Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  Mary was shocked. Surely Anne would have told her before now? Then again, maybe that was why Anne had requested she stay on through Christmas. The tears forming in Mary’s eyes, the constriction in her throat, were not from joy.

  “You are certain?” Oxford, while not happy, certainly looked relieved.

  “I would not have told you otherwise, my lord.”

  “And it is a boy?”

  Anne actually laughed. “I have no way of knowing that. We will all find out in the early part of June.”

  “Then in June we shall see if your contract is fulfilled.” Oxford composed himself again and made to leave. “At least I will not have to suffer lying with you again until the summer. God be praised for small miracles.” On that, he turned on his boot heel and left the chamber.

  With the slam of the door behind Oxford, the entire room breathed a sigh of relief. Girard resumed his soft strumming, Lady Oxford sat back down in her chair, and Mary busied herself with cleaning the spilled wine.

  “Mary, leave it be.” Mary could hear the weariness in Anne’s voice. The interlude with her husband had cost her dearly.

  “It should be taken care of before it stains . . . ”

  “Let it stain, then. It can be a constant reminder that Oxford treats his possessions poorly.” Anne took a deep breath and visibly steadied herself. She looked worn and much older than her nineteen years. “It seems I forget too often.”

  Mary, after one sad glance at the dark stain on the rug, stood and moved to leave the room. She had too much to think about to be any good company.

  Anne called out just as Mary reached the door. “Will you not offer me your congratulations?”

  Anne stood tall, not asking but demanding Mary’s good will. At that moment, Anne Cecil was not just her friend Anne, she was the Countess of Oxford; Mary should never let herself forget that. The idea of a private interview with the countess was almost intimidating. Should she paste on a false smile and voice the appropriate pleasantries? Should she be obsequious to a girl she had guided from childhood? Not if Anne wanted any sort of honest response. No, Anne the young woman was a still a friend in need of truth, and placating lies would not help her. Besides, Anne knew how Mary felt about Oxford. He’d taken away any chance Mary could have had at a normal life. That Oxford may have forgotten Thomas, Mary’s fiancé, was not surprising. It had been, after all, no matter to him—he’d probably forgotten within the week, let alone after a year. Anne, however, had been privy to all of Mary’s hopes, to each aspect of the courtship. She’d shared Mary’s happiness, her hope, and her grief. A true friend, Anne had cried alongside Mary at Thomas’s death and had cursed Oxford as heartless.

  How Anne could have wanted to wed that contemptible man after all that happened was beyond Mary’s wildest imaginings. Now Anne could not annul it. She could not return to her father’s home. She was trapped, and she would breed his spawn. The thought alone made Mary shudder. “Congratulations,” she said without any emotion betraying her true feelings. Without any emotion at all. “You have now bound yourself to that man forever.”

  “I bound myself to him when I married him.” Anne’s voice was calm. Assured.

  “Which I will never understand,” Mary snapped, all pretense at polite acceptance gone. “You knew the man he was . . . ”

  “And I married him. I am a countess. My son will be an earl of an old and respected family.”

  “But your husband will never respect you!” As far as Mary could tell, the Earl of Oxford did not respect anyone, including Queen Elizabeth. Word around court was that Oxford could be one of the Queen’s favorites if not for his fickle disposition and contemptible attitude. She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders to find her poise. The ladies and servants present were getting a show to rival the stages in London.

  “Mary, I made my choice over a year ago. And never doubt that it was my choice. You were not even there—you had left me. You put yourself above our friendship. Do not think to presume you know the workings of my heart better than I.”

  “No, I would not presume that.” When Mary thought about how Anne’s heart must break every time she saw her husband, she felt like she could cry. How could Anne value herself so little? “Anne, you knew I had to leave and you knew why.” She glanced at the nameless, faceless ladies present, all studiously working on their needlework, all listening with every fiber of their being. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And still you married him. You were seventeen and thought you knew what you wanted in life—but look at what you suffer! And you accept it because he made you a countess? Is that so important?” Mary could tell by the look in Anne’s eye that, yes, being a countess was everything. There was no point in arguing, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to help Anne see the truth of the situation.

  “If I do not bear his child, he will send me away . . . ”

  “And if you do bear his child, you give him one more possession. He will never love the baby. He will always think you are inferior to him. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Anne paused for a moment as the sting of Mary’s words subsided. She assumed her calm façade and continued in a firmer voice. “Oxford will never love anyone but himself—it is enough for me that I have him. He is mine. Mine. And I have always been his, regardless of his superior airs. With this baby, I secure my position and his title. What would you have me do? Get rid of the baby?” Anne fixed her with a scathing stare dripping with condemnation. “Is that what you want from me, Mary?”

  “No.” The thought alone made Mary choke. It was not uncommon for ladies of all ranks to take care of unwanted pregnancies—it was just not something that was spoken of aloud. Anne must think her truly soulless to think she’d suggest . . . God’s blood, it sickened her. But of course, Anne probably did assume she’d used that method to eliminate her own troubles when she had to return to her father’s house in shame. And she wasn’t entirely wrong. No woman could ever know the heart of another, to know the pain of such a decision, how so much of it was weighed against survival. Mary’s own choice . . . She swallowed against nausea, refusing to even think of it. Ever. “No, never that.”

  Anne sighed and relaxed back into her chair as much as her corset would allow. “Why did you agree to stay with me for Christmas if you hate him so?”

  Mary had asked herself that question every day since she decided to stay at the palace with Lady Oxford. “You knew my feelings when you asked me to stay, and yet you still asked me. I agreed because you said you needed me.”

  “I do need you.” Anne’s dark eyes seemed bigger than usual as she looked at her friend with sadness. “I need you to be my friend.”

  “I will always be your friend.”

  Mary’s response was met with silence. She sat there a moment watching Anne. It was hard to believe that Anne was going to have a baby. She wanted to feel joy and hope; instead the knowledge brought despair and, she hated to admit, some jealousy. A baby. To be a mother . . . She should be excited for her, but her emotions were too tangled with her hatred for Oxford and her own sense of loss. Things were going to go from bad to worse. It was just a shame that Oxford was the father. Mary’s heart went out to the unborn babe.

  Slowly, Anne’s ladies began to chatter among themselves. The spell of fear that Oxford always brought with him had been broken, however temporarily.

  • • •

  Leaning her forehead against the frost-feathered glass, Mary peered through the ice to see the frozen courtyard beyond. For so many, winter meant death—either from the cold, illness, or starvation. Perhaps that was why it was so beautiful, to make up for the disaster it left in its wake. Even though she knew the harsh realities of the severe cold, she couldn’t help but see the sparkling landscape as if it were something magical. She pressed one hand against the pane and watched as the heat of her skin slowly melted the ice. The thick glass protected her against the chill, but it also prevented her from being part of the beauty of the season. Of
course, she was far too mature to frolic in the snow even if she were outside. And she had the consequence of Lady Oxford to think of before she made a fool of herself in front of the court.

  With a sigh, Mary removed her now freezing hand from the window and pressed it against her face. She missed her home, her family—especially at Christmastide. Remembering the way the ice clung to the branches of the old apple tree outside her childhood bedroom window just worsened the ache of knowing she could never return. Anne’s father’s house had been her home for a time, but it had too many memories for her to be comfortable there ever again. Holme LeSieur, the country estate where she had spent the past year, was as close to a home as she could imagine. Residence at the royal palace was only temporary.

  Well, the twelve nights at court were sure to be a diversion, even if she had to suffer Oxford’s presence for the duration. After the festivities, Anne would probably return to her father’s home and stay for the span of her pregnancy. Mary would return to Holme LeSieur then. The thought was comforting—she could endure her time at the palace as long as she knew she had someplace to go home to. It was nice to genuinely look forward to something—it made all the little obstacles in the way less important somehow.

  “Waxing maudlin, are we?” Girard interrupted her reverie. Bearing two cups in his hands, he gently kicked the door closed behind him. Tall, broad shoulders, mesmerizing voice, strong hands—it was really a shame that he was more interested in gossip than seduction. He was quite a handsome man—except that there was no chance of him thinking of her romantically. Or any woman.

  “I am never maudlin,” she said, offering Girard a bright smile at his welcome intrusion. It was true; Mary prided herself on her ability to remain optimistic no matter the circumstance—although she had just come close to brooding. Thinking about her childhood home always did that. “Now, what have you brought me?” Mary sat herself down on the chaise with a slight bounce and held out her hands.

  Girard gingerly picked his way between the furniture of the small chamber and joined her gracefully. “Wassail. It’s not how my mother made it, but it is good all the same.” He handed Mary a cup, then took a cautious sip of his own. “Mmmm . . . and it’s warm.”

  Mary held the cup in her hands, allowing the warmth to seep into her skin. “It’s silly, but sometimes I like to be cold just so I can enjoy getting warm.”

  Girard laughed. “I hate the cold. Cold weather means too many clothes.”

  “I thought you liked clothes.”

  “Of course I like how they look, but I do enjoy the state of undress.” Girard never looked anything other than splendid—within the scope of his station of course. The sumptuary laws helped keep people in their proper place, and Girard was only a minstrel, a peasant; he would never be able to afford the fines for dressing above his rank, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make every effort to cut a fine figure in his expertly constructed suits. Girard looked just as dashing in gray wool as most courtiers did in their fine velvets.

  “Say the word and I’ll stoke up the fire and make it warm enough in here for you to be as undressed as you like.” Mary gave an exaggerated wink.

  “Only if you join me . . . ” Girard waggled his eyebrows in a distinctly unseductive manner.

  Mary could not restrain her laughter. “I am so glad I have you.”

  “I will endeavor to make the twelve nights as merry as I can just for you.”

  “That is quite a promise.” Mary smiled sweetly. Girard really was such a good person; it was a shame that he had not found love. Then again, he may have someone special and Mary would never know of it. While not that uncommon, Girard’s particular brand of love was both illegal and forbidden by the church, so details were never spoken out loud, even between friends. Nonetheless, Girard deserved to have a wonderful Christmastide for himself and not worry about her. Oh! Perhaps Mary could help cupid along and find a special gentleman friend for Girard. Mary smiled broader—that was something else to look forward to. “Surely you will be able to join the revelry? I know you will have your duties, but doesn’t the line between ranks and responsibilities become blurred during the twelve nights?”

  “During the twelve nights, there is no line. And what of you? Has Lady Oxford need of you during the festivities?”

  “Not really. She has other ladies, and she will have them waiting in attendance. She has more or less ordered me to enjoy myself. And you know that she will not participate in the merriment in her current state, though her husband will be there with bells on.”

  “I have heard tell that he may be there with a dress on!” The statement was all the funnier because it was probably true. Many took the topsy-turvy role reversal aspect of Christmastide revelry only to apply to rank: some played with switching genders. Mary thought the Earl of Oxford would probably end up excelling and amazing the court—even dressed as a woman.

  Shaking her head to clear the picture from her mind, she muttered, “Let’s just hope he shaves his beard.”

  Chapter Two

  On the first night of Christmas, Mary had no idea what to expect. She’d heard rumors, but then Mary had never trusted gossip. Especially since she knew from experience how the stories changed with each telling. For all she knew, tonight could include an elegant feast or an orgy that would make Caligula blush. Or both.

  This would be her first Christmas at Queen Elizabeth’s court. All she really knew was that, while the liveried servants had been busy transforming the palace, the courtiers had been fortifying themselves for twelve straight nights of revelry. As an honored guess of the countess, Mary was included with the court, welcome to partake instead of just watching from the sidelines. Christmas at court, almost a fantasy. The only true damper on her excitement was the guilt over leaving Anne alone at a time like this. Then again, Anne was no longer in her care—she was a married woman now, wasn’t she? Besides, she’d told Mary to have a wonderful time and come back with scandalous stories, so she may as well follow orders. With one last glance in the mirror to ensure that she was presentable, she gave herself a saucy wink and smiled. Tonight would be an adventure.

  With the setting rays of the sun on December twenty-fifth, the court burst into a fury of laughter, swirling colors, and driving music. As Mary navigated her way through the warren of corridors, she mused that no space of the sprawling, tiered palace was too insignificant for revelry and yuletide spirit. The scent of fresh cut greenery overwhelmed the more familiar palace scents of roasting meat and smoky incense. She frequently had to stop to allow her eyes to adjust to the varying levels of light between different rooms and stairwells. She wondered if the servants left some rooms purposefully dark or if the trysting couples giggling in the shadows were responsible for extinguishing the sconces. Whitehall Palace, while shining with brilliant white-and-red lacquer on the exterior, was very dark inside. The ebony-stained panels absorbed the light; any attempts to add more lighting with lamps or candles only increased the haze of smoke that lingered through the night. Skirting around one amorous couple under the festive kissing bunch, Mary found an open window and allowed the chill from the fresh wind off the river to clear her senses.

  Calming herself against the growing excitement, she flinched at her appearance in the reflective panes. Mary’s main point of vanity, her creamy complexion, glowed rosy with either the heat or her own nerves. She laid a staying hand against the midnight blue of her velvet bodice, soothing her frantic pulse. Looking down, she grimaced at her meager cleavage. While not full in the bosom, she still enjoyed wearing the lower cut, French, square-necked gowns simply because they highlighted her skin—which would do no good if her flush didn’t fade. She almost understood why so many courtiers applied an excess of cosmetics. Almost. They wanted perfect porcelain complexions, but ended up looking like cracked statuary. She shuddered at the thought.

  Her thick dark brown hair was pinned in an intricate knot at the back of her head and covered in a silver mesh caul—not a hair was out of pla
ce, and she looked very smart indeed. Her green eyes, while a little wider apart than she liked, did look sharp with their touch of kohl lining. Smiling at her reflection, she winced at her vulgar display of teeth, then affected a more delicate upturn of the lips.

  Straightening her skirts, Mary took one final deep breath of the cold winter air before following the noise into the hall near the Queen’s Presence Chamber. Stepping into the blazing light of the brightly muralled room, she braced herself against the cacophony of sound. The floor shook with the repeating beat of the dance. Stomp, shuffle, stomp—the crush of courtiers all in time with the music. Mary didn’t know this dance, but then that wasn’t so unusual. Glad this dance was well underway and that she would not have to excuse herself from it, Mary wove through the revelers lining the edges of the crowded dance floor, looking for a familiar face.

  “I am so glad you came tonight.”

  A stunningly clad older woman appeared before her. Mary had to blink to adjust her eyes to the vibrant colors of Blanche Parry’s gown.

  “Mistress Parry! I am glad I came tonight as well. This is incredible.” She gestured at the opulence around her and spun in a slow circle, smiling without reservation. “So many jewels and so much laughter, it almost feels like a dream.”

  Mistress Parry laughed. “Organized chaos, my dear.” Linking arms with Mary, Blanche firmly towed her along to a quieter alcove within the hall.

  Mistress Parry, while not of high title, was of excellent lineage and, more importantly, had served Queen Elizabeth the longest of anyone at court. Queen Anne Boleyn had brought her into service on the day little princess Elizabeth was born. Her lifetime of devotion to Queen Elizabeth, regardless of whether or not it was the politically correct thing to do, set her apart from every courtier present.

  Settling back onto a plush cushion, Mary exclaimed over her friend’s gown. “That is an amazing concoction. I have never seen you dressed so extravagantly!” The red satin gleamed, the gold beading sparkled in the candle light, and the bodice exposed more bosom than Mary had thought possible.