The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (36 page)

It should have been such a simple thing for one of those furious people to kill a man so widely hated. Yet as the duke raced back and forth between London and Portsmouth, dealing with his shattered army, planning the fresh assault the king had promised he would lead, I began to wonder if His Grace had drunk some devil’s potion so that no poison or dagger or lead musket ball could pierce him. I began to fear whatever weapon aimed at Buckingham’s heart would always be turned aside by fortune’s hand to lodge in someone else’s chest.

How had I ever believed I could remain separate from it all? Tell my jests, make my bow, and then sail, untouched upon tumultuous seas—a miniature Noah safe upon my ark of grotesques.

Who would be struck down next in his stead? Samuel? The queen? Me? I had seen the handbills nailed on church doors and passed from hand to hand.

Who rules England? The king?

Who rules the king?

The duke of Buckingham.

Who rules the duke?

The devil.

Would people think me part of the duke’s demonic plans if they discovered I was in his employ? What vengeance might they take, lashing out in the pain of grief?

Beyond the palace gates, mothers and wives waited, hoping their men might still come home. I imagined my own mother squirreling bits of salted beef away, hidden from the rest of the hungry family, imagining the feast she would lay out with her meager stores when John marched through the cottage door.

Five thousand soldiers would never sit at their mothers’ tables again or return to their wives’ embraces. I fretted over the question so many across the island were tormented with, wondering if my mother would have to wipe John’s pewter plate one last time, then place it upon the shelf to gather dust forever.

Imagining the emptiness John’s loss would leave drove me to shun my own chambers. Instead, I retreated to the menagerie’s lodgings to practice a new trick with Pug while the queen was with her newly acquired music master, learning to play the lute.

I could hear Dulcinea’s voice, high and sharp, as I rounded the corner to the room and was surprised to see her flouncing out with her arms full of costumes, her face flushed, defiant. But startled as I was by her swift exit, I was more surprised by the only other person I found within the menagerie’s lodgings: Uriel Ware.

I had not seen Buckingham’s hireling since the duke’s sister had gossiped about Ware’s childhood. The man’s visits to replenish the queen’s purse had been surreptitious meetings I was not party to. Yet there he stood, beside the locked cupboard Boku had brought with him from Carlisle House.

Light snagged on the objects Boku had removed from the mysterious cupboard and scattered on the table nearby—copper bowls, vials of liquid, half-assembled mechanisms, and oddly shaped rocks. Ware trailed his fingertips across them, and for a moment I wondered if he was searching among them for a dragon stone like the ones his father had loved. Then I banished such musings, filling my head with suspicion.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, tense at seeing him within the menagerie’s walls. I made a quick turn around the chamber, checking to make sure no other member of our troupe had darted for cover when the intimidating man entered the room.

“The queen was in need of coin.”

“From your own purse or from Buckingham’s?”

“Even you are not certain who initiated the loan? How illuminating.”

“You want support for voyages to the new world. Buckingham refuses to move forward on the matter.”

“Add that the queen believes any reasonable person can see that she is being treated unjustly and it is little wonder the ruse worked. Buckingham fills the purse I offer to tempt Her Majesty deeper into debt. The duke hopes her continued excesses will anger the king, since he is in such dire financial straits. A forlorn hope, I fear. The king has a dangerous tenderness for those who fail him—as long as they profess undying love.”

I could not deny Ware was right.

“After I finished my business with the queen, I decided to see if that illusion master I have heard so much about might provide a charm to change my master’s fortune. My own fate is tied to Buckingham’s, as you say, and his luck has gone quite sour. When the government issues a proclamation forbidding the general populace even to mention a nobleman’s name, it is time to take stock of one’s options.”

“What has Dulcinea to do with such matters?”

“I try to guard the duke’s reputation where I can. It is a thankless task, and one he makes quite difficult. Some women behave in an overly familiar fashion at inappropriate times.”

“I have heard the same accusation leveled at His Grace and friends. A woman goes to a household she believes is completely respectable, only to discover it is not. What kind of man uses a lady’s visit with his mother to bait his quarry?”

“The duke’s mother is familiar with His Grace’s rather unorthodox methods and lodges no objections. Especially since just such a ploy snared the Villiers family England’s richest heiress. Of course, I would never admit such a thing to anyone but you.”

“Buckingham’s wife, mother, and sister may be the only people in England who do not object to the duke at present.”

“Do not forget the king,” Ware said. “Yet since the fleet’s return from France, His Grace has fewer friends than ever. It is not a favorable situation for a Lord Admiral bent on restoring his honor. Armies must be fed and resupplied, a costly and complicated business—something the citizenry preferred to ignore. Not that I wish to underplay Buckingham’s own stupidity.”

Ware’s tone startled me. “A dangerous way to describe your master,” I observed. “God forbid he hears of it.”

Ware’s expression shifted, suddenly more unguarded than ever before. “I would be frank with you, Jeffrey. The man fancies himself the English Richelieu, a brilliant statesman and military strategist. But put Buckingham into the fray—be it in a council chamber or upon a beachhead—and he becomes as ineffectual as he is pretty to look at.”

Did Ware sense my reaction? He regarded me a long moment. “Have you something clever to say about that, Jeffrey? You look as if you do.”

“I am trained to look clever as often as possible: a court fool’s way of building his audience’s expectations before he makes a jest. I was only thinking I have never heard you talk in such a way about Buckingham.”

“His Grace keeps me running his errands like a half-wit page instead of provisioning ships to Guyana. Someday soon an Englishman will break the Spanish and French stranglehold on the Spice Islands. If Buckingham continues to use me in this way, I will have to watch some other man realize that dream.” Ware grimaced. “It is not always easy for servants to keep their superiors on the right path. I am sure you understand. It can be a frustrating endeavor for those of us who are so much more intelligent than they are.”

I opened my mouth, shut it. Even I did not dare voice what had sprung into my mind. Everyone knew wolves at a distance were watching Buckingham, waiting for a chance to close in for the kill. But the hand close by might well be the one to take Buckingham down.

“I am attempting to use the queen’s new music master to distract those who would destroy the duke,” Ware explained. “Stirring suspicions in English minds is easy when it comes to foreigners. A few words in this tavern or among that group of apprentices and soon the whole city will believe the queen has been smuggling information to the French by slipping notes into the hole in the lute’s belly.”

I forced my hands not to curl into fists, thereby betraying my fury at this new danger to the queen. “You know such a notion is absurd.”

“I assure you people will believe it. Household servants make the most calculating spies.”

I could see the lute master, his forelock tumbling over his white brow, his eyes squinting as he placed the queen’s slender fingers on the lute strings. Musicians were never the hardiest lot when exposed to a torturer’s art. Had not musician Mark Smeaton cracked under torture in the reign of Henry the Eighth, forced to confess to committing adultery with Anne Boleyn? A chill trickled down my spine.

“The musician forgets his music half the time,” I scoffed. “He would be the most disorganized spy ever seen.”

“The better to conceal his true purpose.”

I saw my opening, addressed it. “There are no secret missives from the queen, but I do want my own letters back.”

Ware’s eyelid did not even flicker. “His Grace chooses to keep letters his hirelings write him in case he should need to use them as leverage later.”

“These letters were not meant for the duke, unless he has taken a sudden interest in my brother Samuel’s schoolboy’s scribbling that was meant for me.”

“Unless your brother is involved with treachery against the king, I cannot imagine why anyone would annoy themselves with such letters. Perhaps they were lost somewhere on the way to you.”

“Eight of them? It makes me wonder if letters I sent to His Grace have gone astray.”

Ware’s jaw hardened. “Surely you could not have been so careless.”

“I slip my letters into the nook in my saddle. They are gone the next time I go riding. I never see the person who retrieves them. It could be anybody.”

Ware drove his fingers through his hair, snagging the ribbon that bound his eye patch. It pulled askew, showing the puckered scar. “How many have you written? What is in them?”

“Around fourteen, I think. How can I remember how many I wrote? I’m not even sure they are missing.”

“It would be unfortunate if evidence against His Grace slipped into the wrong hands. Buckingham escaped impeachment once, but there are plenty in the country who would behead him as a traitor now without the bother of a trial.”

“Would you tell me if you were the one who took Samuel’s letters?”

“I do not make accountings of myself to servants. How did you discover the letters were missing? You must have some idea how they were to be delivered.”

I thought of Clemmy’s saw-toothed grin. Was it possible Clemmy was working for one of Buckingham’s enemies? It was more likely the missing letters were a trap set for me, to see if I would reveal my suspicions to Ware or conceal them. There was no point in dissembling. One question to the duchess would lead Ware straight to Clemmy.

“Her Grace was generous enough to arrange for a servant named Clemmy Watson to carry news between Samuel and me. He was to carry the letters.”

It was eerie how unreadable Ware could keep that single eye. “Clemmy Watson,” Ware said. “I know something of him. He would be easy for the right person to manipulate. A country boy, kind by nature. Overly fond of his family.”

“Are you telling me that the duke threatened Clemmy’s family to get his hands on my letters?”

“I told you, I know nothing about your letters. Though I do know a trifle about Clemmy. He has gone missing.”

“Missing?” I was not sure what to feel. Anger at his betrayal, or fear about what might have happened to him. Had he fled Buckingham’s household or been dragged away? Disposed of somehow? “What happened?” I asked.

“Some incident involving his sister, though I cannot recollect the details. There are many weapons decent fellows put in their foe’s hands. Beloved family members can be wielded with the effectiveness of a torture master’s rack.”

“Is that why you never married?”

He looked at me a long moment, then hooked his finger beneath the black ribbon holding his patch in place. He lifted the velvet wing that hid his empty socket. The jagged scar puckered the skin; the lids sucked inward, outlining the bony orbit as if in a death’s-head, waiting to break free. “Jeffrey, tell me. What do you see?”

“An ugly mess.”

“Shall I tell you how many women have asked me to see the wreck of my eye? The gaping hole frightens some of them; others, it excites. They disgust me equally.”

He frowned. “Strange, people always are suspicious of the ugly. They needn’t be. Temptation is beautiful. If I was bent on some witchery, I would use creatures like your rope dancer or the dwarf with the face of an angel.”

“Or someone like Clemmy?” I hoped to see some reaction that would tell me how deeply my former friend was embroiled in Buckingham’s mire. Nothing. My hands knotted into fists. “What has Buckingham done with him?”

“It is difficult when someone you care for disappears.” He sounded almost regretful, and I wondered if he was thinking about his father. “But I must leave you to fret over the mystery yourself. Filling people’s minds with suspicion can be useful. That way, there is not as much room for them to hatch plots of their own. The menagerie should provide plenty of upheaval soon.”

Ware’s talk of witchery haunted me. Familiar mismatched faces filled my mind, the easy, everyday fellowship that often filled these walls. Protectiveness flooded through me, potent and unexpected. “Buckingham has no power here.”

Ware started to turn away, then paused at the door. “I almost forgot. There was a bit of business I was to conduct in regards to you. The queen herself has intervened in your behalf, compelling His Grace—or should I say me?—to make exhaustive inquiries as to the fate of a particular soldier: John Hudson.”

My pulse leapt. “You have news of my brother?”

“You will be gratified to learn he fought bravely. He saved the life of one John Felton, though Felton came away grievously wounded. His hand was rendered useless, yet he has the temerity to request a commission as an officer. It is true that other officers have continued to serve after such a wound. You only need one hand to wield a sword. But Buckingham did not wish to be reminded of the debacle at the citadel. When the duke denied Felton, the man spread it about that the duke had not paid his men.”

“I have enough coin to spare some for John.”

“You would have to cast the coin into the ocean. Your brother John is dead, tossed in some French ditch with five thousand other poor souls.”

My lungs burned. John? Dead? Ware had known it the whole time he had baited me. Had I already known it as well, deep down in places beyond reason? “I must speak to the queen,” I said. “Get permission to ride to Oakham. Someone must tell my mother and father.”