The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (14 page)

“He is right in that,” Evans said.

“Hudson has been insisting on going back to York House to search himself. He says there is no better time than now, since he has just finished waiting upon the queen.”

I could see the path Ware was leading Will down. I knew what Ware expected me to do. “No one will search as thoroughly as I will,” I said. “The longer I wait, the more likely some servant will find it and keep it. I am going to retrieve it now, and there is nothing you can say to stop me, Master Ware.”

“You might as well stow away on the wherry that I hauled your trunk aboard. That is, if Sergeant Evans can’t dissuade you.”

Evans shrugged his massive shoulders. “No reason Jeffrey should not go. Her Majesty is not likely to summon him again until his new wardrobe is ready.” He turned to me. “Go look for your ring. It would be hard to lose such a treasure.”

“I will be back as soon as I am able,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to leave at all.

“Sergeant Evans, I will not forget your understanding in this matter,” Ware said. “I fear the servants took advantage of Jeffrey. I tried to put a stop to it, but with little success. I will do what I can to help him retrieve his ring.”

“Good luck finding it, Jeffrey. Hasten home when you are finished.” He emphasized
home
just the slightest bit. I started for the door, but Evans cleared his throat. “You might want to make use of the clothes in your trunk before you go,” he said. “Archie is waiting outside.” Yet somehow I sensed his real motive was kinder: wanting to spare me the indignity of appearing in front of Buckingham’s servants in such disarray, giving them more reason to torment me.

By the time I had changed and plunked the borrowed clothes in Archie’s arms, I was seething. But I said nothing until Ware and I were on the water. “That was a ridiculous story. My grandfather was too poor to own a ring.”

“Your grandfather has just experienced a rise in fortune, along with the rest of your family.” Ware adjusted his eye patch, and I could see a red line where it had gouged his skin. “This performance you and I just completed was a test to see how well you could deal with the unexpected. His Grace will be pleased that you passed with astonishing grace. You convinced the noble sergeant you had lost something precious.”

“I nearly did. If Sergeant Evans had figured out we were duping him, he could have crushed me under his boot like a beetle.”

“I think the sergeant porter has taken a liking to you. Well done. To have the porter of the queen’s back stairs on your side already is no small accomplishment. If he catches you creeping about where you do not belong, he will want to believe whatever lie you tell him. People generally believe what they want to. Especially those with eyes like the sergeant’s.”

I had thought to myself that Evans was gullible. Why did the same opinion from Ware irritate me? “He will not forget about the ring. I am certain he will ask about it.”

“A ring will be provided.”

“Fine.”

We sat in silence the rest of the way to York House. I had not thought to see the place again so soon, and I wondered if I might catch a glimpse of Clemmy. It would do me good just to see his face.

But I did not. Ware escorted me to my old chamber, turned it upside down with me, grumbling the whole time about the incompetence of servants. At length, he claimed we had found the ring where someone had obviously put it because they had gotten wind of my return.

Taking care no one else could see, he slid a floor-length portrait aside, revealing a hidden passage. A few minutes later we emerged in some inner chamber deep in the duke’s private quarters, Ware a black shadow beside me. Buckingham paced before the fire, a goblet in hand. He looked up, his gaze almost feverish. “So. The Queen’s fool returned to York House. Forgive our little ploy to get you back here, but I sensed something important was happening. I have little patience when it comes to such matters. Tell me, Jeffrey, how fares the queen?”

I did not want to remember the girlish tear-stained face, the dark eyes that had seemed to tie me to the woman I was to betray. But the more I struggled not to think of her, the more vivid my memories of Henrietta Maria became.

“The queen fares ill,” I said. “She was weeping over some letters. I could not read what they said—only see that they were from France. It looked like they carried royal seals.”

“Probably something to do with a secret treaty Richelieu struck with Spain in her brother’s name. That pompous bastard knew the whole point of wedding Henrietta Maria to King Charles was to forge an unbreakable alliance between our countries. Get France to aid us in our war against Spain.”

I remembered what Will Evans had said about the “secret writing” portion of the marriage treaty that Buckingham had supposedly witnessed, then denied. “Since arriving at court, I have heard the French believe we have broken promises we made in that treaty, as well. Perhaps they feel that prevents the alliance from being binding.”

Buckingham looked at me more closely. “You have gotten people to speak so freely in your presence already?”

“It is easy to overlook someone my size,” I said.

“More letters will be coming to the queen. I don’t suppose a butcher’s son can read.”

“I read some. Even a little in French, but not well.”

“Memorize the biggest words. Write them down. Ware will decipher their meaning.”

Ware compressed his lips in frustration, and I sensed he wanted to be done with Buckingham’s court intrigues himself.

“If someone in the queen’s household discovers the transcriptions?” I asked.

Buckingham’s eyes narrowed. “You would be very sorry for it. If you cannot tell me what is in the letters, you can at least tell me what was said while you were in the queen’s presence.”

“Her confessor, Father Philip, had just left when she summoned me. She was most upset. He insists she take action to support Catholics beyond the walls. She does not want them to feel abandoned.”

“She does come from the land of Joan of Arc,” Ware said. “No doubt that is why she wishes to ride out against injustice. Why is it that Catholics tend to gloss over the fact that the affair with Saint Joan ended badly? Nothing like torture and being burned at the stake to delight their grisly sense of God.”

“Too true.” Buckingham laughed. “And we, like good Englishmen, will do our best to oblige them, eh, Ware? Did Her Majesty say anything more? Come, Jeffrey, think. Any hint she is spying for the French or Spanish? I would delight in catching her servants spying upon England’s defenses—anything to implicate them and, through them, the queen. You say Father Philip was there. Of all the vile traitors walking free about England, he is the worst. A Scotsman, no less, pandering to the French king and the Pope! What was Father Philip urging her to?”

I remembered Buckingham’s words about saints, and the tale Clemmy had told of his ill-fated visit to Tyburn. “The queen did say something.” I fidgeted with my collar, the edge of it feeling sharp as an executioner’s knife. “She wants to show Catholics she has not forgotten the promise she made to ease their lot. She said…” I swallowed, knowing that this was my first great step toward damnation. “She wished she could go on a pilgrimage to Tyburn, to kiss the place where the Catholic martyrs died.”

“Martyrs?” Buckingham grasped the dagger at his belt. “You mean murdering scum! They tried to blow up Parliament, King James! The queen’s own husband might have been there if the Gunpowder Plot had succeeded. What kind of woman would honor the very traitors who had attempted to wipe out members of the royal family?”

“A very reckless woman who would incur the wrath of the English people forever—and the wrath of the king whose father was the Jesuits’ intended target twenty-odd years ago.”

Buckingham spun toward Ware after the one-eyed man’s statement. Ware adjusted the patch concealing his empty socket as he continued. “I cannot imagine the king would ever forget such an outrage. If his emotions were ever in danger, a reminder of the queen’s trespass would touch a spur to tender places.”

“You are right, Ware. Some would say God himself is behind these impulses of Her Majesty’s. Her confessor is urging her to do this thing. Henrietta Maria feels moved to go to Tyburn herself. God’s voice in her ear—she must heed it.” Buckingham smiled. “She just does not realize that God yearns for her undoing.”

I could not help but feel the breath of that God on the back of my neck. Feel hellfire, smell brimstone.

“What say you, Jeffrey?” Buckingham asked.

“I would not presume to guess what God was thinking. But if the queen decides to go to Tyburn, I will find a way to send you word.”

“You will do more than that,” the duke said. “Her brother and mother in France are doubtless putting pressure on her to act, as well. Those French harlots she surrounds herself with are too stupid to dissuade her. When the time is ripe to advance our cause, you will use your influence, as well.”

“I have no influence.”

“You will have by the time we are ready to act. Let the French and the Catholics feed her sense of outrage. The Pope is declaring 1626 a year of Jubilee, granting the faithful universal forgiveness for sin, God’s mercy manifest in exchange for good works. It is a perfect time for Catholics to make a pilgrimage. She will be easy enough to goad to action when the time is right. You are an Englishman,” Buckingham said. “If you add your urgings to the others’, she will listen. Her Majesty is impulsive enough for anything. During the Jubilee’s flurry of superstitious observances, the priests will deny the king his marital pleasures. There is another holy day every time the king turns around. The king and queen will fight about it. If you are there, you will add fuel to that fire.”

As Buckingham had done at the banquet? I remembered too clearly the queen’s dejected form on the barge, her heartbroken words to the friend she had cherished from childhood. I tried to imagine what it must be like, to have known the fellowship of
le petit troupeau
and then to leave it for a land that had hated your family for generations and loathed everything they stood for.

Buckingham started to pace again, and I could feel his excitement. “I will arrange a hunting party to divert the king from his troublesome wife. Once I have swept him away where he cannot prevent her foolishness, you will remind the queen of her wish to make a pilgrimage to Tyburn. She must heed God’s call. You will make certain she cannot do otherwise. And after…” Buckingham drained his goblet. Drops of wine clung to his mustache like blood. He waved a hand to dismiss us. Ware cleared his throat.

“Your Grace,” Ware said, “there was something you wished to give to Master Hudson.”

“Ah, yes.” The duke reached into his purse, just as when he had bought me from my father. He withdrew a slender gold ring. I shoved my hands behind my back.

“Let me say I could not find it. My grandfather’s finger would have been far larger than mine. It makes no sense that his ring would fit.”

“Your grandfather loved you so much, he had it cut down to size,” Buckingham said. “Put it on.”

I wanted to resist, but I dared not. I slid the ring on my finger. A cross was etched in its surface.

“It will convince the queen you are a godly man,” Buckingham said. “Just think how grateful she will be.”

It was one thing to deceive her—but to use God Himself as my weapon? I swallowed hard. Perhaps my father had sold my body. Yet as I looked down at the cross on the ring, I knew Buckingham would soon own something only I could surrender: my soul.

N
INE

I arrived back at Denmark House feeling as if Buckingham had stuffed me with gunpowder and the touch of a spark might make my whole world explode.

Why had I not noticed the construction going on all about the queen’s house before? The homesick Henrietta Maria was building herself a beautiful fortress, complete with a Catholic chapel. A chapel that would be against English law anywhere but the houses of ambassadors from foreign Romish kings. How much would this all cost in the end? How greatly would English Protestants resent their coin being spent to build a lavish safe haven to harbor the religious fanatics they feared most?

I forced myself to mount the stairs, uncertain where I should go once I reached the top. I looked about me, lost. The only person I could think to ask where I was to go now was William Evans. I might even have managed to find my way to the sergeant porter’s chamber, but he was the last person I wished to see.

I wandered in search of the Freaks’ Lair, aware of people whispering and pointing at me. Had Archie or Evans told them I was visiting the duke? As I twisted the ring on my finger, I could almost hear them scoffing over Ware’s preposterous lie.

“Hey-up, Jeffrey!” I heard Simon Rattlebones call. I was never so relieved to see anyone in my life. Six spaniels whose silky ears were combed into love locks scampered up to me, tails flailing air. Only Scrap, the one I had met on my first visit to the lair, hung back, spying on me from between his master’s legs.

“Where are you off to?” Rattlebones asked.

“To pitch camp under the table in the Freaks’ Lair, I suppose, since no one has bothered to tell me where I am to sleep.”

“You needn’t get so prickly. Footman came to show you to the room the queen ordered for you. He moved your trunk from Will’s chamber and everything.” Rattlebones grimaced. “Guess Her Majesty was afraid you’d be trampled on even sharing a room with Goodfellow and me. But then, ever since Will injured Goodfellow with that chair and ruined a performance, the queen has been skittish about accidents. Put Will in a room where he can break furniture without hurting anyone else.”

“Sergeant Evans struck Goodfellow with a chair?” I inquired, imagining how fearful the giant would be in a rage. “Is Sergeant Evans’s temper so bad?”

“Lord no. Just heavy as a horse and clumsy as bedamned with those big feet of his. Sat on a chair and the thing broke and the chair back flew into Goodfellow. Just like Goodfellow to be standing in the wrong place.”

Suddenly, the import of Rattlebones’s words struck me. “You mean I am to have a room—alone?”