The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (32 page)

I
N A WAY
, the queen’s grief was a gift to me. It allowed me to pretend Kat Ashley’s death was the source of my own sorrow. I could weep for both women—Eppie and Kat—openly. My affection for Kat was real.

Who could imagine after all the suspicion between the queen and me that an even stronger bond would forge between us against our better judgment? Not a mother’s bond to her daughter. That would have been too dangerous for canny Elizabeth to ever risk. And her part in Eppie’s death made such feelings on my part impossible. Yet the queen had relied upon me against her will. Part of her relied upon me still to share her grief, speak of Kat’s last days.

Shattered as Elizabeth was, Walsingham dared not importune her too strenuously as the queen tried to recover. He could not press her about the dangers of the Scots queen or Catholic Spain—or me. Elizabeth Tudor, who had withstood so many storms during her life without flinching, was so brittle with grief now that all who served her feared for her health. A terrifying prospect, since she had no heir and refused to name a successor to follow her on England’s throne.

The court remembered far too well that when Her Majesty had smallpox two years earlier she had proclaimed Robert Dudley be Lord Protector of her realm if she died. Now, more than ever, Dudley ruling was unthinkable.

In the face of more pressing woes, what danger did I pose, at least for the time being? Walsingham thought me ignorant of Eppie’s arrest, let alone her death. There would be time to strike at me when the queen’s mind cleared. Or was it possible Eppie had kept her secrets in spite of what Walsingham did to wrench them away?

A
S
S
EPTEMBER NEARED
, bringing with it the tournament Robert Dudley planned to celebrate the queen’s birthday, I began to hope that Gabriel was right. We might survive this crisis after all. Yet as the day of the tournament approached, another peril threatened. I was curled up near the fire with a volume of poetry Gabriel had loaned me, tracing the words he had scribed on its flyleaf—
Gabriel Wyatt of Wyldfell Hall. From his mother on his birthday. He is 8 years old.
I was picturing him at that age, a head full of black curls, his long-lashed green eyes, a gangly boy chasing after his two older brothers. Secure in his parents’ love. A boy with a quick temper, yet sensitive, too. A boy his mother could offer a book of poetry to, and know it would delight him.

It made me ache for his mother, knowing she had seen his poet’s soul harden, prison and grief and rebellion driving the dreams from his eyes, filling them with the cynicism and dark skills that would fit him to be Queen Elizabeth’s Gypsy’s Angel.

Strange, that I was imagining that black-haired child when Mary Grey bustled into the room, glancing behind her as if she feared someone might be following her. “By God, it is hard to catch you alone!”

I shifted on my red cut-velvet cushion. “I cannot think of anything we can’t say before the other maids.”

“I can. It is four months since you had your courses,” she said abruptly.

“Why should my cycles matter to you? What are you? The laundress’s spy?”

“You are not the first of the queen’s ladies to get with child. The fact that you have a husband will not cool the queen’s wrath when she discovers you.”

My heart skipped beneath my pearl-trimmed stomacher. “I do not know what you are talking about.” I heard a shout of greeting in the corridor outside, then the sound of footsteps marching. My nerves tightened and I realized just how intently I had been listening.

Mary glanced at the door. “We have no time to dance around this. Thomas told me everything.”

Heat flooded my cheeks, outrage sharpening my voice as I levered myself to my feet. “He vowed to keep it secret! And yet he is blabbing to whoever he likes?”

“No. He confided the truth to his wife.”

“His wife? Someone said she died years ago.”

Mary’s voice sweetened, touched with a musical quality I had never heard in it before. “I am Thomas’s wife, just as you are Sir Gabriel’s.”

“You cannot be serious.” I gaped, disbelieving.

Mary flinched and I knew I had hurt her. “You think me such a shrunken, ugly thing, devil-cursed and twisted in body, that no one could ever want me? Why should I be surprised at that? I believed it, too, until Thomas changed my mind.”

“It is not your stature I speak of! You are cousin to the queen! Royal blood! You must have Her Majesty’s permission to wed or she will throw you and your husband in prison the way she did your sister!”

“I doubt the queen would bother. Katherine and Hertford are both perfect in body, with royal blood. Once they produced two healthy sons Elizabeth had reason to fear they might become pawns to threaten her throne. I am no threat to anyone.”

“But Mary—” The dread I felt about being discovered myself mingled with my fear for her. “I am afraid for you.”

“Faith, I believe you are!” She did not grow prickly in defense. Instead, a smile spread over her face and she reached out to squeeze my hand. “Nell, all will be well with me. Thomas is a commoner, and I am as far from queenly as it is possible for any woman to be. For once I am grateful for it. No dwarf could sit upon any country’s throne. Elizabeth may be angry when she discovers us, but she will accept our marriage in time. We only wish to be left alone, raise Thomas’s children. Truth to tell, the queen will probably seize Thomas and kiss him for ridding her beautiful court of my ugliness.”

I surrendered to impulse, stooped down to embrace her. At first she leapt back, startled as a pup that has been struck too often. But Thomas Keyes’s love had wedged open the gate she kept shut against the world. She held out her arms. I gathered her in. She felt tiny as child in my grasp. “I wish you much good fortune,” I said, and meant it.

“Keep it for yourself. You will need it as your belly begins to show.”

“My belly?” I echoed, startled.

“You are with child.”

I pressed my hands against my stomach. “I know I have not had my courses, but it is only because of the strain from Kat’s death. I remember my nurse telling women it wasn’t unusual to skip a month’s flow when their nerves were rattled.”

“One month. Perhaps two. But four? Besides, you wince when Moll laces your breasts tight beneath stays, and I have heard you retching of a morning.”

“Anyone would with the strain I’ve been under.” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. But Mary was right. Panic rocked me the way it must have shaken the woman who bore me—a sick dread of being discovered.

“You are about to undergo a great deal more strain,” Mary said. “Unless . . .” She fidgeted with her sleeve, unable to meet my eyes.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you wish to see a woman I have heard my mother speak of. Old Grisel brews a posset that can expel an unwanted babe from your womb.”

I cringed, recoiling from the thought but feeling tempted at the same time. If I was carrying Gabriel’s child, it would be one more excuse for the queen to lash out.

“Grisel is wife to an apothecary in Spitalfields and serves as midwife.”

I remembered Eppie’s tales of how hard she had studied to help women labor with as much health and comfort as possible. But this . . . Had Eppie known of such dark secrets? Practiced them? “Your mother spoke of destroying a babe in front of you?” I asked Mary, shocked.

“More times than I can count. From the time I was in the nursery I heard her say that if she’d known I’d be born a monster she would have had Old Grisel kill me thus.”

I pressed my hands tight against the place where my child might lie as if to keep it from hearing.

“I know it is hard, Nell, to speak of murdering your babe thus. But I tell you this because I care what befalls you. The queen’s temper is more unpredictable than ever since Lady Ashley died, and while Her Majesty’s gallants may swive in secret then beg pardon and be forgiven, women have the wrath of God rained down on them and are banished for good and all. Speak to Sir Gabriel about your difficulty. He is a most practical man. I predict he will agree it would be best if this pregnancy dissolved.”

Would he? Gabriel’s features swam before me, the consummate courtier, a man who had fought his way back from the brink of ruin. Would he be willing to put all he had gained in jeopardy for a child as yet unborn?

Mary must have seen my dismay.

“You are young and vigorous.” She tried to comfort me. “There will be plenty of time for other children when it is safer.”

How could anyone be certain of that?
My terror warred with something surprising, something new. A healthy babe was growing even now in my belly. A miracle my mother had been denied. Life. Then, something strong, sweet, filled me with awe. “Surely a man would not wish to destroy his own child,” I said, as much to myself as to Mary.

Mary’s voice softened with empathy. “I have lived at court far longer than you have and have seen the worst the human spirit can do. I have watched and listened to see who managed to survive. It is said Jane Rocheford was desperately in love with George Boleyn, but when her own life might be forfeit she testified against him, sent him to his death on the block. When my sister Jane was condemned, and my father faced a traitor’s death, my mother scrambled to lick Queen Mary’s boots, anything to save her own skin. I think she loved Father in her way. Even if she did not truly ever love Jane or Katherine or me. She told me her first loyalty must always be to herself.”

“What are you saying?”

“There is no point in sacrificing yourself once a battle is lost. Do not count on anyone to sacrifice themselves for you, Nell. Not husband, mother, sister, or friend. We courtiers are raised from the cradle to keep an eye to the main chance and to surrender when we must, live to fight another day. Sir Gabriel is a courtier, every bit the match for Robin Dudley; maybe even the Duke of Norfolk, who sent two nieces to the headsman’s block to please a lecherous king.”

“I do not believe that,” I protested. “Gabriel is—”

“Wyatt has spent every moment of his life since he walked out of the Tower alive attempting to reclaim all his father lost He will not tolerate anything or anyone—even his own child—getting in his way. I only say this to save you the pain of discovering it on your own.”

“Mary, you must promise me something. You must swear you will not tell Thomas or Sir Gabriel about this.”

“The child? You will not be able to keep it secret much longer. Sir Gabriel is bound to figure it out.”

“Then I must take care to avoid him.” How simple my resolve sounded. Mary was not fooled.

“That will not prove to be as easy as it sounds. He will know something is amiss.”

“I will think of some way to explain it. Just promise you will not betray me, Mary. I will do anything, pay any price you ask.” She should have been angry at me. Outraged.

“You called me friend,” Mary said with great dignity. “That is payment enough.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

September 1565

M
ARY HAD FORCED ME TO FACE TWO FRIGHTENING
truths: I carried Sir Gabriel’s child and he might wish to kill the babe before it drew first breath. The morn of the tournament threatened rain, clouds crowding over the tiltyard as if they were common folk trying to get a view of the festivities to come.

For weeks I had been afraid to meet Gabriel’s eyes.

I made certain I was never alone, used my wit to cut away his pride before the other ladies. He retaliated without a word, focusing on his latest mistress, the lovely Douglass, Lettice Knollys’s rival and friend. He danced with her until she was breathless, flirted whenever I was around. Only Mary knew what was amiss. Each night she stroked my hair while her spaniel, Polly, nuzzled her small, warm body against the slight bulge where my unborn babe grew.

I feared that the other maids with their voracious appetites for scandal would guess something was wrong, would wage campaigns to gain my confidence, hoping to discover a tidbit they could use against me. But I had grown adept at deception the months I had tended Kat Ashley under the queen’s very nose.

As Her Majesty’s birthday celebrations commenced, I gave a fair imitation of pleasure. We ladies traipsed after the queen to the gaily decked tiltyard, most women hoping a knight would claim her as his lady before all the court. My energy was spent keeping the smile pinned to my face and my banter light, though my heart felt raw indeed.

Douglass and Lettice flaunted the favors they had selected and tried to predict which man would bear their colors. Douglass waggled the extra sleeve she had chosen. “Sir Gabriel will look fine with my red satin fluttering from his lance, will he not?”

Lettice laughed. “You have decked the knight’s other lance often enough of late.”

Douglass slid one hand over her breast. “He’s grown quite fierce about it the past few weeks. But then, he and the Earl of Leicester are at war of late. Perhaps that is why the Angel is in such a temper.”

Gabriel and Dudley at war? I had not noticed. Still, I wondered what had spurred the argument between them.

“It is as if Sir Gabriel is trying to beat back a demon,” Douglass said. “But he can use my body as his exorcist any time, he gives me such pleasure.” Her words cut me and she knew it. Mary cast me a worried glance, then trotted ahead to tug Douglass’s skirt.

When the woman turned to flick her away, Mary warned, “You had best watch your tongue. If the queen catches wind of what you’ve been about she will send you to the Maids’ Lodgings and you will miss the joust entirely.”

“How sweet,” Lettice sneered. “The gargoyle defending her bedfellow. But all the court knows Sir Gabriel no longer gives a snap for you, is that not right, Nell? Did you even bring an extra sleeve to give away?”

“No. I brought one of my miniature books to fight off boredom.” My ruse to keep from watching the combat when Gabriel entered the lists.

As we neared the tiltyard the sun broke through, turning the pennons into a fluttering rainbow. At the far end of the lists caparisoned horses and men in full armor appeared like a scene straight out of the time of King Arthur. We climbed to the royal box and arranged ourselves on cushioned benches around the queen.

Lord Robert, magnificent on his black warhorse, reined to a halt before Elizabeth and then humbly begged her favor. The queen gave him a fluttering Tudor green ribbon. A girlish flush rose in cheeks too pale of late. One by one the contestants approached the lady of their choice. I did not want to mark Gabriel’s progress as he drew closer while Douglass licked her lips as if she could taste my husband’s kisses. A disgruntled William Pickering took Lettice’s yellow ribbon since Leicester had reached the queen before him.

Douglass preened as Gabriel spurred his horse to the royal box. No combatant looked finer, not even the queen’s own champion. Jealousy burned in me as Gabriel’s blood bay danced sideways. Gabriel’s armor was not intricately etched like other courtiers, no gold chasings or marks of heraldry. Yet he seemed more dangerous for the simplicity. A hawk among a flock of peacocks.

I braced myself for the pain of watching my husband flaunt his passion for his mistress. Instead Gabriel guided the stallion until its hooves scraped the sand before me. “Mistress Elinor?” His green eyes burned. “I ask most humbly: Will you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your colors into the lists?”

He was forcing me to speak to him. I could see it in his face. “I do not have any to give you.” Those closest to me roared with laughter, passing on what I had said to those not near enough to hear. But they scrambled words until the pavilion buzzed with the news that Elinor de Lacey had told Gabriel Wyatt she did not have any favor to “give the likes of you.”

Queen Elizabeth added to the mirth from her place beneath the gold cloth of estate. “So did you not bring some trinket for any champion, Mistress Nell? Or is it our Angel in particular you intended to leave a-begging? No matter. Sir Gabriel must choose another lady. Perhaps the enchanting Douglass would oblige?”

“If Mistress Nell will not have me for her champion, I will take no favor at all.”

“That’s not what I said!”

My protest was lost in the thudding of hooves as he galloped away from the box. The other men each carried some bit of ribbon or sleeve or nosegay a lady had honored them with. I cringed, knowing I had set Gabriel up to be tormented. He rode as if Lucifer himself spurred hot behind him. Each time Gabriel thundered down the lists his lance struck home, thrice driving men from their saddles to the sandy ground. The wooden shield painted with the Wyatt wolf edged higher, a squire keeping score until only two shields hung above the rest: Gabriel’s and Dudley’s bear and ragged staff. But as squires helped William Pickering limp off the field the queen grew agitated.

The queen nudged me with her slipper. “You have put Sir Gabriel in the very devil of a temper by rejecting him. I shall not be amused if he damages Lord Robert.”

“Look!” Lettice cried as the last two combatants rode forth to see who would reign champion of the day.

I tried to calm my heart, but it thundered like horses’ hooves as the men charged their mighty stallions down the lists, their lances couched, their helmets gleaming. The impact as they struck each other’s shields made the very ground shudder, both lances splintering, Lord Robert nearly unseated. The queen pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from crying out. Both men rode to their end of the lists, taking a second lance from their squires. Again they charged. Sir Robert nearly faltered. I tried not to feel pride in Gabriel’s skill. Tried not to care if he landed on his back in the sand. But I could not stop the question swirling in my mind.
Why had Gabriel singled me out? Taken such a reckless chance?
I fiddled with my astrolabe, wishing the contest was over. They circled their horses on either side of the flimsy barrier between them, Lord Robert signaling Gabriel to draw near. Both men shoved up their face guards, so they could see the other. What was Lord Robert saying? I wondered. What could he possibly have to tell that was so important it could not wait until after their combat was finished? Even the crowd was growing restless.

“Gentlemen, this is a joust, not a meeting of the Privy Council,” the queen called.

Dudley saluted her, wheeled his horse and cantered to his end of the list. Gabriel seemed frozen, staring after Lord Robert until Leicester had taken a fresh lance from his squire. Jibes rang out, demanding that Gabriel either take up his lance or forfeit. God knew, he looked more stunned than he had all day when he had been struck with mighty blows. What was the matter with him?

Just as the queen was rising to her feet to call out to him, Gabriel jolted to life. He spun his stallion around, but the masterful control he had shown all day crumbled. He nearly dropped the lance his squire handed up to him. Forgot to lower his guard over his face until the lad called out warning. When the queen dropped her kerchief to signal them to spur toward each other, Gabriel drove his mount forward a few seconds late. The lance swung down into position, but Lord Robert was already upon Gabriel, Dudley’s own weapon solidly couched, steady.

The men came together with an earth-shattering crash, their stallions bellowing. I screamed as Dudley’s lance struck Gabriel’s chest, flinging him backward through the air. He seemed to fly forever, his arms flailing. He slammed to the ground with a force hard enough to shatter iron. No man could suffer such a fall and live!

Shrieks of horror echoed around me, but I barely heard them. Heedless of the queen watching, I scrambled from my seat, stumbling past the gentlemen pensioners guarding the royal box. Gabriel’s squires were running toward him. Even Dudley seemed appalled at how violently his Angel had fallen. In a blur I saw Leicester dismounting, awkward in his armor. But I raced in front of his horse, flinging myself down beside Gabriel, who laid terrifyingly still, his helm twisted at a sickening angle. Dear God, had he broken his neck? Was his last living memory of me his humiliation? My stomach lurched as his squire fought to wrestle the helm from his head.

Hands grasped me, firm yet gentle, pulling me away. “Come, Mistress. Give them room to work.” Robert Dudley. I struggled against his grasp.

“Is he dead? Please, God do not let him be dead!”

Gabriel’s squire had unbuckled the breastplate, pulled it free. He pressed his ear to Gabriel’s chest. “He breathes!” The youth shouted. “Sir Gabriel breathes!” But as another lad wrestled off his helmet Gabriel looked ashen indeed. Someone brought water, splashed it on Gabriel’s face. Thick black lashes fluttered. Yanking free of Dudley, I grasped Gabriel by the sweat-soaked leather of his doublet. “You are not dead!” I clutched him close.

“My babe,” Gabriel mumbled. “Is it true you carry my—”

I pressed my hand to his mouth to stop the words, knowing I had already perilously betrayed us. I turned, saw the queen leaning forward in the box, her body rigid, her beringed hands gripping the rail. Elizabeth’s accusing glare pierced me. But I had no time to castigate myself for my recklessness in flying to Gabriel’s side. He might be bleeding inside where even the finest doctor could not reach him.

“Sir Gabriel has taken a fearsome blow to the head,” I said in the commanding tone I had heard my mother use in countless crises over the years. “Carry him at once to his rooms. Summon the physician.” A flurry of movement erupted as people leapt to obey my commands. Surprised, grateful, I followed the men who carried Gabriel from the field. His rooms were just above the tiltyard, quickly reached.

They laid him upon his bed, the faithful Tyrell and several other squires working the tangle of leather straps and buckles to get him out of the rest of his armor. The moment they were done I sent them away on errands to buy us a moment alone.

Gabriel looked so pale, his curls so black upon the pillow. “What were you thinking? Asking me to give you my favor?” I demanded. Gabriel ignored my question, catching hold of my hand. Sometime during the day’s contests he had cut himself, dried blood smearing his knuckles.

“Lord Robert said a spy told him you were carrying a babe.” I tried to pull away, think what to say, but he held on tighter still. “It’s mine, isn’t it, Nell?” His voice cracked. “Why did you not tell me?”

Something in his gaze smothered any lie. “I was afraid that you would want to kill it in my womb. Mary said it could be done.”

Pain crumpled his features. “You believed I would do such a thing?”

“Considering all the other peril we are in? What else would you do?”

Gabriel tried to lever himself up. Agony flashed across his features and he clutched his arms across his ribs. For an instant I feared he would tumble back into unconsciousness. “What else would I have done? I would have gotten us all away from here. Someplace safe. But now . . . Christ, Nell. Now Dudley will know the child is mine. It is obvious he knows I have deceived him as well. He will have to separate his fate from ours to protect himself from the queen’s fury. Dudley will tell the queen and she will have to act.”

To act on whatever evidence Walsingham had gathered against me. Act against her suspicions, out of fear. But there was no real proof for her to condemn me. Even though the queen must guess what the scar on my hand signified, it could not be proved without a doubt. The condemning extra finger was gone and the old wound merely proved I had been injured. There was only one piece of evidence that could not be refuted if Elizabeth
was
the fair young lady who had stared up at the star-scattered bed curtains in her travail.

“There is something I must do.” I kissed his brow. “I will return quick as I can.”

Gathering up my skirts, I made my way out of his chambers, fled down stairs scattered with the curious, with servants and an herbalist, even a red-faced doctor on his way to tend Lord Dudley’s favorite.

I hastened through the gardens, my skirts caught up so I could run. At last I slipped through a little-used entry, raced up steep stone castle stairs to the Maids’ Lodgings.

Only Polly the spaniel was there to greet me. I nudged the dog out of my way and went to the chest that held my writing box. Hauling the inlaid desk out, I placed it on the nearest bed, then fumbled with the catch that opened the secret compartment. It seemed to take forever for my shaking fingers to spring the latch, but at last the secret door popped open. I thrust my fingers into the narrow compartment, wriggled my fingers deeper into the tiny space.

Only smooth wood met my touch.

The scrap of velvet bed curtain was gone.