The Other Countess (6 page)

‘Father?’ Ellie hovered at the door and dipped a curtsy to both men.

‘Not now, Ellie,’ Arthur said in distraction. ‘We’ve almost found it – we’re close!’

He always thought he was nearly at the secret. As usual, his face shone with enthusiasm, eyes feverishly bright. The sleeves of his robe were clipped back, revealing his thin arms with their red burns and pale scars.

‘Just two drops of phoenix tears into the Venetian.’ Arthur uncorked a bottle of clear liquid and dribbled it into a glass vial. ‘Then apply heat to the mixture.’ He held it by long tongs over the little stove burning on the marble-topped table.

Bang! The vial exploded, showering the room with burning liquid and glass. Ellie and Lord Mountjoy ducked. Arthur was saved from serious injury by the tongs but splinters speckled his arms. Oblivious to the pain, he wiped the blood casually away and picked out the bits.

‘Hmm, interesting, very interesting.’ He rooted through the pieces on the desk. ‘Did it work? Can you see the nugget?’

Mountjoy actually went down on his hands and knees to find the elusive gold.

Ellie poured clean water into a basin for Arthur’s scorched fingers. ‘Father?’

‘What is it, Ellie? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘I know, sir, but I’ve finished the translation for the Queen.’

‘You have? Good, good. Put it over there and I’ll have a look at it when I’ve time.’

He’d been badgering her to complete the work for weeks and all he could say now was he’d glance at it when it suited him? Ellie swallowed her anger and disappointment – these feelings were nothing new when it came to her father.

‘I’ll put it in your room then.’

‘Yes, yes, that would be best.’ Arthur had given up looking for a nugget and now was scratching his head, pondering this latest failure.

‘Here’s water for your burns.’

‘I’m burned?’ Arthur looked down at his knuckles. ‘Good gracious, you’re right.’ He plunged his hand into the cooling basin. ‘You’re a good girl, Ellie. Now run along.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Having left her manuscript in her father’s tiny chamber, Ellie made her way out into the courtyard by St George’s chapel. The sun warmed the honey-coloured stone, making even the row of grotesques above the first row of windows look funny rather than frightening: a monkey grinned down at her, a goblin pulled a face – cheeky expressions to have over the entry to a solemn house of prayer. The double row of windows glittered in the morning light. The walls were more like lace than sturdy supports for the vast roof, but there was hidden strength to them, thanks to the buttresses. It reminded her of the large ruffs that were now in fashion – a flimsy appearance held up by an undergirding frame and plentiful application of starch.

A ginger cat with a white stomach trotted over to Ellie and
wound around her legs in a self-administered stroke. Ellie crouched down to rub its head. Inside, the choristers began practising their anthem to welcome the Queen. The music was so sweet she could not bring herself to leave; she scooped up the cat and paused in the doorway and closed her eyes. Under her hands, the cat’s chest rumbled in a purr of contentment.

Men’s voices alerted her to the fact that company approached. Turning towards the round tower in the centre of Windsor, she saw the participants in the joust heading for the chapel, led by the chaplain. They must be coming to hear a blessing on their entertainments and prayers for their preservation as, even though it was but a game, noblemen were still injured in the lists. The cat scrambled free and strolled away to wash its paws in a patch of sunshine out of the thoroughfare. Thinking it had the right idea, she stepped quickly out of the way of what was a private moment for the men. As she did so, she came face to face with the Earl of Dorset, who had surprised her by arriving from the direction of the castle gates. Already partially dressed for the joust, he wore a beautiful gorget on his upper chest, engraved and inlaid with gilt, his compass cloak tossed negligently over one shoulder. He smiled broadly when he saw her. He at least was pleased to see her, even if the feeling was not mutual.

‘Lady Eleanor of the embroidery bower.’ He swept her a bow. ‘May I take this as a sign that fortune favours me this day?’

‘My lord, good morrow.’ Ellie dropped a neat curtsy and made to leave.

He caught her hand before she could escape. ‘Not abandoning me so soon, surely?’

‘The service is about to begin. I would not wish to keep you.’

‘What need I of the priest when I have an angel to bless me?’

Ellie groaned inwardly at his flowery language. ‘I think perhaps you have more need of spectacles if you mistake me for one, my lord.’

Her wit brought Will up short. He had expected an exchange of the usually courtly phrases, but she had pulled the rug from under his feet. He threw his head back and laughed.

‘Sweet lady, you know not your own worth. I would count myself truly blessed if I could carry your favour in the joust this day. Your colours – a sleeve perhaps – to wear on my body as I hazard it for your honour?’

Dios! You wouldn’t ask if you knew who I really was
, thought Ellie grimly.

‘I’m afraid, sir, I have none to spare,’ she excused herself, backing away.

Will’s face clouded but he did not relinquish her hand. ‘You’ve not granted your favour to another man?’

She ignored the possible less innocent implication of the question, but it was clearly there in the earl’s mind. ‘No, sir. I have not.’

‘Then there can be no objection.’ He pulled her a step closer. ‘If not a sleeve, mayhap you have, say, a piece of unique embroidery upon you? That will satisfy me.’ His lips curved in a smile.

‘Embroidery?’

‘I promise to cherish it and return it unsoiled. Well, no more soiled than it already is,’ he amended, daring her to share his good humour.

Ellie fingered the cloth in the pocket attached to her girdle.
Would it do any harm to play the courtly game for as long as the earl’s illusions about her lasted? She had never dreamt a noble lord would want to wear her colours at a royal joust. Did she not deserve the dream before it dissolved, leaving her with nothing again? ‘Well, I …’

He clapped his hand to his heart. ‘Please, dear lady, grant me this simple wish and I will die happy.’

She laughed now. ‘There is no need for anything so dramatic, sir. Here, take my favour with my good wishes. May it serve you well.’

He tucked the cloth into his doublet then brushed his lips over her knuckles. ‘I will endeavour to honour your token.’

He took his leave and followed the others into the chapel where now the singing swelled in a psalm of praise. Ellie watched him go, wishing that she could rewrite their past dealings. If only she could work alchemist’s magic on herself, turning her dross into gold worthy of a man such as the earl. Instead, he was her enemy, but did not know it yet, while she was perilously near to being nothing.

5

Only an hour after her expected time, the Queen arrived by barge – a vivid figure in dazzling robes sitting on a gilded chair, surrounded by her household and the musicians employed to enliven the river journey. Will stood with the other nobles on the landing stage below the castle to greet her, silently calculating the cost of maintaining such a large entourage. No wonder Elizabeth was always short of funds. First came the Yeomen of the Guard, then the serjeants-at-arms and gentleman pensioners, all charged with her protection, though Will thought the yeomen looked the most serious about the task: big, square-jawed men who seemed likely to know what to do in a fight.

They parted to allow Elizabeth to step ashore. The Queen’s attendants, seven Ladies of the Bedchamber and four Maids of Honour, waited on the sovereign, dressed in clothing of black or white – foils to let their mistress shine out brighter. Elizabeth herself was splendidly attired, wearing a red velvet overskirt and a bodice trimmed with pearls, a white satin forepart and sleeves embroidered with gold, a lace-edged ruff framing her face. Will had not seen her at close quarters for some years and was privately shocked at how she had aged.
She was, he reminded himself, a year shy of fifty. Her glittering garb could not hide the fact that her cheeks had hollowed, her shrewd eyes were surrounded by crow’s feet, her hair a false auburn. Blackened teeth did not improve her appearance, though she rarely smiled, keeping her thin lips closed as much as possible. Will thought of the contrast with the Lady Eleanor, met only a few hours before, and wondered what honest words of praise he could bring himself to lavish upon the Queen. He would have to find some as it was expected of all single men to court her favour with the language of love.

Escorted by her most trusted privy councillors, Burghley and Walsingham, the Queen passed down the line of her nobles, starting with the senior lord present and moving to the junior figures. As an earl, Will was fortunate to be near the head of the queue. He bowed low as she drew level. Two jewelled toe caps stopped in front of him.

‘My Lord Dorset, we are very pleased to see you at court at last.’

‘God save Your Majesty, I am deeply honoured to be able to pay my respects to your gracious person. Every year I have been prevented from coming into your royal presence has felt like an age.’

‘Very good.’ A regal nod approved the sentiment. ‘I look forward to seeing more of you. Perhaps you intend to take part in the lists today?’

‘Indeed, Your Majesty, if it pleases you I will test myself against the other noble lords.’

‘Excellent. I like nothing better than a holiday joust.’

She moved on to the next lucky noble to catch her attention. Will heaved a discreet sigh of relief. That seemed to have
gone well. She had lingered longer than he’d expected and given a sign of her approbation. He mulled over his words: no, he had not disgraced himself as he had feared.

The entourage slowly processed after the Queen, going up the hill at the pace she dictated. Will watched the gorgeous display with interest, particularly entertained to note the jester, dressed in motley, and two richly robed dwarf women, bringing up the rear. Elizabeth disappeared into the castle to her private apartments, giving the signal for everyone else to disperse.

He went in search of his brothers who, in view of the lack of time before the joust, were helping Turville to polish the armour. The suit was on loan from the blacksmith who had bought it from the estate of a disgraced lord. It had been lying in storage for some years.

‘All well, Will?’ asked James, breaking off his whistling to acknowledge his brother’s return.

‘Yes. Her Majesty spoke with me, welcoming me to court.’ He picked up a cloth to join them – no one in the Dorset household could afford to hold themselves above manual labour. It was tough enough keeping up the appearance of wealth as it was. The twenty silk-clad retainers he had hired the day before for his entrance had been dismissed, the livery packed away until the next occasion called for them.

Turville, who had grown fat over the past few years in Will’s service, hung the breastplate on the wooden rack and picked up the helmet. He gave Will a disapproving look. He, for one, did not think an earl should polish his own armour. ‘My lord’s horse is groomed and ready. I’ve a boy walking him in the field for you.’

‘You have my thanks, Turville. I see you are as efficient as ever.’

‘How long have we got?’ asked Tobias, chucking a shoulder guard on to the sacking.

‘Careful with that pauldron, young sir!’ growled Turville.

‘Peace, ye fat guts! I’ve not harmed it.’

‘Rather through luck than any judgement of yours,’ commented James, cuffing his brother for his rudeness to a trusted retainer.

‘I should be on the field within the hour.’ Will began the laborious process of tying on the separate pieces, leaving only the heaviest parts to be carried to the lists so he could put them on just before the joust started.

Turville rushed to aid him. ‘Your father would be proud if he could see you, sir.’

‘Maybe.’ Will had never enjoyed what he would call a loving relationship with his father. The old earl had been too distracted by his mania for gold to pay much attention to his sons and there had come a time when Will had simply stopped trying. Had he still been alive he probably would not even have noticed his son’s appearance, but there was no point in saying as much to Turville who idolized the family he served. Will pulled out the embroidery and transferred it to his sleeve before the breastplate covered his doublet.

‘What’s that?’ Sharp-eyed Tobias tweaked it from his fingers. ‘Gads, this is a mangy piece of work!’

Will grinned and snagged it back. ‘I know.’

‘And you are carrying it about like a precious cargo because …?’

‘Because it is a jest between myself and a certain lady in the court. I wear her favour today.’

Tobias hooted with laughter. ‘I hope her fortune is in a better state than her sewing.’

‘I fear not, but I do not court her for matrimony. I merely like the wench. She has a wit like Spanish steel, ready to cut down any puffed man who dare insult her intelligence with vain words.’

James frowned. ‘You dragged me out of college to get you married off to advantage and you waste an opportunity like this to impress some rich young lady on a maid without prospects? Will, you need your head examining.’

‘It does no harm,’ Will said defensively, knowing his brother was right. He should stop flirting with the lady and settle down to a serious pursuit of a wealthy bride. ‘After today, I promise to stay on the scent.’

‘Lady Jane Perceval is your best choice.’ James checked his reflection in a vambrace. ‘Rich, comely and sent to court to hook a husband.’

‘I saw the lady last night. She is very fair.’ But there was nothing about her that sparked his interest.

‘That’s it then. You should cultivate a friendship with her brother and seek an introduction to the lady. The sooner you get this business completed, the sooner Tobias and I can get back to our studies.’

Tobias groaned. ‘Speak for yourself, Jamie. Take as long as you want, Will. This is far more fun than my tutor’s lessons.’