The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (6 page)

It seemed impossible that I was to be part of that procession on the pink-tinged May morning Ware hoisted me into one of the first carts. “I cannot let you go bouncing into the road to be trampled after the trouble I’ve taken to train you.” Ware almost smiled as he settled me into a nook he had formed out of trunks.

By the time the cart jolted down the hill, I had squeezed myself in as securely as I was able. I peered over the cart’s edge, watching everything I’d known melt into the distance.

Upon arriving at the manor, I had memorized every wonder I saw so that I could describe them to Samuel next time I saw him. But as the carts wound through the village of Stamford and onto the Great North Road, I could not imagine when I would see my brother again.

Loneliness knotted in my belly, despite the people who filled the road as far as I could see. But by the time we crested the hill and rumbled into the village of Hampstead three days later, even loneliness for Samuel could not hobble my curiosity. A forest of windmills spun over our heads. Buildings sprawled in the distance, stitched together with a web of roads.

More steeples than I could count pierced smoke from chimneys that honeycombed the sky. Clemmy climbed into my cart, daring his master’s anger. “That’s Westminster and the City.” He fairly quivered in his eagerness to point out the Tower of London’s stout yellow walls.

St. Paul’s was next, floating like an ark in God’s great flood. Small houses scrabbled like drowning sinners against the cathedral’s walls.

“Isn’t just worshipping goes on there,” Clemmy said as we wound down the hill. “Place of business, it is. Bell ringers will let you climb to the top of the steeple if you’ve got the coin. They keep pebbles up there that people can throw at folk below. See that black snake coiling through the city? That’s the Thames. Ships sail in from places where oliphants and pygmies and dragons eat folk like us as if we were mutton.”

All too soon, the crushing traffic of the city surrounded us, its noise louder than the rattle of the duke’s carts. I could not suppress a shudder as I imagined what would happen if I tumbled into that chaos. Most of my life, I had avoided being trampled in crowds by riding on someone’s shoulders—my father’s or John’s. When I turned twelve, I devised a way to clear my own path by whittling the end of my blackthorn walking stick to a point and jabbing the ankles of anyone who traipsed too close. Samuel had laughed when children warned that “the Fairy King bites.” But even my sharpened stick would not protect me in London’s vast crowd.

When we stopped at a water gate, the important members of the duke’s party boarded a fleet of barges to finish the trip down the Thames, abandoning lesser servants to a city whose jaws seemed ready to grind flesh from bone. I almost wept with relief when Ware herded me onto one of the boats.

Oarsmen in Buckingham livery set to rowing, and I fought to keep my balance as the oak hull began to sway. When I dared look up again, I marveled as the filth and furor of the city thinned, huge gardens rolling from the shore to the grand houses lining the Strand. It was hard to believe that I would belong to these palaces, people.

I strained to look at Buckingham’s family in the barge some ways ahead of mine. Beneath a canopy embroidered with falcons, the duke’s mother, the countess of Buckingham, peered out with avaricious eyes. I remembered something Clemmy had said.

Beware around that one, friend. After old Queen Anne died, the countess shoved herself into her place, as the mother of the king’s dearest “friend.” She had been strutting through the court as if she were consort to King James, having her way in everything until the new queen arrived. Sure she figured a little French chit would march to her drumming like everyone else, but the princess has more spine than that. Not one to like being sent down a step, the countess. When James gave her a title, she made sure he did not raise her husband to earl alongside her. Might as well have nipped off his pizzle and dressed him in a petticoat.

The countess looked just the kind of woman who enjoyed cutting men to size. Proud and frightening, she sat rigidly on the edge of her bench. Buckingham’s wife perched beside her like a songbird assured the hawk would not eat her—yet. The duchess’s gaze was solemn, except when she looked at her husband. Then her cheeks warmed. I wondered about the masked lady who had scorned her. Buckingham’s wife would cut herself on that woman’s sharp edges.

We had barely docked at the water gate when Ware hastened me through a small door in the walled courtyard. If Burley had been glorious, York House was like tumbling into Heaven.

The Great Hall was full of workmen preparing for the celebration to come. A huge dais where the queen would sit was being decked in cloth of gold. A vast canvas cloth was painted the blue of a sun-washed sky. Workmen gathered drifts of muslin into billowy clouds, hammering them into place upon what seemed to be wagon beds attached to ropes and pulleys.

“Is this where I will perform?” I surveyed the setting with unease. How could I possibly speak loudly enough to fill such a space?

“No. The duke and his guests will dine on the main courses here, then repair upstairs to the banqueting hall, where sweet stuffs will be served—along with you. When the old king reigned, the guests would have been too bent on debauchery to care about your performance. But King Charles is fastidious regarding his manners and expects his courtiers to be the same.” Ware chuckled.

“What amuses you?” I asked, risking being called impertinent.

“I was only thinking how foreign dignitaries wrangle for invitations to Buckingham’s banquets. It is a shame battles and negotiations cannot be held amid floating clouds and coffin pies, or Buckingham would be the greatest statesman of our age.”

We walked deeper into the building. My steps slowed as I stared at paintings lining the walls. “That angel’s limbs seem to move,” I whispered.

“Not even the king has a finer collection of art than His Grace,” Ware said. “You’re not to wander about to gape at it. You go nowhere except in my company, now we are in London.”

Under different circumstances, I might have liked staying out of the confusion, but the fact that Ware had ordered me to do so made me chafe. “Why should I not look about if I choose?”

“His Grace does not wish anyone to see you before your unveiling. It would spoil the surprise for the queen. I will fetch you to the palace kitchens in an hour. The master cook will be awaiting you in the Pastry House.” Ware’s mouth tipped up at one corner. “It is time to measure you for your coffin.”

T
HREE

I had never imagined people could eat gold. I had only seen the precious metal rarely, decking the few wealthy folk who crossed my path. But when Uriel Ware marched me into the Pastry House of Buckingham’s London Palace, the master cook was applying gilt to the crust of the pie I was to inhabit that evening.

Fluted pastry edges caught sparks of light, making the trestle table appear battle-scarred in contrast to the edible wonders being constructed everywhere I looked. As Ware herded me toward the table, I wondered if the workers would notice if I broke off a flake of golden crust to taste it. The master cook wiped his sweaty brow.

“This is the dwarf who is to fill up your crust,” Ware said.

The cook gave me that slack-jawed look I had seen my whole life. I glanced at the crust warily. “Do you think I will fit?”

The master cook surprised me with a chuckle. “I’ve not built it with your comfort in mind. The tight fit is part of the illusion. We don’t want anyone to guess there is a little man beneath the crust. Not that anyone would. I rolled out the crust myself and I can hardly believe it.”

“How long will that take? From the time I am closed in?”

“You have a long wait. We’ll nest you in here, then fasten the top crust tight and finish decorating it. Once all is dry, you’ll be carried from the kitchens to the Great Hall, then wait until the great ones are ready.”

“You are in service to nobles now,” Ware said. “You will spend the rest of your life waiting and be expected to thank them for it. Now, your hair must be dressed, the last touches put on your costume, and we will take one more chance with the goblets before His Grace sets you before the queen. Then someone else will have charge of you.” Ware glanced at the cook. “Perhaps if he vexes Her Majesty, she may feed him to Will Evans.”

“Who is Will Evans?” I asked.

“The queen’s pet giant. What do you think, cook? Would Hudson even make Evans a mouthful?”

“Tiny birds are the most succulent,” the cook said.

I thought of tales John had used to scare Samuel. Perhaps this giant had jagged teeth and bloody claws. Perhaps Ware and the cook were behaving like asses.

“I do not think His Grace has gone to all this trouble so I could be someone’s dinner.”

Ware sneered. “Then he should have presented you in something other than a pie.”

*   *   *

Ware had just left me at the back stairs, so he could go make his own toilette before the banquet, when I heard a familiar voice. “Jeffrey!” Clemmy gasped, rushing toward me. “I feared I would not catch you before you got too big to talk to me.”

I saw him wince as he realized what he’d said. “Too great in
station,
” he explained. “For what would the brightest star of Buckingham’s banquet have to do with a kitchen page like me?” He hitched up his hose, which always sagged. I should have reassured him, but I was too much on edge.

“I have been in the Great Hall these past hours, practicing floating down from the heavens.” He grinned. “It is a dangerous business to balance trays of food while those cloud platforms are lowered to the ground. Twice the gears have gotten stuck and jerked to a stop so rough, I nearly dropped a tray on Uriel Ware’s head. You should have seen him jump!”

I pictured the clattering tray, the dour face startled. “Too bad your tray missed,” I said.

Clemmy smiled, his broken tooth catching the light. “You’d not be wanting me to lose my position,” he said. “Especially since I might be of use to you. My master has a soft spot for my older sister, so he lets me go back to Burley on errands now and then. I might carry word to your home folks if ever you wanted me to. It’s hard to be far away from your own hearth—even if it is crowded.”

I felt a strange ache at his kindness.

I heard someone shout Clemmy’s name. Clemmy glanced over his shoulder. “I had best get along. Have my own duties to attend to, though not as grand as yours. By the time the banquet is over, you’ll be able to bite your thumb at Ware. We’ll steal away and toast to it tomorrow morning.”

If all went as planned, I would not be at York House come morning. I would be a spy in the queen’s court—or else a failure, bracing for Buckingham’s wrath.

He loped off.

“Clemmy!” I cried.

He stopped, turned.

“I was born the same size as other babes, but my mother ate a surfeit of pickled gherkins,” I said solemnly. “The midwife says that is why I did not grow.”

Clemmy’s eyes went wide. “Gherkins. Who would guess they could cause such mischief?”

*   *   *

I had not believed anything could make the Pastry House more uncomfortable for me, but when I left the twilight-cooled garden for kitchens crazed with preparations, I felt as if I wanted to jump from my own skin. Heat from the ovens blasted my breastplate, making the metal hot to the touch. Every servant rushing about heightened my anxiety. If they feared the consequences of oysters not stewed to the great ones’ liking, how much more calamitous it would be if I should fail to delight?

I glanced at Ware, tempted to ask him to count off the steps of my performance one last time, but the master cook snared his attention, grim.

“One of the queen’s underservants came down to scrump a saffron cake. Said that the queen is scratching like a cat, not wanting to attend the banquet.”

Ware gave a snort of disgust. “Those French she-snakes encourage rebellion. Look what happened during the king’s coronation. The queen wouldn’t even set foot in a Protestant church. Buckingham had to drag the woman through the rain and force her to stand at the window so the people could see her.”

The master cook wiped his hands on his apron. “Could you not convince His Grace to save Jeffrey for a more auspicious night?”

“His Grace has spent a fortune on this banquet. Besides, I have better things to do than drill dance steps. Once tonight is over, His Grace will let me get back to matters worthy of my attention.”

“We’re all wondering why he called you back from wherever you go about the duke’s business. Folks say you convinced His Grace to invest in a voyage that did not end well, so he set you to herding about this dwarf to punish you.”

I saw a tiny tick at the corner of Ware’s mouth. “The duke disposes of his servants as he chooses. It is not our role to question.”

The cook wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I applaud Buckingham’s desire to scoop up the riches the New World offers. Every Englishman born would swell up with pride if cinnamon and sugar arrived aboard English ships. But the French and Spanish hold the Spice Islands in mighty fists. You’d know that if you’d ever sailed yourself.”

“I have sailed enough to know that even the mightiest of fists can be broken if the right pressure is applied. The Inquisition has proven that. Now, let us apply ourselves to concluding this night’s business.”

The cook led Ware to where a piecrust was cooling in two separate pieces, the bottom crust upon a silver tray. The master cook signaled and two of his underlings lifted me above the bottom crust

My feet instinctively searched for purchase. “Do not move under your own power!” the cook snapped. “Go limp so we can fold you up tight.” Hands began to wedge my limbs into positions that made them ache. When I grunted protest, the cook ignored me. “I do not care how you force his leg to fit. It must seem impossible that this dwarf emerged from such a tiny space.”

My breastplate gouged my armpit and my teeth all but embedded in my knee. I could taste silk and hoped my spittle would not leave a blotch on my blue hose. When I could not be wedged any tighter, the Cook jammed in the red-and-gilt-striped pole on which pennons were strung, the man forcing it between my legs and the curve of my arms like a bodkin.