The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (4 page)

“Especially when the stammering little boy’s brilliant brother dies,” the wizard’s daughter mocked. “And he finds himself hauled out of the shadows, those sad, bulging eyes so unaccustomed to the light. Very lucky for you the Prince of Wales died, Your Grace.”

There was fire in the duke’s eyes, but he kept his voice level, if cold. “You may find this hard to believe, my dear, but I genuinely like the king.”

I could sense that this strange woman was pulling at the ends of the duke’s patience. Apparently she could also, for she lightly turned the subject back to me. “Nonetheless, Her Majesty will never trust any gift that comes from you.”

Buckingham frowned. “Have you any thoughts how I might remedy that situation?”

The wizard’s daughter placed hands on her hips. “Do not let the queen know your little man is meant for her. Present him as your own plaything. Once Henrietta Maria is enthralled by his performance, you can oh so reluctantly surrender him to her. Think how impressed the king will be with your effort to please his quarrelsome queen.”

“The question is, How to make the dwarf irresistible to Her Majesty?” Buckingham said.

The masked woman clasped her hands. “I know what you must do! Your little man is quite the most delicious tidbit I have ever seen. Serve him to the queen in a pie.”

It was a jest, I told myself, though my heart skittered.

“A pie.” Buckingham stroked his beard to a finer point.

“The plan is not without risk,” the woman said. “I
have
heard of mishaps: a kitchen lad returning the pie to the oven or someone being overzealous with the knife.” A nasty glint showed in her eyes, and I knew she was hoping for a reaction. I had seen the same expression on apprentices in the shambles who loved to torment Samuel and me.

I strained to stand as tall as possible. “I am not afraid.” I did not know how the duke would react to my impertinence. My father would have struck me.

The lady leveled her clever gaze at me. I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. “You had best teach your monkey manners before you introduce him to the queen, or some kitchen accident will be the least of his worries,” she said.

“I have summoned the perfect man to train Jeffrey in the skills court requires. Uriel Ware.”

“An interesting choice, my Lord Admiral. Is not Master Ware in Bristol, attending to Your Grace’s interests? The East India Company men are becoming quite belligerent in regards to their shipping fees, as I understand.”

“Ware will be an exacting master.”

“Indeed. What remains a mystery is why such a grim Puritan stays in the employ of a sensualist like you.” Her face dimpled. “Perhaps he hopes to reform you.”

“God burdened my wife with that particular labor of Sisyphus.”

I wondered who Sisyphus was. Perhaps some master of childbirth.

“As for Ware,” Buckingham continued, “he scorns Puritans since his return to my family’s employ. A mind like Ware’s cannot find challenges worthy of him among the dour crows at prayer meetings. A man of superior talents must have an outlet for them.”

“The same might be said of a clever woman, but she is not allowed to pursue her talents, no matter how exceptional they are. People will praise Ware for his resourcefulness. A woman with a keen mind will be condemned by high- and lowborn alike.”

“Dearest lady, a man who could not find use for your
talents
is a very unimaginative fellow,” Buckingham said.

I saw frustration flit across the woman’s face before she smiled and busied herself in straightening the fan that dangled at her waist. “We are not here to debate my talents. As for your dwarf, only time will tell whether Ware can make a courtier out of your Shambles Doll. But even if this pet bungles things at court, he will give the queen pleasure. Seeing the mighty duke of Buckingham publicly humiliated is her favorite pastime. She’s developed quite a taste for it since you returned from Cádiz.”

I saw Buckingham’s mouth tighten. He smoothed the dangerous expression away. “Nothing great is gained without risk.”

“So speaks the man who visited Queen Anne’s bedchamber when last he was in France.” The woman laughed. “You were there to negotiate with the king. Declaring your passion for his wife was not the most diplomatic move you have ever made.”

“Why should I not enjoy the queen’s bed? Everyone knows King Louis has no use for it. Let lesser men exercise restraint. History will not remember them. But the duke of Buckingham will hold a glorious place in the annals of time.” Buckingham’s eyes gleamed. “I will send word to York House and have my surveyor of works begin preparations for an entertainment the like of which London has seldom seen. When I return to court, I will host a great banquet for Their Majesties. Jeffrey will be the final course.”

T
WO

The year I turned eight, a pack of apprentices tossed me headfirst into a rain barrel to “wash my devils out.” Buckingham flung me into the aristocratic life at Burley-on-the-Hill the same way. I fought to get my head above water, battering myself against the boundaries of a world I could not understand.

I had never imagined such wealth. Just one lady’s clothes billowed with enough fabric to clothe my whole family. Mounds of broken food from the duke’s meal were piled upon the servant’s tables after the great ones had supped. But my stomach cramped so tightly at the unfamiliar smells of lampreys stewed in cinnamon and sauces thick with saffron that I could not bear to taste anything at all. I fled the table the moment I could, guilt choking me. All I could think of were the thin faces of my family as father parceled out food to each in order of importance—the largest portion to himself, then John, then Samuel, then mother and Ann, the servings shrinking on each plate until only scraps were left for me.

Are their bellies full tonight? I wondered. Did Father buy a joint of meat to celebrate the sale of a son?

After the duke’s household supped, I was left to my own devices. I had no spirit for exploring, only peered out the windows, hoping to glimpse some flicker of light from town. Weary at last, I trudged to the wing where servants slept. Buckingham had said Uriel Ware would seek me in the northernmost room come morning. When I opened the door in question, a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on me.

A man some years older than I was approached me. “Been expecting you, Jeffrey Hudson. We’re to share this bed under the window.”

I would rather have curled up on the floor like one of father’s dogs than sleep with a stranger, but I could not say so. With a hitch in his step, the man guided me to the finest bed I had ever seen. The other servants peeped at me from the far side of the room. “Name’s Clemmy Watson,” the man said as I removed shoes stained from walking past the slaughterhouse, in spite of my effort to stay out of the blood and filth.

The stranger scratched a patch of dry skin beneath his chin. “Lads meant to draw lots, with the loser taking you as bedfellow. They fear you’ve been marked by the devil.”

At least I needn’t dread some attempt to eradicate my “evil” by suffocating me with a pillow tonight. They would not risk Buckingham’s ire. “How unfortunate you drew the short straw,” I told Clemmy.

“Didn’t draw straws. Stepped up and offered to share my bed with you.”

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“I might be once it gets dark.” He grinned, showing a front tooth broken off, so that it resembled a saw.

I stripped off my hose, hoping that he would return to his fellows and leave me in peace. I decided not to shed my tunic and risk it being swept away under Buckingham’s orders. I would have to snip Samuel’s medal out and hide it if the duke insisted on burning my clothes. But I wanted to keep the garment. It smelled like home.

Clemmy gave me a measuring glance in spite of my efforts to ignore him. “I suppose the devil
could
have shrunk you. But I owed it to the Tadpole to take you in.”

He waited, clearly expecting me to ask who bore that ridiculous name. In the end, I could not resist. “Tadpole?”

“The youngest of my sisters, born so tiny that Grandmam told Ma to give me the teat instead, save the cost of bread. I refused to eat unless Tadpole got a sip, so they gave me the keeping of her. Lucky thing your ma fed you.”

I thought about the nights hunger had gnawed my belly until Samuel slipped me crusts he’d hidden from his portion.

“Old Gabby Yates said my sister was touched by demons,” Clemmy said. “Not that I’d have cared if demons
did
save her long, as she got to stay alive. Would’ve hated to see a pack of fools scrabbling away from sharing a bed with her.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. But Grandmam said I sent her to the angels knowing that her brother loved her. That was more than most babes get. Not many folk like us cry over the loss of one more mouth to feed.”

The man was kind in his way, but I feared he would jabber all night if I let him. I curled up on the bed. “I am very tired.”

“Course you are,” Clemmy said. “You’ll be having a busy day tomorrow, being in Master Ware’s charge. Didn’t even know Master Ware was back until he sent word you were to sleep here. He’s always off running about on the duke’s business. Wouldn’t be decent not to give you one word of warning, though. Got a great scarred-up hole where his eye used to be. People claim Ware lusted after a whore, so he cut his own eye out with a knife.”

I had seen children crippled by their parents to make them better beggars. For a week one summer, I had even befriended a foundling a traveling troupe had taken in. His master had carved the boy’s lips away to bare teeth, the horror of the gargoyle smile making the lad into an attraction. I had never heard of a man who mutilated himself of his own free will.

“Some people think that bit about Ware is just a story, but—” Clemmy muttered an oath. “What a fool I am, rattling on. You probably just want peace. First night away from home hurts worse than the toothache.”

It was true. I could never remember a night without Samuel beside me, his prayers lulling me to sleep. Clemmy and I lay there as the candles sizzled out, extinguished as men licked their fingers, then pinched the wick between.

When the last flame was crushed to death, Clemmy spoke so softly, I could barely hear. “You can cry if you want to. I won’t tell.”

*   *   *

I cannot say if I slept at all, disturbed by the clamor of my bladder and images of eyeballs bursting on the point of a knife. When dawn dislodged everyone from their beds, I dressed quickly, spying a chamber pot the moment before it—and the single washbasin—vanished behind a jostling wall of men. Fearing I would piss myself by the time the crowd thinned, I searched for a way to keep from humiliating myself.

When I heard lark song drift through the open window beside the bed, I hauled myself up onto the sill. Balancing near its edge, I pulled out my pizzle. I was just beginning to ease myself when I heard someone hiss, “Master Ware.”

Fumbling to cover myself, I wheeled to face the newcomer and nearly stepped backward into nothingness. A severe gray doublet and wine red cloak garbed a figure that would have been far less imposing than my father’s were it not for the eye patch that sliced across a clean-shaven face. Beneath the fringe of black hair cropped level with his jaw, his remaining eye regarded my damp hand in distaste.

I wiped my fingers on my tunic, my cheeks warm. “I could not reach the chamber pot.”

“There are going to be a great many things you will not be able to reach at court. One hopes you can devise ways to remedy the situation without pissing on the queen, should she be passing beneath a window. In fact, the duke himself was strolling beneath that window when I rode in. A pity you did not splash him. I could have sent you back to your family and saved us all a good deal of aggravation.”

*   *   *

Twice in the weeks that followed, I almost stole away to see my brother, my loneliness too heavy to bear. I would have been willing to suffer any punishment my father or the duke chose to deal me, but the possibility father would take his ire out on Samuel was too great a risk.

Trapped as days tumbled past, I tried to find my balance in a world where everything I did was wrong and there were always people eager to tell me so. I spent hours under Uriel Ware’s inescapable eye as he made me practice the skills I would need. I walked backward toward doors I could not see, because a courtier must never present his back to the queen. I mastered intricate dance steps and memorized words to French songs Her Majesty favored. I familiarized myself with the rattle of dice that ruled the gaming table where the queen pursued one of her favorite pastimes. Not that a queen whose dowry had not been paid had any business gambling, Ware complained.

But I would have wagered upon dicing forever to spare myself an encounter with the dining table. I fumbled with that Italian contrivance called a “fork” and tried to keep from spilling on my new regalia. Glass goblets mystified me, their slippery surface too broad for my hands to get a secure grip.

On my eighth day under Ware’s critical gaze, he determined I should not get a drop of moisture unless I drank as a gentleman should. Parched, my fingers aching, I longed for talons to sink into the glass surface—the only hope I had of holding on to the vessel. Despite my efforts, the goblet started to slip. Exasperated, I trapped it between two hands, as I had the pewter flagon Samuel and I shared at home. I gulped wine, then thumped the goblet down on the table before Ware could snatch my glass away.

Ware’s voice grew deadly quiet. “I do not think you grasp the gravity of your situation. The favorite sport of the French courtiers is finding fault with Englishmen—including the king. How do you expect to succeed in your mission if you cannot do something as simple as raise a goblet to your lips?”

I struggled to keep my voice calm. “My hands are too small to encircle the goblet. There is no help for that unless you can lengthen my fingers.”

I remembered the times John had attempted to stretch me so I could be like other boys. My brother would sneak me into the butcher shops and lift me so that I could hold on to the iron hooks sunk in the ceiling beams. I would dangle like the haunches of meat, my limbs nearly pulled from their sockets when he grabbed hold of my middle. He’d add as much weight as he could, until my burning fingers surrendered and we both slammed down onto the stone floor.