She took another bite.
“Come now, sweeting. It cannot be as bad as all that.”
Images of the night before flashed through her mind. She groaned and covered her face. It was bad.
Mistress Parry interrupted Mary’s shameful walk through the previous night’s memories. “Girl, you look like you need a good cry or to visit the privy.”
Mary sat up abruptly, removing herself from Mistress Parry’s well-meaning embrace and letting out a held breath. “I’m afraid I made overtures at Sir Charles.”
“And he was a gentleman.” Mistress Parry punctuated her statement with a sage nod.
Mary snorted in a very unladylike manner.
“I am quite serious. He is a gentleman. He has a reputation for withholding . . . himself. I imagine he is wary of begetting a natural child of his own.”
Of course he would not want to doom an innocent child to being spurned by society. A bastard had no rights and no name—it was a terrible fate with very few opportunities for improvement. Sir Charles was a gentleman indeed if this was his reason for denying himself.
So many times she’d wanted to ask questions, but she was afraid to bring up something that would be hurtful. Who was his father? And, his name, Fitzjohn . . . had he been named for him? What had his life been like growing up? And how had he ended up knighted and in the service of the Queen? There was so much she didn’t know about him.
One thing she did know. “He is a good man.”
Mistress Parry nodded. “Aye.”
It may be the law, but it wasn’t fair. Why should the child be punished for the sins of their parents? The world was a harsh place—it was probably a blessing she would never bring a child into it.
The thought was not comforting.
Chapter Twelve
Charles stood on duty at the entrance to the Queen’s Privy chamber. He had done this a thousand times before and never had difficulty politely ignoring Her Majesty’s guests unless they posed a threat.
Lady Oxford was not a threat nor were her ladies in attendance, including Mistress Mary Montgomery, in spite of the rumors that continued to circulate. He had even had to reassure two guardsmen that Mary did not pose any danger to the Queen.
Charles could only hope that the gossips would soon find juicier tidbits to blow out of proportion. He stood at his post, stoic, finding it impossible to turn a deaf ear to the chatter that became more hushed as Queen Elizabeth sat with Lady Oxford, leaving Lady Oxford’s ladies hovering in the background waiting to be of service.
Mary seemed to be ignoring it all as she waited, calm and still, her hands gracefully clasped before her. She looked paler than usual, but otherwise, her appearance was impeccable. She had probably made an effort to do everything right—her dress was elegant, but not enough to attract attention. He could tell she was putting on a brave face. Not just for the gossip mongers, but for him. And she was pointedly not meeting his eye.
He could not blame her.
He felt like such a fool for last night. She had trusted him and what had he done? Taken advantage.
She had looked so delectable last night, her hair still wet from her bath, wearing only Mistress Parry’s dressing gown. He had done his duty by escorting her back to her rooms. He had gotten her to bed without being detected by the greater Oxford household, which was a feat considering that Mary was still very animated and very amorous. Duty done, he told himself he should leave, but the next thing he knew, he was kissing her, feeling her soft body against his.
He should have been a better man. He should have tucked her in safely and then been on his way. But no, he could not resist her touch.
Thank God he had come to his senses before it was too late. She was a lady and worthy of gentlemanly behavior.
He just hoped Mary would forgive him. Maybe it would be better if she did not. After all, that would release her from any implied commitment. She deserved a man that could offer her a home and a family. A name. She would never find that man if she was wasting her time with him.
Then again, the thought of Mary with any other man, smiling and laughing with him, leaning in to kiss him, it was too much.
A guardsman stepped forward and saluted him. Shift change. Charles stepped aside as the young yeoman took position, standing tall and sure. Charles pivoted on his heel and was about to finish his customary march back to barracks when a commotion caught his attention.
Baroness Sheffield, looking somewhat worse for wear from last night’s festivities, was at the center of a group of enrapt ladies. Standing tall, her voice grew louder. She had never been the type of woman to be ashamed of bad behavior or care if her words hurt another. In fact, she probably felt some pride for every vicious sting.
It took but a second for him to note the startled expression on Mary’s face. Something Baroness Sheffield had said had caught her unawares. Blast—he was not close enough to hear.
Instead of heading back to barracks, he edged around the perimeter of the room, hoping he would appear as a guardsman on his way to his station.
For the second time this week, he questioned why he had chosen to stay at court. These people were not quality, for all their noble pedigrees. It was amazing that he’d been able to stomach court as long as he had.
He positioned himself beside the leaded glass doors leading to the Queen’s privy garden. The yeoman stationed there did not even raise an eyebrow as Sir Charles joined him at his post. He must remember to recommend the young man for his good service to the Captain of the Guard.
Visibly on duty beside the door frame, Charles could hear Baroness Sheffield perfectly. None of it was good.
She had shielded her words with her feathered fan in the guise of speaking privately. It would have been more effective if she had shielded the other side of her mouth. “I have heard it said that it was not his strumpet at all, but his own wife.”
Lady Rich, another notorious gossip, although usually well meaning, leaned in closer but did not lower her voice at all. “I do not believe that for a moment. Why would little Anne Cecil do such a thing?”
As testament to how well the conversation had carried, two younger ladies scurried across the hall to join in. Baroness Sheffield looked very important as she continued, “We all know the marriage is a joke. He never comes to her bed. He treats her with scorn, quite publicly, too.”
Many ladies nodded at this, whispering to each other. One sagely added, “It is no surprise. He married so beneath himself.”
“It surprised us all—he could have had anyone. I heard tell that he had been talking about seeking either a divorce or annulment the very night of his attack.”
“Not so he could wed his mistress, surely. She is just as low born as Anne Cecil. And, well, look at her.” Several wellborn heads turned in unison.
Charles noted Mary’s stoicism with pride and wondered what she was thinking about. Mary was still branded a harlot, but this new tack removed the title of murderess. Attention seemed to be focusing itself on Anne. He had not seen that coming.
“Imagine,” Baroness Sheffield lowered her voice for effect, “that she found him waiting in her friend’s chamber instead of seeking her out. Imagine her rage.”
“But she seems such a meek little thing.” The young lady looked pointedly at Lady Oxford as she spoke. There was no chance that the conversation was going unheard by its primary subjects.
Charles confirmed his assumption with one glance to where Mary stood obediently behind where Lady Oxford sat with Queen Elizabeth. Was it Charles’s imagination, but did Mary look like she was holding back laughter? No, not his imagination. Anne, on the other hand, was red-faced and sitting so straight and ridged she could give his guardsmen a lesson in what it meant to be at attention. She and the rest of the Queen’s party had been listening to a young poet’s newest composition. He was reputed to be quite good, but it was clear Anne had been listening to Baroness Sheffield instead. From the smirk on the Queen’s face in spite of the poet’s t
reatise on death and decay, She was listening to the gossip as well.
Baroness Sheffield continued. “That is true. I’ve only ever known her to care about her books and Latin. But I do know that her marriage was touted as a love match. And let us not forget who her father is.”
One of the ladies shuddered visibly. “Baron Burghley is the most ruthless, the most cunning man I’ve ever known.”
Charles maintained his false post at the garden door and watched Lady Oxford stand up abruptly. Queen Elizabeth merely raised an eyebrow, but the poet was caught off guard and stumbled over his verse.
Anne gave a hasty excuse and squeezed through the seats surrounding the flustered poet, her full skirts catching on a table in her haste. The poet jumped back as a decanter of burgundy splashed on the floor at his feet.
Queen Elizabeth gestured lazily, and an army of servants scurried to clean up the mess. The Queen ordered gently, “Pray continue, poet.”
The boy stammered into the next stanza for the pleasure of the Queen. If Charles didn’t know better, he would have thought She was completely engrossed in the poet’s symbolism, but Charles was sure Her entertainment stemmed from Anne’s show rather than the poet’s.
Anne stopped at the door, and gestured for Mary to follow. Mary nodded and made her way through the clusters of courtiers. In this moment, she was the true lady. Anne was making a fool of herself.
Charles smiled. Anne was doing a better job of detracting focus from Mary than he could ever have hoped.
By the time Mary reached Anne, Anne was so obviously furious that she grabbed Mary around the wrist and dragged her behind, right past Charles, into the frozen garden beyond.
• • •
A damp cold assaulted Mary’s face and neck as she stepped into the winter afternoon. There had been no time to think about fetching a cloak as Anne dragged her outside. It appeared Anne was not taking the new rumors well. It had taken all of Mary’s self-control not to laugh at the direction the malicious gossip had taken. She may be a slut, but Anne was the murderess. She could live with that. Besides, the reputation of promiscuity would soon blow over: If that type of thing stuck, no woman at court would ever have a reputation intact enough to marry.
Anne released her wrist and spun to face her, her skirts flinging droplets of slush as she turned.
“You bitch.” Anne punctuated her words by slapping her open palm across Mary’s face.
Anne had struck her!
Mary was surprised that she was not surprised. She lifted a hand to the warm spot on her cheek. “Anne, get control of yourself. You are making a scene.”
All five foot two of Anne gyrated with rage. “You! You started these rumors.”
In spite of her throbbing cheek, Mary had an unusual sense of peace. She really did not care what Anne had to say at this point. Of course, almost every courtier from Queen Elizabeth’s privy chamber seemed to care and was crowding the doorway out into the cold.
“Anne, this is neither the time nor the place.”
“I am the Countess of Oxford. I will say when it is the time and the place. You are no one but a nursemaid.”
“The only person I have ever played nursemaid to is you.” Mary stepped closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “For goodness’ sake, Anne, you are acting like a spoiled child.”
Mary stepped back just in time as Anne swung again, the momentum causing her to fall to the sleet-covered ground. In a puddle of skirts and melting snow, Anne struggled to right herself.
She had barely recovered her balance before turning to the audience and pointing dramatically at Mary. “This woman is a whore and a murderess.”
Mary stood silent. There was nothing she could say in her defense that would matter, but Anne’s behavior was so extreme that she was unwittingly making the case for her.
“You are no friend to me. You only stayed with me so you could seduce my husband and then kill him. You have always hated him. You wish him dead.”
Did Anne have any idea of the trouble she was causing? Of course, Anne was a countess. Her position was assured regardless of bad behavior. Through no fault of Mary’s, she was a spectacle for the court. Again.
“Anne, you must stop this madness now. It has gone too far.” Mary could tell that Anne was past seeing anything rationally.
“I see nothing but a strumpet set on stealing my husband.” Anne’s skirts were covered in dirty slush. Her hands, shaking fists. She must be freezing. “Are you jealous of me? Do you wish he had married you?”
“Anne . . . ”
“You do not have the right to be so familiar with me. I am a grown woman and a countess, and you will address me as such.”
If only she’d act like one. “Lady Oxford, surely your great mind can see the fallacy in your argument.” Mary prayed the logic Anne had loved so much would reach through her rage. “I could not wish to see Oxford dead and wish to marry him at the same time.” Mary kept her voice low, hoping Anne would latch on to reason and remember herself. Anne was embarrassing both of them enough.
A deep voice called from the opposite side of the garden. “Lady Oxford, you are a countess. Will you stand for such a slight against your reason?”
Anne and Mary both looked up at the same time to see the Earl of Oxford, beaming gleefully. He was wrapped in a counterpane and standing on the balcony outside his sick room, looking down on the frozen garden below him.
In the moment it took Mary to wonder at Oxford’s presence, Anne had managed to muster enough fury to attack.
Mary fell back as Anne jumped, her hands clawing at Mary’s face. She could hear cheers from their growing audience as she gripped both of Anne’s wrists to hold her at bay. Oxford was bellowing wagers, his money firmly on her.
“Two crowns that Mistress Mary will fell the Countess of Oxford,” Oxford shouted to the delight of their other spectators.
Face to face with Anne, separated only by Anne’s clawed hands, Mary whispered, “This is madness, Anne. Think of your baby. The future earl.”
“You would have me kill my child, too, wouldn’t you?” Anne redoubled her efforts, straining to reach Mary’s face.
Mary pushed back with all her strength, rolling Anne over on the frozen earth, their farthingales and layers of skirting flailing around them. The crowd cheered, and a woman’s voice called out, “I’ll take that bet. It’s always the little ones that are the most venomous.”
Another spectator replied, “Come now, my lady, Mistress Mary has at least two stone in weight on the little countess.”
Anne shrieked and pressed forward.
Oxford continued, his voice conciliatory, “My dear Countess, no sense in denying it. The odds are clearly in her favor. It would be silly for me to lay a bet on you, regardless of my affections. I do hope you prove me wrong.”
More voices joined in the betting as Mary crawled backward enough to stand again. Anne writhed in the wet snow, struggling to right herself. Mary spared a glance at the crowd, searching for Charles. The audience cheered, urging her on, as she noticed Charles standing behind two pike-bearing guardsmen. Why were they holding him back?
“She’s not even putting up a fight.” The courtier sounded disappointed.
Was it her imagination, or had the crowd stepped closer, hedging her in? “Of course she is not—she would not dare strike a countess.” Mary did not recognize the voice as she scanned the garden, looking for an escape.
Oxford replied, “So why have you wagered two angels on her winning? Come now sweeting, you can’t let my wife get away with ruining your chances at court.” Oxford laughed at his own words. “Anne, darling, that wench has been throwing herself at me for years. And now she has the audacity to pretend to be a lady? She’s naught but a country lass. Does she deserve to put on fine airs?”
Mary sighed at Oxford’s tactics. He was egging on Lady Oxford, and the crowd loved it.
“I am the better woman. I am a countess and she is nobody.” Anne seemed to have regained a sec
ond wind. Mary turned to see Anne smiling maniacally at her husband. Turning to Mary, Anne’s eyes narrowed.
“Please, let us stop this before it gets any worse.”
“Oh, I plan to stop this.” Anne bent to the ground, scooping handfuls of sodden earth, then rushed her.
Mary tried to move aside but Anne was determined, much to the delight of the crowd. Anne smeared frozen mud over Mary’s chest and bodice even as Mary tried to hold her off. Mary ducked out of her grip, only for Anne to grab her hair and yank her head back against Anne’s slight figure. “You will pay for your betrayal.”
Mary spun to face her, heedless of the pain as Anne’s grip held firm in her coiled hair. “Betrayal? You married the man who murdered my fiancé! You were like a sister to me, and now? Now, when you know how I feel, you think I have betrayed you by bedding your husband?” Mary stepped closer, the aggressor. If the crowd still hollered, Mary no longer heard them.
Anne stepped back, surprised, her hand still clutching a length of Mary’s hair.
“Oxford would bed anything with a hole, and what? You hate me because he wants me? God knows he only wants me because he can’t have me.”
Anne regained her composure and looked ready to strike.
Mary did not give her the chance. Both hands pushed Anne back and she stumbled.
In shock at Mary’s offense, her hands went defensively to her abdomen. “You would hurt my baby?” Any true concern for the child was gone as she charged forward to attack, both hands outstretched.
Mary stepped to the side, letting Anne rush past. Again, she slipped on the icy path, sliding across what was usually the Queen’s ornamental garden. This place of peace and beauty had become a frozen, muddy battleground. Mary stood firm. “I would leave and never see you again, but you seem set on settling this here. So let us settle it.”
Anne rose again, this time hurtling toward Mary, catching her across the middle. Both forms locked together, Mary pounding Anne in the head and back—Anne pummeling Mary’s stomach. Mary heard the crowd cheer.
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