In a Treacherous Court (27 page)

“Who will have your back?” she asked now.

Parker brought his cup of mead to his lips. “I am able to watch my own back.”

Susanna raised her eyebrows, thinking of yesterday, of the sight of him lying on the passage floor with Smithy exposing his neck for the cut.

He flicked a glance at her, and frowned. “I cannot trust anyone to watch my back. All those I think trustworthy, I’ve sent to the King.”

“You could take Harry. If nothing else, to run for help should anyone try to attack.”

Harry shot her a dark look, which she ignored. She didn’t want to think about what he’d done yesterday, and she certainly didn’t want him to have to do something like that again. But she equally didn’t want Parker out there alone. He’d called court a wasps’ nest, but in truth it was more like a snake pit. They wouldn’t just sting here. They would kill.

“I do not want to leave you alone.”

“Then let me sit with the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. I can while away the hours teaching them to watercolor.”

Parker lowered his cup, thoughtful. “You would be safe there.”

“Good, then I’ll get ready.” Susanna scraped back her chair and looked across at him. “You and I deal well together, don’t we?”

“Because I always give you your way.” The mask was down, and he was smiling in a way dangerous to her knees and her heart.

“No. Because you can be swayed by common sense.” Susanna grinned. “And because you give me my way.”

S
he had never felt more foreign. Perhaps because she had not been in the company of other women, except Mistress Greene, since her arrival from Ghent.

The women eyed her with curiosity, some hostile, others merely interested. Her satchel received as many looks as she did from the maids of honor gathered in the comfortable chamber Parker had brought her to.

The Queen was ensconced in the chamber beyond, attended by her ladies-in-waiting. No sound came from behind the door, even in the silence of the outer chamber. Every conversation had stopped when Susanna was ushered in.

There was no place for her to sit. All the elegant chairs were taken, and no one seemed inclined to stir herself to find Susanna a seat.

She gave a deep curtsy. “Good day.” Twenty or so faces stared back at her, fingers poised over embroidery, cups of wine half-lifted to lips. No response was forthcoming.

The lack of reaction left her off-balance, and her gaze swept the room in search of a friendly face. There were a few, but none willing to greet her, it seemed.

She turned, and was again stunned by the beauty of Elizabeth Carew.

“Parker’s mysterious lady.” Lady Carew stepped forward, her eyes glittering, an air of suppressed violence about her. Her fists were clenched and Susanna thought she might strike out.

A hiss from one of the ladies stopped Elizabeth in her tracks, and she collected herself, blinked, and forced herself to incline her head in greeting.

“My lady.” Susanna curtsied low in response, but kept her head up and her eyes on the King’s mistress.

“Now that Parker is not here to speak in riddles, can you tell me your name?” The words were spoken softly, derisively.

“I am Susanna Horenbout, come from Ghent to work as the King’s painter.”

Elizabeth pulled up sharply. “A
painter
?”

From her tone, she had thought something else entirely, although Susanna didn’t know what. Elizabeth had no liking for Parker, so it could not be jealousy.

“My father is court painter to Margaret of Austria. I trained under him.”

Elizabeth seemed dumbstruck. “And what have you to do with Parker?”

“Parker met me at the ship and escorted me to London.”

“That does not explain why he is your shadow,” Elizabeth snapped. “Why does he escort you about, take you to the King?”

“I am not able to tell you why he is never far from my company, my lady. I am sorry.” She lifted her hands in confusion. “Why does it concern you so?”

Elizabeth’s face went still and expressionless, and she stared down at her feet.

Susanna waited to be enlightened, but no explanation was forthcoming. Suddenly light flooded the room and she turned to it, grateful for the distraction, and walked to the window. The weak sunlight had broken through the clouds and was reflected off the water below.

She turned back to face the room, sat on the wide sill, and began to unpack her charcoal and paper.

She had just begun the outline of her sketch, setting each person in her place, when a shadow fell across her work.

A woman of about her age held up a velvet cushion with brocade tassels. “That sill is hard and cold.” The lady wore a
dress of deep blue, and her headpiece was an elaborate affair of blue velvet and lace. Her eyes kept drifting to the sketch.

“My thanks.” Susanna took the offering, and saw that every eye was upon her. Most of the embroidery had been set aside, or even packed away.

“I am Lady Mary Browne. Can you show us your work?” The woman’s eyes were full of delight and she clapped her hands in excitement, as if Susanna’s presence lent the morning a holiday atmosphere.

Susanna smiled. “Stand over there.” She pointed to a place in good light, and took out a new sheet of paper. She began her sketch, trying to capture Mary’s enthusiasm in the strokes of black on white. The magic that this was possible, that happiness, sadness, or joy could be rendered in solid form, never ceased to amaze and humble her.

She worked quickly, tamping down the urge to include the fleur-de-lis pattern on the walls behind Mary, or the intricate carving of the chair nearby. She rendered the background with simple lines and concentrated on her subject, making the details of her dress, of her smile and her eyes, stand out more.

“Oh, I cannot wait any longer.” Mary relaxed the pose she’d held and came over.

With a last few strokes of her charcoal, Susanna finished the sketch. “My lady.” She stood and presented it.

Mary lifted a hand to her mouth. “This is … me.”

Susanna laughed. “Of course it is you. That is who I was drawing.”

A few of the other women crowded around and began
passing the sketch among them. Elizabeth Carew stalked into the group and plucked it from an outstretched hand. She stared at it for a long moment.

“You are accomplished.” She sounded astounded, and curiously relieved.

“My father would not have sent me to the King if I were not.” Susanna did not understand the undercurrents, but they were there. Something more was happening here. Something she did not understand.

But her sketch had dissipated any hostility focused on her.

“We thought you were the King’s new mistress,” Mary whispered. “You have twice been seen coming from his closet. We never thought you could be an artist. I have never heard of a woman employed as one.”

Susanna knew her eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open. “His mistress?” The words came out in a squeak.

Mary smiled at her shock. “Obviously we were wrong. Some here are very loyal to the Queen, and the moment a woman goes to His Majesty’s bed, she finds herself out in the cold in these rooms. Not with me, though. What are women who catch his fancy to do? Say no? If he wants them, he almost certainly gets them.”

Susanna’s eyes came to rest on Elizabeth Carew, watching her from the other side of the room, her bearing more relaxed now. “He does not keep each one very long?”

“No. He is discreet. He does not boast or brag, but he has an appetite. We often know when he is ready for a change before the men. He comes more frequently to visit the Queen
and jokes with a particular woman more than usual. Then he invites her to take part in one of his pageants with him. Then her family starts to progress of a sudden, gaining estates and elevated duties. Most often, her father or husband or even her betrothed makes sure she pleases the King as long as possible. Squeezes every last favor out of him before he tires of her.” Her voice was low.

“And he always does?” Susanna spoke equally low.

“Tire of her?” Mary nodded. “Aye. Even that one.” Her eyes flicked to Elizabeth. “Beautiful though she is, she won’t last much longer than the others, I’ll warrant.”

“Well, I am not her replacement.”

Mary smiled. “We will have to go back to our favorite pastime, then.”

“Which is?”

“Trying to guess who will be.”

The Chiefe Conditions and Qualities in a Courtier:
To hunt and hauke.

Of the Chief Conditions and Qualityes in a Waytyng Gentylwoman:
To win and keepe her in her Ladies favour and all others.

N
orfolk looked the worse for wear.

Parker stood at the entrance to the privy chamber and watched him talking with his cronies. There were dark circles around his eyes and an insincere smile on his bloodless lips.

He would be stewing over what information Parker might have managed to get from Fielder and Norris. Norfolk’s fingers reflexively brushed the hilt of his sword, and Parker savored the cold thrill of satisfaction. Norfolk was expecting the axe to fall.

It eased Parker’s sense of failure, even though he couldn’t touch Norfolk yet. He needed more. Much more.

He angled across the room, and Norfolk started at the sight
of him. The nobleman edged away from his place within a tight knot of the old guard, and looked right and left. Parker could almost see the cogs turning in his head.

There was no possible advantage to Norfolk in a confrontation in this room, and no escape, except into the King’s inner sanctum. Something he’d want even less than a public argument with Parker.

With no choice, Norfolk walked straight toward him, his fist closed around his sword hilt.

“You plan to battle with me here?” Parker stopped toe-to-toe with Norfolk, not giving him an inch.

“If I could get away with it, I’d strike you dead where you stand.” Norfolk spoke low enough for Parker’s ears only, his eyes thin slits of hate.

Parker said nothing. Norfolk must know he would barely get his sword free of his scabbard before Parker had his own blade at Norfolk’s throat.

They stood a moment, two wolves facing off, and Parker noticed a hush in the general conversation. He raised his head and saw the avid curiosity, the blatant glee at a brewing argument, on every face in the room. The crows were circling.

Norfolk noticed too. Looking as if he’d stepped in something vile, he made to move around Parker, but Parker matched him, blocking his way again.

“Leaving?”

Norfolk’s lips grew white in the corners. “I am your superior in every way, Parker. Let me by, or you will hear of it.”

“The King has given me a free hand. But if you’d like to talk with him, come, let us request an audience together.”

Norfolk went still. He raised his hand as if about to strike, then plucked at his sleeve instead, readjusting it. His hand shook.

“Let us talk between ourselves first. Before we bother the King.” His voice was even lower, and Parker noticed the courtiers had drifted closer.

“Most certainly. Let us talk. Although not in any passageways—I fear they are bad for my health.”

The look Norfolk shot him was venomous. “The gardens.”

Parker nodded, and with an exaggerated half-bow gestured toward the door. “After you, Your Grace.”

“I wouldn’t present my back to you for every holding in the realm.”

Parker rubbed the bump above his ear. “Unless you wish me to call an audience with the King right now, you will start walking.”

Norfolk began to draw his sword, but Parker did not do the same. He slowly, deliberately folded his arms across his chest.

Norfolk looked as if he would fall to the floor in apoplexy. He quivered with rage, the tendons in his neck bulging. He slammed his sword hilt back into its scabbard and pushed past Parker, deliberately stepping on Parker’s boot and grinding down with his heel. “You will pay for this insult, you dog.”

Parker grabbed Norfolk’s doublet, jerking him back. He put his lips to Norfolk’s ear. “I think I’ve paid enough already.”