by Jane Feather
“Do you attend the musical entertainment this evening?”
Pippa shook her head. “No, I have no stomach for it. I feel as if I haven't slept properly in weeks. I shall ask Martha to bring me a cup of hippocras and sleep until daybreak.”
“You look as if you could do with it,” Robin said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Leave the rest to me.”
She smiled, a wan smile but it was an attempt, returned the kiss, and they parted. Pippa made her way to her chamber. Martha should bring her a cup of hippocras and a dish of coddled eggs with manchet bread. Nursery fare. And she would sleep. No strange tangled dreamworld tonight, just sweet oblivion. Stuart, she knew, would not touch her in her sleep this night.
Queen Mary nodded gently to the strains of music plucked from the musicians' instruments. They were playing “Greensleeves,” an air composed by her father, Henry VIII, and a tune particularly close to her heart. Her father had ill-treated her in her adolescence and earlier womanhood, but as a child he had adored her and she had never ceased to adore him, to long for his love and approval even during their worst estrangements. She had longed for it, but for many years she had refused to do the one thing that would have given it to her: agree to accept her own illegitimacy and disavow the pope's authority as head of the church in England.
Finally she had yielded and had been restored to the succession. After her brother Edward's death, she had fought for and won the throne. And now here she sat under the canopy of estate, married to a Catholic king, for the moment undisputed queen of England, her enemies confounded.
But for how long? The question was ever-present, lurking on a good day just below the surface of her mind. On a bad day all she could think of.
A child, most especially a son, would ensure her throne. The son of Philip of Spain would return England to the Catholic fold forever, link this country to the Holy Roman Empire through Philip's father and Mary's cousin, the emperor Charles V.
Mary leaned back on her throne, the jewels set into the chair above her head blazing in the brightly lit chamber. She laid a hand fleetingly on her belly, wondering if Philip's seed had yet taken root.
In her womb?
Or the other?
Her gaze roamed the chamber, glanced off the courtiers standing in knots or sitting in little groups on stools or thick cushions. Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador and her longtime ally and conspirator, stood with Philip's most trusted councillor, Ruy Gomez. Their heads were together as they murmured to each other.
Mary glanced at her husband, who sat beside her. He seemed uninterested in the music, his chin resting on his palm, his elbow propped on his knee clad in hose of gilded doeskin. His eyes were on the two men by the window as if he was trying to read their lips.
Another man joined the two. Lionel Ashton, elegant in doublet and hose of emerald green, with a short cloak of ivory velvet studded with jet, seemed, Mary thought, to materialize from the air. An unconscious frown deepened on her brow. Unlike her husband she found the Englishman a puzzle. Philip considered him a useful asset, a cultivated Englishman who had embraced Spain. A man who knew both sides, who could offer useful insights into both camps. A man who was vital to the business that concerned them both.
A distasteful business, Mary would be the first to acknowledge, but in general she refused to allow herself to dwell upon it, and certainly not upon the details. But there was something about Lionel Ashton that made her uneasy. Nothing she could put her finger upon, but something about his remoteness, his seeming detachment, that gave her a prickle of uncertainty.
Her husband leaned over to her. “You will excuse me, madam.”
She smiled at him. “Of course, my lord.”
Philip rose from his throne, causing a flurry of activity as pages and attendants gathered to assist him. The musicians, accustomed to a distracted audience, continued to play.
Philip joined the three by the long window. They bowed to the king. “Gentlemen,” he murmured. “Is all in order for later?” His eyes flickered without volition to the young lyre player.
“It would be advisable, sire, to leave the lady undisturbed for the next few nights,” Lionel said quietly.
“Why so? Has she her terms?” The question was sharp.
“Not to my knowledge, sire, but it would not do to arouse suspicions at this juncture,” Lionel replied. Absently he touched the curiously shaped brooch nestled in the lace at his throat.
“The husband is proving difficult?” Again Philip's eyes flickered to the musicians.
“No, but his wife is no fool, sire.”
Philip drew back slightly at Ashton's blunt, almost dismissive tone. “I fail to understand, Don Ashton. The woman is aware of nothing.”
Lionel bowed. “At the time, sire . . . only at the time.”
Simon Renard shot him a sharp glance. Had he been the only one to hear the edge of contempt beneath the seemingly calm correction? Neither of his companions appeared to have noticed anything amiss; they both nodded as comprehension dawned.
“I wonder the husband could not handle that issue,” Ruy Gomez said with a fastidious curl of his lip.
“A short interruption will matter little,” Philip said with a shrug. He looked over at his wife. “I will devote my energies to but one woman for a night or so.”
His laugh was coarse, reminding his companions of Philip's true character. In general, he played to perfection the courteous, devoted husband of a woman eleven years his senior.
“The queen, sire, is most attentive to her husband,” Ruy Gomez pointed out. “She accords you every honor.”
“Aye,” Philip muttered with a grimace of distaste. “But 'tis hard, gentlemen, to bed each night with a woman who knows only how to endure.”
“The queen knows her duty, sire, both to her husband and her country,” declared Renard in instant defense of a woman he considered a friend as much as a useful political tool.
“Yes . . . yes . . .” Philip said soothingly. “But 'tis still no easy duty to lie nightly with a woman who prays beforehand with all the fervency of a saint going to her martyrdom, Renard.”
Lionel stepped away from this conversation. It no longer concerned him. Stuart Nielson had just entered the chamber and Lionel wondered why his wife was not with him. And he realized then that he had been waiting for her. Of course, he had been waiting for her to appear every night for the last month. Waiting for the moment when she took the goblet of wine her husband gave her. Waiting for the moment when an hour or so later, already heavy-eyed, she would excuse herself and retire for the night.
He had waited for her with a cold dispassion. A deliberate detachment. She was merely an object. To be used to further the interests of Philip and Mary, the grand design of a kingdom, and she was purely incidental to the deep black river of hatred that informed Lionel Ashton's every move.
And yet tonight, when he had no need to await her, he had waited with anticipation and was disappointed by her absence.
The realization startled him.
Why?
As he pondered the question he understood the answer and it was a hard acknowledgment. He had wanted to see her as she was.
As a woman who interested him.
Tonight when she was not wanted, when neither he nor she had any part to play in the loathsome strands of the royal plot, he could see her simply as a woman, just as he had seen her that afternoon in the courtyard. A woman who interested him.
But he had forsworn all interest in women. Only thus could he follow his path. There was but one driving force to his life, one single compulsion, and if he admitted concern or feelings of any kind for Pippa he would lose his focus.
He strode towards the door. His work here was done for the night.
Stuart Nielson was standing with uncharacteristic irresolution just inside the doorway. For the moment he made no attempt to join any of the groups made up of his acquaintances, friends, and closest cronies. His eyes were on the musicians.
Lionel pau
sed beside him, a frown in his eye. Stuart was a poor dissembler and soon his obvious distress would cause questions and remark. He said cheerfully, “Lady Nielson is not joining the court this evening?”
A muscle twitched in Stuart's cheek. His eyes darted to where the king with his councillors stood across the chamber. “I thought it was agreed—”
“Yes . . . yes, it is agreed,” Lionel interrupted, lowering his voice even as he kept a congenial smile on his face. “I merely made polite inquiry.”
He lightly patted the other's arm, saying with deceptive gentleness, “Take my advice, my lord, and strive for a little more relaxation. After this afternoon's debacle you would not wish to draw any more unwelcome attention.”
He paused, then continued in more pointed tones, “I would suggest you have a care where you direct your eyes also.”
Stuart heard only the deepest contempt in Ashton's voice. He knew it was deserved and the knowledge made it all the more unbearable. His hand went to his sword hilt.
“No . . . no, my friend.” Lionel shook his head, laying a hand once more on Stuart's arm. “The advice is good, heed it. Had you had more of a care in the past, I doubt you would be in your present situation. You, or your wife.” He dropped his hand and left the chamber.
Stuart fought the surge of helpless rage that threatened to consume him. Ashton was right. Somewhere, somehow he had made the mistake that had him now caught in the teeth of the most vicious mantrap. He had been careless, slipped with a word or a look. He would never know how Simon Renard had learned his secret, but those who watched him as they watched everyone in this treacherous court had seen what they could use to their advantage.
With effortful determination he looked around the chamber, selected a group, and went to join them. He managed to smile, to offer the occasional contribution to the conversation, but as he lounged seemingly at his ease on a thick cushion his mind struggled with possible solutions to an impossible situation.
They would not let him go now, he knew that. If he had made a stand at the very beginning, defied them to do their worst, then perhaps it would have been different. But the consequences would have been hideous and he had chosen to believe that they would have done what they said. He had ample reason to believe that they would. And now whether they achieved their objective or not, he knew too much. He was far too dangerous for them to let him alone, to let him go his way after he'd helped them. They would either find some other use for him, or they would kill him.
But what about Pippa? If she failed them would they give up and let her alone? Turn their attention to some other young wife? She knew nothing, she was no threat to them. But if their plan succeeded, would they leave her unmolested when it was all over? They had promised they would, but what price the promises of such men?
And Gabriel? Was he safe? He knew nothing. As long as Stuart kept his end of the bargain, continued to be compliant, then surely Gabriel was safe.
He looked up then and across at the musicians. For a moment, the lyre player raised his own eyes as if drawn by Stuart's gaze. Their eyes met, then Gabriel lowered his to his instrument, and Stuart, sick and trembling with an overpowering terror for what he'd done, for what he'd not done, for what was going to happen, for the whole viper's nest in which he thrashed around, got to his feet and left the chamber trying not to run.
He had to get out of the palace. If he were dead, would everyone else be safe? It was not the first time the thought had come to him, but it was stronger this time than ever before.
The dagger to his throat, poison, the dark swift currents of the River Thames. There were many ways to end his existence.
But he didn't want to die. And maybe his death would be futile. Alive perhaps, just perhaps, he could find a way to protect those he loved from the consequences of his own cowardice.
His love for Gabriel was greater than the sum of all his emotions, it tore at him, it filled him, it made him weep and shout aloud for joy. But he loved Pippa too, in a different way. His affection for his wife had grown over the months they'd been together. It had always been edged with guilt. She did not know, how could she, that she was a protective foil. He had tried to be a good and loving husband, careful and considerate. But when the fabric of his elaborate construction had been ripped asunder, he could hardly bear to be in the same chamber with her. His shame was unendurable, the hideous shame of those dreadful nights in the antechamber before they brought her out to him. . . .
A cold sweat broke out on his brow and he staggered sideways against the wall. In the shadow of a pillar he retched miserably. He could not go on with this. To behave with his wife as if all was as it should be. He could no longer endure to talk with her, smile at her, be close to her. He could not endure to lie beside her, hearing her sleeping innocent breath as he writhed in the torment of his betrayal.
He had to find a way out of this. Out of this marriage that so wronged his wife. A way to be with Gabriel in truth and honesty.
Five
“I think you will find the mare a suitable mount, Luisa.” Lionel regarded his purchase with a touch of complacency. The animal was a graceful beast, well-mannered, a perfect lady's horse.
Luisa's smile was radiant. “Oh, she's beautiful, Don Ashton. I don't know how to thank you.”
“You may thank me by enjoying her and not badgering me to take you to court,” he suggested dryly.
Luisa flushed a little. “I do not mean to badger you, sir, indeed I don't. I know that you're busy with affairs of state. And yet you found time to buy me this lovely horse. I am very grateful.” She turned her smile on him and Lionel was startled by its effect. Luisa was no longer the little girl he had persisted in thinking her.
He shook his head in an unconscious gesture to dispel the charm of a smile that had no place between guardian and ward. “This is Malcolm, your groom,” he said, gesturing to the muscular man of middle age who held the horse's bridle.
Malcolm touched his forelock. “My lady,” he said gruffly.
Luisa treated him to the full force of her smile, hiding her slight dismay. Malcolm did not look as if he could be easily managed. He was no ordinary groom. There was something about his carriage, his air of watchfulness, the rough-and-ready cutlass he wore at his belt, that spoke more of a bodyguard than a groom.
“I'm sure we shall deal very well together, Malcolm,” she said brightly.
“Aye, m'lady.”
“What are you going to call the mare?” inquired Lionel.
“Crema,” she said without hesitation. “Does she not have that color?”
Lionel agreed that she did. “I have acquired a small barge for you. It has no housing and can be handled by only two oarsmen, so 'tis nothing very elaborate, but it will be quite adequate for short river journeys under fair skies. It will be brought to the water steps tomorrow.”
“You are very kind, sir.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “But you would still prefer to be at court?”
“I will not plague you any further, Don Ashton,” Luisa replied demurely.
He laughed, not fooled for a minute. “Well, I have an engagement so I must leave you now, but enjoy your ride on Crema.”
Luisa walked all around the mare, examining her from every angle. “She is lovely, isn't she, Malcolm?”
“Aye, m'lady. And very good-tempered.”
“High-spirited?” inquired Luisa, gazing thoughtfully at the horse.
“Well-schooled.”
“I like a degree of spirit in my mounts,” she declared, laying a hand on Crema's neck.
“That so, m'lady?” Malcolm sounded indifferent.
Luisa shot him a sideways assessing glance. “Did Don Ashton give you any instructions as to how we were to ride . . . or where?”
He shook his head. “Reckon 'tis up to you, m'lady. My job's to keep you safe.”
“I see.” Luisa continued her perambulation around the horse. “Then I would like to ride towards Whitehall Palace. There's a park t
here?”
“Aye, m'lady, a small one.”
“Then I will change my dress at once. I will be but ten minutes.” She hurried away to the house.
Malcolm whistled between his teeth. In his experience a lady's ten minutes would stretch easily to a half hour. He led the mare towards the tack room and gestured to a groom to saddle the animal while he went to fetch his own mount.
It was closer to an hour before Luisa, accompanied by Bernardina, reappeared. She had tried and cast aside three gowns before settling on her present costume. She had decided that the Spanish gown of dark blue velvet with turquoise fastenings to the center of the skirt complemented her eyes very nicely. The collar of her turquoise silk ropa rose high at the back of her neck outside the small lace ruff that encircled her throat. She was particularly pleased with the mantilla of figured silk that was pinned to the dark braids looped over her ears, to fall in graceful folds down her back. She could use it to veil her face against rising dust . . . or interested eyes. A very useful article, as the most discreet of Spanish ladies well knew.
It would be a great shame, she reflected, if she did not contrive to run into Robin of Beaucaire this morning. He had only ever seen her in a muddy tangle on the bottom of a punt. This was a very different presentation. However, should she fail to encounter him, then she had another plan in mind.
Her eyes darted speculatively to the waiting Malcolm. How easy would it be to distract him for a few minutes? She had not yet taken his full measure but the morning's ride would give her some clues.
“Bernardina, this is Malcolm. He is to look after me on my ride,” Luisa stated as they reached the groom and the horses.
“Malcolm, you must tell Dona Bernardina that I am quite safe with your escort. If Don Ashton considers it to be so, then it must be so.” She directed this last to her duenna in the tone of one stating an irrefutable truth.
“You would not question Don Ashton's judgment, Bernardina, would you?” She stroked the mare's nose and the horse whickered into her palm.
