The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (19 page)

“I wouldn’t send Pug out onto those streets, let alone go myself!” he’d exclaimed. “Londoners form mobs for no reason at all. Since the Armada sailed, they go pure mad every time there has been another Catholic scare. But I would rather face that than the king when he finds out what the queen is about.”

My fellow “curiosities” had spent hours discussing what punishment His Majesty would mete out to those foolish enough, loyal enough, or Catholic enough to accompany the queen.

Everyone but Will regarded those potential consequences with horrified fascination as they anticipated the return of the king and the duke of Buckingham. Will hoped the king might grow lonely for his wife and arrive in time to stop the pilgrimage. I knew better.

Buckingham had been true to his word and spirited King Charles away at the critical time. He’d “needed” the king to examine a new ship the duke had commissioned to sail against the French—if he could convince the king to allow it. Being needed by his hero was something the king could not resist. I could imagine Buckingham’s secret glee as he showed the king his new plaything, heard the king raining praise down on Buckingham’s head. When they were done with the Lord Admiral’s business, Buckingham would convince the king to celebrate the triumph with a stop at his country estate at Theobalds to hunt.

No, I knew the king would not return as sure as I knew nothing—not Rattlebones’s warnings nor Will’s attempts to persuade me to remain behind—would keep me from making this journey with the queen.

I had meant to walk with the others. I still did not know if Will had inserted this coach in the procession so I could be part of the pilgrimage without danger of getting trampled, or if the queen had commanded that I ride.

Either way, I was not sure whether to be grateful or annoyed. I pushed the toes of my boots into the padding of the coach seat, fighting to keep my balance while putting as much distance as possible between myself and the self-satisfied figure of Father Philip. Bone-dry and in the greatest of comfort, the queen’s confessor ticked off his Ave beads. What power he must feel, watching the queen and her courtiers trudge through the muck afoot, our coach grinding along behind them. I was nearly willing to risk hell by scooping up mud and smearing it on the good father’s face for abandoning her that way. But was it not unjust to blame him when I was also safe and warm and dry? I—the man who had set the queen on this path.

I dashed the thought away, concentrating on the procession before me: the queen’s French guards, her French servants, the smattering of Englishmen she tolerated in her household. Clustering nearest the queen were the ladies-in-waiting who usually reminded me of rainbow-feathered birds. Today the little maids of honor straggled through the muck like wretched crows.

Rain had turned the road into a stew of pottery shards and rusted iron perfect for carving up bare feet that had never known anything but the finest satin slippers.

I had begged Henrietta Maria to put on boots, but eyes, which could dance with merriment, had grown solemn. “I want to make certain the people of London will not forget this day,” she’d said with a tenderness that twisted like a knife. “The Catholic priests who died at Tyburn suffered hanging, drawing, and quartering for our faith. I can endure walking barefoot, as pilgrims have done since the death of Saint Peter.” She had smiled, but I had seen her apprehension, the knowledge of what she dared.

This was not France, where shrines still drew those who sought miracles. This was England, where Catholics risked their possessions, guardianship of their children, even their lives to celebrate Mass in secret rooms, terrified the Crown’s priest-hunters would burst through the door and drag them to prison. By honoring those who defied the king’s law, the queen spilled a contagion into the London streets that would spread more discord than any martyr who died on Tyburn’s scaffold ever could.

I shuddered. If evil things came to pass because of this act of defiance, Henrietta Maria would be blamed. But it would be my fault.

I comforted myself by looking for one keen-eyed figure near the front of the procession. Even at a distance, I could tell Will wore the expression of a shepherd’s dog who knows his master is about to do something foolish but cannot think of a way to stop him.

I remembered his expression the night before as he ran the whetstone over the blade of his halberd.

“Do you really think the queen will be in danger?” Sara had asked. “No one outside of the queen’s household knows what she intends to do.”

“All it takes is one spark to start a brush fire,” Will had told her. “A maid of honor boasting to one of the merchants who delivered the black cloth, a gardener’s lad overhearing Father Philip and carrying word back to his Puritan family. Someone might be waiting along the route. Even if no one knows what the queen is about, the sight of her will draw crowds on the street. The sight of her at Tyburn might incite them to violence.”

I bit the inside of my lip and thought how easy it would be for the duke to raise a crowd if he willed it. But would he need to? The trickle of people had filled in every space along the road, the sight of her French court, parading their Catholic faith so boldly in London firing their outrage. God alone knew what they would do when she enacted the final ritual she had walked all the way from St. James’s Palace to perform.

I folded my hands, trying to pay attention to the prayers Father Philip and the courtiers on the road were chanting. But I could not help being aware of the desperation in the grime-smeared faces of London’s poor, and the glint in the apprentices’ eyes, searching for anything to relieve the monotony of their service—even violence. Yet sprinkled among these underlings and the doughy-faced merchants and their disapproving wives must be the hunted whom the queen hoped to strengthen and comfort this day.

Swathed in drab cloaks, they might be watching her, their fingers surreptitiously making the sign of the cross or perhaps fingering the hard lump where a religious medal had been sewn into the seam of a dress or the lining of a purse—amulets smuggled in with priests who made the perilous journey from Italy or France, or handed down from the time Henry Tudor broke with the Church so he could wed Anne Boleyn.

Foreboding dug into my chest, the damp curls straggling down Henrietta Maria’s neck reminding me of the grisly tales Archie had frightened me with. I thought of the ghost of Anne Boleyn wandering the halls of Hampton Court, her severed head trailing blood like ribbons.

But if anywhere in England harbored unquiet spirits, Tyburn must. As the queen reached her destination, the edginess inside me seemed to choke off air and light, causing a horrific sense of being walled off from those I cared for.

Suddenly, I couldn’t bear being safe from the seething crowd while the queen was so vulnerable, so brave. I did not take time to pull off my boots as the other pilgrims had done. I forced open the door. Hanging on to the ledge where the window cut in, I swung out in a wide arc, Father Philip’s protests ringing in my ears. I released my hold once I was clear of the wheels, my body seeming to fall through the air forever before my boots struck the ground. Only grabbing at one of the wheel spokes saved me from sliding back under the coach. I righted myself and managed to propel myself out of the way as the coach jolted into motion again.

Mist dampened my cheeks. The prayers the courtiers were saying grew louder as I closed the distance between us. I could see the queen standing an arm’s length from the post where priests had been tortured. Her face was red, her eyes swollen from tears.

“God, I beg you to grant me the courage to die for my faith if it is your will.” She had memorized the words in English, determined her subjects would understand her words. Her French-accented voice flashed in the gray London air like silver before a hungry thief, too bright, taunting her enemies. “I pray for the souls of those martyrs who shed sacred blood in your holy cause,” she continued.

Henrietta Maria’s prayer was blotted out by a rumble in the crowd, hostility so thick, I could not breathe. I pushed through the maze of people, saw the queen sink to her knees, press her lips to the post dark with bloodstains a generation old.

“Devil’s daughter!” someone in the throng shouted. “Traitor queen! Send her to France or hell! No! To Tower Green and the block!”

I saw William Evans stiffen, gripping his halberd in both hands. His glare swept the crowd. Was it possible someone would attack now, as he had feared they might? Some Puritan thinking they were striking down a disciple of the Pope they considered the Antichrist? But the queen had offended more than religious fanatics now. Some of the “martyrs” she honored had tried to destroy the whole English government.

“Back, you knaves!” Will roared above the sound of prayers. “I’ll be sending you to Newgate if you make threats against Her Majesty!”

The outcries softened, faces drawing deeper into hoods or beneath hat brims. I caught Will’s gaze. The lines in his face deepened as I made my way toward him.

“I will never forget this day!” I heard someone cry.

Was it a Puritan or an Anglican vowing vengeance? A secret Catholic clinging to hope? It might have been my own conscience, branded with the image of the queen of England, on her knees in the muck, kissing the place saints—or traitors—had bled.

I thought of Will’s tales—how dragons loved to sate their hunger on a lady fair, a brave lady only the boldest hero could save. I imagined flying to Henrietta Maria’s rescue, sword drawn.
Are you going to pinprick her enemies to death?
A voice mocked inside me.
You can barely lift a real sword off the ground.

I heard a rumble from the direction of the Tower of London. A frisson of alarm shot through everyone in the street, as if it were cannon fire. For an instant, I wondered if it could be some armed force the king had raised, riding down upon the crowd now—to rescue his queen from the angry mob or to arrest her himself?

The booming sound came again, and people began to flee. Yet no armed men appeared. Lightning sent jagged fire across the darkening sky, like God’s finger wielding damnation. A stone flew toward me. I jerked my head up, searching the crowd to see where the missile had come from. But rain was pelting us now, the crowd shifting and fleeing for shelter.

“Jeffrey!”

I saw Will Evans striding toward me. I slogged in his direction. Shifting his halberd into the crook of one elbow, Will grabbed the back of my jacket and lifted me until I could scramble astride his shoulders.

“Hold on!” he said. I buried my hands in Will’s hair and clung for dear life as he loped back toward the queen. “Keep a sharp eye out for weapons in the windows overhead or anyone in the crowd trying to break through the guard to reach Her Majesty. I depend on you.”

He meant it. I twisted this way and that, trying to see past the blur of people to threats beyond. I glimpsed someone disturbingly familiar in the crowd. From the shambles? Surely not. Raised fingers made the sign of the cross in blessing; then he was gone.

My gaze swept too many faces to remember before we entered Hyde Park. The crowd thinned, the verdant beauty a blur as the queen’s procession hastened through it. By the time we reached the palace, the onlookers had disappeared altogether. But as the porter opened the gate to let us pass, I could see the scowl on his face and knew. We had not left the conflict at Tyburn. From now on, people would watch the queen in palaces, chapels, in the streets, and at the hunt with the same relentless stare.

*   *   *

By the time the queen dismissed me so her ladies could change her clothing and get her warm, I barely had the energy to stagger across to the Freaks’ Lair.

Will Evans sat on a stool, drying his hair by the fire. “I posted double the guard on the queen’s side of the palace,” he said. “I have never seen a London crowd in such a dangerous temper. They would have stoned the queen if they could. I kept searching the crowd, not certain what to do if they attacked.”

I had done the same, yet I would have been useless to fend them off. Would Will have fared much better with such a crowd? Especially against zealots, fired by hate?

“I could not think how to guard Her Majesty and keep you from being crushed to death at the same time,” Will said. “Tell me you did not get trampled upon.”

“Not once. I’ve spent my life dodging the soles of great clumping boots like yours. You did well, Evans.” I tried to reassure us both. “The queen is behind palace gates again. She is safe.”

“Is she?” Will raised his shaggy head, drops of water clinging to his beard. “I’m not so sure.”

“Of course she is,” I protested.

“Her Majesty may be in more danger in her own chambers. Even now someone must be carrying word to the king. Once he hears what she has done, he’ll ride for St. James’s. I am afraid for her.”

“The king will be angry, of course, but she is a queen. Any action taken against her would provoke war with France.”

“There are men eager for the glory and fortune they can win only on the battlefield. If those men can convince the king to imprison the queen, try her for treason, even execute her, they will get their war.”

My stomach churned. Was it possible the duke’s goal had never been to prevent Henrietta Maria from having influence over the king? Did he want to dispose of the queen altogether? Or use her as the flame to touch off an incident that would explode into war?

Fear sickened me. What had I done?

“The queen was only praying,” I insisted. “She is allowed to practice her religion by law.” I had heard the French say so a dozen times.

“Henrietta Maria was not just praying. She was inciting her subjects to rebel against the law of the land. Charles is the head of the Church of England. The king and the church are one and the same.”

“You are saying it might be…”

“Treason. I pray the king is too wise to judge it so.”

“Thank God the king is away.”

“He will return. And when he does, Jeffrey, you will have to stay as close to the queen as possible.”

“What am I supposed to do? Fend him off with your pike?”