Exile (18 page)

I glanced cautiously at Nick, who looked well- enough for a drinking man.

He caught me looking at him and smiled ruefully, touching his cheekbone. “Do you like my battle scar, my lady?” he asked.

“I heard you got it in a fight over a card game,” I said. “Is that true?”

“In a way,” he admitted. “Lord knows, some men get very impatient for their money. Do you like to play?”

“I play a little Primero with the Queen sometimes,” I told him. “But she generally gives me the money to play in the first place.”

He smiled again, and shook his head. “But where's the excitement in that,” he asked, “if you can afford to lose?”

I didn't know what to say to that.

Lady Sarah, who was perched on a stool on the little dais, sighed, and I remembered I was supposed to be reading to her. I had a new book about brave warriors and magical lands and a quest for a magic sword.

Mrs. Teerlinc went to her desk in the corner and began to cast up her accounts with an abacus and a long list of bills. I tried to watch her as I read aloud, attempting to learn how she could write accounts with pen and ink and not get ink on her at all.

Mrs. Teerlinc is the Head Limner at Court and has a pension from the Queen, so all the other limners are jealous of her, especially as she is a woman. Because of her position she has little time for actual painting, so she mainly creates beautiful, tiny portraits and pictures on vellum stuck to playing cards.

It's the latest thing to have a miniature portrait of your love to carry with you. Daft gentlemen are always saying they want to carry Lady Sarah's beauteous visage next their devoted hearts. Ha!

I tried to concentrate on reading. The book is translated from the French and has some very long words in it. I quite like romances, if only they could get to the fighting sooner and leave out some of the description of the beauteous lady's golden locks, wondrous samite gowns, and tiny feet clad in Cordova leather and so on. Of course, Lady Sarah loves those parts.

I read and read, but I also kept looking up to see Nick Hilliard painting. It is interesting, for he is intent, like a cat watching a bird before pouncing, and his hand moves so fast with the brush, it is as if he can't paint fast enough to catch the colours in front of him.

Lady Sarah was scowling at me, her cheeks pink from wearing the Queen's heavy robes, and I realised that watching Nick Hilliard had stopped me from reading. So I started again hastily.

“You've read that bit,” she snapped crossly. “Twice!”

I coughed, skipped a paragraph, and read on. One of the stainers tutted because Sarah started fanning herself with the Queen's ostrich fan instead of staying still.

Mrs. Teerlinc had finished her accounts and now had her hand on the shoulder of the stainer who was painting nearest to me. He was an old man with a tangled grey beard and eyebrows like birds' nests. He squinted at Sarah and then squinted up close to the panel he was painting, as if he could hardly see what he was doing. I thought the pupils of his eyes looked odd, as if there was milk in them.

“I think you should rest your eyes now, Ned,” said Mrs. Teerlinc. “You go for your pipe and a bit to eat.”

“Ay, well,” he said. “My eyes are tired. Maybe the morning mist will have cleared when I come back.” He cleaned his fingers on a rag, tucked the brushes into the easel so they wouldn't touch anything else, and went out of the Workroom.

Mrs. Teerlinc looked at his painting and sighed. “Nick, my dear,” she said sadly, examining some mistakes in Ned's painting, “would you mind?”

Nick came over from his own easel, bringing his palette and brushes. He scowled at Ned's painting. Then he grabbed a brush and painted like lightning, right over Ned's mistakes—which you can do with paints that are mixed with oil, for they don't run at all.

And the result was so much better. As Nick used his colours and lit the sheen of the pearls with silver in resin, the jewels seemed to grow there on the panel, hanging on the bodice like the real jewels!

“Oh, really, Grace,” snapped Sarah, “Please will you stop stopping?”

Guiltily, I returned to reading some elaborate speeches about lady-loves while occasionally sneaking glances at Nick Hilliard's work.

I read about the terrible dragon and the beauteous lady in its clutches, and I tried to concentrate, but every so often I'd forget to read as I watched jewels and brocade spring up from Nick's brushes as if burning through the wood panel.

By the time Ned came back, smelling of that horrible hensbane of Peru that some people smoke to cure their phlegm, Nick had finished reworking all that the old man had done that morning and was back at his own easel, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

I remembered Mary Shelton's embroidery pattern and forgot all about reading again. “May I have some heavy paper for pouncing an embroidery pattern for Mary Shelton?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Teerlinc, and she beckoned one of the two apprentices to bring some scrap paper to me. “You Maids certainly do a great deal of embroidery work,” she added.

“Well, it is the only way we can make pictures with colours,” I explained, a little sadly, for I would love to do some painting myself. “I wish I could learn to paint with the beautiful, bright colours you use.”

Mrs. Teerlinc smiled and shook her head. “Ah, no,” she said. “I'm afraid they are too valuable. The blue for the sky is made of ground lapis lazuli. Besides, it takes years to learn how to use all the colours. And at least embroidery silks will not stain your kirtle.”

“No, thank the Lord, or I would never have a clean one!” I declared ruefully. “I have trouble enough with pen and ink.”

“Grace,” moaned Sarah. “What happens next? Stop chatting about drawing and painting and read to me.”

But Mrs. Teerlinc was patting my arm. “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “Here is a graphite pen—see, it makes only a grey dust if you brush it. You can write with it and never need to dip your pen in an ink bottle.”

“How wonderful!” I exclaimed. “It would be marvellous not having to use ink.” Of course I tried it— and that is what I am writing with now! No ink at all!

“You can draw with it, too,” Mrs. Teerlinc added with a smile, and gave me two more graphite pens from her little table, which I put straight in my penner. “Now, be careful with them, for they are quite easy to break and very expensive, so I will not be able to give you more.”

“Gra-a-ace!” moaned Sarah once more. “What happens with the dragon?”

So I sat there for another hour, burbling speeches from the beauteous damsel, and even more speeches from the brave knight who rescued her.

At last the Queen's kirtle was done and we could leave. I helped Sarah change her clothes again—it's lucky she doesn't mind doing that, at least. It is terribly fiddly: lifting off the heavy gown and putting it on its stand, unlacing the sleeves and drawing them off, unhooking the bodice down the side, and then unhooking the back of the kirtle and drawing that off. Finally, I untied the Queen's stay laces so Sarah could stand in her shift and bumroll and farthingale and sigh and breathe again. And then, of course, I had to do her up again in her own stays and bodice and kirtle. It's agonisingly boring, wearing fine clothes, really it is. I wish I were like Ellie and could put one thing on in the morning and wear it all day. In fact, I don't think she even puts it on in the morning. I think she just wears it day and night until it falls apart or she grows out of it and has to find a new kirtle.

I went back to the parlour for a bite of dinner with Lady Sarah. Olwen was waiting for us, and Sarah decided I hadn't been very good as a tiring woman, so after we ate, she had Olwen dress her all over again. But the good thing was that I managed to sneak a little time in my chamber to try out my new graphite pen. And so here I am, and this pen is a wonder of the world, for it never blots nor runs at all!

Mary Shelton has just come in from visiting Carmina, who has a terrible megrim, poor soul, and was not with us for dinner. “Penelope says there is to be a play tonight in honour of the Scottish Ambassadors!” Mary has just said excitedly. “And Her Majesty desires you to walk the dogs, Lady Grace.”

So, off I go.

Published by
Delacorte Press
an imprint of
Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York

Series created by Working Partners Ltd.
Text copyright © 2006 by Working Partners Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission
of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

The trademark Delacorte Press is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark
Office and in other countries.

Visit us on the Web!
www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Burchett, Jan.
Exile / Jan Burchett and Sara Vogler are writing as Grace Cavendish.
p. cm. — (The Lady Grace mysteries, from the daybookes of
Lady Grace Cavendish; book the fifth)
Summary: Thirteen-year-old Lady Grace Cavendish, maid of honor to Queen
Elizabeth I, describes in her diary how she tries to discover who stole a
magical ruby belonging to the visiting princess of Sharakand.
eISBN: 978-0-307-53648-8
[1. Princesses—Fiction. 2. Jewelry—Fiction. 3. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction.
4. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558–1603—Fiction. 5. Diaries—Fiction.
6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Vogler, Sara. II. Title. III. Series.
PZ7.B915965Exi 2006
[Fic]—dc22
2005006542

v3.0

Table of Contents

Other Books By This Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 - The Fifteenth Day of January, In The Year of our Lord 1570

Chapter 2 - The Sixteenth Day of January, In The Year of our Lord 1570

Chapter 3 - The Seventeenth Day of January, In The Year of our Lord 1570

Chapter 4 - The Eighteenth Day of January, In The Year of our Lord 1570

Chapter 5 - The Nineteenth Day of January, In The Year of our Lord 1570

Chapter 6 - The Twentieth Day of January, In The Year of our Lord 1570: St. Agnes's Eve

Glossary

Copyright