Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  “What’s this then?” The deep male voice had a harshness that made Frances stiff with fear.

  Hatton opened his eyes and looked up at the intruder upon their all but inaccessible lair. “Sir Harry!” He sounded as jovial as always. “I cannot imagine what you must think. Then again, maybe I can . . . ”

  “Mistress LeSieur, my Lady Chastity,” he said with a sneer and a sarcastic reverance, “it is one thing for a proper lady to stay true to her husband, but another thing altogether for a wanton to look me over in favor of the Queen’s plaything.”

  The malice in his voice sent chills down her spine. Sir Harry had made Frances uncomfortable with his obvious ogling, but she had never thought of him as threatening. She certainly did now. She struggled to get to her feet and brush the grass from her dress as she surreptitiously backed a little farther away from the irate Sir Harry.

  “Calm down, Sir Harry! The lady stumbled upon me, and I took a kiss for my troubles. Do not blame Mistress LeSieur for anything other than being clumsy.”

  “Thank you, Master Hatton. I think.” Frances nodded to Hatton as she picked up her scattered papers and secured them once again in her notebook. She could not bring herself to meet Sir Harry’s angry stare as she made a quick reverance and continued off to adjust the details of the masque. She hurried toward the kitchens, trying to ignore awareness of Sir Harry’s eyes boring into her back as she fled.

  • • •

  Henry LeSieur sat in a darkened corner of a reasonably reputable tavern. He sipped his small ale from a clean-enough tankard and waited for his companion to arrive. Most of the patrons were seated at the bar or in front of the fire. Henry already felt uncomfortably hot and, not knowing the reason for this meeting, did not want to be too visible. What was so important that Kit Hatton could not discuss it during their meetings at the House of Commons?

  Henry had never had a real friendship with Hatton, more of a mutual respect tempered by a touch of competitiveness. Hatton was the Member of Parliament for Northamptonshire, more than a day’s ride away from Holme LeSieur, so Henry considered him a neighbor. What could that prancing fool want of him? Not that he was a fool entirely—he was captain of the Queen’s guard and, more importantly, an astute businessman and lawyer. Hatton was more of a financier than an estate manager and saw the idea of enclosing the common grounds traditionally used by tenant farmers as a financial opportunity for the gentry. Henry opposed enclosure on the basis that the gentry needed the tenant farmers to be well fed and happy in order to survive. Maybe his soft spot for the working class was a left over from the ideals of noblesse oblige: whatever it was, it was a constant battle, and Henry’s side appeared to be losing. It wasn’t too much of a surprise—most of the Members of Parliament in the House of Commons had higher aspirations and enclosure certainly put more shillings in their pockets.

  “Master LeSieur.” Henry looked up from his ale to see Hatton giving him respectful reverance. Henry stood up, removing his tall felt hat and reverencing in return. Without a word, he gestured to the seat across the board and sat down. Hatton followed suit.

  Henry said nothing, preferring to allow him to show his hand without the advantage of reading his opponent. Were they opponents? Definitely, especially given the ten pounds Hatton put on Frances taking a lover.

  Henry nursed his ale and waited patiently.

  “I thought we should be forthright with each other,” Hatton began. He seemed to be waiting for Henry to say something.

  Henry did not oblige.

  Hatton continued, with some awkwardness. “I kissed your wife today.”

  In his mind, Henry neatly inserted his fist into Kit Hatton’s pretty face. In reality, he took stock of the situation in as calm of a manner he could. “And you thought that telling me would be a good idea . . . ?” Henry let his words trail off in an unspoken threat.

  “Well, not exactly. No.” Hatton shifted uncomfortably. The merry sparkle was missing from his eye. He was serious about this. But why? Henry remained silent, willing Hatton to continue. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold his temper in check.

  “Look—she tripped and fell on me. I took advantage of the opportunity and kissed her. She was not particularly responsive, I should tell you.” He took a deep quaff of his ale before continuing. Henry had never seen him so awkward. “The bigger problem here is that Sir Harry Lee happened upon us. He had marked Frances as his but accepted that she did not wish to dally outside her marriage . . . ”

  “And he was none too happy to find her dallying with you.” Henry’s patience was strained close to breaking.

  “Precisely.” He nodded.

  What was he up to? Why would he tell a man that he had just been caught kissing his wife? Henry paused a moment before continuing. “Master Hatton, you have never struck me as a stupid man . . . ”

  “I thank you for the observation.”

  “So what, pray tell, could have possessed you to tell me about your attempt at cuckolding me? Do you want me to call you out?”

  Hatton looked genuinely surprised. “You would? Over this?”

  With a grimace to cover the feral urge to bare his teeth, Henry murmured, “Before I come to any decisions over what to do with you, perhaps you’d best explain yourself.”

  “Of course . . . ” Henry was pleased to see Hatton so discomfited. “I wanted to tell you because Sir Harry is not an enemy I should wish for. But my concern is not for myself but for Frances . . . . I mean, Mistress LeSieur.”

  “I am moved to see you hold her so high in your esteem.”

  “Sir Harry now feels spurned. And he can no longer soothe his pride by writing it off to her being a virtuous woman.”

  Understanding dawned and Henry sighed. “And you worry he may take more aggressive action toward her.” That was the last thing he needed—one more threat against his wife.

  “Exactly. You understand my concern now.” He had a hopeful expression. It was clear that he did not wish to cause offense—or maybe he simply did not wish to be killed. It appeared Hatton had a healthy fear of Henry. Perhaps he was smarter than Henry had previously credited.

  “I think I’m beginning to.” At least he would there to offer the protection of both his name and his fists at the masque. Perhaps it would be best for him to assert himself as a possessive husband publicly and end this charade about their separation. This had gone on too long. He’d done it to it himself by, through omission, never indicating to anyone that he had a wife and children at home. To him it had been immaterial, and his relationships with the other courtiers were hardly personal enough to share such intimacies. But now that she was here and not asserting herself as his wife, it made her open to any and all advances. It was part of the games at court, something she wouldn’t have been prepared for. And he’d only fueled the fire.

  She’s my wife, damn it all, and she’s going to acknowledge it even if I have to make her.

  Then again, that would end any chance he had of actually winning her. Then again, if her idea of a separation involved kissing Hatton . . . but no, today’s kiss had been foisted upon her and even Hatton agreed that she was not a willing participant.

  “One more thing . . . ” Hatton interrupted Henry’s thoughts hesitantly, as if not sure if one more thing would prove too much.

  Nodding magnanimously, Henry took a sip of his ale and encouraged his companion. “Yes?”

  “Should Queen Elizabeth believe that Mistress LeSieur and I are lovers, it will put us both in poor favor.”

  “Master Hatton, if you and my wife are lovers, you will have more to fear than the Queen.”

  • • •

  Pirates. The very word filled Frances with excitement. Well, this changed everything. There was still time enough to alert the bakers to make the bread trenchers shaped as small ships. Of course, fine wines would not do—no, the servers would provide ale and cider in tankards. The pavilions set around the southern flower gardens would be draped with yards of silks from the
orient as if a pirate bounty had been unfurled at random. The plate and service ware would be fine but mismatched. Oh, it was all coming together. Frances only needed to tell a few of the courtiers to spread word so the lords and ladies could assemble their costumes.

  This would provide the perfect venue for revelry and give the jaded courtiers the opportunity to lose inhibitions and fears as they danced under the stars and pretended that their masks made them truly incognito. Frances knew from the way her creativity sparked and the plans flowed through her that this was the right course—even if it was only a “masque” in the sense that the guests would be masked. Deviation, albeit unknowing, from the norm had served her well with the St. Luke’s day masque, and she was sure it would again. In fact, Frances had such a strong feeling of rightness about the event that, as the plans progressed and time sped on toward the Monday masque, she never found herself questioning any of her decisions or consulting other courtiers.

  The day before the masque passed in a blur. Frances felt as if she were constantly running to confirm or change plans with the head chefs, gardeners, butlers, and steward. She instructed the servants working on the decorations for the garden pavilions. She supervised the servants working on the barges. She arranged for some of the finer specimens in the Queen’s guard to be costumed for the court’s entertainment. She organized the sequence of dances to tell a story. She created the thematic menus. She was proud of herself. She was exhausted.

  St. Martin’s day arrived and, being Sunday, was a day of much needed rest. Everything was set in motion for tomorrow, and Frances could sit back and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Dressed in a lavender gray velvet gown, Frances left her rooms to join Queen Elizabeth and Her ladies at Mass. It was probably sacrilegious, but all throughout the sermon, Frances could think about nothing other than the possibility of what might happen with Henry, or rather, her masked mystery man.

  She closed her eyes as if in prayer and, instead, remembered how he felt—the press of his hands at her back as he crushed her breasts against his chest. She drew as deep a breath as her corset allowed and imagined that the pressure of her gown straining against her nipples was the caress of his hand. His lips as they traced down her neck. Frances wondered what it would be like to feel that mouth press hot kisses on her . . .

  Breaking out of her reverie, she chanted “And also with you” and stood with the congregation. Lately, she had successfully avoided succumbing to these fantasies by keeping her thoughts completely occupied with plans for the pirate masque but, from time to time, she would catch herself wondering about him. Did he think of her too? And how far was she willing to go? On the whole, she managed to keep her head on task and out of the clouds. Of course, it was difficult not to let her mind wander during the preacher’s lecture on the many faces of Satan. How irreverent of her.

  Frances maneuvered her farthingale as she exited the pew she shared with Lady Howard and Baroness Ludlow. She faced the apse and crossed herself before turning to leave the sanctuary. Her behavior in church was habit and hard to break even though the cross above the altar did not bear the body of Christ. She never advertised her family’s Roman Catholic background, nor had she kept it a secret. Queen Elizabeth knew and did not seem to think less of her for it so long as she gave her allegiance to the Crown. In truth, Frances had not once made an effort to hear a Roman Catholic Mass since her arrival at court, feeling that the Church of England provided ample spiritual sustenance.

  It was apparent that not everyone at court approached the controversy of Roman Catholic versus Church of England with the same blasé attitude. Some of the courtiers were so fervent in their opinion on the subject, that Frances found that she would rather not give anyone fodder for abuse as far as her beliefs were concerned. The only evidence that her family’s religion had been noticed was that blasted rosary. She shook her head to clear away the unwelcome reminder.

  “I am glad to see you still cross yourself, even if it is to a heretical symbol.”

  What? The unexpectedly harsh whisper came from over her shoulder as she exited the chapel. Turning, she came eye to eye with Baroness Ludlow, who was smiling despite the tone of her voice. Perhaps Frances had misread her intent.

  Smiling to her friend, Frances replied congenially, “It is a habit. I hope I did not give offense.”

  “No, no. You mistake my meaning. I am much gladdened to see that you still hold the true faith in your heart,” Baroness Ludlow said with a sincere smile. While never jovial, Baroness Ludlow was at least pleasant. Frances still hoped to call her a friend—it seemed sad that Baroness Ludlow seemed so very alone at court.

  “The chapel at Holme LeSieur still has a Catholic priest, and we pay our fine to the Crown gladly. Still, I do not wish to make enemies at court given the suspicions stoked by the massacre in Paris.” Frances may not have felt, personally, very strong about the subject of religion, but she would not do any disservice to her family name.

  “And yet you attend Church of England services?”

  “As do you, Baroness Ludlow.” Frances held on to her smile. What was Baroness Ludlow trying to prove? Weren’t they both just leaving the same chapel?

  “Oh, yes. I do what I must do to survive, but I do not pray so fervently to false gods.”

  Frances almost protested that she had not been praying at all during services, but that wasn’t necessarily better. Besides, what right was it of Baroness Ludlow to know the innermost workings of her heart? Goodness. No wonder Baroness Ludlow was so alone.

  At Frances’s silence, Baroness Ludlow appeared to remember where she was and corrected herself, “Please forgive me. I am not myself. I did not mean to attack your faith. I’m sure you do only what you must in these difficult times.” Even her apology dripped with judgment.

  Frances smiled an acceptance and, in a gesture of friendship, took Baroness Ludlow’s hand and laced it through the crook of her arm, pulling her to walk alongside her. “Come. Let us sit in the gardens afore dinner. I wish to hear about what you are wearing to the masque tomorrow.”

  “Since Queen Elizabeth commands my presence, I will be there.” Baroness Ludlow’s face was marred by a petulant pout. She did all but stamp her foot in childish defiance as she continued, “But I refuse to make merry.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rule Twelve: True love excludes all from its embrace but the beloved.

  Monday dawned with the promise of a fine day in keeping with St. Martin’s summer. Tonight Frances would dance under the stars and lounge on the royal barges upon the Thames. The days were short and the nights were long—the perfect opportunity for dalliance. Frances ran her fingers through her tangled hair as she stretched herself awake. She could hardly wait for the day to melt into twilight.

  Frances rose from the bed, walked over to her dressing table, and poured an ewer of tepid water into a basin. As she placed the jug down, she noticed a small parcel wrapped in fine linen and silk ribbon. Her chest tight, she struggled to take a breath and fought the fear and forced herself to be rational even as she backed away. Should she open it? Bring it to her husband? She held her head high. Whatever it was, she could face it. She would not let this evil ruin her night. Determined to be strong, she walked back to the package.

  Summoning her courage, Frances pulled the ribbon loose and removed the folds of yellow linen. Inside lay a plain box containing a delicate item in a fine velvet pouch. Next to that lay a sprig of baby’s breath tied with pink ribbon. Her breath caught in her chest as she realized Henry must have been in her room as she slept. Fear turned to joy as excitement pulsed through her veins. I will see him tonight! Her skin tingled in anticipation as she opened the velvet pouch. Inside was a beautifully wrought silver bodice dagger and sheath set with garnets and amber. It was glorious and, even better, would go perfectly with her costume.

  This ensemble was as bold as her previous one had been innocent. The bodice and overskirt were luxurious black silk velvet. Her bodice closed with hidden hook and ey
es at the center front, the seam disguised by a row of garnet cabochons bezel set in silver filigree ovals. Other than the glittering stripe of silver and garnet up the front of her bodice, the black was unadorned and offered a striking contrast against the exposed décolletage of Frances’s pale skin. She did not wear elaborate oversleeves, instead choosing to expose the sleeves of her billowing white cotton lawn chemise which hinted at the state of undress. She smiled as she felt the weight of the jeweled hilt of the small dagger in her palm.

  Frances called for Mary to help her as the sun sank lower behind the haze of smoke from wood fires that billowed above London city. Mary dressed Frances’s hair in a looser and more rumpled looking version of the current fashion, allowing for clustered tendrils to flow down Frances’s neck and frame her face. Frances put on her simple black leather eye mask and secured the ribbons behind her head. Mary placed a deep red rose into the mass of amber curls above her ear while Frances completed her ensemble with a pair of black fitted kid gloves with a broad gauntlet style cuff and placed the sheathed dagger in the busk channel of her corset, pleased with how the glittering bejeweled hilt sparkled like a suspended brooch against her breasts. The vision in the mirror was a little bit ladylike and a little bit wanton. Perfect.

  • • •

  Hundreds of glittering lanterns hung suspended from the boughs of the oaks that bordered the eastern edge of the flower gardens. Torches mounted on makeshift pillars of chunky driftwood and laden tables covered in fishing nets dotted the geometric flower garden. Pavilions of varying sizes draped in elaborate arrays of silks and satins from the Orient obscured the brick façade of the southern walls of Hampton Court Palace. A trio of gilded mermaids augmented the babbling song of the tiered fountain in the center of the gardens as they harmonized their vocals with melody from their lap harps. Cables of thick nautical rope dripping with orbs of light streamed in a fan shape from the ramparts of the palace down to the archways framing the entrance to the three river piers that moored the Queen’s barges.