The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (12 page)

“Whether we want to or not,” Rattlebones muttered.

“As the queen’s servant, you must go to chapel with her,” Sara said. “But beyond these walls, there have been more arrests of Jesuits and those who harbor them. That is what Father Philip has come to the queen about.”

Archie spat over his shoulder, narrowly missing the spaniel. “You’d think a Scotsman—even one stupid enough to become a Catholic priest—would have more sense than to whip the queen into a frenzy over it.”

“The old ways comfort people,” Will Evans said. “You will see them, Jeffrey, slipping in to receive the sacraments without fear of getting arrested for it.”

Robin Goodfellow’s brow furrowed. “They may not be arrested at Mass, but their names are recorded by Bishop Laud’s spies. I am just grateful members of the queen’s household are expected to accompany her to her devotions. If pressed, we could use that excuse.”

Sara touched the ivory image of her mother. “You would deny faith if put to the question?”

Dulcinea flung her napkin into the air. “Religion is a dispute about trifles, just as Queen Bess said. My family survived through the reigns of five monarchs without burning. We changed our religion as easily as we changed our petticoats. Catholic, Church of England, Protestant, Catholic, then Protestant again. What does it matter to folk like us which religion is in power? We get none of the wealth, whether it goes to Rome or stays in the king’s purse.”

“That is true enough.” Simon Rattlebones took the abandoned peach from Archie’s plate. “Any one of the religions would fight to seize England’s soul. Some would do murder.” He tossed the peach in the air. The monkey leapt to catch it, then ran off, the dog snapping in hot pursuit.

Evans stroked his beard, as if merely by reasoning, the great oaf could sort out the religious tangle of over a hundred years. “The queen says the old King James signed an
écrit secret
that promised the Crown would lift penalties on English Catholics and that the queen could practice her faith freely.”

“The old king is dead,” Archie said, and I sensed grief beneath the man’s harsh tone.

“The duke of Buckingham swore before Parliament that no ‘secret writing’ was undertaken,” Rattlebones said.

“The duke could lie to Saint Peter and not show remorse,” Will said. “Her Majesty would never have come to England without such a promise from the Crown.”

“I do not envy King Charles,” Rattlebones added. “Catholics from one side of Europe to the other are eager to take the queen’s side. Bishop Laud insists His Majesty’s duty as head of the Church of England is to crush its opposition. As if that is not bad enough, the Puritans mope about, trying to ruin every bit of amusement people have.” Rattlebones made a sour face.

“No wonder you train your dogs to piss on them,” Goodfellow teased. “Now if you could only teach them to piss on the duke of Buckingham.”

“Robin!” Evans warned. Goodfellow’s bewilderment made it clear the duke had often been a bone of gossip at table. “Jeffrey comes from one of the duke’s holdings. His Grace presented Jeffrey to the queen during a banquet designed to honor Her Majesty.”

A hush fell, the suspicion I’d already detected in the company’s faces deepening. I needed to allay it. My first real test in the art of lying, since the untruths told to Will Evans did not count. The giant wanted so much to believe the best of everyone, it was no challenge to deceive him.

I tried to shape my face into something like Samuel’s sincerity. “I thank God I need never suffer under Buckingham’s thumb again. The ordeal he put me through these past three weeks to prepare for last night—” I shuddered. “I never suffered anything like it in the roughest part of the shambles. He could not even spare me the time to tell my brother farewell.”

I saw Sara touch the miniature of her mother, empathy softening her face. I had made my first conquest among those at the table. “Buckingham bought me like a blackamoor. My father took the coin. I owe neither of them allegiance.”

“Then what do you think of belonging to the queen?” Rattlebones asked.

“I want nothing more than to settle in here where I belong.”

“We shall help you get your bearings, Jeffrey. Won’t we, everyone?” Evans clapped one hand onto the table. Dishes rattled as Dulcinea and Simon murmured their agreement.

“Of course we will!” Sara’s eyes shone. I could see Robin Goodfellow’s enthusiasm wane as he noticed her expression. Was it possible the artist felt something beyond friendship toward her?

If Sara
was
attracted to me, she would be more willing to surrender information I could feed to Buckingham. God knew, my features were more pleasing than Goodfellow’s, and I was clean of paint spatter. I glanced at Will Evans, fighting my guilt.

I owed these people nothing. It was their choice whether to be näıve fools or be cautious. They had been at court longer than I and had witnessed its intrigues. They knew I had first been Buckingham’s
toy.
They could blame Evans if they were gulled into acting as if this were a family. I certainly didn’t believe it. Who wanted to belong to a family of freaks? I fought to hide the contempt that washed through me.

I pressed my palm to the space my heart should have filled. “Thank you for the help you offer me. I am eager to get to know your world.”

Archie plucked up his knife, examined the point. “A shrewd general must master the terrain he plans to conquer. Who better to show him the lay of the land than fools who already live there?”

I gave him my most winning smile. “I am new to the business of being a court fool, but I am a very apt pupil.”

“I can see that you are.” Behind the stony hardness in Archie’s eyes I saw something new. He speared the choicest piece of meat with his knife. “Perhaps you will be the fastest learner this court has ever seen.”

I had little time to meditate on the temper of his words. Approval? Respect? Or a challenge? A page in the queen’s livery hastened to the door.

“Ho, Denis,” Evans greeted the lad. Did the giant know every person in the castle by name? “How fares Her Majesty this morn?”

“Weeping since Father Philip left.” The lad said in heavily accented English. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. A cold? I wondered. Or had he been crying, as well? “Letters from France berating her. A letter from the king scolding because she did not welcome the duchess of Buckingham into her household. Madame Saint-Georges sent me to fetch the new curiosity, in hopes he can make her smile.”

I slid off of the high ledge of the chair seat. Archie’s breeches caught on the corner. The twine holding them snapped, and I had to struggle to retie it. “I cannot go to the queen looking like this!” For some reason, I looked to Will Evans in my predicament. Irritation at myself flared. What did I expect? That he would loan me another sock? But it was Sara who intervened.

“Robin, give Jeffrey the cloak Dulcinea stitched when you played Puck. It will cover the ill-fitting clothes and suit him better than you. The green velvet will look well with his eyes.”

“Would you mind doing so, Robin?” Will asked.

Goodfellow’s cheeks darkened, but he left the table. “I told Dulcinea I would not look well in green,” he muttered. “You would think she’d listen to an artist when it came to color.”

“No one will listen to you now, Goodfellow,” Archie said. “You’ll not be charming Sara in the pretty roles. Those will be Hudson’s domain. Get used to playing Spite and Envy with the rest of us.”

Robin tossed me the mantle, and I caught it in midair. From his expression, I feared he might play those roles very well indeed.

S
EVEN

I flung Goodfellow’s cloak around my shoulders as the page led me out of the room, Will Evans looming over us both. “Never mind about your clothes,” Evans said. “Just remember, the poor mite is only a young girl far away from home.”

Taut nerves made me surly. “Is it hard for you to see clearly from way up there, Evans? Henrietta Maria is a queen, a princess of France. There is nothing ‘poor’ about her.”

“Married by proxy to a cold fish of a man she’d never met, thrust into a country that hates her religion, sees her family as enemies. French and English, Catholic and Protestant all trying to use her for their own designs. You will be doing the work of angels when you dry her tears.”

Tears? The implication struck me. The giant was going to thrust me into a chamber with a crying woman and leave me there. I had faced my father when he’d been in a drunken fury. I had endured Buckingham’s threats. I had lied to Will Evans, when he could snap my bones with one flick of his wrist. The prospect of facing a weeping queen was infinitely more terrifying.

Those times my mother or sister had cried, I’d dived for whatever hiding place I could find. One Christmas, I had spent the night in the kennel with weanling pups, shivering while the muffled sound of Mother’s weeping and my sister’s sobs seeped through the cracks in the shutters.

Samuel had stayed behind instead of fleeing as I had done. I had known I was being a coward, but I had not regretted my flight until now. Why had I never asked Samuel how he had managed to quiet them? Was this retribution for my failings then?

I heard the queen’s voice, but there was nothing lilting in it now. An usher swept open the door, announcing me. “Master Jeffrey Hudson.”

In an instant, I took in the mood of the room. For the first time, I was aware of how skilled at judging people’s temper I was—a matter of survival for someone whose size made him an easy target.

The usher motioned me forward and I stepped into a chamber that seemed plucked from Heaven. Rich paintings hung on walls and adorned the ceiling. Cushions on the chairs arranged about the room had been stuffed fat. Gilt shimmered on trinkets displayed about the room. Jewels encircled the throats and nestled on the breasts of the ladies-in-waiting. Small clusters of women had gathered as far as possible from the queen, who was slumped in the most ornate chair of all.

Had Her Majesty banished them so she could grieve privately? Or had they deserted her in an act of self-preservation? I looked into that forest of skirts, instinctively searching for the best place to hide. Plain Jeffrey Hudson could have escaped thus. Jeffrey Hudson, queen’s fool, Buckingham’s spy, dared not.

The queen bent over a table that had snarling lions for legs. An ornate box sat before her, bone and lapis lazuli inlays gleaming in intricate patterns. The front panel of the box had been lowered on hinges until it lay against the table, revealing the wall of fitted drawers for correspondence it had concealed.

Her Majesty looked as though she wished the lion table could devour the letters strewn across it. Distance made it possible for me to see the tabletop mounded with crumpled correspondence. I could see heavy wax seals broken like the queen’s spirit seemed to be, the inked pages splotched with her tears.

Buckingham would want to know what was written on those pages. But my ability to read was crude—a smattering of French from our Huguenot neighbors and English picked up from those I could charm into amusing themselves by teaching me tricks, like Simon Rattlebones teaching the menagerie’s monkey.

It would have been a challenge to read the letters at my leisure. How was I to unravel what the words said with people watching? I stiffened, imagining Buckingham’s displeasure should I fail.

Madame Saint-Georges’s pleading look made panic cinch tighter in my breast. She expected me to fix whatever had driven the light from the queen’s eyes.

“Your Majesty, look!” She urged in French. “Your new little man has come.”

The queen did not even seem to notice me when she looked up. I could see strands of the brown hair dressed so carefully at last night’s banquet now clinging in untidy strands to her temples. Her blue satin skirts were crumpled, as if she had clutched them in her fists.

How I was supposed to entertain someone so far gone in misery? Pull out the antics Ware had concocted to prepare me for this role? Or should I back out of the room and leave the queen to her ladies’ ministrations? No. I could not leave without royal permission. But my feet itched to flee.

“Come, Majesty,” Saint-Georges urged with brittle enthusiasm, “let us cast all this vexation away and be happy as we were at Saint-Germain.”

“How can I be happy when I am a disappointment to everyone?” The queen took up the letter with the most impressive seal. “My brother insists I make my husband honor the terms of our marriage contract and remove all sanctions against Catholics in England. My mother asks why I am not yet with child and sends remedies to cure an empty womb. Both are certain that once I produce an heir, the king will be so grateful that he will be easy to lead back to the Church.”

“I do not think you could lead these crude English even if you put rings in their noses and dragged them behind a team of horses.”

Her scorn stung. Who were these French chits to hold us in contempt?

“They are stubborn and uncouth and have no sense of style. It is always raining. That alone is a good reason to light candles to the saints they abhor. To get a glimpse of sunshine.”

She did have a point about the rain, I had to confess.

“It is not your fault that the king has broken his promise to stop persecuting his Catholic subjects,
me petite.
Can’t Father Philip see how hard you are trying?”

“Father Philip was right to upbraid me. I was sent here to turn the king’s heart back to the true faith. Catholics in England have suffered for generations and look to me to deliver them. They cannot receive the Euchanst, their dying are refused the comfort of Extreme Unction, and their marriages cannot be consecrated nor their babes baptized. The king’s pursuivants hunt them, seize their lands, and imprison any priests who dare to step on English shores.”

“It is heartbreaking, but—”

“Yet despite the danger, those priests continue to breach English shores in secret. They brave horrific death to minister to the faithful. When they are captured…” I saw the queen shudder. “When I think of the torment those martyrs suffer, there are times I wish I could fling myself on the pyre. The other day when my coach passed Tyburn, I saw an old woman kiss the spot where the martyrs died. I could hear innocent blood cry out to me.
Why do you do nothing?
That moment, I was seized with the strangest impulse. I wanted to make pilgrimage as we did when we were in France. I wanted to walk barefoot to Tyburn, through the streets where secret Catholics might see their queen has not abandoned them. I felt as if God were calling me to pray for those who died for their faith.”