The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (18 page)

I spent the afternoon before my first banquet at Whitehall trying to decipher the muffled voices on the far side of the queen’s closed door. Servants hauled steaming copper buckets full of water for the queen’s bath, while ladies-in-waiting scurried back and forth with trays of lotions and oils and red silk to buff the queen’s hair to a sheen, preparations more lengthy than any I had noticed before.

I hid my spying as best I could, practicing comic faces in the mirror near the door and perfecting the delivery of my jests on anyone who passed by. My banishment was frustrating, the capers I had planned so fitted to the day, I stopped Sara as she darted past with some sweet-smelling lotion. “When will the queen come out?” I demanded.

She blew loose strands of hair from her brow and said, “She is still making ready. She has tried on and discarded half a dozen gowns.”

“If she does not want me, why does she not dismiss me so I can go to the Lair?” I grumbled.

“It comforts her to know she can summon you at any moment so you can take her mind off of her troubles. Not that she can speak to any man about the matters that concern her now.”

She hastened to the door and a footman opened it. A wave of sweet scent, feminine chatter, and steamy warmth rolled over me before he shut the door again.

Even when the queen emerged from that world of feminine mystery, she did not heed the jests I had labored over to please her. Startled by noises, flushing when I least expected it, Henrietta Maria unnerved me more than ever. I could feel some strange sizzling sensation in the air. When she and Mamie Saint-Georges withdrew from the other women, I edged close as I dared. It astonished me—how adept I was growing at joining the movements of their lips with the half-whispered French words they meant for their ears alone.

“You are exquisite,” Madame Saint-Georges reassured as the queen adjusted folds of lace to cover more of her bosom.

“I feel as if there are thorns tucked among the bedclothes when the king visits me,” the queen said in a low voice, and I could see the skin of her décolletage flush. “I know I must submit to his attentions, but I cannot like it. I draw my counterpane up over my nose, close my eyes.”

I could see the picture so clearly, the queen trying in her girlish way to disappear.

“A husband’s love is nothing to be discounted,” Madame Saint-Georges said.

“He barely speaks to me. He goes jabbing about and makes the most unlovely sounds. I feel as if I will die of embarrassment. The act is so undignified, it seems more fitted for barnyard animals than a queen.”

Saint-Georges softened a laugh with a quick hug. “You will not die of embarrassment any more than other women have. You will grow used to husbandly affection. I believe there are even women who enjoy their husbands’ caresses.”

Henrietta Maria rubbed her arms. “I cannot imagine enjoying it. It pulls and—and burns and stings inside me.”

“Think of France or one of the songs you sing so beautifully and it will soon be over.”

When night finally fell, bringing with it my first banquet at Whitehall, I watched the king, catching tiny glimpses beneath Charles’s mask of control. He could not take his eyes off of his wife, the warmth she lavished on her ladies, the French dignitaries, and me. Charles stared at her lips, the swell of her breasts above the lace of her gown. He leaned toward her, hunger in his eyes, and I knew he was anticipating bedding his wife.

I remembered snips I had heard about the queen remaining celibate on holy days and other times, as well. I had never stopped to consider how difficult it must be for the king to parade before his servants and the queen’s ladies to her bedchamber and be turned away.

I pictured the humiliating journey he must take to return to his own chamber. Everyone he saw would know of his frustrated desire. Most painful of all, he would be attended by the duke, whose handsome face, fine legs, and dangerous charm could overcome the virtue of any lady. Even the French queen, if the rumors were to be believed. Perhaps that was one benefit in Henrietta Maria’s loathing the duke. There was no danger of Buckingham bedding her in the king’s stead.

Yet the duke of Buckingham’s presence penetrated every corridor of Whitehall. I knew I would encounter him often now that we were both in the same palace. I dreaded it, yet I was anxious to get that first meeting over with. When the dancing started, I saw my chance. I caught his attention, then made a show of polishing my ring. With the duke’s gaze following me, I slipped from the hall, the echoing empty chamber beyond offering me a place to wait.

Voices sounded, strident—one the duke’s, another a lady’s, accented in French. I dived behind an arras to hide until he could rid himself of her. The voices grew clearer. I peeped out and was surprised to see Madame Saint-Georges.

“You wished to share some confidence with me, Your Grace? I cannot imagine why.” She managed to give the impression she was looking down her nose at the duke even though he was taller than she. I intended to practice that expression in the mirror until I, too, might “look down” upon giants.

“Madame, do you care about the fate of the queen?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Tensions between our countries are growing more complicated. A year has passed since the royal marriage, yet your French king refuses to pay the queen’s dowry—money we need for our war against Spain.”

“Your king promised to stop persecuting Catholics, or France would never have agreed to the marriage.”

“King Charles made no such promise.”

“His father, then!” Madame Saint-Georges snapped. “Surely such a vow should be honored by a son.”

“As your king honors his father’s wishes by laying siege to the Huguenots at La Rochelle? Henry le Grande was a Protestant himself. He became Catholic only to gain the French crown. What was the Evergreen Gallant’s famous quote, madame? ‘Paris is worth a Mass?’”

“Your Henry the Eighth broke with the Church so he could wed his mistress!” Saint-Georges sneered. “A woman later condemned as a harlot and a witch! But once Henry Tudor cut off her head, did he return to the Holy Father in Rome? No. He wanted to keep the wealth plundered from the monasteries. I have seen your Anglican ceremonies. Under the king and Bishop Laud the rites grow more and more like our Catholic ones, with their fine ornaments and ceremonies. Is that not why your Puritans are so angry?”

“The Catholic Church and Anglican one are different enough to make martyrs on both sides of the religious divide since Henry died.”

“Like King Charles’s own grandmother—the blessed Mary, Queen of Scots.”

“The traitor who plotted with Spain and France to steal Queen Elizabeth’s throne. Now your king has divided our countries even further—making peace with Spain instead of supporting his brother-in-law’s cause against them. But then, diplomacy is an unpredictable business.”

“Is that why you persist in tormenting the queen? To punish her for what her brother has done?”

“I could be the queen’s greatest ally.”

Madame’s eyes widened—with interest or disbelief?

“It is obvious the queen values your advice,” Buckingham said. “Will you use your influence to benefit your mistress and the king, England and France?”

“I have had Her Majesty’s best interests at heart since we were children.”

“Children. That is the subject I am most interested in at present. A child who carries the royal blood of Stuart and Bourbon will unite our countries as marriage cannot. Unfortunately, your mistress’s flux has come with disappointing regularity since she and the king have bedded together.”

From behind the arras, I could see madame’s cheeks go red. “Her Majesty’s womanly functions are not a proper subject to discuss with any man.”

“Someone needs to discuss them with her!” Buckingham said. “Pleasure in lovemaking will increase her chances of conceiving—if only because she will indulge in the act more often. You must convince Her Majesty to return her husband’s embraces with more enthusiasm when he visits her bed. If the foolish girl does not bestir herself, she will be more miserable than she can imagine.”

Madame’s indignation matched my own. “You are the one who makes the queen miserable!” she said. “You scold her and tyrannize her and spread discord between her and the king! Do you think I do not see it?”

“I go to a great deal of trouble to make certain I see things more clearly than you do.”

I tensed at the sly edge to Buckingham’s tone, knowing I was his eyes.

“I offer your mistress the benefit of my superior wisdom,” the duke said.

“Who are you to spout advice to those nobler in blood than you? Her Majesty is daughter to the king of France! You are nothing but the younger son of a lowly knight!”

“I have risen since then. There is little in this world beyond my reach.”

“In England, perhaps, but not in the rest of the world. Everyone knows what kind of scoundrel you are. Do you think France has forgotten your affair with Anne of Austria, the wife of Henrietta Maria’s own brother?”

“Rumor only, though Cardinal Richelieu went to a great deal of trouble to prove infidelity. He even listened to someone who claimed I had carried two links from Queen Anne’s diamond chain back to England as a love token. When Richelieu got the king to demand she wear the necklace to a ball, he was certain the queen was undone. It was a great disappointment to all of Queen Anne’s enemies, and my own, when she appeared with the diamonds around her exquisite throat.” Buckingham did not even bother to conceal his smirk.

“Stay away from our lady with your crude English intrigues!” Saint-Georges said. “We do not tolerate upstarts such as you in France.”

Buckingham’s eyes narrowed. “If you dislike English ways, Madame Saint-Georges, you should go back to France.”

She returned Buckingham’s glare. “There is nothing you can do to separate me from Her Majesty.” Saint-Georges stalked back to the hall.

“We shall see about that,” he said as he crossed to the door and shut it.

He looked around the room. “Jeffrey? Show yourself!”

It took all my will to step from behind the arras. “I am here, Your Grace.” I looked around to make certain no one else had stumbled upon our meeting place.

“That woman will be sorry she crossed swords with me. You will help me see to it.”

I swallowed hard, thinking of the countess of Carlisle.

“Have you got intelligence for me?” Anger only made him look more like Sir Lancelot in Will’s tales of King Arthur. “I have not got all night! The king is impatient to bed his wife and will not linger over the dancing. He’ll expect me to get him undressed for his wooing.”

My stomach clenched, and I thought of the queen, Buckingham’s medal in her hand, her face suffused with fervor. I tried to blot out the image. “The queen will go to Tyburn.”

Buckingham’s eyes glittered. He might have been made of the same stuff as the rings decking his fingers—hard and bright and mercilessly beautiful. “When?”

“To honor the Jubilee. Sometime in summer.”

Buckingham slammed one fist into his open palm in triumph. The sound made me jump. “You are certain?”

“I would stake my life on it. Or should I say ‘scaffold’ my life?” I looked away, sick at heart.

“You have already grown in wit—a court fool’s skill indeed. I must draw the king away from Whitehall that day so he cannot discover her plan and spoil everything.”

Would it matter? I wondered. Merely knowing the queen intended to go to Tyburn should drive enough of a wedge between the king and queen to secure Buckingham’s goal.

Buckingham fumbled at his waist. He held something toward me. He shook it, the clink of silver sounding.

“Take your reward, Jeffrey. You have earned it. Buy something pretty for Little Sara or a coat for that brother of yours—the one who looks as if a bad freeze will put him in the grave.”

“Samuel is not ill? You have not heard…”

“
Grave
news?” Buckingham chuckled at his own jest. I loathed him for it. “No. But a coat will serve Samuel well. As you have served me. Now, if I could only offer the queen a bag of silver to serve the king in bed. Though why Charles does not avail himself of the countless English noblewomen who would be fiery even in his cold embraces, I do not know.”

Because he wants Henrietta Maria, I wanted to tell the duke. How could King Charles not want to bury himself in the queen’s fearless zeal, her eagerness, her beauty?

I did.

The confession opened desert wastelands inside me. But it was not until long after the Jubilee passed that I understood the true danger in what I felt.

T
WELVE

July 7, 1626

The mud of Tyburn Road clutched the hem of the queen’s skirt like fingers begging for mercy. But little enough of that virtue could be found at the execution site, where crowds had sated themselves on human suffering for five hundred years.

I peered out the window of the lone coach that was part of the procession that had left St. James’s Palace an hour ago and wished we were still winding through Hyde Park, which lay just beyond the palace gates—the Serpentine’s chain of shimmering ponds nested in jewel green.

But even the gentry strolling along the water’s edge had stared at us with such shock, I would have given anything to stop the queen and her train of pilgrims before they stepped beyond the park’s confines and onto the city roads.

I braced myself atop the wooden box placed upon the seat so I could watch the pilgrims filling the street before me and noted that I was not the only one interested in the procession. With each step the queen took, more passersby gathered along the side of the road. I could sense their suspicion as they called to the people in the shops. What had begun as a trickle of onlookers from other streets was growing at a pace that made me grateful the rest of the royal menagerie had remained safely behind the palace walls.

It had been easy for Will to discourage them from participating. Robin was eager for time alone with his paints, Dulcinea was determined to avoid the king’s wrath, and Sara had been frightened off by Rattlebones’s tales from the city’s past.