lady Calverley,” he said, bowing so low I glimpsed the tender nape beneath his tumbled curls.

“Sir? I do not believe we have met.” My mother said with a curtsey.

“I am Sir Gabriel Wyatt.”

“Wyatt?” My mother’s eyes narrowed, but there was a softness to her mouth. “From which branch of that family do you come?”

“My grandfather wrote poetry to Queen Anne Boleyn and lived to tell of it. My cousin led the rebellion to keep a Spanish king from the English throne. My father died a traitor’s death for fighting along his side and I was condemned to die as he did.” It was more than Sir Gabriel ever shared with me.

“Why were you not executed?” I asked.

“Nell!” My mother tried to hush me.

Sir Gabriel’s lips crooked in a ghost of his old smile. “It is a fair question. And I like your daughter’s bluntness above all things. Almost.” I felt the word like the trail of fingers across skin. It nearly made me retract the question. But Sir Gabriel glanced down at an object in his hand. “You ask why I was not executed at my father’s side?” He met my gaze so levelly it astonished me. It was as if I were seeing him, truly seeing
him
for the first time. “When a chance of escape was offered me I took it. Saved my life as best I could. I was far hungrier for life than to die a noble death. I am much too selfish to make a good martyr, Mistress Nell. Do you not agree?”

“I do.”

“Ah, something we can agree on. Your daughter and I cross swords often, Lady Calverley. I have brought her a peace offering during this season when the lion is to lie down with the lamb.” He thrummed his fingers upon a leather-bound book. I regarded it warily. “Do not fear, Grace.” The pearl dragon shifted against his skin. “It will not explode when you open it.”

“Sir Angel!” The queen’s summons cut through the jabber of the crowd. I jumped, startled. The queen rose from her throne in radiant splendor. “What is that intriguing object you hold in your hands? Doubtless a gift for me?”

Gabriel flung his cape back over his left shoulder. “Majesty—”

“Sly boy! You know I love books above all things! Give it to me at once!”

Gabriel shifted, suddenly looking uneasy. “This gift would not please you, Your Grace. It is not worthy.”

“I will suffer none of your false modesty,” Elizabeth preened with a merry toss of her head. “What is the book about? Is it philosophy? Some classic translation you have bought from Dr. Dee? Tell me at once, sir!”

Gabriel held the volume closer to his chest. “It is nothing save a collection of very bad poetry, Majesty.”

“I shall be the judge of that. Who is the poet?”

Did I see reluctance in Gabriel’s features? And around his mouth something more? Embarrassment? “I am,” he said.

The queen clapped her hands. “Love poems from my Gypsy’s Angel? And shall we guess who inspired them? She batted her lashes like a moonstruck girl. Little wonder. Nearly every man at court had tried to woo her thus, in verse or in song.

“Majesty,” Gabriel said, “I pray you—”

“No more excuses. Come stand here beside me and read so everyone can hear.” Gabriel cast me a cryptic glance, then did as he was commanded. Standing before Elizabeth, he opened to a page inked in what must be his own hand.

Few who had watched his pursuit of me could doubt who the Angel’s “Nell” was. He could not be sincere, the poem one more tool to unnerve me. Yet, his words echoed through me as if I were a bell struck by a sexton. As for the rest of the vast chamber, a sudden hush blanketed it. I felt the questioning of my mother’s gaze, the speculative glances of courtiers. Even through the white paint on the queen’s face all could see her flush with humiliation.

The queen’s lips pursed. “It would be a pity to lose the hand that writes such fine poems, Sir Angel.”

“I would strike my hand off myself rather than allow it to distress you, Majesty.”

“Do not put me to the test. Nor test the virtue of my maids of honor, do you hear? I advise any lady of mine not to believe a word that comes from your mouth—or your pen. In fact, I remember well warning one particular maid about you. It would make me most unhappy if I discovered she had not heeded me.”

Gabriel grimaced. “The maid you speak of is a pillar of wisdom, Majesty. I can assure you she trusts me not at all.”

“Mistress Elinor?” the queen summoned me. “Relieve this poet of his offering and give him the set down he deserves. Now, is there not another present for me?”

She turned back to the table of gifts as Sir Gabriel approached me. I watched him wend his way through the crowd, his shoulders broad, his gaze strange. Bright.

I held my breath, not knowing what to say, feel. “Are you mad, writing poetry to me?” I said at last. “The rumors will run wild!”

“That is what rumors do best, Grace.” He shrugged. “I did warn Her Majesty that my poetry was vile. But there are many blank pages that follow for you to fill with writing far better.”

“You should not have written such things about me.”

“I must have been making rather too merry with the Christmas wine. Perhaps I can redeem myself with what is pressed between the book’s pages. It is a marker of sorts to help you keep your bearings. It is often difficult at court to find your way. You must remember to look up if you are to see the sky.” He grasped my hand, turned it palm up, then he slid free something caught in the book’s pages. A chain poured in a delicate gold waterfall to pool in my palm. A moment later something heavier thudded softly atop it. I stared in disbelief at the wheels and gears of my father’s astrolabe. They were bent, scratched, but the instrument was miraculously whole, unbearably precious.

Mother looked at it. “Is that the necklace your father had made for you?”

“Where did you find this?” I gasped, clutching the astrolabe close. Suspicion dawned. Where indeed? Would this not be the perfect key to unlock all my reserve? “Did you have my necklace all this time? That night in the garden—did you take it?”

He scooped my hand, kissed my curled fingers, astrolabe and all. Then he took the chain up and fastened it about my neck. Frozen in a welter of emotion I glared up at him, trying to see past his facade. He smiled as if he knew.

“Happy New Year, Grace,” he said softly, then bowed and strode away.

I wheeled to watch him, nearly crashed into my mother. “Elinor, why does he call you Grace? What is this about?”

“Nothing. Everything. I lost my astrolabe the night Eppie came. He saw us in the garden and after . . .”

Mother paled. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, tell me Sir Gabriel did not overhear.”

“I do not know what he heard. I dare not ask him. He would not tell me the truth even if I did. He is Dudley’s man, blood and bone. I know where his loyalties lie.”

Mother gripped my hand. “That man suspects something. A hound on a blood scent is a dangerous animal.” A line of Wyatt’s poetry ran through my head . . .
I, a beast no woman has yet tamed.
He was a beast, wounded and wily, tortured but ruthless. I peered down at the leather book, the words upon the pages incantations meant to tempt me. To what? Allow him to charm caution from me? Let him steal, not my maidenhead, but secrets that could cost me my life? And what if he
had
gotten my astrolabe that night in spring, I reasoned. What if Wyatt had been waiting for the perfect time to return it to me? Throw me off guard? Win my gratitude, my trust, entice me to betray Eppie? My mother? Myself?

The thought stalked me as the night wore on, people milling around, comparing the queen’s gifts. Mary had told me Elizabeth’s gifts to us would be delivered by messenger, plates and cups weighed carefully to match our importance in her eyes.

The last thing I expected was for one of the heralds to find me in the crush. “Mistress Elinor de Lacey?” he said. “Her Majesty wishes you to attend her at once.”

Was I to feel the lash of the queen’s temper because of Gabriel Wyatt’s poem? There was no avoiding the royal summons. I approached Her Majesty, my mother hovering in my wake. “You wished to see me?” I asked her, feeling curious glances from those nearest us in the crowd.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I have something special for you on this, your first Christmas at court. Give me your right hand.”

“Majesty?” I curled my fingers, could feel the scar thick in the crease at the edge of my palm. Still, what could I do but extend my damaged hand for her inspection?

Elizabeth drew a ring from her own finger, then made great show of slipping it onto mine. It fit perfectly, the moonstone glimmering in its setting of gold, changeable as fate. When I tried to withdraw my hand and curtsey, the queen held on tight.

“I have often noticed these many months that you are hesitant to show your hands. This one seems quite lovely except—” Her fingers skimmed the raised flesh above my little finger. She turned my hand to examine the puckered skin. “This scar is quite dreadful. It is a pity you are disfigured so.” She ran her thumb along the mark. “When did this happen?”

My cheeks burned. “I have had the scar as long as I can remember.”

The queen turned to my mother. “Lady Calverley, do enlighten me. Surely you can explain how your beautiful daughter got such a wound?”

My mother stepped half before me, as if putting her body between me and the queen. “It was a kitchen accident, Majesty.” I could feel what it cost Mother to keep her voice level. “Nell was ever curious and reached up for something shining on the table. A knife fell. It could have been far worse. I thank God it did not sever any of Nell’s other fingers.”

“Other fingers? Did I miscount?” Elizabeth pulled my hand as she examined first one side, then the other. “No, Mistress Nell has five fingers like the rest of us. Where is the finger the knife severed?”

The terrible silence that fell between my mother and the queen was frightening.

I heard mother suck in a breath. “What finger was severed? A fine question, Majesty. I was merely flustered by the favor your majesty showed my daughter and misspoke. I meant to say
any
fingers. Of course Nell has five fingers,” she continued. My mother was babbling. My mother never babbled. “What other number could there be?”

Never had I seen my mother so rattled. Something momentous had occurred right before my eyes and I did not know what it was.

Later, as revelers wandered off to sleep, my mother led me from the Great Hall. We wound through the palace, past red-eyed servants who had made as merry as their queen. Thrice I started to ask where we were going, but mother glanced about as if she feared the figures on the Flemish tapestries we passed could write down every word we spoke in their hearing. At last she led me into a gallery so deserted we might have been the only people in London.

Mist swirled beyond the windows overlooking the gardens. Mother and I slipped into one of the nooks where we could see any other wanderers before they might happen on us and overhear . . .
what
I did not know. Only that something terrible had happened when Elizabeth Tudor had slipped her ring upon my hand. I fidgeted with the moonstone, twisting it around my finger.