The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (27 page)

Far sooner than I would trust your husband, I thought.

“I am sending some servants back to Burley-on-the-Hill to fetch a few trinkets my father could not bear to throw away. The priests at the Queen’s Chapel might have use for them, and it seems a pity to have them moldering in storage. I will dispatch Master Quintin to join the servants’ trek to the country.”

“Is a kitchen page named Clemmy Watson one of those you are dispatching to Rutland?” I asked.

“I had not thought to send him.” She must have seen my disappointment, for she asked, “Why?”

“He promised to carry a letter to Samuel for me if the chance presented itself.”

The duchess was silent a long moment. “There is no reason Clemmy cannot be one of the party returning to Burley. In fact, I will send him whenever there is such a trip to be made, so that you might have word of Samuel’s progress in these lessons you fought to secure for him.”

“You are too good, Your Grace.”

She thought it was flattery. It was not. It was the truth. She was far too good to be Buckingham’s wife.

Hours later, I was too restless to retire to my room alone. Instead, I amused myself in the Freaks’ Lair watching Pug try to eat the pomegranate Robin Goodfellow was painting on a panel for the queen’s new masque. Sara watched every daub of color, leaning so close to Goodfellow that her hair brushed the artist’s shoulder. Though she cast a shadow over the work, Goodfellow did not complain.

Simon was wrestling a muddy spaniel into a lead tub filled with warm, soapy water—he trusted no one else to bathe his charges since a servant had splashed water and given one of the dogs a putrid ear.

Will sat in a big chair beside the fire. He held his hands carefully apart to apply the perfect tension to a skein of blue silk Dulcinea had looped around them. She wound the thread into a ball along with Evans’s soulful gaze.

It felt good to lose myself in the familiar—the bright colors and confusion, the tools of our trades scattered about. But for the first time, I craved more from this place, these people: a deepening too dangerous to pursue.

I had bought Samuel’s future. Its price would have to be paid in some future betrayal of the queen. Had I not all but promised the duke some nugget he could use against her? Yet, even with that looming over me, I could not completely quell a sense of victory. I wanted to tell Robin and Will, Simon Rattlebones and Sara. I even thought Pug might take delight in the fact that for once one of Her Majesty’s Freaks and Curiosities of Nature had bested the mighty duke of Buckingham. For once, His Grace is doing
my
will, I wanted to crow. I did not dare. I would have to be satisfied holding my secret close to my heart.

I had faced down the duke and Samuel would be safe, far from Beetle Garth and my father. The duchess of Buckingham—the kindest of the queen’s ladies—had recommended his tutor. I might fear for the queen, for the king, and for myself. But even if I had sold all of our souls in this devil’s bargain, at least when it came to Samuel, I had nothing left to fear.

S
IXTEEN

Three days of strange weather circled the Carlisle hunting grounds on lazy wings, as if awaiting the flick of a sorcerer’s silver stick to set it free. Harried servants scurried about, making preparations for entertainments indoors, should they be needed. Yet the morning the royal party set out, falcons at the ready, the world glittered with sun and expectation.

We rode into the morning fifty strong—plumes on wide-brimmed hats sifting the wind, curls bouncing on elegantly clad shoulders, skirts on ladies’ riding habits rippling back and revealing flashes of ankle and leather shoe. Men preened like stallions, showing off their skills, trying to jostle closer—not to the queen but to Carlisle’s countess, whose wit and beauty seemed more captivating than ever before.

The earl of Carlisle surveyed his wife’s male conquests as if their eagerness to get the countess in bed was the greatest compliment they could pay him. The elegant Scotsman even embraced Buckingham with an air of indulgence that left no doubt he knew the duke had been intimate with his fair Lucy.

Watching Lady Carlisle flirt with her suitors, it was easy to see why any man would be fascinated by her. Even Charles Stuart’s gaze pulled her way, the dark flush on his cheekbones showing he was not impervious to her charms. She’d even won from him an occasional shy smile.

I could not shake the ominous feeling that Buckingham’s warning about this day had created in me—his promise that some trick would be wrought that might snare the king in Lady Carlisle’s net.

I hated the fact that the countess had helped to breach the aloof shell about Charles Stuart, cracks evident eight days ago, when he’d demonstrated his concern for his wife by the mount he had given me: a willow wand of a mare, slender enough for a special saddle designed to hold me in place. It fit me far better than Buckingham’s offering had. Nooks of hardened leather padded with velvet gave me a place to tuck my thighs; stirrups set in the perfect place gave me leverage when I needed it. Even the mare’s reins were more slender than usual, so they could fit in my hand. Not that I needed the bridle. This mare had the softest mouth God ever put on a horse, responding to the slightest twitch of the reins.

When the earl of Carlisle had first spoken of the hunt to be held in a fortnight, Charles Stuart had drawn me aside, surprised me by saying, “I had meant this to be a first mount for a prince, but there is time to train another in its stead.”

“Majesty … it is too generous.” I had started to protest, and then stopped, knowing I must ignore my scruples and scoop whatever I was given into my private hoard. Archie was right. I would need something to fall back on when the royals discovered my perfidy.
If
they allowed me to escape Tyburn’s scaffold. “I am honored, of course,” I said.

“The horse comes with a royal charge. I command you to keep pace with my wife on the hunt, on rides, everywhere, Jeffrey. You showed courage the day she cut herself. It takes a brave man to challenge a king’s orders. You did not let my anger keep you from coming to Her Majesty’s aid. You will not let any man’s.” He hesitated for a moment. “You have heard I may send relief to the besieged Huguenots at La Rochelle?”

I shifted my feet, uneasy. I could hardly tell him the duke of Buckingham and I had discussed it while I bargained for my brother’s future. “It is my task to make the queen laugh. A hard thing when the discord between Your Majesty and France breaks her heart.”

“That grieves me, Jeffrey. But it is as the duke of Buckingham says. My kingdom’s honor depends on striking back at those who betray our trust. He has offered to lead my fleet to open La Rochelle’s port. Is that not noble of him?” He did not expect an answer. “I fear he suffers guilt over his ill-starred raid on Cádiz. Many beyond the palace walls still blame him for that failure. But they hated him even when my father was still alive. It is nothing but jealousy, such hate. How can a mediocre man understand one as magnificent as Buckingham?”

“I am not even a mediocre man, Your Majesty. One small as I am can hardly be expected to judge. But I fear—” I stopped, not brave enough to finish.

“Fear what, Jeffrey?”

“I know simple folk, Majesty. They will not believe the queen is loyal to England once Your Majesty and France cross swords.”

“I know.” He looked away from me. “My wife may need someone to defend her in the days to come. I will depend upon you.”

The knot in my belly had nothing to do with my old fear of horses. I had become used to them, and to the courtiers’ laughter. But for the king to mock me was something new. “Majesty, look at me. My size. I am not one to protect the queen if trouble comes.”

“You guard her spirit, Jeffrey.” Charles Stuart gazed into the distance with sad, dark eyes. “I do not possess the gift of inspiring laughter in people even when I wish to.” I had seen vulnerability in him for just an instant. I wondered if he was picturing his dead brother—that new Arthur who had bested all in tournaments wielding his mind or lance. For all the splendor of his crown, the divine fire that had made him king, I could feel a kinship with Charles Stuart, a man trying to fill spaces too large for him.

Now I shook myself out of my reverie, aware of the excitement all around me. We set out across the fields, hounds and large spaniels bounding ahead to flush game from the brush and send the falcon’s prey into a frenzied race against death. My mount kept me near the queen as the falconer prepared to cast the king’s gyrfalcon into the heavens. I watched the master remove the leather hood that blinded the mighty bird, then release jesses that tethered the creature. He cast the gyrfalcon skyward, and we watched it chase a dove. Fierce talons struck the terrified bird in flight, and the falcon carried it back, limp, dead.

Rabbits were next, the dogs flushing a fat one from the brush. But as the gyrfalcon took off yet again, it spotted a different prey. That moment, I saw it also—chestnut and white, a small blur of silky ears, the joyous yap of greeting. Mitte, the queen’s toy spaniel.

How had she gotten so far from the manor? Had we doubled back somehow in our travels? It did not matter. The gyrfalcon abandoned the rabbit, seeking more interesting prey. I could sense those golden eyes, feel the talons stretch, eager to sink into flesh. The great shadow of the falcon’s wingspan sped toward the little dog.

I shouted warning to the falconer, knowing it was hopeless no matter how he whistled or swung a bit of raw meat on a leather thong above his head. The queen cried out, and I spurred my horse in a futile effort to startle the hawk, fearing it might mistake me for prey, and wheel about to fly into my face. Mitte yelped as the falcon struck, sinking its claws into her shoulders, lifting her off of the ground. The spaniel’s paws flailed the air, a keening bark rising above the shouts of horror. For a moment, I feared the bird might drop Mitte to her death.

The falconer held out his gauntlet, doing all he could to summon the bird back to its perch, but the gyrfalcon glimpsed the turmoil below and its own instincts kicked in, making it wheel away from what it sensed was danger.

The queen pleaded, distress causing her to jumble words into a mixture of French and English. The king cantered a few paces after the bird. But not even royal decree could order it from the sky.

Charles Stuart turned to a lad with a bow slung across his back and a quiver of arrows in case they were needed to finish a kill. “You, there, boy. Are you a good archer?”

“I am.”

“Shoot the gyrfalcon if you must to save the queen’s dog.”

The queen gasped as the lad slung his bow down off his shoulder, the other courtiers voicing their shock. He drew an arrow and knocked it.

“Majesty,” Buckingham exclaimed, wheeling his mount next to the king’s. “The falcon is worth a fortune, while the court is overrun with toy spaniels.”

“My wife loves this one,” Charles said stoically, but I could see how much the choice pained him. His gaze followed the magnificent bird with regret.

Suddenly, above the furor, something sounded—a pipe of some sort, issuing strange music. At the crest of the nearby hill, a black eagle seemed to form out of air—wings spreading wide, feathers shimmering, a body the size of a man.

The queen crossed herself, and servants made signs against the evil eye. Something about the figure whispered of other worlds. “Who is that? What…” someone began to question. But another hissed, “Do not startle him.”

Startle whom? I wondered. The falcon we had set out to hunt with that morning, or the earthbound creature who seemed more imposing every moment?

A hush fell as courtiers and servants alike shifted their gaze from falcon in the sky to the figure summoning it. Even Mitte ceased her struggles, and I feared the spaniel might be dead. The king’s gyrfalcon veered farther away from its keeper and glided in a slow spiral downward. An arm’s length from the ground, the talons withdrew from flesh, dropping the spaniel at the strange figure’s feet. I spurred my horse forward, determined to scoop up the dog and return her to the queen’s arms if Mitte should be alive, or else sweep her away to shield Henrietta Maria if the bird had made a kill. As if concealing death could somehow ease the sting. But even as I drew near, the sight before me grew stranger.

It was as if the piping had melted the wings of the creature who had played it. What had seemed wings fluttered down to pool upon Mitte, protecting the little dog, her rescuer transforming into a man whose skin was darker than black velvet.

The gyrfalcon, that fiercest of birds, hopped onto the man’s arm. The falcon ascended to his shoulder in razor-clawed steps, then pecked at a ruby that glowed in the man’s ear.

Was the man mad? The bird seemed likely to pluck out his eye. Instead, the gyrfalcon made a low throaty sound and settled more quietly than when hooded on its master’s arm.

Even my arrival did not jar it from its perch. I loosed my feet from their stirrups and slid from the mare, thudding onto the ground so hard, I was knocked to my knees. I did not care.

“Is it safe to uncover Mitte?” I asked.

The black man nodded. He was humming, the gyrfalcon seeming to hang upon every sound.

Not fully trusting the man or the bird, I scooped Mitte up in the cloak. I could hear the other courtiers thundering toward us as I carried Mitte behind a tree. Once hidden from the gyrfalcon’s sight, I uncovered the little dog. Blood stained the white patches of her coat where the talons had gripped, but she was still breathing. She opened her liquid brown eyes and whimpered. Unsteadily, she pushed up on her paws. I was too involved in checking her for other wounds to see the rest of the party ride up, only heard them pooling around me.

“Majesty, Mitte lives,” I reassured the queen, “thanks to this man.”

The king wheeled his horse to face the stranger. “We owe you a debt. Who are you?”

“They call me Boku.”

“What witchery is this?” someone murmured.

The king frowned, suddenly suspicious. I wondered if the falcon tamer knew what danger he was in. “How did you achieve this feat? You lured the gyrfalcon out of the sky when even his keeper could not.”