The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (15 page)

“The queen’s putting you in your own chamber like a jewel in a box.”

My own chamber seemed riches beyond imagining. I closed my eyes. God, what I would not give for a little time alone, someplace safe where I could bar the door.

“The footman was surprised when no one could find you,” Rattlebones continued. “But Archie said you were off at His Grace’s.”

I could just imagine Archie’s glee, linking me with the queen’s great enemy. “I had left something precious at York House,” I said. My honor.

“You’ll never get it back. Buckingham is the grabbiest of all the noblemen who hang about here, and that dragon of a mother of his is worse. The king’s palace is always crawling with Villiers rats—cousins and brothers and sisters, anyone with a drop of blood to connect them. I do a trick with a chain—each dog grasps a link in their teeth and Pug, the monkey, has to haul them around. That’s what the Villiers family is like, but you can’t shake them off like spaniels. Hang on like bleeding bulldogs on—Od’s fish, Scrapper!”

I felt something warm and wet seeping through my shoe, then looked down, to see the spaniel pissing on me, an accusatory wrinkle above his knowing brown eyes.

“Jeffrey’s not one of those Puritan toads. I told you we only piss on those who plot against the king.”

Scrap kept on pissing.

Simon scooped him up. “I beg pardon for the little rogue. Least I can do by way of apology is to help you find the footman who sought you earlier.”

My shoe made a sloshing sound as I trailed Simon to the servant in question, then followed the footman to a door just beyond the queen’s privy apartments.

It was obvious someone had worked hard to make my new lodgings pleasant. A pair of footstools sat near the fire. Someone had constructed a chair back on one of them, so I could sit on it and still rest my feet on the floor.

A miniature flight of stairs was pushed against the side of a bed wide enough to accommodate my whole family, as well as Buckingham’s fighting dogs. My chest from Buckingham’s stood in a corner. Jeremy Griggory stood beside it, in the midst of unpacking. “The queen’s steward says I am to be your manservant from now on,” he said, working at his task with a dogged resignation, which only made my irritation on finding him worse.

“You sound as if you have been condemned to the scaffold. Anyone in Oakham would be clamoring for the chance to be a servant in this chamber. I wish I could bring my brother here.” But I dared not. Samuel would never understand the lies I had to tell, the spying I was obliged to do.

“It’s hard to get enthusiastic about serving a master who has already gotten some poor bird at His Grace’s turned out in the streets for stealing,” Griggory said.

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

“Archie. But it must be true. Will Evans did not deny that there was some fuss about a lost ring.”

“I found the ring where I had left it. See?” I held out my hand. “No one to blame for losing it but my own carelessness. Although, I could lose it again and blame you if you want an excuse to end our association.”

Griggory looked at me long and hard, as if he were trying to figure out if I was serious. “I suppose there are worse people I might be assigned to. Like that dog trainer who came up to poke around when you weren’t here. It’s just not right for a live man to look like he belongs in a crypt. And those dogs—I vow I can smell the piss of them even though I scrubbed your floor three times.”

“You missed a spot,” I said.

Griggory looked around, mystified. I held up my piss-soaked shoe.

*   *   *

I spent far too much time preparing what I would say if Evans asked how my grandfather had come by a gold ring. Come morning, every explanation flew out of my head when I answered the royal summons for my first rehearsal for the queen’s masque.

Henrietta Maria and her ladies flitted about, giggling when they forgot their parts and exclaiming over costumes that slipped down, revealing glimpses of breast. Silk ferns and gauze made them appear swathed in mist; tiny gems had been stitched to sparkle like dew.

This was no Christian court, but a pagan glen where the young queen and her attendants could frolic in ways they would not have dared anywhere else. A world of myth and legend filled Denmark House’s banqueting hall. Towering pageant carts were scattered about the vast chamber, minions constructing a dragon so fierce, I half-expected it to roar.

At York House, I had seen only the illusion noble entertainments created
after
the work was finished. This fantasy world was stripped down to its bones—cogs and pulleys and ropes and scaffolds.

At the center of this mayhem stood a preoccupied man garbed in tawny brown, a black skullcap plastered upon his unruly wheat-straw hair. Beneath a bumpy nose, his shovel-like beard rippled in curls that reached his breast. Keen blue eyes peered down at the sheaf of pages in his hand. A stick of charcoal flew over what looked to be plans of some kind.

My curiosity as to who the man was and what he was doing was tempered by nervousness, as the encounter with Evans loomed large. But the giant set me off balance yet again, behaving as easily in my company as he had before Ware’s illogical ploy. Relief made me relax my ring-decked hand, and I marveled at my good luck—and Evans’s lack of guile. Evans traced the direction of my gaze toward the man who had stirred my curiosity.

“The man’s name is Inigo Jones. He is surveyor of works for the king and queen, though he is not overcome with love for Their Majesties. The king is too cold and the queen too frivolous for Jones’s tastes, I think. In spite of that, Master Jones has put together a remarkable collection of buildings here in the royal court.” Jones barked out an order, and workers constructing a mock balcony rushed over to look at the plans with him.

“What is he sketching?” I asked.

“Might be something to do with the masque. He creates the actors’ costumes and the stage they play upon. Or it might be some idea for construction around Denmark House. All the building you see going on here is by his design. He’s been at it a long time. Archie was here when Jones began the remodeling for King Charles’s mother.” Evans chuckled.

“What do you find so amusing?”

“Apparently while out hunting, King James shot his wife’s dog by accident. He gave Queen Anne this place as an apology and renamed it Denmark House after her birthplace. She was renovating it when she died. Then our present queen took over, determined to make it her own. Robin Goodfellow has gotten peeks at some of the new designs she has approved. He says Jones is attempting to design stairs without anything to hold them up.”

“Goodfellow is just trying to gull you. Such a trick would be impossible.”

“People say only a madman would attempt such a feat. Or a man schooled in magic.” Evans hunkered down near me, pretending to adjust the knot of ribbon at his knee. “Some say Jones struck a bargain so angels will hold the Tulip Stairs aloft. Others think he stole secrets from the devil. Guess we’ll find out when he is finally able to try building them.”

I wanted to scoff, but I angled my shoulders away from Evans and made the sign to ward off the evil eye.

“The rumors are nonsense, of course. But Jones had to get his knowledge somewhere, didn’t he? No one in England ever created such magic with bricks and plaster before him. As if that weren’t amazing enough, I dare you to explain how he makes things appear and disappear during the masques. One moment an entire castle is before your eyes; the next moment it’s vanished.… Your ring!” he burst out, looking at my hand.

I curled my right hand atop the left to hide the glimmer of gold. “I feel like a fool for misplacing such a keepsake,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t probe any further.

“It’s precious to have something that belonged to someone you loved,” Evans said. “After my father died, my brother Davey put on Da’s coat to smell the pipe smoke on it. If I’d split every seam, the coat wouldn’t have stretched over me.” Sorrow stole into the giant’s eyes.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to find comfort in a father’s coat once he was dead.

Evans cleared his throat. “Well, I have my memories. That’s all I need, isn’t it?” What was it about Evans that made me tempted to tell the truth? I would trade my gold ring to have memories like yours, I wanted to say, but I clamped my mouth shut.

Discordant music drifted from the musicians’ gallery, then mellowed into a dancing measure. Will and I both looked over to where the queen was practicing her steps, her skirts scooped up to show dainty feet in pink slippers, her ankles flashing. Curls bounced against her white throat when she tossed her head. I did not want to think how desperate she must be to put on a merry face and forget for just a little while what she certainly knew—that her brother had allied with Spain against her husband.

When she finished dancing, she saw me from across the room. She broke from the chain of ladies and hastened over to where Will and I stood.

“Oh, Sergeant Evans! Little Jeffrey! You will scarce believe how brilliantly Master Jones has rewritten his script. He is not pleased about it, but he rarely is happy unless he is allowed to do as exactly as he likes. I told him I must have a bit about a giant and a dwarf, so, Jeffrey, you are to be a demon in the dragon’s service. Sergeant Evans will be Faith and fight to save me. Master Jones is to put a few touches on the mechanical dragon so it looks a trifle like Bishop Laud. The bishop has vexed me so often, the role will be a delicious jest.”

“Majesty,” Evans began. “It is a fine dragon just as it is. You might do well to leave it alone.”

“The bishop will not recognize himself. Only my ladies will understand. How we will laugh when it is done.”

“The bishop is an astute man, and the king loves him well. His Majesty would not think such play amusing.”

She pouted, her sweet face reminding me of my sister when someone was trying to thwart her. “I
will
have the dragon as I wish. Jeffrey will spring from its mouth in a chariot of flame and try to drag me down to hell.”

“Master Jones wrote such a pretty play,” said Sergeant Evans soothingly. “Let it stand. Anyone who knows hero tales understands it is not wise to tamper with dragons.”

“I hardly think you are qualified to advise me. As for the tales you speak of, William Evans, I have read them a hundred times. Have you?”

Evans looked at her steadily and I felt the current of tension between them. “You know I have not, Your Majesty,” he said.

“This much I can tell you: If heroes never tampered with dragons, there would be no story at all!” She flounced off.

I said nothing, though the queen’s treatment of Evans stung.

“Jeffrey, you must help me change her mind,” he said as we watched her rejoin her ladies.

Why should I interfere? I thought. The queen’s stubbornness would only make it easier to spur her to recklessness. She was already determined to behave badly on her own. But Evans was waiting for an answer. “You tried to dissuade Her Majesty and she insulted you.”

“She does not know any better,” he said.

I set my jaw, looking grim. “Then perhaps it is time she learned.”

That night when I returned to my room, I did not have to pretend to be in a foul temper. I raged about a tear in my breeches, sending Griggory scurrying off to get it mended. As soon as I was certain he had gone, I cut off a square of parchment, grabbed my quill in a trembling hand, and scribbled down what had transpired during the rehearsal. The wobbly letters seemed deafening as a scream. I dashed sand across the wet ink and stuffed the writing implements away, straining to hear above the thundering of my heart in case Griggory returned.

I rolled the parchment as small as I could, then sealed it with wax, desperately wondering where to hide it until I could slip it into the nook in my saddle. Hot wax burned my thumb, but I clutched the parchment anyway—a live ember I could not let go, lest I set the world on fire.

*   *   *

The parchment burned even hotter when I hid it in my doublet the next morning, avoiding Griggory’s reproachful eye. I was grateful that we broke our fast with the rest of the servants in the Great Hall that morning, hoping that the presence of so many outside the menagerie would distract my fellow curiosities and keep them from looking at me too closely.

But from the moment Sara slid onto the bench beside me, she sensed something was amiss. She could not bear it when I waved away tray after tray of the food offered. “Jeffrey, have some of these lovely quail’s eggs. You must eat something, or you’ll not last halfway through the morning ride. Have bit of bread and porridge.”

“I’ll mind my own porridge, thank you!”

“If you had porridge, I wouldn’t have to mind it,” Sara argued, a tiny quaver in her voice.

I let her slop some of the foul stuff into my bowl and some quail’s eggs on the plate beside it. But when she threatened me with cold mutton, I refused. I had to squeeze the stuff down my throat, after all. I could tell she was going to watch every bite.

I would need to guard my emotions better on days I was to send notes to Buckingham; otherwise, I knew, I might as well take Goodfellow’s paints and scribe the words
up to no good
across my brow.

By the time I was able to rid myself of the parchment on our morning ride, I was well and truly sick. Instead of answering a call of nature as I pretended to, I slipped into the woods and retched up a mixture of quail’s egg and porridge and guilt.

As the days passed, I told myself it was possible the duke had heard of the bishop’s dragon even before some minion of his had plucked my message from its hiding place. He could have learned of the queen’s plan from Inigo Jones himself. The surveyor of works’ family had come from Rutland, as mine had. Jones had designed entertainments and building projects for Buckingham’s family before King James had required his services.

In the weeks we practiced our parts, I tried to soften my own guilt by imagining who else might be taking Buckingham’s coin in exchange for information. For all I knew, Buckingham had hired a spy to spy upon
me.