by Jeane Westin
“Robert,” she murmured, “I love you. Only you.” She caught her breath. “What must you think of me? A wanton? I have tried—”
He reached for her with his good arm, and she moved the rest of the way to him.
“My love…Robert…do not injure yourself.”
He pulled her face down to his, their lips almost touching. “I will not need two arms, sweetest.”
Her breathing was shallow, but quick. “What must I do? How can I help?”
He laughed without sound. “Frances, I need no help.”
“I want to say so many things to you.”
“What o’clock is it?” His mouth curled in jest, though his breathing was heavier now that she was so close.
Half laughing, she moved her lips to his, lightly at first and then, as the flame burned hotter, his lips took command. As Robert’s mouth pressed against hers, taking her very breath into himself, she knew she would never rue this night as long as she had life.
His arm was indeed strong enough to hold her close until he began parting her clothes and once again exposed her breasts. “They are so white,” he said, and she shifted so that he could kiss them again, and again. “Have you been revealing them to the moon at night, as so many fine ladies do?”
She laughed, albeit with a catch in her throat. “I have never believed that old wives’ tale. If the sun browns, that does not mean the moon whitens.”
“You think for yourself, sweet, and in you and on this night I find it a good thing.”
Frances yet found the clothes she wore hindering the closeness she wanted. She stripped off her doublet, sleeveless shirt, breeches, and hose. A deep sigh rose from her chest: She was happy she had so few boy clothes to remove.
She spread her garments over the mattress to ease the scratching of the straw on her bare body.
“Help me off with my breeches,” he said, tugging them down as far as he could.
She did as he asked, and since he wore no codpiece he was completely exposed to her gaze.
For a moment they just stared at each other as the gloom within the bed curtains deepened.
“Frances, you are beautiful in my eyes…womanly perfection.” He caressed her neck and her dark hair that shone as bright as the best-grade sea coal, with an inner light that looked as if it could burst into bright, warming flame at any moment. What light shone through the window was trapped in her short locks.
As his hands stroked her tenderly, she could not hear her own breath. “What shall we do, Robert?”
“I think you know.”
And she did. His manhood was fully erect. She slid her leg over him and looked down into his face. “This may be too much for you, dearest.”
He laughed; his gathering strength deepened his voice. “Frances, I will not have you do all the work of bedding.” He sat upright, pushing the bolster in tight against his back until they were face-to-face. His hands covered her breasts. “Oh, mistress mine, forever after I will call my love Frances, sweetest Frances.”
She knew that other women would someday look at him as she did now. “Even if Frances is not her name?”
“Frances will always be her name.”
With a deep breath, he pushed himself into her and she moaned with excitement, bending, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his eyelids, smoothing his hair from his forehead.
She was drowning in the dark depth of his eyes as he filled her, touching her deepest self, which had remained truly untouched until this moment. “I love you, Robert, only you.” She gasped. “No one but you will ever share it.” There was such a fire building inside her that she could not stop such words, wanton though they seemed.
She had never known a woman’s body could soar so. Then any thought left her; the past left her. All she knew was the pleasure of Robert’s body, then of Robert himself, all of him.
They moved together in common ecstasy, his hand hard clasping her buttocks, drawing her closer and closer to him, so heated he felt no pain, a great strength flowing through him and into her.
She threw back her head and opened her mouth, his hand suddenly covering it to hold the pleasure scream inside, the first she had ever felt with a man.
Emptied, Robert fell back, his eyes still feasting on her.
Frances, breathing rapidly, looked down at him as he slowly left her; then she toppled over to the side, looking up at him.
Through the small windowpanes, she saw the stars come out one by one.
They slept and woke; they kissed and held each other’s bodies, time passing, time not passing. They caressed until the hour before dawn, when they dressed reluctantly and made their silent way down the back stairs.
Will waited, the horses’ hooves muffled in straw-packed cloth bags, the wheels greased. They moved slowly and quietly from the inn yard and turned onto the Greenwich Road as the first faint light of dawn appeared in the east, Will riding the lead horse so Robert need not drive.
They moved steadily toward Greenwich Palace, and her old life threatened to envelop Frances. With one last look back at the inn, she clung to Robert’s good arm and whispered, “How I am to live without you?”
“We are in love’s hands, sweetest.”
“Love’s hands…” she repeated.
“Aye, Frances, and love is never conquered.”
They drove on, the morning sun rising to their right, and held the keg between them with the queen of Scots’ cipher secure once again in the bunghole.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“What if you new beauties see?
Will they not stir new affection?”
—Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney
GREENWICH PALACE
The moonlit ribbon of road led south to the riverside castle of Greenwich, clouds gusting across the moon, the wind moaning like spirits escaping hell. At last, they were through a rear delivery gate into the sheltered stable yard. Usually quiet at such a late hour, the yard was full of carts, horses, and hostlers running from wagon to castle doors, carrying into the palace masses of gown and jewelry chests, chairs, tables, and parts of Elizabeth’s huge bed, her arras tapestries, her big case clock, the picture of her father, Henry VIII, and every other thing a queen must have to travel on her progress comfortably.
Frances jumped down and went to Will, who held the lead horses, Claudius and Marcus. Standing on her tiptoes, she gave the gentle giants hugs. “If ever I have my own carriage, I will have you to pull it, with fine hay, apples, and pears every day in your stalls.”
“They will remember your promise,” Robert said, then drew Frances into the overhanging shadows. “Her Majesty has returned early, perhaps at your father’s request, since he hopes to bring the Scots queen to her end…and soon. Now haste to your chambers before we are discovered. We cannot lose all now.” He held her tight against his chest, his one good arm as strong as two. “I must take the keg with Mary’s cipher to your father at once. Come to his office later”—he grinned—“fully recovered from your measles.”
She nodded, dreading that they must part, hoping to stay a moment in the strength of his embrace, though she was careful not to touch his wound, seeking his stubbled face with her lips. “How can I live without you near?” she whispered.
“I ask myself that same question and receive no satisfactory answer.”
“‘What if you new beauties see?’” It was the question that had been worrying her heart for all the trip from the inn.
His gaze was intense. “They will not stir my affection, sweetheart. There will never be another to me as you are now, Frances. You are the queen of my heart—forever.” He knew her. Kind, determined, courageous, daring, an intelligencer to her boots! “No other woman has your eyes, your beautiful face, your mind. If I had been born my father’s rightful son, I…”
She drew in a breath to calm her pulsing heart. “What? What would you do?”
“I would come to your father and beg for you.”
Surely this was a game. “And what dowry would y
ou ask?”
“None but you,” he said softly.
“That is not done…no dowry.”
“Then I would be the first. Only in my dreams…”
“You have dreamed of me?”
“More than I’ve slept since that first day.”
His voice was solemn. This was no game to him, nor to her, though there were no winners, just pawns.
He whispered, “Remember…forever.”
“The queen of England will be filled with jealousy,” she whispered, trying to jest. They moved into deep shadow, and she stood against his body to keep him close for one last moment, until she heard the clock tower begin to chime. She tilted her lips to his and he met them with his own, exploring her mouth.
“I must away, Frances…your father.”
“And I must speed to my chambers and quickly recover,” she said, smiling. “Her Majesty may call me at her pleasure.”
“Speak not of pleasure, lest I cannot leave you.” His arm about her shoulder, he took her a few steps to a small, darkened staircase.
“Robert, you must see a doctor about your shoulder.”
“Aye, I will, but I think I have had the best surgeon in all England.”
“Apprentice,” she corrected. “When will I see you?” She had to have some assurance.
His chest heaved with a deep breath, though he winced. “Soon…soon, but we must be cautious. My ruin would be great but yours much greater.” His hand slid down her arm, prolonging the stroke until at last their fingers touched and parted.
He called to Will, pulled a flare from its sconce on the castle wall, and handed it to the boy. “With good care, light your mistress’s way. She will direct you when you reach the upper corridor.”
After their close days and nights, she was lost without the near heat of him, the sound of his breathing in her ear, the security of his love close to her heart. With one last, long gaze, she tore herself away and stumbled up the stairs, back to the life of Lady Frances Sidney. Although she knew she should not, she looked behind and glimpsed him walking away. Her heart aching, she knew this must be her life to the end of it…leaving Robert.
As she must needs, she turned herself to what came next. “Will, go before and make fair certain that the corridor is empty. I would not be seen dressed in this way. I sense my disguise is at its end.”
Cautiously, they made their way, clinging to deep shadows, stopping without a breath when palace guards marched by, then slipped at last into her chambers and heard the lock click shut. What had made her think she could do what she had done these last days? And yet she had done her work and done it well. A thrill of triumph filled her. It seemed an entire lifetime since she had last left Greenwich. “Wait here in my receiving chamber, Will.” He sank into a chair, exhausted, his eyes closing. “Meg! Meg!” she called, throwing off her doublet.
The girl appeared, her night shift deeply wrinkled, scrubbing sleep from her eyes. She stared beyond her mistress at the ragged boy behind her. “Mistress, ye be home and yet whole…though yer shirt has lost its sleeves and ye bring a stable boy, from the smell on him.”
Frances managed a weary smile. “Aye, Meg, all in good time. Now I must needs recover quickly from my measles. The morn will come soon enough. Have any inquired of me?”
“Several, mistress, but only one said he be returning today, wishing to see you.” The girl grinned. “My lord Essex come back from the war in the Low Countries, but yesterday…and from his horse straight to your door.”
“God’s grace! What did you say to him?”
“As ye instructed, that ye could accept no visitor, lest ye infect the castle.”
“As you see, I am recovered, praise be,” Frances said wryly. “Now, Meg, I must bathe and ready myself for the day. Did you get the new wig?”
“Aye, though quickly done.”
“Let me see it,” Frances said, staring down in exhaustion. “It will be a new day soon enough.”
Dressed in her bathing chemise, she sank deep into the tub dragged into her inner chamber before the fireplace by sleepy-eyed servants called from their pallets in her father’s apartment. The water was yet warm despite its long trip from the laundries below the castle. She sank into it, her knees resting on her chest while a disapproving Meg stood nearby.
“Ye have already had one bath this summer, mistress, and many washings. Me mam says ye tempt Satan for vanity with two baths of a summer.”
“I tempt the queen’s nose to rebel without a bath and clean hair,” Frances said, leaning back and sluicing the water over her breasts and stomach. “And when I am finished, put the boy Will in and see he scours the stables away…the straw from his hair, as well.”
“He will defy me, mistress.”
“It is my command, and he must learn obedience no matter how I send my orders. If he is to be of my servants, he must know that I do not ask for more than he can do, nor for more than is my right as mistress.” She slumped in the tub. The tutoring of servants had been Aunt Jennet’s business, but now must fall to her. She wished her old nurse with her once again. Then, trailing the cooling water one last time over her shoulders, Frances motioned Meg to add more lavender petals. “I charge you to go to my father’s chambers and ask his steward for a suit of livery to fit Will. Then inform him of his duties as a groom of my chamber.”
Meg looked confused. “What be his duties? He looks good for nothing as a lady’s groom.”
“He will learn to bring my meals hot from the flesh kitchen, accompany me about the castle and to the garden unless I am with the queen, guard my door, empty the close stool, bring in coal for the fireplace, carry messages—”
At that, Meg’s eyes sparkled, and her mouth turned up knowingly.
Frances made her face disapproving. The girl was too quick to think herself clever, and that was always dangerous in a servant who knew as much as she did. She must speak sharply. “Meg, you did good work for me while I was gone, but now that I have returned, you become my chambermaid once again and not my protector.”
The girl hung her head, though her mouth yet simpered. “Aye, my lady.”
It was amazing to Frances how quickly a maid could think above herself. Holding amusement inside, Frances thought how like herself the girl was. Were all women ready to leap their bounds, given the chance?
“When Will is dressed in livery, show him the kitchens. I will break my fast early with some small pullet eggs, bread, and cheese…and a tasty Spanish orange would not go amiss. I am close to starved. After which, you may take him to the servants’ hall and see the boy fed.”
“Boy? Mistress, he be near to a man, if I see a’right.”
Frances stood. “Man, then.” Meg wrapped her in a blanket. “Now I will dress and don my new wig.”
After days in a youth’s loose clothes and a night without any, Frances thought her gowns a fine embroidered prison, tight and burdensome, though she approved of her reflection in the big steel mirror. Standing straight, she saw a new confidence in her appearance.
The wig was spectacular with a few more curls pulled out to the sides…and it was black, not red, thanks be. Fortunately Meg had found the wig maker short of red dye, the bear garden having called for it all to dye Harry Hunks, its popular old fighting bear who had lost too much fur to the attacking dogs.
As dawn reached through her windows to better light her chambers, she reluctantly applied the white Mask of Youth and cochineal red for her lips and cheeks. The mask dried rapidly and felt tight. How effortless it had been to be without anything at all covering her face, open to breezes and sky.
Working rapidly, Meg had her ready when the queen’s call came.
“You are a fine lady’s maid, Meg. None better. When you leave me, you will make your way very well.”
“I thank you, mistress, but I hope never to leave you.”
Frances bowed her head. “None know what the future brings.” It was a hard truth spoken aloud, echoing about the chamber and back to her.
Will, clean and smelling suspiciously of lavender, strutting a bit in his green livery, followed Frances toward the presence chamber, his gaze darting everywhere. “I never seen halls so grand, my lady, or roofs so high…with gold and jewels set as stars. By the rood, be they no thieves about?”
“With the queen’s guard around every corner and in every doorway…do not play the bumpkin, Will, or the other grooms will have you for their toy.”
She smiled. “I be watchin’ for them,” Will said, and the way his chin went up caused Frances to cease her worry for him. The boy had learned to battle in the hardest way.
“Will, do not speak so readily unless spoken to,” Frances warned.
“That be harder still, my lady…who was yesterday a boy.” He grinned.
She shushed him. “Never speak of my disguise, and lower your voice, or even better, do not express your opinion.” Will had too quickly found his wit. Still, she was happy that he would make his way.
Everywhere, Frances looked eagerly for Robert’s face, but he was nowhere to be seen, not around any corner, nor in any alcove. Disappointed, she took her place in Elizabeth’s entourage, motioning Will to join the other grooms waiting in the corridor. Her feet fairly itched to rush to her father’s office, but the queen must come first.
“My lady Frances,” Elizabeth said, a pale, thin eyebrow arching.
Frances curtsied, bringing her knee almost to the floor, despite the bruises still smarting from her encounter with the brigands of the road. “Majesty.”
The queen looked hard at her. “You are little marked with spots.”
“A mild attack, your grace.”
“Good. I myself had no spots from the small pocks, when I was young…er.”
No lady dared mention that Elizabeth had first worn the Mask of Youth to cover her pock scars, though she had not been horribly disfigured, as many were. And her hint of scars took nothing from her fascination. “Aye, Majesty, your recovery was miraculous.”
