We finally set off. As the oarsmen rowed upstream, Hawkins carried on telling the Queen his plans for the Navy. Captain Derby sat astern, staring thoughtfully at his friend, while Captain Drake sat next to Lady Sarah, agreeing with Mrs. Champernowne that a hot toddy of aqua vitae, honey, citron, and water—with a good sprinkling of nutmeg and cinnamon—would be the best medicine for her.
Mary and I had a bit of an argument about our bet, but as Lady Jane hadn’t actually slapped Sarah, nobody had won.
When we arrived at the Greenwich Palace watersteps, Captain Drake swept Sarah up in his arms and carried her all the way to the Queen’s own bathroom, where she could have a hot bath. My uncle, Dr. Cavendish, was also called to open the vein in Sarah’s left arm in order to guard against infection.
She seems much happier now, and Captain Drake will be staying at Court tonight to see how she is in the morning.
What an exciting day! Everybody is gossiping about Captain Drake and Lady Sarah. I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow.
THE SIXTH DAY OF MAY,
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1569
I truly think Captain Drake is in love with Lady Sarah! He is certainly paying court to her. This very morning he sent her a posy of flowers tied up by a pearl bracelet—and a note with it that made her pink. As I write, Sarah is holding up her hand to admire the jewel and singing the praises of the Captain. She really seems quite smitten!
But Hell’s teeth! I can scarcely think of a worse match for her. Everyone knows he is no rich lord, but a Devon pirate who has made some money on a voyage lately, and is spending it on his ship faster than a Spaniard home from the New World. Her parents will surely beat her if they find out she is dallying with anyone but a rich courtier. Lady Sarah may think she is safe enough with them a hundred miles away in the north at Bartelmy Hall, but someone will surely be nosy enough to write and tell them. And no parents in the world would countenance a fifteen-year-old heiress’s flirting with a sea captain! They are seeking a good match for her now.
Mrs. Champernowne has just come in and, seeing Lady Sarah so lively, she said, “Well now, I think you are as fit as a fiddle, so out of bed with you, and back to your duties.” And for a wonder, Sarah has not moaned at how hard-hearted she is.
Fie! Mrs. Champernowne has just told me to stop my scribbling as well. I am to change into my second-best kirtle—the white damask. I expect we are wanted to sit in the Presence Chamber and wind wool for Mrs. Champernowne while Her Majesty talks to tedious Scottish ambassadors and the like.
Well, this morning has been far more interesting than I thought it would be. (It’s a good thing I carry my daybooke in my embroidery workbag, along with a penner full of pens and ink. Mrs. Champernowne thinks it would be more improving for me to sew in odd moments than scribble, but the Queen allows it.)
It took an age to ready myself for the Queen’s Presence Chamber, as my hair simply refused to co-operate. No sooner had one lock been pinned up than another fell down. Why does hair do that some days? For once, even Lady Sarah was ready before me. Finally, I had my damask on and my hair dressed with my rope of pearls through it, and I rushed to the Presence Chamber.
Thank the Lord, the Queen was not there when I puffed in and sat down. Lady Sarah had already arrived and taken my favourite cushion, so I had to have the small hard one. She is clearly quite recovered! I noticed that she had Captain Drake’s posy pinned to her bodice and the pearl bracelet on her right wrist. She and Lady Jane were sitting with their backs to each other like sulking cats, as usual.
“Where is the Queen?” I asked, squeezing in next to plump Mary Shelton. “What did I miss?” I could see her face was pink with the effort of not laughing.
“Her Majesty has withdrawn before she gives audience to Mr. Hawkins. She is very annoyed with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane,” Mary whispered. “Lady Sarah came in and accidentally on purpose trod on the edge of Lady Jane’s kirtle and it ripped a bit. … And Sarah said, ‘Oh dear, not very well-made, is it? Perhaps I could recommend you a good tailor?’ And then Lady Jane said, ‘I know you can’t help your clumsiness, dear Lady Sarah, because you can’t see where your feet are going …’ And then the Queen threw one shoe at Lady Jane and one at Lady Sarah and told them to stop squabbling like a pair of geese!”
Just then, there was a flourish of trumpets and four of the Gentlemen of the Queen’s Guard came in and stood there looking handsome with their halberds, which is their job. The Queen swept in, wearing black velvet and white samite, and we saw that Mr. Hawkins was with her, attended by the two Captains.
As he passed, Captain Drake nodded and smiled at Lady Sarah, and she looked very pleased with herself. Unlike Lady Jane, who looked like she had sucked a lemon.
“My dear Mr. Hawkins,” said the Queen in the sort of ringing voice she uses for public announcements that are pretending to be private, “we are so grateful to you for showing us the state of our Royal Father’s naval yards and docks. For otherwise we might have gone on for years being cozened out of our Navy, whereas now we most truly intend to make repair and rebuild all that has gone to rack and ruin.”
Right on cue, Hawkins, Drake, and Derby kneeled.
“Now, it would be against all right dealing, and clean contrary to precedent, for us to make the sweeping changes that you have been urging, but we can at least make a start. We shall cause to have painted a portrait of our Royal Self, with ships and docks in the background, as it were in signal of our loving watchfulness for the Navy.”
I caught Drake and Derby exchanging glances, looking very disappointed. In fact, Drake rolled his eyes. Luckily the Queen didn’t see.
“We shall also begin to reform the docks themselves. Or rather, you shall, Mr. Hawkins. For by this patent I hereby make you Counsel Extraordinary to the Navy until the post of Secretary becomes vacant.”
Mr. Hawkins bowed low. “Your Majesty shall find me the best adviser—”
“All in good time, Mr. Hawkins,” the Queen interrupted impatiently. “For the moment, please continue as you have done, and by all means make friends among the shipwrights. But wait until you have the Secretaryship before you make changes, do you understand?”
“I am certain to have the Secretaryship?” Mr. Hawkins asked, sounding delighted.
“As soon as the greedy idle fat pudding of a man who has it now consents to die or step down,” said the Queen with a ferocious smile. “But all must be done smoothly and politically or the Royal Docks will end up the worse for it.”
Hawkins smiled back and nodded. “Aye, Your Majesty, it shall be as you say.”
“Excellent. That is all for now.” And Her Majesty dismissed Mr. Hawkins and the two Captains.
I have finished my recording just in time—it is midday, and the Maids of Honour are to eat dinner with the Queen in the Parlour.
Hell’s teeth! Lady Sarah too is surely in love! There she was at dinner time, sighing and picking at her food because Somebody was having to eat in the Great Hall and wasn’t there! But she soon perked up when Her Majesty decided to invite Mr. Hawkins and the two Captains to partake of some afternoon air with us in the Privy Garden.
As we walked, Mr. Hawkins continued to expound on ships to Her Majesty. I could see she was listening with interest, but I’m not sure she understood all he was saying because there were so many Sailorish words mixed up in it. I certainly didn’t! So I decided to listen in on some easier conversation.
Lady Sarah had, rather rudely, drawn Mary Shelton’s attention from Lady Jane to moan to her about the disaster that had happened to her gown the day before. “What I need is a sixteen-yard dress-length of that lovely white samite and some pearls to put with it,” she said. Mary nodded politely. “The damask is utterly ruined—it’s too bad even to give to Olwen,” Sarah went on. “And I desperately need a French-cut bodice and a new ruff and some blackworked sleeves and a new petticoat, and even my bumroll smells of river water now so I must throw it away…”
“If I can take a
fat Flemish merchanter, shall I bring you the booty to make you a new gown?” asked Captain Drake, who had overheard this, as he was supposed to.
Sarah blushed—and I knew why: it would have been more seemly for him to beg the Queen to give Lady Sarah the samite, like a proper courtier, than to go round capturing ships for it! But he didn’t seem to know that—and his offer was very romantic. Lady Sarah looked quite charmed by this blatant display of his regard.
“I could do that, too,” put in Captain Derby hopefully.
Sarah ignored him. “But I thought only the Spaniards had treasure,” she said, simpering up at Drake and fluttering her eyelashes.
“The Flemish are Spanish Netherlanders,” Drake explained, “and worth the spoiling, for they carry bolts and bolts of silk and velvet.”
“Oh, Captain Drake, then could you capture me a Flemish merchanter with plenty of samite and velvet? And then could you capture me a big Spanish galleon loaded with pearls—like the ones in my lovely bracelet?” Sarah wheedled, with her head on one side and her jewelled wrist held up prettily—quite disgusting to see, really.
“Aye, with a glad heart.” Drake laughed and bowed. “Anything my lady desires.”
Mary Shelton, who had of course overheard this exchange, elbowed me and made a sick face at all this romantic talk.
The Queen called Sarah over to her then, and the Captains walked off, oh so casually, in the same direction.
I am almost beginning to feel sorry for Captain Derby: he will persist—but clearly Lady Sarah has eyes for no one but Drake.
I have just had the most terrible shock!
I was first to bed this even. Mary Shelton and Lady Sarah were yet to retire to our chamber. As I was about to climb in, I tripped on something bony. It was Ellie’s foot! She was curled up under my bed, shivering and shaking and coughing—not at all well!
She explained to me that Mrs. Fadget has taken no notice of her illness and had cruelly insisted she carry on with her duties. She had sent Ellie to bring all the smocks back from the ladies’ bedchambers. But having been washing bedlinen all day, Ellie was exhausted, and she’d fallen asleep under my bed. Poor thing! Her skin was burning up and her breath foul, and she kept saying she was wretched cold.
I decided that I would seek out my Uncle Cavendish, the Court Physician—dearly hoping that, as a favour to me, he would tend to Ellie.
Mary Shelton came in just as I was dressing to fetch my uncle.
“Who is that?” she asked. She didn’t sound haughty, as most of the other Maids of Honour might do on seeing me nursing Ellie in our chamber. She sounded kind and concerned.
“It’s my friend Ellie from the laundry,” I explained. After all, Mary wouldn’t have noticed Ellie even if she had seen her about the palace. “She’s very sick. And she has no mother to look after her. And Mrs. Fadget, the Deputy Laundress, has been horrible to her!”
Any of the other Maids of Honour might still have fetched Mrs. Champernowne, who would probably have sent Ellie back to the laundry, and I would have been in trouble, no doubt. But Mary didn’t. Instead she came and felt Ellie’s forehead. “She certainly has a fever,” she said. “We must get her out of these wet clothes. They’re wringing with sweat. She needs to be tucked up in bed in a clean dry smock. We have to keep her warm, since she has a fever.”
I nodded. It was a relief to have someone who knew about these things. I hardly recognized giggly plump Mary Shelton. “How do you know so much?” I asked, very impressed.
Mary shrugged. “I’ve helped my mother look after our tenants since I was nine years old.”
Between us we took off Ellie’s worn old kirtle and her dank smock and I got one of my own from the chest and put it on her. Then we tucked her up in my bed, because Mary said Ellie needed a bed with curtains around like mine, to keep her from the bad night airs.
Poor Ellie was too feverish to be quite in her right mind and she looked very worried. “I must go,” she fretted. “Mrs. Fadget says I’ve all the stockings to wring out next—”
“Mrs. Fadget can wait,” I said. Well, that isn’t quite what I said, but I’ve made it more respectable for writing down. “You rest, Ellie. We’re getting the doctor.”
“What? You can’t!” she said, trying to sit up. “I can’t pay ’im and Mrs. Fadget—”
“It’s all right,” I told her, getting her to lie down again. “I’m going to fetch my Uncle Cavendish: he won’t want paying.”
So she sighed and rested her tangled head back down on the pillow. “Never ’ad a doctor before,” she muttered. “Not even an apothecary.”
But when I got up to fetch my uncle, Ellie would not let go of my hand, so Mary offered to go instead, bless her!
When she came back she had a very disapproving look on her face—rather like Mrs. Champernowne when she catches me writing my daybooke while I’m wearing my white damask. I saw why, and my heart sank a little. My Uncle Cavendish was swaying and staggering behind her. I love my uncle dearly, but he has such a weakness for the drink, and I fear it will be his undoing. Clearly, this even he had drunk far too much wine.
“Lady Graishe, my dear,” he said, blinking and swaying over Ellie in my bed, “I’m shorry to shee you ill.” He fumbled for her hand.
I was going to tell him it wasn’t me, but then I thought he might be embarrassed by his mistake and that might distract him from his doctoring. So I kept quiet and moved behind one of the bed curtains.
He felt Ellie’s forehead, his eyes slightly crossed, then her pulses, and then smelled her breath and looked down her throat. “She’s got a quinsy,” he said to Mary. “Quite sherious. No need to bleed, but she musht have hot drinks every hour and she musht rest and stay warm. Hic. I’ll ret—ret—come back in a day or sho.” And he staggered out.
Mary was still frowning. But she politely did not refer to my uncle’s drunken state. “Poor Ellie,” she said. “A quinsy’s horrible. My sister had one last year. She said it feels like your throat is full of rusty nails.” She patted Ellie’s hand. “What you need is a sweet wine posset. I’ll make you one.”
When it was ready, Mary and I helped Ellie to sit up and sip the hot drink. There was still no sign of Lady Sarah, for which I was grateful, as I was certain she would not take kindly to Ellie’s presence. I hoped we could have Ellie safely tucked up in bed and hidden by the curtains before Sarah’s arrival.
When Ellie had finished her posset, she gratefully sank back down on the pillows and shut her eyes. Mary went to her bed and I climbed in next to Ellie. It was like having a bread oven in bed next to me—or a furnace even!
Lady Sarah eventually came to bed, waking me up by humming some song about “hauling ’er up-ay-oh.” I was so hot then that I had to get out of bed again, so I thought I’d write all this down and cool off at the same time—maybe then I’ll be able to sleep.
THE SEVENTH DAY OF MAY,
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1569
I woke quite late this morning. Lady Sarah was already risen and gone—off to daydream about Captain Drake, no doubt—and Mary was putting on her white samite gown to attend the Queen. It’s a pity really, white looks terrible on her—it quite drains her of colour. She needs pinks and purples to look healthy.
“Grace! At last!” She smiled. “I have a drink here for Ellie—hot water, aqua vitae, honey, and citron. Give her spoonfuls one at a time, because it is hard for her to swallow. I shall be back soon.”
Well, of course I was very pleased to do it, so I put on my hunting kirtle and sat spooning the hot drink into Ellie and helping her up to use the close-stool.
There was a soft knock at the door and Masou crept in, just as I was tucking Ellie up in bed again. He looked very nervous—and well he might, because no boys of any kind are supposed to come near the chambers of the Maids of Honour.
“Grace, I can’t find Ellie anywhere, and I have looked in every hiding hole in the palace,” he whispered. “I don’t—”
I moved aside to show him Ellie
, softly tucked up.
He sighed with relief. “Allah be praised, I was so full of worry for her,” he said. “That hag in the laundry said she neither knew nor cared where Ellie was.”
“Ellie has a bad quinsy but Mary and I are looking after her,” I told him. “Don’t worry, she was seen by my Uncle Cavendish last night and he says she’ll be well enough if she stays warm and rests.”
Masou nodded, glanced around furtively, and then headed for the door. “I must go now,” he said. “Mr. Somers wants all of us who can swim to come to the watersteps and practise a new tumble for the next time the Queen goes to Tilbury by boat.”
“Wait a minute, Masou.” I stopped him, grabbing a piece of paper. “Will you take a note to that Fadget woman at the laundry?”
Masou bowed. “As my lady pleases.”
It always embarrasses me when he does that—which is why he does it, of course. So I wrote a very haughty note to Mrs. Foul Fadget, saying I was unwell and would keep Ellie with me because I required her help, and that she would return soon enough.
Masou trotted off with it after another elaborate bow. Unfortunately, the cushion I threw at him missed and knocked a pot of face cream off Lady Sarah’s table.
Mary came back then, carrying some soup from one of the nearer kitchens.
Ellie had been sleeping but she woke up as Mary entered. “Oh no!” she croaked. “Look, the sun’s up! Mrs. Fadget will kill me—”
I held her shoulders. “It’s all right,” I assured her. “I wrote her a note and she can do without you for a bit.”
Betrayal Page 3
