All the Queen's Players Read online

  “You’re not wearing shoes,” Ursula reminded her. “The skirts are too long without them. Pass me the pink satin slippers, Henny.”

  The slippers had a small rise at the back, and when Henny on her knees slid the shoes onto Rosamund’s feet, she felt immediately more stately. She stood taller, her shoulders straighter, and she found that the bones beneath the bodice took care of every aspect of her posture. She was encased and could move in only one way. Straight, graceful, elegant.

  She experimented, walking across the floor, the train following her. It no longer seemed like a trap for her feet. It behaved itself as well as a lapdog on a leash.

  “Excellent,” Lady Walsingham pronounced. “You are naturally graceful, my dear. Now, I have one other gown, an emerald green damask. There is sufficient material there I believe to furnish you with a second court dress. Very few of the maids of honor have more than two, so you will not find yourself at a disadvantage. But neither must you arouse envy. The ladies of her majesty’s court are such rivals.” She was talking in the chatty, gossipy fashion that Rosamund knew meant she was imparting something important.

  “Every little thing, even the most insignificant, is a matter for competition,” Ursula continued, examining the green damask with a critical frown. “And a new acquisition is immediately the cause for speculation . . . something as trivial as a new handkerchief . . . yes, I think this can be made up in the same style, but with gold undersleeves. Most dramatic, don’t you think, my dear Rosamund?”

  “Indeed, madam.” Rosamund was beginning to wonder if she really wanted to enter this cutthroat world of female rivalry. Her experience of female companionship was almost nonexistent. She had never had a close female friend; even as a child her only companions had been the household maids, and they had little enough time for play and gossip. Her two sisters were so much older than herself and had left Scadbury for their own households before she was out of the nursery. She doubted she would recognize them on the street.

  Ursula looked up, hearing the note of uncertainty in her charge’s voice. “Now, don’t worry, Rosamund. You will do very well if you remember our little discussions, and if you have any difficulty, any questions, then you must come to me at once.”

  “You are very kind, madam.”

  “Not at all, child. You have no mother to advise you. I will do what I can. Now, let us see what we can do to refresh your everyday gowns.”

  Five days later Rosamund had her two court dresses, and her two refreshed dresses for ordinary occasions. Sir Francis summoned her once more to his office.

  He was seated as usual at his desk as she came in, but he looked rather less intimidating than on previous occasions, indeed, he even managed something approximating a tight smile. “So, Lady Wal-singham informs me that you are fully equipped and ready to be presented to her majesty.”

  “I am grateful for the opportunity, Sir Francis, and I trust I will not cause you to regret your kindness,” she murmured with a deep curtsy.

  “I’m sure you will not.” His tone was customarily dry. “My wife has only good report to make of you, and I know for myself that you have a sharp mind and an even sharper memory to match, with an unusual talent as a draftsman.”

  Rosamund said nothing. She could think of nothing to say since this recitation of her abilities, while meager, was perfectly true.

  Sir Francis laid his hands on the desk, fingers interlocked, his eyes shrewd and calculating. “This world, Rosamund, runs on favors given and received. Remember that. What you do for someone will be repaid in due time. And the same is true of a disservice. Remember that with your every breath. Nothing is given for free, so the time has come for me to tell you what I wish of you during your time at court in exchange for the opportunity I have given you to make a reasonable match for yourself.”

  Rosamund stiffened, drew a deep breath. “Yes, sir?”

  “Sit down.” He waved her to the only other chair in the chamber.

  Rosamund took it, settled her quivering fingers in her lap, and fixed the queen’s spymaster with a steady green-eyed gaze.

  “During your service to the queen you will be party to many conversations. I am not interested in secrets,” he said swiftly. “You will not know a secret when you hear it. I don’t expect subtlety from you. But I want your accurate accountings of conversations that take place between the queen and her women, those that you are privy to, of course. I do not wish you to hide behind tapestries or in cupboards.” Here he assayed a small smile that Rosamund found impossible to respond to.

  “I wish to hear what is said among the ladies of the bedchamber when they are at leisure. Whom do they talk of . . . what do they talk of. And I want your drawings.” Here he began to play idly with his quill, turning it between his fingers. “Draw me the scenes, Rosamund. Any scene that involves the queen. Any scene at all. I will be the judge of their importance.” He looked up, his eyes dark and intent. “Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly, Sir Francis.”

  “Good.” He nodded dismissal and she got to her feet. “I will present you to the queen myself, and I shall see you there from time to time. Remember that this is your opportunity to secure your future. Have the greatest care for your reputation, and I shall do my utmost to make a good match for you.”

  “My thanks, sir.” With a final curtsy, Rosamund escaped, her head in a whirl. She had been given a specific task, well, two specific tasks. How was she to undertake those to the satisfaction of an exacting taskmaster, while trying to placate an army of predatory women?

  Chapter Nine

  THE CHEVALIER DE Vaugiras slammed the tennis ball into the wall of the court and tossed his racket in the air with a triumphant laugh. “My game, I believe, Delancy.”

  “Aye, you’ve the devil’s own luck this morning, Arnaud.” His opponent wiped his brow with a silk cloth. “I’ll have my revenge though.”

  “I’ll be happy to accommodate you, my friend, but, alas, not now. I have an assignation,” the chevalier said with a knowing chuckle.

  “As I said, you’ve the devil’s own luck,” Delancy declared somewhat enviously. Arnaud’s reputation as a ladies’ man was well honed at court. He was like a butterfly, flitting from one bright flower to the next. “How many hearts have you broken this season at court?”

  Arnaud laughed again. He wiped his own sweaty brow and draped the cloth around his neck. “I do not break hearts, Delancy. On the contrary, I treat such delicate organs with the utmost care.” He tossed his racket to the page who stood waiting to catch it and left the court, feeling invigorated as always after a bout of any energetic sport, from the bedchamber to the fencing field. He strolled along the path that led from the tennis court back into the palace, then paused as four people crossed the path in front of him.

  He turned sideways, propping a foot on a stone bench, pretending to fiddle with the lace of his shoe as he watched the little party out of the corner of his eye. Lord Burghley and Sir Francis Walsingham were no surprise, the two senior members of the queen’s council were often to be seen together. Arnaud was more interested in their two companions. Thomas Walsingham and a young woman, who, unless he was much mistaken, had been bred in the same Walsingham stable. She had much of the look of Thomas about her, and something of Master Secretary in the set of her head. Elusive but there nevertheless.

  Newcomers were always interesting. So who was she? Well, Agathe would know soon enough if she didn’t know now. He was already anticipating a late-afternoon romp with his mistress; he would find out then.

  “Will your majesty take a turn around the knot garden?” Mary Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury and Lady of the Privy Chamber, approached the queen, who was sitting at her desk, her head resting in her hand. “It might help the pains in your head.”

  “It might, Mary.” Elizabeth’s smile was weary.

  “A little hartshorn in water, perhaps, madam,” Elizabeth Vernon ventured. “And then perhaps a rest upon your bed.”

 
; The queen shook her head. “No, tempting though that might be. I have to meet with the secretary of state and Lord Burghley later this afternoon. Play something for me.”

  The young woman sat down at the harp and began to pluck the strings in a soft and haunting melody, and Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, before taking up her quill again. Her ladies were gathered around the large chamber, occupied with needlework, listening to another young woman who was reading aloud from a book of French poetry. A fly buzzed against a leaded windowpane.

  Joan Davenport, sitting with her tambour frame in a ray of sun, felt perspiration gather between her breasts and trickle down her spine. Her heavy brocade gown was ill-suited to the warmth of early summer, but she had no lighter summer gowns. Her family was not wealthy, and even though court finery was not required for every day, the simpler gowns themselves constituted a significant outlay. Her hair beneath her headdress was limp and damp and she knew the sweat trickling down her face would cause the freckles that were the bane of her life to stand out from her unnaturally pale skin like so many ugly brown flies. She was bored, longing for some distraction, but until the queen dismissed them, her ladies were obliged to keep her company.

  Joan had been at court for six months, and her initial excitement had given way to a dismal acceptance. She was the most junior maid of honor in the queen’s entourage and was treated with lofty disdain by her peers, excluded from their gossipy cliques, constantly commanded, and given the most lowly tasks by the great ladies of the privy chamber. The daily routine was rarely altered, and only when there were entertainments and revels did the royal household liven up.

  Greenwich Palace and Hampton Court were preferable to the stuffiness of Whitehall, where the queen seemed more intent on work than play. At the other two London palaces, she would go riding, there would be archery contests and trips on the river. There was dancing in the evening, sometimes the Queen’s players would perform for the court. But here in Whitehall, the queen was always occupied with her advisers, and often unwell, plagued by constant pains in her head and belly, so that her ladies were rarely offered diversions.

  The alerting bang of the pikemen’s staffs beyond the double doors brought the Countess of Shrewsbury to her feet. She went to open the door and had a whispered conversation. She turned back. “Sir Francis Walsingham and Lord Burghley, madam. Will you see them now?”

  “Ask them to attend me in my privy chamber.” Elizabeth rose, the rich royal purple damask of her wide skirt settling gracefully around her. The material was so thickly studded with gems that it glittered in the sunshine as she moved to the door. “You may divert yourselves as you please,” she said to the assembled ladies as she sailed through the door.

  Joan waited for some movement in the chamber, for someone to suggest that they stroll in the gardens. Lady Shrewsbury might even give them permission to go about their own pursuits for a precious time, but nothing happened and the moments slid by until there was a knock at the door.

  Countess Shrewsbury looked over at Joan and with an imperative gesture of one plump, beringed hand indicated that she should answer it. The countess only responded to the pikemen’s signal, which was used only when the queen was present. Joan rose from her low stool and went obediently to open the door.

  One of the queen’s chamberlains stood there, resplendent with his gold seal and staff of office. He intoned, “Her majesty requests the presence of the Countess of Shrewsbury in her privy chamber.” He turned on his heel and went off on his next important errand.

  Joan stepped back and closed the door. The countess regarded her with an interrogatively raised eyebrow. Joan curtsied and delivered her message, then returned to her stool. Lady Shrewsbury left with stately step, and the apartment returned to its dull silence.

  In the queen’s privy chamber Rosamund Walsingham remained on bended knee waiting for her majesty’s permission to rise. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably against the boned bodice of her court dress. When Thomas had left her with the two councilors at the door of the outer antechamber, she had never felt more alone than when progressing between the two silent and intimidating men into the queen’s presence. Until the last month she had never in her wildest dreams or blackest nightmares imagined herself here, in the privy chamber, staring at the carpet and the jeweled heels of the queen’s shoes.

  Now Sir Francis, having made the introduction, stood behind her. Lord Burghley, her majesty’s treasurer, a formidable gentleman dressed like Sir Francis in a scholar’s black gown and skullcap, looked merely bored with this interruption to his afternoon’s council with the queen.

  “You may rise, Mistress Walsingham.” The queen sat down in the chair of state. “Approach.” She beckoned, and Rosamund, rising slowly, stepped forward, careful of the unaccustomed train.

  She stood waiting, eyes demurely lowered, as the queen subjected her to an unnerving scrutiny. “Do you read Latin and Greek, Mistress Walsingham?”

  Rosamund flushed. “Inadequately, madam.”

  “So you are not studious?” A tight frown drew the well-plucked eyebrows together.

  Rosamund’s throat was so dry she had difficulty forming the words to answer a question that was clearly disapproving. “I had little opportunity, madam. There were no tutors in the house. My brothers were all educated in other households. My mother was ill.”

  “Ah.” Elizabeth nodded. “How unfortunate. Do you have any particular skill? Music, perhaps?”

  “I play a little on the virginals, but I do not consider myself to be skilled,” Rosamund added hastily, lest she receive the royal command to demonstrate.

  “How is your voice? Is it pleasing? Can you keep a tune? I expect my ladies to know something of the arts of entertainment.”

  Rosamund had not been prepared for an examination. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat, then said, “Madam, I have some skill at drawing, and to a lesser degree at painting. I also have a fair hand at italics. If such skills are of use to your majesty.” She curtsied again.

  Elizabeth looked her over. “There are times when I would find an amanuensis useful. But such a one must have a hand as good as my own. Demonstrate.” She indicated a small table in an alcove. “You will find parchment and quill over there.”

  Rosamund curtsied and went to the table. She stared down at the creamy parchment, seeing it in her mind’s eye disfigured with great black ink spots as she tried to form letters on the pristine surface. “Is there anything special I should write, madam?”

  “The Catechism, Rosamund.” It was Sir Francis who answered, sensing that the queen had had enough of the conversation.

  Rosamund smoothed the sheet and dipped her pen in the inkwell. At least she knew the Catechism by heart. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to take her time as she formed the first word, concentrating on the graceful italic curlicues and flourishes that proclaimed excellent penmanship. When finally it was finished, she examined it critically and could find no fault. She sanded the document and glanced across to the queen. Her majesty was deep in low-voiced conversation with her two advisers, and they all appeared to have forgotten Rosamund’s presence.

  She could hardly interrupt them, Rosamund reflected. Almost automatically she took another sheet and began to sketch a butterfly hovering on a tendril of honeysuckle framing the open window in front of her.

  “Rosamund . . . Rosamund.”

  She looked up with a guilty start at Sir Francis’s imperative tones. “I . . . I beg your pardon, sir.” She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over the inkwell. “You . . . you were occupied and I thought not to interrupt . . . I—”

  “Bring me your work,” the queen demanded, holding out a hand.

  Rosamund approached, curtsied, and put the paper into her majesty’s hand. The queen stared down at her, her expression thunderstruck. “What is this?” She held it out. Rosamund saw that she had by accident presented Elizabeth with the butterfly drawing.

  “Oh, forgive me, madam. I didn’t reali
ze . . . I was just . . . Oh . . .” She rushed back to the desk and retrieved the script, forgetting to curtsy in her anxiety as she presented the correct sheet.

  The queen examined it with impassive countenance, then looked at Rosamund and nodded. “You have a fair hand, Mistress Walsingham.” She looked again at the sketch. “And a fair eye too. Ask Lady Shrewsbury to come to me.” This last was spoken in the direction of the door, where an attendant stood awaiting orders.

  “You may retire, Rosamund.” Elizabeth turned to her waiting councilors. “Lord Burghley, Sir Francis, let us continue. I received a dispatch from my lord Essex in the Low Countries this morning.”

  Rosamund stepped away from the queen’s chair as the two men approached and returned to the table in the window embrasure. Within a few moments, the Countess of Shrewsbury entered and the queen broke off her discussion to say, “Lady Shrewsbury, Mistress Rosamund Walsingham, a cousin of Sir Francis, is to join my household as maid of honor. Will you take charge of her?”

  “Of course, madam.” The countess looked Rosamund over rather as if she were inspecting a prime specimen of milk cow. “Come with me, Mistress Walsingham.”

  Rosamund made her final obeisance to the queen, curtsied to her cousin and the gruff Lord Burghley, and backed away to the door, praying her train would not catch under her heel. Once safely outside, she followed Lady Shrewsbury, who said nothing, leading the way through the antechamber beyond the privy chamber and through the swiftly opened doors into a large apartment that, to Rosamund’s first bemused observation, seemed crowded with ladies in a rainbow of elaborate gowns all murmuring at once in a continuous hum that reminded her of the beehives at Scadbury.

  She was presented to the great ladies of the privy chamber, the Countess of Pembroke and the Countess of Southampton, and understood immediately that these were too great for someone as humble as mere Mistress Rosamund Walsingham to have dealings with. They barely acknowledged her before returning to their own conversations. She was then introduced to the ladies who were her majesty’s maids of honor. These women giggled behind their hands and met her friendly smile with chilly, calculating stares. Only Joan Davenport returned the smile with any warmth. She could think only that at last there was someone more junior than herself.