by Karen Harper
When Bane saw he was beaten and bowed his way out, Cecil’s stern face split in a grin. “The man doesn’t know what hit him, but I warrant it feels like a jousting steed at full tilt,” he told her, rubbing his hands in glee. For once those capable hands were not filled with writs or decrees, so perhaps even the diligent Cecil was ready to slacken up a bit at Christmas.
“He’ll be back, lurking in corners,” Elizabeth said, “but I refuse to let him or anyone else overthrow my hopes for these holidays. My most important tasks of the day are to present the new livery to my household staffs and to oversee the hanging of garlands and greens—and, the Earl of Sussex has asked for some time, no doubt to warn me against listening to Leicester again.”
A sharp knock on the door startled them both. At her nod, Cecil went to open it. Two yeomen guards blocked the way of the agitated-looking Scot, Simon MacNair, brandishing a letter. Behind him, looking even more distressed was Robin Dudley, whom everyone now, except the queen in private, addressed as Leicester.
“Your Gracious Majesty,” MacNair clipped out, “forgive my intrusion, but I have a message of utmost import.”
“What import, man?” Cecil demanded, plucking the letter from his hand as the guards let both men enter and they bowed.
“From Edinburgh, I see,” Elizabeth said, noting well the familiar, large, crimson wax seal the Queen of Scots employed.
“From your royal cousin to you, Your Grace,” Cecil said. She saw him skim the letter even as he handed it over.
“Tell me what it says, Sir Simon,” Elizabeth told MacNair. “Or, by the look on your face, Leicester, should you tell me?”
“Very well,” Robin said. “The Scots queen has flat refused my suit for her royal hand.”
“Your suit? Mine rather!” Elizabeth cried. She hoped that MacNair not only thought she was shocked and distressed but would report it forthwith to his royal mistress. Mary Stuart had taken the bait, though she was not yet hooked. If she rejected the Earl of Leicester, as Elizabeth had hoped, she might bite all the quicker and harder on the tasty Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, whom Elizabeth intended to dangle before her.
Both royal Tudor and Stuart blood—for Stewart was the Scots’ version of Queen Mary’s Frenchified Stuart—ran in Darnley’s veins. At the prompting of his parents and without Elizabeth’s permission, the comely, twenty-year-old Darnley had courted the newly widowed Queen Mary in France, before she returned to Edinburgh. Distantly related to Elizabeth, Darnley was a dissolute weakling. If he were king, he would sap the power Mary of Scots would need for any bid to seize her rival Elizabeth’s crown and kingdom.
Elizabeth lowered her voice and tried to look morose. “I am deeply grieved the Scots Queen, my dear cousin, does not think to take that which I have so lovingly offered and advised.”
“How could she, Your Majesty,” MacNair put in, “when the earl wrote privily to her he was not worthy of her?”
“What?” she demanded. “I have made him worthy of her, said he is worthy of her!” She felt her skin flush hot. Over anyone else, friend or foe, she could remain calm, but not over this freebooting blackguard she had long loved. And now Robin had defied her again when she had told him to keep clear of this business and she and Cecil would handle it. But no, he had gainsayed her and jumped in with both feet as if he were bidden to make royal decisions here.
“You wrote her privily, in effect warding off her affections?” she cried, striding to Robin and hitting his shoulder with her balled fist. The wretch stood his ground.
“I was surprised, too, Your Grace,” MacNair went smoothly on, “since it has long been noised about that the earl has a curtained painting of Mary Stuart he dotes on. I hear ’tis in his privy rooms at Kenilworth, near the corridor on which hangs a smaller one of Your Most Gracious Majesty.”
Elizabeth was so furious her blood rang in her ears, thumping with the beat of her heart. She steadied herself as she had countless times ere this and said in a well-modulated voice, “Thank you, Sir Simon, for delivering this letter and for your additional information. I assure you I shall read most carefully my cousin’s thoughts and respond to her in kind. Farewell for now. Leicester, you may stay.”
When the door closed on the Scot and the queen heard her yeomen guards move back into their positions outside, she said calmly to Cecil, “Please ask Ned Topside to join us for a moment, my lord.” He nodded and complied instantly, going out the back way by which she had entered.
“Topside?” Robin said, fidgeting and holding his ground by the other door as if he too would flee. “What has he to do with any of this?”
“I won’t even ask you about the portrait of her you have hanging in your rooms while the smaller one of me is in the corridor. I am wearied to death with your caperings, to put it prettily, my lord. I give you an earldom but you presume to play king.”
“Hell’s gates, Your Grace,” he exploded, “you’ve been using me as a pawn to be taken by a foreign and enemy queen, so I thought I’d at least ascertain what the woman looked like. It’s a poor portrait of her, especially next to any of you, including this one!” he cried and yanked a locket on a chain out of his doublet. He tried to pry it open with some difficulty.
“Nevermind trying to make amends,” Elizabeth insisted. “It’s probably rusted shut from disuse if it hides my likeness!”
“If it is rusted shut, it is from my tears you no longer love me as you once did—at least said you did!”
“And now I want nothing but silence from you! You were to keep to the side in my dealings with Mary Stuart, not get your sticky, greedy fingers into the Christmas pie like Jack Horner in the corner,” she told him, wagging her finger as Cecil knocked once and entered with Ned.
“You called for me, Your Grace?” Ned said. He and Cecil looked almost as nervous as Robin.
“Master Topside, I regret to inform you that there is someone else I must appoint as Lord of Misrule this year, one who believes he can go his own way, so he will be perfect for the part. And you shall be his aide.”
Ned looked confused, hurt, then angry. “But I—things are already greatly planned, Your Grace, and I was just about to visit my former colleagues, the Queen’s Players, at the Rose and Crown, as you said I might.”
“You may still do so, but you will be assisting the new Lord of Misrule, especially at the Feast of Fools, where he will rule indeed.”
She glanced at Robin, then away. He had gone from deathly white to ruby red. And he had not yet learned when to keep his mouth shut.
“You first raise me to the earldom, then offer me to your cousin queen, then make a laughing stock of me?” he demanded.
“When people remark that I keep my friends so close, Cecil,” she said, turning to him, “I merely smile and nod, but the unspoken truth is, of necessity, I keep my enemies even closer. Ned, you may fetch your players, but be certain, if you stage a play, that the Earl of Leicester as the new Lord of Misrule takes the part of buffoon—or villain!”
“Holly and ivy, box and bay, put in the house for Christmas day,” the queen’s maids of honor and ladies in waiting chanted the old rhyme as they decked the halls, where kissing balls hung from rafters and lintels. Falalalalas echoed in the vast public rooms of the palace. But the queen’s mood was still soured as she watched all the frivolity. Truth be told, she’d like to feed both Martin Bane and Robin Dudley a big bowl of mistletoe berries.
“It’s not really true, is it?” Rosie’s voice pierced the queen’s thoughts. Four of her maids were standing close, looking at her on the first landing of the newly garlanded staircase.
“What was that again?”
“It’s only a superstition about the holly berries, isn’t it?” Rosie prompted.
Anne Carey, wife of Elizabeth’s cousin Baron Hunsdon, came to the queen’s aid. “Obviously,” Anne said, “it’s pure folk custom that these more pointed holly leaves are male and the more rounded ones female.” It was custom to count whether more sharp-leafed or smooth
had been gathered each year; whichever kind was in the majority supposedly decided whether the man or wife of the house ruled the roost in the coming year.
“I shan’t leave to chance,” Elizabeth said, “who commands this dwelling or any other palace for the entire year. I don’t give a fig how many sharp leaves of holly are hauled in here, a woman rules.”
She basked in their smiles and laughter. They made her feel better, and she was greatly looking forward to the rewarding of the new liveries to the kitchen staff. Finally, she began to buck up a bit.
With her main officers of her palaces, the queen processed toward the vast kitchen block. Behind her came the four chief household officials—the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Steward, Treasurer, and Comptroller—with some of their aides, laden down with piles of new clothes. She had sent for her former groom and favorite horseman, Stephen Jenks, because anytime she chose to leave her yeomen guards behind, she felt better with him in tow.
The royal kitchens of the Tudor palaces actually held three staffs that occupied separate areas: the hall kitchen served minor courtiers and household servants who ate in the Great Hall; the lord’s kitchen provided for the nobles who sat on the dais in the Great Hall; and the privy kitchen fed the queen and whomever she chose to have dine with her. This particular set of liveries was going to her privy kitchen staff.
The mere aroma from the open hearths and brick ovens pulled the queen fully back into the mood for Christmas. The bubbling sauces, spitted roasts, and plump pillows of rising dough being kneaded for pastries and pies made her nose twitch. In a long line stood her staff, Master Cook Roger Stout to lowest scullery maid and spit boy. The fancy livery was for those of the highest echelons and those who served at table, but everyone would receive at least a piece of cloth or a coin. Most gifts were given on New Year’s Day, but the household staffs needed their new garments now to look their best these coming Twelve Days.
Elizabeth went down the line from pastry cooks, to larders, confectioners, boilers, and spicers, giving a quick smile and word of praise to each with the varied gifts. “Is that everyone?” she asked the beaming Stout as he sent his staff back to their tasks. “I see there’s a doublet left.”
“I reckon it’s for Hodge Thatcher, Your Most Gracious Majesty, as I noticed him missing. If he’s nodded off, I’ll have his skin.”
“More like poor Master Hodge is busy putting the skin and feathers back on the peacock for tonight,” Elizabeth countered.
Hodge Thatcher was Dresser of the Queen’s Privy Kitchens, which meant he “dressed” or ornately arranged the fancy dishes for the feasts. It was no mean task to garnish and decorate soups, meats, and pies. For entertaining foreign ambassadors, he’d turned out many a finely refeathered, roasted swan with the traditional, tiny crown upon its head. For this evening, he must re-affix the roasted peacock’s iridescent coat and prop up the fan of feathers. Once, years ago, she’d seen Hodge at that task when he first came to serve in her father’s kitchens. She glanced over at the hatches through which Master Hodge must inspect all food before it was carried upstairs to her table, whether she was eating in public or in private.
“His workroom is by the back door to the street, is it not?” she asked and took the items down the crooked corridor herself while Stout and her entourage hurried along.
“Ah, yes, what a fine memory you have, Your Majesty,” he cried, sounding out of breath, “for his is the last door before passing through to the porter’s gate and so outside the walls. Allow me to ascertain if he is within and announce you,” he added, but the door was narrow and the queen poked her head in ahead of the others.
“He’s not here,” she declared at first glance into the dim room, lit by a single lantern on the cluttered work table. She saw the small area served also for storage: pots and kettles, spits and gridirons hung aloft on hooks and hoisting chains.
Then, amidst all that, the queen saw bare feet dangling head high. She gasped as she gazed up at a bizarre body, a corpse, part bird, part man.
THE THORNE MAZE
Copyright © 2003 by Karen Harper. Excerpt from The Queene’s Christmas © 2003 by Karen Harper.
All rights reserved No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Cover photograph of the Old Palace © Hatfield House, Hertfordshire,
UK / Bridgeman Art Library.
Image of Queen Elizabeth I, by Nicholas Hillard © Fitzwilliam
Museum, University of Cambridge, UK / Bridgeman Art Library.
Photograph of maze © Romilly Lockyer / Getty Images.
eISBN 9781429905206
First eBook Edition : May 2011
EAN: 80312-99349-8
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / February 2003
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2003
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
