“No more heretical than our own Queen, so have a mind for your tongue,” stated Frances, looking around quickly. It wouldn’t do to be heard calling your Queen a heretic. Growing up, Frances’s family had changed between Roman Catholic and Church of England with each change of regime. Church of England for King Henry VIII and King Edward VI, Roman Catholic for Queen Mary. Her marriage to Henry finalized her official religion as Roman Catholic, unless he chose to change. Although her mother switched back to Church of England with Queen Elizabeth. Frances had never suffered from the fact the LeSieurs were traditionally Roman Catholic—but then she’d lived her entire married life on her husband’s lands. Being a Catholic at a Protestant court full of anti-Catholic sentiment in the aftermath of the St. Bartholomew massacre . . . Well, Frances would just to have to wait and see.
By the time the two ladies left their chambers to meet with Mistress Parry, Frances truly felt changed. Her brows tweezed into neat arcs and her hair clean, soft, and shining, framed Frances’s face with a soft golden halo and accentuated the pale blue of her eyes. The apparent ease with which Mary had performed these miracles left Frances in awe. It seemed a shame to detract from her hair by wearing the muted surcoat, but court was in mourning, and the drab gown would be appropriate.
They found Mistress Parry sitting on a stone bench under the shade of a large myrtle topiary depicting something with wings. She gave them a quick once-over, then announced, “Gentlewomen, follow me.” And, with that order, Blanche Parry was up and gliding down the central path of the courtyard garden, sweeping the two ladies in her wake. They crossed the cobblestone courtyard and through the arch into the great hall, skirting the tables and benches, and then through the south gate and the water stairs and a waiting ferry which took them downstream amidst a flutter of Tudor banners. From there, the three ladies were directed to an open carriage manned by four servants in Tudor livery. They were off with a jolt, and the next thing Frances knew, they were being navigated through the rutted and bustling streets of London.
• • •
Mary seemed to have an innate understanding of how court dress had evolved during her time at Holme LeSieur and had jumped back into the fray with gusto. And every word and deed from Blanche Parry gave Frances a sense of relief—it was evident both ladies were superior in the field of shopping and fashion. Her only agenda was to find a white dress with satin trim—she’d promised her six-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, before she’d left for London.
Frances stood like a statue upon a small raised dais in front of a multitude of mirrors while a heavyset, mustachioed man of Mediterranean descent carefully paired various fabrics in a variety of colors and wrapped them around her person. She wondered what her husband had expected when he told her to buy clothes for court. She felt an odd sense of vindication as they entered the next shop. She would be resplendent the next time he saw her; he may well fall on his knees in worship. Wait, did she want that? She shook her head, telling herself no.
From the draper and tailor shops along Threadneedle Street, the trio headed directly to the Royal Exchange. The Exchange was an enormous brick building that would have appeared palatial if not for the hoards of people flowing in and out of every entrance. The proprietor’s attempts to overshadow the stench with the overpowering perfume of lavender and roses only worsened the mixture of strong odors made up from unwashed bodies in close confines, greasy smells of cooking meat from the kitchens, and the eye-burning residue from the dye vats that clung to the vast array of fabrics. Inside there were hundreds of merchants with permanent stalls displaying their wares. The Exchange was designed to be a year-round, indoor market fair where the ladies of court could shop from a variety of quality merchants at one stop.
The constant bustle and noise of the exchange gave Frances a new burst of energy. The patrons were both high-ranking nobles and their servants. The sounds of haggling mixed with laughter and shrieks of delight as happy, if frantic, shoppers made their way from stall to stall. The three ladies merged into the flow of the crowd to make purchases at various cobblers, milliners, goldsmiths, and jewelers.
By the time they finished their shopping extravaganza, Frances and Mary were eager to collapse onto the benches flanking the outer wall and excitedly reflect on their purchases with all the polish and restraint of schoolgirls. Mary, aside from what was set to be delivered, had procured two new pairs of ivory kid gloves and an enormous pearl brooch. Frances was not even sure of everything she had bought since most of it was to be delivered to her rooms at Hampton Court. She was so in love with her new royal blue ostrich feather fan that she chose to carry it with her for the rest of the trip and had only stopped toying with the ornate pewter handle and the mass of overlapping fine feathers when Mistress Parry handed her a steaming savory beef pie.
Once more the current swept Frances away, depositing her back to her apartment at the palace. Frances walked into her room and made to throw herself on the bed, but the merchants had been ridiculously efficient and there were already boxes stacked on every horizontal surface of the room. At the sound of Frances’s borderline obscene exclamation, Mary came running in from the connecting gallery. With a corresponding exclamation of surprise, Mary joined Frances in sorting through boxes. Frances began trying to arrange the new acquisitions into her wardrobe while Mary gathered up what she could carry and made her way to the door that connected Frances’s room to the room she shared with Jane.
“Oh, Frances!” Mary shrieked behind her, almost pitching Frances headfirst into her trunk. “You must see Jane. So much for being discreet . . . ” Mary’s words tapered off into a series of giggles as she grabbed for Frances’s hand and dragged her across the floor to the door between their apartments.
Frances, caught up in Mary’s unexplained silly excitement, started to ask, “What on earth . . . ”
Her hand firmly over Frances’s mouth, Mary hissed, “Shhhh! Look.” She gestured to a sliver of light shining through the gap at the open door.
Against the warning of the mature voice of her conscience, she placed her eye beside the opening. At first she didn’t know what she was seeing, but, as her vision focused, she made out an abundance of exposed flesh and limbs writhing on the window seat. Frances jumped back, straightened, and looked to Mary with what was supposed to be censure but probably came across more as confusion. Mary took her turn at the gap. It was obvious that Mary saw this as potential ammunition for future teasing. She gestured to the door again, and Frances stepped forward.
Jane sat entirely naked, reclined against the sill of an open window with an equally naked young, well-formed man kneeling before her. Frances guessed from the taut muscles of his backside and thighs that he must be an accomplished equestrian. She could not see his face clearly enough to identify him as he ran his lips over every inch of Jane’s torso. His chestnut curls skimmed Jane’s skin as he paid homage to her with his lips.
Frances was not terribly surprised Jane had taken a lover. She was, however, surprised at how the man’s hands roamed over Jane’s soft skin worshipfully and how Jane had thrown her head back in abandon as she sighed her pleasure at her lover’s attentions to her exposed bosom.
Was this what other women experienced in the act of love?
Frances’s skin tingled with imagined sensation as she watched the mystery man run his large rough hands up from Jane’s ankles, over her knees, up her thighs and across her hips, to settle over her pubis and sink in between her legs, spreading them wide. Jane’s every panting gasp echoed within Frances’s own chest. The man knelt in adoration in front of Jane and lowered his head from kissing her breasts, to her belly, down to her abdomen, then disappeared between her thighs. Jane’s small fingers snaked through his tousled hair, urging him on.
Frances could not believe what she was seeing, had no frame of reference to interpret their acts. She knew she should give them privacy but couldn’t look away. The only lover’s attention she had ever had was that of her husband mounting her prone bo
dy and uncomfortably, sometimes even painfully, spilling his seed inside her then bidding her goodnight. Unless she was already pregnant, she knew to expect the interaction every night he was home during his quarterly visits.
Jane, with a man she must hardly know, was worshiped as some sort of goddess. Frances heard Jane’s gasping becoming more frequent until it seemed like the pleasure was too much. Frances felt a knot in her stomach and her face bloomed with heat while she watched Jane’s expression go from agonized to beatific in a cry of unadulterated joy.
“What a fine man. Do you know who he is? No? Hung like a stallion. It isn’t a wonder she was nowhere to be found when we were leaving to meet Mistress Parry.” Mary continued, “I wonder if it is serious or just a dalliance? Knowing Jane, she will not regret a moment. At least someone is having fun.” Mary did not appear abashed in the slightest over witnessing her friend’s intimate encounter. “So much for being discreet—in the middle of the day, in front of an open window, and in our shared room!” Mary continued to babble, obviously excited by the prospect of torturing her friend. Frances saw the humor but had a hard time keeping up the mischief with that warm, wanting sensation in her belly. She couldn’t help but wonder if his hands had been hot against Jane’s skin or what it would feel like to be kissed down there.
• • •
It was only an hour or so after Frances and Mary had spied on their companion, but it seemed like a lifetime. Frances was questioning so much, feeling bereft, denied something she’d never known existed. Although common sense told her that she, married and established, was in a more enviable position, today she felt downright jealous of Jane.
Frances sat toward the back of the great hall while half of London crowded into the upper galleries to watch the Queen and Her court feast. Across the board from her sat a lonely looking woman introduced as Baroness Ludlow. Beside the Baroness sat a lovely young newlywed, Lady Howard of Effingham. Lady Howard emanated the essence of springtime, being all things sweet, delicate, and budding with life. Baroness Ludlow, however, reminded Frances of herself, if only slightly older and hardened. She was a no-nonsense woman who did not engage in the games of court. Frances felt a kinship with the baroness and hoped to meet with her on another occasion—she was simply too distracted this evening.
Mary, with a permanent smirk etched on her face, sat beside Frances and opposite Jane, delicately picking at her meal between sly knowing looks across the table. Frances glanced at Jane surreptitiously. Jane was enjoying her meal with a gusto to rival the Queen Herself. She positively glowed. Frances noted the way her eyes sparkled with mischief, but mostly how relaxed she appeared, as if there was nothing to worry about in the world. Frances turned back to studying her plate. Tonight’s meal, a sumptuous feast of roast swan stuffed with figs and drowned in a savory cream sauce, should have impressed her, but all Frances could do was push the food around her trencher with her knife. She wasn’t upset, only bewildered at what she’d seen through the gap in the door. More than that, her own body’s response to the imagery confused her.
Frances shook her head as if to wake herself up fully and tried, again, to stop thinking about it. Could there be pleasure between a man and woman? Was Jane the aberration, or was she?
She looked down at her plate with the intention of taking a bite when she noticed that her savory course had been replaced with sweetmeats. She had been so distracted by her reminiscing she hadn’t paid any heed to the meal’s progression—or, it seemed, to the conversation around her.
“ . . . and the look on Lord Leicester’s face when I mentioned casually that Baroness Sheffield’s corset seemed to be straining at the lacings . . . ” Lady Howard’s cheery voice continued on a story she had been telling.
“You did not!” interjected a finely dressed lady who must have joined their table after Frances had disappeared into her own thoughts.
“Yes, I did. And then I said that it was a blessing Lord Sheffield had passed before he could see how fat his wife had become.” Gasps and stifled laughter ensued all around the table. “But then my Lord Sussex called me away. I don’t know why; everyone knows he doesn’t care for Lord Leicester.”
“But he does care for his retainers, and your husband is in Lord Sussex’s service.” interrupted Baroness Ludlow. “Any perceived slight from you could reflect on Sussex’s consequence and good name.” Frances looked at Baroness Ludlow and, again, decided that she was someone she should like to know better. In response to her advice, Frances nodded her approval.
The conversation continued while Frances looked up the length of the great hall and saw the Queen and her selected table guests. If the scene was translated into a painting by one of the modern artists, all points of perspective would focus on the Queen at the glowing center of the work.
Earlier today the court had been in mourning, but they donned their finest for the evening’s festivities. Queen Elizabeth, resplendent in white glossy satin, was a beam of light in her own right. Her gown was covered all over in puffs of aqua silk organza, forming repeating diamond patterns over her bodice. Each juncture fastened to the satin skirting with starbursts of rubies and jet beads set in gold filigree. Frances could not wait for the Queen to stand up from behind the table so she could see how Her skirt was fashioned.
Amazing.
Frances thanked God she had gone shopping and prayed that at least one of the gowns would be delivered tomorrow. It was funny to think that, prior to today, she would not have paid attention to design or color contrast.
Frances glanced at the occupants of her own table. Mary whispered something to Jane, and Jane’s face, still sparkling with life, blanched, then flooded with a rosy glow. She turned sharply to look at Frances.
Frances laughed at the whole farcical situation. Jane sat still, her wide eyes unblinking, for a moment or two before responding to Frances’s laugh with an embarrassed smile.
“If that shocked you . . . ” Jane pressed her hands to her cheeks to calm her features. “I have a book you should see.”
There was a lot about life that Frances intended to learn.
Chapter Five
Rule Twenty-Three: Eating and sleeping diminish greatly when one is aggravated by love.
Henry LeSieur sat supping amicably with Lord Howard of Effingham and the Earl of Sussex’s retainers when Lord Howard drew his attention over to the new Lady Howard. Glad to distract himself from the feeling of unease that consumed him since his arrival at the palace, Henry began making the appropriate congratulatory comments. There was no real reason for Henry to worry, no more assignments from Walsingham. It must be only his worry over his wife.
Discounting his sense of foreboding, he joined in the manly banter with the gentlemen as they speculated about the three country ladies sharing Lady Howard’s table. Sure enough, there were three handsome women laughing over some shared jest—two blondes and a brunette, all obviously fresh from the country. Good, his wife would have some less sophisticated and lovely ladies to befriend.
The other gentlemen at Henry’s table were not as nonchalant about the prospect of new quarry among the stale ladies of the court. One man brought up the wager making the rounds marking the taller blond woman as the challenge. Ten pounds.
His head shot up, his gaze locked on his wife.
Although on an academic level he knew she must be twenty-four or twenty-five by now, in his mind she remained a pretty fourteen-year-old. Seeing her this past week hadn’t changed that perception much. Yes, he’d been surprised by her seeming change in personality, but not her beauty. Yet there she was, her eyes sparkling with laughter and her hair glowing in a halo with nothing childish about her. In stunned silence, he took in her smile, the rosy glow of her cheeks. There was a familiarity to her features, and he could see the child bride she’d been so long ago, but now she was someone else. A woman. Logically, he’d known she had grown. They both had. But he’d never considered what that meant. The changes that had been happening before his eyes with each
visit suddenly merged into one beautiful whole. Frances was breathtaking.
Literally.
He could barely breathe past the knot in his throat at the thought that this was the woman he’d felt obligated to bed at regular intervals to beget an heir.
Astounding.
Without thinking out his next action, he stood up.
“Henry?” Lord Howard broke through his reverie insistently. “Henry! Is all well?”
“Oh aye, forgive me. I was lost in my thoughts.” He never should have approved her time at court. This was not a safe place for someone as sheltered as she, someone with ten pounds on her head. An angel who had no use for him.
Damnation.
Lord Howard clapped him on the back soundly. “About time you took interest in something other than your estate and Parliament. You’re far too serious. There’s nothing better than having a woman warming your bed to help put perspective on things. She is obviously from the country—a soft word or two from you, and she’ll be on her back in a nonce!”
Ha! The man thought Henry wanted to pursue his own wife. The potential humor of the thought was muted by the worry that perhaps Frances would be an easy target for a practiced seducer. Again he was hit by the urge to publicly claim her as his wife. It was clear no one present knew she was anything other than a tasty bit of fresh country meat. Henry started to rise once more, then sat down abruptly.
What if she rebutted his attentions before the whole court? Both their standings would be damaged. Stupid Hatton.
Lord Howard looked at him inquiringly. “Well, man? Are you going to do it? Better be quick before these other young bucks take up the chase.”
Henry was beginning to find the ridiculousness of the situation funny. “Did you know I am married, my Lord?”
“You have a wife?” Lord Howard raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Poor woman. What, do you keep her locked away in the country? Is she slow-witted or so homely that you need to hide her? I take back my suggestion—you do not deserve that delightful creature over there.” He gestured to Frances. “You need to hightail home and do your duty. In the meantime,” Lord Howard rose and reveranced his farewell to the gentlemen at the table, “I will happily see to it that I do not shirk my own.”
Courtly Pleasures Page 4
