Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  Looking down past her expanse of bosom, she took a deep breath. Fashion aside, the solid structure of her corset and the weight of the elaborate gown made Frances feel safe. Protected. Thus armed, she joined hands with her ladies and stepped out to greet the new day.

  • • •

  The small circle of Her Majesty’s favorites blinked in surprise at the changes in their newfound country mouse. Frances beamed at them all, giving them a graceful reverance to show her respect, and waited to be recovered by the courtier of highest rank in the grouping—Baroness Sheffield.

  Disdainfully, Baroness Sheffield waved an idle hand in acknowledgement, and Frances rose. At that, a playful Master Hatton got down on one knee.

  “My Lady, you must bless me with your name lest I die upon this spot not having known an angel.” Just meeting his smiling blue eyes made Frances’s breath catch in her chest.

  “Prettily said, Kit, but I worry that your glib tongue and the licentious twinkle in your eye may well send this heavenly creature fleeing to less debauched pastures,” interjected Sir Harry Lee suavely. Frances thought that Sir Harry and Master Hatton might well be the two finest men she had ever laid eyes upon. Sir Harry was renowned for his prowess and was the Queen’s champion. His tall stature and broad shoulders made Frances feel extremely small and a little intimidated. The fair-haired Master Hatton was not much taller than she and, compared to Sir Harry, of slender build, but from his movements she could see the underlying strength. He was, after all, the current captain of the Queen’s Yeomen of the Guard, Her personal bodyguard.

  Frances managed to do nothing more embarrassing than blush and smile shyly as she did her best to dismiss the flirtation and focus on the details of the masque. She inserted herself amongst the conclave of courtiers and produced the parchments containing the details she had worked out on her own the previous night. Sir Harry rose to offer his seat to Frances and removed himself from the grouping, conspicuously followed by Baroness Sheffield. Kit Hatton rose and circled the periphery of the seating arrangement, only to stop directly behind where Frances sat perched on the chaise. It was almost impossible for her to keep on task when she felt his breath on her ear. “You are glorious.” It was simple enough, but the purr in his deep voice sent shivers up and down her spine. As she tried to refocus her thoughts on the masque, she could hear the smile in his voice as he whispered, “Do not let me distract you, mistress. Just pretend I am not here.”

  That was exactly what Frances proceeded to do. Composed as she could be under the circumstances, Frances began to discuss the layout of the courtyard event and asked for constructive commentary on her very detailed plans. She scratched her quill across a fresh sheet of parchment, drawing the projected layout. “This half will be paradise and this half hell.” She was ignoring Kit Hatton. She could feel his breath tickling the loose tendrils on her neck.

  Ignoring him.

  It had been so long since any man had shown interest, and none had ever desired her. Kit Hatton wanted her—and not as a dutiful wife. It was wicked. It was exciting.

  And it would be very wrong to even wonder . . .

  Ignore him and focus on the masque. The masque, think on the masque.

  Frances forced her attention to everyone but Hatton.

  “With purgatory in between?” suggested Lady Oxford, formerly Mistress Anne Cecil, with a considering glance. She appeared very young, but every inch the countess.

  Frances did not show her relief at the fact that Queen Elizabeth’s courtiers were following her tack. “Exactly. I think the food stuffs should be laid within purgatory with two different areas for dancing.” Producing another list with the suggested decorations, Frances continued, “Paradise will be swathed in white and pale blue cloth, whereas Hell . . . ”

  Frances was interrupted by Kit Hatton who had switched his tone from seductive to playful. “Hell should be swathed in royal blue with gold fleur de lis, in honor of the French court.”

  “A pox on them all,” Sir Harry Lee spat, any attempt at joking ruined by the venom in his tone.

  Frances met Sir Harry’s gaze over the edge of her parchment. Was that scorn aimed at her? No. Hatton laid a hand on her shoulder, and Frances stiffened. Flirtation was one thing, but she would not be any man’s prize. She stood and crossed to sit beside Lady Oxford.

  Sir Harry’s look, still burning but no longer threatening, followed her.

  “Now then,” the Earl of Leicester tossed his elaborate printing of Dante onto the central table, “what are our roles? Lady Essex informed me she wishes to play Generosity, and I thought to match her as Avarice.”

  “Are you sure she would not be better suited to Chastity?” remarked Baroness Sheffield with what seemed to be her usual catty tone.

  “Fie! I think we shall be hard pressed to find any lady at court willing to play the part of Chastity!” laughed Sir Harry, his eyes now buried in Baroness Sheffield’s powdered cleavage.

  “I shall, and happily,” responded Frances in a small voice. Chastity would be a dream come true.

  “You are setting yourself up as a challenge. What does Castiglione say about it? That love is nothing without the chase?”

  Lord Leicester harrumphed in disdain, “Surely you’re not quoting that ridiculous Book of the Courtier again?”

  “I think the rules of courtly love are wonderful. Without them, how would we know how to recognize love?” Lady Howard’s honest statement echoed Frances’s thoughts.

  Laughter followed, derisive, sarcastic, mean laughter. Poor Lady Howard. For a moment, Frances regretted her decision to come to court. Her new friends—they would think her a fool if they knew how, as a naive girl, she’d pored over those rules, fantasizing about romantic love.

  “I enjoy the art of courtly love.” Hatton’s warm gaze poured over Frances as he continued, “I think the rules are not so much about love as about the sport . . . the chase, the challenge. It’s always nice to understand the rules when one plays such a dangerous game.”

  Sport? Is that what this is? Does that make me the prey? The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

  Lifting her chin with just a hint of a smile, she added, “The easy attainment of love makes it of little value—difficulty of attainment makes it prized. That is rule fourteen.” The husky tone of her voice surprised her. It appeared the game was on. “I have never considered myself ‘sport’ before, but there is a first time for everything, is there not? Do believe me when I say that failure is assured, but you are welcome to try.”

  Was she flirting? Was that appropriate for a married woman? I don’t care.

  “So we have our cast! Mistress LeSieur is Chastity coupled with, you will all agree, Master Hatton as Lust.” Again, the group chattered over each other merrily at Lord Leicester’s words. “I would put Lord and Lady Oxford as Gluttony and Moderation . . . ”

  “Perfect!” proclaimed Lord Howard of Effingham with a bark of a laugh while Lady Oxford bowed her head in serene acceptance.

  “Effingham, you and your lady wife shall be Sloth and Diligence,” Lord Leicester continued, greeted by a sigh of resignation and agreement.

  “That brings us to Envy and Pride. Sir Harry, at the look upon your face, you fit the role of Envy admirably.” The Earl of Leicester clapped the menacing looking Sir Harry firmly on the back. At Sir Harry’s less than jovial response, Leicester continued, “Here now, sir, it is not all bad. I will give you a gift . . . You can have your counterpart of Kindness. Baroness Sheffield, please console our Sir Harry.”

  Frances observed how Baroness Sheffield looked from Leicester to Sir Harry and back again in confusion, not quite knowing how to respond. Was she interested in Sir Harry or Leicester? This business of court intrigue was confusing to say the least. Well, she was sure there was a story there. And she was certain that Lady Howard was the lady to ask. Whatever it was, Baroness Sheffield should be more discreet.

  “Sir Knight, I hope that my kindness will leave you no reason for Envy.” At t
hat, she focused on the object of Sir Harry’s attention. “Really, Mistress LeSieur, you have blossomed over night. I have to admire your new gown. Simplicity suits you well. It’s almost unbelievable that you were only a country mouse but yesterday.” Baroness Sheffield reminded all present that Frances was still only minor gentry.

  Frances felt the eyes of her newfound friends turn to see her response only to focus back on Baroness Sheffield. “The true worth of a person will shine through no matter her appearance.” Baroness Sheffield puffed herself up as if to remind everyone that she was a baroness and cousin to the Queen. “It’s a shame that Her Majesty has not bestowed a knighthood upon your husband and made you an actual Lady. Maybe he has yet to earn Her affection or admiration like he has with over a dozen of the ladies at court. He has most assuredly earned mine upon many occasions.” It was a miracle the courtier’s necks did not snap with the violence of their collective head turning.

  Had Frances’s husband bedded the strumpet? She shouldn’t care, either way. Should she? Hurt she couldn’t explain made her chest tight. The baroness was a bitch, but her husband . . .

  Oooh.

  “It is not a wonder, Baroness Sheffield,” Frances calmed her face into the portrait of ladylike elegance, pushing her feelings deep and lowering her voice to a sweet sing-song, “that he has not yet been knighted. If that is how he should earn the knighthood, I am not at all surprised any woman would find him lacking. It is a good thing that you are not responsible for giving title else England would be overflowing with poorly qualified knights indeed!” Again, all heads turned in unison to gauge Baroness Sheffield’s shocked response before looking back to see what more the surprising Mistress LeSieur would say. Frances continued in the same calm and pleasant voice, “And, Baroness Sheffield, worry not that anyone would ever doubt your true worth, regardless of how fine your attire.”

  Heads turned to look at Baroness Sheffield, then back to Mistress LeSieur. There was a moment of suspenseful silence while Frances and Baroness Sheffield’s eyes remained locked.

  Lord Howard spoke first. “Mistress LeSieur, with your biting wit, you should write the couplets for the masque!”

  With that, all the courtiers present broke into animated chatter, completely dismissing the risk of offense to Baroness Sheffield.

  Baroness Sheffield elegantly arose, reveranced those that outranked her, and walked from the room with stiff grace.

  Sir Harry Lee crossed over to Frances, propping his hip against the arm of her chaise. “Mistress LeSieur, Frances,” his use of her Christian name made her feel dirty, “do you know if your husband is wont to carry coin on his person?”

  “Sir Harry, I do not understand the reason for your question.” Frances shook her head, still dazed from her duel with Baroness Sheffield. “I do not know his habits in town.”

  “Of course you do not.” He took her gloved hand in his and placed a warm kiss on her knuckles. “I only asked because I expect I shall need to collect on a debt shortly.”

  “The hell you will,” Hatton interrupted as Frances withdrew her hand and wiped the wet leather in the folds of her skirt.

  Lord Leicester stood and shook his head. “Lads, stand down. Mistress LeSieur only just arrived in London. We do not wish to frighten her away.”

  Hatton’s posture shifted, all trace of menace gone. “My apologies, Mistress LeSieur. You are a breath of fresh spring air into a catacomb of rot. I cannot thank you enough for the hours of entertainment the retelling of this tale will afford me.” Kit Hatton gave an elaborate reverance.

  Telling the tale . . . By the saints, what would her husband say when he heard?

  Chapter Seven

  Rule Thirty-One: Two men may love one woman or two women one man.

  By the time the group of courtiers finished with their input and began to disperse, Frances was torn between an obsessive need to complete her plans and an empty stomach. Immersed in her notes, she eventually looked up and found herself alone with young Lady Howard. “Lady Howard, are you heading to the hall for dinner?”

  “Yes, although I am supposed to meet with my lord husband in the library first.” Lady Howard was perfectly serious in her statement, but Frances could not imagine what Lady Howard would want with a library.

  “Why don’t you accompany me to meet with him? Then we can sup together, and I can tell you everything you need to know.”

  Only one week at court and the thought of more gossip made her gag. At least she wouldn’t get lost in the palace. She smiled. “That sounds wonderful. Lead on, my lady.”

  Arm in arm, Lady Howard and Frances made their way through long galleries flanked with tall gothic windows to one side and dark alcoves and doors leading to unknown chambers on the other. All around them hung portraits and tapestries. Frances had never liked portraits of ancestors—she always felt like the long dead subjects were watching her. Still, the wall hangings helped muffle the echo in the long corridor. She would never get used to the cold grandeur of the palace.

  Glancing at Lady Howard, Frances realized she’d missed half of a conversation.

  “ . . . and then Leicester just handed her to Sir Harry like a discarded baggage. I am amazed she did not explode right on the spot. After what he did to her . . . ”

  Frances stifled a moan as the young lady chattered on. She did not want to even think about Baroness Sheffield.

  “I am surprised that Queen Elizabeth allows the light skirt into the palace. No woman in her right mind would set her sights so publicly on Lord Leicester.” Lady Howard paused, as if taking a moment, for the first time in her life, to consider her words before they left her mouth. “Actually, my husband made me swear not to speak of my theories about the relationship between the Earl of Leicester and Queen Elizabeth under any circumstances.” Her eyes looked genuinely sad as she offered a soft smile and said, “It’s a shame really, but he said it would be slanderous gossip since I cannot prove the truthfulness of the tale.”

  With that, Lady Howard all but skipped up to the doors and gave a mighty shove.

  The library. And Lord Howard in his shirtsleeves holding two goblets.

  Lady Howard, sweet as she was, had no idea her husband had wanted her to join him in the library for a dalliance. Of course, Lord Howard didn’t say it in so many words, but his meaning was perfectly clear along with his polite dismissal to Frances. It was inconceivable that anyone would wish to tryst in a library—especially when they had a completely serviceable bed chamber in the palace. Lord Howard must have to be some crazed deviant. Poor Lady Howard. Of course, Lady Howard just seemed pleasantly surprised when Frances left her with her husband in a dark corner between rows of shelves.

  Frances made her way back to the oak doors leading out, but instead of the gallery, she’d discovered a chapel of sorts. This was not the same one they used to hear services with the Queen, but it appeared to be still in use. She stepped farther into the dim light, allowing her eyes to adjust, and then heard a different door shut. Someone else entered the room, and, judging by the increased glow of light from behind the nave, they were lighting candles. She turned to leave this person to their privacy.

  “It is the will of God.” A harsh whisper broke through the gloom and stopped Frances in her tracks. Was the person talking to her?

  “She brought it on herself, and she deserves whatever pain comes with it.” Another voice, or was it the same?

  Without a doubt, Frances knew she should not be hearing this conversation, but she also knew she did not wish to be discovered.

  “I need more strength. I am too weak and swayed by mercy.” The whispered rasp was softer.

  “No, there is no room for mercy. Be swift. Your vengeance is an instrument of the Divine. It is for the good of all.” This was harsh, cutting.

  Frances tried not to shiver as the small hairs on her arms and neck stood on end. Something here was evil. Who was in danger? At this moment, Frances couldn’t help but feel it was she. She had to get out of this room
.

  “In nomine Patris . . . ”

  Leave. Leave now.

  The clamor from her heels against the marble flooring echoed throughout the library as she searched for an exit, any exit. Whoever it was in the chapel had to have heard her, and she prayed the distance between them would be enough so the person might, at least, not know who she was. Running, Frances spied another set of oak doors and threw them open to find the long gallery. Hefting her skirts, she sprinted as quickly as she was able until she reached the large double doors leading into some other public room.

  Frances did her best to compose herself as she entered the room, shaking her skirts into place and pasting on her usual pleasant mask.

  “There you are, mistress,” Blanche Parry’s warm voice soothed her ruffled nerves. “I was just about to send someone to seek you out. I was afraid you had gotten lost in your plans.” Blanche’s merry smile drooped. “What is the matter with you, child?”

  Her query was interrupted by the newest arrival to the hall, and Frances had no time to answer.

  An excited Lady Rich burst into the room and declared, “I just saw the ghost of Kitty Howard running in this very gallery!” The buzz in the room roared in response. Kitty Howard, the third wife of Henry VIII, was said to roam these halls, trying to find the king to plead for her life. Lady Rich must have seen Frances and, either fancifully or stupidly, took her for the ghost.

  Better that than have to explain why she was running with her skirts around her thighs.

  Mistress Parry raised an assessing eye toward Frances and said, “Let us make way to the great hall for dinner. I am famished.”

  The overheard conversation in the chapel had Frances on edge. Afraid. She was being silly—if the person had seen her, she would know by now. She had no time for this complication and no energy to deal rationally with the fear. Already completely exhausted by the mental exertion both in the planning of the masque and dealing with flirtation, Frances could not handle more.