Virginia Henley (10 page)

Cat took her small bag. “That is probably wise. Appearances are everything with so many spies about the Court.”

When Catherine walked in with Arbella, Isobel and Maggie looked up in surprise, so Cat quickly explained. “I invited Bella to Richmond to spend the day with me. I’m so sorry I forgot to mention it.”

“Lady Arbella is welcome here anytime,” Isobel said graciously. “How is your dear grandmother?”

“She is very well, thank you, Lady Spencer.”

“Catherine, you must take Arbella next door to meet the other visitors. We are invited to an early supper before we go back downriver tonight. Lady Scrope has a widowed friend from Carlisle staying at the hall, and Philadelphia’s brother Robert Carey is here too. His guest, Lord Stewart, is a distant relative of yours, I believe.”

“Patrick Hepburn is related to you?” Cat asked, surprised.

“I suppose he must be.” Bella drew her brows together. “Lord Stewart is related to King James and, of course, my father and the king’s father were brothers. I would love to meet him.”

“I doubt that,” Cat said dryly.

Isobel immediately pounced on her daughter. “I will not tolerate another display of yesterday’s appalling manners, young madam! Lord Stewart and I had a delightful conversation when we met. He was gracious enough to bring me a message from my dear father, Gordon Seton, whom I haven’t seen in over twenty years.”

Maggie interjected, “Lord Stewart told yer mother how much ye reminded him of yer grandfather, Geordie!”

“But my grandfather is a Scot. How could I be like him?”

“I remember Father being an extremely handsome man with jet-black hair, the exact same shade as yours. Though he was willful as the devil himself,” Isobel added.

“Come to think of it, the resemblance is uncanny,” Maggie said with a straight face.

“Then have no fear. I shall conduct myself with the gracious manners I have inherited from my grandfather, the Earl of Winton.”

Cat’s smile was serene. She knew she’d had the last word in that little encounter. She took Bella upstairs and put her in the bedchamber next to her own. “I thought we’d never get away from them. I’m bursting to learn what happened to you last night.”

“Well, I’m not sure I should divulge such intimate—”

“Shh!” Cat put her finger to her lips. “Walls have ears,” she whispered. “Let’s go out into the garden where none can overhear.”

They found an ideal spot on one of the wooden garden benches beside the fishpond, where orange and black carp glided to the surface to catch insects. “Tell me everything,” Cat implored.

Since Robert had left Patrick to his own devices while he dallied with the wealthy widow, the Scot took refuge from the household of females in Hunsdon Hall’s library. He scanned the bookshelves and thumbed through pharmacopoeias of herbal remedies, books of poetry and texts of astrology. There were some plays, prayer books and histories. He opened a history volume and found a genealogical table for the Carey family showing they were descended from Mary Boleyn. Someone had scratched out her husband’s name, William Carey, and replaced it with Henry Tudor. Patrick chuckled.
All ten Carey offspring are proud that their father, Lord Hunsdon, is a bastard of the late King Henry!

Suddenly, his brows furrowed as he noticed that the year of Hunsdon’s death was listed after his name. The year was 1602, which was this present year. When he looked again the date had disappeared and the space was blank. Patrick realized he had experienced a premonition that Hunsdon would die sometime this year. Robert’s brother George would become the new Lord Hunsdon, and his plump blond wife, Beth, who was here at the hall, would become Lady Hunsdon before the year was over. He closed the volume with a snap and wondered if he should share the knowledge with Robert or keep it to himself. Patrick knew that death had its own foreshadowing and wondered if he would have as much luck portending when Elizabeth would depart this vale of tears.

Patrick glanced through the French doors of the library that opened onto the garden and was mesmerized by what he saw. The beauteous Catherine, wearing yet another exquisite creation, was sitting by the fishpond. She was having an animated discourse with another young woman he did not know. More to learn who Cat’s friend was than to eavesdrop on their conversation, he listened in to their voices.

“No, we didn’t dare meet at his family’s London mansion. He took me to the gatehouse instead.”

“Oh, Bella, I hope no one saw you.”

“Only a couple of servants, and Will swore them to secrecy.”

“Arbella, you know how servants gossip!”

That must be Arbella Stuart,
Patrick realized.
She looks years older than Catherine, but Cat looks far younger than she really is.

“How long did you stay?”

“All night, of course.”

“Bella, you didn’t sleep with him?” Cat sounded dismayed.

“We didn’t do much sleeping,” Arbella said smugly.

She was playing the whore with someone called Will.
Patrick had no interest in Arbella’s morals, only Catherine’s.

“Did Will make love to you, Bella?” Cat was breathless.

For answer, Arbella gave her a self-satisfied smile.

Cat sighed, remembering the lovemaking she’d witnessed earlier in the day. “Then he asked you to marry him!”

Bella’s smile vanished. “No! But I feel sure he will, very soon. Perhaps next time.”

Patrick chuckled at his little hellcat’s naivety.

“You will have to elope. Do you think Will Seymour will agree to a secret wedding?”

Splendor of God! The two devious little bitches are dabbling in something that could get them thrown in the Tower! A marriage between William Seymour and Arbella Stuart would fuse together two of the existing claims to the throne. Elizabeth will run mad, and poor King Jamie of Scotland will shit himself!
For long minutes Patrick pondered what he must do.
Calm down, Hepburn. At the moment Seymour is only fucking her and likely has no intention to make her his wife. He couldn’t be that bloody reckless!

Nevertheless, Patrick decided that for their own good he must keep his eye on this pair of foolish female plotters.

Chapter Six

L
ady Widdrington has agreed to become my wife!” Robert made the announcement as the assembled company was sitting at dinner.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Robert.” Patrick smiled at the blushing Liz. “I wish you every happiness.”

Isobel Spencer shared the queen’s narrow view that widows should not remarry, but Robert’s sisters and sister-in-law were delighted that the baby of the family was embracing matrimony and had managed to catch himself an attractive widow who was financially secure. Moreover, he would not be burdened by children from her first marriage, so there appeared to be no disadvantages to the match whatsoever.

“Oh, Liz, let me touch you for luck,” gushed Arbella. “In the ‘Merry Month of May,’ love seems to be everywhere!”

Cat gave Bella a sharp kick beneath the table and asked a question to divert attention from her indiscreet friend. “Have you decided where you will be wed, or when?”

“Liz would like to be married in her own church at Widdrington, in Northumberland. We haven’t set a date yet, but I won’t wait long.” Robert’s eagerness made the ladies’ hearts flutter.

“I am desolate that we must return to Court tonight, but I suppose if left to your own devices you will no doubt find some way to amuse yourselves,” Philadelphia teased.

The fragrance of bluebells filled Catherine’s senses and she blushed profusely, but Liz laughed and said, “Tomorrow, the men will likely hunt all morning, and then we must ready ourselves for Court. Will there be dancing after the masque?”

“Oh, absolutely. The queen seldom dances herself these days, but she enjoys watching her courtiers take the floor.” Kate rolled her eyes. “I have to stay up until she’s ready to retire.”

“Since you are her principal Lady of the Bedchamber, it is your duty to do so,” Isobel pointed out.

Kate smiled. “Quite right, Isobel. It is an honorable duty and I would be a selfish ingrate to complain.”

Arbella eyed Patrick. “I hope you dance, Lord Stewart.”

Cat laughed aloud as she pictured his enormous spurred boots clumping about the dance floor. Their eyes met and she saw that his were filled with amusement. She wondered if he had read her thoughts or if he was still thinking about her
sheepskin
remark.

The Presence Chamber at Whitehall was filled to capacity. The courtiers, arrayed in their finery, vied with one another in the splendor of their garments and costly gems. Her Majesty, however, enthroned upon the dais, outdid them all. Tonight she wore white satin, dramatically slashed with black and encrusted with jet beads, pearls and diamonds. Her red wig was adorned with ostrich feathers and black lace. Elizabeth believed that her external magnificence propagated her image of royalty and power and emphasized her essential femininity in a world dominated by men. If her raiment and jewels bedazzled the eyes of her courtiers, she assumed they would never notice that she was old and wrinkled.

Tonight’s masque was based upon John Lyly’s play
The Woman in the Moon,
which was a favorite at Court. Lyly wrote to entertain, not instruct, and his romances were written for the gentlewomen of England. This particular court comedy, drawn from mythology, was florid and rich in simile. The story of Endymion, a Greek shepherd boy who adored his heavenly mistress, Cynthia, the Moon Goddess, but was unfaithful and became entangled with not one but
two
earthly loves, was daringly risqué.

Lady Catherine, adorned in her costume as Cynthia, the Moon Goddess, represented the queen, who no longer took an active role in the masques. Cat wore a wig whose red-gold tresses fell below her waist. Her gown of sparkling silver tissue over flesh-colored silk made her costume appear transparent. She sat upon a huge glittering crescent moon that was elevated against a backdrop of black velvet to represent the night sky. The other players had to look up to her when they delivered their lines, as she cast her pure, cool, innocent light down upon them.

Patrick Hepburn’s glance was drawn to Catherine almost against his will. As well as being exquisitely beautiful, she was a wise little minx. Perched high on the crescent moon, she drew every eye, and her lack of stature went unnoticed. He knew she loved attention and easily discerned that this need arose from her mother’s cool indifference toward her. Isobel’s deliberate disinterest, coupled with the separation from her father, made Cat feel unloved. His own boyhood experiences ran parallel with hers.

With difficulty he pulled his gaze away from her, telling himself that he would have the rest of his days to admire her loveliness. Tonight he must concentrate his full attention upon Elizabeth. It might be his only chance to observe the queen close up. The darkness of the Presence Chamber allowed him to maneuver through the throng unobserved as he advanced toward Her Majesty. She, of course, was well lit, along with the masquers. Once he got close, his great height allowed him to stand against the wall and look over the heads of those in front of him.

Patrick focused his mind upon Elizabeth Tudor, forcing all else from his thoughts. The voices of the performers and the laughter of the audience receded. His concentration intensified and deepened until he was in a trancelike state that oftimes produced visions. Gradually, he began to hear far-off music and recognized it as a dirge. He felt icy cold and knew his senses were telling him that a period of mourning was coming. As he stared unblinking at the queen, he saw the ostrich feathers upon her head turn into black plumes that adorned the head of a black, riderless horse. Four more black horses followed, drawing an open chariot upon which lay a leaden coffin. Its black velvet trappings were emblazoned with the arms of England and France. Patrick had no doubt that he was envisioning Elizabeth’s funeral procession.

Suddenly, the long room was filled with tumultuous applause and his vision faded away and was replaced by the sight of the players taking their bows. As the myriad candles of the Presence Chamber were lighted, Patrick could hardly believe that a whole hour had passed in what seemed like but a brief moment.

He blinked in disbelief as a figure clad in white satin and gold lace lifted Lady Catherine down from her crescent moon and led her toward the queen. The blue boar embroidered on his left shoulder identified the dandy as Edward de Vere, the dissolute Earl of Oxford, and a Court favorite whose effeminate garb and gestures disgusted Patrick. When Cat smiled up at the fop, he felt the urge to run him through his narrow shoulders.

“You played your part to perfection, my dear Catherine. The resemblance between us is uncanny.” The queen looked pleased.

Catherine went into a graceful curtsy. “Thank you for your generous praise, Your Majesty.” She turned and gave Oxford her hand so that he could lead her onto the dance floor. Everyone she passed stopped to praise her performance or compliment her delicate silvery gown, and she rewarded each with a radiant smile.