The Lady Series

by Domning, Denise

  Here, the lady paused, the look in her eyes distant as she smiled. It was the first honest expression Anne had seen upon her face. “How long ago my arrival at court seems now,” the lady said with a wistful laugh. “Everyone was so old, the king, his courtiers, my own lord. All but unfortunate Queen Catherine, she being the first queen I served as a lady-in-waiting.”

  Anne caught an excited breath. Her mother had also served Catherine Howard. The memory of her mother chiding Sir Amyas for his lack of manhood returned with all its potency. Was it possible her mother knew even more about Amyas? On the morrow, a letter would depart for Owls House asking just that.

  “Poor Kate Howard,” Lady Montmercy was saying, sadly shaking her head. “We were of an age, she and I, and how I pitied her. Although my husband was old, he wasn’t fat, gouty, and ill-tempered like the king. Ah, but you asked about your grandfather, not a feckless and long-dead girl. Let me think a moment.”

  This time when the lady paused, she tilted her head to peer up at the dark beams that crossed the ceiling, her mouth pursed, her forehead creased. Anne’s eyes narrowed. Again, it was an actor’s portrayal of deep thought. Did the lady realize that her pretense shattered the noblewoman’s claim she knew the Blanchemains only a little?

  “Was Sir Amyas not an undersecretary in the Court of the Wards at one time?” Lady Montmercy finally asked.

  “Indeed he was,” Anne answered, her voice appropriately encouraging.

  “Aye, my lord husband also served upon the court and, there, would their knowledge of each other have been formed there. I admit my lord had no liking for those whose roots were in trade, as I believe your grandsire’s are. Old Lord Montmercy claimed such commoners were all honor-less thieves bent on taking places and positions that rightfully belonged to nobler men.” Although aimed at Sir Amyas the lady meant this to prick at his granddaughter as well. This blow was not as subtle as the first, its bluntness suggesting that speaking of the past caused Lady Montmercy some pain.

  “As I recall,” the lady went on, “the actual source of the discord arose over the purchase of an abbey. My lord husband offered for it, but your grandsire offered more, paying every fee and bribe to steal it out from under him. How my lord shouted and cursed over one he despised taking what he coveted. Shall I say my lord never forgave your grandfather for the loss of that property?” She aimed a tight smile at Anne.

  “This must be the source of the rumor,” Anne offered the expected reply then tried a probe of her own. “My grandfather does own abbey lands, that property being the one he most prizes. No doubt he cherishes it because its ownership reminds him of his victory over your lord husband.” This was an outright lie. Amyas had given the property to Walter, Anne’s recently deceased cousin, for his use.

  “Is that so?” Lady Montmercy murmured as if she considered Anne’s comment an interesting but unimportant bit of information.

  Had it not been for Anne’s many years deciphering her mother’s unspoken messages she might have missed the flicker of pain that passed through the lady’s eyes. Triumph rose. The connection between this lady and her grandfather had naught to do with business dealings gone badly. Nay, there was something far more intimate than that.

  Anne bowed her head to hide her excitement. “Thank you, Lady Montmercy,” she said with what girlish sweetness she could muster. “I know it cannot seem like much to you, but I’m grateful for your memories.” With a final curtsy, she returned to her stool by the window and her handwork.

  There was a tap on Anne’s chamber door.

  “Coming,” Patience snarled, shoving her mistress’s black velvet headdress at her.

  As the slight woman worked her way past Anne and the bed’s corner to the door, Anne stared at her keeper’s back in dismay. Patience’s ill mood was Anne’s fault. Trapped in worry over how Patience was going to react to this morn’s private dancing lesson, Anne had turned the act of dressing into an ordeal.

  Nothing felt right. Skirts were rejected, sleeves tossed aside, gloves thought either too thick or too thin, with Patience all the while lecturing on the sin of vanity. At last, and mostly because there was nothing left from which to choose, Anne settled on a modest black bodice and overskirt worn atop a scarlet underskirt with full black sleeves slashed to show their red and yellow lining.

  Not that time wasted on clothing brought Anne one step nearer to a way to win her keeper’s cooperation. It wasn’t just Patience’s cooperation Anne needed; nay, Patience would have to blind herself to the forward behavior Anne intended to ply against Master Christopher. Anne’s mouth turned down in defeat.

  She was doomed.

  Patience threw open the door. Mary stood there. “Good morrow, cousin,” she cried from the doorway. There simply wasn’t space for a third body in Anne’s minuscule chamber.

  “Nan, I’m sent to tell you and Mistress Watkins to hie yourselves directly to the park gate. There’s drizzle today so wear your boots and carry your shoes. Your walk will take you beyond Greenwich’s walls, and the road is mucky.” There was just enough sparkle in Mary’s eyes to suggest she either guessed or knew of the queen’s scheme to best Leicester.

  Suspicion tightened Patience’s expression. She crossed her arms over her brown bodice. “Beyond the walls? Just where are we going?” she demanded.

  As one who believed in treating servants with a firm hand Mary frowned at such impertinence. “That’s none of your concern, Mistress Watkins. Take a lesson from your better who asks no questions, but goes where her royal mistress sends her.”

  “The queen has begun my dancing lessons,” Anne said to Patience as she tied on her headdress, pulling her plait through the tube of the headpiece’s shoulder-length veil. “I suspect we’re off to some quiet place that offers a modicum of privacy in which to practice.”

  “That is strange, indeed.” Patience glanced narrowly between the two maids as if she feared a hoodwinking. “Why would the queen send you so far from her protection? Who is to be our escort?”

  Anne shrugged, knowing nothing of the arrangements.

  That left Mary to chide. “I’ll not answer you as to why our queen’s majesty chooses to send Mistress Anne where she does, nor should you ask,” she scolded Patience. “As for escorts,” Mary went on, “there are the musicians, although they being tradesmen I cannot say in any truth they can be called an escort. Master Hollier went ahead to make certain the place is ready for footwook so he cannot serve. However, he left his serving man to walk with you.”

  “Oh!” The word leapt from Patience’s mouth. Her hands flew to her head to smooth her hair. No matter that it was already taut against her skull, wound into a tight curl at the nape of her neck. In the next instant her eyes widened and she glanced frantically around the room.

  “Oh dear,” she cried, slipping past Anne to squeeze between wall and bed and stop before their shared clothing chest. Its lid banged against the plastered wall as she threw it open. Panting, Patience dug through the stacks of clothing she’d only moments before refolded, complaining loudly over having to do so.

  Anne looked at Mary, astonished. Mary shrugged as surprised as she, then retreated, closing the door as she went.

  “Patience,” Anne called, “is all well with you?”

  “My coif, Mistress Anne,” the woman replied, still bent over the chest as she sought her close-fitting white cap. “I set it aside, thinking to don it after you were dressed. Now I cannot find it.”

  Surprise grew. It seemed impossible that Patience didn’t know where her headgear was. After all, she’d snarled at Anne when Anne had laid her cloak upon it. Lifting her outer garment from the bed’s corner, Anne caught up the coif to hand it to the woman. “Here, Patience,” she said. “It’s right where you left it.”

  The woman came upright with a start, then whirled. Relief gusted from her as she claimed the cap from Anne. “My thanks, mistress. I couldn’t have gone out without it.”

  She clapped it upon her head, tucking nonexistent
stray hairs beneath it as she loosely tied the strings beneath her chin. That Patience should be so agitated over a missing cap was utterly beyond understanding. Anne frowned at her and sat upon the bed’s end to kick off her shoes.

  “Bring my boots, will you?” She’d yet to give her keeper a direct order, fearing Patience’s vengeance would be tales told to Sir Amyas.

  “Aye, mistress,” Patience replied, her tone as sweet as sugar when only a moment before it had been all vinegar.

  Grabbing Anne’s boots from beneath the bed, she handed them to her charge, taking Anne’s shoes in trade. In the time it took for Anne to don these sturdy items Patience had her own boots on, her cloak over her shoulders, and her prayer book tucked under her arm. Snatching Anne’s cloak from the mattress, she thrust it at her charge. “Make haste. They await us.”

  So much enthusiasm for something that should have sent Patience into a fit of nagging, if not complete refusal, was worrisome indeed. Anne eyed the woman. “Does this mean you no longer have any objections to the lesson?” She cringed at the hopeful note in her own voice. Patience might not object but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t report the goings on to Sir Amyas.

  “Where the queen commands you cannot refuse,” came her response, as if Patience hadn’t just this moment chosen to believe the queen’s edicts more important than God’s laws.

  Anne threw her outer garment around her, and fumbled with its single button. Patience stood at the closed door. The hems of her brown skirts jiggled as she tapped her toe in the antithesis of her name.

  “Swiftly now, mistress,” she urged, darting out the door into the maids’ larger chamber. “We don’t want them waiting in the wet.”

  Anne stared at her governess’s back. There was something desperately wrong here. She followed Patience through Mistress Eglionby’s domain then descended the stairs to the riverfront building’s exterior door. Out they went into the misty morning near the palace’s tiltyard.

  Patience set the pace, her stride at the uppermost limit of propriety. Through the passageway between the royal residences they strode, then along the back of the queen’s residence where the air was redolent with the smells from the kitchen. They passed into the lower garden where the rain had teased up scents from the cooking herbs that filled its space, rosemary and peppery thyme the strongest among them.

  With no wall to enclose it, Anne could see all the way across the garden to its far end and the park gatehouse. Made of stone, the gatehouse was a massive structure with two peaked roofs and a tall chimney that spanned not only Greenwich Palace’s wall, but Woolwich Road; anyone making their way east or west upon that thoroughfare had to pass beneath it as they went.

  A single, cloaked figure stood near the gatehouse. As he caught sight of them he threw back his cloak hood. It was the pretty man, the one with the bright blue eyes and careless tumble of dark curls.

  “Patience, who is that man?” Anne asked. “I saw you speaking to him at the Maying.”

  “Why, that’s Master Babthorpe, Master Hollier’s servant,” Patience replied, her voice suddenly warm and soft. “He came to walk with me after you and the others left me alone and unescorted in the meadow.”

  Anne gave the hint of accusation in Patience’s voice the weight it deserved. That day, she had indeed been more interested in Master Christopher than what became of her servant.

  “Master Babthorpe wished to make my acquaintance. He’d heard from his master that I was a woman of faith,” said Patience, unconsciously giving way to the sin of pride. “He’s a man who has come to value a Godly life after years of being lost. I pray I’m capable of instructing Master Babthorpe as he walks the true path to righteousness. So far his lessons have proved him an apt student.”

  Anne shot her governess a startled sidelong look only to catch her breath in surprise. Patience was smiling! That gentle curl of her lips wrought a miracle on her face, turning harsh and plain into soft and pretty. The woman’s pale blue eyes glowed as she cast her attention across the garden to her “student”. So stunned was Anne that it was yet another moment before she comprehended what her governess had just told her.

  She gasped, stopping where she stood, shocked to her core. “You cannot mean you’ve been meeting with him since the Maying without my knowledge?” she cried out.

  Patience, who had walked ahead a few steps, stopped and turned, blinking in surprise as if it hadn’t occurred to her just how improper this was. Her eyes widened, then she cast her gaze to the muck at their feet. “Not every day,” she said with a guilty shrug.

  Anne gaped. “Since I’ve not been your chaperone, Patience, who has?” she demanded.

  “No one,” Patience replied in a small voice, her gaze yet focused on the mud. Twin spots of red colored her pale cheeks.

  Confounded, Anne stared at Patience. It was one thing for Anne to stretch the bounds of propriety. After all, she had the potential exposure of her spoiled state to prevent her from straying where she dare not go. Patience was quite another matter. Although Anne knew the woman had been married, Patience seemed so innocent when it came to the ways of men.

  Mustering what defense she could, Patience drew herself up to the full limit of her slight height. It might have been more convincing if she would have met Anne’s gaze. “There’s no need of a chaperone, not when the purpose of our meetings is religious study,” she pronounced, in a paltry attempt to justify what was, by the standards of Patience’s beliefs, unjustifiable.

  Laughter dared to bubble from Anne. “Why, Patience, I believe you’re fond of him!”

  “I most certainly am not,” the woman retorted, the heat of her response suggesting just the opposite. “I see in Master Babthorpe an opportunity to spread our Lord’s Holy Word.”

  “Have you succeeded?” Anne asked, starting for the gate once again. “Is he papist no longer?”

  “He was never a papist, mistress,” Patience replied with a shake of her head as she met and matched her charge’s gait, “nor is his master. True, Master Hollier’s family was once corrupted by the Roman religion, but then so were all our families before we found the truth. Now only Master Hollier’s brother yet clings to sin.”

  Well, this was a day for surprises! Anne almost grinned as Patience swept aside one barrier to a potential union between Anne and Master Christopher. That only made her greedy for more. Where a few hours ago Anne couldn’t have imagined it, she now saw the possibility of turning Patience into an ally.

  “There’s a relief, indeed,” she said to her governess. “I think my grandsire wouldn’t object so to my taking lessons from Master Hollier were he aware of this. A pity we can’t tell him what you’ve learned,” she finished with a sad shake of her head.

  Patience frowned, the movement carving a pained crease between her brows. “We cannot?”

  “We could, I suppose,” Anne replied, “but I doubt he would believe us. Sir Amyas, may God bless him always, is a mite set in his ways. Look upon how he deludes himself over Lord Deyville, thinking the nobleman a friend when he is not. Even if Master Hollier makes a public profession of his faith I doubt Sir Amyas will ever believe him anything but recusant. Not that it matters. Once my grandfather learns the queen commands me to take these private lessons I fear he’ll remove me from court.”

  She paused for a breath so her next words might have the proper emphasis. “And you along with me.”

  Patience looked to the garden’s end where the man she tutored in Godliness stood. They were close enough now that Anne could see Master Babthorpe as he smiled. His beautiful face came to life with eagerness as he lifted a hand in greeting.

  The new color in Patience’s cheeks drained away. She blinked as the breeze sent rain spattering into her face. “Were I to leave court now Master Babthorpe would remain ever more locked in the darkness of his soul.” Her tone was quiet and worried.

  “It seems a shame, that,” Anne agreed. “He looks to be a very fine man.”

  “He is,” Patience sighed t
hen caught firm hold of herself. “I mean, he is a very serious student and will most likely be revealed as one of God’s elect.”

  “I suppose my grandfather doesn’t need to know about this,” Anne offered, making her tone both hesitant and considering. “After all, we know Master Hollier is no papist and you’ll be my chaperone, just as I’ll be yours. That is, if you were to combine Master Babthorpe’s studies with my dancing lessons.”

  Even as the words left her mouth, Anne conceded defeat. This was too devious for Patience to accept. She’d have been better off suggesting they lie outright.

  Waiting for the explosion that must follow, Anne glanced at her keeper. Rather than chide or point out that her charge had just proved with her words that the devil lived in her heart, Patience smiled. This time it was no weak or watery movement of the mouth. Nay, it was a wide opening of lips that displayed a nice set of teeth and proved Patience almost as pretty as her student.

  “But of course, mistress,” she replied. “Nothing else makes sense, does it? We can hardly leave Master Babthorpe caught in sin. Nor can there be any wrong over which Sir Amyas might complain. As you point out we will chaperone each other.”

  Patience gave a satisfied nod of her head. “Indeed, now that I think on it, mistress, I see it’s the only answer. If Master Babthorpe can be brought to find the better road to travel we may well be able to do the same for Master Hollier. Such a conversion will only please Sir Amyas.”

  Reeling, Anne stared at the woman. What had happened to her Patience? Had she just heard her governess try to sweeten her charge into agreeing to the same devious plan Anne had suggested?

  “Ah, but of course. Indeed,” Anne stammered, “I mean, “you’re right. It’s the only sensible path.”

  That was, it was the only sensible path to take if one wanted to justify spending time with a man.