Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  Blanche Parry laughed, her eyes crinkling into merry slits. “It is Christmastide, moppet. It is time for extravagance, spontaneity, and maybe even a little debauchery. This time of year, nothing is as it is supposed to be and everything is excused. It is time to live life to its fullest.” Blanche stood and twirled, her skirts flying a little higher than was acceptable. “And do not say I am too old to enjoy myself.”

  “I honestly have no idea how old you are.” Blanche was an enigma—part matronly kindness, part shrewd wit, but always elegant. It was hard to categorize her other than to say she was Blanche Parry.

  “You are sweet, child.” Mistress Parry sat back down. “But what of you? This dress is rather dour for such a festive time.”

  Mary had always prided herself on dressing very well. This was her own design and her most expensive dress. The midnight blue velvet trimmed with black silk showed off her slim figure to perfection. “Dour? I thought I looked appropriate . . . ”

  “No, no dear. The gown is lovely. I have often admired it. The silver and pearl beadwork on the bodice really stands out against the dark velvet. No, what I am saying is that this is the first of the twelve nights and you look like you do any given day at court. You are lovely, of course.” Mistress Parry looked her over again, her mouth pursed and brows crinkled in a look that Mary knew to be problem solving. She shook her head with a frown. “You should know by now that courtly revelry is more extreme than anything you would have had in the country. Christmastide is even more so. This,” she poked Mary in the chest with a gloved finger, “is boring. You should let yourself be exceptional.”

  Blanche rose and straightened her skirts. Peering into the mirror on the back of her feathered fan, she laughed. “I do look ridiculous, but it so much fun to be someone other than myself. Topsy-turvy, my dear. At Christmastide, nothing is what it should be. I will send a few of my foreparts and sleeves to your room on the morrow so you can be someone grander than Mistress Mary Montgomery, companion to a lady and daughter of a country knight.” With that, Mistress Parry winked and left their cozy corner in a blur of shimmering red.

  Someone other than herself? Mary was content with who she was, the place God had chosen for her; it was ridiculous to think she might aspire to something more. Well, it appeared the twelve nights at court would be full of the ridiculous, so she may as well accept the challenge. No rules, no judgment—perhaps it was time to focus on herself and make some good memories and not be so concerned with everyone else.

  But wasn’t that why she was at the palace? She was here for Anne—although Mary wasn’t entirely sure Anne really needed her after all. No, that was silly, of course she did. She just didn’t realize it. What more could Mary do for her at this point? Well, Anne had already told her—simply be there for her. Perhaps she should return to the Oxford’s chambers . . .

  “Quickly! We need a third!” Mary had no time to assimilate the shouted words before a strong arm grasped around her middle and pulled her onto the dance floor. All thoughts of leaving the revelry instantly forgotten, she embraced the chaos and excitement and joined in the dance.

  • • •

  “Well met, Sir Charles.” Blanche Parry waited calmly for him to reverance before she recovered him.

  Sir Charles Fitzjohn blinked twice at the shining red vision of Mistress Parry as he rose. He had no response for her and, eventually, closed his gaping mouth.

  “Yes, yes, I know it is a change.” She had the good taste to look somewhat embarrassed by her over-the-top appearance. “But it is Christmastide, and I choose to not be myself for twelve days.”

  “Understood.” Charles wisely chose not to make any jests on her behalf. “You are quite a vision, Mistress Parry.”

  “And you, Sir Charles—you look quite dashing tonight.”

  “Ah, but you forget, I always look dashing.” Charles straightened his shoulders pompously and tossed his head back to brush the stray wavy lock off his forehead. Placing one hand on his chest to display the imagined rings such a man would have had ostentatiously on display for a portrait, he attempted to look haughty. Unable to straighten his smile, he failed miserably and broke into laughter at his own behavior.

  “Of course. Quite dashing. How could any woman forget?” The gleam in her eyes as she looked him over belied her sarcastic tone. “That reminds me. There is a young lady who seems very friendless this evening, and I think that you might be the perfect gentleman to keep her company.”

  Inwardly groaning, Charles started to protest. “Come now, do not attempt any matchmaking with me.”

  “Of course not. I just thought the both of you deserved to have some fun over this Christmastide. Besides, if someone does not act quickly to keep her here, she may allow guilt to drag her back to her unappreciative mistress.”

  “And who is her mistress?” It was intriguing that Mistress Parry would seek him out as a partner for someone she held in esteem. She knew better than anyone that he had nothing to offer a wife and always kept well away from unmarried maids. He owned no land, could never own land, and had no real hope to better his station. As a bastard, or, as some called it to take away some of the sting, a natural child, he would need special permission to marry at all.

  “Lady Oxford.”

  “Fie me.” That was a strong card for Mistress Parry. She had probably never doubted he would acquiesce. Anyone associated with the Oxfords needed rescuing. “Where is the wench?” Charles noticed Blanche’s shocked look at the tone of his voice and tried to lighten the situation. “I hope for your sake that she is not homely.” He didn’t actually care what she looked like; anyone within the Oxford household was certainly a victim of abuse, either directly or witnessed. If she was comely, then she could become a victim of much more, if his knowledge of Ned de Vere’s character held any weight—and it did. He could be the knight to a lady in distress for this evening. At least it would give him purpose; it was hard for him to earnestly enjoy these events.

  “Not in the slightest.” Blanche gestured to the alcove across from them just as the musicians announced the dance. Charles crossed the distance in two strides and grasped the unsuspecting lady around the waist just as the first steps began.

  He had only been joking when he inquired about her looks, but as he met her eyes and her expression shifted from surprise to joy, Charles could not imagine anyone more vibrant. With a broad smile that lit up her face, she jumped into the dance with the first of the steps. Her green eyes sparkled as she did her first solo spezzato, and she let out a merry laugh as she landed the capriole. Her dark, somewhat somber gown only highlighted her skin. She was not buxom, but her pert breasts strained against the confines of her corset, tantalizing him. He wondered if her skin would feel as soft as it looked. Concentrating on his steps, he broke his eyes away from her and made a point to take his capriole leap as high as he safely could.

  Mistress Parry teased, “Be careful, Sir Charles. Queen Elizabeth has no wish for her guardsmen to injure themselves other than in Her defense.”

  Locking eyes with Mistress Parry’s lovely friend, Charles laughed. “It is Christmastide, Mistress! Tonight, do I look like a guardsman?”

  “No, indeed.” Mistress Parry’s eyes went from merry to shrewd in a heartbeat. “Tonight you look like the brother of an earl.”

  Half brother, Devil take him.

  Charles decided that no response was the best response. Mistress Parry had sought him out and brought him into association with the lively brunette currently linking hands with his for a series of passi and smiling infectiously. Something about the maiden’s smile undid him. It was the sincerity of it, the proof of honest merriment; when all the courtly ladies simpered or pouted coyly, his partner smiled without shame and without artifice. It drew him in like nothing before. He could lose himself in that smile and forget about Mistress Parry bringing up his brother.

  Instead he would pay attention to the slender white hand in his. She may be an unmarried miss, but it was Christmast
ide and, during the twelve nights, all sins were forgiven. If the challenge in the young lady’s eye was any indication, she may well be as interested in forgetting her troubles as he was. What harm could there be in a stolen kiss or two?

  • • •

  Mary danced with joyous abandon. The crowd, the music, and the way this man watched her, all urged her to hold nothing back. His eyes smiled into hers as if he knew she craved excitement and he was ready to offer it. When they linked hands for the final set of steps, he used his strength and momentum to spin her so fast her feet felt like they might leave the floor. She completely forgot about Mistress Parry until the dance ended and she gave Mary and the gentleman leave to rise on the final riverenza. When he claimed her hand and led her from the floor, she felt as if they were escaping together, leaving the crush of courtiers in their oppressive velvets and satins behind them. All she could see were his eyes, his smile. Before rational thought could intervene, she let out a laugh of delight and tugged on his hand, pulling him after her as she hurried, almost skipped, through one archway and then another. Before she knew it, they were both running together into the endless maze of corridors that made up Whitehall Palace.

  His laughter echoed through the halls, deep and satisfying as they ran, almost flew, through the smoke-filled corridors. The dark paneled walls and dimly lit sconces had created an ominous atmosphere before, but now the palace seemed full of mystery and adventure. What lurked around the next corner? Part of her mind knew it was the Queen’s music room, but the playful adventurer she’d just discovered within herself wanted to see the golden muralled walls with these new eyes. Together they skirted the clusters of inebriated partygoers, the tables laden with winter delicacies, the stoic guardsmen perpetually on duty, laughing at nothing in particular all the while.

  Down one flight of steps, up another, and around the corner. The music was fainter, but her heart beat faster and faster. Euphoria engulfed her, and Mary embraced it, her steps feather light against the dark wood floor, the granite stair, and the cobbles of the courtyard. She was flying. They were flying. His hand was warm against hers, his laughter deep and resounding in the sudden quiet of the icy terrace and down the garden stairs. The stars and the moon gave a clean white light in contrast to the smoky orange glow of the torches. The ice-coated scenery around them glowed with reflected beams as Mary and her partner continued to fly through the night, heedless of anything but the joy of the moment.

  As if the joy were too much, the sky opened, softly coating the dark in a flutter of snow. Their flight slowed as the delicate kiss of ice floated around them in the winter night. Whether it was Mary herself who stopped first or her companion, they both stood still, eyes up to the heavens, faces raised to embrace the fresh, cold air.

  Panting puffs of icy breath, Mary stifled her laugh, afraid the harsh sound of her voice would ruin the beauty of the moment. A warm hand reached to cradle her cheek, her jaw. The warmth against her skin was a sharp contrast to the increasingly cold night. Snowflakes settled on her lashes as she turned to face him. He was a beautiful man—his fair hair limned with silver light off the snow, he belonged in this moment. Icy flakes lay against the blond waves pulled back from his face, the shine in his blue eyes echoing the glimmer of moonlight against the ice. She didn’t know who he was, but he had run with her, flown and laughed with her. They shared a moment of abandon outside of any boundary.

  Slowly he drew her toward him as his lips lowered to hers.

  So soft. Warm. Snow fluttered around them, but where his hands held her, she felt nothing but heat. His lips moved and she welcomed the deeper touch. She wanted to smile at the joy of it. Her hands moved to caress the planes of his chest, her fingers seeking upward to his collar, his neck. He was so strong, his mouth a steady pressure against hers. His tongue teased, gliding against the smooth fullness of her lower lip, coaxing her to open herself more fully for him.

  He invaded her mouth, claiming it, twining his tongue with hers. Her body heated under his touch, she wanted to feel his hands everywhere. Her lips moved against his, her hands seeking to learn the strength and warmth of his body. Around them, flurries of snow spiraled to stick to the frozen earth, encasing them in icy silence. They were alone in a magical world, wrapped in the heat of each other.

  A freezing trickle of water brought Mary to her senses. Drawing away from the kiss, she breathed deeply to steady her nerves, the icy air burning the inside of her nose. Her companion blinked twice, his eyes finally focusing on their surrounds with a look of surprise.

  Without a word, he took her hand and led her, shivering, toward the closest sign of light. Opening the door into one of the galleries, he quickly found an open fire and sat them both before it. He poured a goblet of spiced wine, took a glowing poker from the grate, and placed it in the red liquid. The sizzling sound and the scent of sweet nutmeg added one more experience to her heightened senses and slapped her with reality. This wasn’t some fantasy or dream. This was happening.

  Handing Mary the warmed wine, her companion stepped back into a reverance and removed his cap. “Mistress, we were not formally introduced. I am Sir Charles Fitzjohn, a yeoman of Her Majesty’s Guard.”

  Not entirely sure she had the energy to stand and return the reverance, Mary inclined her head and smiled. “Mistress Mary Montgomery, companion to Mistress LeSieur of Holme LeSieur and currently the guest of Anne Cecil, the Countess of Oxford.”

  “I suppose we should have had a proper introduction before running off together like that.” Sir Charles lowered himself to the rug to sit beside her. His doublet started to steam as the heat worked through the ice on the velvet. “But then again, we were both caught up in the moment. A formal introduction would have spoiled it.”

  Mary smiled softly to herself, feeling silly that she should be so shy when moments before she had been in his arms. Meeting his smiling blue eyes, she agreed, “You are right, of course. We were swept away by the magic of Christmastide.”

  Sir Charles leaned closer, the scent of spiced wine on his breath. “Magic.” His voice was soft as he leaned down and brushed his lips lightly against hers. “I like that. Do you think the magic might sweep us away again?” His gaze stayed focused on her lips.

  Mary placed her goblet on the table and whispered, “Who can deny magic?” His lips covered hers and she melted into his arms.

  Chapter Three:

  On the Second Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Two Turtle Doves . . .

  Weak winter sunlight filled Mary’s room, but she was reluctant to leave behind the last vestiges of the dream. The night had been surprisingly exciting and her overactive imagination had provided further stimuli in her sleep. Perhaps she’d dreamed it all. Or had everything she remembered really happened? Mary stretched her arms high above her head languorously, enjoying the feel of the linen against her skin.

  She closed her eyes in disbelief. The whole evening had been a blur of color, music, and movement. Court had turned out in its most over-the-top finery for a spectacle of dance and merriment. She had been trapped in a spell, helpless to resist. Unwilling to resist.

  Mary stretched again, breaking out of the trance of memory. Yes, she knew how to enjoy herself, but last night’s behavior had been unlike her. To be selfishly pursuing her own pleasure instead of thinking about Anne, who needed her, that simply was not like her. She never put her own merriment above the needs of others. Nor did she ever risk her reputation or do anything that might threaten her station in life. She had learned that lesson long ago—but then she met Charles and good sense had given over to instinct.

  Sir Charles Fitzjohn. She had heard the name before, surely. But where? Did the “Fitz” imply he was a natural child? If so, for it sometimes did, was it a newly created name for him or passed down through generations from a patriarch with an unfortunate beginning? If she were to inquire about him, that would only draw attention to her behavior last night. She did not regret running through the dark, through the snow, the
kisses—then again, she did not want anyone else to know of it exactly, even if all was forgiven at Christmastide. Her reputation was in a precarious enough position already.

  “It is not like you to laze about in bed.”

  Girard entered her room without any concern for his welcome. His deep blue woolen doublet fit without a wrinkle, emphasizing the contrast between his broad shoulders and slim waist. Some men wore a corset for this effect but Girard was all natural, and Mary knew he was proud of it. He didn’t need opulent fabrics to cut a dashing figure.

  Neither did Sir Charles. Mary sighed at the thought.

  He threw open the window, letting the gray winter light into the sleepy room. One look at Mary and he perched on the corner of the bed. “Oh, you have something to tell me.” With a wicked glimmer in his eyes, he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Surely you will not force me to glean the facts from gossip?”

  “I am too low to be worthy of gossip.”

  “So there is something to tell?”

  Mary propped herself up on her pillow with only a cursory glance at her nightshift to make sure she was covered. “There is not much to say . . . ”

  Is there? Mary could not think how to begin as she locked her sleepy gaze with Girard’s mischievous one. No, Girard would surely find the story too boring to be titillating, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to put it to words. Words would only cheapen it, make it less somehow.

  “Since you are making me guess,” Girard tapped his finger against his lips, “I would say that you met a handsome young man and behaved badly. How close am I to the truth?”

  Mary let out a low sigh. “Close. I did meet a man, but I did not behave very badly.”

  “Well, that is a shame. Why not?”

  Mary had to wonder at that. Why hadn’t she? The opportunity was certainly there. Then again, last night’s interlude had not been exactly a seduction—it had been more innocent, sweet.