The Lost Duchess (7 page)

Emme slumped down and pressed her face to her pillow.

‘Who was talking?’ Lady Howard snapped.

‘I was, my lady,’ Emme spoke up, anxious to shield Bess from any blame. ‘I had a nightmare and spoke out in my sleep. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’

Lady Howard clicked her tongue.

‘I am sure that everyone here does not wish to know the state of your dreams, Mistress Fifield. I’ll thank you to be quiet.’

Emme screwed shut her eyes and said nothing more.

She prayed she had not already said too much.

*

The beat was quick, the music bright and Emme saw the Queen gasp after the next high leap, turning in Sir Christopher Hatton’s arms with cheeks flushed livid and a hand that trembled, as she commenced the
cinq pas
. Five steps: one two, one two, and Emme sprang with the other ladies, whirling into the cadence, skirts twirling, pulse pounding, her throat raw with gulping at the smoke-sharp air from the open windows. Loose ribbons and hair blurred with white headdresses as she turned. The music flowed and possessed. The thud of tabor and boards; slippers slapping, hands
clapping; the flourishes of lute, flute and viol took over from ears to toes, and Emme was glad to lose herself and forget, even if the sound of laughter jabbed at her soul. But how much more would the Queen endure? She had already been out riding at dawn and she had danced four galliards.

Bess Throckmorton took Emme’s hand. ‘Be Sir Walter for me,’ she whispered, stepping close and guiding Emme’s hand to the lip of her busk near the hard point where her bodice tapered. Then, with arched back and half-closed eyes, Bess moved with her in rhythm, preparing for the leap, and Emme helped her when she sprang, using all her strength to lift her friend’s light body high, though she could not resist the temptation to tickle her ribs as she set Bess down.

‘Saucy, Sir Walter,’ Bess giggled, skipping away.

Suddenly Emme felt the music slow, and she noticed Sir Christopher leading the Queen aside. The lute played on alone for a while, petering out as the Queen sat and raised her hand.

‘Let us have a song, Mistress Fifield,’ the Queen said, fanning herself rapidly and fixing Emme with a piercing stare. ‘Something gentle while we rest.’

A song?
Emme froze. Had she gone too far in helping Bess to play out her fantasy? Had the Queen overheard the mention of her favourite’s name?

Emme moved towards her while the others drew away. She tried to quieten her panting and think of a song she could remember in both words and melody, yet her mind was a blank.

‘I … I am sure one of the musicians would sing better,’ she said, gesturing to one of the lutenists renowned for his pure tenor voice. ‘Master Chris Bowen, for instance.’

The Queen tapped her foot. ‘I would like to hear from you, Mistress Fifield. Do not keep me waiting.’

Emme looked wildly around the Great Hall which seemed still to be turning after all her spinning around, with the Queen’s ladies drifting by agape, and Bess gazing at her with her hand over her mouth, and the sunlight throwing daubs of colour through the stained-glass in the palace windows, while outside, above rooftops and twisted chimneys in a clear late-summer sky, she could see the pale disc of a moon left over from the night.

She did not know where the words came from but, after an awkward pause, they issued from her, trembling a little at first, then becoming more certain as she found the melody and Master Bowen picked it up on his lute:

‘With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies! …’

Together they made the song swell, exquisite and poignant, a song of loss and unrequited love.

… Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case,

I read it in thy looks: thy languish’d grace …

The words were Sir Philip Sidney’s, who was now on campaign in the Low Countries, and, as everyone present knew, the ‘Moon’ of the sonnet was Her Majesty whom Sir Philip had idolised in verse, and perhaps the song set the Queen wondering whether she would ever see him again. Or perhaps she thought of others far from her who had once touched her heart – there must have been someone, maybe Lord Leicester, also fighting for the Protestant Dutch: the man thought by most to be the one
the Queen would one day marry, now with his new wife and the Queen still unwed.

Emme reflected on her own lost virtue, and on Drake and his men who had departed for another strike against Spain. Most of all she thought of Mariner Kit who had enthralled her then left without sending any word. He was gone from her life just like all the fine hot-blooded men she had ever met – fleeting shadows passing through echoing palaces – and she sang out her heart while the Queen covered her eyes.

Then all at once, sharp and loud, the Queen clapped her hands and broke the spell. She sat up straight, eyes glistening as she spoke.

‘The sun beckons; let us enjoy it! A diversion on the river would suit very well – no ceremony or fuss. I shall travel like an ordinary citizen and pay one of my gentlemen a visit. Mistress Fifield, you may accompany me; you, too, Mistress Throckmorton. Good Sir Christopher, you shall be my guard.’

Excitement about the prospect shot through Emme like a dart. Who would they see?
One of my gentlemen
, the Queen had said. Emme thought of all the magnificent prodigy houses with gardens along the Thames and river gates: those along the Strand between Whitehall and the Temple, the houses of Leicester, Arundel, Suffolk and Salisbury. Perhaps the Queen meant to call on Robert Cecil, but more likely she planned to catch Sir Walter Raleigh at home in Durham Place.

‘You may well see him now,’ she whispered to Bess, sliding her arm round her friend’s waist as they hurried to the jetty.

‘
Him?
’ Bess raised her brows with an air of naïve perplexity, though Emme saw through it to the hope in her eyes.

‘Your dream dancing partner,’ Emme answered with a quiet smile.

‘Tush!’ Bess looked back to their maids who were following in a gaggle, pulled up the hood of her cloak and trotted after the Queen.

Emme hummed the tune of the galliard Bess had danced to and linked arms with her friend. She wanted to keep the mood light, not brood on her own unhappiness or the Queen’s changes in behaviour. Whatever troubled Her Majesty was beyond her power to remedy, and shouldn’t she be rejoicing along with everyone else? The sound of peeling bells reminded her of one reason to be glad: Anthony Babington had been apprehended, found in an outhouse north of London with his hair cut short and his skin stained with walnut juice. His threat to the Queen’s life was over, and another plot had been thwarted that involved Spain and Mary of Scots.

As the royal household barge drifted gently downstream, bonfires on the river banks sent plumes of smoke into the sky, the peeling of bells rang out, and cheering rose from the winding river’s edge wherever people were gathered in the villages they passed: Chiswick, Hammersmith, Putney and Chelsea. Once the barge reached the city, the noise became louder, and when the glory of Westminster Abbey came into view, Westminster Palace and Whitehall, then Emme could make out one phrase repeated over and over: ‘God save the Queen!’

The Queen seemed not to notice. She sat, head bowed, deep in conversation with Sir Christopher Hatton.

‘She denies it?’ Emme overheard her ask him.

‘She does,’ Sir Christopher said in a low voice. ‘But her letter is proof of her complicity. She is guilty,’ he added with an edge enough for Emme to hear the word clearly. ‘
Guilty
.’

The Queen shook her head, and Emme’s heart went out to her. They must have been talking about Mary of Scots, who was such
a treacherous danger even in captivity. Mary had plotted to kill her, not once but several times, and now she was proven guilty in Anthony Babington’s conspiracy. What could the Queen do? If she showed mercy she would never be safe – Spain would never stop scheming to have a Catholic on the throne. But if she had Mary executed then Spain would surely declare war, and could she pronounce the death sentence on a queen of her own blood?

Emme watched the great mansions as they came into view, with their lions rampant guarding elegant river steps, and clipped lawns beyond graceful willows rising to patterned knots of box and yew. She found it hard to believe that in the midst of such tranquil grandeur there were dark forces at work that would see everything destroyed, bring down the Queen and the new Church of England, unleash the terror of persecution afresh, and see free England made a vassal to Spain. But at least the danger had receded for a while. A fresh roar of jubilation rang out and the Queen patted Sir Christopher’s hand.

‘Babington’s wealth will be forfeit. Some good will come of that.’

Then she smiled as the barge slowed, and raised her eyes to a white turret beyond a high crenelated wall and Emme knew they had reached their destination; they had arrived at Durham Place.

Cloaked and hooded, the Queen was ushered up steps, through private apartments and across a rising court to an entrance by a carriageway leading uphill to the Strand. Beyond marble pillars, Emme saw the traffic of London passing by: horses, carts and carriages, and streams of people, some of them bunching together, singing and shouting. The hubbub was overwhelming after the peace of Richmond and the river. The clatter of hooves and iron-rimmed cartwheels echoed over cobbles and around paved courtyards; the
hammer of construction, the baying of livestock and the cries of hawkers all added to the din. A sewer stench drifted down from the street, and she saw an effigy tied to a hurdle that bystanders were pelting with rubbish and stones. When Emme followed the Queen up a creaking staircase to an airy gallery a floor above, she was glad to pause by an open window and take a deep breath.

The steward knocked at a double door but the Queen waved him aside.

‘No announcement. We shall enter.’

She strode in as the door opened to reveal a group of men around a long table, silhouetted against high windows overlooking the Strand. One of the men stood immediately and approached to greet her: Sir Walter Raleigh, tall and proud, with his dark hair curling around his strong, sensitive face and the hair of his chest just visible beyond the neck-strings of his shirt. He should never have received the Queen in such a state, but she had surprised him, the day was hot and neither of them seemed much to care. With alacrity and grace he knelt before the Queen, kissed her hand and, keeping his almond eyes upon her, gave her a dazzling smile.

‘Your Majesty. Your servant is honoured. We were discussing the land named for you in the New World. How fortunate that you are here!’

He is in thrall to her, Emme thought; in his gaze was pure devotion. She glanced at Sir Christopher and saw him flinch and raise his chin. He was jealous, Emme realised. Loyal, charming Sir Christopher, who had kept by the Queen’s side, aged with her and never wed, was as envious of Sir Walter as a rival for a maid. They both loved her. Though the Queen had lost the flame of youthful beauty, she had the hearts of these men racing at the slightest
sign of favour. Emme watched and felt as insignificant as a speck upon the wall. She saw Mariner Kit amongst those assembled, and his look acknowledged her, yet his expression remained impassive. Why should he pay her any attention? He had obviously forgotten her since their talk at the palace. She clearly meant nothing to him. He bowed to the Queen, and she noticed that his long fair hair was tied back behind his neck, and that his leather jerkin accentuated the width of his shoulders and upper arms. His features were so strikingly well-formed it was hard for her to look away, but she swallowed and concentrated on Master Manteo beside him, because she could feel a hot blush rising over her throat.

The Indian wore a loose russet smock that revealed a chevron of tattoos and the fang of a large animal on a thong over his chest. Raw physicality oozed from him, just as it did from Kit and Sir Walter; the faint smell of male sweat hung like musk in the air. The windows were shut against the noise outside, and Emme had a sense that she had stumbled upon something forbidden, yet the Queen seemed to relax. She took off her cloak, and spoke warmly to those present, from Kit to Manteo, to Masters Harriot and White and the other men with them; she greeted them all one by one. Meanwhile Sir Walter sauntered over to the ladies, took Emme by the hand and welcomed her graciously. Then he stopped before Bess and gave her a flourishing bow. His look was intense as he met her eye, and she basked in his attention, turning herself like a flower to the sunshine of his gaze.

The Queen’s back was towards them. Sir Walter did not look away, and when Bess finally moved aside, Emme saw Sir Walter’s eyes continue to follow her. That he wanted her was clear, though probably no-else was aware of it. Sir Walter, the Queen’s favourite,
had a yearning for another – and heaven help both him and Bess if ever that desire was given its head. Emme sensed a charge in the air like the tension before a thunderstorm. She glanced back at Kit but he was looking down at a map. No one was interested in her; she felt as if she was shrinking.

Sir Walter stepped closer to the Queen and lightly placed his hand upon her waist, guiding her to look at the map that Kit spread open over the table.

‘Come and share a dream with me,’ he murmured.

‘Of what?’ The Queen tipped her face to his.

‘Our Virginia.’ He bent in answering until their lips almost touched. ‘I dream of another England here.’ He gestured to the map and glided around the Queen as he spoke, all his movements drawing her to him and to the map beneath his graceful fingers. ‘I see this land settled for all time with English families bringing enlightenment to the gentle natives and acting as a beacon to the World: an England in the wilderness, but a wilderness that is an Eden. Can you see it too?’ His eyes shone with passion. ‘A Virginia to glorify your name evermore!’

The Queen gave a wry smile and tapped his chest with her fan. ‘That is a pretty dream, but alas it would seem that General Lane has woken from it. The natives are not so gentle and the Eden is hellish.’