by Jane Feather
Nine
Pippa slept fitfully and awake to the ecstatic music of the dawn chorus beyond her open windows. She lay still, knowing that the minute she sat up the surge of nausea would overwhelm her.
It would go on for twelve weeks, Lionel had said. As far as she could calculate she was close to eight weeks pregnant now and the prospect of another month of this was depressing. She touched her belly, trying to connect with the life she carried, and wondered if she would find the sickness less troublesome if all was well with her marriage.
Of course, she'd never had any patience with illness, however trivial, so probably she would find this frailty as irksome as she did even if she and Stuart were dwelling in the blissful realms of a fulfilled and happy union.
She closed her eyes again and tried to concentrate on Stuart, on some way of making sense of his estrangement without simply assuming that there was another woman. It was such an obvious explanation, but maybe there was something else. Maybe he was troubled and she had refused to see it, jumping to conclusions and thinking only of herself.
She tried to force herself to picture Stuart, but she saw Lionel Ashton. The gray eyes filled with understanding, sympathy, and humor, quite at odds with the curiously detached air he had when in the company of others. He was not detached when he was with her though. It was as if he was presenting a very different side of himself.
She tried again to picture Stuart, to force her mind to examine the situation with her husband, to look for explanations from which maybe there would come a solution. But it wouldn't work. Lionel's face was the only one she could summon, and she found herself contemplating the puzzles he presented with a single-minded concentration.
And there were plenty of puzzles, not least how and why an Englishman was traveling in Philip's retinue. His position there had to be a powerful one, even though he stood so often apart. But his air of remote authority was unmistakable. He seemed to expect deference, and from what Pippa had seen he received it. Even from Philip's councillors.
And what of those five sisters? Some sadness there . . . no, more than sadness, she had felt it. And why had he slammed the door so vehemently on her initial questions about a wife? Particularly when it was a door he himself had half opened. No wife, no child. Did that mean he had never been married? Where had he spent his childhood? England, Spain . . . His command of Spanish, from the little Pippa had heard, would lend credence to a life spent in that country.
It was a much pleasanter mental exercise than worrying about Stuart, Pippa realized. When she thought of Lionel she felt less alone, as if she had an ally. And that was a puzzle, because she knew she had Robin, who would stand by her through thick and thin. He was her ally, he was her friend and her brother. So why when she thought of needing support did Lionel Ashton pop into her head before Robin?
Pippa sat up gingerly. Miraculously nothing happened. She reached sideways for the basket of dry bread that Martha now left for her every night. Martha who had betrayed Pippa's secret to Stuart without consulting her mistress.
Pippa nibbled the bread. She was not really annoyed with the maid, whose position was not an easy one in such a matter. The fault lay only with Stuart. But that bone was picked clean now and nothing useful could come of storing up her resentment.
Slowly she swung her feet to the floor. She felt fine. As slowly she stood up, nibbling the bread. Still no problems. Perhaps today was going to be one of the good ones.
The prospect cheered her and she went to the window, leaning out to draw deep breaths of a fresh air that would soon be heavy and stale as the sun rose. The sounds of the waking city drifted up from the river. Calls of boatmen and street vendors. From below rose the sounds of the palace springing to life and the smells of morning cooking fires drifted upward. That didn't seem to disturb her accentuated sense of smell either this morning.
It reminded her of her conversation with Robin, and Pippa grinned to herself. None of Robin's family could understand why he had not found himself a good wife by now. He had had his adventures, as Pippa knew, but no woman had captured his heart as well as his eye. But perhaps that had changed. Something out of the ordinary had happened for Robin to be suddenly concerned about the freshness of his linen.
She rested her elbows on the windowsill and gazed down into the garden, feeling at peace, indeed almost happy. And the sense of contentment was abruptly sharpened when she saw Lionel Ashton step out onto the terrace beneath her window. Her breath caught, her blood stirred. It was ridiculous, Pippa told herself. She was a respectable married woman pregnant with her husband's child. And yet she caught herself willing him to look up.
And he did.
Lionel stepped back a little so that he had a clearer view of Pippa's bedchamber. He raised a hand and she waved back at him.
“You're up betimes, Mr. Ashton,” she called down to him.
She was leaning perilously far out of the window, Lionel reflected. It was clearly his duty to encourage her to withdraw to safety before she and the king of Spain's child came tumbling to the paving at his feet.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called back without seeming to raise his voice. “So it seems are you, madam. If you care to walk in the morning air, I will await you here.”
Pippa waved in acknowledgment and withdrew her head. A burst of energy seemed to bring color to the world. It would be lovely to take a morning walk while the air was still fresh, before the chattering, gossiping scrutiny of courtiers destroyed the peace.
She reached for the handbell that would summon Martha and then decided it would take too long. The girl would still be asleep. It was awkward to manage the laces of a stomacher herself, but why bother with the cumbersome garment? Why bother with a farthingale? It was too early for anyone to see her. Although if they did it would certainly scandalize. But Pippa found that she was in no mood to care, and the very fact of her carelessness made her feel more like herself than she had done in weeks.
She found a simple silk gown of a particularly flattering shade of topaz that she would ordinarily wear only in the privacy of her boudoir or in the country with her intimate family. It went over a plain white linen chemise. She decided to do without hose and thrust her feet into a pair of kidskin sandals. She tugged a comb through the cinnamon tangle of curls and pulled her hair to the back of her neck, tying it roughly with a white scarf. A quick glance at her image in the mirror of beaten silver made her hesitate. Was it too scandalous to appear here, in public, in such dishabille?
Then Pippa reminded herself that she had never danced in the court of public opinion. Let the tongues of scandal wag as they may.
She left her chamber and hastened through the long corridors, down a little-used staircase, and through a small door that gave onto the terrace.
Lionel was still standing where she had last seen him. He seemed again to have separated himself from his surroundings and for an instant Pippa regretted her impulse. It seemed impossible to intrude upon him. He held himself loosely in his clothes, almost as if they weren't part of him. And yet, unlike Pippa, he was dressed for the court day. A short crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, his black doublet and hose were slashed with the same crimson. A ruby gleamed in the turned-up brim of his black velvet hat.
Pippa was wondering whether to run back to her chamber and summon Martha to dress her properly when Lionel turned his head towards her. He didn't move any other part of his body, she noticed. But it was as if he had sensed her presence hovering beneath the stone arch of the narrow doorway.
He came towards her then, smiling. “You have an indefinable sense of what suits both you and the occasion,” he observed, taking her hand, raising it to his lips as he bowed.
Pippa felt a deep pleasure at the compliment. “I thought to escape formality for once,” she said.
“I wish I had had the same thought.” He tucked her hand in his arm and turned towards the river.
“And what would you have worn to achieve the same effect?” Pip
pa asked, genuinely interested in this sartorial question.
“Shirt and hose,” he responded promptly.
Pippa drew a swift breath. Why was that image so dangerous? It was a rhetorical question.
Lionel too realized that he was playing in dangerous fields. He had had no intention of doing so but she had drawn him in, with her lighthearted dress, her smile, the sense he felt that she had shed some burden. It was as if he was seeing the real Pippa instead of the troubled, sad, and confused woman who had been put in his charge.
“You're not feeling sick this morning?” he asked, deliberately prosaic.
“No,” Pippa said cheerfully. “This will be a good day, I am determined.” She slipped her hand from beneath his arm and stepped quickly onto the riverbank. Without thought, she kicked her feet free of her sandals and dug her toes into the still dew-wet grass. “Oh, it reminds me of my childhood! Whenever I could I would go barefoot in the summer.”
She walked to the river's edge. The traffic on the river was busy now and the palace quay was abuzz with official barges.
“There's a river that runs through the valley at Mallory Hall. Pen and I would paddle in the mud. Have you ever felt mud between your toes, Lionel?”
It was the first time she had used his given name. Lionel noticed, Pippa did not.
“It's a barely retrievable memory,” he replied. “Why don't you do it now?”
She laughed at him over her shoulder. “I cannot!”
“Would you have said that a year ago?” He looked at her shrewdly.
Pippa shook her head. “No. But since then I've been imprisoned in the Tower, discovered that my husband . . . discovered that I carry my husband's child. There comes a time, Mr. Ashton, when one must grow up.” She pushed her toes into the damp grass again. “My family would probably laugh to hear me say that.”
He wanted to enfold her. To kiss the top of her head. To run his hands down her back. To span her waist, find its curves beneath the loose gown.
“You do not have to forget to laugh in order to grow up,” he said, aware of the sour taste of his own betrayal thickening his tongue, acid in his throat.
Pippa turned back to him. “No, I suppose that's true.” She found her sandals and slid her wet feet into them with a grimace. “I must go back. It wouldn't do for the world to see me in such dishabille. But I thank you for your company.” Her tone was both formal and awkward.
“And I thank you for yours,” Lionel said, offering her his arm.
Pippa hesitated. “Perhaps you should go back alone, sir. There will be many more people up and about. It might appear that . . .” She gave him a halfhearted smile.
“It might,” he agreed. He touched her cheek as he had done once before. “I could almost wish that appearance was truth, Pippa.”
Pippa met his gaze steadily. For a moment they looked at each other. Then Lionel came to himself. “Forgive me.” He bowed over her hand and left her.
Pippa stared after him. He had voiced a desire that she had been doing everything possible to ignore.
The scarf that bound her hair had become loosened and she reached behind her to retie it. This was a situation in which many people found themselves, she told herself. Most marriages had some degree of convenience about them so it was always possible that a rogue emotion could kidnap a respectably married woman . . . or man. It seemed to have happened to Stuart, after all.
She touched her belly. A rogue emotion was acceptable as long as no one knew of it. She started back to the palace.
As far as she knew, no one saw her as she returned to her bedchamber. Martha, with a reproachful air, was already there pouring hot water into the basin on the dresser. She looked askance at Pippa's dress. “You rose without me, m'lady.”
“Yes, I didn't wish to disturb you so early.” Pippa loosened her hair from the ribbon. “I wished to walk alone before the world was up and about.”
“I didn't know whether you'd wish for meat or cheese this morning, m'lady.”
Pippa surveyed the tray of fresh bread and butter. “A dish of coddled eggs and ham if you please. Oh, and a tankard of mead. I find I'm not sick this morning, Martha, and have a great appetite.”
“Very well, my lady.” Martha was still not certain of where she stood in her mistress's graces, but was thankful that so far she had received no indications of ill favor. “Should I help you remove your gown?”
“No, I can manage myself, thank you.” Pippa smiled to soften the blow but was aware that Martha was put out. The maid left and Pippa stripped off her clothes and sponged herself with the hot water in the basin.
Once again she thought of Robin. Once again she chuckled to herself. Pen would love the story.
But Pen was not here. No one was here to appreciate the possibility of Robin's falling victim to romance. No one was here to . . .
Pippa pulled herself up short. Self-pity was about the most useless response to her situation that she could imagine.
She would dress and go in search of Robin, see if she could tease his secret out of him. It would certainly distract her from self-pity.
She ate breakfast with an appetite that had eluded her for the last weeks. The taste of the food on her tongue seemed particularly savory, and the mead, now her favorite drink, filled her with a sense of well-being.
Martha had just laced her stomacher and was adjusting the small round ruff at Pippa's neck when there was a knock at the door. Martha went to open it.
A page in the queen's livery stepped into the chamber. He intoned his message into the air. “Her Majesty requests the presence of Lady Nielson at an audience at nine of the clock.”
“Lady Nielson will be honored to attend,” Pippa responded automatically. “I assume you bear the same message to Lord Nielson.”
“No, madam. I have not been so instructed.” The page bowed and withdrew.
That was strange, Pippa thought. And then immediately felt the clutch of the old fear. Was it a sinister summons? She was never singled out for the queen's attention, merely treated as a necessary if unwelcome adjunct of her husband. Had Mary discovered that she was corresponding with Elizabeth? Was she going to confront her in this private audience? Would Stuart have an explanation for the summons?
She selected an emerald breast jewel from the silver casket on the dresser and matched it with emerald and turquoise rings. Her fingers had the tiniest tremor as she slid the rings over her knuckles.
She stood in front of the mirror, trying to control her fear with a scrupulous inventory of her appearance. Her gown of forest green edged with silver lace and opening over a primrose yellow underskirt was perfectly suitable for the morning's audience. As was the black velvet hood with its emerald-studded horseshoe frontlet.
The inventory restored her confidence a little. She reasoned that if Robin was still at large then Mary could not possibly know of the letter he had carried to Woodstock. Pippa knew that Robin had safely delivered the letter, so it had not been intercepted . . . unless one of Bedingfield's men had intercepted it within the palace walls before it reached Elizabeth.
Her heart thumped uncomfortably and she had half a mind to ask Martha to loosen her laces. She touched lavender water to her temples and breathed slowly until her heart had settled into its normal rhythm. There was no point anticipating trouble.
Pippa glanced at the enameled watch that hung from the girdle of fine gold chain at her waist. It was barely eight o'clock. More than enough time to seek out Stuart, to see if he could throw any light on the summons, and then Robin. Maybe he would know something.
A door connected her bedchamber with her husband's. It was a door that was rarely opened these days. Pippa tapped lightly, waited a few minutes, then lifted the latch. She stood on the threshold, reluctant to enter without invitation. The chamber was in shuttered darkness but was empty. The bed was undisturbed.
Stuart kept late nights, but he usually sought his bed by dawn. And he was never an early riser. He had not said he was t
raveling anywhere, and he would have told her. There were some pieces of information that had to be shared if they were to preserve the public appearance of harmony. So where had he laid his head last night?
She pushed the question from her, stepped back into her own chamber, and closed the door. She glanced quickly at Martha, but the woman seemed busy piling the breakfast dishes onto a tray and didn't look up. Pippa knew, however, that the maid kept close company with Stuart's manservant. Martha was probably well aware of when his lordship failed to sleep in his own bed.
Pippa left the bedchamber and made her way through the maze of corridors to Robin's small chamber. Single men not of Mary's household were not treated with much deference by the queen's chancellor when it came to allotting accommodation, and the corridors grew narrower, the doors more closely spaced, the wall hangings frayed and lusterless as Pippa entered the north wing of the palace.
There were few people about and it was very quiet, dust motes thick in the sun's rays penetrating the gloom from the very few narrow windows. Pippa barely noticed her surroundings, so intent was she on the queen's summons. She passed a door that stood very slightly ajar. Voices whispered from the chamber behind.
She had gone five paces past when recognition penetrated her reverie. She stopped, frowning. What could Stuart be doing in this remote and unfavored part of the palace? She retraced her steps and stood unashamedly eavesdropping at the gap in the door.
Two men whispering. Stuart and one other. At first she couldn't understand what she was hearing, it made no sense. It was love talk, soft endearments, little murmurs, then a sound that chilled her. The unmistakable sound of flesh moving on flesh.
No, it wasn't possible!
She swallowed, hearing the sound loud in the quiet still corridor. She was losing her mind. Hearing things. Some strange fantasy trance induced by pregnancy.
Pippa stepped closer to the door. She touched with her fingertips and it opened a few more inches. She could see the bed, a narrow cot in a meager chamber.
