Frances arrived long before the other courtiers in order to finalize any last-minute questions with the servers. She smiled in triumph, her heart swelling with pride as she took in the vision of a Barbary pirate fantasy. Beautiful. The plethora of twinkling lights lit up the November night sky and reflected off of the urns of overflowing paste gems and pearls. The luxurious fabrics, apparently pillaged from a Spanish galleon, adorned the banquet tents with splendor fit for a pirate queen. Haunting music from the mermaids in the fountain drifted throughout the garden on the soft river breeze. Frances checked with the butlers that the three “dockside taverns” were stocked and ready to serve the noble pirate guests from their rough-hewn bar atop empty barrels. The St. Martin’s summer night was pleasantly warm, and the pewter tankards were chilled and brimming with frothy ales and crisp ciders.
Frances stopped next to a dingy-turned-table full of treasure chests of sweetmeats. The open chests spilled heaps of tartlets bearing ruby cherries and amber glazed pears, flowing strands of candied figs, marzipan jewels, and almond jumbals painted with saffron to give the appearance of being gold medallions. She popped a fig into her mouth and willed herself to relax and shift her mindset from organizer to reveler.
The Earl of Leicester was the next courtier on the scene. His Turkish turban was laughably ostentatious.
“So the master of the revels has arrived! How now, my lord?’” Frances extended her arms out to the sides to better display her costume as she made her courtly reverance.
With an almost imperceptible gesture for Frances to recover and a very obvious appreciative appraisal of Frances’s appearance, Leicester laughed. “I see you are in excellent spirits! And why not? This masque looks to be an excellent event. You have outdone yourself. What is worse, you have set the bar high! I shall be hard pressed to best you when I next have the honor to host Her Majesty’s progress.”
“Best me? My lord, you are an optimist. Have a care lest you fall into a melancholy over setting unattainable standards.” Frances extended her leather gloved hand to the Earl of Leicester, and he dutifully led her to the pavilions at the mouth of the gardens to greet the revelers as they arrived.
The masque was designed to appear to be an open forum for revelry and making merry, but every minute was accounted for in Frances’s plan. She had scheduled the first hour of the festivities to be an open time for the guests to socialize. Frances had to laugh at herself as she looked at her agenda for the event and saw that section of time blocked off as “unplanned.” The first hour gave the courtiers ample time to be fashionably late and still not miss the section that was, in fact, planned. They arrived in a steady flow, availing themselves of delicacies all while they pretended anonymity protected them against any recrimination for bad behavior. It was going to be a memorable evening.
As the courtyard clock in the distance struck seven, a trumpet salute was heard from upriver. A few moments later a responding chorus of trumpets sounded, this time a little closer. The courtiers paused in their carousing and silently searched out the source of the musicians. Again, an even closer salute and the glorious barge became visible as it rounded the river bend and progressed toward the center mooring station. At its approach, the breeze carried a haunting harmony of harps and young voices to the courtiers as they waited in anticipation for something wonderful.
The barge neared, and the song from the river merged with the song from the mermaids in the fountain. The court, in their Oriental silks and nautical finery, edged closer to the river walk and the piers. The music was hypnotizing. The vessel pulled up to the post and four excellent specimens of manhood jumped lithely to the dock and secured it in place. A curtain shielded the occupants of the barge from view and shimmered like a thousand sparkling scales in the light of the lanterns as the debonair sea men slowly secured it open and hoisted the sedan chair at its center. Queen Elizabeth was raised, as if suspended in a crystal bubble, and carried onto the pier. Her skirts flowing around her like seaweed in strands of aqua, peridot, cerulean, and azure silk. Her bodice seemed to be constructed out of shards of mother of pearl and twinkled in the lamplight reflected off the river. Her hair trailed down over her shoulder in blue and silver waves. In Her right hand, She held a magnificent trident. She was the Queen of the Sea.
As one, the courtiers dropped reverently to one knee as the Earl of Leicester declared, “Three cheers for Elizabeth Gloriana! Hip-hip!” and the crowd boomed “Huzzah!” By the third “Huzzah!” the crowd was so focused on their sheer adoration for their Queen that the very implication that She might speak caused a hush.
“For tonight, I am the Queen of the sea and those who sail upon Our domain had best pray We are in goodly spirits.” Queen Elizabeth’s voice, as always, rang with authority, but tonight Frances could also hear the subtle warning to Her favorites.
“Madam, we will all do our utmost to keep you well pleased this evening. Are we agreed?” In response to Leicester’s question, Kit Hatton and Sir Harry Lee both went down on their knees yet again and laid their hats over their hearts. Frances was surprised that Sir Harry was within the elite group—but then he was the Queen’s champion, regardless of how boorish and intimidating Frances considered him.
Leicester continued in his role as master of revels for the masque. “Your Gracious Majesty, is there naught that could be done to win your good graces?”
Queen Elizabeth had contributed to this portion of Frances’s script herself. “Yes, Master Pirate. I would have you prove your worth to sail upon Our sea and win the treasures We hide within.” How scandalous. “Musicians, the galliard!”
The drummer struck up the beat, and Leicester lost no time in hopping into the dance. Kit Hatton, notably the best dancer at court, jumped into the fray and turned a fine leg to the enjoyment of all. Frances scanned the male dancers, searching for Henry. He would be costumed—would she even recognize him? Disappointed, Frances hefted a pewter tankard of cider from one of the driftwood ale stands and meandered through the thickening crowd. All around her there was laughter and shrieks of surprise and delight as the courtiers drank and jested and danced and flirted under the protection of their face masks. Frances made her way to sit on the edge of the fountain and sip at her cider.
“Mistress, this is a most wondrous conceit and will long be remembered by many as the night their illegitimate child was conceived.” An unusually merry Lady Oxford spread her skirts as she sat beside Frances. She was generally of a serious bent that belied her young age.
Frances let out an awkward laugh. “Really, Lady Oxford, I cannot tell if you jest or seek to censure the court’s illicit delights.”
Lady Oxford smiled sincerely. “No, no, Mistress LeSieur, it is exactly what the courtiers would wish for. Brilliant really. Tonight’s theme is something that most can enjoy in whatever way they like. I will enjoy the dancing and the costumes and watching others make fools of themselves. You may enjoy a flirtation or two,” Frances blushed, “and my husband will attempt to violate whatever creature under God that he can and all around will cherish the laughable memory of his antics for years to come.” Anne Cecil was obviously in no humor to ignore her husband’s publicly debauched behavior—but it was hard to tell if it was something that actually upset her. From everything Frances had heard, Anne Cecil had known what she was getting into when she married the Earl of Oxford.
Frances smiled in sympathy. “Well, Lady Oxford, I think he is due to be sorely disappointed and not a little embarrassed.” With a nod of her head she gestured to where the Earl of Oxford stood on the wall of the fountain, oblivious to the crowd that gathered around him, improvising poetry in an effort to woo the gilded mermaid musicians at the center of the fountain. The players, probably used to this type of abuse, very ably continued their music even while they crooned rejoinders to the Earl’s obscene suggestions.
The Earl of Oxford, either unaware or uncaring of his wife and Frances watching him from less than five feet away, removed his boots with great aplomb
and stepped over the wall and into the bubbling fountain. The mermaids squealed in dramatic delight and continued their song. Frances could not tell if they would have fled Oxford’s advances had they not been handicapped by their tails or allowed him to catch them anyway—they were hired players after all. The crowd surrounding the fountain cheered Oxford on as he hoisted one of the golden-haired beauties over his shoulder and made to carry her away. The mermaid feigned a swoon while her comrades hurled witty curses in couplets at the abductor.
Oxford dropped the mermaid into a pile of silken cushions at the entrance to one of the garden pavilions. Playing to his audience with grand gestures, he moved the golden tresses that artistically concealed the mermaid’s apparently naked form only to reveal a disappointing lack of bosoms.
“This lass has the chest of a twelve-year-old boy!” Oxford exclaimed with a laugh of derision, moving the mass of hair aside further as he displayed the topless mermaid to the crowd.
With the earl’s rough handling, the mermaid’s blond wig tumbled to the floor to reveal closely cropped dark hair. Having been thus discovered, the hired actor, presumably deciding to play to the crowd rather than try to preserve the charade of being a mermaid, replied in a youthful but masculine voice, “No, my Lord, not twelve—I am a nineteen-year-old man!”
At this, the laughter of the crowd and the crush of bodies attempting to witness the Earl of Oxford’s unfortunate behavior completely blocked Frances and Anne’s view. “He should not have been surprised. Did he think Queen Elizabeth would allow such blatant immorality at Her masque?” Frances replied between laughs. What had started as an unaffected viewing of a man embarrassing himself and his family had evolved into a genuine comedy. He deserved any humiliation he got. Stupid man. It was common knowledge that women were not allowed on the stage in London. Though it was a private party and outside London, Frances had still chosen to err on the side of caution and hired a company of reputable players to play the mermaids and help add an element of drama to the surprise entertainment later.
“Worry not, mistress. My husband’s amorous pursuit of the poor player will only be postponed for enough time to gather his wits and change his tactics.” Anne’s acerbic assessment of her husband was not wasted on Frances. While it may have been borderline acceptable for the earl to have dallied with a woman in public, he could not do so with a man without the very real potential for recrimination. Most courtiers were calloused to sexual exploits outside of the norm; nonetheless, sodomy was a crime. In regard to the Earl of Oxford, even though no one openly spoke of his varied interests and exploits, everyone knew—especially his wife. Frances felt sorry for her. It must have shown in her expression.
“Mistress, you are kind to worry over me.” Lady Oxford raised an elegant hand in soft protest. Her husband may be ravaging a hired actor behind a bush somewhere, but she held her poise, ever the lady. “I had no illusions of fidelity when we wed. This does not change anything. I am still a countess. I am at court with Queen Elizabeth and have title, wealth, and leisure time. I am not to be pitied.” For a split second, Lady Oxford’s face hardened behind her smile.
Frances, feeling nothing but pity, could think of nothing good to say. As unhappy as she had been back at the Holme, she had never been disrespected so publically or embarrassed. She’d simply been ignored to a point where she wondered at her own value. She deserved happiness, as did Lady Oxford. Perhaps, eventually, they’d both figure out how to achieve it.
“Ladies, I think that the story of Oxford’s debacle will rank upon the top ten memories in my lifetime.”
Frances was saved from having to respond when a turbaned Kit Hatton seated himself between the two women, crushing their skirts. “At the last masque, my favorite story was of Baroness Sheffield and Sir Harry Lee’s unsuccessful dalliance. I wish I had been able to see it! They say that Baroness Sheffield started screaming from an alcove off the hall. Nearby revelers rushed to help the lady, but instead found her on her knees in a pool of vomit!” Hatton’s boisterous laughter began to attract attention. Frances had not heard this story yet. Vomit? Oh dear. Lady Oxford took this as her cue to leave. Rising, she dislodged her skirts, forcing Hatton to move closer to Frances.
“You must be a scoundrel indeed, for you have no regard for the care of my gown,” Frances half joked.
“It is true, Lady Pirate. I hate that gown. Though you are truly ravishing in it, I would rather see it crumpled upon the floor of my chambers.” Hatton leaned closer and took a deep sniff of the rose in her hair.
She remained still, but stiff. Was Henry here, watching? Would he be jealous? Jealousy, so the rules of courtly love said, was a sign of love. Silly nonsense. Henry had never shown any emotion of any kind, even at the death of his own children. He’d told her that these things happen, as if she had not already heard that a thousand times. If he could not bring himself to feel something over his own children, it was impossible that he was capable of romantic love, no matter how confusing his behavior had been of late.
Frances almost laughed as Hatton nuzzled his nose into her curls. He continued, “I was hoping to smuggle you onto to my ship and finish what we began earlier this week.” Actually, it had been that clumsy kiss which told her for certain that, as handsome as he may be, flirtation would lead nowhere. The kiss at the masque, those stolen moments with Henry as a masked stranger, still curled her toes. Hatton’s kiss just left her feeling awkward.
It seemed he hadn’t gotten the message that she wasn’t interested. Frances was saved from having to respond to Hatton’s obvious suggestions by the arrival of the surprise portion of the entertainment.
The wonder of the entertainment, decorations, and feast had mellowed as the party progressed and, overall, the festivities were beginning to slow down. This was the perfect time for the courtiers to gain a new burst of energy, and Frances planned to give them just that. Two barges and three smaller vessels advanced upon the piers. Masked men in varying states of undress, some shirtless and some merely in their shirtsleeves, boots, and black breeches tied at the waist with exotic silk sashes, leapt onto the docks with a riot of shouting before the boats were even completely secured. More than twenty broad-shouldered and bronzed guardsmen in Eastern turbans rushed into the fray of astonished courtiers causing a melee of delight and surprise.
Hatton sighed and shrugged his shoulders before meeting her even gaze. “Mistress, I fear I will be missed at Her Majesty’s side. Anon!” He pressed an ineffective kiss to her gloved hand.
Frances smiled as she heard the ladies of the court shrieking with mock outrage as England’s cleanest and most attractive privateers carried them off. Of course, Frances gave instruction as to who should be targeted. She chuckled to herself as she imagined what stories Mary would tell in the morning. Perhaps it would provide enough merriment to make Jane sorry she had chosen not to attend. Standing, Frances took in the scenery with a pride of ownership and moved to mingle with the crowd. If Henry was here, let him find her now.
She had not stepped two paces when a large hand gripped her wrist, spun her around, hefted her over his shoulder, and began to weave through the laughing crowd. Frances, in her meticulous outlining of every aspect of this masque, was fairly certain she had not scheduled her own abduction. Still, it wouldn’t do to be a spoilsport, so she protested with as much silly melodrama as she could muster as the masked pirate with a very firm behind ran with her to his ship.
• • •
It stood to reason that when a woman is flung over a man’s shoulder, the woman would be hanging upside down. If the man in question runs, then the woman will be upside down and bouncing. Add to that the impact of the corset—this was very bad indeed. By the time the pirate plopped Frances down onto a pile of cushions, her hair was beyond repair and her stomach was in her throat. She had no one to blame but herself—this had been her scheme after all. Perhaps she should have had some of the guardsmen demonstrate exactly how they planned to abduct the women. Yes, then everyone w
ould have known that carrying a woman like a sack of grain was not feasible if that woman was wearing a corset with an English oak busk at the center ending in a point just above the pelvis. Well, now she knew. Thank God that bodice dagger was sheathed.
“This was a horrible idea,” Frances mused aloud to no one in particular. She adjusted her position on the pillows to better accommodate her bumroll and smoothed out her skirts into a more ladylike puddle as she felt the barge begin to move in the last step of the primary masque. Queen Elizabeth and a select few would escape on the barges only to moor them farther along river in the countryside. They would anchor the barges together and have a four-barge square platform for further revelry away from the general court and London. The barges themselves were outfitted with silk draped pavilions, plush floor cushions, and ample food and drink. On top of that, a wagon train waited at their docking site full of servants ready to meet any needs the revelers might have. Frances’s only concern was that the court ladies might show favoritism to the previously not noticed guardsmen over the more regular male courtiers. She would just have to wait and see. As Frances did her best to recline into her pile of cushions, she realized, with some disappointment, that being with Queen Elizabeth’s specific guests meant that her opportunity to meet with Henry was gone. Her presence on the river was not part of the plan. Right now, the Queen’s guard, filling the role of Barbary pirates, would be presenting themselves to the Queen. The other abductees would have their comfort seen to by the servants while they witnessed some pretty poetry and exhibition of male prowess. Whoever had taken Frances had deposited her far from the show, and she was thankful, at least, for that. She hated that she was here at all.
Courtly Pleasures Page 13
