She paced about a little. “The day after tomorrow, our last day here, there is to be a masked ball, and at it I shall be the Queen of the May. You shall all be dryads and naiads and I wish you to study with the Dancing Master for to make a pretty dance of it—the tailors of the Removing Wardrobe of Robes will help with your costumes.
“Now,” she went on, with a significant look at me, “as my Lady Grace has hurt her ankle, she shall make a speech in rhyme instead of dancing with the rest of you.”
Lady Sarah and Carmina sighed with relief, which I think is unfair—I'm not that bad at dancing.
“However”—the Queen stopped for effect and her eyes sparkled—“I shall be incognito at the ball-Lady Sarah shall play the part of me as the Queen of the May …”
Lady Sarah clapped her hands to her mouth and went bright red—for it's a great honour to play the Queen. She dropped a curtsy.
“… and I shall be but one of your company,” the Queen went on. “We shall see if any of the silly men that profess so much love for me will notice the change at all.”
We all clapped our hands at this and laughed, and then everyone was talking at once.
The Queen held up her hand for silence and caught my eye. I'm sure she thought up the masque to stop the Maids gossiping—as well as every attendant, henchman, and servant in the place.
“I shall be joining some classes with the Dancing Master, so shall find out also if what he says is true, that you are les vaches, that you thunder like tournament chargers and that you insist on talking constantly throughout.”
There was an embarrassed titter from everybody, except Lady Sarah, who was looking very worried.
“What is it, my dear?” the Queen asked her.
“Oh, Your Majesty,” gasped Lady Sarah, “I don't know if I can … if I can be as regal as you.”
The Queen smiled at this for, quite by accident, Lady Sarah had said the exact right thing. She may have more chest than the Queen, but when the Queen walks into a room, everyone else in it becomes instantly uninteresting and unimportant.
“I can give you lessons on how to be queenly,” Lady Jane said, looking very superior. And then she caught the Queen's glare and faltered. “Unless Her Majesty can spare the time …”
“I shall give Lady Sarah instruction,” the Queen said firmly.
I quietly slipped out while they were all babbling and arguing over whose complexions would be best as dryads—tree spirits, who wear green and brown— and whose would be prettiest as naiads—water spirits, wearing blue. The Queen saw me go and nodded.
Nosy Mrs. Champernowne said, “Ah, Lady Grace, where do you think—?”
“It is well,” the Queen broke in. “There will be dancing practice shortly and Lady Grace is excused. She is to walk about as much as she can to help her ankle.”
Mrs. Champernowne sniffed and looked suspicious, but she couldn't do anything. Ha ha!
I found Ellie in the kitchen garden with a huge basket of washing, hanging shirts and smocks on hedges to dry in the sun. She didn't pause when she saw me but kept on wringing out sleeves and spreading the clothes on the hedges. She looked cross and I wasn't sure why. “Ellie?” I said. “Did you hear what happened yesterday?”
“Masou's too busy to talk to me, being as he's Puck,” she said, squeezing a falling-band collar viciously. “Is it true what I heard, that my lord the Earl fired a cannon at the Queen for her dallying with the Swedish Prince, and missed her, but hit Gypsy Pete?”
“Not quite,”! said. “It was really a firework and it went the wrong way by accident.”
“What's your young man John think of it, then?” she asked, throttling another shirt.
“I don't know, I haven't seen him today,” I said, and then gaped. “My young man? What are you talking about? He's just been helping me because my ankle was sore.”
“Well, I saw you going calf-eyed over him,” said Ellie with a wink.
“You couldn't have!” I told her.
But she just shook her head and looked disbelieving, as she wrung out some hose. “I hate that Mrs. Fadget,” she said. “She says I did the ruffs the wrong colour, so I had no dinner yesterday because I was redipping them.”
Since Ellie never has enough to eat at the best of times, this was serious. I looked around to see if anyone was watching and then I carefully helped her put the rest of the laundry out. Getting her some food was quite urgent, so we went round to the kitchens, but everyone was too busy cooking for the entertainment tonight.
Some of the Earl's men were working on the Banqueting House in the garden—it's the second-best one, brought from storage at Court. The canvas was once all painted with saints, but they got painted out and replaced with classical goddesses and gods—which are a bit blurry. The men were decorating it with fresh leafy boughs so it would look more like a bower.
Ellie and I went and looked at it. “Some of the food for this afternoon might be in there already,” I said. “Come on, let's have a look.”
The entrance was shut and there was a lad standing guard. As we watched, John came out looking very busy and serious, and then another person went in carrying a tray of fruit jellies gleaming with sugar. There were wormwood leaves hanging by the door to keep the flies away.
All the leaves and branches gave me an idea. If we gathered some plants and flowers, we could pretend we had come to help with the decorations, and then the lad at the entrance might let us in. So we went into a corner of the orchard and picked some ferns. Then, with Ellie carrying them behind me, I marched up to the boy outside the Banqueting House and said, “My lord asked me to help arrange tables for the banquet.”
He bowed and opened the flap for us. So in we went, with Ellie half-hidden under all the leaves.
We went over to the main table, where there was a wonderful marchpane and sugar plate subtlety in the likeness of a bear, standing on its hind legs, holding a ragged staff. The bear was coloured brown-black with liquorice and had white sugar plate teeth and a red marchpane tongue. Although I think he was meant to look fierce, he looked quite a gentle, sweet bear really.
Eltie didn't need any telling. She dumped the ferns on the floor and started lifting the napkins laid out over the plates, swiping a square of marmelada sweetmeat here, a stuffed date there, and eating them hungrily. She put a few in her petticoat pocket for later. Meanwhile, I wrapped ferns decoratively around the plates to hide the crumbs.
Ellie looked longingly at the bear. “I love liquorice,” she said.
Well, only the Queen is supposed to eat the subtlety. But usually she doesn't eat very much because the sugar makes her teeth hurt. So I scraped a finger along the modelled bear for, but it was quite solid. The bit at the top where the bear's head was didn't look as if it had quite dried yet, so I dragged a bench over and stood on it, with Ellie steadying me from behind. The marzipan for round the bear's ear looked softer, so I reached up to break a little bit off, when—
Suddenly, Ellie gasped and let go. I lurched and my elbow knocked the top off the ragged staff and broke the bear's ear. A big lump fell to the ground, making the bear look as if he had been in a bear-baiting ring. I glimpsed Ellie lifting the tablecloth and rolling under the table, still stuffing dates into her mouth, which is when I realized someone was coming in.
I was a bit stuck and it would be daft to jump down and run. So I took a deep breath, grabbed some of the leaves out of my belt, and carefully wrapped them round the bear's head where they would hide the damage.
“My Lady Grace,” John said. “I'm glad to see your ankle is better.”
“Er …” Oh, Hell's teeth, not John, I thought. I wobbled, looked down, and realized that the piece of bear's ear and the staff were on the floor right next to the bench. Oh, no. What if he noticed? I wobbled again and he put up an arm to steady me. A thought struck me. If he was looking up at me, he wouldn't be looking down at the bit of bear on the floor.
“Er, yes, a little,” I replied. “I have been excused dancing
practice and Mrs. Champernowne said I should help, so I am just putting a victor's wreath on the bear here. Isn't he handsome? Such a fierce-looking bear. And I don't know who could have done the sugar-work. It's amazing, isn't it—especially as the Earl isn't married, is he … ?”
I chattered away about how exciting it all was, and what was planned for the afternoon, and the dancing and so on, and I thought I sounded exactly like Lady Sarah at her very worst. In fact, I'm embarrassed to write it down. I was feeling more and more silly, so I thought I'd better come down from the bench, only I tripped on the edge of my kirtle and lurched against the table before John could stop me.
I nearly knocked it over, subtlety and all, because the tables were only trestles and boards covered with a tablecloth. I caught a glimpse of Ellie making furious faces at me while she held it all together from underneath. John grabbed the bear and steadied both it and me.
“Oops,” I said, and cringed at how foolish it sounded. “I am beyond belief clumsy this day. I had best come down, I think.” And with John holding my hand for me, I stepped down and shook out my petticoats, while Ellie's long skinny arm came out from under the tablecloth and grabbed the lump of bear's ear and the top of the ragged staff, and whisked them out of sight.
“Have you any part to play this afternoon?” I asked, walking away from those dangerous tables and trying not to laugh. “I know not what the entertainment—”
“There will be jousting,” John replied. “We're putting up the Tilting Yard barriers now.”
I clapped my hands. “Wonderful!” I said. “I love to watch it. Will you be tilting?”
John laughed. He does have a very nice friendly laugh. “No, my birth might be well enough, since I am a gentleman, but I have not the wealth for it, or the skill, either.”
We were just going to the door when I spotted that Ellie was having trouble getting out under the stretched canvas. You could hardly see her, for the table was in the way, but I glimpsed her bum and a hand as she tried to find a loose place.
“Urn … who will be jousting?” I asked, pausing and putting my hand on John's doublet to stop him, because I was afraid that if we came out, he might see Ellie just as she escaped. “My Lord Earl, of course, but who else?”
“He has sent for all the tilting plate and the chargers to come up from London, so whoever of the Queen's gentlemen that likes him to try,” John replied. “And Prince Sven may do so also.” He was holding the tent flap open for me now, so I went out graciously and stood between him and where I thought Ellie might emerge.
“Who do you think will win?” I asked him.
“Well, my Lord Earl is one of the finest jousters in England. But Prince Sven has quite a reputation as a jouster himself.” He offered me his arm again.
I thought he was delightfully courteous, though of course he is not a suitor—far from it! So I took his arm and did a little bit of hobbling, and steered him away from where Ellie was squeezing out under the canvas. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, puffing and red in the face, with her cheeks bulging like a squirrel's.
I limped away from the Banqueting House with John in tow. He was talking happily about the betting on the various gentlemen in the jousting, which saved me from having to think of any more foolish things to say. I don't know how Lady Sarah does it, I really don't. Then I noticed that his right hand was bandaged and stopped still. “Whatever happened to your hand?” I asked.
“It is nothing,” John said, dismissing it. “I scorched it on a poker when I was mulling some ale for his lordship. I have put comfrey ointment on it and it will soon be better.”
He said nothing more, while I wracked my brains for something else to talk about. What do you talk about with youths? They are such strange creatures.
We had just come round by the orchard again, when Ellie came running up, dropped a very respectful curtsy, and said, “Please, ma'am, the Queen wants you,” and winked at me.
“Oh, of course,” I said, laughing with relief. “I expect it's to look at the costumes for the masque, and I so hope I am a dryad, for I think green and brown will become me well—don't you think so, John?”
He smiled. “Perfectly, my lady,” he said, and then bowed and went off towards the castle.
Ellie went with me round to the stable yard, where we collapsed, laughing, in the corner.
“Fie!” said Ellie at last, wiping her face with her apron. “That was a bit close. Do you think he saw anything?”
“No, I hope he was too dazed with my prattling,” I said, suddenly feeling gloomy and hot in the face. Whatever would John think of me now? “Did you at least get something to eat?” I asked Ellie.
“Oh, yes,” Ellie replied, and licked her lips. “I ate so many marchpane dates I feel quite sick. I haven't got any room for that bit of subtlety you so kindly broke off for me. Do you want it?”
“No,” I said, and shuddered—I hate liquorice root. “You have it.”
“Suit yourself. Are you going to do any pursuiving now, my lady?” Ellie enquired.
“Of course …,” I replied.
“Only Masou's in such a taking about little Gypsy Pete getting hurt, I want to find out who's been causing these accidents and get 'im,” Ellie went on darkly.
I felt a little guilty. I hadn't actually done any investigating yet—though I had been excused dancing classes. The Queen would be disappointed if she knew. Why can I not think in a straight line when John Hull is about? Perchance I have a tertian fever?
There weren't many people about the stables, since many of the horses were out being exercised by the grooms. There was one middle-aged man in his shirtsleeves and jerkin, standing on top of the manure heap, tidying it up and combing it flat— which is usually a job done by one of the youngest boys, for obvious reasons.
I squinted up at him and realized it was Sam Ledbury, who is one of the Queen's grooms. He has helped me on and off horses, me protesting all the while, ever since I was little. And he has looked after the Queen's horses for ever. Of course, he is the Earl of Leicester's man—but the Earl is the Queen's Master of Horse, after all.
“Hello, Sam!” I called. “Why are you up there?”
He had a very miserable expression on his face but he smiled and propped up his rake, then jumped down from the heap. “Now then, my Lady Grace,” he said, pulling his cap off, “what brings you here?”
“Er … Her Majesty asked me to look at her saddle from yesterday,” I said, all in a gabble because, of course, she hadn't exactly asked that, but you could count general investigating as asking.
Sam looked miserable again. “I just don't understand it,” he said, heading away from the manure heap towards the main tack room. “I don't understand it at all. I checked that saddle myself with one of the Gentlemen of the Guard, not half an hour before the horse was tacked up, and all of it was perfectly sound. Let it came away and nearly took the Queen with it. I don't know,” Sam mused, shaking his head gloomily, “maybe I'm getting too old for this game/That a saddle I put on a horse should have threatened the Queen's sacred life …”
I patted his arm. “I'm sure the Queen doesn't think it was your fault.”
“Hmph,” said Sam. “The Master of her Horse does. I told me not to come to work until he's satisfied what 'appened, and when I said I couldn't keep away from the stables, me—what else would I do?—'e said I could work on the manure heap. So I thought I'd tidy up where the young scalawags have left things messy.”
Messy? I never saw a tidier, better organized stable!
We were at the door to the ladies' tack room. Sam took a key from a lace round his neck and opened it. The place was full of side-saddles on long poles from one end to the other, and bridles hanging up beside them. At the other end, on the workbench, was the Queen's gold-embossed, red leather saddle, with tools all around it.
I went over, trailed by Ellie and Sam, and looked at the saddle. I could see where the two important straps had come loose—the girth and the crupper strap th
at goes around the horse's haunches. I examined them closely.
They hadn't broken or torn. I blinked and peered closer. “Look,” I said. “Ellie, can you see?”
She looked where I pointed with my finger and gasped. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Cuts.”
“What?” said Sam, with his nose practically touching the saddle. “I can't see nothing.”
“I think you need good eyes to see them—or perhaps one of those miracle lenses for people with bad eyes,” I said. “There are little cuts between the stitch holes—here, and along here—as if someone used a very sharp knife to cut through the stitching.”
“You mean …,” Sam said slowly.
“Yes, someone purposely cut the stitches so that when the Queen rode fast—which she always does when she gets excited on the hunt—the straps would give way.”
“Saints above!” exclaimed Sam. “So it was done a-purpose. My God. Who would do such a thing? A scurvy Scot? A Frog? We must tell my lord—”
“No,” I interrupted. “I think it would be better to keep quiet about it until we know more.”
Sam started to look stubborn, so I added, “We don't want anyone to say it was you, Sam.”
Sam gulped and stepped back. “But I never would!” he said frantically.
“No, of course you wouldn't, Sam,” I said. “I just want to be sure of the facts before I talk to Her Majesty. Can you move the saddle and hide it? Just for a short time? It could be evidence.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded and took the saddle off the workbench. He hid it behind the bolts of leather in the corner, moved the other saddles along, and brought one of the Queen's spare saddles to go on the workbench instead. “It needs work anyway,” he said. “And the saddlemaker don't know which is which.”
“You checked the saddle before you tacked up the Queen's horse?” I asked him.
“Aye, and it was in perfect condition, no stitches loose nor anything. I put it on, done up the girth, and checked it. Then one of the young gentlemen came and led the horse out for the Queen to mount.”
Conspiracy Page 6
