Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  With a false confidence, she kept up her canter as she heard the horn sound—they were upon the stag. She was too far back to see, but from what she understood, undisclosed archers would take down the stag for the most part, but Queen Elizabeth would make the kill and claim the trophy. Queen Elizabeth would finish the hunt, and then they would head back to the palace. This form of orchestrated hunt had been performed a hundred times before and was more pageantry than true hunting. It was completely irrational for Frances to feel so vulnerable. It was probably only residual stress from yesterday. She reminded herself that Henry was here and she was surrounded by the Queen’s guard.

  Frances’s bay caught up with Baroness Ludlow’s just as her nerves started to get the better of her.

  “You do not look comfortable upon that mount, Mistress.” Baroness Ludlow looked to Frances with concern as she sidled up beside her horse. “If you are not a competent rider, you should not have joined the hunt . . . ”

  Frances was relieved to have the company, albeit sour. “No, I ride well enough. This horse is new, and I am just a little jumpy today. Besides, I feel like those clouds have the promise of a storm.”

  “I agree. And soon.”

  The two ladies rode forward in silence as they neared the group of courtiers clustered around the Queen. Baroness Ludlow leaned closer, holding her empty goblet over her mouth as she whispered, “She will have cut off the ear and claimed the kill. It was smart that She dressed in the red leather. She has spoiled too many rich gowns with this blood sport. It is amazing that She goes along with the farce. Everyone knows that it is never Queen Elizabeth who truly brings down the prey. She is only a woman and could never overpower a stag.”

  Frances clicked her jaw shut. Mocking the Queen was something that was not done. She hadn’t taken Baroness Ludlow as someone so brazen. The irreverence may have been only shocking if not for the hint of malice in her voice. It was well that they were out of earshot from the next riders in the procession.

  Uncomfortable silence lead into a change of subject. “How fares your husband? It was quite a spectacle for the court when Her Grace ‘reunited’ you.” Baroness Ludlow had a smirk on her face, and Frances knew that she probably had a few opinions on the subject. Frances was used to her harsh sense of humor—and if she would jest about the Queen, no one was safe from her caustic wit. It seemed it was Frances’s turn. She may as well be good-natured about the coming onslaught.

  Frances let Baroness Ludlow talk a bit about how unfortunate it was that Frances should be burdened with an unwanted bed mate. It was part jest and part bitter criticism. Frances could not blame her for being so jaded—Baroness Ludlow was stuck at court with an uncertain future while her husband was being held in the Tower on the charge of treason. It wasn’t a wonder that she had no well wishes for any other marriage and laced every word with biting sarcasm. Frances couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable with the knowledge that her own husband had helped to bring down Baroness Ludlow’s.

  Baroness Ludlow’s increasingly intimate questions were rudely, and thankfully, interrupted as Sir Harry Lee, obviously frustrated, rode up to the pair.

  “Baroness Ludlow, Mistress LeSieur, Her Majesty wishes for her curved bow with the rose engraving so she may fell the next stag unassisted.”

  Frances assumed Queen Elizabeth had requested the task of Sir Harry and he was re-delegating the unwanted job. It was surprising he had not sent one of the yeomen for it. Then again, the way his eyes settled upon her, the quirk of his beard, she felt Sir Harry’s interest might be reason for this request. She straightened on her saddle but could not see Henry ahead.

  “Allow me to say that the image of you mounted is a thing of beauty. I wager you could handle something more than that mare. Nay, you are in want of a stallion.”

  Frances had enough self-control not to roll her eyes, but the same could not be said for Baroness Ludlow who looked as if she smelled something very foul. “You would wager, Sir Harry?” Baroness Ludlow asked. “How much? Ten pounds?”

  Frances, again, looked toward Henry for guidance. He would not like her leaving the hunt, but if the Queen commanded it . . . “Might Yeoman Todd escort us? I fear I do not remember the way back.”

  Baroness Ludlow sighed. “Oh, the wee lamb is lost in the wood. Worry not, I know the way.” She kicked off her mount and started back along the path.

  “Sir Harry?” Frances asked, uncertain and uncomfortable with the way he watched her.

  The big man smiled down on her as if she were a child. “Of course, mistress. I wish for nothing more than your comfort.”

  He nodded to the guardsman then looked back to her. “Go now.”

  “As you say.” Frances bowed her head to him then kicked her mare into a canter to catch up with the baroness, the guardsman following behind.

  “Mistress LeSieur,” he called after her, “I knew I could count on you to fulfill my desires.” Sir Harry poured so much slime into his words that Frances felt ridiculous for ever thinking him attractive.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rule Five: That which is not given freely by the object of one’s love loses its savor.

  Henry had had enough of courtly posturing, but was not so much a fool as to overlook the honor of joining Queen Elizabeth’s hunt. After the Queen had claimed her trophy and passed the bloody bounty to Leicester, the head gamekeeper announced the general whereabouts of the second stag and the party was on the move once more.

  On top of it all, he was too close by far to Kit Hatton. Ever since their unusual alliance over Mistress Jane’s attack and then damage control about Hatton’s inability to keep himself in check around Frances, he wondered if there might actually be a basis for friendship. He abandoned that thought as his respect for the man dwindled in the face of Hatton’s syrup-thick flirtation with the Queen. At least Sir Harry Lee was nowhere to be found. He hardly knew the man, and his obvious dislike of Henry made no sense. At the start of the hunt, every sentence held a taunting jibe. Henry felt as if Sir Harry were working through a list of insults: his wife, his parentage, his faith, his manhood . . . A lesser man would have called him out. He would be willing to bet an angel that Sir Harry wanted a reason to duel. Where had all this animosity come from?

  Henry broke from his thoughts as the party made an about face at the direction of the hounds. After a moment’s hesitation, Henry simply turned his horse and waited for his wife to reach him.

  Lady Rich, Colonel Blount, various courtiers, all trotted by, but where was Frances? Glancing over the courtiers to ensure that he did not misunderstand his wife’s place in precedence, he noted the other courtiers conspicuous in their absence.

  Baroness Ludlow and Sir Harry Lee. The yeoman who had brought up the rear had been replaced.

  Henry heeled his stallion, Petit Chou, forward until he flanked the tall ginger haired guardsman. “Yeoman, do you know where Mistress LeSieur has got herself to?”

  The yeoman tugged on his cap in respect before answering, “She rode off with Baroness Ludlow. Yeoman Todd provided escort.”

  Damnation. She’d promised to stay with the party.

  He barely ground out, “Where were they headed?”

  “Back along the path to the palace, based on their direction. I do not know more than that.”

  “And Sir Harry?”

  “He followed shortly behind.”

  With a gracious nod of thanks, he spurred his stallion onward and set off at a gallop after his absent wife. He didn’t trust Baroness Ludlow, but he could handle her vitriol. How could a man as merry as Baron Ludlow have burdened himself with such a noxious shrew? He was probably enjoying his respite in the Tower.

  As for Sir Harry, well he was in dire need of a beating.

  Laying low over Petit Chou’s speckled neck, Henry clenched his teeth in a fury. Damn the man. Sir Harry had his share of lovers; why seek out Frances? Certainly she was beautiful, but very, very unavailable. This could not be about the ten pounds Hatton plac
ed on her seduction, could it? And now he was hunting a married lady of the court right under Queen Elizabeth’s nose. Right under her husband’s nose.

  Had he no sense?

  Henry was forced to slow his horse’s pace in order to maneuver a muddy incline . . . When had it started raining? He adjusted his seat as his stallion carefully picked his footing down the increasingly treacherous slope and tried to calm his rage with reason. Why was he jumping to the assumption that Sir Harry had masterminded this liaison? What if Frances wanted a dalliance? Petit Chou whinnied at the unexpected tension and Henry forced himself to relax. There was no point in jumping to any conclusions—there may be nothing more to this than ridiculous paranoia.

  Henry adjusted his cape to better cover his neck and shoulders and kept his stallion, Petit Chou, at as quick a pace as was safe in the growing deluge. The rain brought a chill with it signaling the start of winter—not a storm to be caught in without shelter. He had to get to Frances. Keeping his eyes on the path and his ears sharp for any misplaced noise, he continued down the muddy slope toward the first stream.

  • • •

  “By the saints, Sir Harry, do you not understand the words I am saying?” Frances lowered her voice in a way her children knew meant there was no room for argument. Of course, she had never spoken so foully to her children.

  Sir Harry kept his grip tight on her reins and smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his dark waxed mustache. “I expect my quarry to give me a merry chase,” he leaned closer, her horse side stepping despite his firm grip, “and you have done that, Frances. But the game is over.”

  “I do not give you leave to be familiar with my name. Release my reins. You are no gentleman.” She looked back down the path toward the hunt, hoping to spy Baroness Ludlow and the guardsman she thought were to accompany her. No one. In fact—she looked the other direction—she wasn’t certain which way was the direction of the hunt. It all looked the same. She almost cried in frustration just as rain drops began to tap against the tree canopy above her. What else could go wrong? It was foolish to even ask.

  Sir Harry tugged and her horse pawed the earth in protest. “Nay, I am a hunter and have finally caught you.” He released his hold and reached for her hand.

  She pulled away, but he grabbed her arm. Tight. Too tight. “Sir Harry, you are hurting me.”

  “Then stop fighting me.” He pulled, nearly unseating her. “That tepid kiss with Hatton made me angry, but I later thought on it and realized you were taunting me. It was not a kiss shared by lovers.

  “Thank God for that,” she muttered and tried to twist out of his grip. “I will not take a lover at court. I have tried to be plain about it, not taunting, not being coy. There has been no hidden meaning in my words.”

  “So many women will say that, play at virtue. But in the end, they want what I have to give.” He reached down and lay a hand on his padded codpiece with a laugh. “Flirtation is a promise of more.”

  “I was nothing but polite to you and would have offered friendship but never more.” She twisted again to no avail. Surely, he was a gentleman of the court and would not be forceful . . .

  He was already being forceful. She would be a fool to expect anything else at this point.

  “Frances, you and I have some lost time to make up for.” He released his grip and reached up to cup her face. She flexed her wrist, willing the pain to ease as he caressed her cheek with the back of his gloved finger. “Come back to the palace with me, and we will have at least an hour to ourselves. More than enough time . . . ”

  She leaned back from his touch, shaking her head, speechless with shock.

  “Do not deny me, Frances”

  Part of her wanted to cry, another part wanted to vomit, but something powerful, something within her she never knew before, wanted to fight. Her body was hers to give, not his to take and, by God, he would not have the satisfaction of her submission.

  She leaned closer, accepting his touch. His arrogant smile was that of a man who knew he had won.

  Not yet. Never.

  The storm broke overhead; a white flash from lightning sliced through the branches as she unsheathed the dagger from her bodice and drove it into his thigh.

  He roared in pain, his cry covered by the pounding drums of thunder, and she urged her horse around and bolted down the path.

  • • •

  The wood was dark, the thick limbs of ancient trees a massive weave blocking out the light. Henry peered into the growing dark, his eyes adjusting just as a flash of lightning blinded him. His horse reared beneath him at the following thunder and then he heard it, a shout. Following the sound, he let his mount find safe footing on the increasingly muddy path.

  Sir Harry bounded toward him, anger seething in his eyes. “Get your bitch under control.”

  “My bitch?” he asked, ready to draw his sword in defense if need be. Based on the expression on Sir Harry’s face and the blood staining his buckskin breeches, it was a good bet he would. “Pray, who is my bitch?”

  “Your wife. She teased me, always spurning my flirtation, and then . . . ” He looked down at his leg and cursed again. “Banish her to the country, Master LeSieur. She does not belong here.”

  Sir Harry spurred his horse forward and rode back in the direction of the hunt.

  Frances. Sir Harry had pursued Frances. He would deal with that whoreson later, when he knew she was safe.

  He retraced the path Sir Harry left behind him and saw the diminishing evidence of a horse galloping to the east. Away from the palace. Before he could assess further, the tracks melted into mud, and he set off after her.

  “Frances!” he shouted against the increasing thrum of the rain. He was on a path of sorts, but not the one back toward the palace and well off the route of the hunting party.

  The underbrush thickened as his horse picked his way out of the cover of the forest and down the bank of a swelling stream.

  A whinny and a splash was followed by a stream of curses he never would have believed his wife might even know, and he urged his mount upstream toward the sound.

  Frances stood knee deep in the churning water, her skirts pulling at her legs as she struggled to stay upright. She was trying to lead Persephone across the water, and the damn horse was throwing her head, refusing.

  Another bolt of lightning and the horse pulled back, agitated, the force toppling Frances into the stream. Sputtering, she found her feet again and reached for the reins just as Henry dismounted. Persephone whipped her head wildly, panic building with the storm around them.

  “Henry!” Frances gasped, almost falling back into the water.

  Henry grabbed the bridle, directing the spooked mare. Unease prickled at his nape as he soothed and walked her calmly up the embankment.

  Thunder rumbled and he laid a steadying hand on the mare’s neck. He could hear Frances trudging up behind him.

  “Is this supposed to ingratiate me toward you? Caring for the horse and leaving me in the water?”

  The horse’s ears pricked at Frances’s sharp tone.

  Henry cooed and smoothed the bay mare’s mane before explaining over his shoulder, “I had to get her away from you before you ended up trampled.” His experience so far with Frances told him that speaking common sense had a better chance of success than placating her.

  “Oh.” Her word came out on a relieved sigh. “I was worried you cared more for the horse than for me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want her hooves to tangle in your skirts—she might break a leg . . . ”

  Frances laughed and slapped his shoulder, her hand a wet smack against the sodden velvet. Lightning heightened the shadows around them, but the horse remained calm this time.

  “I think we must find shelter. From this location, the palace is an almost an hour’s ride in the best conditions.” The rain pounded harder as Henry handed Frances Persephone’s reins and recovered Petit Chou’s. “If memory serves, there is a gamekeeper’s cottage east of here. S
hall we?”

  He hoped he was correct and, even more, he hoped the gamekeeper was not in residence. They both needed to get out of their wet clothes and warm before a fire, and the possibilities that suggested were enough to make him stand at attention. Neither spoke until they broke through the tangle of branches and into a clearing upstream. No smoke came from the small thatched cottage, the secured shutters showed no sign of light inside.

  Henry let the horses to the shed. Built to house only one horse and provisions, it was crammed to bursting. Aside from the LeSieurs and their two horses, it looked as though the gamekeeper was stocked for the upcoming winter.

  “The horses should be safe in here through the storm. Wait here while I check the cottage.”

  Henry dashed into the rain, his boots unsteady in the thick mud. The heavy front door was, thankfully, unlocked.

  He closed the door once more and crossed the mire to fetch Frances.

  “I can walk . . . ” she objected as he lifted her into his arms.

  “I’m sure you can, but you do not wish to.” He prayed he didn’t fall as he pulled his boot free of the mud with a wet, suction sound. Balanced on one foot, he opened the door with the other and said, “Your palace, my lady.” He set her on her feet, and a wet puddle poured from her skirts in a growing circle. “Hardly grand accommodations, but if we light a fire, at least we can attempt to dry and warm ourselves.”

  Frances knelt upon the earthen hearth, skillfully arranging kindling. “I saw a woodpile on the south side of the cottage. It is covered in a tarp and might be dry . . . ”

  “Let us pray it is so,” Henry replied, crossing himself before he stepped outside.

  • • •

  Frances listened to the rain against the shutters, praying in truth for Henry’s safe return. And firewood. And food would be welcome. Oh, and ale. Amen.

  She rose and hung her sodden cloak on a peg beside the door. Her gown would have to follow if she wanted to have any chance for warmth, but that would have to wait until the fire was lit. Frances settled herself onto a stool to the side of the fire place. The walls groaned with a rumble of thunder, and a shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She was trapped in the middle of the forest, soaked to the bone—she should be miserable instead of thrilled, full of anticipation.