Virginia Henley (11 page)

“You draw every eye, Lady Catherine,” Oxford complimented.

“Only when I am on your arm, my lord,” Cat said graciously. Tonight’s performance had been an unqualified success, and happiness bubbled up inside her. As they waited for the musicians to begin the first coranto, Cat’s curious glance swept around the chamber, and she counted at least a dozen courtiers who would be eager to partner her tonight. Then she had a sobering thought. What on earth would she do if the loutish Hepburn asked her to dance? She decided that she would decline graciously and tell him she had promised the dance to another.

Out of curiosity, she began to look for him. She saw Robert Carey, resplendent in Tudor green, partnering his bride-to-be, who wore a fashionable gown of rose brocade. The chamber was crowded and she had almost given up her quest when she spotted him. The Scot was dressed in a black velvet doublet and tight black hose. The frill of his snowy white shirt showed only an inch above the collar of his doublet. His elegant attire made the other males look gaudy by comparison. Cat missed a step as she realized that admiring females, all openly flirting with him and competing with one another for his attention, surrounded him. Many were older, sophisticated Court beauties, among them, Lettice Knollys and Douglas Sheffield.
Both are married and both are strumpets!
She averted her eyes and concentrated on the quick running steps of the coranto.

The dissolute Oxford bent close to whisper an invitation.

Quite used to fending off his lascivious advances, Cat smiled sweetly. “Would your wife be joining us?”

“I fear not, puss. Three in a bed can be amusing, but not when two of them are wed to each other.”

The moment the dance ended, Charlie Blount, Lord Mountjoy’s son, shouldered Oxford aside. “Lady Catherine, your beauty haunts me heart and soul, O thou fair Moon so close and bright.”

“You flatter me, Charlie, though the words are not your own.”

As she matched her steps to the rhythm of the lavolta she was surprised to see Patrick Hepburn join the dancers. She watched him surreptitiously and saw that his movements were lithe and fluid, with an animal-like grace. When he lifted his partner higher than any other lady, his great strength was obvious.

When the partners rotated, Cat was passed into the waiting arms of Henry Somerset. “I thank you for the poem you sent me, Hal.”

“Your beauty almost blinds me tonight, Cat. Will you let me take you to see another play on Wednesday?”

“It’s extremely difficult to get away from Court,” she said doubtfully, and then rewarded him with a smile as he began to beg. He swirled her high in a silver arc, and the moment her feet touched the dance floor she saw that her next partner would be Patrick Hepburn. A feeling of panic engulfed her. She felt she would scream if he touched her. The mannerless lout had not bothered to seek her out and compliment her on her performance. He had neither greeted her nor even glanced her way this evening.

As she changed partners and stood before him, she felt unreasonable anger surge through her because she had to put her head back to look up at him.
Why are you so bloody tall?
She waited for his compliment, which never came. She noticed the emblem on his black velvet doublet. The solid silver horse head had an emerald eye.
Horse’s head indeed—horse’s arse would be more apt!

With disdain she reached up and tapped it with her fingernail. “Have any spat upon the emblem of your outlawed father, Bothwell?”

“None dare. I always carry a knife.” His grin was wolfish.

“Tell me, Lord Stewart, did you enjoy the masque?”

His dark glance swept her with amusement. “Not really. I don’t much care for idolatry. Your queen has made you addicted to
heroine worship.
Don’t expect it from me, Lady Catherine.”

“I should slap your face,” she hissed furiously.

“It is beyond your reach, Hellcat.”

With chagrin, she saw that it was. She had managed to scratch him once, but that had been in a dream. Hadn’t it?

The final measure of the lavolta reached a crescendo. His large hands easily spanned her tiny waist, and he swept her up so high that her silk petticoats as well as her ankles were revealed for all to see. He held her motionless in the air with sheer brute strength, compelling her to grasp his wide shoulders for support. Her amber eyes flashed golden fire as she gasped with outrage, and, as if relenting, he lowered her toward the floor.

Before her feet could touch, however, he swung her up again, demonstrating that he was the one who was in control.

Fury had almost choked her by the time he released her. “I shall repeat your disrespectful criticism to Her Majesty the queen.”

“No need,
ma petite
. I shall inform her myself.” He gave her a curt nod of dismissal and made his way to the dais. Going down on one knee he made a gallant bow to Elizabeth and made no move to rise until she crooked her finger. As protocol dictated, he respectfully waited until she addressed him first.

“I often welcomed the admiral to my Court, and now I welcome you. What brings you to London, Lord Stewart?” she asked bluntly.

“Mundane trade, Your Majesty. Your fair city is the trading center of the world. I came to sell horses and buy wine, in an effort to replenish my empty coffers.”

“Speaking of wine, you must join me in a glass.” Elizabeth signaled to a maid of honor sitting on the dais beside a small table that held refreshments. She was there to serve the queen and also taste the monarch’s food and wine for poison. The young lady filled two glasses and brought them over with a linen napkin.

“Allow me, Your Majesty.” Patrick took the first glass from the maid of honor, tasted it, wiped the rim with the linen, and then proffered it to the queen. “Since you enjoy sweet wine, I’ll take the liberty of sending you some casks of Canary tomorrow.”

Elizabeth tapped his broad chest with her fan. “I warrant you enjoy taking liberties, Hepburn, as your father did before you.”

Patrick smiled into her eyes. “I must confess that I do.”

“Bothwell and I dealt well together. He was ever a staunch Protestant and a strong bastion against the Catholics who sought to rule Scotland.”

Taking care not to stare, he saw that her face was a cobweb of wrinkles in spite of the heavy white maquillage and red rouge. Despite the magnificent wired and padded gown he could see that beneath the jeweled satin, the royal body was emaciated. He was glad that he had not made the mistake of offering to partner her in the dance. She was far too frail for such physical exertion. Her spirit alone was keeping her alive. Yet he could clearly see that her spirit was amazingly strong. Strong enough to demand adulation. Strong enough to vent her temper should something or someone dare to displease her. Strong enough to imprison someone in the Tower of London, or sign a death warrant with her delicate but still imperious, all-powerful hand. Above all she was strong enough to resist naming a successor to her Crown of England.

When Patrick finished his wine, he stood up to leave. Many courtiers hovered below the dais waiting their turn to pay homage to their sovereign queen.

She eyed his great height and breadth with approval. “I admire a man who is both big and bold. I should like to see you perform in the joust. We always have a grand tournament to celebrate my Accession Day. I invite you to take part, Lord Stewart.”

“It will be my honor, Your Majesty, to return in November.” As he bowed before her he wondered if she would be alive in November.

Patrick found the Presence Chamber stifling hot, and the heavy perfume of the courtiers, both male and female, was cloying. Without seeming to hurry, he walked a direct path to the end of the chamber. His dark eyes sought out Lady Catherine’s silvery costume before he went outside. She was dancing with a young noble named William Herbert, who was heir to the great earldom of Pembroke. The moment Patrick’s glance touched her, she made a great show of deliberately turning her back upon him. He smiled with satisfaction. It was obvious the little hellcat’s eyes had been following him for some time.

Outside Whitehall Palace, Patrick found the air cool and fresh, yet still nothing like the air of Scotland, which was as pure and heady as fine wine. He strolled down to the river and stood watching the lights on the barges as his mind went over every detail of what he had learned about the Queen of England tonight. His vision had shown him her funeral yet had not revealed
when
that fateful and momentous event would take place.

Psychic abilities aside, what do your gut instinct and plain common sense tell you?
he asked himself.
Less than a year—nine or ten months, but no longer.
He shook his head and smiled at her courage and her stubborn spirit. He could not help but admire her and admitted he would not be surprised in the least to see her celebrate her November Accession Day one last time.

With reluctant steps he returned to the festivities. Courtesy demanded that he dance with the ladies he had met in Richmond.

Just as he was about to ask Liz Widdrington, she was whisked off on the arm of a fashionably garbed courtier. “Who’s the dandy?” Patrick asked with a grimace.

“That’s William Seymour, a dissolute young opportunist, like most here at Court,” Robert replied. “My sister Kate presented me to Elizabeth, who immediately asked why I’d deserted my post. I told her I could not bear to be away from her sight. My answer must have pleased her. She assented to a private audience tomorrow after chapel. The queen may be my cousin, but she sometimes puts the fear of God in me. I think it would be in my best interest to attend the church service.”

“Better you than me,” Patrick said with a grin. He turned to find Arbella Stuart at his elbow and knew she wanted him to partner her in the dance to make William Seymour jealous. He bowed gallantly. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Arbella?”

As they moved together in the sprightly galliard, Arbella puzzled, “My lord, if we are both related to King James of Scotland, why are our names spelled differently?”

“Stewart was the ancient spelling of Scottish rulers since 1371. When King James’s mother, Mary, married the Dauphin, she discovered that the French pronounce the letter
w
as a
v,
so she changed the spelling to Stuart so it would sound the same.”

“How clever she was!”

“She married a Hepburn,” he said wryly. “How clever was that?”

“Mary managed to catch three husbands, so I would call her exceedingly clever, Lord Stewart.”

Patrick suddenly sensed her overwhelming fear of becoming an old maid. “Elizabeth never lost her head over a man.” It was a subtle warning, but Arbella seemed oblivious. When the dance ended, they found themselves standing next to Lady Catherine and her partner, who was resplendent in puce satin.

“Oh Cat, the play was so romantic and you were the loveliest Moon Goddess ever. Don’t you agree, Lord Stewart?”

“Certain people become strangely affected by the moon. The word
lunatic
comes from the Latin word
luna.
” He looked pointedly at Cat’s satin-clad dancing partner. Though she pretended to be angry, he could see that his words had secretly amused her and she raised her fan to hide her laughter.

Douglas Sheffield sauntered up and she boldly slid her arm through Hepburn’s. “Patrick, I believe the next lavolta is ours, though if you’ve had a surfeit of dancing I could show you the gardens.”

“My dearest lady, how can I refuse your generous offer? I shall be delighted to see whatever you wish to show me.” Though he did not look directly at Cat, he knew that her smile had fled.

Elizabeth did not withdraw from the Presence Chamber until two in the morning. Many courtiers stayed on to dance and gossip, but Isobel Spencer signaled to her daughter that she must retire to bed. With an envious glance at the older women, who were free to stay until dawn if they so desired, Cat followed her mother.

She removed her wig and costume quietly so that she would not disturb Maggie. Though the evening had been a great success, Catherine felt subdued. As she lifted the covers, she wondered in which strumpet’s bed Lord Bloody Stewart would end up. By what she had seen he could have his pick, yet for the life of her she could not fathom the attraction.

Catherine tossed and turned for an hour before sleep claimed her, and just before dawn she began to dream. She was in a large chamber filled with beautiful women in exquisite gowns. There was music for dancing, yet there were no male courtiers present to partner the women. Then a lone man stepped down from the dais, and she saw that it was Patrick Hepburn. He moved from female to female, searching for a partner who would please him above all others.

When he stopped before her and gazed down at her, Cat knew she was the one and it filled her with joy. The other ladies faded away, until she and Patrick were alone in the center of the chamber. She looked up longingly at his mouth, wanting him to kiss her.

“It is beyond your reach, Hellcat.”

“Then lift me up,” she invited temptingly.

He slid his hands beneath her bottom cheeks and linked his fingers together so she could sit upon his palms. He raised her slowly until their lips were inches apart, then his mouth claimed the kiss for which they both hungered. She clung to him breathlessly as he withdrew his lips and whispered, “I know a place where bluebells grow. Will you come with me, Catherine?”

She suddenly awakened, and for a moment her sense of loss was devastating. Then she realized she had been dreaming. Cat shuddered with revulsion.
Even in a dream, how could I possibly be attracted to him? Patrick Hepburn is loathsome to me!

 

In Whitehall’s chapel, Robert Carey sat with his sisters Kate and Philadelphia for the Sunday morning service. The music, truly lovely and uplifting, soared up to the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. Then Bishop Bancroft walked from the altar to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. He began by lecturing those who broke the sanctity of the Sabbath by playing bowls on God’s day. He moved on to condemning vanity and castigated those who decked out their bodies too finely, flaunting their silks and satins and allowing themselves to become slaves of fashion.