A Court Affair (49 page)

“Do you hear me?” Robert grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me so hard and fast, it was all I could do not to be sick upon his shoes. “You have offended the Queen! You fool, do you know how
serious
this is for me? I am the
most
important man at court. I am the Queen’s Master of the Horse.
Everything
to do with the horses and transportation of the court is
my
responsibility. I am in sole charge of buying, stabling, training, breeding, and physicking
every
horse in the royal stables. I
personally
select the horses the Queen and courtiers and foreign visitors ride for leisure, hunting, and travel. I make sure each person has a mount perfectly suited to them, gentle palfreys for the timid, aged, or inexperienced riders, and fast, spirited animals for those who prefer and can handle them. I choose the packhorses and mules for when the court travels. I plan the processions and organise the routes and stopping points—
all
of that is entrusted
entirely
to
me,
and I have
full
responsibility for planning all the court entertainments—the pageants, tournaments, masques, banquets, and balls. It is
my
duty to be there whenever the Queen rides out, to ride immediately behind her, and to be there to help her mount and dismount. No one but
me
is to do it,
no one
! And now
my
wife
has offended the Queen!”

“You mean by existing.” I nodded knowingly. “I offend Elizabeth by the mere fact that I live and breathe and wear your ring upon my finger! It is easier to wrong a woman when she is buried alive in the country—out of sight, out of mind, as the old song says! For how can you hurt, how can you wrong, someone who doesn’t even exist as far as you both are concerned and who doesn’t know what is going on? I would imagine her conscience suffers fewer pangs that way, since she cannot see with her own eyes the pain she causes! Since I am not welcome at court and we live apart, far easier to pretend that we are estranged, so she can use that too as an excuse to steal my husband! And doubtlessly you lead her to believe that it is true! That we have parted amicably and willingly gone our separate ways, to each his own! Do you lie to her too, Robert? Do you tell her that I don’t love you, that I am well content with my lonely state and don’t want or need you? Do you lie
to
her as well as
with
her?”

Robert slapped me hard across the face, so hard, I stumbled and fell against the wall.

“I will not even dignify that with an answer,” he said in quiet fury.

I turned away from him, rubbing my stinging, smarting cheek and the side of my head where it had hit the wall.

There were angry voices out in the courtyard: one foreign—French, I thought, that sounded strangely familiar—and the other English, and I thought I recognised it as well, so I glanced out. I instantly felt as if I had been slapped again. The foreigner
was
a Frenchman—the tenderhearted highwayman, Red Jack! And the Englishman was
Sir Richard Verney
!

In a flurry of furious, fast-paced French, Red Jack flung a purse at Richard Verney’s feet, then spat on it and, with some last angry words that I was quite sure, by their tone, were a curse, turned on his heel and strode away, the red plume in his hat waving goodbye and good riddance behind him.

“Robert! Robert! Come look!” I cried, reaching behind me and groping for his sleeve. “Sir Richard Verney hired Red Jack to attack me—that purse he threw in the dust is proof! Look! Look!” I cried, forgetting that I had yet to tell Robert about my brush with danger on the road to London.

Robert slapped my clinging fingers from his sleeve and gave me a look of withering disdain. “
Really,
Amy, you
astound
me! What fanciful tale is this now?” With an exasperated sigh, he glanced out the window. “If you mean that fellow with the red feather in his hat, that is
not
Red Jack, the notorious highwayman, but a Flemish spice merchant. Richard Verney would piss himself from fear if he ever saw a highwayman, especially one with a reputation like Bloody Jack’s, so the idea that he would consort with one is utterly absurd. Red Jack wears a necklace—he calls it his string of pearls—made from the teeth of the women he has raped and murdered, you know, so if he
had
attacked you, you would not be here now to tell this ludicrous tale you are spinning for God only knows what reason. If Richard Verney thought he was under the same roof as that man, he would flee like one escaping a burning building, screaming as if his hair were on fire. All you’ve witnessed is a quarrel over the cost or quality of spices, nothing more or less. Now come away, and stop hanging out that window like a gape-jawed slattern—you’ve embarrassed me more than enough for one day!”

“No, Robert, no, you are mistaken,” I insisted. “I would stake my life upon it—that
is
Red Jack. I
know
it is! I would know him anywhere! And he does not wear a necklace of women’s teeth—that must be just a story. It
was
a miniature of St Agatha on a chain set with pearls that he wore, but he doesn’t have it any more—he gave it to me!” I fished it out of my bodice and showed it to him, ignoring Robert’s disdainful dismissal of it as “cheap and worthless Papist frippery!”

“It was
all
Richard Verney’s doing—I
know
it was!” I continued. “He is an
evil, evil
man, Robert. I
know
! When his attempts to poison me failed, he somehow found out that I was coming to London to see you, and he hired Red Jack to murder me along the way, to make it look like a random robbery, as highwaymen are known to lurk along the roads, but Red Jack spared me because Death’s mark was already upon me!” I blurted it all out, forgetting that Robert didn’t yet know about my breast. I had kept it a secret from all but Pirto; no one else knew but Red Jack, who had seen it with his own eyes when he ripped open my bodice.

Robert gave a weary sigh. “God, grant me patience. Amy, you do most sorely try me! Was ever a man more accursed in his wife than I am? You talk like a madwoman! People tell me I should have you locked away, but out of the goodness of my heart, I keep giving you chances, hoping you will snap to your senses and comport yourself properly as becomes a lady who has the honour of being my wife.
That
”—Robert pointed out the window, jabbing his finger at the man with a red feather in his hat, now mounting a handsome black horse—“is a Flemish spice merchant. I know that for a fact, as I bought some saffron from him a fortnight ago on Sir Richard Verney’s recommendation to mix with my butter and cheese to give them a better colour and get a higher price for them at market. I have revived the dairy at Kew, since that was what gave the house its name, but I am not altogether satisfied with the quality of the goods produced. The milkmaids are a fat lot of lazy slatterns. I will lose my patience, and my temper, and dismiss the lot of them one day—I swear, they’re good for nothing but gossiping!”

“But I could fix that!” I cried, a hopeful smile lighting up my face. “Oh, Robert,
please
! I have much experience in running a dairy! I can help you! I
know
I can! I know the
proper
way to make
good
butter and cheese! And, with me in charge, you’ll have no further need for saffron! Oh, Robert,
please,
let me come to Kew, let me take charge of it. Please, let me do this, let me help you, let me show you how useful I can be, and I
swear
to you, your butter and cheese shall be the
finest
in all of London!”

“No,” Robert said in a single, abrupt, clipped syllable. “Absolutely not. I will not hear of it.”

“But
why not
?” I demanded, a petulant, desperate whine creeping into my voice.

“Because I said so,” Robert said simply. “I will not be made the laughingstock of London by having my wife running around London playing at dairymaid.”

“You just do not want me at Kew!” I accusingly retorted. “Elizabeth does not want me at Kew! She is the lady of that house, and there is no place for me in it, not even for my portrait!”

But Robert wasn’t listening; he was already walking towards the door.

Suddenly he paused, as if he had forgotten something, and turned back to look at me, staring hard. There was something shrewd and calculating in his eyes that made me shiver as if a goose had just walked over my grave. Slowly, he came back to me, put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me straight in the eye.

“When you were babbling on, telling me that
ludicrous
tale about Red Jack, you said he spared your life because Death had already marked you. What did you mean by that? Are you unwell, my darling?”

I hung my head in shame and nodded, not daring to meet his eyes.

“Amy, dear,” Robert said softly, his voice like a caress, and indeed as he spoke those words, he lifted his hand to stroke my cheek. “If there is something wrong, you
must
tell me. I am your husband, and in spite of our … difficulties, you are still very dear to me.” He put his hand beneath my chin and tilted it up, making me look at him. “Tell me, my sweet, my darling little buttercup, tell me, so, whatever it is, we can make it better.”

“I … I …” Tears pooled in my eyes. I
so
wanted to believe him, but his sincerity no longer rang true to my ears; every word sounded feigned and false, like poison hidden in honey. I
wanted
to believe, I
wanted
to hope, but I
couldn’t,
and yet …
I couldn’t stop!
“Th-There is a … a …”

“Come now, my darling, be brave, and tell me,” Robert cajoled. “Out with it. Keeping it bottled up inside you only makes it worse—you know that, Buttercup. Remember what the Scriptures say—the truth will set you free.”

I took a deep breath and let the words come rushing out. “I have a cancer in my breast!”

Robert just stared at me. “Is that so, my darling? Are you quite
sure
it is cancer, and not an abscess, or a boil, or some other bump or blemish? You know how excitable, imaginable, and prone to panic and think the worst you are.”

“I am
quite
certain.” I nodded. “It
is
cancer, Robert—I
know
it! If it were an abscess, it would have burst by now. Pirto’s aunt had one, and we’ve tried all the remedies, but upon me, they all failed. The lump has only grown larger and more painful, and … there is a … a … an … unpleasant discharge that is sometimes tinged with blood.”

“I see.” Robert nodded gravely. “Well, then, you shall have the
best
doctor in London, my darling,” he said, just as if he were promising I would have the prettiest gown at the next court ball. He leaned forward then and brushed his lips lightly against mine. “I want my Buttercup Bride to have the
very best
of care! I’ll go at once and arrange it,” he said, and he started for the door again.

“Robert,
please
!” I caught desperately at his hand. “Do not send me back to Compton Verney. It is a
terrible,
frightening place! I
cannot
rest there! My food is poisoned, and I am sorely afraid that Richard Verney will murder me!
Please,
Robert, if you have ever loved, ever cared, for me,
please,
find me somewhere else to stay!”

“I have already made arrangements for you to leave,” Robert said, reaching out to stroke my hair with a tenderness that now only terrified me; I couldn’t believe it was sincere, it had come back all too suddenly. “Richard has told me how sorely jangled your nerves have been beneath his roof. In fact, they have been
most
disruptive to the peace of his household, and his servants have become wary of you; some even openly declare you are a madwoman and refuse to be alone with you. So I have already accepted, on your behalf, an invitation from my treasurer, Anthony Forster, to go keep his wife and children company at the house he is leasing, Cumnor Place. I shall take you there myself in November, before the Christmas festivities begin at court and I haven’t a moment to spare even for myself. It is near Oxford, and only a day, or half a day’s, ride from London, depending on which palace the court is staying at, so it will be much more convenient for me to visit you. You shall have your own wing, overlooking the centre courtyard on one side and on the other a beautiful park with fine shady trees, flowers, and a pond. Mrs Forster’s children love the pond; I’m told they like to catch frogs there, so their antics should amuse you. It will be like having your own little household, and you needn’t mingle with the others if you don’t want to, but there are other ladies staying there as well, so if you want company, then you shan’t be lonely. You see, my dear little buttercup”—he bent and smacked a kiss onto my lips—“your husband has thought of
everything
! Now, I’m off to find a doctor to make my Buttercup Bride all better!”

And then he was gone.

When the door closed behind him, I started shaking, trembling so hard, I had to take up Red Jack’s velvet cloak and wind it tightly around me again. Why hadn’t I thought to show it to Robert? It proved I had been telling the truth. I sat on the window seat and gazed out into the courtyard, contemplating all that had just occurred. I
knew
it was Red Jack I had seen having angry words with Richard Verney and throwing a purse at his feet. Surely it was not just a coincidence that it was the coach carrying me to London that he had waylaid? And why had Robert denied it, insisting that it was a spice merchant quarrelling with Verney? Whenever he spoke of Verney, he painted a picture of a sentimental and cowardly man that contradicted everything I myself had seen and experienced with him. Regardless of what Robert said, Richard Verney was
not
the sort of man who would weep over a dead dog or piss his pants if he ever came face-to-face with a highwayman. On the contrary, down there in the courtyard with Red Jack, he had seemed fully in command of himself; he had kept his back straight, and no wet spots had appeared in the dirt between his feet. I
knew
what I had seen. That was no quarrel over spices, and the purse of coins flung down into the dust had been for something far more unsavoury, that, to his credit, Red Jack had rejected. I huddled there, shivering in his cloak, and wondered what would become of me. I didn’t trust Robert; his manner had been too cunning, too silky, when he queried me about my condition, calling me affectionate names he had not used in years. It made me wish I had not told him. My life had become like a maze I constantly blundered about in, taking wrong turns and coming up against walls, making mistakes that, by the time I realised they were mistakes, it was too late to undo them. And telling Robert that I had cancer felt like yet another mistake, one that could prove to be as deadly as the cancer itself.