Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  “Ned, are you well?” Burghley stepped forward and laid a staying hand on Oxford’s injured shoulder.

  Oxford winced visibly.

  Mary could not help but smile. For the first time, she wished she could hear his thoughts.

  “Your Majesty, pray excuse my son-in-law. He is not well.”

  “But of course. Do what you must, Cecil.”

  Sir Charles stepped out of the crowd. “I will see to his well-being, Your Majesty.”

  Queen Elizabeth nodded her assent and refocused on the herald who promptly announced, “Monsieur le Comte Simulé.”

  Mary and Mistress Parry’s positions up front were quickly taken as they backed out of the hall and hurried to meet their party at the Oxford apartments.

  • • •

  Charles had returned Ned to his own chambers without saying a word. To his credit, Ned made no attempt at conversation. Actually, he had remained deathly white the entire time. Charles might have been worried if it had been anyone but his brother—it was humanizing for Ned to experience a healthy dose of fear occasionally.

  And there was no doubt about it, Ned was afraid. The presence of Girard alone may not have been intimidating, but the implication that Girard and Baron Burghley may have spoken privately, that would be enough to cause worry. Who knew how much Burghley knew? It was obvious to all, however, that Ned had not been presented a simple gift of song by his very powerful father-in-law. There was more behind it, and not knowing must really be eating him up.

  By the time Ned had been situated in his chambers, the concealed witnesses were already in position. The only people Ned knew were present were Girard and Charles.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ned’s voice was petulant, as if he were quite put out and not worried about the implications of his very public reaction to Girard returning to court.

  “Pray keep your voice down.” Charles escorted his brother to the seats by the hearth. “Lady Oxford is sleeping.”

  Ned reclined on the chaise with a forced nonchalant attitude. “I don’t give a fig if she’s sleeping.”

  “You would probably rather she not be privy to this information.” Charles sat across from him.

  Ned merely shot Charles a look of abject hatred.

  Charles continued, unaffected by his brother’s attitude. “Obviously, Girard has returned to the palace. He had some interesting things to tell me.”

  Girard stepped forward and Oxford cringed back. “You should never have come back! I could have you executed.” Ned’s voice was a hiss. He reminded Charles of a cornered tabby.

  Charles leaned closer. “You could. Of course, once you name him, there would be a trial and, with Girard’s testimony, you may well be joining him at Tower Hill.”

  “Who would take his word over an earl’s?” His voice was higher pitch than usual, bordering on a whine. “I may well claim that your whore, Mary, was the one who stabbed me. Everyone thinks so anyway, and you would be the only one who would miss her.”

  “I know you too well not to have believed Girard. You will leave Mary out of this.”

  “You do not tell me what to do.” Ned sat forward and pounded his fist on his knee. “I will do whatever I wish with whomever I wish. If it pleases me to see Mary hang for attempted murder, so be it. If she had been in her room that night, it would have pleased me to do something quite different. She may have even liked it. Her loss.”

  Charles heard a grunt from behind the enameled Oriental screen by the balcony door. He was impressed that Mary had not jumped out to defend herself immediately.

  “I have some serious concerns about your character, brother.” Charles almost laughed at the understatement.

  “Should I pretend to be surprised?”

  “No. But I think I need to take more drastic action to curtail your behavior.”

  Oxford blinked in surprise and then started laughing. “What do you plan to do? Give me a good spanking? Take away my favorite pony? I have been a bad boy, big brother.”

  “You have indeed. You think it is a game to take that which is not yours. If Mary had been in her chambers that night, you would have had her no matter how she fought.”

  Ned made a gesture of subtle applause. “You are brighter than I gave you credit for. Of course I would have taken her. The fight would have just made it all the sweeter. What think you of that, brother? I would have had your wench. And she would have liked it. Perhaps the memory would have left her wanting more. After me, she would never have been able to bed a mere bastard like you again.”

  “You have heard, I assume, that I have been granted my knight’s portion and Queen Elizabeth has given her permission and blessing for me to wed Mistress Mary.”

  “If you plan to wed that wench, then you are stupid as well as ill-bred. She is the one to blame for all of this. Without her sharp tongue, I would never have been goaded into desiring her, never sought her out, never happened upon Girard . . . This,” Ned gestured to his injury, then his sick room, “is all her fault.”

  “It was ever like you to blame your own shortcomings on others. Are you ever going to become a real man and take responsibility for your own actions?”

  Ned reclined again with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do not need to. Perhaps the aspirations of morality are something to which lesser men, men like you, must cling. I’m an earl. I can take whatever woman, or man, that I want. What court would dare convict me?”

  “You are disgusting.” Girard had remained silent until now.

  “You wound me.” Oxford’s face contorted into a ridiculous affectation of a moue. “Has anyone ever told you that you have lovely eyes? You should have cooperated, you know. You would have liked it.”

  Though Ned remained in his seat, Girard took a step back, putting as much distance between them as possible.

  “Look at him—can you honestly say that he is a man who favors women? Nay, he has known a man’s touch before. He had no right to stop me . . . to stab me!”

  “My love may not be conventional, but it is mine to bestow. I do not give it freely.” Girard’s voice was calm and even. Charles could not detect a trace of fear. Girard was definitely a stronger man than he appeared to be, which probably added insult to injury, literally, to the earl.

  “I was not asking for your love.”

  Charles stifled a sigh of frustration. “That is my point, you were not asking for anything. You were taking. You may be an earl, but that does not excuse you from human decency.”

  “You are being redundant, and it tires me.” Ned yawned and resettled himself against the cushions, tucking one booted leg up underneath him. “Charles, will you bring me to trial for not being decent?” Oxford laughed like a spoiled child.

  “No, you would be tried for the crime of attempted rape and sodomy.”

  Oxford drew in a pained breath at that final word.

  Charles knew his brother was no fool. Ned had been educated in law.

  Anticipation hung thick in the room through the extended silence. Ned finally spoke, his voice purposefully casual. “How silly of me, I should have followed your tack from the start. You wish me to let the stabbing be forgotten. I should claim I did not see my attacker and that I do not wish to press charges. Then this will all go away and you can marry your little strumpet and everyone will live happily ever after. You think to accomplish this by holding the truth over my head.”

  “You are brighter than I gave you credit for,” Charles answered with only a subtle tone of mockery in his voice.

  “There is a fatal flaw in your scheme.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford. It is my word against the scandalous Mistress Mary, my bastard brother who always envied my title, and a servant who may or may not survive the night.”

  Ned sprang from the chaise, brandishing a dagger, and rushed Girard.

  Charles was out of his chair in a nonce. His arm was like stone as Ned’s neck crashed into him. Dropping the weapon, Ned re
ached for this throat with both hands and gagged as he staggered backward, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

  Charles followed, pinning Ned to the ground, knee to chest.

  Ned’s voice was a rasp. “You dare much, brother, for the sake of some whore.” Ned struggled against him and screamed, “You will never be able to marry her now. You have struck an earl. I will see you in the Tower for it.”

  “Mary is no whore. She is the woman I love, and she will be my wife.” Charles’s voice was a low growl.

  “Over my dead body.”

  Charles’s smile was feral. “If you insist.”

  • • •

  Mary stood pressed against the cold stone of a sealed off archers slit, concealed behind a tapestry, listening.

  Charles loved her. He loved her and still wanted to marry her! Joy, fierce and sweet, brought tears to her eyes. He loved her. She was not just an obligation.

  She owed him the truth.

  As soon as this was over, she would tell Charles everything, give him the right to choose for himself.

  Stifling her glee, she peeked out, taking in a slice of the scene before her.

  “You can’t kill me. You don’t have it in you.” Mary could hear Oxford’s whining voice. She could see him pinned to the floor, his arms flailing as if he were trying to stay above water. He was afraid, and he should be. Mary had never seen Charles like this. He was dangerous.

  For a moment, all was still. Oxford had stopped whimpering. Her view was not complete, but no one seemed to be moving. What happened?

  “Get up, you miserable wretch.” Charles spoke from the other side of the room.

  Oxford lay there a moment longer, then, wincing, rolled into a crawling position and threw himself back down on the chaise. He sounded out of breath.

  “You cannot win in this, brother,” Oxford had the gall to continue.

  “I already have.” Charles sounded different. Sad?

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Assuming I don’t press charges against you for that flagrant assault . . . ”

  “I did no more than defend a man about to be attacked.”

  “You assaulted an earl. But that’s neither here nor there for the moment.” Mary could only see Oxford’s legs from her hiding place, but she could hear the resentment in his voice. “Your main concern is Mary, correct? If I do not name her and, instead, name Girard, it would be an honest statement. Mary would be free of any blame, and Girard would be executed for the attempted murder of an earl.”

  “I was doing nothing but defending myself. You attacked me.”

  “This is where it gets sticky. Who will believe your testimony over mine? You can cry rape all you wish, but I will deny it and everyone will believe me. Not you.”

  “A few moments ago, you admitted your guilt. I will testify as well.”

  Oxford sighed dramatically. “The same problem exists for you. Though you are my brother, you have no credibility.”

  “But I do.” Mary heard Baron Burghley’s voice, deep and calm, resounding through the room.

  All was silent for a moment. A moment longer . . .

  “You! You planned this!” Oxford’s voice was a shriek. “You always hated me. All you wanted was my money.”

  Burghley was unfazed. “Silly boy, you have no money.” Burghley chuckled a little and crossed the room and pulled aside the tapestry. Mary blinked in the sudden light and accepted Baron Burghley’s offered arm to assist her to step down. “And, no, I did not plan this. Mistress Mary only informed me of it this morning. All she asked of me was to present the minstrel and bear witness. You did everything else yourself, son.”

  Mary released Burghley’s arm and straightened her skirts. Oxford focused on her and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by a loud crash as the Oriental screen fell to the floor and shattered.

  Oxford jumped back with a yelp.

  Burghley had been concealed behind the screen along with Mistress Parry and Kit Hatton.

  “This is both comedy and tragedy! Am I the villain ready to receive his comeuppance?” He threw his head back, howling laughter and applauding, while his audience made themselves more comfortable.

  No one said a word.

  Frantic speech and bustling sounds outside turned every head to the door a moment before it flew open.

  Anne rushed in. “I heard a terrible noise . . . ” She stopped midsentence and took in the tableau before her. “I pray your pardon, husband. I had no idea you were entertaining.” Her eyes stopped on Mary and narrowed.

  Ned ignored her, his laughter bordering on hysterical.

  “Daughter, I am sorry we have disturbed you. I paid a call to your husband this night to inform him that he would be leaving court for a time.”

  “No!” Anne protested and rushed to kneel before her husband, wrapping her arms around him. “You cannot leave me!”

  Mary felt sorry for her. A little.

  “My lady wife,” Oxford wheezed, trying to control his laughter. “It seems I am needed elsewhere.” He paused a moment. “In Ireland.” Oxford raised a brow at his father-in-law.

  Burghley merely nodded.

  She looked at her father, her eyes imploring. “The Queen has need of him there? His knowledge of law would probably do those savages some good.”

  “Yes.” Burghley answered. “He is needed to counsel the Crown’s lieutenant in Ireland.”

  Ireland. Charles felt sorry for the Irish.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Girard looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. As if he could fly. In fact, as they walked, arm in arm, down the corridor toward the sounds of Twelfth Night merriment, Girard did an impromptu skip, leap, and capriole.

  “Yesterday I knew I was a dead man. Today, I feel reborn. Free.”

  Mary laughed. “I am happy for you, Girard.” She should share those feelings. They’d managed to trick Oxford into trapping himself. The threat against her was gone, and Oxford had gotten a small taste of justice.

  The corridor opened up to the great hall. The room was lit with hundreds of candles, their scattered lights flickering off the faceted surfaces of jeweled gowns and headdresses. Evergreen boughs were draped across the exposed beams of the vaulted ceiling. Red berries, some real, some jewels, peaked out from wreaths of holly and ivy. All around there was laughter and singing. The musicians struck a chord and played a few bars of a country dance while courtiers scattered into small clusters and linked arms.

  All around was gaiety. People enjoying the promise of the year to come. The freedom of the last night of Christmastide.

  Girard took her hand and twirled her onto the dance floor, joining a small group just starting up.

  Clap, clap, clap. Turn and skip to the right. The steps ingrained from childhood. Unlike the formal Italianate court dances, country dances were lively. Mary found herself smiling in spite of herself. Girard shouted something, and his partner laughed as he swung her about. Mary linked arms with her next partner, skipping in the circle even though many courtiers chose to replace the informal steps with precise spetzatti.

  The room swirled around her, a shining haven of warmth. Court at its finest. For tonight, court would be magical once more.

  Tomorrow, the feast of the Epiphany, would mark the first step towards her real life. She just hoped it was not too late to make that life with Charles.

  She skipped to her next partner. A strong arm linked with hers. Startled, she looked up into Charles’s eyes. He was not smiling or laughing. His gaze intense, he stopped their dance and pulled her against him in a searing kiss.

  This was the magic of Christmas. His lips on hers in spite of a room full of laughter and cheers. His arms tight against her back, never to let her go. His hands hot through the thick velvet of her gown, claiming her, branding her. He was supposed to be here with her like this. She was his, and she’d been a fool to deny it.

  Breaking the kiss, he fell to his knees before her. His hands at her waist, his
face pressed against her belly. “Mary, I need you with me. I do not want to start my future without you.”

  She speared her fingers through his hair, clutching his head to her. Afraid he might let go.

  “You know I love you.” His voice was muffled against the velvet of her bodice, but his words rumbled through her like thunder. “I cannot picture a life without you. I was made to be with you.”

  Mary sank to her knees before him, her hands on his cheeks to hold him close as she met his lips. “I will marry you if you still want me. I was made for you. When I am with you, when you hold me . . . I have never been so sure of anything before.” She kissed him again. This time the kiss was a soft brush. Lips lightly touching lips, she whispered against him, “But I have to tell you the truth . . . ”

  He pulled back, his face a question. Without his lips against hers, reality invaded. Without the cocoon of his embrace, the noise and chaos of Twelfth Night surrounded them. It was overwhelming; she could not think as he stood and pulled her up beside him.

  Hand in hand, they ran from the room, leaving the hot, stuffy air behind as they skipped together down a flight of stairs, down the corridor, and into the frozen night beyond.

  • • •

  A freezing blast of air hit them as the door opened into the tiltyard. “Stay close,” Charles yelled against the noise of the growing storm.

  Mary nodded and lowered her face against the wind.

  He led them across the white expanse to the lower kitchens. Each step was treacherous, and he was beginning to think this was a bad idea.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mary shouted over the howling gusts, as if she’d read his thoughts.

  “Trust me,” he shouted back, feeling his voice swallowed by the wind. The kitchens were housed in a separate building in case of fire. Towing Mary behind him, he felt her footing give out as they made their way up the frozen cobbled path. Without stopping to ask, he swept her up into his arms and carried her the rest of the way.