All the Queen's Players Read online

  “Oh, ’tis no one but our friend Walsingham,” he said, chuckling. “And here is the little maid from last even. A veritable artist indeed. I’m delighted to renew our acquaintance, Mistress Rosamund.” He bowed to Rosamund, his eyes atwinkle.

  Rosamund curtsied, careful with the sweep of her gown, the grace of her bent knee, the fluid rise as she raised her head. His smile was so infectious she found herself returning it.

  “I’d ask you to keep silence over my sister’s presence at the theatre yesterday,” Thomas said rather stiffly.

  “Certainly, if you wish it.” Watson straddled a chair with an air of one who had nothing pressing to do. “Did you enjoy the play, Mistress Rosamund?”

  “Very much so, sir. I hope when I am at court to see many such plays.”

  “Aha, so you are to grace our divine majesty’s court . . . excellent, excellent. I trust we shall further our acquaintance there.” He swung himself off the chair. “And now, Thomas, grant me a few minutes with our lord and master before you go in. I have an urgent message for his ears, but I’ll not be long about it.”

  “Go to.” Tom waved a weary hand towards the door. “We will wait.”

  “My eternal gratitude.” Watson swept them another elaborate bow and left the antechamber.

  “Is Master Watson also in Sir Francis’s service?” Rosamund inquired.

  “There are many of us,” her brother returned vaguely.

  “Is he always so cheerful? He seems to have suffered no ill effects from last night’s burgundy.”

  “Watson never shows it,” her brother responded with a wince. “And unless something rouses his temper, he’s as cheerful as a flea on a monkey.”

  “Oh, rather like Master Marlowe.” Rosamund watched her brother’s reaction.

  Thomas frowned but he made no response, merely slumped back against the wall, closing his eyes against the fierce pounding in his temples.

  Rosamund took up her slate and chalk and, remembering the talk last evening, began a sketch of the theatre, and the final scene of The Danish Prince. Fallen bodies, rapiers cast aside, cups of poisoned wine, the scene was rich in detail and she wished she could do it justice with paper and pen.

  “Sir Francis will see you now, Master Walsingham.” The manservant had opened the door so quietly they had neither of them heard him enter.

  Thomas stood up, smoothing down his doublet, adjusting the lace at his sleeve. He looked Rosamund over, then nodded. She was enviably bright-eyed and pink-cheeked. “Come.”

  She followed him into the paneled office where the secretary was seated as before behind his great desk. He looked up as they came in, and he too subjected Rosamund to a close scrutiny. “You choose your colors wisely,” he observed. “Or did someone else have the ordering of your clothes?”

  “No, sir. I chose them.”

  “Good. That bodes well. And have you any further sketches to show me?”

  “I left my slate in the antechamber, sir.”

  “Then fetch it.”

  She curtsied and hurried next door. She couldn’t hide what she had been sketching, but neither could she pretend she had invented the scene on the slate. He would know that she had attended the theatre, and it would reflect badly on Thomas. She held it against her skirts, hoping the material would smudge the chalk sufficiently to make it unrecognizable.

  “Here, sir.” She curtsied as she laid the slate on the desk. The lines were blurred a little, but it was still recognizable for what it was.

  The secretary took it up and frowned at it. He rose and walked over to the window where he held it up to the light. “Where was this?”

  She threw an anguished glance at her brother before saying, “At the Theatre, sir. It was a play about the Prince of Denmark by Master Kyd.”

  Thomas exhaled on something like a groan. Sir Francis turned on him. “You took her to the theatre?” He sounded scandalized.

  “He didn’t wish to, Sir Francis, but I begged him.” Rosamund spoke in a rush. “And in truth no one saw me, no one knew who I was.” There was no need to mention the rest of the day’s entertainment, thank God.

  “I’m talking to your brother, not to you,” Sir Francis said sharply. “What in God’s name were you thinking, Thomas?”

  “In truth, sir, no one saw her. I can guarantee it.”

  Only Will Creighton and Thomas Watson, Rosamund thought.

  Sir Francis glowered at him for a moment before saying, “You had better be right.” He returned his frowning attention to the slate. “Rosamund, I would have you draw this with ink on paper,” he said curtly after a minute. “This afternoon, after Lady Walsingham has taken charge of you. If you’re to be any use to me, I need to see how accurately you can render a scene in something more permanent.”

  Rosamund curtsied again, flooded with relief. She had no idea how her sketching could be useful to Master Secretary, but if it compensated for indulging in a dubious outing, then she could only be grateful.

  Sir Francis reached for a small bell at the far side of his desk and jangled it. When the manservant appeared instantly, he said, “Ask my lady wife if she would be good enough to come to me.”

  The man bowed and vanished, closing the door silently. Sir Francis said to Thomas, “Have you given Master Marlowe his instructions?”

  Thomas too seemed relieved that the dangerous subject had been put to bed. He responded with alacrity, “Yes, sir. He leaves for the Low Countries with the packet tomorrow.”

  “Good. Send that man of yours, Frizer, with him. He’ll need supervision. I’d send Robin Poley, but he’s still at work nosing out renegade priests in the Fleet.”

  “He’s been in that filthy prison for six months,” Thomas said.

  “Aye, and it’s long enough. We don’t want him catching some pestilence. I’ll arrange for his release next week.”

  “Has he made any turns?”

  “Possibly two. He has a silken tongue does our Robin when it comes to convincing a frightened Catholic priest of the wisdom of turning coat. No one can paint the torments of Master Topcliffe’s dungeons and a bloody end at Tyburn better than Robin.” Walsingham’s smile was dour. “We’ll have some useful spies in the ranks of the heretical.”

  Rosamund listened, absorbing every word, although the full meaning was lost to her. While it was rather mortifying to be so utterly ignored by the two men, at the same time her apparent invisibility gave her some fascinating information. Presumably they thought her of such little account that they could talk openly in front of her and she either wouldn’t hear or would fail to understand a word. Well, they were wrong on both scores. And what she couldn’t piece together now, she would learn to understand later.

  “Oh, so here is the dear child.” A warm, friendly voice spoke from the door and Lady Ursula Walsingham sailed into the room, her gown of purple embroidered damask over a wide Spanish farthingale barely fitting through the door. “Come, Rosamund, let me look at you.”

  Rosamund made yet another careful curtsy. But this time she didn’t rise until Lady Walsingham took her hand and drew her up.

  “Charming, quite charming,” Lady Walsingham declared, tipping Rosamund’s chin on a forefinger. “We shall make you a beauty, my dear. The envy of all her majesty’s ladies.”

  “I’d advise against that, my dear wife,” Sir Francis said drily. “The last thing any ingenue wants among that basket of cats is to draw attention to herself.”

  “Oh, nonsense.” Ursula’s smile was serene. “Anyway, I shall ensure that the dear child is well equipped to deal with them. Come along now, my dear. We must leave the gentlemen to their work. Bid your brother farewell. He will come to visit soon enough.”

  Rosamund murmured her acquiescence, accepted her brother’s farewell kiss, curtsied to both men, and turned to follow the lady from the room.

  “Provide her with paper and ink, as much as she needs, madam. I have set her a task for this afternoon.”

  Ursula looked back at her husband
with a slightly hesitant frown. “You know best, of course, sir, but is it really necessary so soon? May she not settle in first?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find that Mistress Rosamund will take to the task with alacrity,” Sir Francis said aridly. “I doubt she’ll find it a hardship. Quite the contrary.” He gestured to the slate on his desk. “Don’t forget this, Rosamund. I look forward to seeing the fruits of your labor at dinner.”

  Rosamund hastily picked up her slate, dropped a curtsy, and followed Lady Walsingham from the room.

  “Now, my dear, I’ll show you to your chamber first. I trust it will please you, it overlooks the garden at the back and is quite quiet.”

  Rosamund followed the wide damask skirt down the corridor and through a door at the end that opened onto a square hall. A carved staircase rose from the rear to a galleried landing. This part of the house was very different from Master Secretary’s lair. It was light and open, the diamond-paned windows gleaming, the paneling polished to a deep, rich glow. The rush-strewn flagstones beneath her feet were clean and fragrant, a hint of lavender rising from the rushes.

  “You will always find me in my parlor, my dear.” Ursula led the way across the hall to where a door stood half-open. She pushed it open, showing Rosamund a charming parlor, with a deep bay window overlooking the street. A fire burned in the grate, although it was already May, and a bowl of roses stood in the center of a small, round table beside a chair and a tambour frame. “My door is always open, so you must feel free to find me here should you have questions or needs.”

  “Thank you, madam.” Rosamund was painfully conscious of the neatness of this house compared with the grubby, careless state of Scadbury since her mother’s death. In fact, even before her mother’s death, order had slowly disappeared from the household. How would she order her own household, should she ever find herself in charge of one? She’d had no real training in the domestic arts. But first she had to learn the courtly arts. It all seemed rather overwhelming to a girl who loved her solitude and whose only real interest lay in pen and paper.

  “Let us go abovestairs. It will be so pleasant to have a young woman in the house again,” Ursula was saying as she preceded Rosamund up the stairs. “Ever since our own dear Frances married Sir Philip, I have felt the lack of companionship, I confess. Of course Sir Philip Sidney is a most wonderful man, a great soldier and such a poet . . . I could never have wished for a better, more congenial match for dear Frances. But I do miss her. And I fear she is lonely these days with Sir Philip governor of Flushing and fighting the Spaniards in the Low Countries.

  “Here we are.” Ursula opened a door. “Such a trial for women, these never-ending wars. . . . So what do you think, my dear? Will you be happy here?”

  Rosamund stepped into the room. It was a small, round chamber at the corner of the house, with windows following the curved wall. A carved bed hung with turquoise velvet and a huge oak chest at its foot dominated the space. There was a simple dresser with jug and basin, and a linen press for her gowns. A low chair and small table were set by the grate. But what took her eye immediately was the deep, cushioned window seat that followed the curve of the windows, so that she thought it was like a cabin in the prow of a ship.

  “It’s lovely, madam,” she said with utter sincerity. “I have never had such a delightful apartment.” She went to the window, putting one knee on the cushioned seat as she leaned forward to open the window. A sliver of water, shining in the sun, caught her eye at the end of the long garden. “Is that the river, madam?”

  “Yes, Frances used to love this chamber because of the river. In the winter, of course, when the trees are bare, you can see it clearly.”

  “Was this then your daughter’s chamber?” Rosamund looked back at the woman who stood at her shoulder.

  “Yes, I thought it suitable,” Lady Walsingham said. She went to a heavy rope hanging from the ceiling beside the door and pulled it vigorously. “You must meet Henny, who will attend you.”

  The bell was answered so quickly Rosamund thought the young girl who appeared must have been waiting just outside. “Yes, madam.” She looked very young, no more than twelve, Rosamund thought, but she had merry eyes and a pleasing plumpness that seemed to imply a person who enjoyed the good things of life.

  “Henny, this is Mistress Rosamund, she is to be your new mistress during her stay here.”

  “Mistress Rosamund.” Henny curtsied, her curly hair springing loose from the cap that was supposed to confine it.

  Rosamund smiled at her, unsure how to respond, never having had a personal maid before.

  “Now Henny will unpack your belongings, while I show you the rest of the house,” her hostess said. “And then we shall have a light noon meal. Sir Francis does not care to dine before five o’clock. It interrupts his work. He returns to work after dinner, of course, but I have finally managed to persuade him of the benefit of taking an hour or two to dine each day.” She sounded resigned as she led the way around the galleried landing. “He works so very hard, I barely see him.”

  They were walking now down a gallery that ran off the landing. Portraits adorned the walls. “Your ancestors for the most part,” Ursula said. She stopped in front of a painting. “That is Sir Francis’s stepfather, in whose house my husband grew up. He was connected to the Boleyns and the family thus claims connection there with her majesty.” She glanced at Rosamund. “You too, of course, can claim that connection.”

  “It seems very loose, madam.” Rosamund stepped back to observe the portrait more closely. With no blood connection there she could not expect to see any likeness to her own family of Walsinghams.

  Ursula smiled. “It matters not, my dear. In the world of the court the most tenuous links are proclaimed if they can be put to good use. As you will no doubt learn.”

  Rosamund spent the afternoon in her chamber, amply supplied with paper, three new quills, and a full inkpot, re-creating the final scene of the play in sharp black ink. She closed her eyes trying to recapture Ned Alleyn’s face as he lay dying in front of her, his hand slipping from his rapier as it lay bloodied beside him. Then she sketched in less detail the faces of the audience sitting on stage stools on the far side of the stage. Will Creighton was one of them, but she found when she’d finished that somehow, contrary to her intentions, quite precise details had crept into the sketch of his face and form as he leaned forward, his eyes intent on the action. Just how had that happened?

  She sat back and looked critically at the drawing. She had not even been aware of her pen strokes as she re-created this accurate likeness. The luxuriant, glossy dark curls were perfectly arranged, shaping his square-jawed face, his mouth had just the right curve to it, the straight nose was exactly right, and his eyes seemed to look out from the paper with all the bright intensity of reality.

  Her hand had clearly had a mind of its own with the result that Master Creighton stood out from the surrounding, vaguely outlined audience like a sore thumb. Sir Francis would notice and probably remark upon it. If he was acquainted with Master Creighton, which would not be unlikely, such an accurate portrait would certainly make him question Thomas’s assertion that no one from court had seen her in such dubious company. With a curious reluctance she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket before reaching for another sheet.

  The afternoon passed so rapidly that Henny’s knock on the door just before five startled her. “Begging your pardon, Mistress Walsingham, but my lady requests your presence in the great parlor before dinner.”

  “Is it that time already?” Rosamund jumped up, carrying her drawing over to the window to examine it closely in the light. In general it pleased her, but she wasn’t entirely sure she’d captured the shadows at the rear of the stage satisfactorily. But that could be worked upon.

  She went to the dresser where Henny had already unpacked her comb and brushes and tidied her hair, fixing the silver fillet around her forehead, letting her hair fall loosely to her shoulders. She was
hed her hands in the basin that Henny had filled from the jug and smoothed her tawny damask skirts over the stiffened canvas frame that supported them.

  “Will I show you the way to the great parlor, mistress?” Henny opened the door for her.

  “Yes, if you please, Henny. I don’t believe Lady Walsingham showed me that chamber.” Rosamund picked up her drawing again. Sir Francis had said he wanted to see it at dinner. She was unaccountably nervous as she followed Henny down the stairs and across the hall.

  The girl stopped outside a pair of double doors. “In here, mistress.”

  Rosamund nodded her thanks and lifted the latch. She curtsied in the door before moving forward into the room. Ursula greeted her with a smile. “Come in, Rosamund. We are a little more formal this evening as we have a guest.”

  It was a much larger apartment than Ursula’s parlor, or the room where they had eaten earlier. Wood-paneled with a few rugs scattered across the oak floorboards, it was as fragrant and polished as every other chamber in the mansion on Seething Lane.

  “Rosamund, this is Master Phelippes. He works with Sir Francis and is dining with us this afternoon.” Ursula, smiling, introduced Rosamund to a short, thin gentleman, his face much pockmarked, with thinning yellow hair and a neat yellow beard. He was slightly hunchbacked as if he’d spent many hours crouching over a desk. A pair of spectacles hung on a chain around his neck and she noticed that his fingers were ink-stained.

  “Mistress Walsingham.” He gave her a nod of a bow. “Sir Francis was telling me of your skill at depiction. I look forward to seeing an example.”

  “Were you able to complete the drawing of the theatrical scene, as I asked, Rosamund?” Sir Francis, standing beside the empty grate, regarded her over a goblet of wine.

  For answer, Rosamund handed him the sketch and then stepped aside, waiting anxiously for his reaction.