by Anna Castle
Trumpet grabbed a rag and dropped it to the floor, using it to sweep the oily shards toward the wall, where no one would step on them.
Mary scolded, “You’ll have to make another batch. And hurry — she’ll be calling for us in a minute.”
She went to the mixing table to help. Trumpet went to the shelves of ingredients. “What do you need?” She surveyed the medley of jars and bottles, most bearing a neat label. Herbs, powders, and oils, enough to supply a whole troupe of actors. Catalina had a chest especially made for such materials, but Trumpet left that domain of knowledge entirely in her capable hands.
“Ceruse, vinegar, alum, a bit of ash. And another egg.”
“Give me that rouge,” Mary commanded. Trumpet handed her another small plate. She mixed in a drop of precious cochineal, stirred it vigorously, and dabbed in her fingertip to test on Anne’s cheek. Anne flinched at the touch but then held her cheek out for general inspection.
“That’s better,” Mary said.
Just in time. Bess appeared at in the doorway. “What’s keeping you? She’s gowned already.”
Two maids of honor had arrived in the meantime to help dress her. The queen now sat at her dressing table, gazing at her image in the mirror with an inscrutable expression on her face. She saw the ladies approaching with their instruments of beauty and gave her own reflection a wry smile.
She was so easy to work with in this humor. Sir Charles Blount must be witty company, if a poor card player. Trumpet doubted Stephen could leave his queen feeling anything more than resigned tolerance or peevish exasperation. He should be deterred from joining Her Majesty’s midnight games at all costs.
Her Majesty closed her eyes as Mary applied the white paint with a linen pad. Trumpet worked from behind, removing the coif and combing Her Majesty’s natural hair, which was kept short these days now that it was turning gray. Then she worked the thin knitted cap of the wig onto the royal head, starting at the forehead. She adjusted the front a bit, watching the image in the mirror.
To land a blow with any force right at the top of the forehead, the striker would have to be taller than the victim, no two ways about it. Trumpet noted that both Bess and Anne were tall — as tall as Grenville, perhaps, if they stood on their toes. She and Mary were shorter than average.
“I understand your father will be here, Lady Alice.”
“My who?” Trumpet shook herself, appalled at the trend her thoughts had taken with the queen’s head between her hands. “I’m sorry, Madam. Yes, he will.”
The queen opened her eyes to twinkle at Trumpet in the mirror. “Daydreaming about your wedding night, may we assume?” She shot a wink at the other ladies, who giggled obediently.
“Your Majesty!” Trumpet ducked her head, pretending to be shocked. “I wouldn’t dream of dreaming about such things!”
The queen chuckled. “I forget you have no mother to advise you at this time. Alas, I am unable to fulfill that role for you. Perhaps you should have a quiet chat with Lady Stafford.”
Trumpet would rather be examined by eight matrons of good repute than have a conversation about sex with Lady Stafford. Besides, Catalina must know ten times as much as that ancient dowager.
“Just grit your teeth and think of your estates,” Bess said, laughing. “That’s what my mother told me once.”
The queen burst into a great guffaw, showing her sugar-darkened teeth. “Two earldoms should be worth a little discomfort.”
“I’ll do my best, Madam,” Trumpet said in a meek voice. Bess and the queen flicked their nearly invisible eyebrows at one another, their jesting spoiled.
Anne must have missed that interchange. “I’ve heard men like their wives to be maidenish. If they don’t enjoy it, they won’t be tempted to go out looking for more.”
“Now there’s a philosophy I hadn’t heard!” The queen gave her a quelling look. “Where did you pick up that bit of dubious wisdom, my lady?”
Anne covered her mouth with her hand, getting rouge on the side of her nose. “I don’t remember, Madam. One of the servants, perhaps?”
A cowardly ploy, blaming the staff. Trumpet crowed inwardly at her would-be rival’s discomfiture. The pribbling ninny had brought it on herself.
“Not one of my servants,” the queen said, meaning everyone. “Has your father met your bridegroom, Lady Alice?”
“No, Madam. They’ll meet for the first time on Friday.”
“Bring them to the Presence Chamber, and I’ll make the introduction.” She smiled at Trumpet’s pleased response. “I’ve finally found something to entice Orford off his cursed ship. Although I do appreciate the odd chest of Spanish gold he adds to my treasury now and then.”
“He serves you in his own way, Madam.”
The queen treated that platitude to a cat’s slow blink. She knew Trumpet wasn’t an idiot — it was a difficult role to maintain, day after day in such close quarters under such wise eyes — but she allowed herself to forget most of the time. Trumpet tried not to remind her.
The queen closed her eyes again to allow Mary to dab the lids with a touch of rouge. When she opened them again, she said, “I know more about my lord of Orford from Sir Walter than from the earl himself — or his daughter. He’s a staunch ally, a bold man in battle, and an implacable enemy if crossed.” She flicked a glance toward Anne, then fixed her potent gaze on Trumpet. “Your husband would be wise to treat you kindly, my lady.”
“I trust that he will, Madam.”
Could she know about Stephen and Anne already? They hadn’t done much yet, as far as Trumpet knew. Her Majesty claimed to loathe dalliances, but she filled her court with healthy young persons and gave them nothing to do but amuse one another. Somewhere in her heart, she must enjoy the shifting patterns of romances and disasters as much as Arthur Grenville had.
That thought led to another. Stephen was as weighty a philosopher as his new playmate. He accepted the idea that lovemaking with his wife would be strictly a matter of duty to the earldom, finding his pleasures elsewhere. But he could have heard stories about his future father-in-law’s implacability and feared a privateer’s reprisal. Could he have met Grenville in the orchard and stopped his gossip with a brick?
That seemed too energetic for Stephen, but men could change. And even chickens would lash out to defend themselves when cornered.
NINE
“HOW LONG DO YOU THINK it will be, Mr. Bacon?”
“What’s that?” Francis startled. How long had Sir Charles Blount been standing there? His mind had wandered, as it often did during these long hours attending upon the queen in the Presence Chamber. She rarely wanted him for anything, but he feared to let his privilege of attendance lapse, so he stood under a painting of the defeat of the Spanish Armada and let his mind wander.
He’d been watching his cousin Robert enter the room, pausing at the door to speak with Lady Mary Buckleigh. The queen’s gentlewomen took it in turn to greet people as they entered, sometimes gently turning them away. Robert bowed over her hand as she murmured a few words. He must be paying her to give him a confidential word about the queen’s humor that morning.
Robert waddled up the red carpet to the dais, where he paused, kneeling, to await an invitation to proceed. He scarcely had to wait a second before she beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. He stood on her right side and began to speak in a low voice, making frequent reference to a parchment roll he’d drawn from his sleeve.
“Will she do it before the end of the summer progress, do you think?” Sir Charles asked. “Or wait until we’re back in London?”
“I couldn’t say.” Francis had seldom offered an answer more sincere. He had no idea what Sir Charles was talking about.
“I’m betting on the former. Most of the council travels with her anyway. There’s no advantage to Whitehall.”
The council? Ah. Now Francis understood. Sir Charles was speculating about Robert’s rumored appointment to the Privy Council. “He’s far too young, surely. He
just turned twenty-seven.”
“Why else would she knight him?”
Francis only shrugged. He’d had enough of that topic.
Sir Charles grunted to show his understanding. “I think she should do it. The old guard is fading fast. Better to start mixing in younger men before the old ones disappear, taking their experience with them.”
“Wise words,” Francis said. “Have you mentioned this idea to her?”
“I have not. I don’t offer opinions. I smile, I dance, I lose at cards. I fight when and where I’m told to go. I know my place.” He smiled ruefully.
He did more than that. Sir Charles was the model courtier. He was handsome, with black hair, dark eyes, and excellent legs. He dressed well, but not too well, steering a sartorial course between the ostentation of Sir Walter Ralegh and the self-effacing plainness of Sir Robert Cecil. He danced with vitality and grace and possessed a pleasant singing voice. He could discourse fluently about literature and philosophy with a homely touch of the West Country in his accent. He had served in Ireland with Sir Walter and in the Netherlands with the Earl of Essex, performing whatever task was given him with ability and without complaint.
“We’ve lost Walsingham,” Sir Charles continued. “And now both Sir Christopher Hatton and Lord Burghley are sick at home. Who’s next? Is anyone on the Privy Council under the age of fifty?”
Francis turned his gaze to the embossed and gilded ceiling while he ran through the roster in his mind. Burghley, Whitgift, Cobham, Hunsdon, Knollys: all over sixty. Fortescue, Heneage, Howard, Buckhurst: all in their fifties. “Sir Christopher Hatton is not yet fifty, and the Earl of Derby is still in his thirties. But they are the only ones of that generation.”
Sir Charles smiled as if he’d won a bet. “You’re a fountain of knowledge, Mr. Bacon.”
Francis frowned, not much flattered, though it must have been meant as a compliment. A fountain, was he? One into which all and sundry dipped at their pleasure. Perhaps he could find a way to charge by the bucket.
“Not well enough appreciated, in my view,” Sir Charles said. “Put aside the question of a council appointment and Her Majesty would have as good a reason to acknowledge your contributions as Sir Robert’s. Your advice letters are studied by everyone who concerns themselves with the health of our nation at home and abroad.”
“We each serve in whatever way we are able.” Now he really was being flattered, but why? What could this man want from him? If he imagined Francis had influence with the Cecils, whether father or son, owing to the family relationship, he’d badly misread that situation.
“You’re too modest, Mr. Bacon. Your insights are always illuminating and your arguments sound. That’s why the queen keeps you close at hand. For example, do you agree that appointing one young man to the Council would set a useful precedent?”
“Useful?” Francis felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Surely Sir Charles wasn’t hinting that he be considered for a seat on the Council? Impossible! No one had ever intimated anything along that line, not ever.
Sir Charles tilted his head down and lowered his voice. “There is one even younger than Sir Robert who deserves such consideration, as you must know.”
The tingle vanished. “You mean my lord of Essex.”
“Why not? He has broad experience for his years and would bring the perspective of an active soldier to the table. One sorely lacking among the present company of old men.”
Francis chuckled. “If he ever stays home long enough to sit down.”
He was spared the need for further response by the arrival of a group of three Russians or Poles in vast pluderhosen that billowed below their knees. They bowed just inside the door, walked forward a few feet, and bowed again. The queen halted Robert’s discourse with one hand while smiling a welcome at the visitors. “Welcome, Royal Deputy Fiszka. What news have you for me today?”
Lithuanians, then. Francis was grateful for the stir they created, ending the conversation about Privy Council appointments. That topic edged dangerously into questions of the queen’s prerogative. Interesting to learn that Sir Charles had moved into Essex’s camp, however. Francis had thought him to be a greater friend of Sir Walter, who held himself aloof from the growing conflict between Sir Robert and the earl.
Perhaps Robert’s knighthood had been meant to place another weight on the Cecils’ scale?
Sir Charles wasn’t the only man under the age of forty chafing at decisions made by their fathers’ generation. The friction wouldn’t be noticeable to occasional visitors like these Baltic envoys, but those who followed the court could see islands forming around three peaks: Sir Walter Ralegh, Sir Robert Cecil, and the Earl of Essex. Wise men like Sir Charles were assessing their options and making their bids.
Sir Walter had retainers, but none of great name. As the queen’s favorite, he might think himself sufficient unto himself. That was his nature as well; a more arrogant man had never lived. But Her Majesty had never granted him a seat on the Privy Council. She knew him best and must have her reasons. He did form an imposing counterweight to the council; maybe that was part of his function.
Robert had inherited a web of long-established connections, woven of men who owed their positions to his father’s influence. He didn’t like war or value the experience of soldiers, so he would be less interested in the service of a man like Sir Charles. The Cecils valued university men, clerks, and lawyers — except for one.
That left Essex, the quintessential man of parts, who combined the military, the scholarly, and the political in one well-proportioned frame. His warmth, intelligence, and loyalty to his friends attracted many able men to his side.
Three aspiring men, already in high positions, strove mightily to rise still higher. They weren’t yet in open opposition to one another, but the competition was sure to grow hotter as the queen grew older. Meanwhile, lesser men did what they could to advance themselves. Young men new at court, like Arthur Grenville, cast about for an influential patron, offering whatever services they could to gain favor.
Grenville’s specialty seemed to be gossip. That avid pursuit must have uncovered someone’s dangerous secret. That person must still possess it. If the risk of exposure remained, so did the latent need to prevent that calamity.
Francis remembered that Sir Charles, like Grenville, came from Dorset. They must have known each other, at least to some degree. “I was sorry to learn about the death of your countryman.”
“Who? Oh, you mean Arthur Grenville. Yes, what a tragedy!”
“What possessed him to go pick fruit right before supper?”
Sir Charles shook his head ruefully. “A lady, I have no doubt. I suspect the cherries were merely a ruse.”
“He went there to meet a lady, you mean?”
“It’s more likely than picking fruit in your best clothes.”
Francis hadn’t thought of that angle, nor had his assistants. Grenville might have met a lady and been surprised by a jealous lover. “Did you know him well?”
“No, not well. My father knows his father, but our paths never crossed until this summer.” Sir Charles frowned, shaking his head again. “We should have taken him under our wing, Sir Walter or me.”
“Did he seek such shelter?”
“He tried, certainly. Sir Walter is the first objective for any West Countryman new at court. But he doesn’t suffer fools in his retinue, and I’m afraid Mr. Grenville had little to recommend him. He followed me around for a day or two, but I’m only a second son. I can’t afford a retinue! Nor do I share Mr. Grenville’s taste for lewd gossip.” Sir Charles’s lip curled.
Francis wouldn’t have suspected Sir Charles of such fastidious views. Perhaps he had a personal reason for quashing Grenville’s gossipy chatter. He cast a glance up at his co-conversant. He was tall enough. Unmarried and attractive to women, he might well be pursuing a covert liaison this summer. Where had he been sitting on Midsummer Eve? Next to Lady Rich, Francis thought, a few yards down from Lady
Stafford.
“I steered him toward Lord Dorchester,” Sir Charles said. “More his style, I thought. They seemed to be getting along.”
“Did you know His Lordship was a pupil of mine at Gray’s Inn? Only for one term.”
“I did not know that.” Sir Charles laughed. “That must have been a painful task.”
Francis chuckled but waved it away. “In fairness, His Lordship has his qualities. Perhaps marriage will steady him and help to bring the best ones to the fore.”
“Not to that lady, I fear.” Sir Charles pointed his chin toward Lady Alice, who sat on a nest of cushions with Bess Throckmorton and another gentlewoman, chattering and twining daisies into chains. One of their duties was to add their feminine beauty to the luster of the ornate chamber and entertain visitors waiting for a moment of the queen’s attention. “I doubt she’ll be much help to him. Though she is very pretty.”
Just then, Alice trilled a laugh and clapped a hand over her mouth as if she’d forgotten where she was.
The queen shot them a reproving yet indulgent look. She turned back to the Lithuanians with a wink and said something that made them laugh. Sir Walter laughed too, but the smile he cast toward the ladies held a gleam of admiration.
Francis shook his head in a different sort of admiration. He’d watched Trumpet play the giddy damsel at court for months, constantly impressed by her skill at deception. It must be more difficult in many ways than playing a young law student at Gray’s. Her male counterpart had essentially the same character as the actual woman; he just wore different clothes. But when would she begin to play herself, inside and out? And what would happen when that day arrived?
Then a most disturbing realization struck him. That lady was more self-sufficient than Sir Walter, more cunning that Sir Robert, and more daring than the Earl of Essex — or at least their equal in those qualities. But unlike them, she had to hide her lights under a bushel.
Francis didn’t know what the consequences would be if anyone exposed any of her many secrets, but he knew she wouldn’t like them. It was lucky she was so short; otherwise, she’d be his first candidate for Arthur Grenville’s killer.
