Authors: Siri Mitchell
Constant Heart
A
CONSTANT
HEART
A Constant Heart
Copyright © 2008
Siri L. Mitchell
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mitchell, Siri L., 1969–
A constant heart / Siri Mitchell.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0431-9 (pbk.)
1. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533–1603—Fiction. 2. Nobility—Great Britain—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558–1603—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.I866C66 2008
813'.6—dc22
2008028163
SIRI MITCHELL has written five novels, two of which (
Chateau
of Echoes
and
The Cubicle Next Door
) were named Christy Award finalists. A graduate from the University of Washington with a business degree, she has worked in many levels of government and lived on three continents. Siri and her family currently reside in the Washington D.C. metro area.
ENGLAND
during the last decade of the sixteenth century
under the reign of Queen Elizabeth
Contents
B
ut how could he
not
like you?”
“He is an earl, Joan!”
“And you, Marget, are to be his countess.”
The Midsummer Day sun was hot and absent any breeze. We were sitting on a log at the marsh’s edge, our skirts drawn up to our knees, caps resting on the ground beside us. The marsh birds would warn us of any intruder, but there were unlikely to be any wanderers this festive day. We had slipped away from the city’s merriment to ponder my rapidly approaching marriage.
In several short months I was to exchange my life as a knight’s daughter for life as a countess. That thought still had the power to drain the blood from my face as if January’s salt-laden winds were whipping in from the Wash, stealing my breath as they continued on their way.
“Think you. For how many years now have you trained for this?”
“Twelve.” It had begun at the age of five. If I whispered the number it was only because, of a sudden, I did not wish for the training to end.
“And now you can . . . what
are
all those things you can do? ’Tis been some time since I heard your father recite them all at my father’s tavern.”
“He has been busy.”
“Aye. The pride of our fair city. The noble merchant-turnedlandowner. He has been turning himself in circles, sending hither and thither across the kingdom to catch you a husband. You should be rejoicing at his success.”
“But what if—”
“What if what? What if you cannot please him?” Joan’s voice was rising, as if my worries were trifles too small to warrant her attentions. “Do you not know a dozen ways to dance? Can you not sing like a songbird? In how many languages can you read? And how many stitches can you work upon a canvas? How can you fail to please him, Marget?”
“If only I could meet him . . .”
Joan shrugged. “And what good would that do anyone?”
“What if he is . . . aged?”
“Then you will spend less time in bed and more time in delighting yourself with . . . all the means of a countess at your disposal.”
I could not keep a blush from spreading through my cheeks.
“But his first wife—”
“The marriage was annulled. Is that not what you told me?”
“Aye. ’Tis true.”
“Then she was no wife to him at all.”
“But what if—”
“What if horses could fly? Would that not be marvelous? What if the Queen herself were to trade places with me? Would that not be grand?”
I grabbed her arm and made her stop. Made her turn toward me. “Truly. What if I cannot please him?”
“Are you meaning to ask me if you are to play the role of your mother?”
My fingers tightened around her arm.
“He will
not
be your father, Marget. You
will
please him. He
will
stay in your bed. Is that what vexes you?”
I could not bring myself to nod, but Joan knew me almost better than I knew myself.
“Hear me: there is nothing in you that could make him cast you off.”
“But—”
“Hush you. Last time I noticed, earls were still men.” She said it as if that settled everything. As if there were no reason for the worries that churned in my belly.
“But—”
“And last time I looked, Marget, you still had the face of an angel.” Her gaze softened before she continued on. “ ’Tis nothing like my own.”
Her words asked for no comment and none was needed. We both knew the truth, had known it since we became friends. God had doled out looks to me with a generous hand, while he had been overly judicious with Joan. Her eyes seemed perpetually tired; her mouth drooped constantly in apparent fatigue. She hunched at the shoulders as if expecting a blow at any moment. Her strengths were abundant— loyalty, honesty, good humor—but they registered not upon her person. My poor, sweet Joan was less than plain. But it seemed not to matter to her one whit. She had always been my protector. I had assumed she always would be. But fate had decreed that in a few short weeks I would be embarking upon a new life without her. And at that moment, that seemed the worst part of the impending change.
“Come.” Joan bent to pick up our caps and then took my hand, pulled me from the log, and began to run toward the city’s walls, toward the bonfires and the singing and the dancing.
I could do naught but follow.
It was enough to drive a man mad!
Any nobleman worth his title could write poetry. That was what my tutor had taught me long ago. That was what I had always believed. But then came Philip Sidney and Edmund Spenser, and now rumors of some person named Shakespeare. They had ruined it for us all. It was no longer acceptable to just dash out a sonnet. One must employ mythology
and
politics, and work for days to cultivate allusions aplenty.
But now, all I needed was a rhyme for
carriage
.
Her Majesty’s comportment, her carriage, could be compared to . . . Bah! It had been at the edge of my mind the entire forenoon.
Carriage . . . carnage.
Nay.
Carriage . . . cleavage.
There was no hope for it. It would come. I could feel it, but I might as well do something else, something more productive, until it did. Why did poetry have to require so much work? I was replacing the quill in the inkwell when a knock sounded upon the door, and then it opened forthwith.
It was Nicholas. He was carrying something in his hand. “For you, my lord.” He straightened from a bow and extended a document toward me. “From the east, my lord.”
