All the Queen's Players Read online

  Francis selected a paper from the sheaf. “If your majesty would only read this, you would see how necessary it is to act now. For the love of God, madam, let not the cure of your diseased state hang any longer on deliberation. We must act to root out the danger twig by twig.”

  “Oh, the devil take your twig by twig.” Elizabeth sprang to her feet. “I am master of this realm, and I will make the decisions necessary to its health.” She hurled her fan at him and he sidestepped just in time.

  Francis bent to retrieve the fan and handed it back with a bow. It wasn’t the first missile she’d hurled at his head in their long association.

  The queen glared, then said more moderately, “That was ill-mannered of me, but you do test my patience, Francis.”

  “If I may say so, madam, you test mine.”

  She took a turn about the room, her skirts moving stiffly with her stride, then she stopped and turned to face him. “What do you want of me?”

  “Merely that you agree to the Bond of Association in regards to your cousin Mary Stuart.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I cannot like it, Francis. I have never believed in reflective guilt. To punish an innocent for the crimes of others. It is not right.”

  “Madam, Mary Stuart is not an innocent. She is working ceaselessly to have you removed from the throne. She is in continuous correspondence with the Duc de Guise, her cousin in France, to raise an army of invasion, her agents work in Spain to raise support for such an army there. She is not guiltless, madam. You must see that.”

  Elizabeth’s face suddenly looked old beneath the rouge and white powder. She gazed at her secretary of state for a long minute, almost as if she didn’t see him, then said, “I have heard you out. I will hear no more today. You are dismissed.”

  “Madam.” Francis bowed and moved backwards to the door. He hesitated for a moment as he reached behind him for the latch. “And my cousin . . . ?”

  “Yes, you may bring her to me.” The queen returned to her instrument and began to play as her secretary of state left the royal apartments.

  Francis made his way back along the long series of corridors, his brow deeply furrowed, his head down as if he were watching his feet. He turned a corner and came to an abrupt halt as he found his way blocked by a group of courtiers deep in conversation. He glared at them irritably as they moved aside for him. One of them, a tall, elegant gentleman with an olive tint to his complexion, bowed deeply and broke away from the group to walk beside the secretary as he continued on his way.

  “I have a message from Thomas Morgan in Paris, Sir Francis.” The man spoke softly, his head lowered towards his companion’s ear. Master Secretary continued walking, almost as if he didn’t realize he was being spoken to. “I understand the Duc de Guise is close to amassing a considerable force in readiness for an attempt to rescue the Queen of Scots.”

  “Do you indeed, chevalier.” Sir Francis raised his eyes to cast a brief glance at Arnaud de Vaugiras. “I have received similar intelligence. But my sources have not as yet discovered the details of how this rescue is to be accomplished. Where they intend to land, for instance, would be most useful.”

  “If I can discover that information, sir, I will inform you immediately.” The chevalier bowed, his eyes giving nothing away.

  “The queen will be deeply in your debt, chevalier.” Sir Francis nodded and turned a corner. He continued on his way out of the palace, so lost in thought that he barely noticed the bows and greetings proffered as he passed. Something about the chevalier made him uneasy. Nothing concrete, just an instinct, and Master Secretary had learned to trust his instincts.

  Nothing in the chevalier’s circumstances justified this unease. The man was wealthy, had had an English mother although he was brought up at the French court. As was often done, he had been sent as a youth to the English court to finish his education and had since then moved seamlessly between the two courts. Elizabeth favored him. He was handsome, not too young and not too old, and had just the right deferentially flirtatious touch that always pleased her in a courtier.

  Several months ago he had offered his services to Sir Francis, maintaining that he had a close relationship with Thomas Morgan, the Queen of Scots’ chief agent in Paris. The chevalier was a devout Protestant with Huguenot relatives, some of whom had been killed in the great Paris massacre of St. Bartholomew’s eve on that dreadful August day in 1572. The chevalier was therefore a passionate enemy of the Catholic Church and the Scots Queen in particular.

  Sir Francis could find no evidence to dispute this history. But it all seemed too perfect a fit. He preferred to have something to hold over the men he recruited. Loyalty was best achieved through fear and coercion in Master Secretary’s experience, and not through personal conviction. So far the tidbits of information the chevalier had brought him had been fairly insignificant, but they had been accurate. Yet Walsingham remained chary of using the man in a more devious role. There was just something about him . . .

  He resolved to set Ingram Frizer onto him. If anyone could ferret out murky details, old rumors, deeply buried secrets, it was Frizer. If there was anything to justify the secretary’s instinctive unease, Frizer would find it.

  Rosamund waited impatiently for her instruction in proper court conduct to begin, but the days passed in the mansion on Seething Lane with no mention of it from Lady Walsingham. Rosamund longed to bring up the subject herself, to give vent to the host of anxious and excited questions about this new life that awaited her, most of all about when it was to begin, but something about Ursula’s quiet serenity was inhibiting, and she felt it would be a grave discourtesy to try to hasten the matter. It might appear as if she were rejecting the kindness and hospitality that made her feel so welcome, and such a discourtesy was not to be thought of.

  The days slid one into another as she sat with Ursula in her parlor, sketching while Ursula worked on her embroidery or her household accounts. Then Rosamund realized that she had been missing the point all along. All she had to do was listen to Lady Walsingham to gain insight into the world she was to enter. Nothing further had been said about her court presentation, but in a roundabout, chatty fashion her hostess discoursed on rituals and expected conduct at court.

  “The queen’s ladies are most conscious of their status,” she said one afternoon. “Such a fuss they do make about who has precedent, who sits where, who does what task. I remember one poor child who made the mistake of picking up her majesty’s fan when she dropped it. Such personal duties, of course, are the province of the ladies of the privy chamber. As I’m sure you know, they are the most important ladies of rank among the queen’s attendants.”

  “What happened to her, madam?” Rosamund nibbled the end of her quill.

  “Oh, she was ostracized for weeks. No one would speak to her, she was forced to sit on the outskirts of any gathering, and excluded from any of the activities. By the time she was returned to favor she was a shadow of her former self, a mere wraith.” Ursula shook her head. “It is wise, my dear, in the early days at court to watch carefully, listen, and observe before you venture to act or speak.”

  Rosamund nodded and continued to listen avidly, ask questions, and absorb the answers. Slowly the picture began to take shape, and at times it seemed utterly terrifying, but then Ursula would talk of the dancing, the music, the excursions on the river when the court would take to the barges for the day and there would be music and games, and picnics on the riverbank. These were the images that Rosamund hung on to, that she hugged to herself at night before sleep. She who had met so few people in her life outside her family and the villagers and tenants around Scadbury was about to meet a whole new world of people, men and women. There was no knowing how her life would change, who or what would be the instrument of change. And then she would be overcome with impatience, and she would toss and turn through the warm night, desperate for the beginning of her life.

  One gloriously sunny morning, she entered Ursula’s parlor just as Sir Francis wa
s leaving his wife. “Good morrow, Rosamund.”

  She curtsied. “Good morrow, sir.”

  “Come to me in my office in half an hour. I have something to discuss with you.” He gave her a nod and walked away, heading for the door that led into the office side of the mansion.

  Rosamund felt a surge of excitement. Was it to begin at last? “Do you know why Sir Francis wishes to see me, madam?”

  Ursula looked up from her tambour frame and said placidly, “No, dear, he didn’t tell me. Would you sketch me a rose from that bowl, I find it easier to set my stitches correctly when I have one of your drawings to work from. They are most accurate.”

  “With pleasure, madam.” Rosamund selected a rose from the bowl and sat down at the small table that had been set up specially for her in the window. After half an hour she laid the completed drawing on the table beside Lady Walsingham’s chair. “I must go to Sir Francis, madam.”

  “Yes, my dear. Oh, this is remarkably good.” Ursula smiled at the drawing. “I shall copy that tiny blemish on the petal.”

  Rosamund dropped a curtsy and hurried away, anxious not to be late. She entered the long corridor behind the door that was always kept firmly closed and made her way to the door at the far end. Ahead of her a door on the right of the corridor opened and a man came out.

  “Master Marlowe.” She quickened her step as she walked towards him. “You are back from your travels then?”

  Kit grinned. He was looking mightily pleased with himself. As he tossed a small leather pouch from hand to hand, it clinked merrily. “Aye, Mistress Rosamund, back safe and sound, and Master Phelippes has been pleased to pay me for my trouble.”

  “I’m glad. Have you seen my brother since your return?”

  “He’s with Master Secretary at this moment. He and I came together but I was sent to collect my payment from Master Phelippes while Thomas remained in close confabulation with our master. But what of you, Mistress Rosamund? How have you passed the weeks since our last meeting?”

  “Here. With Lady Walsingham. She has been most kind, but . . .” She paused, afraid to sound ungracious.

  “But what?” asked Kit, leaning against the wall, hands thrust into the pockets of his britches. His eyes gleamed in the dim corridor and his teeth flashed in a white smile.

  She sighed. “Oh, I have no wish to be ungrateful, but in truth, Master Marlowe, sometimes the days drag on forever. It is so peaceful and nothing happens. Nothing at all. And I never see the outdoors except for a stroll around the garden. I have time and materials aplenty for my drawing, but even that palls sometimes when it is all there is to do.”

  She tossed her head, reminding Kit of a colt tossing its mane in its eagerness to gallop. “I need something to happen, this new life to start, Master Marlowe.” Her voice had an almost despairing urgency and she clapped her closed fists together, the knuckles knocking with her impatience.

  Kit grinned. “Why, I can see that well enough. What can we do to hasten it?”

  “Nothing, of course,” she said with a note of resignation, adding somewhat wistfully, “But I should dearly love to visit the theatre again.”

  Then she said hastily, “But I must present myself to Sir Francis at once. I bid you good morrow, Master Marlowe.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried towards the door at the end of the corridor. She knocked and Sir Francis’s voice bade her enter.

  Thomas was sitting at his ease in a chair in a corner of the room. The secretary was at his desk examining a document through a magnifying glass. He set it down as Rosamund entered and curtsied. “See, here is your brother, Rosamund.”

  Thomas uncurled himself from his chair and kissed his sister. “You are looking well, my dear. Prettier by the day.”

  “Thank you, Brother. I trust you are well.” He looked rather pale she thought.

  He grimaced. “I will be soon enough when my belly settles after a damnable crossing.”

  “Crossing?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “The Channel. La Manche as the French call it. I have been in Paris.”

  “Such a discussion is not germane to the business in hand, Thomas. You may indulge in idle personal talk when we have completed our business.”

  “My apologies, Sir Francis.” Thomas’s bow was ironic and he returned to his seat, leaving Rosamund still standing.

  Sir Francis came straight to the point. “The queen has graciously agreed to see Rosamund, but the girl will need a court dress. An expensive proposition as you realize, Thomas.”

  Thomas sat bolt upright, his expression wary. “I know it, sir.”

  “Yes, I daresay your own court dress cost a pretty penny.”

  “I would not disgrace the family name by appearing in less than the requisite finery, sir.”

  “No, I’m sure you would not.” Francis, who rarely wore anything other than a black gown and close-fitting cap in the queen’s presence, gave him a sardonic twist of his lips. “So, how much can you contribute to Rosamund’s gown?”

  Thomas flushed. “Little enough, I fear. There are debts outstanding . . . the estate is managed by Edmund, he takes everything he can out of it. I myself sail close to the Fleet prison on occasion. I have no personal fortune.”

  Rosamund shifted from foot to foot. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Neither of these men wanted to underwrite her court dress and she had listened enough to Lady Walsingham to know that her presentation, even if perfect, would be fraught with potential problems. She must make an impeccable impression or spend fruitless hours trying to establish a position among the queen’s ladies.

  Impetuously she spoke up. “Thomas, surely it is as important for me as for you to appear to good advantage at court. If you would not show yourself in anything other than correct dress, you cannot expect me to do so. Would you have me appear at a disadvantage among the queen’s other ladies? People would assume either that my family are as poor as church mice, or that they don’t know what’s required to show all due respect at court. It would reflect badly on you,” she added as a final shaft.

  Thomas flushed with annoyance. In all honesty he couldn’t deny the truth of her statement, a knowledge that merely added spur to his irritation. “You are impertinent, miss,” he stated sharply. “You’ll hold your tongue, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Sir Francis smiled grimly. “If Rosamund pleases her majesty on her presentation, then mayhap the queen will be pleased to provide one gown for ceremonial occasions. Ordinarily the gift is not made until after a year of service, but I will see if I can persuade her majesty to advance her generosity.”

  Rosamund was wearing the green velvet this morning. She had alternated her two gowns throughout the month she had been in Seething Lane, and it had to be said they no longer had the sheen of a recent purchase. She could not possibly be presented to the queen as she was. “Perhaps I should return to Scadbury if proper provision cannot be made,” she declared, hearing how tart she sounded but unable to disguise it.

  “Indeed you will not.” Francis looked at her in clear annoyance. “I need you here. I have work for you to do.”

  Impasse it seemed. Rosamund took a deep breath. “Am I to be paid for this work, sir? As Master Marlowe has been, and I presume Thomas. If so,” she continued before either of them could recover from their astonishment, “then perhaps you could advance me the necessary funds for a court dress.” She stopped, shocked at her daring.

  “You are ill-schooled, miss,” Master Secretary declared in icy tones. “You do not know your place.”

  Rosamund merely curtsied.

  Thomas said hastily, “I will have the schooling of her, Sir Francis. I swear she will never again utter such insolence.”

  The secretary glanced at him. “No, leave her here with me and wait in the antechamber.”

  Thomas left instantly and Rosamund heard the door closing behind him as a death knell. She waited through a long silence while Walsingham picked up his magnifying glass again and resumed hi
s examination of the document in front of him.

  She didn’t dare move. The silence was oppressive and the room became hot. Perspiration trickled down her spine and itched beneath her breasts. She longed to mop her brow. And then he spoke without looking at her.

  “I do not tolerate insolence from those in my service. You will remember that in future. Just as you will remember that I am your benefactor, and what I give with one hand, I can take away with the other. When I no longer need you, you will return to Scadbury unless you have managed to take advantage of the opportunity I am giving you to form a respectable alliance.”

  He fell silent again, returning his attention to the document on his desk as if something fresh had caught his eye. Rosamund shuffled her feet, unsure whether she had been dismissed with this silence.

  After a few minutes, again without looking up, he said, “You may go. I have no further need of you today. Send Thomas back to me.”

  Rosamund curtsied deeply and fled with as much dignity as she could muster. Thomas was standing in the corridor, his face dark with anger. Kit Marlowe stood beside him, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.

  “Are you run quite mad, you wretched baggage?” Thomas demanded in an undertone, grabbing her arm. “I have a mind to beat you to within an inch of your miserable life. How dare you put us all in jeopardy—”

  She tried to twist out of his hold, saying urgently, “He wants to see you again, Thomas. Right away.”

  Thomas glared at her, then with a muttered imprecation almost threw her from him and stalked back into Master Secretary’s office.