“I owe you my apologies, Mistress LeSieur. In my vanity and anger I insulted you and your family, and that was ill done.”
Her jaw did not drop open, nor did she gape like a codfish at this surprise. Her proper lady persona, it appeared, had one more job to do. “Baroness Ludlow, you do me great courtesy. I pray you will accept my own apology for my untoward response.”
Baroness Ludlow’s face creased into an awkward smile. “Yes, of course. Then will you continue to count me among your friends?” She extended her hand.
Frances rose and placed her gloved hand in Baroness Ludlow’s. “If you will count me among yours.”
“Mistress LeSieur?”
Frances turned, surprised. “Master Hatton.” She dropped into a small reverance in response to his.
“And Master LeSieur.” Hatton nodded, still holding the gesture of respect.
Henry reveranced and they both rose up. “Pray pardon, mistress, but I have matters to discuss with your husband.” He cocked a brow at Frances and she nodded.
Yes, he was attractive, but she did not respond to him the same way she did with Henry. Even before she and Henry had begun their game of seduction and she entertained the possibility of a flirtation with Hatton, it was only in play. With Henry, she glanced at her husband, his jaw stern at whatever Hatton was saying to him, there was a tug at somewhere inside her, a visceral pull to him.
“Mistress LeSieur?” Baroness Ludlow called out her name again, drawing her attention back.
“I am so sorry, Baroness. I did not mean to be rude.”
“Of course not.” The woman’s lips pinched into her regular facial expression, essence of chamber pot. “Would you join me in the next dance? One of your ladies,” she gestured to the two women Frances had been all but ignoring since her return to the hall after the tryst with her husband, “could make the third in our set.” Frances almost laughed at the thought of what Jane would say if she ever told her.
“Mistress LeSieur?” Baroness Ludlow did not look contrite and friendly any longer.
“My apologies. My mind was wandering. The excitement of the past days must have taken their toll. Allow me to beg off dancing tonight. I think it is time I left.”
Left the hall. Left the court. Left forced pleasantries.
“Baroness Ludlow and Mistress LeSieur,” Sir Harry Lee approached, his step uneven, a Venetian glass goblet in each hand, “How now, ladies? Allow me to be of service.” He presented both goblets, one to each of them.
They both accepted, but Frances could not bring herself to take a sip, although a strong drink seemed just the thing at the moment.
“Mistress LeSieur, I came to beg your forgiveness for my forward actions yesterday.”
Frances stiffened. “Assuming I wished to dally with you? All but forcing me?”
“Aye, it was badly done. I do not blame you for your,” he looked down at his leg, the injury covered by his voluminous breeches, “actions. When you did not return during the storm, I feared for your safety.”
“How gentlemanly of you.”
Baroness Ludlow snickered and lifted her goblet to hide her smile.
He continued, “It was ill done, and I wish to make amends.”
“How would you suggest doing that?” Frances asked as she placed the goblet on the banquet table behind her. She’d already slapped one peer of the realm tonight. She’d best avoid having a potential weapon in her hand whilst dealing with Sir Harry, the Queen’s favorite. She rather liked the idea of splashing the spiced mead into his face and that, in itself, unnerved her. She was developing a violent streak.
He stepped closer and took her gloved hand. “By saving you from further abuse.”
“By leaving my presence?” She pulled her hand from his. “How thoughtful.”
He grimaced, his mouth tight beneath his waxed mustache. “I certainly shall if that is your wish.” He reveranced once more, his hat over his heart. “But first let me give you some information.”
She raised a brow and waited. Baroness Ludlow drained the remains of her mead then pressed closer to listen.
“There has been a prize on bedding you since you arrived at court.”
Frances sighed. Of course there was. Why would she expect any less? Tired, she asked, “And?”
“The wager was set up by your husband, Master LeSieur.”
She straightened her shoulders and looked up sharply, meeting his eye. “I do not believe you.”
“I see that, but ask Master Hatton. He has pursued you as well.”
“Henry would not do that.”
“Oh, but he did,” Baroness Ludlow added in sotto voce. “Even I heard of it. Ten pounds on bedding you. Some might be flattered to be worth so much.”
There had to be a mistake. Henry, even before their time together, especially before their time together, would not be so callous to lay a bet on bedding his wife. She had no words.
She glanced around the great hall but could not spot him. Had he left with Kit Hatton? Mayhap to collect on the wager. He had certainly won.
Baroness Ludlow picked up Frances’s discarded goblet and pressed it into her hands. “Drink. You look pale.”
Frances took a sip of the sweet mead, the honey spiced with nutmeg sending a feeling of warmth through her. She did not know how to process the information, how to behave. She needed a quiet place to write it out and think.
“The musicians are starting a new song. Baroness Ludlow, Mistress LeSieur, I pray you, join me.”
Maybe a dance would help reel in her riot of emotions, focus her thoughts. She took a deep draft of the mead, almost emptying the goblet and then accepted Sir Harry Lee’s hand, too numb for anger or self-righteousness. “I am honored, sir.”
The drummer beat out the rhythm as Frances took her place on the floor and reveranced her partners. Stepping lightly from side to side and then a spin, she lost her bearings and crashed into Baroness Ludlow.
The woman reached out to steady her, concern in her eyes despite the disdain in the set of her mouth. It must be a miserable thing to be Baroness Ludlow. No friends . . .
Her thoughts trailed off, and she tried to stay upright. “I do not feel at all well. Pray excuse me, Sir Harry, Baroness Ludlow.” Frances stumbled off the dance floor. It was simply too hot in here. Suffocating.
“Allow me to escort you.” Sir Harry placed a possessive hand on the small of her back and ushered her toward the door.
“Mistress,” Jane appeared before her. A sense of relief speared through her. At least she did have friends she could trust. Mary. Jane. Frances offered a silent prayer of gratitude as Jane took her hand and guided her to an empty bench. Sir Harry Lee followed but Baroness Ludlow . . . Where was she? Still dancing?
“You are not well, and I am not the only one to notice. Here,” Jane pushed a heavy goblet into Frances’s weak hand. “Drink this. It will warm your blood.”
Frances took a deep gulp of the ale and grimaced. Sir Harry sat beside her with every appearance of genuine concern for her wellbeing. He was probably just concerned that she recover herself enough for him to be able to get under her skirts in some dark corner. Men were all the same—they would only value her for the juncture between her thighs. Sickening. She had never felt so worthless in her life. Frances could hardly think straight. She was so angry but couldn’t remember why.
Jane sat beside her in silent companionship as Frances sipped the strong ale and tried not to cry. She was such a fool.
“Jane, I think we should go home,” Frances muttered and laid her head on Jane’s shoulder, grateful that she could sleep.
Jane’s arms wrapped around her in time to hold her steady as the world went black.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rule Two: A man in love is always apprehensive
Henry LeSieur burst into the room. “What has happened?” His voice broke the concentrated silence of waiting. He hurried across to join Blanche and knelt by Frances’s unconscious form. He had no words as
he gently laid his hand in his wife’s hair.
Blanche Parry, more maternal than Frances’s mother, answered. “Only time will tell. I have purged her, but do not know what the poison is or how long it has been in her body . . . ”
“Poison?” He spoke the word with a sharp rasp. “Poison?” Anger burned in his throat, and he tried to calm himself, to be the man Frances needed right now.
Blanche said nothing, watching him patiently as the tide of Henry’s anger won the battle over his efforts.
“Have I done my duty? No! When I should have been protecting the Queen, I was wooing my wife. When I should have been wooing my wife, I was protecting the Queen! I have failed on all accounts, and I can only blame myself for being fool enough to play the games of courtly intrigue.” He turned and punched the plastered wall, crumbling flakes sticking to his damaged hand.
Blanche Parry smiled sadly. “It’s not over yet, my dear. This has to stop, these attacks, all the violence. Catch this criminal. Frances lives still, and that is a good sign.” Henry looked down at his fevered wife and smoothed a tendril from her brow, the oozing red on his knuckles hardly enough of a punishment for his failures. Blanche continued, “The villain has made a mistake—both of his victims are alive, and now he will be forced to step out of the shadows if he wants to finish the job.”
“I will not use my wife as bait . . . ” Henry began, hating himself for thinking the same thing, only to be interrupted by Bess.
“Frances is safe as she can be for now. I am here, and her ladies will not leave her side. Go and bring this evil to an end.”
Henry sat back on his haunches, thinking aloud. “Who could have done this? A courtier, definitely. Someone with a vendetta against Frances—or against me? Frances was last dancing, healthy, with Sir Harry and Baroness Ludlow.” He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. “Sir Harry wants her and does not lose well. Where is he now?” He did not look up as he asked the question, sure in what must be done. He had no time to consider the right or wrong of it; he needed to take action. Now.
“Hatton called for a meeting at the guard house to discuss the investigation into the events during the hunt,” she answered. Henry was certain she would not, that she’d rein him in as deftly as she’d always done with the Queen. She finished, “He crowed like a cock about it as he left, so very proud to be included.”
“Pride?” he said, quietly. It made more sense, Sir Harry’s motivation. “Pride?” He stood, drew his rapier, and bounded to the door, almost skewering the two ladies entering. “That is it. He could not win her. She embarrassed him, brought his manhood to question. Ha! That bastard thinks to assuage his pride by harming her?”
“Henry, that is not what I said,” Blanche stepped forward and lay a staying hand on Henry’s sword, pressing it down as both Baroness Ludlow and Lady Howard of Effingham shrieked at the drawn steel and huddled next to the wall. “Use your wits. I know you are angry. Afraid.”
“Afraid?” He spat, pushing past her into the corridor. He needed to take action. He couldn’t simply stay here and watch Frances waste away. “It is Sir Harry Lee that best be afraid. He is a dead man.”
The galleries were dark, lit only by candle sconces in the alcoves, but Henry knew where he was going. Down past the great hall, through the kitchen courtyard, the clock tower arch, on across the cobblestone path through the gardens . . . He ran like a man possessed toward the guard house. He pounded on the oaken door with his hilt, demanding Master Hatton. Henry had no patience and filled his wait with oaths and threats until, at last, he appeared, sword also at the ready.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Master Hatton asked amicably, his hand poised on the hilt of his rapier.
“Sir Harry Lee tried to kill my wife. Is he here?”
“He just left. And he does not wish to kill her, Henry. He merely wished to fu . . . ”
“Where is he!” Henry had no time for games. He was sick to death of games. Games had put him in this position, and he would no longer be anyone’s pawn. “Tell me, now, if you please.”
Kit Hatton was far more of a courtier than a warrior and did not vacillate. “He and the Earl of Leicester just returned to the Queen’s presence chamber. They should be there; the night is young still.”
Henry turned on his heel and headed back toward the palace major, his sword still clenched in his gloved hand. With a curse of exasperation, Hatton followed close behind.
“Henry, is Mistress LeSieur in danger truly?” he called after Henry.
He answered, calling back over his shoulder, “Poison.”
“And you think Sir Harry is to blame. Henry, he is neither that passionate nor that foolhardy. Hell, he has probably already forgotten any perceived slight, with some wench’s lips wrapped around his co—”
Henry held up left hand, silencing Hatton with the gesture just as Sir Harry Lee stepped into the darkness of the Queen’s Privy garden, a young girl tucked under his arm as he, playing the gentleman, shielded her from the light rain with his cloak.
Devil take the bastard; she was barely more than a child.
“Sir Harry, a word, I pray you,” Hatton called out.
“Kit, I am past words.” Henry lifted his rapier and bared his path. “Draw your sword, Sir Harry.”
The strong words broke through the darkness and his reverie. Slowly moving his hand to his rapier, he shifted his weight only to pivot and draw in one fluid motion.
“Who goes there? Hatton? And, ah, I see. Master LeSieur.” Sir Harry’s voice held a warning.
Sword at the ready and knees loose to jump into position, Henry held his stance. “You are a cur and a knave, and I will have justice for my wife! En garde!” His challenge rang throughout the courtyard, getting the instant attention of those leaving Her Majesty’s presence chamber for the night. It looked like he would be giving court one more spectacle.
Their swords clashed, Sir Harry careening back to gain his balance at the unexpected strength of Henry LeSieur’s blow.
“Stand down, Master LeSieur. I am the better man here!”
“Stand down, says he!” Henry’s mocking words were edged in restrained fury. “The better man?” Henry’s footwork brought him close enough to deliver another blow. “I say that you tried to kill the Queen and may well have killed my wife!” Sir Harry, again, blocked Henry’s blow with a loud crash and pushed him back.
“A murderer? I? No, I say it’s you who are the murderer here. Who here is the foul Papist who disappeared so conveniently during the hunt?” Sir Harry parried the barrage of blows from Henry LeSieur’s sword. “You are guilty of attempted murder and treason, and I will see you dead for it!”
Henry moved forward, trying to break through Sir Harry’s defenses with a powerful strike. “You poisoned my wife, and you are a worm to deny it!”
“What good would that do me? I cannot bed a corpse!” Sir Harry misjudged Henry’s feint and overcompensated to defend his position, rolling onto the cut grass of the garden. Righting himself quickly, he met Henry’s blade, steel hissing along steel—sparks in the dark night. Grunting with the effort of holding back Henry’s surprising force, Sir Harry muttered, “Besides poison is a woman’s weapon.”
Poison is a woman’s weapon. Sir Harry’s words rang true, and Henry staggered back, lowering his guard as he realized it may not have been Sir Harry. Then who?
Sir Harry Lee moved to strike at the distracted Henry when four armed yeoman of the guard stepped from the shadows to disarm both Sir Harry and Henry LeSieur as a voice boomed out of the fallen silence.
“Huzzah, gentlemen, for the entertainment. I find nothing as riveting as grown men acting like children.”
Both Sir Harry and Henry LeSieur dropped to their knees at the sound of their Sovereign’s voice.
“Your Majesty, I believe Sir Harry Lee has tried to murder my wife.”
Sir Harry interrupted, “I protest! It is Henry LeSieur who was the assassin at the hunt, and I fight for Your honor, Your
Majesty.”
“Enough!” Queen Elizabeth was in Her full glory, the meager light provided by the sliver of moon gilded her features with a supernatural glow. “We have heard about dear Frances’s illness, and We are most saddened.”
The courtiers in the shadows stopped breathing in a collective hush as they waited for the show to continue. To them this was one more game, one more entertainment. He prayed Frances would fight this and cursed himself for letting anger and panic send him after Sir Harry. His place was by her side, especially now.
“Sir Harry, as you have publically accused Henry LeSieur of treason, We ask you to state your evidence.” Queen Elizabeth calmly finished her statement, and folded her hands at her waist in a position that screamed, “We are waiting.”
“Your Majesty. Master LeSieur is a known Papist. Secondly, he was one of Your party upon the hunt and went missing right before the arrow was fired at Your person.” Sir Harry waited for the Queen to respond.
“This is true. There were many witnesses, Ourself among them.” Queen Elizabeth’s voice was severe. “What excuse can you give to save yourself, Master LeSieur? For the evidence is only mildly damning.”
Henry knew, better than most, the possible consequences of this makeshift trial. After all, it was due to his word that Norfolk and Ludlow had been sent to the tower. At least it took a formal hearing to justify execution.
“Your Majesty, I left the party to follow my wife, who had ridden off. I was concerned for her safety.” Henry did not add his concern for her virtue.
“A likely excuse, my Queen!” Sir Harry bellowed indignantly. “And his wife is not here to speak on his behalf. Or she may be involved in the plot as well!”
“God’s teeth, she may be dying, and you still malign her!” Henry LeSieur glowered. “There is no time for this. I do not know if she still lives.”
“Master LeSieur,” Queen Elizabeth began calmly. “It appears you have no one to vouch for your innocence, and the entire court is against you. We may have need to remove you to the Tower for your own protection pending an official investigation . . . ”
Courtly Pleasures Page 23
