This Heart of Mine (43 page)

“Aha!” cried Essex, “at long last. What kept you?” He was dressed in black velvet, and his doublet twinkled with diamonds.

“Need you ask?” Ralegh chuckled, equally resplendent in a red doublet sewn with sparkling garnets and gold beads.

“Walter!” chided Bess Throckmorton, her dark blond
beauty enhanced by her gold brocade gown, the fabric of which had been Velvet’s Twelfth Night gift to her. But Velvet only laughed.

“The marriage bed, Sir Walter, is one of the nicest prerogatives of wedded life should you ever decide to try it.” She looked but for an instant at her friend, who blushed furiously.

“Come along,” Bess said, in an attempt to cover her embarrassment. “The queen has already been asking for you both, and I was sent to fetch you to her the moment you arrived.”

Gaily, they followed the queen’s favorite Maid of Honor, trooping up the stairs to where the festivities were noisily in progress. Elizabeth Tudor was ensconced in a large, carved, gilt throne that sat atop a small carpeted dais. She was magnificently gowned in a dress of white velvet with cloth-of-silver stripes sewn all over with diamonds, pearls, and small golden bows. About her neck was a necklace made of six strands of perfectly matched pink pearls with an emerald clasp. Upon her head was a wig of the fieriest hue of bright red. Her gray-black eyes were sparkling with pleasure, and as she spoke she used her beautiful hands with their long, beringed fingers gracefully to punctuate her point. Seeing Velvet and Alex, she smiled warmly and gestured for them to approach her, which they did, moving easily between the rows of chattering courtiers. Reaching the dais, the Earl and Countess of BrocCairn made a respectful obeisance to the monarch.

The queen stood, then shouted over the din,
“Silence!
We would speak and have everyone hear what it is we have to say.” The room quieted, even the musicians falling silent. The queen smiled, well pleased at them all. If she had taught them one thing over the years, it was obedience to her will. “Tomorrow,” she began, “is the start of the penitential season, and shortly thereafter my dearest godchild, Velvet, will depart with her husband for their home in Scotland. Since it is to be hoped that my goddaughter, once in her new home, will do her duty by her husband …” Here the queen paused, and there were several loud, appreciative chuckles from those present. “It is not likely that we will see them again for several years, for
Dun Broc i
s many long miles from London.
Queen’s Malvern
, where Velvet grew up, was a grant from my own estates to Adam de Marisco. Since he has no son to carry on his line, we would have it known that upon his death the estate of
Queen’s Malvern
is to be deeded to Alexander Gordon, the Earl of BrocCairn, and his heirs forever. This is my gift to you both, for I love you well.”

Velvet’s eyes filled with tears of pleasure. To know that someday
Queen’s Malvern
would be hers and her children’s was almost too much to bear. She wished her parents not one moment less time on earth than God ordained for them, but in preparing to leave England for the north she had felt so cut off. Now the queen had remedied that feeling as if she had known exactly what Velvet was thinking. The young Countess of BrocCairn fell to her knees. Taking the hem of the queen’s gown, she raised it to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you, madame,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She could say no more.

Elizabeth bent and raised the girl up, her own eyes wet with honest tears. Pulling a silken scrap from her sleeve, she wiped her godchild’s cheeks. “There now, child, I but sought to please you.”

“Oh, you have, gracious madame! You have!”

“It is a most generous gift, indeed, Majesty,” said Alex, who had finally found his voice.

The queen shot him an amused look. “It is unlikely that we shall have heirs of our own body,” she said with great understatement. “Perhaps someday the son of my traitorous cousin, Mary Stewart, will inherit this throne.” She smiled coldly.
“Perhaps.
If that should be the case, then it cannot hurt for you to have English estates, my lord. It cannot hurt you at all.”

“Nay.” He nodded gravely. “It canna hurt me, madame.”

“We intend to live a long life”—the queen chuckled—“and we have no doubt that Adam de Marisco and his wife will also live long. It may be many years until you come into your inheritance, sir. Many years, indeed.”

“But when I do,” said Alex with great deftness, “I will remember with respect and affection England’s great queen, Elizabeth Tudor.”

“Hah!” chortled the queen. “God’s nightshirt, what a waste! You should stay here at court, Alex Gordon, for you’ve a courtier’s tongue in your head for certain. You could go far. Aye, you could!”

“The queen is most gracious,” replied Alex, “but with all due respect to ye, and to yer court, I long for the hills of my home.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I understand,” she said quietly. “You love your
Dun Broc
as I love my Greenwich. I let no one deny me my home, and I shall not deny you yours, my lord. Our permission for you to go stands. Go safely with God, but return to us with your wife in time.”

Alex bowed low and, taking the queen’s hand, kissed it.

The queen’s eyes sparkled again. “Now away with you, sir, and enjoy the evening! There are several pairs of eyes that have not
left your person since you entered the room. Bold, immoral wenches, they are. Are you jealous, Velvet?”

“Nay, madame, for my lord gives me no cause. I weep for these ladies, for unlike an Eastern sultana, I cannot find it in my heart to share my husband.”

The queen laughed once more, for she was in high good humor this evening. “Methinks somehow that my lord BrocCairn has all he can handle in you, my child!”

“Aye, madame, and that’s a truth,” came Velvet’s mischievous reply, and she curtsied prettily to the queen. Then, taking her husband’s arm, she moved out into the room again.

“You’re a bold jade,” said Sir Walter Ralegh as he moved to join them. Bess had returned to her place by her mistress’s side, as had the handsome Earl of Essex.

“The better to breed up bold sons, sirrah!” came Velvet’s pert reply.

Ralegh grinned and thought how very much Velvet had changed in the eight months since she had joined the court. The musicians began to play a spritely country dance, and as quick as a wink he claimed Velvet from under Alex’s surprised nose. Slipping his arm about her waist, he skillfully wove her into the figure and they were swiftly gone.

With a chuckle Alex made his way back to the queen’s dais. Asking and receiving her permission, he partnered Mistress Throckmorton in the dance as the queen went merrily off with Lord Essex.

Although the evening was scheduled to end at midnight with the entire court gathering in the queen’s chapel to receive ashes, it seemed as if the masque fête would never end. The musicians played with great liveliness and almost without stopping. Toward mid-evening the dining-room doors were thrown open, and the guests were treated to a huge buffet that had been set up for their pleasure.

The royal cooks, painfully aware of the six weeks to follow, had outdone themselves in their preparation of the feast. There were sides of beef, lamb, venison, stag, and boar. There were game birds: ducks, swans, and peacocks, these last two with their feathers restored to them; as well as partridges, quails, pigeons, and larks. There were capons roasted to a golden, juicy turn and geese, succulent and browned—both with their stuffings of dried fruits bursting from them. There were large pies of rabbit and songbirds; whole suckling pigs with lemons in their mouths set on golden platters filled with cress; large pink hams; barrels of icy oysters from the North Sea; whole salmons; and dishes of prawns, some prepared in white wine and others broiled simply in butter
with herbs. There were bowls of beets and carrots, platters of baby lettuce steamed in wine, great loaves of fresh baked breads, and cheeses: great wheels of Derby, Stilton, and Cheddar from the surrounding countryside, and soft, subtle Brie from France.

On a separate table rested all manner of sweets for the queen’s guests. There were colored jellies in various shapes, cakes soaked in sweet wine, great fruit tarts with bowls of clotted cream, sugar wafers, marzipan, bowls of winter apples and pears, and firm golden oranges from Seville. The wines; a heady, dark red Burgundy and a fruity pale golden wine, flowed in a never-ending stream from the silver pitchers of the royal footmen.

The queen’s guests streamed in and out of the dining rooms, helping themselves to the bounty spread before them. They ate with great concentration, stuffing the various foods into their mouths as if the fasting was to last forever rather than a simple forty days’ time. The dancing had stopped temporarily, and Elizabeth Tudor sat easily on her gilt throne with its red velvet cushion, watching through hooded eyelids her court as they feasted to excess.

There was a faint smile upon her lips, but whether it bespoke merely amusement or scorn even the most observant could not tell. Many were now falling prey to the excellent wine the queen served, and there was some slight evidence of drunkenness among several of the courtiers. Elizabeth watched it all.

It pleased her immensely that the marriage she had permitted between her royal ward, Angel Christman, and Robert Southwood, the Earl of Lynmouth, was a happy one. The young countess, now visibly enceinte beneath her gown, was radiantly happy, for her husband was obviously deeply in love with her. The queen’s mouth softened a little. There, at least, her instinct had been correct. How she would have loved to experience such happiness herself, but she had realized early on in her life that if a man was given the upper hand over a woman he could destroy her in either body, mind, or spirit, if not in all three. The world demanded that one pay for one’s weakness of character. She had learned that lesson young. Still, occasionally she saw in some marriages a happy equality that pleased her even if she instinctively knew that such happiness was not for her. One could not be blissfully happy and be a successful queen of England, she thought wryly.

Her eyes moved to Velvet, who had finally granted a dance to her husband. Elizabeth’s lips quirked with delight. Eight months ago the chit had been a mere child. Now she capered merrily with her handsome lord, a naughty smile upon her face, her tongue no doubt sharp with some saucy quip. Dearest Skye will be mightily
surprised when she finally returns from her voyage to find herself a grandmother by her youngest child, thought the queen, for I have not a doubt that once home in Scotland the girl will breed successfully. I shall miss the wench, for she is sweet of nature and good fun, Elizabeth realized.

The object of the queen’s thoughts danced happily with her husband, flirting outrageously with him until he threatened to kiss her before the entire court unless she ceased. In answer Velvet laughed up in his face, trying his patience quite sorely.

The stately pavane came slowly to an end, and the musicians began the waltzlike lavolta. Velvet was claimed by Lord Essex, and Alex moved off to find himself some chilled wine.

Taking a goblet from a passing footman, he sought a quiet corner away from the dancing. There was no doubt in his mind that Elizabeth Tudor had the most elegant, witty, and urbane court in all of Christendom, but he had to admit to himself that as much as he had enjoyed his stay in England he would be glad to return home again. He longed for the smell of clean, fresh air in his nostrils instead of the stink of Londontown. He longed to roam the hills about
Dun Broc
with his dogs at his heels, instead of the streets of this city with his men about him to deter the cutpurses. He longed for his castle, for simple food, to have Velvet all to himself without her family or their friends. There was so much he had to show her, so much he wanted to share with her, but until they left England none of it would be. Aye, he was eager to be quit of the place.

“Alone, m’lord? How fortuitous for me.” Mary de Boult stood in a gown of gold and silver stripes before him, her hands upon her hips. There was something almost blowsy about her, he noticed now. Had her hair always been that flat shade of black?

“Madame.” His greeting offered her no encouragement. If anything, the tone of his voice was discouraging.

“Madame,”
she mimicked him unpleasantly, and he saw that she was drunk. “There was a time, Alexander Gordon, when it was ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart,’ not ‘madame.’ You have insulted me, m’lord! You have offended me beyond all, and I intend that you pay for it!”

“Indeed, madame, and how have I offended ye? By refusing to become yer lover? By declining to travel a path already so well traveled by so many others? Ye offered yerself, madame, and although I was willing to flirt and play the gallant, never did I lead ye to believe it would be anything else.” His expression was icy with disdain.

“You used me to entrap that auburn-haired bitch you’re wed to!” she hissed angrily at him.

“Ye used me, too, madame! Ye loved the idea that ye had taken me away from one of the queen’s young Maids of Honor. Ye loved the thought that ye had captured the Scots earl, and ye paraded me like a lapdog throughout the entire court to the point of indiscretion. Ye were well paid for yer services, madame. I was, as I recall it, most generous with my gifts. Ye should have no complaints, Lady de Boult. My treatment of ye was fair and honorable by all accounts.”

“You bastard!” she snarled and, raising her hand, struck out at him.

Alexander Gordon caught her arm in midair, his fingers tightening about her wrist. His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously low. “Nay, madame, and were ye a man ye’d stand challenged already.”

Their eyes locked in deadly combat. Then, without warning, Mary de Boult tore her bodice open with her other hand, grasped one of her bare breasts, and shrieked, “Ahhh, no, my lord! How can you seek to shame me so! Stop! Stop! I pray you!” Her generous breasts spilled wantonly from her gown, and for the briefest moment her eyes sparkled in triumphant defiance at him. Then she began to caterwaul at the top of her lungs while a small crowd gathered about them. “He tried …” She hiccoughed several sobs. “He tried to dishonor me!” She wept for the assembled audience, pointing at the marks upon her bosom.