The Other Countess (7 page)

Will’s suspicions were aroused. ‘I’ve never known you to be so studious, Jamie.’

‘That’s because it is a certain goodwife of Cambridge that holds his affections,’ said Tobias.

Will rolled his eyes. ‘I pray I will not next hear of this in the bawdy court and find you doing penance in the market place.’

James winked. ‘I pray that too – that you won’t hear of it. But I cannot speak too highly of the charms of the older woman. My education is proceeding apace.’

‘You should try that line on the Queen,’ chuckled Tobias.

‘Tobias!’ James gave him a second cuff on the other ear to balance out the rattling of the brain. ‘Do not even jest about such things.’

Laced into his armour with his brothers carrying his shield and helmet, Will made his way carefully down the inn stairs, movement restricted by his garb. They lodged outside the walls of the castle, the better to disguise their lack of retinue and to save money. Aware of the grand preparations going on in the upper room, the innkeeper and her maids stood at the bottom of the steps to watch them go.

‘God speed, my lord!’ called Mistress Gideon. Will and his brothers had become favourites of hers since their arrival – and of the starry-eyed maids who gossiped about little else.

‘Thank you for your good wishes.’ He thumped his mail-clad hand to his chest, unable to bow in his breastplate.

‘Tell me why we’re doing this?’ he groaned to James once out of earshot of their hostess. ‘This armour is as comfortable as a wearing a tinker’s pots. I feel a fool.’

‘You don’t look it.’ James was about to clap his brother on the back but thought better of it. ‘Very martial – a young Achilles. Still, you’re right: it is a ridiculous sport with no relevance to modern warfare. Give me a company of
harquebusiers and ample shot and I’d make short work of all you knights.’

‘But it is the romance of the lists, sir,’ chipped in Turville as they walked up the cobbled main street of Windsor to the castle gateway, their passage garnering the friendly cheers of the citizens. ‘I remember the stories about King Henry, how he used to dazzle the court when he took part in the joust as a young man. The Queen likes the old ways of chivalry.’

Will knew this, of course: the sport was another display of the sovereign’s power as her noblemen risked their necks in her honour, she the focus of their knightly love and duty. It was a rite of passage he had to pass through if he wanted to make an impression at court.

‘I just hope I sustain the romantic illusion and don’t end up flat on my back in front of the spectators.’

‘Think positively, Will. You’re not a bad horseman,’ said James.

‘But not as good as you, I take it?’

‘Practice makes perfect, Will. You must admit you’ve not spent as much time as I have in the saddle.’

‘That’s because I’ve been too busy scraping together the money to keep your horse in the stable.’

Sensing that his brothers were about to descend into a round of their usual sniping about their respective employments, Tobias turned the subject.

‘Will, did you hear about the explosion?’

‘What?’ Will clanked in his direction. ‘There’s been an attempt on the Queen? When?’

‘Not the Queen, Will. It was earlier. Some want-wit alchemist blew up Lord Mountjoy’s bedchamber. It was reported to
Lord Burghley and both gentlemen have been forbidden from doing any more experiments.’

‘Sir Arthur Hutton – it has to be him.’

‘Aye, that’s the name. He’s in disgrace.’

‘Sent away from court?’ asked Will hopefully.

‘No, just given a scolding and told to stick to making books rather than bombs. Lord Mountjoy was reminded that alchemical experiments were not permitted under the royal roof.’

They arrived on the fields surrounding the tiltyard, already busy with noblemen and their attendants. Early competitors took runs at the rings or struck the target, avoiding the sack that whirled round to knock them from their saddle if they were not accurate or fast enough. Pennants rippled in the light breeze; armour shone; horses, resplendent in magnificent cloths of gold and azure, trotted past. Heralds bearing their master’s coats-of-arms preceded the most splendid of the contestants, crying out their lord’s titles. The players in the masque that preceded the joust were gathering in one corner: white-decked maidens pretending to be vestal virgins, musicians carrying instruments decorated with ribbons, a horse dressed up like a dragon to carry the Queen’s champion – it was a confusing but colourful mix of images and symbols.

Turville gave a shrill whistle. A lanky limbed blackamoor boy approached, leading a huge white stallion, draped in a caparison of Dorset’s colours – emerald green.

‘I like the horse,’ marvelled Will. ‘Whose is he?’

‘Yours, for the moment. Belonged to the same disgraced lord as the armour,’ said James. ‘The blacksmith’s been stabling him for a few months now. Ready to sell if you want him.’

Will rubbed the velvet nose of the stallion. Oh yes, he wanted him.

‘How disgraced was this lord, exactly?’

‘He’s in the Tower.’

‘Ah.’

‘Needs the money. Can’t afford to keep paying for the upkeep of a horse he’s unlikely to ride again.’

‘I’ll give him a trial today and if he proves as good a mount as he looks, I’ll buy him.’

Tobias gave a disgusted snort. ‘How come you get another horse when I don’t even have my own?’

‘Because he’s the earl and you’re not,’ muttered Turville.

‘What’s his name?’ asked Will.

‘Barbary. The boy comes with him if you wish.’ James indicated the groom efficiently controlling the creature among the noise and confusion of the crowd.

Will knew it was fashionable to have an African page but he had no money to waste on empty gestures and, besides, the boy was a bit too old to count as a fetching addition to his entourage. ‘I only want the horse.’ He took the reins from the lad and led the horse towards the mounting blocks, not no- ticing the crestfallen expression on the groom’s face.

James tapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Diego, he’ll take you too. I know my brother better than he knows himself.’

‘Barbary and me, we are never apart,’ said the lad disconsolately.

‘I’ll explain it to him later. Do a good job today and I swear you won’t have to worry about whether or not you’ll have a roof over your head tonight.’

Diego perked up and ran to assist the earl in the tricky business of mounting a horse in armour. Turville fitted the last pieces on his master, then stood back as Will climbed the specially constructed steps.

‘I bet he’s swearing like a fishwife in there,’ smirked Tobias, watching his brother’s awkward progress.

Barbary was evidently well trained as he made no fuss when he received the weight of an armoured knight on his back. James approached with the lance, the end padded to avoid serious injury to the opponent. Turville handed up the helmet.

‘Put the lady’s favour on my pauldron,’ said Will to his manservant. He struggled with the visor. ‘How on earth is anyone supposed to see in this thing?’

‘I don’t think you are,’ said James, climbing the steps to help his brother. ‘Just point and charge. Having fun in there?’

‘Whose stupid idea was this?’

‘Yours.’

‘Last sodding time, Jamie. You can uphold the family honour in future.’

‘Smile – pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Ralegh and his company have just arrived.’

Will fixed a debonair expression on his face. He had never been so uncomfortable in his life. The sooner this farce was over the better.

‘My Lord Dorset, that is a fine stallion you have there,’ called Ralegh from the back of his chestnut warhorse. His position as Queen’s favourite had allowed him entry into the exclusive sport of the nobility despite his lack of a title. He made the most of his humble origins, turning the handicap to his advantage. His armour was a serviceable plate-steel lacking
adornment: a statement in itself. ‘You have much experience of the field of chivalry?’

Will knew Ralegh was making it plain to those listening to their exchange that he could not match the seasoned soldier in this arena. He did not make the mistake of pretending he could. ‘No, Master Ralegh. I am a novice in the art. I trust you will be gentle with me in my introduction to the sport.’

Ralegh laughed. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you seek gentleness. Perhaps you should have stayed abed with your mistress this morning.’ The gentlemen of his company chuckled.

Will bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘You mistake me: I’m not afraid of taking a knock or two.’

‘Then I look forward to our encounter if we should chance to be set against each other.’

With a superior smile, Ralegh rode on, garnering the lion’s share of the attention from the spectators milling about the field. Will watched him go, at the same time noticing the change that had come over the tiltyard. The participants in the pageant were taking their places; the music swelling, drums throbbing in time to the clapping of the audience. Anticipation was high as people waited to see the cream of the court battle it out with blood and guts. A surge of excitement washed through Will: the game was afoot – time for him to prove himself in the hunt.

‘What an ass! I hope you do meet him, Will,’ said Tobias angrily, glaring after Ralegh. ‘I hope you knock him into the next county so he can bray from his backside.’

Laughing at his brother’s rage, Will’s spirits rose still further. ‘It’s no matter. As long as I don’t disgrace myself in the yard, I’ll be happy.’

Will urged Barbary into a walk to get used to the horse and his gait. The high pommel of his saddle helped Will keep his seat, but he wished he’d put in a few more hours of practice before attempting this in public. He’d jousted for fun with his brothers at home, but never with such a prime horse and before so many spectators. At the end of the first circuit of the exercise track, he spotted his little lady among a group of girls admiring the horsemen. He smiled to see her arm in arm with a carrot-topped maid, giggling at Sir Henry Perceval’s high white plume that kept dipping in his eyes and irritating him. Will drew up beside them, praying Barbary would continue to do him proud.

‘Ladies,’ he said politely. ‘I hope you will be watching the competition.’

The four girls quickly dipped deep curtsies, looking at each other in awe at being addressed by a lord. Three of them were clearly wondering who had been introduced to the new earl and therefore could speak to him. Reluctantly, Ellie stepped forward.

‘Yes, my lord, we will be in the stands.’

Will touched her favour on his shoulder. ‘I wear your token over my heart as protection.’

‘You’d be better off with a shield, sir.’ Again his lady turned his attempt at flattery to the practical, which amused Will greatly.

He winked. ‘I have one of those too. Wish me luck, ladies.’

He spurred his horse forward and rode on.

‘Ellie, you sly puss, you didn’t say!’ gasped Isabel. ‘How did that happen?’

Ellie tugged her friends towards the wooden seating lining the tiltyard. ‘It means nothing – just a joke between the lord and me.’

‘It’s no joke to have your favour on display before the court,’
commented Margaret. ‘And what a lord – the armour, the horse, the man!’ She pretended to wilt from heart palpitations.

‘Put your eyes back in your head, Margaret Villiers,’ said Ellie. ‘We all know that for a lord like that to pay me any attention must mean he doesn’t know who I really am. I think I just amuse him. His regard will not last.’ Not least because he had personal reasons to hate her.

The girls watched as Will next drew up alongside Sir Henry Perceval, seeking an introduction to his sister. The lady was dressed in butter-cream silk, her ruff dyed gold so that she looked like a walking treasure-trove.

‘See what I mean? Rich girls never go out of fashion,’ sighed Ellie.

Margaret squeezed her arm. ‘But today it is your favour he wears, not hers.’

But for how much longer?
Ellie wondered.

6

The first day of the joust ended reasonably well for Will. His appearance was much applauded in the procession past the Queen and his initial meeting in the lists with three knights concluding with him having lost one, and won two. He took the greatest pleasure in the fact that he had kept in his saddle.

Turville drew him a much-needed bath before the banquet. Will lay in the tub, knees bent double, relishing the warmth soothing his bruises, while his brothers dissected his performance. This post-battle analysis was the best part of the whole competition in Will’s opinion, particularly when washed down with a mug of the hostess’s best ale.

‘You didn’t keep your lance level,’ said James. ‘That’s why Blount was able to get a hit.’

‘Hmm,’ said Will in non-committal tone. It was easier to criticize than to play; his arm had been exhausted by the time he’d run up against Sir Charles Blount.

‘Master Ass-faced Ralegh was in the lead at the end of the day,’ mourned Tobias.

‘Good luck to him,’ murmured Will, unperturbed.

‘Bloody stewards must be blind. Perceval took him nice and sweet in that second run and still they gave it to Ralegh.’

‘Ah well, life isn’t fair.’ Will squeezed out the sea-sponge and soaped his arms.

‘I see you met the Lady Jane before the contest,’ remarked James, stretching out his legs and yawning.

‘Indeed.’

‘You should ask to wear her colours tomorrow.’

Will grimaced. It would be the politic thing to do if he wished to advance his cause with her. She’d seemed pleasant enough, beguilingly innocent and pleased with his flattering words, not like a certain sharp-tongued dark lady he could mention. Perceval seemed to favour the match and had been swift to make the introduction. Rumour had it that the father, Thaddeus Perceval, Earl of Wetherby, an old-fashioned nobleman with a fortune in wool and coal mines, had instructed Henry to catch the noblest lineage for his sister, so Will knew he stood a good chance.

‘Perhaps I will. I’ll see what happens at the banquet tonight.’

This wasn’t good enough for James. ‘Will, we’re running short of time.’