He stood so close, the two of them so nearly of a height that she found herself staring straight into his eyes. Aye, they were truly amethyst, she hadn’t imagined that color. Innocent as virtue, dancing with mischief, yet dark and knowing as mortal sin.
“And a dancer as well,” she finished, sounding breathless. “The Queen herself favored ye.”
“Thank good St. Vitus, the patron saint of dancers, that I didn’t wind up on my arse.” Irreverent, he grinned at her. “Or your good Queen on hers. I’ve barely had time to learn the steps, though I’ve hired a dancing master.”
“Don’t they dance in the Netherlands?”
“Ah yes, the Netherlands.” He laughed. “They dance well enough, I suppose...but I’m a working man, my lady. My prior position left me too little time for frolic.”
“And yer estates, are ye busy there as well?” she countered. “Where did ye say Briah lies?”
“Oh, far from here.” His eyes rolled heavenward, as though he studied the jewel-bright allegories painted between the gilded beams.
“And do ye never dance there?”
“In Briah, we sing.” His voice deepened, and an inexplicable thrill swept through her, raising the fine hairs on her forearms. “And all of Heaven stops to listen.”
She’d forgotten the Queen and the audience that had her nerves stretched and quivering on tenterhooks, forgotten the watchful Cecil poised near the throne, his pale eyes unwavering.
“It sounds enchanting,” she breathed.
Naked longing rippled over his fine-boned features.
“It is Heaven,” he whispered. “Alas that—”
“Lady Linnet Norwood, the Countess of Glencross.” Sir William Cecil’s peremptory summons shattered the fragile spell between them. She had the sudden sense it wasn’t the first time the Queen’s Secretary had called her.
“Saints preserve us!” She whirled to find the entire circle staring at her, expressions ranging from impatience to contempt.
Silently cursing her inattention, she summoned her poise and sank deep in her curtsey. Once, twice, thrice she dipped, counting her steps as protocol demanded while she approached the throne. She held the last curtsey, the cone of farthingale and skirts belling around her, eyes lowered to the sweet-smelling rushes.
And there she waited, legs trembling with the strain of holding that deep and unnatural pose, her nervous heart jumping and bumping against her ribs.
Perhaps the Queen meant not to acknowledge her. But she’d summoned Linnet, had she not? Perhaps the Queen disapproved of bastards masquerading as countesses, or lunatics who masqueraded as sane—
“Rise, countess, and let us have a look at you,” Elizabeth Tudor said at last, her voice inscrutable.
Swallowing a sigh of relief, Linnet swam out of her curtsey. Fighting a desperate battle with her habitual shyness, she looked warily up and locked eyes with the Queen of England.
More than mortal.
The thought surfaced again, stubbornly, as she stared into Elizabeth Tudor’s eyes. They were quicksilver and mercury. Starlight shone through her fair skin. How could anyone look upon her and not see it?
“Yer Majesty,” she murmured, throat dry with trepidation. “’Tis honored I am by yer welcome.”
For a heartbeat, Elizabeth gazed back at her as though she too beheld something wondrous. Her pupils dilated as she studied Linnet’s face. That measuring gaze swept over the rest of her, pausing over the antique heart-shaped locket at her throat, then the jeweled Bible at her girdle.
Caution dropped like a mask over her elegant features.
“No doubt,” Elizabeth Tudor said coolly. “We regret we could not earlier receive you. Sir William says you’ve been seeking audience for some weeks. The business of our realm has been most demanding.”
All of which was undoubtedly true. Still, Linnet noted the sly smiles that flitted over the courtiers’ faces, and recognized the snub for what it was.
As Countess of Glencross, she was a premier peer of the realm. For the sake of both protocol and politics, Elizabeth ought to have made the time.
Still, she pinned a polite smile in place. “Aye, but I’ve passed the time most pleasurably. Ye’ve many a fine library in London. With God’s grace, I’ll visit them all before I return home.”
At this, the Queen’s austere countenance softened. Her love of books and learning was well known. “We’re told you’re a devoted scholar, Lady Norwood. Tell me, how do your studies progress?”
Here Linnet felt herself on sound footing.
“Tolerably well in Greek and Latin, though naught to rival Yer Majesty’s accomplishments, and passing fair in history and rhetoric. I’ve less time for books than I’d wish, ye understand, as there’s much to be done for Glencross.”
The Queen inclined her head, elegant Tudor fingers toying idly with her jeweled pomander. “Your brother the last earl was a stranger to us, though we recall well his allegiance to my sister Mary. Yet Sir William reports he lately swore to Marie of Guise, the Scottish regent, and was in fact returning from that action when he was slain?”
A cold finger of foreboding slid down Linnet’s spine. Though Elizabeth’s words were courteous, the threat was unmistakable.
God knew, relations between England and Scotland were nothing cordial. And Guise’s daughter Mary, the young Queen of Scots and Dauphine of France, was viewed by many as the rightful heir to the Tudor throne.
Slowly Linnet tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, buying time to think.
“Are ye acquainted with the Norwood history? We’re peers of England and loyal to England, and my father was English to the bone. But we’ve Scottish blood too in our veins, and we’ve always been clannish. My brother James was in Edinburgh on family business, no more. My own loyalty to England and Yer Majesty is absolute.”
“We are gratified to hear it.” The Queen gestured to her cupbearer for wine, but dismissed the young nobleman without offering any to Linnet. Another subterranean ripple moved through the well-dressed onlookers.
Nay, these subtle royal pokes were not passing unnoticed. Superficial courtesy notwithstanding, this interview was not going well.
Elizabeth smiled and sipped her wine. “Certain of our advisors have counseled the border lords are not to be trusted. They say the Scots Catholics among our peers must be made to prove their loyalty.” Her eyes flickered to William Cecil. “But we are resolved to heal the wounds in this realm, and offer clemency rather than persecution to our loyal subjects.”
Linnet swallowed, feeling perspiration dampen her gown. “Yer Majesty is wise as well as merciful.”
“But our mercy is not infinite.” The Queen leaned forward, long fingers curling around the embossed arms of her chair. “Where sedition and treachery are concerned, a female prince must be no less resolute than the sterner sex.
“Tell me, Lady Norwood, what is your purpose in London?”
Here was the moment she’d planned for. Cautiously she spoke the words she’d prepared.
“I was thrilled beyond measure to attend yer coronation, Majesty. But I’ve family business to tend as well. With the death of my brothers, I’m the last of the Norwood line. I’ve come to beseech Yer Majesty’s counsel in the matter of a husband for Glencross.”
“For Glencross, but not for yourself, I see.” Elizabeth laughed shortly. “I cannot pretend to blame you for that. ’tis risky business for a woman, is it not, placing one’s life and fortune in a husband’s keeping?”
“Aye, it is that.” Linnet saw no reason to dissemble. For her own sake, she would have preferred to remain quietly at home. But with the Scottish marches so unsettled and border raids a constant menace, a woman who ruled alone—without even an heir to follow her—was too vulnerable to survive.
“Is there no man you prefer?” Elizabeth’s gaze swept the ranks of her courtiers and lingered on Robert Dudley. “Where does your heart lie?”
Suddenly, for no particular reason, Linnet found herself exquisite
ly aware of Zamiel. Though he hadn’t been called forward, he stood at her shoulder.
His nearness was pure distraction, yet also obscure comfort. He’d saved her life that day at the Maid and Minion. Even if his intervention had been no more than idle whim, it was more courtesy than any other had shown her.
She lowered her eyes demurely.
“I’m but a maid, Yer Majesty, and know naught of men. I’ve pledged neither heart nor troth to any man.”
Ruthlessly she quashed her lingering awareness of Zamiel. God knew, his reputation and murky origins made him an utterly unsuitable candidate for the sort of match she sought.
“That simplifies matters, to be certain,” the Queen murmured, a small smile playing about her lips as she held Dudley’s gaze. “What qualities do you seek in a husband?”
Linnet had made a list on the long road to London and promptly reeled it off. “A mature man of respectable pedigree and sober demeanor with a reputation for virtue, diligence, frugality and piety.”
Behind her came an inelegant snort.
“Sounds like a prescription for a deadly dull marriage,” Zamiel said, sotto voce.
Linnet squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “And discretion, Yer Majesty. He should have a serious nature, disinclined to japes and levity.”
Elizabeth Tudor was frowning. “All commendable qualities in a husband. Yet you do not mention loyalty?”
“With yer counsel, Majesty, that quality is assured,” she found the wit to reply.
“Well spoken.” The Queen granted her a nod, but Linnet sensed the watchful regard of the Tudor lion, tail lashing, behind her dispassionate gaze. “They say you descend from the Stuart kings, is that so?”
“Aye, Majesty.” Inwardly she quailed. “My mother had that distinction. She descended from the last King James, though no tie was officially acknowledged.”
William Cecil leaned forward to murmur in the royal ear, but it carried as he’d intended. “Catriona Norwood bore the bar sinister.”
He referred, of course, to the heraldic band that signified bastardy. Again the watching court rustled.
“Like mother, like daughter.” The whiplash hiss of a whisper from the crowd made her flinch.
Surely the Queen smelled blood in the air, like the lioness she was. But when Linnet risked a glance toward her, she discerned a flicker of compassion behind Elizabeth Tudor’s regal mask.
Of course, she too had known the stigma of bastardy. There were those who still questioned the legitimacy of Henry Tudor’s hurried, dead-of-night wedding to Anne Boleyn.
“Indeed,” the Queen murmured. “Your mother came once to court, did she not?”
Gratefully Linnet seized upon this topic, which led nicely to the matter she most wished to broach—a matter far more precious than her reluctant marriage.
“Aye, she did, in ’36. As yer Secretary can attest, I’m by way of being the clan historian. My mother passed when I was five. I’ve been retracing her steps that summer as a sort of hobby, aye?”
“Strange sort of hobby,” someone muttered. “Rather macabre.”
Despite the subterranean titter that swept through the ranks, the Queen maintained her level perusal. Linnet thought perhaps Elizabeth Tudor understood the impulse behind Linnet’s quest—the utter necessity, for both personal and practical reasons, of proving to the world that her father was who she claimed.
Unexpectedly the Queen addressed her attendants. “Leave us.”
As they dispersed with obvious reluctance, she beckoned for a cushioned stool and glanced toward the watchful Cecil. “You too, Master Secretary. Lady Norwood, sit here, if it please you.”
Surprised into speechlessness by this apparent sign of favor, Linnet perched carefully on the low stool, skirts billowing around her. As she tugged discreetly at her bodice, she glanced about for Zamiel.
There he was in full retreat, already engaged by a pair of young beauties who’d latched onto his arms with a degree of eagerness she found unseemly.
The brazen hussies. Irritably she twitched her skirts into order. Well then, what did ye expect, after what Dudley told ye? Thank Bride that I didn’t—
“Will you take wine, Lady Norwood?”
Jerking her attention to the Queen seated in state above her, Linnet murmured the correct response. Though she would have preferred simple ale to wet her parched throat, the rich spice of malmsey rolling across her tongue was not unwelcome.
She’d best take care to ensure the potent wine didn’t set her tipsy. Undoubtedly she’d need all her wits to sail these treacherous seas.
“So then,” Elizabeth murmured. “You were speaking of your mother. Came to court in Queen Jane’s time, did she?”
“Aye, before wee Prince Edward was born, the poor lad.”
“And a good Protestant king he was, for the brief time allotted him on this earth, may God assoil his soul.” Elizabeth bowed her head a moment. Clearly she’d been fond of her younger brother.
A surge of grief for her own loss swelled in her throat, catching Linnet by surprise. She hadn’t mourned for James, and Bride knew she hadn’t mourned for Jasper. But Colin—her own dear lad, the son Catriona left behind—Linnet had loved her wee brother like her own son.
Loved him and lost him, dead by mischance during her lost years. While she ran mad through the forest, he’d been left to play alone on the castle heights. He’d fallen from the battlements and dashed his brains out on the cobblestones.
Blinking rapidly against the sting of tears, she gazed at the Queen.
“Dear madam, I’m that sorry for yer loss. Losing a wee brother, and him but a lad, is a dreadful tragedy.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth inclined her head. “So Catriona Norwood had her summer at court. You must have been a babe at the time.”
Scalding heat climbed into her cheeks. “I was born the next spring, Majesty.”
Would Elizabeth probe further, and learn that Edward Norwood had been rarely at his wife’s side, lured by the famously good hunting in the King’s forest?
“My mother was kind to Queen Jane, aye? And the King yer father was that grateful to her, Majesty, he gave her this miniature to farewell her back to Glencross.”
Linnet opened the heart-shaped locket at her throat. The Queen leaned forward to look. Henry Tudor’s strong, narrow-eyed face stared back sternly.
In Linnet’s childhood memories, her mother had never taken it off. Yet she’d left it behind when she fled, nestled carefully in her jewel casket.
She’d expected the Queen to give the trifle a cursory glance. Instead, Elizabeth Tudor extended her hand, leaving Linnet no choice but to unclasp the heavy piece and relinquish it. Inscrutable, the Queen stared down at it.
“So ye see,” Linnet said softly, “Norwood loyalty to the Tudors runs deep.”
Indeed, it was for that reason—to remind all of her clan’s loyalty—that she wore the locket so prominently at court.
“Within months, Queen Jane was cold in her tomb,” Elizabeth said, “and my father hunting for his next wife. Did the late Lady Norwood meet that one—Anne of Cleves? Or any of those who followed?”
“Nay, for she bore me and my brother Colin, and never came south again before she...passed.”
Until she abandoned us to my father’s cold keeping.
Where she went after that, and how long she survived, God alone knew.
Elizabeth returned the locket in silence.
“Majesty,” Linnet ventured, “this clan history study of mine. If it please ye, I’ll beg leave to access the royal archives. Ye’ll know how it is, when ye can scarce recall the mother who bore ye.”
Elizabeth stared straight ahead over the stately lines of dancers, drawing apart from the gliding dance called the basse. Beyond them, Linnet caught a glimpse of Zamiel, bending close to some blushing redhead, all smiling attention for whatever nonsense the creature was spouting.
For no clear reason, a spurt of annoyance brought warmth to her cheeks.<
br />
“Aye,” the Queen said at last. “I do know. You’ll have your access to the archives. I’ll inform Cecil on the morrow.”
Relief and gratitude flooded through her. No doubt Cecil would not thank her for circumventing him. She’d take care to avoid him from henceforth, and cause no further offense.
With spontaneous delight, she sprang from her stool and knelt at her sovereign’s feet, hands clasped to still their trembling. “Yer Majesty, I—”
“Nay, do not thank me.” The Queen’s fingertips raised in cautious warning. “I do not grant this favor without condition.”
Caught short, Linnet retreated to her stool. “I’m yer loyal servant, of course.”
“Are you so?” Elizabeth’s plucked brows lifted. “Yet Cecil claims you are less than willing to cooperate in this matter of your confederates, Rhiannon le Fay and Lord Beltran Nemesto.”
Those names. Again they struck her like a mallet to the chest.
Feeling faint, she fumbled for her cup but spilled it, sending a torrent of malmsey into the rushes.
“Madam—I—I told Sir William...”
“You dared to feign ignorance.” The Queen’s nostrils pinched as though she’d scented an unsavory odor. “A clumsy ploy, countess, when my own Kat Ashley saw you with Lady Rhiannon at Hatfield, her boon companion.”
“Nay,” Linnet whispered, breathless. Her head was spinning with vertigo. In a desperate effort to clear it, she lowered it between her knees, uncaring for the moment if her malaise was observed. She heard someone ask a worried question, which the Queen curtly dismissed.
She drew a shaking breath and raised her head. “Begging yer pardon, Majesty, I’m not well. Have I yer leave to withdraw?”
“You have not.” Elizabeth Tudor’s eyes flashed gray as steel. Fast and low, the words spilled from her. “I intend to get to the bottom of your presence at this court, and you need not pretend your quest for a husband has ought to do with it.”
“But—”
“At first, I presumed you were here at Rhiannon’s request, to pass messages between us by whatever system she and Lord Beltran have devised. It’s been two months and more since they made the Channel crossing, and all this while they’ve sent nary a word of their progress. I know not whether their vital mission has succeeded or failed. Do not dare to pretend you know nothing of this!”
Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Page 9
