The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (7 page)

“You must not spring out until the perfect moment or the effect will be spoiled,” Ware warned. “Burst from the crust with these pennons waving and march up and down the table.”

With apprentices tucking fabric around my legs, I was more likely to stumble around like a prisoner in shackles. “My foot is going numb,” I said, my hands slickening with sweat where they gripped the wooden pole. “Could I—”

Ware ignored me, continuing his lecture. “Every courtier in the chamber will have learned French, or be too ashamed to admit the lack of it. Conversing around Her Majesty is done in her native language. Anything in English is translated by those near her. Tonight, Buckingham has enlisted the countess of Carlisle’s toady, Sir Tobie Mathews, for the task. He is so adept at it, one barely notices it anymore.”

“But I speak French.”

“The king would prefer the queen cease this childish stubbornness and apply herself to learning the language of the subjects she rules. Once you join the queen’s household, you may gabble in French as much as you like, but here at York House we will honor the king’s wishes.”

“Seal the coffin lid, boys,” the master cook commanded.

Two underlings scrambled to do so. I watched, helpless as the crust blotted out the smoke-blackened ceiling, the stone walls, then all the world. It forced all the air from the tiny space allowed me, entombing me in darkness.

The pennon tickled my nose, and I struggled not to sneeze. If I did, would the pastry above me crack?

Muffled sounds crept through slits in the crust and the surface beneath me heaved. They were carrying the tray my pie was perched on, but making a bad job of it. The slight lurching, the darkness, and the strange closed-up smell of my prison made the wine I’d managed to swallow earlier slosh in my stomach.

Had they mounted the platform yet? The machinery had been laboring all night under heavy loads of food and people. Were the lads manning the ropes and pulleys exhausted from the weight? I heard a sizzle and crackle of fireworks bursting and I stiffened as gears made grinding sounds. I felt a sudden weightless sensation of being lowered.

I forced my mind away from the picture of my brains dashed on the marble and turned my thoughts to what would happen if—no,
when
—I reached the floor. The sounds of a crowd grew louder; then I felt the rocking sensation of being carried again. My bearers must have moved into the hall, for I could pick out Buckingham’s voice among the others. I strained to listen but could only catch snippets of the duke’s French and the higher-pitched translations of the man whom Ware had told me about.

“… be so bold as to beg the queen’s help with … symbol of our regard for her … by presenting her with…”

“A knife?” I heard a woman exclaim in French. A blur of affronted voices, also French, rose. My left foot began to quiver.

“That peacock would have the daughter of Henri the Fourth do a servant’s task?” The second Frenchwoman’s outraged muttering was close enough for me to pick out. “Henrietta Maria should fling the thing in Buckingham’s face!”

Did she think the duke was so intent on the queen’s reaction that he would not hear her insult? Or did she see him as such a lowborn upstart she did not care if he did? What kind of woman would dare abuse the most powerful courtier in England in front of the king himself? I cringed to think of Buckingham’s reaction. But if the queen did fling the knife, I hoped she would take the outraged lady’s suggestion of target and not fling the blade into the pie.

“Madame Saint-Georges, Her Majesty is far too gracious to hurl things at a humble courtier who only wishes to please her,” Buckingham said in effortless French.

I wondered at Buckingham’s arrogance, not only letting the queen’s courtier know he had heard her spiteful comment but announcing it to the entire company, as well.

A haughty stranger intruded with a bit of a stammer, which made his French sound clumsier. “His Grace is my most loyal and generous subject. As the queen would know if a wise councillor could silence those forever criticizing His Grace in her presence.”

Madame Saint-Georges hastened to speak, her voice young in spite of its hauteur. “Your Majesty, I was saying only that it is demeaning for a queen to carry out a servant’s task.”

“The queen is the only one who can judge that,” Buckingham said. “I fling myself upon her mercy. Your Majesty,” he said, addressing the queen, his tone almost cozening. “Will you indulge me?” I held my breath, waiting for the blare of horns. It did not come.

The platter beneath me shifted again, then thudded and went still. I braced myself for just a heartbeat before I heard it—a fanfare.

I thrust my fist through the crust and launched myself upward, bursting through the pastry. A chorus of gasps erupted as I yanked my pennon upright and leapt onto the table, blinking gilt from my lashes. I waited for my vision to clear after the darkness of the pie, not wanting to knock over some serving piece or spill upon the queen. Yet Ware had stressed it was vital that I snare the queen’s attention.

As the last crumbs dropped from my face, I found myself staring into the face of the queen. Every detail burned into my memory with a clarity created by awe and fear. This dark-haired woman was the queen I was to spy upon. My future depended on learning every nuance of expression so I could wring out her secrets and spill them into Buckingham’s hands.

Could any emotion ever remain hidden in the queen’s face? She stared as if she expected me to whir like a clockwork marvel instead of draw breath. Her dark almond-shaped eyes were red from earlier tears, a wistfulness about her that I had not expected to find in a queen.

I felt a twinge of sympathy but fought it by bounding over the edge of the crust. I landed—blessedly—between the saltcellar and her gold-trimmed goblet. My boots, embroidered with dragons, fought for a hold on the linens, the staff that held my pennon aiding my balance as the satin flag unfurled over my head. Feeling jolted back into my foot, but I did not let the queen see the needlelike sensation sewing its way up my calf.

She laughed in surprise and delight, clapping more like a girl pretending to be a queen than the daughter of royalty and a king’s wife.

“Greetings from the fairy realm, most gracious Majesty,” I said in English, sweeping a bow so deep, I almost overset myself. “I have left my magical kingdom behind in quest of the most elusive prize any man mortal or fairy-born might win.” I pasted on an impish grin as the toadlike man behind her began to translate between us so naturally that it astonished me. He was no more intrusive than an echo.

“What reward do you seek?” she asked.

“Grant me one of your smiles, Queen of my heart.” I struck my breastplate with my fist. “I shall wage any battle for it, fight any foe.”

She tilted her head, listening to Sir Tobie. Her lips trembled. “I am in need of a champion.” Henrietta Maria’s gaze flicked to Buckingham. I saw the lady-in-waiting standing to her left level Buckingham a bitter glare.

Did the queen know what a formidable opponent she faced? The rubies crusting Buckingham’s doublet sparked red. For an instant, I thought of hell’s flames.

A melody swelled from the musician’s gallery, my signal to perform. But fear had wiped the intricate melding of dance and battle from my memory. Panic rose until I discerned a pipe trilling among the other instruments. I imagined the reed clamped between Samuel’s lips, his fingers flying along the pipe’s length.

I thrust and feinted with my pennon stave, swirling the banner into shapes, leaping through the circle of color as if it were a hoop. The assemblage cried out in amazement, the applause turning my feet into springs. Never had I leapt so high, my heavy breastplate now lighter than the muslin clouds. I glimpsed the duchess’s worried face and Buckingham’s mother’s contemptuous sneer as I danced on.

At last I finished, sweeping down to one knee to pay homage. My breath came in gasps despite my effort to calm it. The silk shirt beneath my breastplate was soaked with sweat, but the glow in my cheeks was pure triumph. If I had been at the market fair, pennies would have rained into my father’s pocket.

The queen rose in a gown green as a meadow, starred with gems. She was small in stature, delicate. Her quick, grace-filled movements and eager gaze reminded me of a sparrow.

My gaze shifted to the man at her side. The queen’s husband stood only a little taller than she did. I stared, unable to believe that I was an arm’s length from the king. A most disappointing figure of a king. Garbed in sober black, Charles Stuart held himself apart, his shoulders stiff, his legs too thin. Rumor said he had not even learned to walk until he was four years old.

His dark hair was forced into curls that tried—and failed—to match the natural lushness of Buckingham’s. Thin wisps of mustache and beard could not disguise a weak chin. His overlarge eyes were so aloof, they made me want to find a brazier to get warm.

I wondered if His Highness knew what anyone who saw him next to Buckingham was thinking: Buckingham looked like the king, and Charles, his servant.

“You have outdone yourself, Buckingham!” The king praised the duke with the eagerness of an awkward younger brother trying to please the heroic elder one he adored. “What a droll little man!”

“I would wager even the queen, with her renowned menagerie, has never seen my freak’s equal.”

“He is the most wondrous creature I have ever encountered,” Her Majesty said, Sir Tobie’s voice a murmur behind her. The queen reached toward me, then curled her fingers into her palm and let her hand fall to her side.

Buckingham laughed, addressing the assemblage in English. “Her Majesty looks at my freak as if he were honey cake and she wants to take a bite.”

The queen flushed at Mathews’s translation. “You overstep yourself, Your Grace.”

“You always take Buckingham’s jests too seriously!” the king said. “He has gone to great trouble to please you tonight.”

“Yet, I have offended Her Majesty somehow.” Buckingham appeared crestfallen. “I suppose there is a reason God fashioned women to be jealous of their dignity. How else can such frail vessels bring men to our knees? We husbands must chasten them for their tempers, even though they cannot help misbehaving. I vow I would go to any length to prove my goodwill to the queen.”

It was the signal I was to listen for. “I know a way!” I burst out, then shrank back, appropriately appalled at my own boldness.

Buckingham gaped as if the golden deer decorating the saltcellar had spoken, the queen startled, yet leaning closer to Sir Tobie, eager for his translation.

“Your Grace, forgive me,” I rushed on. “But I could suggest a gift you might offer the queen.”

“I would grant Her Majesty anything in my power,” Buckingham said with an ominous undertone, as if I would be punished for my impertinence. “You think a dwarf knows how to please the queen better than a nobleman of the realm? By all means, enlighten my guests. What would you have me give the queen?”

“Me.” I did not have to pretend I was fighting to master my nerves.

“You?” Buckingham echoed.

“To act in her masques and caper about and make jests. If Her Majesty would have me.” I turned to the young queen, silently pleading that she would rescue me from Buckingham’s patronage as Sir Tobie repeated my plea. I had not known I was such a fine actor. But perhaps my success didn’t rest in my ability to perform. My fear of Buckingham was real.

“It is a fine idea if you are willing to part with your pet, Buckingham!” the king exclaimed. “I have never seen greater delight on the queen’s face than when that dwarf leapt from the pie.”

The duke hesitated a long moment, feigning reluctance. He cast his duchess an uncomfortable look, then turned to the queen. “Your Highness, I wish you would feel such joy always. Will you accept this little man as a token of my devotion?”

Her breath caught, her face reminding me of my sister when the whetstone lad had offered her a kitten.

“See how generous Buckingham is,” the king cried. “Thank His Grace, wife.”

The warmth in the queen’s face cooled. “Your Majesty, please tell His Grace that this is a most welcome gift.”

The king’s lips compressed. “That is an unsatisfactory way to address our truest friend!”

I could feel anger building. Knowing I must reclaim their attention, I wiggled my stave to make the banner ripple. It brushed her skirts. I snatched it away, afraid I had gone too far. But the queen’s gaze turned to me.

“Have you a name, little pet?” she asked in French, her accent as musical as the instruments that had bewitched me. I caught myself before I replied, waiting for Sir Tobie’s translation.

“I was christened Jeffrey Hudson, Your Majesty,” I replied.

“Jeffrey.” She plucked my name out of the jumble of English even before the rest of the reply was transferred into French. She touched one of my curls, feather light. I imagined her in her chapel, running Ave beads through her fingers.

“You must take pains your new plaything is not trampled underfoot,” the king said in French. “Put him in the care of your giant.”

“Jeffrey could make his bed in Will Evans’s shoe,” Buckingham jested. “Let us hope Evans does not get jealous and put the shoe on with Jeffrey in it.”

What could one so tall know of the fear he had touched in me? I had spent my whole life afraid of being crushed, had experienced enough near misses to guess what it would feel like. A trill of laughter from the crowd sounded surprisingly familiar, and the king turned toward the sound.

“It seems as if someone is amused by your quip, Buckingham,” His Majesty said.

“The ever-witty countess of Carlisle, unless I miss my guess,” Buckingham replied. “Pray come and share your jest with Their Majesties, Your Ladyship.”

The duke beckoned and a stunning beauty in ice white swept toward us from another cluster of ladies, English I guessed, from the barely veiled distaste on the queen’s face.

But neither that nor the sudden stiffening of the duchess of Buckingham’s shoulders dampened the Englishwoman’s amusement as she laid siege to the queen’s bastion of French courtiers. I knew where I had seen the woman before. Masked at Burley-on-the-Hill.