By Royal Command (22 page)

I nodded, too overawed to speak.

‘Now. Do you
really
know it’s me?’ he asked in my ear.

I nodded assuredly, for I’d seen him don his wig, beard and cloak in the small withdrawing room and there had been no opportunity since for him to have been replaced by someone else. He smiled at me, his stage-paint creasing and cracking, and I managed to smile back, wondering when I’d see him as his real self again, with no disguising nor masquerading. He looked magnificent, but I would a hundred times rather have had beside me the lad I’d ridden with to Putney.

On the other side of the screen to us, in the hall, was Her Majesty the Queen, together with the most important members of her Court, those maids of honour and ladies-in-waiting who weren’t appearing in the masque and a selection of foreign dignitaries. They sat on gilt chairs facing a low stage which had been overlaid with grass of unnatural greenness and contained twelve painted wooden clouds, each representing a month of the year and having a girl dressed in filmy sky blue standing beside it. As each of these clouds had ‘floated’ on to the stage, the girl accompanying it had spoken a pretty rhyme in praise of her month.

The Sun, Moon and Stars were also there and these were represented by gentlemen ushers robed in silver and gold. Climbing on to the stage, they’d each spoken in turn and likened themselves to the queen, shining down on the people as she did and warming them with the light of her love. Each act was greeted with great acclaim by those in the hall.

‘Now!’ Tomas said at last to Spring, and with her leading the way (the Seasons, thankfully, having no words to speak apart from declaring their names) we joined those onstage.

Breathless, I looked up and above the heads of those seated in front of me, fixing my eyes on a point at the back, close to the painted ceiling, and only knowing where the queen was sitting by the fierce diamond-blaze of her jewels sparkling in the light of the room’s innumerable candles. It had been rumoured that Her Grace’s French suitor was sitting somewhere in the audience, and I longed to look along the rows for a small, pock-marked man – but that would not have been seemly.

The musicians struck up a seasonal tune and the ladies onstage who represented the months of the year did a dainty dance, forming themselves into fours, twos and sixes with practised ease. They came to rest, curtseyed before the dignitaries and received applause. When this died away the musicians struck up anew and the audience let out a collective ‘Aaah!’ of recognition as Olde Father Time appeared: a stooped figure with an hour-glass hanging on a leather strap around his waist.

And a swaddled infant steeping in his arms.

He declared:

‘The old year dies – but only look

The young one cometh fast,

And we must to the future look

And never to the past!’

‘Welcome to the New Year!’ he cried, and so saying, put down the babe on the sward of grass and bowed low before the queen. The tableau was complete.

Loud applause and cheering followed, then Olde Father Time trudged wearily away. The applause being renewed, he returned to the stage and, after bowing once more, escorted each cloud-girl in turn to the front, where she curtseyed low and was led off. I and the other Seasons were then escorted off by the gentlemen ushers, leaving – alone onstage – little Elizabeth, still asleep.

For a moment people didn’t seem to notice her and things continued as normal: ladies went to get changed, the gentlemen ushers began to disrobe and those outside in the banqueting hall could be heard voicing their approval of the masque and wondering what entertainment was coming next. Tomas and I exchanged glances; mine was anxious, for I still did not know what was in his mind.

After a moment we heard someone outside call, ‘There is the babe still left here!’ and Tomas winked at me.

A little later came another such cry, and then the queen herself, her tone very amiable, called, ‘Where is my fool? Or should I say, where is Olde Father Time?’

Tomas went on to the stage once more and, throwing his beard over his shoulder with a flourish, bowed before the queen.

‘Tomas,’ said Her Grace, ‘we enjoyed your pretty play, but it seems you have forgotten to remove one of the characters.’

Tomas looked towards little Elizabeth and pretended surprise. ‘Ah yes. The New Year.’

‘Whose child is she?’ said the queen, adding, ‘We presume it is a
she
?’

‘She is, Your Grace, and named Elizabeth,’ said Tomas.

The queen nodded graciously in acknowledgement of this.

‘As to whose child she might be . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She is no one’s child, for she comes from a home for foundlings.’

‘And is she not to return there?’

‘Perhaps,’ Tomas said, affecting carelessness. He looked towards me. ‘Is there someone here from the home to take her back?’

I came around the screen and bobbed a curtsey. ‘There is not,’ I said. ‘I believe they have gone without her.’

‘Ah. I suppose one babe more or less is nothing to them,’ said Tomas.

‘But that seems most cruel!’ interjected the queen.

‘Maybe so,’ he said. ‘But then a child must learn early that life is hard, and for those with neither family nor patronage ‘tis even harder.’

‘So this child has no one to care for it?’

‘I believe no mother, father, aunt nor uncle,’ said Tomas, to some gasps from ladies-in-waiting. ‘No one in the world.’

I saw some of the foreign gentlemen shaking their heads. One said, ‘This is very sad, and would not happen in my country.’

‘Is there nothing we can do for her?’ one lady-in-waiting asked, and I didn’t have to look to the voice to know who it was.

‘Yes! We will care for her at Court!’ said the queen of a sudden. ‘We will nurture this brave symbol of the New Year and hope that she’ll return our love by bringing us good luck and a generous harvest.’

Courtiers, gentlemen and ladies-in-waiting alike applauded this notion, some of them calling, ‘Bravo!’

‘Well said, Your Grace,’ said Tomas, smiling through his false beard. ‘Shall I give the infant to your ladies to care for?’

‘Indeed,’ said the queen, basking in the approbation of those around her. ‘There are many ladies and only one babe, so ‘twill not be an onerous task.’

Tomas signalled to me and I picked up little Elizabeth and carried her over to a group of ladies. I did not, however, give her to Mistress Pryor, for I felt that would have been too direct a statement. I looked at her, however, then had to look away quickly before I began weeping at the sheer joy on her face.

Chapter Eighteen

‘
A
re you ready?’ Tomas offered me his hand and, taking it, I stepped down the three stone steps into the small chapel. I’d left my cloak in the ‘porch to make Miss Charity’s blue gown look the better (she would, I knew, be delighted when I told her that it was being worn for a wedding) and my hair was loose and dressed with ribbands.

The chapel was a private one attached to a manor house at Barnes, quite close to where Sir Francis Walsingham lived. Being a privately-owned place of worship, it had escaped alteration when the queen’s father had changed the religion from Catholic to Protestant, so still had the earlier faith’s stained-glass windows, elaborate carved altar rails and shiny brass candlesticks. It was not yet six of the clock on a dank January morning and very dark outside, so two torches flamed on its walls and the altar was bright with candles.

As we walked a little further down the aisle and the light from these candles fell upon me, Tomas took in my appearance and smiled. ‘So early in the morning to be dressed so grand!’

At the appreciative look in his eyes I lowered my head, feeling myself blush, for I was still unaccustomed to being with the real, true Tomas. He, too, looked very fine that morning, for he was wearing silken hose, a doublet of dark blue with silver threads woven through, and under, a gauzy lawn shirt gathered into smocking with a ruff at the neck.

‘Did you have trouble getting away from the house?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘My girls are still asleep – and I’ll be back before the household stirs.’

‘And not one of them will have any knowledge of the ceremony which is about to occur! But what of Mistress Midge?’

‘I told her I had an important errand to run for Mr Sylvester.’

Tomas, still holding my hand, squeezed it. ‘And so you have.’

There was a movement to the right of us and a dark-robed parson appeared from the shadows to wish me good morrow. I continued to hold Tomas’s hand tightly, partly because I was apprehensive about the occasion, and partly because I very much liked doing so.

Tomas introduced me. I made my curtsey and the parson nodded in acknowledgement. ‘And your two friends?’ he asked. ‘Are they come yet?’

Tomas answered that they would be here very shortly, and the parson moved back into the shadows where stood a table and chair. We heard the noise of a parchment being unrolled, then the scratching of a quill. ‘I had to bribe him,’ Tomas whispered to me. ‘He wasn’t keen on a marriage without the banns being called, but I persuaded him otherwise.’

‘And do you think . . .’ But before I had a chance to finish my question there was a noise at the door and Mr Sylvester and Mistress Pryor appeared. As they stepped into the light from the torches we saw that he was cheery, smiling, while she, wearing a silk gown in Tudor green, looked rather shy and demure. These attitudes were appropriate in each of them, of course, for it was their wedding day.

The marriage ceremony was soon over: the parson gabbled his words, making it as brief as possible in order to be finished before the household whose chapel it was came for morning prayers. Tomas and I stood as witnesses and signed the register, and (I’d been practising) I was proud to pen
Lucy Walden
with an adept hand and a flourish to each capital letter.

The parson, urging us not to tarry over-long, left the chapel. We congratulated the happy couple and the new Mistress Sylvester bent to kiss my cheek to thank me, then, turning to Tomas, voiced the question which I’d tried to ask before the ceremony.

‘Tomas. Do you really think Her Grace will forgive us?’

‘Yes, what do you say to our chances?’ said Mr Sylvester.

Tomas looked at them consideringly. ‘Having been in the royal household all my life, I believe I know a little of Her Grace’s feelings and attitudes,’ he said. ‘Certainly since having the little Frenchman for a lover, she’s become more relaxed in her outlook – there are even rumours that she is about to release Mistress George from the Tower.’

‘But how long do you think it will be before we can live together as husband and wife?’

‘And mother and father of little Elizabeth?’ added Mistress Pryor with some anxiety.

‘We must take things slowly,’ Tomas said, ‘and be prepared for a setback if the rumours about Robert Dudley turn out to be true.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Sylvester.

‘The first and most important thing has been to secure your child’s legitimacy by legalising your union,’ Tomas went on.

Mr Sylvester nodded and smiled, looking to his wife. ‘And we have done this today.’

‘You have,’ said Tomas. ‘And I believe the next thing will be for you, Mistress Sylvester, to withdraw from Court life as much as possible, perhaps setting up your own household. After a reasonable period, having made sure that Her Grace is in a compliant and agreeable mood – and certainly if she accepts the proposal of the French duke – I shall ask her if she might consider releasing you from her service.’

‘And if she does not?’ Mistress Pryor asked, then added quickly, ‘But I shall not think on that, for today is my wedding day and I am determined to stay hopeful and happy!’

‘That’s the way, my sweetness!’ Mr Sylvester said, putting an arm about her shoulders. He smiled at us. ‘I fear there will be no wedding breakfast, but I’ve prepared a flagon of bride-ale and I suggest we take a walk to the lych-gate and drink a toast or two there before we return to our respective lives.’

And this we did, and were all a little merry by the hour of sun-up. At this time, however, I became anxious about getting home before the Dee family rose and discovered I was missing, so Tomas walked with me back to Mortlake. It was not far, but we strode briskly and I was out of breath by the time we reached the magician’s house. By then, I was also feeling a little tearful, because the Court – and Tomas, of course – was due to move to Whitehall the following day and I felt my life would prove very dull and empty for the next few months.