by Jane Feather
“No . . . no, of course not,” Bernardina said with an unhappy sigh. “But I should come with you, querida. I'm sure I should. Your dear mother would not wish you to ride out accompanied only by a groom.”
“You hate to ride, dear one,” Luisa pointed out, laying a hand on the other woman's arm. “This is England. The customs are different.” Her voice was cajoling, her smile teasing.
“I suppose so.” Bernardina fixed Malcolm with a piercing stare. “This is Dona Luisa de los Velez of the house of Mendoza,” she announced. “A lady of one of the greatest families of Spain. You understand that.”
“Aye, madam.” Malcolm returned the regard blandly. “Mr. Ashton made all clear. I have my orders.”
Bernardina pursed her lips. “You must ride at her side at all times. Have a hand to her bridle at all times . . . you understand this.”
“Bernardina, no!” cried Luisa. “I will not have my bridle held. There is not the slightest need. I ride well. You know I do. My father himself taught me.”
This last reminder was sufficient to silence Bernardina, who held the memory of Luisa's father in great reverence.
“Madam, have no fear for the lady's safety,” Malcolm said, taking advantage of the duenna's moment of reflection. “I assure you she will be always in my sight.”
He turned to Luisa. “Let me help you mount, m'lady.” He knelt on the cobbles and offered his cupped hands as a step.
Luisa managed to mount with creditable agility despite the mass of material hampering her movements. Once correctly positioned on the sidesaddle she settled her skirts around her and took up her reins. Already she felt a lifting of her spirits, a sense of freedom as she surveyed the world from atop the mare, who moved beneath her as if eager to be stepping out.
“Oh, we shall gallop,” Luisa promised, leaning sideways to pat Crema's neck. “Indeed we shall.”
“Oh, no . . . no, you must do no such thing!” exclaimed Bernardina, reluctant acceptance banished. “Madre de dios, hija! You cannot gallop. Think how unseemly, how unsafe!”
“'Tis neither, Bernardina,” Luisa said, laughing. “Is it, Malcolm?”
“Depends how you ride, m'lady,” he said with a grunt. “Let's wait and see, shall we?”
Luisa held her peace. She could see that Bernardina, despite her protestations, was actually somewhat reassured by the groom's burly physique and matter-of-fact manner, and for herself, if he expected her to prove her skill then she would.
“Let us go, then,” she said. “Dearest Bernardina, don't look so tragic. Nothing is going to happen and we'll be back before you know it . . . and if you wish, I will take a siesta after our merienda at noon.” She threw the sop and was rewarded by a mollified if anxious smile.
They rode out of the stable yard, down the driveway, through the gates, and into a narrow lane.
“We'll go this-a-way, m'lady. There'll be some traffic, so keep a tight hold on the horse.” Malcolm was watching her closely although his voice was casual.
Luisa nodded and took a firmer hold of the reins. She frowned in concentration. She had ridden often around the family estates outside Seville but never along crowded, narrow lanes full of people, barking dogs, tumbling urchins, amid the high cries of street vendors and the rank odors of a city sweltering in a dry summer heat.
Crema seemed unperturbed, however, and picked her way delicately, following Malcolm's dun gelding. After a few turns they reached a broader thoroughfare that ran parallel with the river. It was as busy as the lanes, but there was more room for maneuver and Luisa could take time to savor the freedom, the sense of anticipation she felt for the first time since they'd arrived at Don Ashton's grand house on the river and she'd realized that this was simply another form of domestic imprisonment, differing only in landscape from the circumscribed life she had endured at home.
She inhaled the smells, was bombarded by the noise, her eyes drank in every sight, her mind, like drenched sand, absorbed everything.
When the road widened Malcolm fell back to ride beside her. He offered no conversation but Luisa was aware that he was watching her closely although it often seemed that his attention was elsewhere. After a while, she asked directly, “Did my guardian hire you as a groom or as a bodyguard, Malcolm?”
“Depends on the situation, m'lady. One or the other, or both . . . depending.”
Luisa wondered if she had really seen the flicker of a smile at the corner of his impassive mouth before he'd answered her. She decided she had. “But whom I talk to, or where I go, if there's no danger . . . then that's not your concern?”
He stared straight ahead. “That's for me to judge, m'lady.”
“Ah.” Luisa thought for a minute. “But are you obliged to report every detail of our rides to my guardian?”
He continued to stare ahead. “That's for me to judge, m'lady,” he repeated stolidly.
“That is not very helpful, Malcolm,” Luisa stated.
Now he glanced sideways at her and she knew she had been right about the smile. “You have a duenna,” he said. “Seems to me you don't need another one.”
Luisa smiled at him. “I promise you I will do nothing on our rides that will put you in a difficult position as long as you don't feel you have to be a duenna.”
“Good enough for me, m'lady.” He returned his eyes to the middle distance.
They rode in companionable silence until they reached the small wooded park that stretched up from the river to surround Whitehall Palace on three sides. Luisa was surprised that the park was open to the public. The great royal palaces in Spain were walled, with guarded gates. Here the ordinary folk of London wandered at will among the flower gardens, along the graveled paths, in the green shade of the woods, mingling with the richly clad courtiers, each group ignoring the other as if they lived on separate planes.
Luisa's eyes were only on the courtiers. And only on the men.
“I would like to ride towards the river,” she said.
“As you wish, m'lady.” Malcolm took a path through the trees.
A group of men came towards them, talking earnestly among themselves. They moved aside as the two riders approached. Luisa decided to take the opportunity offered her. She glanced at Malcolm and drew rein. Malcolm checked his horse, then without further acknowledgment moved forward at a slow walk.
“My lords?” Luisa smiled at the group, who halted immediately.
“Madam?” One spoke to her, they all bowed simultaneously.
“I wonder if you're acquainted with Lord Robin of Beaucaire.”
“Indeed, madam.” The one who had spoken stepped forward. “Lord Robin is known to us all.”
“Could I trouble you to give him this?” Luisa took a folded sheet of parchment from the pocket of her ropa. It was sealed with wax. She held it out.
The spokesman of the group stepped forward and took it from her. “It will be my pleasure, madam. May I tell him who sent it?”
His gaze was both curious and predatory and Luisa with a swift movement that bespoke all the arrogance of a Mendoza flipped the mantilla over her face. “It will be apparent if you deliver my message, sir,” she said, her tone frigid.
The courtier bowed and stepped back, a slightly ironical smile on his lips. “Well, well,” he murmured, tapping the letter into his palm as the lady and her escort rode on. “What is Robin up to? He's never been one for the ladies. And a Spanish lady at that. Do we know her?”
“Never seen her before,” one of his companions declared. “And that's not a face to be forgotten. Robin must enlighten us.”
There was a unanimous chuckle and they continued on their way to the palace.
“Are you ready to turn back, m'lady?” Malcolm inquired after a few minutes. “I assume your business is completed?”
“I haven't had a gallop yet,” she replied, lifting the mantilla from her face. “I promised myself and Crema that we would gallop.”
“There's a meadow along the riverbank,” he said placidly.
Luisa nodded. “Lead on, Malcolm.”
Pippa stood at the window in her bedchamber, looking out over the gardens bathed in midday heat. A film of sweat gathered on her brow and she was aware of a faint but nagging nausea.
She clasped her throat with one hand, idly stroking with her thumb and forefinger. It seemed she was pregnant. Her terms were only a week overdue but she had always been able to rely on their regularity. Her breasts felt full and tender as if the bleeding were about to start, but she knew in her body's core that she had conceived. One of those nights of Stuart's secret lovemaking had borne fruit.
He would be pleased, of course. She glanced over her shoulder at the bed with its carved and gilded posts, its rich tapestried hangings. Since their quarrel after the joust he had not shared that bed with her. She had slept chaste and alone, and awoken untouched and alone.
Martha came in with an armful of clean linen. She cast her mistress a shrewdly assessing glance. “Something amiss, madam?”
“No,” Pippa said, moving away from the window. “Nothing at all.”
Martha pursed her lips but kept a skeptical silence. She knew a great deal more about Lady Nielson's state of health than her ladyship gave her credit for.
There was a knock at the door and Martha set her burden on the bed and went to open it. “'Tis Lord Robin, madam.” She stood aside to let him in.
“Thank you, Martha. You may go,” Pippa said.
The maid curtsied and left. Robin turned the key in the door. “Have you written your letter to the Lady Elizabeth?”
“Yes, 'tis here.” She went to an iron-bound chest on a table against the wall and unlocked it with a key hanging on her girdle. “When will you go?”
“I leave this evening. I have several stops to make in Buckinghamshire. I carry dispatches for Lord Russell, who is so strong in Elizabeth's support, and also for William of Thame at Rycote. He's more ambivalent in his support, but I hope to work upon him a little. I expect to be gone no more than a week.” He took Pippa's letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his doublet.
“Will you take wine?” Pippa lifted the flagon that always awaited Stuart on the side table.
Robin nodded and she poured burgundy into two pewter cups. She handed him one and took a sip of the other. It tasted metallic on her tongue and with a grimace she put it down. “Did you discover anything?”
“No,” he said flatly. “Stuart is always surrounded by his Spanish friends, I have not been able to talk with him alone. I have inquired discreetly and no one has had anything to offer on the subject of a mistress.”
He shrugged. “I don't know what to say, Pippa.”
“Neither do I,” she said bleakly. “I barely see him except in public. He doesn't sleep here anymore . . . not since we quarreled.”
“Perhaps he's just angry. He'll recover his good temper in time,” Robin suggested, but aware that it was a lame attempt at encouragement.
Pippa shook her head with a short, dismissive laugh. “I doubt that, Robin.” She fetched the flagon and refilled his cup. “But tell me, will you see Lady Elizabeth?”
“Not on this occasion. I don't wish to draw attention to myself.” Robin embraced the change of topic. “This time I shall merely act as courier and talk with Parry how best to organize the chain of information.”
He sipped his wine. “You've heard that Thomas Parry has set up house at the Bull in Woodstock?”
“I knew the council wanted to get him away from Elizabeth,” Pippa said, trying to concentrate on a subject that a few days ago would have absorbed her completely. “But the village is almost in the grounds of the palace. How could that separate him from Elizabeth?”
Robin chuckled. “Well, it doesn't. The council thought Bedingfield would be willing to manage Elizabeth's finances himself as well as acting her gaoler, but he won't touch her household management with a barge pole, so he had to leave Thomas in charge. But he threw him out of the palace itself, as a compromise measure. Of course, what it means is that Thomas can set up his own camp in the town and plot for Elizabeth without any interference from Bedingfield.”
Pippa sat down on the bed, her eyes now alive with interest and amusement. “Poor Bedingfield. He's not a bad person, but he's not made to be a gaoler and he's certainly no match for either Elizabeth or Thomas.”
Robin laughed with rich enjoyment. “No, and now, while he's watching Elizabeth in the palace Thomas is playing his own games in town, and if he turns his attention to Thomas, Elizabeth gets on with her own plots.”
“And you'll communicate with Thomas, who'll arrange to get information into the palace for Elizabeth,” Pippa stated.
“Precisely.”
“I wish I could see her,” Pippa said with a sigh. “I miss talking to her, Robin.”
Robin regarded her shrewdly. “About anything in particular?”
Pippa shook her head. “No, I just miss her.”
“Mmm. It always surprised me how well you two got on. Lady Elizabeth is such a scholar and you—”
“Are not,” Pippa interrupted before he could say anything less complimentary. “I'm not stupid, however. You don't have to be a scholar to be good company. Look at yourself.”
Robin grinned. “Touché.” Pippa seemed much more herself now and he felt somewhat reassured as he set down his cup before bending to kiss her. “I'll be on my way. I'll be back in a week.”
“God go with you.” She rose from the bed and accompanied him to the door.
“Don't fret about Stuart, Pippa. He'll get over whatever's troubling him.”
“Yes, of course he will.” She smiled, and waved him away.
Robin glanced back before rounding the corner of the corridor. Pippa still stood in the doorway of her chamber and he saw that the smile had disappeared. With it went his reassurance.
His step heavier, he continued on his way, frowning down at the floor. He was brought up short as he nearly ran headlong into a man coming towards him.
He looked up with an exclamation. “I beg your pardon!”
“Dreaming of a fair maid, Robin?” Lord Kimbolten teased.
“Not exactly, Peter.” Robin shrugged with an assumption of ease.
“Well, that surprises me, since a fair maid is dreaming of you,” Peter said with a significant leer.
“And what's that supposed to mean?” Robin looked at him suspiciously. Peter Kimbolten was known for his jests and practical jokes.
“Only that the fairest maiden I've ever seen is writing you billets doux.” Peter removed the letter from the breast pocket of his doublet and wafted it in the air.
“What in the devil's name are you talking about, Peter?”
“Why, just that while I was strolling in the woods with a few friends I was accosted by a damsel on a rather magnificent mare. She wished me to play love's messenger.” He sniffed the letter with an exaggerated twitch of his nose. “No perfume, how strange.”
“I've no time for games,” Robin said impatiently. He turned to go but Peter seized his arm.
“I jest a little, Robin. But the story still stands. A lady on a horse gave me a letter to give to you. As simple as that.”
“What lady?” Robin stared at him.
“I asked her the same thing, but she said you would discover that when you opened her message . . . I'd lay odds she was Spanish, though,” he added, watching his friend with narrowed eyes.
Robin's sudden change of color, a shift of his eyes told Lord Kimbolten that there was indeed mischief afoot. He chortled. “Oh, a secret mistress, Robin? What a dark horse you are!”
“'Tis no such thing!” Robin snatched the letter from his loosened grasp. “And I'll thank you, Peter, not to go spreading rumors.”
“As if I would!” He laid a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Robin, indeed you do.”
“You, my friend, are a foolish sot!” Robin declared roundly with all the privilege of long-standing friendship. “And I know your meddlesome tongue!”
He thrust the letter into his pocket, where it joined Pippa's to Elizabeth, and went on his way, leaving his friend grinning as he planned how best to circulate this amusing little tidbit of gossip.
Robin didn't open Luisa's letter until he was outside in the relative privacy of a rose garden. He sat down on a stone bench beneath a trellised arbor and slit the wafer.
If Lord Robin of Beaucaire has any interest in furthering the acquaintance of a certain lady of the most lamentable skill with a punt he should know that she likes to walk in the moonlight in the orchard of her house at eleven o'clock every evening.
Robin threw back his head and laughed. Minx! Even Pippa in her flirtatious heyday had not been so brazen. But since he could not keep the suggested assignation until he'd returned from Woodstock, Dona Luisa would have to cool her heels for a week's worth of moonlit evenings.
He folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket. So she had a horse now. She must have prevailed upon Ashton to grant her some liberty. But just what would that silent, observant, remote gentleman think of his gently bred and sheltered ward's amusing herself in a clandestine flirtation with an English courtier?
His smile died abruptly. Just what part did Lionel Ashton actually play in the plots and contrivances that engaged the Spaniards at the English court? He seemed always to be on the outside looking in. He took no part in any of the competitive activities; he was a distant presence at formal court functions; he was clearly in the king's intimate circle. But why he was here was a mystery. Robin didn't think he'd actually seen him do anything. He'd barely heard him speak.
Pippa had expressed some interest in him, though. But then, Pippa was interested in everyone and everything. It was one of her greatest charms, and always had been. At least until recently. These days it was hard to get her to show interest in anything, she seemed totally absorbed with her own marital troubles.
Frowning now, Robin left the arbor, his mind moving from speculation about Lionel Ashton to the puzzle of Stuart and his subservient behavior with the Spaniards. Stuart, of all people! A man who had been negotiating on an equal footing with the Spaniards for months on the details of the wedding. His privileged status as one of Mary's council was unimpeachable. He knew the Spanish. He drank with them. He bargained and he argued with them. Until now.
