Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  “Touché, my dear.” Mistress Parry walked to her closet and pulled out a russet and gold gown.

  Taking the offered change of subject, Mary stepped forward to touch the rich embroidered silk. “This is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. It was a gift from an admirer. I have never worn it. It doesn’t suit my coloring.” Mistress Parry held the bodice up against Mary’s torso. “It may be a little small on you, but that will just emphasize your bosom—which could use the help.”

  Mary’s hands instinctively went to her chest. “Mistress, I think you have abused me enough today.”

  “It’s good for you.”

  A knock on the door interrupted the ladies. Mary was not sure which direction the conversation was about to go, so it was just as well.

  Three liveried servants entered the room in a stately procession. The servant in the middle carried a cloth shrouded . . . something.

  “That was very fast. Send my thanks to your illustrious mistress.”

  The man in front, probably the senior of the three, nodded. “I will. And She sent the message that you are to have a care with your games.”

  Mistress Parry accepted the bundle graciously. The servants gave a reverance and left the room.

  She carried everything over to the bed and placed it on the coverlet. With a ginger care, she took the embroidered cloth from the top of the bundle. “Tonight, you will be a redhead.”

  Mary gasped as the lifted cloth exposed a wig, elaborate curls all tamed into a twist from the forehead back, cascading down in back to puddle around the wig block.

  She was in awe. “Is this from the Queen?”

  “Yes.” Mistress Parry lifted it off the form with a delicate hand, smoothing out the long tendrils.

  “Does She know that I will be wearing it?”

  “Yes. Hence the words of caution.” She put the wig back on the form. “The lords and ladies of the court will be masked tonight. Even with the mask, most of the courtiers know who the others are, they just pretend everyone is anonymous. It will make the excessive behavior of Christmastide worse—anything could happen tonight. It is very possible that the courtiers outside of the Queen’s inner circle will think you are the Queen.”

  Again, shock. “But the Queen Herself will be in attendance, won’t She?”

  “Yes, but She will be in costume as well instead of presiding over the feast. Just as She was a few nights past.”

  Mary raised a questioning brow.

  Mistress Parry continued. “Silly girl. You met Her. She was the French dignitary playing hoodman’s blind.”

  “He . . . She kissed my hand!” Mary was in awe.

  “Aye. And then gave Sir Charles leave for the night.”

  “So Queen Elizabeth knows about me?”

  “She knows about everyone. She cares more about your story because you are dear to me.”

  “And She trusts me with Her wig?”

  “To a point. To be honest, I have not seen her wear this wig for years. I imagine it is either too maidenly or too provocative. Or both.”

  Mary lightly touched one of the trailing curls. No one would recognize her tonight.

  Chapter Nine

  Sir Charles wore his guard’s red tunic even though he was technically off duty. Most courtiers would not see beyond his guardsman’s uniform, and not make the connection between Oxford’s bastard brother and the woman accused of being Oxford’s lover. A masked Kit Hatton escorted the lovely woman who might be the Queen—it was easy to fall into form and do his usual duty. Kit had accepted his role with enthusiasm. If this worked, he would never be frustrated with Blanche Parry’s meddling again.

  Mistress Parry was nothing if not influential. And creative. To make Mary look like the Queen in disguise, it was both insane and brilliant. A mere mask would have done nothing to hide Mary’s identity. The elaborate gown and gilt mask coupled with the red wig, she may well be the Queen. She was of a similar height and build. Mary’s eyes were more of a green than Queen Elizabeth’s changeable hazel, but the overall coloring was similar enough. Really, all most of the courtiers needed to see was the red, obviously very costly, wig bedecked in jewels.

  One of Her Majesty’s favorites by her side and a uniformed guardsman taking up the rear completed the illusion. Of course, Mary would deny to any who asked that she was the Queen. It would be the truth, but all and sundry would assume it was in an unsuccessful attempt to be anonymous.

  The only real advice he had given Mary was not to reverance anyone. No one, no matter what their rank. He could not imagine being in her place, but looking at her now, he had complete confidence in her ability to pull off the charade.

  The court parted before Mary as she stepped into the hall. The feast was to be served any moment, the steward merely waiting on a signal. Mary was ushered to the middle of the three long tables and sat down.

  • • •

  Mary settled herself, conscious of the amber jewel dangling against her forehead. Her wig was straight, her mask secure, and her dress so tight she couldn’t breathe. All was well.

  One by one, courtiers took their seats at her table, each of them being notably witty as soon as they saw her. Mary smiled and pretended not to notice their preening. Charles sat directly beside her, something a guardsman would never have done for the Queen—then again, the Queen would never have only had one guardsman in attendance.

  The seats filled up around the room. All in all, this was a small feast—only special guests of the Queen were in attendance. Did they think it was odd that the Queen was not there to host? Or did they assume She would be attempting to be incognito? A hush fell across the room as servants dimmed the sconces. All at once, a series of chimes set off around the room. One was almost directly in front of her.

  Centered on her table was a beautiful golden miniature ship about as long as her arm. The chime was coming from a small bell that a mechanized golden sailor was tolling. Eight times the chime sounded. Then the little galleon started to emit a clicking sound. Everyone around Mary’s table jumped back as the ship began to move and sailed down the center of the table. The movement was slow and elegant—it was surreal, only the metallic clicking took away from the illusion of a ship at sea. That, and the table itself. Mary stood in her seat to watch the journey of the mechanical boat as it neared the end of the table and stopped.

  A loud “boom” and the cannons fired, their miniature pellets flying across to clatter against small Oriental gongs hung along the wall. The courtiers sat spellbound for a second and then the hall erupted into loud applause.

  “Spectacular!” an elderly man gasped. “A miracle of modern science!”

  More voices chimed in with their appreciation.

  Mary wanted to walk over and touch the small ship, but held back. A sophisticated courtier would not be awed by such a display, would she? She almost laughed when she noted many of them did not have such reservations.

  The small cannon fire had announced the start of the feast. Scantily clad performers somersaulted across the top of the empty head table, many of them bearing golden bowls of steaming fruit. Mary had attended many banquets both at Hampton Court and here at Whitehall, but none had had so much entertainment. Even the food service looked like it would be a spectacle.

  The banquet hall was the largest hall of the palace, but swaths of fabric draping from the beamed ceiling created a more intimate setting. Looking around, Mary noted that the meal was rather intimate as well. She saw the Queen’s favorites, costumed of course, and a few other courtiers and foreign dignitaries that she recognized but could not name. Really, this must have been a Queen’s invitation only affair—she had never been included in something like this before. Then again, tonight she was not herself.

  It was hard to eat, as tight as her corset was. As she eyed the glazed pear in heavy brandy cream sauce, she wished she was not quite so confined. Course after course was delivered—the rice pudding was carried in by acrobats who seemed sure to drop the savory d
ishes all over the guests. Each dish and each presentation outdid the last, until the main course arrived.

  Toga-draped servants came in, each group of four bearing a regal gilded swan with wings poised for flight. This was the chef’s coup de grace, and it was magnificent. The skin of the swan was dusted with saffron powder and flakes of gold. One of the servers sliced the whole swan in half with a razor-sharp saber, exposing the layers as one half teetered forward on the platter. It had been deboned and stuffed with goose that had been stuffed with a gold ringed pheasant, stuffed with black bird, French hen, turtle dove, partridge, and, finally, a pear. There were three swans in all, one for each table. The very fact that nonroyalty was being allowed to eat swan was overwhelming. What would they serve next? Horse? Peacock?

  Court was an amazing place. Oddly enough, Mary realized she would much prefer a simple mutton pie to the decadent fare. Not that she could have eaten that either.

  “My dear beauty, if I may present you with a goblet of lambic?” Mary could not remember the nobleman’s name, but she knew him.

  She smiled at the young lord even as she eyed his magenta satin slops with hesitation. What had she gotten herself into?

  Mary remembered to keep her voice low and breathy, as a woman might do if she did not wish to be recognized. “Lambic! I thank you most kindly.” Mary took the offered goblet from the young lord and placed it on the table. “Now I must insist you take your seat and enjoy the rest of this feast. The palace staff has gone above and beyond and deserves our appreciation.”

  “As you say, Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace? I am simply a lady of the court—and a woman in disguise. Do not hope to see past my mask, and I shall not look past yours.” Mary held her head high. She hoped she was regal enough, that her voice did not betray her.

  “Oh, indeed!” The young man winked broadly and deepened his reverance before turning to leave. He was probably very proud of himself.

  “That was well done.” Kit Hatton leaned in to whisper, the scent of cinnamon thick on his breath. Charles stepped closer and Kit leaned back, taking another bite of beef and blood pudding with custard. “You may be the Queen or you may not. Either way, a lovely woman accepted his gift.”

  “I do like lambic.”

  Charles leaned forward to whisper. “And it should be safe to drink. If you wish, I will taste it first.”

  Mary was stunned. “Do you mean it might be poisoned?”

  “It’s very unlikely. To attempt to assassinate the Queen at a masked ball when you are not entirely sure of your target, well, that is foolish.”

  Mary stared at the goblet. “People are often foolish.”

  “That is true. Would you like me or Sir Charles to taste the lambic?” Hatton stabbed the last bit of pudding with his knife and used it to scrape up the remnants of the custard.

  “You are very nonchalant for one talking of poison.”

  “You should be more relaxed. This is a night of merriment as far as any of our onlookers are concerned. We should not be talking of poison—or at least, we should not be obvious about it. The courtiers speculating as to your identity will pay even more attention if they see you behaving so seriously.”

  Picking up her goblet of possibly poisoned lambic, she took a deep swallow.

  Hatton laughed. “A woman who lives dangerously. I did not know you had it in you.”

  Mary sat in silence while Hatton dug in to the honey-coated wedge of cheese and walnuts that had been placed before him.

  She looked down and saw the same dish.

  It was probably delicious.

  Someone said something ribald, and Hatton laughed while Charles remained stoic. She smiled and drained her goblet—she’d thought Mistress Parry was mad to suggest this, but based on the success thus far, this farce might actually work.

  • • •

  “This is not the first time I have danced while on duty, but it still feels odd.”

  “Do you think others think it odd?” Mary whispered back as she crossed before him in the final set of the dance.

  “No, they all heard my captain order it.” Sir Charles kept his voice low. “They probably assume he and the Queen are playing some sort of game. We all know that She can do whatever She wants.”

  The dance ended with a riverenza, and Mary took his offered arm to stroll off the dance floor. She met the eyes and recovered many of the courtiers as they reveranced her. To the side, she added softly, “The Queen does have a penchant for attractive men regardless of their station.”

  “Did you just say I was attractive?”

  Mary almost sighed. “Do not distract me. I need to focus on my task.” She could think of better ways to spend the evening, but this needed to be done. She knew Charles would be there if she needed him. “And I see the young lady that Oxford was dancing with when he was so rude the other night.”

  “He is rude every night.” Sir Charles guided Mary to the perimeter of the dance floor just as a French bransle began.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do.” He nodded inconspicuously in the direction of the girl Mary had indicated. “And that is young Mistress Anne Vavasour. She just joined court as one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor.”

  The young lady was flushed from dancing and, probably, too much wine. She was petite and curvaceous and looked very young in her overly sophisticated black and silver dress. She reminded Mary of a young girl trying on her mother’s clothes. “She can’t be more than fourteen.”

  “I think she is thirteen.”

  Mary made a disapproving face.

  “Come now, you know many noble ladies wed before they are fifteen.”

  Of course Mary knew. In fact, Frances LeSieur had married when she was fourteen. “It doesn’t change the fact that Oxford is a disgusting man.” Mary felt like spitting when she said his name.

  “I won’t pretend to disagree.” Charles’s response sounded harsher than usual. Mary ignored her need to analyze what he really meant and strategically chose that moment to stumble . . .

  Right into Mistress Vavasour.

  “Oh, my lady! I am so clumsy!” Mistress Vavasour stammered apologies while helping Mary straighten herself.

  “Not at all—it was my fault.” Mary laughed her apology, laying a staying hand on the young lady’s arm. “This gown is so lovely.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I borrowed it from a dear friend.”

  A much older, richer friend. The gown was covered with crystals all over. Hardly the gown for a young girl. Mary smiled. “Then you must doubly thank her. It seems you have caught the eye of every gentleman here. If you are seeking a husband, that neckline is certainly the way to attract attention.”

  “Of course I am seeking a husband—at least I will be when Your Grace . . . I mean, the Queen is ready for me to wed.”

  “You are young yet—there is much to see of court. Do not be in such a hurry.”

  “Of course not. I seek only to please the Queen.” Young Mistress Anne bowed her head demurely. She wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “Yes, yes. And I am sure the Queen will act in your best interests.” Actually, the Queen had a reputation for interfering in the potential matches in order to keep her favorite ladies with Her. It was no wonder little Mistress Anne Vavasour was acting on her own. “I do have a question then. If you wish to marry, why do you dally with the Earl of Oxford?”

  “I do not dally with the earl!”

  Oh, the outrage. Mary almost laughed. “No?” She raised her eyebrow behind her mask. “I have heard otherwise.” Of course, Mary had heard nothing of the sort, but there was so much gossip circulating, it was easy to claim one more bit of false information. “Worry not, mistress, I am not anyone who could hurt you for your indiscretions.”

  The girl studied Mary’s face, her eyes, and finally nodded in confusion. “You are not Queen Elizabeth?”

  “Not tonight. Even a Queen should be able to enjoy Herself during Christmastide, wouldn’t y
ou agree?” Mary was amazed. Mistress Vavasour served the Queen every day and was fooled by a mask and wig.

  “So you are not angry with me?”

  Mildly disgusted? Yes. Mary simply replied, “Of course not. I’m just excited to think of dallying with an earl. How did it go with Oxford?”

  “Not well, though I do not know what I did wrong. He tried, but could not couple with me.” Mistress Vavasour did not waste another moment and jumped right into the story. If she really thought Mary was the queen, she must be dim witted indeed to share such evidence of her less-than-virtuous behavior. “Besides, I do not consider it dallying. He is courting me.”

  “He is married.”

  “Well, yes. Right now. But if he likes me better, and I’m sure he does, he will make me his countess instead.”

  “You think he would divorce his wife?’ Mary kept her voice mild, but it was difficult.

  “She hardly pleases him. If she did, why would he pursue me?”

  Poor girl. Oxford would pursue any warm body. “And what of her pregnancy? She expects his heir.”

  “But if the baby is not a son, there is nothing holding him to her. He has more or less told me that he thinks the child is not his. She cannot stir him.”

  Mistress Vavasour was probably right about how he would react if the baby were a girl, but Mary doubted that even Oxford would publicly disown his potential heir. Mary needed to change this subject, but she couldn’t seem to think. A footman passed by and offered both ladies a goblet of mead. Mary took a sip and focused on the sweet warmth on her tongue. Relax. If she seemed to care too much about Oxford’s marriage, the young girl might not feel she should confide.

  Conspiratorially, Mary leaned in and whispered, “I know nothing about stirring a man or lovemaking. I am so fortunate to have found you to advise me.” The girl blushed at the perceived praise. Mary kept her voice low, but excited as she asked, “Have you had trysts with him?” She did her best to look interested instead of nauseous.

  Mistress Vavasour paused. “Well, yes.” She paused again and fidgeted with her new necklace. “I should not say . . . ”