Watch the Lady (12 page)

“What was that all about?” asked Peg, sliding her eyes in Sidney's direction.

“He was complaining about his lack of preferment. I don't know what he thinks
I
can do about it. I find grumblers so tiresome.”

Peg emitted a little snort of disbelief. “So, marriage is ‘different,' is it?”

“Just as I said,” was Penelope's reply.

She settled onto the cushions beside them, offering to help stitch beads onto a hanging, aware of Sidney's forlorn pale face watching her from across the chamber. Burghley and Cecil were close by, talking in low whispers.

“. . . if this assassination were to be successful,” Burghley was saying, “. . . all hell will be let . . . not trust Leicester, he is . . .”

On hearing her stepfather's name, she shuffled along a little in an attempt better to catch their words, making as if to get closer to the warmth of the fire, rubbing her hands together with a pretend shiver.

“But you've said it many times before, Father. She cannot be forced to name a successor.” Cecil was holding tight on to a ledger, as if its contents were of secret import. She noticed his fingers were short and ugly, though the nails were trimmed and even. Those were not the hands of a man who wielded a sword, there were no calluses indicating stints at target practice, nor scars mapping past grapples. They were the hands of someone who cared very much about the impression he gave. This strange crooked boy, who people said was being groomed to take his father's place beside the Queen, had pricked her intrigue.

“England's future
must
be secured,” said the father. “Our future too. We risk too much if we are not well prepared . . .” He paused then, lowering his voice further and continued, “If that Scottish woman gets her hands on the scepter, then I fear we are done for.” The son was nodding slowly.

“We cannot let that happen.” As Cecil spoke, Penelope saw for the first time in the boy, who had always been too shy to meet her eye or even return her smile, a look of dogged determination. It was the look of someone who would do anything to achieve his ends.

“Our future depends upon it.”

Penelope was reminded of her conversation with her mother before she wed:
Think of the family, it will serve us all if you keep your favor with the Queen. Do that and you may well find yourself in a position one day to secure the future of the Devereuxs
. It had confused her at the time, made her feel far out of her depth; but she was beginning to understand that the safety of everyone in that privy chamber was dependent upon the goodwill of a single woman and that they were all vying for position and determined to ensure the fate of their kin.

They dismounted in the yard. “You go on in and see to the bags,” Penelope said to Jeanne. “And tell Mother I am here.”

She led the horses to the trough where the young groom lifted Dulcet's saddle away from her back.

“Those saddle sores are still bothering her, Alfred,” said Penelope. “She could do with a comfrey ointment to soothe the pain. I am heading for my husband's house at Smithfield this evening, I'd like her with me.”

A knot of dismay tightened in her breast, painful as heartburn, at the prospect of seeing her husband alone again in the brooding gloom of the Smithfield house. Rich had been at court often, relishing his newfound status, but without lodgings there he was required to return to Smithfield to sleep, meaning she was available to serve the Queen. It was an arrangement that suited Penelope.

“Leave the ointment to me, my lady,” answered Alfred.

“I'd like to apply it myself. I'm fond of this girl.” She patted Dulcet's neck and ran a palm over her hogged mane. “But perhaps you would pound the comfrey root for me.”

Alfred smiled, bobbing his head in assent.

“I shall ask my mother if she can spare you to accompany me to Smithfield. I do not trust the groom there to take proper care of her. I shall be only a couple of days, and as it is such a short distance from here you could return if you were needed.”

“If you wish, my lady.” He seemed pleased. She remembered Alfred coming to work in the stables at Chartley. He was just a child then too, but he had a way with horses even then. She once saw him calm a wild pony just by blowing in its ear. “It is barely a ten-minute ride from here.”

“How are the stables at Smithfield?”

“They are quite adequate.”

“It must please you to have an opportunity to see your husband, my lady.”

She nodded and smiled but the knot tightened a little more. She tried to imagine herself back into her childhood and pretend she was not a grown woman with a husband, having to walk the knife edge of court. Alfred disappeared into the barn, returning with a fistful of comfrey root, a pestle and mortar, and a jar of goose fat. He balanced the mortar on the trough and began pounding away, whistling as he went. Penelope watched him work, wanting to delay going into the house for as long as possible.

Her mother would want to quiz her about everything going on in the privy chamber—
Leicester and the Queen: how is he with her? What of Burghley, what is he up to with that deformed son of his? You must take care to watch them . . . too powerful for their own good. Which of the ladies are in favor? Who has new jewels? A sure indicator of preference
—and then, of course, there would be questions about her monthlies.

Her courses had come as usual and though she was disappointed she also felt unsure about the idea of a child conceived on that wedding night. How could a baby made of such a loveless episode ever thrive? But if she
were
with child, Rich would leave her alone. She felt as if she was in one of those puzzle drawings that don't quite make sense from any angle. And there was the undeniable fact of Sidney, to whom she returned in her thoughts constantly, obsessively, like a dog licking at a wound. She wanted to believe that her rejection of him was resolute, but the vision of his mournful face tugged agonizingly at her heart and she had to accept that her attempts to banish him from her thoughts were futile.

“Did you see the puppy, my lady?” asked Alfred, handing her the ground comfrey root and offering the jar of grease so she could spoon in a measure.

“Puppy?” She took some of the mixture and gently began to rub a film of it over Dulcet's sores, feeling the mare flinch and then calm beneath her touch.

“One of your mother's spaniels whelped in the barn. She had two, but one was stillborn. The head groom told me to put the other in a sack of stones and throw it in the river.”

“You didn't, did you?” She looked at him, appalled, following him as he began to lead the horses inside.

“Of course not, my lady. I was rather hoping you might take pity on him.” He threw her a beguiling smile.

“You know me too well, Alfred. You'd better show me.”

He pointed into a corner that had been partitioned off with a plank of wood. Penelope could see a pair of suspicious eyes trained on her. The bitch was on her side in the straw; beside her on his back, legs splayed, belly up, the sight of him tugging Penelope's heart, was the puppy. She gazed at the scene for some time, watching mesmerized as he made little squeaking sounds, his legs twitching as if he were dreaming of chasing mice.

“You knew I'd be a soft touch. Didn't you, Alfred?”

“My lady, I would never suggest such a thing.” But his grin gave him away. “He's ready to leave his ma; I've been weaning him. Will you take him?”

“You villain; you knew I'd not be able to resist.”

The puppy stirred, his eyes popping open, rolling over onto his front to get to his feet. He wobbled, drunk with sleep, and sniffed her hand, so she scooped him up, allowing him to chew on her fingers with sharp little fangs, thinking what a comfort it would be to have such a creature to love.

“Can I take him now?” She stood and the bitch glanced up at her once more, then closed her eyes, falling back to sleep.

“Of course, my lady.” Alfred removed his cap, a gesture that seemed to indicate his discomfort at being asked permission for something by someone so far above him in the pecking order. “Look how she is content to see her little fellow go with you.”

She made for the house, entering by the back door, pulling her hat from her head, allowing it to fall to the floor and flinging her cloak to the side. She then stopped a moment to bring the little dog close to her face, where he snickered and snuffled and she caught a whiff of his sour puppy smell. Hearing voices in the hall, she opened the door quietly to see what company was there. In a huddle about the hearth were her mother, her stepfather, Jeanne, and Dorothy, but there was another amongst them. She felt choked, as if a stone had stuck in her gullet, and though her instincts were telling her to flee, she found herself rooted to the spot. Sidney, even turned away from her, was instantly recognizable—she must have scrutinized the contours of that back a thousand times.

It was the puppy that betrayed her presence. Seemingly sensitive to Penelope's heightened anxiety, he began to yap in urgent, high-pitched discharges. The company turned as one, Dorothy emitting a delighted squeal, forgetting all sense of propriety as she ran towards her sister and the little dog, who had stopped his barking and had begun to wriggle with excitement.

“Is he yours? Where did you get him?” Questions poured out of her sister but Penelope's mind churned on other things. “What's his name?”

Penelope's annoyance flared at this invasion of her family, hiding deeper, sharper feelings—
how is it that I can be at once so glad to see him and so angry he is here?
She made every effort not to look at him but couldn't help a glance, for he seemed to glow, as if he wore a halo, like Christ in a painting, and despite his plain black velvet clothes, he outshone everyone there, even her stepfather in his cloth of gold, even her mother, known for her astonishing beauty.

Eventually, Penelope emerged from her stupor to answer her sister. “He doesn't have a name yet.”

“Well, we must give him one,” said Dorothy.

Penelope girded herself, moving into the chamber and passing the puppy into her sister's eager hands. She kissed her mother and stepfather then, bobbing in a curtsy, offered a hand to Sidney, as if he was nothing more than an ordinary guest, mustering all her willpower to avoid meeting his eyes.

“My lady,” he said with a polite bow, holding her hand longer than was necessary. She turned to Jeanne and Dorothy, who were cooing over the dog, opening her arms to take him once more, scattering kisses over his face and head. Penelope was aware of her mother watching her closely, her eyes moving between her and Sidney, seeming curious as to what might have been going on beneath the formal coldness of her daughter's greeting. She wondered then if the silent conflict that was laying waste to her emotions was somehow visible on her surface.

“What about calling him Chevalier?” proposed Jeanne, stroking the puppy.

“Too much of a mouthful,” said Penelope.

“Why don't you suggest a name, Sidney,” said Leicester, patting his nephew on the back, “since you are the wordsmith amongst us?”

Her mother was still looking at her intently. “Are you quite well, Penelope? You look pale.”

“I am well enough, Mother.” She supposed her mother was wondering if she was with child. She half turned her shoulder to Sidney and tucked the little animal under her chin, folding him into the top of her gown, cooing, “I love him already.”

“What
would
you name him, Sidney?” asked Dorothy.

“I need to know him a little first. Here!”

He held out his hands to take the puppy but Penelope shook her head. “He is falling asleep. It would not do to overexcite him.” She couldn't bear the idea of those hands on him.

“Indeed, he does look most content where he is,” said Sidney, ignoring the rebuff, taking the opportunity to turn out a courtly compliment. “Surely any young fellow would be rapturous to be in such proximity to Lady Rich.”

She felt herself blanch inwardly on hearing her married name in his mouth—the mouth she could remember, so clearly, too clearly, pressed against her own.

“What think you of Spero as a name?” he added.

“ ‘Hope,' how charming. Yes, Spero is perfect. And a Latin name will show we are not all ignoramuses,” quipped Lettice. “Or is it ignorami?”

“The first is correct, I believe,” said Sidney.

“I think it is a perfect choice, don't you, Penelope?” said Leicester.

“I will think about it.” No matter how hard she tried to disguise her inner state, her voice betrayed her, sounding clipped and prim, and she couldn't help thinking of Sidney's motto at the recent joust,
SPERAVI
:
I have hoped
, scored through to emphasize the loss. Her own sense of lost hope welled. She took a breath to steady her voice and turned to her sister to change the subject. “When must you return to the Huntingdons?”

“I leave the day after tomorrow,” said Dorothy, looking suddenly downcast. Penelope was reminded of the dull routines of their guardians' household and realized that if she keenly felt her sister's absence, how much worse it must be for Dorothy in such a grim place.

“Never mind”—she squeezed her sister's hand—“you will soon be at court with me, won't she, Mother?” She spoke with false levity for the benefit of Sidney, whose gaze she could feel on her, like an itch that insisted on being scratched.

“If the Queen wishes it,” said Lettice bitterly.

“Will you excuse me?” Penelope had the urge to flee. “I must go to the kitchens and find this little fellow some meat scraps.” Making for the door, she added, “Jeanne, are you coming with me?”