“Ahem.” The sound of a soft cough filled the silence like cannon fire.
“Master Hatton, have you something to add?”
Immediately he was down on one knee, his hat over his breast. “Your Grace. I humbly beg forgiveness.”
The Queen sounded surprisingly patient, given the circumstances. “What have I to forgive? This time?” The court erupted into titters all around, followed by strained silence.
“I should have spoken sooner, put an end to this madness. Mistress LeSieur was indeed lured away from the hunt. Sir Harry Lee knows this very well as it was he who tricked her. He told me this much just an hour ago.”
“Your Majesty, I merely offered her escort . . . ”
“You,” Hatton interrupted, “misled her so that she would leave the hunt, and then when she rejected you, you left her lost in the wood in the rain.”
Sir Harry stood, his fists balled at his sides before lowering to a respectful knee once more. “Your Majesty, the wench led me on, sharing her favors with Hatton and I am sure others. I had every reason to believe her willing.”
“She shared nothing with me but a laugh, you poxy sod! She simply had not yet learned that men of the court take ever kindness as an invitation. She hadn’t learned to be a bitch yet, but that did not mean she wanted you mouth-breathing down her bodice. Besides, if you believed her to have already been had by myself, you would no longer qualify for the winnings.”
“And did you have her, Master Hatton?” Queen Elizabeth’s eyes blazed, either with fury or humor—and no wise man would dare to guess which one.
“Not I, my Queen. Although the prize of ten pounds and the prestige that went alongside it was tempting. Mistress LeSieur is a virtuous and lovely woman. I am only a man, am I not?” Kit Hatton was still on one knee, but gesticulated so grandly, he put on quite a performance to the eager audience of courtiers. “She would have none of it.”
“Smart girl,” was the Queen’s only response. The court held still in a hush, waiting on the Queen’s good humor. Henry knew better than to call attention to himself as the silence dragged on.
“As you can see, my glorious Queen, my pursuit of Mistress LeSieur had naught to do with desire and only the goal to remain Your champion.” God’s teeth, Sir Harry was a fool.
Queen Elizabeth laughed and held up her fan to shield her smile before continuing. “You lured a married woman off to a dalliance in effort to please Us? How noble of you.”
“I did not place the price on her, Your Majesty. My pride demanded success.”
“And yet Mistress LeSieur recently pointed out that pride was a sin, Sir Harry. We suggest you think hard on your next words for you are not speaking in your own best interests.” She turned her gaze on Henry, the moment he’d dreaded. “So, Master LeSieur, who did wager against your wife’s virtue?”
“I did,” Hatton answered.
“But I did not naysay it.” Henry spoke up, unwilling to let Hatton take this blow alone. Were they friends now? “I had faith in my wife’s virtue,” or lack of interest in dalliance, “and let them exhaust themselves.”
“So you threw her to the wolves. I expected better of you. And now you challenge, as Sir Harry pointed out, Our own champion without any proof but your own anger. And this, instead of staying by your ailing wife’s side? We wonder at your devotion. And, frankly, your intelligence.”
Sir Harry heaved a sigh of relief. Too soon.
“All of you, men I counted among the best at my court, are no better than children.” Sir Harry straightened once more. Hatton never even flinched. Henry fought a lump in his throat, his lungs tight at the thought that Frances lay sick as he, idiot that he was, distracted his own fear with anger.
“Your Majesty.” Henry leapt to his feet, not waiting to be recovered. “Pray allow me to return to my wife. I am a fool.”
“Yes, you are. Hold a moment,” She answered. “Sir Harry, what have you to say?”
“Master LeSieur, accept my apology for my disrespect to you and your wife. I placed her in danger by separating her from the court during the hunt.”
The garden was so silent Henry imagined he could hear the grass grow. The entire court waited in the doorway from the Queen’s presence chamber, fearing to move lest they disrupt their firsthand viewing of what promised to be the gossip of the decade. Only Queen Elizabeth made any motion, elegantly gesturing to rise up the kneeling gentlemen.
“Master LeSieur, it seems you are absolved in any perfidy. Go to your wife and get to the bottom of this.”
Jumping to his feet, Henry blurted, “Your Majesty, I thought Sir Harry Lee the culprit behind her poisoning . . . ”
“And now you do not?”
“No, and I beg his forgiveness for my accusations. I am sure that he is beyond blame on the assassination attempt on You, Your Majesty.”
“We vouch for him,” the Queen responded, waving a gloved hand at Sir Harry, giving him leave to stand.
“You have reason to believe the same villain behind both attacks?” Sir Harry interjected without thought about courtly niceties or his previous enmity with Henry.
“Aye, and the attack on Mistress Jane at the St. Luke’s Day masque. Someone has been terrorizing my wife.”
Hatton asked, still on one knee at the Queen’s will, “Who do you suspect then?”
“Something Sir Harry said—that poison was a woman’s weapon. Perhaps it is a woman we seek . . . Many women practice archery.”
“I can aim and shoot an arrow as well as any man.” Queen Elizabeth nodded and glared around at her ladies harshly for a moment or so as if to read their souls, and then back at Henry. “In this case Sir Harry and Master LeSieur are excused for their sword play and charged to find the culprit at once.”
A cry went up from the covered walkway approaching the Queen’s gardens. Two yeoman came forward bearing between them, two crying gentlewomen.
Kit Hatton ever Captain of the Guard though contrite on one knee before the Queen, addressed his men. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We found them running this way, talking of poison. Thought as we’d bring ’em to ye.”
“Speak, ladies.”
Mary ushered Jane forward before they both dropped to one knee before the Queen. “Oh, Master LeSieur! I have done a terrible wrong! I took Mistress LeSieur a goblet of ale after her dance, and she was ill after.” Henry could hardly contain himself as Jane continued to babble. “I knew she was tired and sad and thought naught of it, but the Countess of Spencer says it was poison. So then I thought maybe it was you at the dinner table, feeding her each bite and all . . . ”
Henry urged, “Get to the point, Mistress!”
“But you ate from that plate too, so it must have been the ale. But I did not poison it!”
“Then who did?” he asked.
“I did not suspect malice. She was always a friend to our Frances, and she said my lady looked overtired and should sit and have a sup . . . ”
“Who!”
“The Baroness Ludlow,” Jane answered, her face pale. Mistress Mary patted her gently on the back, as Jane began to sob once more.
Many audible gasps filled the moment, but none such as the stalwart Countess of Spencer. “Henry, Frances awoke, so Blanche and I came to check that all was well with you.” Bess gathered her breath. “My son, I left her in the care of Lady Howard and Baroness Ludlow.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rule Nineteen: When love grows faint its demise is usually certain.
Lights swirled. So much noise . . . buzzing pressed on Frances’s ears. Louder and louder, choking her. So much pain—the wrenching in her gut tore her in half. Stop! Stop touching me! She tried to fight the hands, but she couldn’t move. Where were her arms? Why couldn’t she feel her arms? The lights moved too quickly, too bright, too loud. Too much . . .
“There, there my dear. Mistress Parry said you had to get fluids into you to restore your strength.” Lady Howard of Effingham may not be terri
bly bright, but she sounded genuinely concerned.
“Your husband had best get you with child quick so you can use your nurturing tendencies where they would be appreciated.” Baroness Ludlow’s censure was not uncharacteristic, but really out of place in a sickroom.
Lady Howard must have agreed with Frances’s unspoken thought. “Lady, Mistress LeSieur has just escaped the clutches of death, and you mock me for being tender?” With that, young Lady Howard of Effingham rose and crossed the room to refill her cup.
Frances felt as if her stomach and throat were on fire. The incessant pounding behind her eyes made it hard for her to follow the conversation. If Frances could have found the strength, she would have smiled at Lady Howard’s nerve. Who would have thought such a sprite of a girl would stand up to sour-faced Baroness Ludlow? Frances started to fall into sleep again as she wondered why she had ever wanted to befriend such an unpleasant woman.
She woke from her dozing state to Baroness Ludlow lifting her head to bring yet another goblet to her mouth. The contents were vile, and Frances did not have the strength to force herself to swallow. The liquid dribbled across her face as her head hit the pallet of her bed with a thump.
“Why can you never do as you ought?” Baroness Ludlow’s voice penetrated the thick fog of Frances’s mind. She opened her eyes at the harsh tone, only to find her face away and drenched with tears.
“Baroness Ludlow, you are distraught. What troubles you?” Frances croaked her words. What was going on, and why did she hurt so much? And why was the baroness clutching her so tightly and weeping.
Crying? Baroness Ludlow? Impossible.
“It was so simple . . . Then you had to spoil it all!” Her voice was a sobbing wreck.
Frances shifted to raise herself and laid a hand on the back of Baroness Ludlow’s head. Whispering soothing sounds, Frances looked around the room for the first time, trying to take in her surrounds. They were in her chamber . . . the chamber she shared with her husband. She was in her bed but wrapped in flannel blankets. What happened? Fighting the pain, Frances whispered, “All will be well, lady. All will be well . . . ”
Frances’s soothing ministrations were interrupted when she caught sight of a heap of clothes on the floor that somehow looked wrong. Were those her clothes? She didn’t recognize them. Looking closely, she thought they were moving . . .
Baroness Ludlow sprang up from her prostrate position on Frances lap and scurried across the room to the pile and started kicking at what Frances now recognized as the unconscious form of Lady Howard. Baroness Ludlow was screaming and screaming . . . Frances couldn’t make out actual words.
“Stop!” Frances croaked. Baroness Ludlow ceased immediately and turned her malevolent stare upon her. Pure evil replaced the baroness’s regular look of disdain. The evil stalking her, Jane’s attacker, the Queen’s attempted assassin, it was all Baroness Ludlow . . . her friend.
“Why?” she struggled to whisper as she shifted her weight and slid her feet to the floor.
“Why?” Baroness Ludlow laughed at the word. “Why? Why what, mistress? I do not know what you mean.”
“Why harm Lady Howard?”
“That answer is simple. She refused to leave so I could finish with you. Silly bit of fluff, no one will miss her.”
Frances could not have anticipated that answer. “But why do you wish to harm me? I thought you were my friend.”
Baroness Ludlow had inched closer during the short conversation and was now just an arm’s length away. At Frances’s question, she stopped for a moment, taken aback. “Friends? Oh, yes. I have never had a friend such as you. You were like a shining angel in this dank cesspool . . . . ” Baroness Ludlow reached out her hand as if to stroke Frances’s cheek. “I tried to lead you on the righteous path. You were swayed by the glittering deceit of this blasphemous court, but I knew what was right. I gave you signs.”
“The rosary?”
“Yes, you were too calm in your acceptance of the English church. And your forepart was a reminder of what happens to sinners.”
Frances wrapped the flannel sheet closer around her bosom, careful to keep her arms free. “My sin was my cooperation with Queen Elizabeth’s Mass?”
“No! Your sin is that you are a whore!” Baroness Ludlow spat the words. “I gave you the jasmine to tempt you, to learn for myself that you were beyond reproach, and the temptation was too much! I saw you at the masque, seducing every gentleman you partnered and finally, a willing wanton in the arms of your husband.”
“So you taught me a lesson.” Frances prayed for her strength to return. If she could just keep Baroness Ludlow talking for longer, perhaps she had a chance.
“It was a mistake to attack your gentlewoman, although she was a doxy in need of punishment.”
“Mistress Radclyffe?” Poor Jane. “You mistook her for me?”
“Yes, and I was glad of the error. I could not have stood to see you suffer as she did.” Again, Baroness Ludlow reached lightly toward Frances and softly caressed her hair.
Frances held back the urge to flinch away and instead pasted on a warm smile. How do you rationalize with an insane woman? “I am honored to know you call me friend.” Baroness Ludlow wavered where she stood, uncertain. Frances continued, “I have never been able to call such a great lady a friend. I am blessed indeed. And now, you can show me the righteous path and help me not be tempted by sin . . . ”
“NO!” The voice was from one possessed. “You must die! It is the only way!” Baroness Ludlow’s light touch shifted into a violent fistful of hair as she pulled her head back, forcing her to look up.
Frances read the violence in her eyes and knew she was running out of options. “The only way for what?”
“To punish your husband! Henry LeSieur is a bastard who charmed the court and weaseled his way into the noblest houses with his false faith.”
Frances just wanted to keep her talking, but she was out of time. In a panic, she responded, “My husband? What did he do?”
“He was a pretender! A servant of that heretic, Walsingham. He lied his way into my husband and Norfolk’s trust, then betrayed them. Norfolk is dead at your husband’s word. My husband will die in the tower, and it is Henry LeSieur’s fault!”
Frances tried not to gasp as the pressure increased, drawing her head farther back, exposing her throat. Baroness Ludlow continued her tirade. “He has taken all I love. My husband, my home, my honor . . . So I will take all he loves.” Frances heard a knife being withdrawn from a sheath, then saw a silver blade sparkle in the baroness’s right hand. Her own bodice dagger.
“But he does not love me!” she protested. “The last time I saw him before court was at the birth of the twins. One died, and still he left me to grieve alone. That is not love!” Frances spoke nothing but the truth, and she knew Baroness Ludlow could tell.
Her grip on Frances’s hair loosened, but she still held the weapon. “But he loves you now.”
“Loves me now?” Frances forced an easy laugh. “You mean he lusts for me. He wants me only because other men want me. He wants me because I do not want him. And as soon as he is finished, he will ignore me again. I am nothing to him but a wager.” Frances wished she did not feel the words so keenly. They were only to convince Baroness Ludlow, weren’t they? “The only thing important to him is his duty.”
Baroness Ludlow let go of Frances’s hair with an exasperated gasp. “His duty, you say? Misguided duty. And when I am done with you, I will not fail again with Queen Elizabeth. He will lose everything and suffer as I have suffered. And I will serve God’s will.”
The door crashed open, distracting Baroness Ludlow and giving Frances the moment she needed to roll to the other side of her bed and fall to the floor to take cover.
Henry burst into the room followed close by Sir Harry and Master Hatton. Baroness Ludlow screeched her hate like a demon, raising her dagger high and charging blindly at Henry LeSieur. Master Hatton took her obsessive focus as an opportunity and
simply stepped up beside her and conked her on the head with the hilt of his sword. Her limp form crumpled to the ground as Henry rushed to his wife’s side and Sir Harry revived Lady Howard.
Standing useless in the middle of the chaos, Hatton remarked with levity, “Gentlemen, please do not let it be known that I struck a woman.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rule Twenty-Four: The lover’s every deed is performed with the thought of his beloved in mind.
Frances inhaled the icy breeze from the open window as she rested her forehead against the velvet upholstery. Drab, sleet-coated scenery jolted by as her carriage continued its northern trek from London to Nottinghamshire. Winter was in full force, and the recent frost had robbed England of the last vestiges of green.
Frances closed the heavy blinds against the cold at Jane’s request. Darkness once again enveloped the close confines of the carriage, and it took a moment for Frances’s eyes to readjust. Smiling softly in response to Jane’s accusing glare, Frances closed her eyes and attempted to sleep.
As if reading her thoughts, Jane spoke up. “I do not begrudge missing the work involved with moving the court to Whitehall for Christ’s Mass . . . I just don’t understand why you insisted on leaving in such a rush.” Jane shook her head as Frances opened her eyes in frustration. “And without a word to anyone. Not Mistress Parry or your mother—not even to Master LeSieur . . . ”
“I left him a missive. I will talk no more of it.” It was true, she had left a note. Of course, it said as little as possible. She just hoped it was enough so that he didn’t feel obligated to follow her. Frances had been honest when she told him that she needed time away from him to think. Besides, as soon as she’d gain her strength after the ordeal with Baroness Ludlow, she had been struck by an overwhelming need to hold her children. She loved them so much, every thought of them brought an ache to her chest. To think she had left them behind . . .
No. Frances would not feel guilty over her decision to go to court. She’d needed that time to herself. Time to figure out who she was. It was ironic that her time away had made her realize that being a mother was an integral part of who she was. But she also had to be a woman, to be proud of herself for her own sake. Yes, she was going home to be a mother, but things were going to change at Holme LeSieur. The Holme would no longer be stagnant, waiting in expectation of one of the master’s visits. No, the Holme would no longer be her cage . . . It would be her home, alive with love, laughter, and friendship.
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