The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (28 page)

“Majesty, forgive me,” Lady Carlisle burst out. “It was no witchery, but a fortunate coincidence that Boku was able to intervene. He was to entertain us once we reached the pavilions. After we supped, Boku was to work his illusions. One was to involve your gyrfalcon. He had been working with the bird in secret to achieve it.”

The king scowled. “An outsider was meddling in the royal mews?”

“Boku was not to be an outsider after today. He is my gift to you, Majesty: A master of the art of illusion. Though I regret he cannot be introduced to you in the way I had planned.”

She did indeed look vexed. Yet the queen was all gratitude. A groom caught hold of her reins as one of the keepers of the hounds took Mitte from me and held the dog up for inspection.

“The little bitch should be fine after a bit of rest,” the bucktoothed fellow said. “It’s a good thing as well, for if I’m not mistaken, she’ll be having a litter of pups to be telling her adventures to.”

The queen reached out her arms for the spaniel. The horse scented blood and attempted to dance sideways, but the queen was far too fine a horsewoman to be rattled. She gathered Mitte close. “Thanks to our Lucy.”

The new intimacy that flared between the queen and Lady Carlisle undermined the relief I felt at Mitte’s escape. I was certain “our Lucy” would have happily dropped Mitte—and the queen—down a well if it meant her “entertainment” could have gone forward as planned. Besides, it was not the fine lady who had risked the gyrfalcon’s talons—or who doubtless had deep punctures in the arm upon which the predator had landed. I glanced at the conjurer; saw those unreadable eyes on me.

“Lady Carlisle has done me an immense service today,” the queen announced. “From this moment on, I will cherish her friendship, as she deserves.”

“Lady Carlisle, wherever did you find such a wizard?” Buckingham drawled. “He is most remarkable.”

“I acquired him from a captain recently returned from rounding Cape Horn.”

“Did the Spaniards challenge him?” someone in the crowd asked.

“Spaniards are no match for English sailors!” Lady Carlisle exclaimed, her cheeks dimpling. “Since the days of Sir Walter Raleigh, foreign claims have not barred stout seamen from plucking the choicest fruits from the New World and bringing them to our ports.”

The queen addressed the magician. “Monsieur Boku. I am sorry to have spoilt this entertainment Lady Carlisle planned. But I am grateful you will be in His Majesty’s household.” She withdrew a ring from her little finger and extended it to Boku. “Take this as a token of my gratitude.”

He reached for it, and I noticed the queen dropped the ring before she could touch his skin. His palm was a startling pink, and quilted cloth bracelets as wide as my forearm spanned from his wrist halfway up his arm. The pearl in the ring’s center glowed as Boku nudged it with his thumb. “A tear wept by the sea.”

“What a beautiful thing to call a pearl,” Henrietta Maria said. “Did you conjure that phrase yourself?”

“Someone else called it that,” he said in a strange accent.

“In the place where you are from?” the king asked.

“There is only here, Majesty. Only now—where I am to lighten the king’s weariness and show you illusions such as England has never seen.”

“We shall be the judge of that,” Charles said in the patronizing tone that often made those around him work to hide their irritation. “Savage peoples cannot fathom what amuses England’s royal court. You must bow to the discernment of your betters, our intellect and cultured tastes.”

Boku hid his hands in the draping cups of his sleeves. “Majesty, I have made it my passion to understand your English amusements very well.”

I was not certain why the words of this man from tropic climes made me cold. Even after he excused himself to prepare for his coming performance, I could not shake the strange chill. It was absurd. He had rescued the queen’s dog, not sent the gyrfalcon to hunt it.

At that moment, a red-faced footman ran up to Boku, his livery askew. “The little wretch! Someone said you had found…” He slammed to a halt, gaping at the queen. He bowed so hastily and low, it was a miracle he did not clunk his brow on the ground. “Majesty, forgive me! The little dog must have climbed into the cart carrying the pastries before we left the kitchens. We did not find her until we were already here. I tied her to one of the tent posts, but she chewed through the ribbon.”

“So that was how you got here, Mitte!” the queen exclaimed.

“Majesty, I swear I did not know it was your dog. I would have taken it straight back to the manor house if I had.”

The king frowned. “You are fortunate all ended well. Be more diligent in your duty from now on.”

The servant fled, looking afraid he still might be clapped in the Tower. Carlisle’s other servants seemed to be attempting to make up for their fellow’s blunder as they performed their assigned tasks with even more alacrity than usual—grooms taking charge of the guests’ horses and helping the ladies alight in clouds of blue and crimson, green and gold. Serving girls hastened forward to take riding gloves as they were stripped from ladies’ hands, and helped adjust hats the wind had blown askew. Fresh-faced pages offered cups of spiced wine to soothe throats strained in attempts to converse over the sound of hooves on turf.

The earl linked arms with his radiant wife and made a pretty speech to welcome the king to the lovely picnic spot the Carlisle servants had arranged for us. We descended to flower-decked tents of green and blue beside a silver lake the shape of a shield. What looked like a mist-draped island stood in the middle of the pool. Had it been crafted by men or by nature? I could not tell. I had seen many displays of scenery since my first court masque and wondered what delights the gauzy shroud might conceal.

For now, there was a feast to be had. Beneath fluttering pennons affixed to the tent poles, tables had been assembled and lined with chairs and cushions. Mountains of honey-dipped cakes and meat pies that had been carted from the manor house kitchens tempted our palates from silver plate. Most impressive of all was a creation that would have made Will Evans look small: sugar spun into falcons that soared above cliffs made of gingerbread. Some device sent a waterfall tumbling down a metal chute through the crags to a pool lined with silver.

Grabbing several cushions to boost myself to table level, I slung them into my chair, then clambered up to the seat, taking a moment to be sure of my balance. The queen would not let Mitte out of her arms as festivities commenced with a dozen maidens dressed as water nymphs piping melodies near the shore.

As the hours sped by, even entertainments as magnificent as any I had ever seen could not draw any but the most cursory of the queen’s attention from the small creature in her arms. She wrapped the spaniel in her riding cloak, feeding the little animal bites of meat, sips of wine from the goblet meant for her. Her passionate tenderness and gratitude spilled over upon the king. I could not keep from watching her, nor could he.

I knew the prime performance was in the offing when music such as I had never heard began to rumble from the center of the mechanical waterfall—drums with rhythms like the heartbeat of some great beast, a dry rattling sound shaken in accompaniment, the scent of cinnamon and pepper and other spices I could not name suddenly in the air. Almost against my will, I leaned forward, nearly slipping off my cushion perch. My pulse pounded an answer to the drums, one I could feel echoing in every person present, from Buckingham to the lowliest page. Even Mitte’s small pink tongue bobbed in rhythm. Just when I thought I could not bear the building suspense another moment, the drums stopped. Crags of gingerbread exploded in a burst of scarlet-and-green smoke, a dozen doves dyed bright colors taking wing.

As the smoke cleared, a figure took shape where the waterfall had been. There stood Boku, his robes spattered with the blue stones that had sparkled at the bottom of the gem-strewn pool. Most startling of all, the king’s gyrfalcon perched on his arm.

I felt a jerking sensation as people snapped free from whatever bonds the drums had held them in. Exclamations of amazement filled the tent. No jesses bound the falcon’s leg, its noble head and powerful hooked beak bare of the leather hood designed to blind the high-strung creature to its surroundings and prevent it from going wild at the slightest noise or unexpected movement. The kind of chaos this crowded tent contained must have seemed a hell for the huge, fierce predator: crowds of chattering people, the cloth roof overhead, blocking out escape to the sky, the heavy smells of food mixed with courtiers’ perfume and sweat from the ride.

The doves were certainly panicking, fluttering frantically to escape. Their black-bead eyes glistened with terror as they bumped the top of the tent and swooped over the shrieking guests.

In the midst of the uproar, Boku stretched out his hand to a dove the color of primroses.

“Come.” The man’s deep voice held more power than the drums. “Come, flower of the sky, to the warrior who would pluck you.”

Was the dove beset by some lingering madness from the drums? The wings slowed and it swung toward Boku and certain death. No hoodless gyrfalcon would tolerate prey drawing so close. The gyrfalcon would explode in a rush of powerful wings and crush the dove with its talons.

I did not want to witness the dove’s death. I started to make excuse that I must answer a call of nature, but as I rose, Boku’s dark gaze locked on me.

“Master Hudson,” he called, and I wondered how he had learned my name. “Have you the courage to snatch the dove from death?”

“Merely leave off your strange summons and let her fly away,” I said. “I have a pressing errand of nature to attend, so you might choose another guest to aid you.”

“It is not as if any guest will do. Are you afraid of being struck by these talons?”

I looked at the razor-sharp hooks digging into Boku’s strange bracelets. “I prefer to keep my eyeballs in my head.”

“Do you not trust me?”

“I do not know you well enough to have an opinion.”

I could tell from Boku’s steady look that he knew I had lied. The foreigner cast me off balance, filled my head with black magic and quicksand pathways and mysteries I dared not unveil. “Jeffrey, do as he asks,” the queen insisted. “Mitte wants you to help the man who saved her.”

“Perhaps I should not have been so hasty to go to Mitte’s aid,” I muttered under my breath. I could almost hear Archie’s cynical voice:
It might cost you an eye, Jeffrey, but you would not want to disappoint Her Majesty’s dog.

Still, I could not disobey a direct command from the queen. My feet dragged as I made my way to Boku. He placed his hand above me, then lowered it to cover the top of my head with his palm. I felt something strange prickle against my scalp.

“Close your eyes and whistle,” he said as he drew his hand away. “Call our winged friend.”

I did as he bid me. Wind and feathers brushed my cheek. The dove landed atop my head, and I heard its soft coo. Every muscle in my body went stiff. I opened my eyes and saw yellow raptor eyes glaring into mine, the gyrfalcon’s bloodlust evident in the restless shift of her talons on Boku’s wrist.

“I am told your Christian God says to love one another,” Boku said. “Let us test his philosophy by allowing the falcon to give your dove the kiss of brotherly love.”

“I have brothers,” I said thinking of John’s bouts of temper. “I would not count on a happy resolution when one brother has talons and the other does not.” I heard the audience laugh, but Boku’s expression did not alter.

He brought the falcon so close, I could see a spot of blood on its beak. “Do not move, little man,” Boku said so only I could hear. My knees started to tremble. Why was the dove not thrashing to get away? The gyrfalcon stretched its neck toward me as if trying to decide whether the dove or I would make a tastier meal. But as Boku gave an almost inaudible whistle, the great bird tapped the dove’s beak with his own.

“Thank Master Hudson, my sharp-taloned friend,” Boku said.

“No need for that,” I protested, but the falcon pecked the top of my head. The crowd exclaimed in wonder and I prayed they would not startle the falcon into sampling my eye.

“Fool Jeffrey!” Buckingham’s jovial voice rang out. “Do you still need to answer nature’s call, or has the falcon made you soil your breeches?”

The earl of Carlisle laughed. “Your Grace would not have risked your pretty face.” Not when Buckingham’s “pretty face” pleased the countess of Carlisle so much, I thought as I left the tent, the dove still frozen on my shoulder. Had it died of fear? I wondered. When I was far enough away from the tent, I plucked the bird off of me. I examined its eyes, now strange and glazed. I gave it a shake, hoping to rouse it, but it showed no sign of waking from its stupor.

One of Carlisle’s servants approached. “I keep the earl’s dovecote,” he explained. “I will take charge of the bird.” I handed the dove to its keeper and wondered if its drowsiness was contagious. I might have stolen a nap myself, but I was burning with curiosity to see what the magician would do next.

I returned to the tent in time to see him split a pomegranate. He tucked some ruby-colored seeds in his hand. When he unfurled his fingers, the whole assemblage exclaimed as eight perfect butterflies rose on deep red wings and alighted upon the queen’s sleeve.

Next, Boku chose a pitch-soaked stick and set it afire. Murmuring words we could not understand, he raised the torch high, then jammed the blazing end down his throat. Ladies screeched in horror; gentlemen shouted. When he drew the torch back out, we stared, stunned. Somehow the end of the charred stick had transformed into a red flower that filled the tent with its scent.

The excitement had scarce died down when the magician swept up before the duke of Buckingham. “Your Grace, are you familiar with the workings of locks? Some gentlemen use them to protect their treasures—or their womenfolk’s virtue.” A spate of nervous laughter died almost before it began. I glanced over and saw the priggish king’s smile falter.

“I am familiar with locks,” Buckingham said.