The Betrayal

by Mary Hooper

  Sonny was gone for some time on this errand and eventually arrived back to explain that he was late because Mistress Hunt had asked him to help sort out her dressing-pins.

  ‘I had to upend her work-basket on the floor and sort the pins into boxes of small, middling and large,’ he said proudly. ‘It took a long time but she said I did it very nice and proper. When I’d finished, she gave me a big slice of pumpkin pie for me trouble. She’s nice, she is.’

  I smiled, pleased he was happy and making himself useful, but a little concerned as to what would become of him once Dr Dee and Mr Kelly arrived in London.

  Having time on my hands meant I had more leisure to think about things, and my thoughts were divided pretty evenly between Tomas on the one hand and Ma on the other. When I was not fretting about one (did Tomas care about me? How, then, did he feel about Mistress Juliette?), I was filled with anxiety about the other (was Ma managing to stay out of the workhouse? How was my father treating her?). These worries lodged themselves in my head and it did not seem that they would be easily resolved.

  The following week I had a note from Tomas – a rather formal and correct note. It asked, provided Mistress Midge could spare me, if I would spend Friday dressed as a boy, working as a stable hand at Whitehall Palace.

  There is a tilt planned for Saturday and the stables are being cleaned in readiness, the note said. One ostler more or less will not be noticed amid the servants, and you may overhear something which will be of use to us in our continual endeavours against Her Grace’s enemies.

  I searched the note carefully for something personal or the mark ‘X’, which I knew meant a kiss, but looked in vain. Still, I thought, I was sure to see him there, and at least he must be thinking about me to send for me.

  Mistress Midge, fortunately, had always shown a surprising lack of curiosity about what I did outside the house, and, as I’d been very helpful to her by more than once going out selling her sugared mice on a tray, was happy to let me have time off.

  Unlike, probably, any other stable hand that day, I spent a considerable amount of time planning how I should look, wanting to look authentic yet not too unattractive. When it came down to it, however, I still only had Mistress Midge’s old jacket and Sonny’s breeches to wear, but I topped these with a battered flat cap found in the street (a remnant of a struggle between two groups of rival apprentices) and put a red paisley kerchief around my neck inside my white shirt. Thus clothed, I set off very early on Friday and was at the palace stables before seven of the clock in the morning, ready, in the service of our queen, to garner as much information as I could.

  I found the stable yards full of men, youths and horses; more horses than I’d ever seen together before, large and glossy and in colours from black to white and every shade of brown in between. As I mingled there it struck me that, although supposedly a stable hand, I did not know how to care for a horse: at which end to start grooming and which broom, brush or polisher to use where (for at least I knew there were certain conventions about such things). However, I soon realised that these aristocrats’ horses were mightily prized, highly expensive animals and each one had a dedicated set of ostlers who’d no more allow a common servant boy to touch their precious horse than they’d allow a beggar to sup at their table. I did not have to worry, either, about not looking as if I belonged, for many extra staff had been taken on to cope with the numbers coming for the joust the following day and everyone seemed to presume I belonged to someone else.

  I made myself busy carrying buckets from pump to stables and back again, and as I carried I listened. I heard talk about the queen and Sir Robert Dudley (though nothing that I didn’t know already), about Mary, Queen of Scotland, and the place where she was currently imprisoned – and also heard some interesting new gossip about the varied and colourful love life she’d enjoyed. I heard much about Sir Francis Drake – on the one part regarding whether or not he’d presented the queen with the blue diamond, and on the other some speculation as to whether he was a serious contender for her hand. A swarthy blacksmith’s lad insisted to me that, Drake being somewhat of a hero figure because of all he’d plundered, was well worthy of the queen, while his master was equally insistent that because Drake was younger than Her Grace and from a humble background, he must be ruled out. Listening to all these opinions and speculation, I reached the conclusion that men enjoyed to gossip every bit as much as women did.

  When I joined in with this tittle-tattle, sometimes I came down on one side of the fence and sometimes on the other. I dearly wanted the queen to be happily married, but didn’t always commend her choice. Drake, for instance, was said to be very haughty (I heard several people say it that day), and to my mind this is one of the worst traits anyone can have, for just saying the word puts me in mind of Mr Kelly. And so I went on listening at stable doors and hanging around whenever I saw men deep in conversation, but at no time did I hear anything disparaging said about Her Grace, hear the Catholic faith commended, nor overhear anyone saying that we should be ruled by Mary instead of Elizabeth.

  I would, I feared, have little news to tell Tomas when I saw him.

  As the day went on and people got used to my face I was given the occasional job to do: mucking out a stable, heaving weighty tack from one place to another or lugging bales of hay around, and I tried to do these while whistling and acting as carefree as a real lad, even though I often felt like collapsing under the weight of a particularly heavy saddle or straw bundle.

  In the afternoon I found some time to cross the grounds of the palace and go and see the tilting yard, which I thought was a great marvel, being long and as wide as the road to London, and lined on each side with gaily painted stands containing rows of seats. In the centre of these stands was a kind of tented gallery bright with decorated wooden shields and having carved chairs within holding embroidered silk cushions. This place, I knew from engravings, was where the queen and her ladies would sit to watch the jousting, and it was here that the magnificently armoured knights would come to ask for a favour: a glove or a kerchief from their chosen lady to tie on to their lance.

  ‘’Tis a wonderful sight when the galleries are full, the pennants are fluttering and the knights are pacing about on their horses,’ a voice beside me said, and I looked round to see my laundress friend, Barbara, smiling at me.

  Her eyes widened in surprise when she realised who I was. ‘Why, ’tis you, Master Luke the actor!’ she said.

  I nodded and gave a short bow of greeting, pulling my cap down a little further as I did so.

  She returned a curtsey. ‘But what are you doing here today – and carrying a bucket instead of a bill?’

  I hesitated a moment. Spies, we all knew, were everywhere: spies from foreign countries looking for excuses to wage war on England, spies for Mary of Scotland, and spies to find out who was faithful within the queen’s household. I did not, however, want her to know that I was there to listen to others’ conversations, so I smiled and crossed my fingers ready to tell a lie. ‘You may think it strange,’ I said, ‘but I have to play an ostler on stage soon and I don’t know anything about horses. I came here so that I might become more at ease with them.’

  ‘You have never ridden a horse?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not properly. Never held the reins.’

  ‘So you’re here to learn which end to feed and which end to avoid!’

  We both laughed. ‘Then is there to be a real horse with you on stage?’

  I nodded, then went on quickly, ‘But what of you? Did you find anyone to take you to the play?’

  ‘I did not,’ she said. She looked at me wistfully. ‘I seldom meet a nice lad, for they are either too busy serving the queen, or are followers of one of her ladies-in-waiting and fail to see any attraction in anyone else.’

  ‘The queen’s ladies certainly are all very fine,’ I said, which I own was not tactful of me.

  ‘Ah, but most are empty-headed flibbertigibbets without the sense of a weasel,’
she said with a sniff. ‘Oh, they look very fine – but ’tis strange to me that a youth cannot see beyond ribbands and ruffles!’

  This answer was so close to my own way of thinking that I was tempted to laugh and squeeze her arm in empathy. Instead I said, ‘Some youths can see beyond those.’

  At this she beamed at me and I realised, too late, that she had taken my words as a sign of interest in her. ‘Then, Master Luke,’ she said, ‘will you come into the kitchens and take some refreshment?’

  ‘I am not sure …’ I said cautiously. For though I was feeling hungry enough to eat a dish of boiled turnips, I was worried: firstly that I might not pass too close an inspection as a boy, and secondly that she, in flirting with me, was soon going to put me in a difficult position.

  ‘Oh, do come!’ She winked. ‘Cook has an eye for a nice young lad.’

  This decided me. ‘I fear I can’t spare the time,’ I said. ‘I must carry on here a little longer seeing how everyone works, and then return to the theatre.’

  Her face fell. ‘Then is there nothing I can do for you?’

  I shook my head. ‘I think not, I thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps one day you might have to act a laundry maid, and then I can give you instruction on how to iron the queen’s ruffs.’

  I laughed. ‘Do you iron the queen’s ruffs?’

  ‘I have done, but only the once,’ she said. ‘Her two personal laundry maids were ill and I am known to be nimble-fingered, so the Lady of the Queen’s Bedchamber sent for me. I had to wash and pleat a special organdie ruff that Her Grace wanted to wear that day.’

  ‘And did you see her?’

  ‘Sadly, I did not, for she was in her inner chamber preparing herself and having her hair dressed.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘They do say that Her Grace wears a wig now.’

  I nodded, for I had heard this too. ‘Were you there long? Did you see anyone else of note?’

  ‘I was there for over two hours, pleating and starching and using a goffering iron to make the ruff just right, and during that time saw a good many of her ladies going about their duties.’

  ‘Did you like them?’

  She wriggled her nose. ‘I liked those who were nice to me and misliked those who were not. Some spoke kindly, and some were aloof.’

  I hesitated for a moment, then asked, ‘Did you see a Mistress Juliette?’

  Barbara nodded. ‘She of the brown eyes and long auburn hair.’ She looked at me sideways. ‘Is it she who draws your admiration, Sir?’

  ‘God’s teeth, no!’ I said, swearing manfully. ‘I merely had the honour of seeing her when she came to the Curtain with the queen’s fool to arrange an entertainment.’

  ‘She is very fair of face …’

  ‘Oh, perhaps, perhaps,’ I said carelessly. ‘Her patron is Lady Ashe, who lived very near to me at home. Was Mistress Juliette one of those who spoke to you kindly?’

  She shook her head. ‘She was not – and I own I didn’t care for her.’

  I looked at her enquiringly and she was only too ready to tell me what had occurred. ‘I was sitting in a little closet on my own quietly folding the last of the pleats – which are always the most difficult and fiddling – when she came by. She likes to know what’s going on, that one! She asked me how long I’d been on my own there and if I’d overheard anything of interest.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Indeed! She was most insistent that I tell her who’d been in the outer rooms and wanted to know if I’d heard what had gone on earlier – for apparently the queen had that morning entertained Sir Francis Drake.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told the truth – that I’d not heard anything, nor seen anyone apart from some maids of honour. And then she asked if I’d overheard their talk, and if, perhaps, they’d mentioned that jewel they call Drake’s Diamond and whether it was in the queen’s ownership.’

  ‘Really?’ I was somewhat puzzled at this.

  ‘I can see you are confused, Master Luke, whereas I was not,’ said Barbara, ‘for I know that in London all rich young ladies’ heads are stuffed with nothing but jewels, hair ornaments and prinking themselves up in the latest Paris fashions. As soon as the queen appears in a new outfit, the rest of the Court has to have it! Why, I believe they think more of jewelled tiaras than they do their own flesh and blood.’

  ‘So she was just …’

  ‘She is nothing but air and feathers!’ Barbara said roundly. ‘An empty-headed flirt-wench!’

  ‘Do you think so?’ I said with some pleasure, telling myself that Tomas’s head could surely not be turned by a silly creature whose only interests in life were jewels and gee-gaws.

  ‘I do! And you’d be far better off, young master, to stop mooning about such as she and set your sights on a wholesome and honest maidservant. Why, a girl like Mistress Juliette would not share a bowl of milk with a penniless actor like you!’

  I laughed. ‘I am aware of that – and can assure you that I have absolutely no intention of paying suit to Mistress Juliette.’ And for once, I thought as I bade her farewell, I was being absolutely truthful.

  I left by the main square and found that a small group of people was watching the antics of a Harlequin with a painted face and diamond-patterned suit, who was turning somersaults at an alarming speed around the fountain, flipping over and over with great neatness and agility. He completed a full circuit, landed on his feet and bowed deeply. The small audience applauded and – as he took off his short cloak and threw it down for them to throw money on to – moved off quickly.

  I smiled as I approached him, for I was sure it was Tomas, even though his face was quartered blue-and-white and he wore a mask. I needed to hear him speak to be completely sure, for once someone had come up to me dressed identically and I’d almost been tricked.

  ‘Lucy! It is me,’ he said in Tomas’s own, true voice.

  ‘So it is,’ I said. ‘But why are you out here doing cartwheels around the fountain?’

  ‘I thought to see you before you went home.’ He looked at me searchingly and I felt myself blush with pleasure, so that he made a show of standing back and frowning at me. ‘Male cheeks do not usually turn pink!’ he said with mock severity.

  I smiled. ‘I’m afraid that I’ve not yet taken on every aspect of a lad’s temperament. But seeing me can’t be the only reason you’re putting on this performance.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘There is a party of acrobats here from the French Court who take every opportunity to make a great show of themselves, and feeling my position was being usurped, I decided that the queen’s own fool should give a display.’

  I laughed. ‘I hope they were impressed.’

  He took a quick look about us. ‘But what of you? Did you overhear anything of interest in your day as a stable hand?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing that might concern anyone who loves the queen. I heard plenty about Sir Robert Dudley, and about Her Grace’s romances and her jewels, but there was nothing amiss – and no word of support for the Scottish queen.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Then is the queen’s position safe?’

  ‘The head that bears the crown is never safe,’ he said. ‘The support for Mary goes on beneath the surface. It’s as well that they have not the money to raise an army.’

  He was thoughtful for a moment and then asked me a rather curious question. ‘I believe you made gloves before you worked for Dr Dee?’

  I nodded. ‘I probably made a pair of gloves every day of my life from the time I was seven years old until when I left home.’

  ‘Then tell me, which is more suitable a gift for a lady: a leather or a satin glove?’

  ‘It all depends on what they are to be used for,’ I said. ‘Leather is more durable, but silk or satin are more romantic, especially if the gloves are scented with almond oil. Do you need them for a special occasion?’

  ‘Well, ’tis St Valentine’s Day tomorrow,’ he ans
wered. I looked at him blankly and he went on, ‘’Tis a day for romance; the day when birds are said to choose their mates, did you not know that?’

  ‘I may have heard something … but ’tis not a day that we ever celebrated in Hazelgrove.’

  ‘Here at Court it’s a custom for the first person of the opposite sex whom you see in the morning to be your sweetheart for the day. The gentleman is then supposed to present the lady with a little gift: a pair of gloves or a flowered kerchief – and there will be a party later, with pairing games and dancing.’

  ‘’Tis a pretty thought,’ I said, hiding the sting of jealousy I felt.

  ‘And of course every courtier hopes he’s not first in the queen’s sight, or he’ll find himself having to buy something rather more extravagant than a pomander ball!’

  I laughed at this. ‘I shall take care, then, that I am not in boy’s costume tomorrow morning,’ I said, and we bowed at each other before I left.

  Halfway home it struck me. Why shouldn’t I be the first person who Tomas saw on the morrow? Why shouldn’t I go to Whitehall Palace very early, with a message for him, and thus be his valentine for the day?

  Chapter Eleven

  I thought about this plan all the way back to Green Lane, and made up my mind that I would go, that there was nothing to stop me rising at first call from the watchman, going to the palace and arriving with the milkmaids under the pretence that I had an important message for Tomas. When he saw me it wouldn’t matter that I did not have a message; for I’d tell him straight that I was there so he could be my valentine. He’d laugh to see me (so my daydream went on) and we’d walk in the orchard together under the budding blossom, then he’d take me to one of the little shops that surrounded the palace and buy me some gloves. I’d choose primrose-yellow satin, I thought, and musing on this possible scene turned into Green Lane and there saw Mistress Midge standing at the door holding something in her hand, with Sonny perched beside her on the window sill. Both were looking anxiously up and down the lane – for me, I presumed – and seeing them I had the feeling that the little adventure I’d planned for the next day was, alas, not going to happen.