Conspiracy (12 page)

“Cecil, do you know who sent that ale?” the Queen demanded abruptly.

“No, Ybur Majesty,” Cecil replied.

“I find that strange, since it came from you and was brought by one of your liverymen.” The Queen's tone was as sharp as a sword blade. It was terrifying.

“What? I never sent ale to a firework master! Wh-why should I do so? I—I am n-not—” Cecil was stammering.

“Silence!” roared the Queen. “I do not believe you have been directly endangering me. But it is possible you have been engineering accidents to discredit my dear Robin, the Earl of Leicester.”

I was fascinated. I peered through the crack in the door and saw Cecil as white as a sheet. “I would never—” he began.

“Have you been trying to make me doubt the Earl, and believe he is becoming careless of my safety, so that I would turn my eyes to the Swedish Prince and like him the better for saving me? It would make sense, would it not, Cecil?”

There was silence. Then I heard the thud of Cecil's knees on the floor.

“Your Majesty”—his voice sounded choked, genuinely devastated—“I would never … I have never—”

“The ale for the firework master was delivered by a lad who wore your livery,” rapped out the Queen.

“But it was not sent by me or
from
me,” said Cecil, his voice strengthening. “I utterly deny this accusation, “Your Majesty. I know not who has been speaking against me—”

“Not against you, no, for she barely knows the significance of what she tells me,” said the Queen.

“
She?
Hmph. Some foolish hysteria no doubt—”

“Enough!” the Queen snapped.

Ellie panted into the antechamber with Rosa behind her—her face washed and her white cap tied on tightly. She looked terrified, as well she might.

I knocked on the door and called softly, “She's here, 'Your Majesty.”

“Call all your attendants together and we shall see which one of them brought the ale,” said the Queen to Cecil.

Sir William bowed and withdrew.

I brought Rosa in and she kneeled to the Queen.

“Now, my dear”—the Queen spoke softly and gently—“be not afraid, only show me honestly, when they are gathered, which was the man that brought the double ale.”

A few minutes later, all Cecil's secretaries and clerks and serving men were lined up in the orchard.

At a gesture from the Queen, who was standing in the shade of an apple tree, Rosa went along the row of men, frowning at each face. She was shaking so hard she could hardly walk, so I went with her, holding her hand.

The tension mounted. Sir William, watching from beside the Queen, looked nervous and unhappy.

Rosa walked from one lad to the next, looking searchingly at each face. At the end of the row she stopped and shook her head. “Not one of them is the lad that brought the ale,” she said.

Cecil didn't look very relieved. “One is missing,” he said. “Which is it? Ah, yes, fetch Alan Yerd.”

Two of the others sped off to get him. They didn't come back for ages—and when they did, they brought a tall man, wrapped in his cloak, with only his shirt and hose under it.

“Is that the man?” demanded Sir William.

“No, sir,” said Rosa.

“Why did you not come when you were ordered to?” demanded Cecil.

The man looked very embarrassed. “Somebody stole my livery doublet and jerkin, and I've no other that's fit,” he said nervously.

“What?”
shouted both the Queen and Cecil together.

“Yesterday morning, before I got dressed, I went to the Wardrobe men—for I had asked theni to brush out my doublet for me. Only they said they had already given it back to my friend who came for it. But I never sent no one to get it and so—”

The Queen was laughing with relief. “My dear Sir Spirit,” she said, using her nickname for Cecil, “I am so glad that I was mistaken,” and she held out her hand to Sir William for him to kiss.

“Indeed, Your Majesty, so am I,” Cecil replied.

And I felt glad also. For though Sir William Cecil is, assuredly, the most boring man in England, I have always believed him honest and would have been sad to find him otherwise.

“Now we must find out who stole the livery,” the Queen said decisively.

Rosa was dismissed, and a short time later the Wardrobe's Chief Tailor and his skinny apprentice were standing in front of the Queen.

“Well, Your Majesty,” said the tailor, “it was Martin here what let the suit of livery be stolen, though he's a good lad and able as any of us with a needle—”

“Quite so,” agreed the Queen. “Now, Martin, be not afraid—tell me what happened.”

Martin stood on one leg and scraped the other
one up and down the rush mat. “I'd brushed it out, see, Majesty—the livery I mean, Mr. Yerd's livery from Sir William Cecil, see. And then the gentleman what came and got it was tall like Mr. Yerd and had his hat pulled down, and he gave me a penny for the good job I'd done, and I thought it was Mr. Yerd, see—”

“Did you see his face?” asked Cecil.

“N-no, sir,” stammered Martin. “My eyes aren't too good, that's why I was 'prenticed at the Wardrobe.”

So that was a dead end.

I will continue my investigations as soon as I can escape from this tedious play. At least I have removed a suspect. I am now convinced that Sir William Cecil had nothing to do with the accidents, though somebody went to considerable lengths to implicate him—stealing his livery to wear.

In spite of the gossip, like the Queen, I simply do not believe that the Earl of Leicester himself can be behind the accidents. They reflect so badly upon him, since he is responsible for all the arrangements, and besides, I believe he truly loves Her Majesty and would not do anything to put her at risk. Perhaps the Earl is cursed, but I doubt it….

So, who is left? That is, who remains that would
wish to discredit the Earl of Leicester and, perhaps, Secretary Cecil as well? There is the Swedish Prince, of course. He would certainly be pleased to see the Earl of Leicester discredited, and would not be displeased if the dislike between the Earl and Sir William were to worsen. But how could he have done it? AH his attendants are Swedish. None of them speak much English—and the tailor's apprentice didn't mention that the man who came for the livery had an accent. He would certainly have noticed if the man had been foreign.

It is very perplexing. I must devise a way of finding out more about the Swedish nobles and the Swedish Prince.

Thank the lord, the play is ending. I see that Lady Sarah has a new admirer. She has been batting her eyelashes at him through all the play, and now he has found an excuse to speak with her. Lady Jane is looking put out. She does hate it when Sarah gets more attention than she.

Lady Sarah's flirting gave me a marvellous idea for a plan to investigate the Swedish Prince—though I am not sure if it will work.

After the play we went back to our chamber, but then Lady Sarah decided to go and find some moonlit cobwebs to put on her spots. I spent some time devising my plan and then realized I needed to talk to Sarah, so I went to look for her.

I found her, just as she was coming in, accompanied by Olwen, carrying the cobwebs on a twig.

I walked beside her as I wasn't at all sure how to ask what I wanted to ask, so I began a long way away, ready to work up to the main point. ““You're very good at getting along with gentlemen and talking to them and so on,” I said.

Lady Sarah looked at me rather suspiciously. “Hm,” she said noncommittally.

“Well, it's just that I never know what to talk about,” I told her, which is true in a way. “So what do
you
say when they talk to you?”

“My goodness,” said Sarah, a little smugly. “Why are you suddenly interested in gentlemen, Grace? This is new.”

“Well, urn … I just wondered …,” I mumbled, nearly overcome with sheer embarrassment.

Sarah smoothed her satin gown. “It wouldn't have anything to do with dear John Hull, would it?” she enquired.

“Oh, no, of course not. Not at all,” I said, and
wondered why my face was feeling so hot—I wasn't anywhere near a brazier.

Sarah smirked, as if she didn't believe me. How annoying.

“Just … er … gentlemen,” I pressed on, “You know, like the … er … like the Swedish gentlemen.”

She laughed and patted my arm. “Don't fret, Grace,” she said. “It's pleasing to see that you're turning into a proper Maid of Honour at last. After all, we are all here to find a rich nobleman to marry and adore us, aren't we?”

“Um …,” I said, speechless for once.

“But I don't think John is really suitable,” Sarah continued. “He doesn't seem to have any family or lineage. But you can practise on him.”

“No … truly, I just want to talk to the Swedish gentlemen, really …,” I persisted.

“Of course,” Sarah said. And then she actually winked at me! “Now, let's see. There's no point in pulling your bodice lower—no breasts. Or letting your hair escape a little—too straggly.”

I scowled at her.

“Hm. The idea, you see, is to let the young gentlemen think it's their idea to talk to you,” she explained.

“And isn't it?” I asked, surprised.

“No, of course not. Lord above, if you left it to the men, there would be no dalliance at all! So you must be as visible and as beautiful as you can be— and then you …” She did something peculiar with her eyelids, sort of looking down and then up and smiling. “Like that,” she said.

“Like what?” I asked, still not sure.

She sighed. “You look up at them through your eyelashes. And then you look away. And then you look back just for a second and look away again.”

“Oh,” I said, more confused than ever.

“And then when they come to you, pretend not to be at all interested in them,” she went on.

“Won't they get discouraged?” I asked.

“No, being ignored is good for young men,” explained Sarah. “They are so vain, they think they must be noticed by everyone. So if they find one girl who ignores them, they must get her attention at once.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn't.

“So, when they have run through the usual nonsense”—Sarah was waving her hands—“‘What is a beautiful flower like you doing in the Court dunghill? … Do you like the music? … Have you lately come to Court? … Are you the Queen
herself? … Oh, surely you must be …’”—that sort of thing—then you ask them what they have just been doing, or what they are just about to do. And they'll say something like they just played a game of tennis with so and so and beat him, or they're about to play a veney at sword practise and are bound to beat so and so, or they're thinking of buying a horse and are planning to look at him …”

“Oh,” I responded, feeling rather bewildered.

“And then you have to look admiring and interested, and let them tell you all about it. And then find an excuse to get away when you can't bear it any more.” She patted my shoulder. “Then they will think you are not only beautiful, but mysterious and charming as well!”

It was sounding more and more complicated by the minute. I thought about Masou—-I never have to do anything like that with him, he's my friend. Why be so complicated?

“Oh, and you must laugh at
all
their jokes—no matter how bad,” Sarah added. She laughed—sort of a cross between a trill and a gurgle. I have observed before that it seems to remove most men's wits completely. I don't think I will ever get the way of it.

“Will you come with me tomorrow morning, Sarah?” I begged.

“You don't need me to attract John, he's already chasing you,” said Sarah, with a toss of her hair.

“No, I meant to see the Swedish gentlemen.”

“Oh, the
Swedish
gentlemen,” said Sarah, with a waggle of her eyebrows that I thought was quite unnecessary. “Hm. Well, they are very nice to look upon—and at least we won't have to listen to a blow-by-blow tale of the latest notable tennis match.”

“Won't we?” I asked.

“Well, we will, but they will be speaking Swedish or Latin so it doesn't matter. All right. Tomorrow morning, before the men of the Removing Wardrobe arrive with our costumes, I will go with you to the Swedish encampment and we will discourse a while with His Grace, Prince Sven's, attendants. Perhaps we shall even be honoured by a meeting with Prince Sven himself. And it will be perfect practise for your sweet John, whom you were staring at this evening.” And she winked at me again!

I bit back the urge to tell her I was not interested in John and didn't care if I never saw him again, and just tried hard not to get any redder in the face. It is true, however, that when I finished writing in my daybooke, I thought I might as well watch the mumming. And it just so happened that John was there
with the rest of the Earl of Leicester's henchmen. Quite an accident, in fact. I hadn't realized he would be. I thought it was very clever of him to understand the Latin jokes, and I spent a short time watching how he pushed his fair hair back. And then the play was suddenly over, and we clapped, and us Maids of Honour went with the Queen for our supper.

Honestly, I really don't know what Sarah is on about over John.