The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (29 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

February 1565

C
OME
T
HURSDAY
I
DID NOT HAVE TO PRETEND
I
WAS ILL.
The thought of Eppie imprisoned and the uncertainty of the marriage I was about to make was enough to turn me pale and wan. Moll and I huddled in the room where the queen’s ladies could be quarantined when they had fever, my loyal servant in a welter of concern. Sounds of confusion rose in the courtyard below and I went to the window to watch the gaily dressed court ride out on their day’s adventure. The queen, garbed in purple, should have been in high spirits. But even from a distance I could see the quick, impatient thrust of her arm toward her groom, the rigid set of her spine, her fine gray hunter sidestepping as if her tension flowed down through the reins.

For a moment I even imagined the queen glared at my window. I ducked out of sight, heart hammering until the party left. The moment they disappeared Moll laced me into my plainest gown so I might blend with simple Londoners.

“Mistress,” Moll said. “You will get in trouble with the queen, running off like this. If she discovers you are not sick—”

“It is a chance I have to take. But you will be safe enough, Moll. I will not tell you where I am going. That way, if anyone questions you, you will not have to lie. Just say you were weary and fell asleep over your mending.”

“That will not stop me from worrying over you! All this secrecy frightens me, Mistress. Last week you came in late, looking as if you had ridden through hell. And every day since you look so pale it breaks my heart. I know I am but a servant, but I am a loyal one, and true. I wish you would tell me what is troubling you.”

“It will all sort out in time.” I did not clarify what that meant: That I would end up with my head on the block, locked up in prison, or married to a man I feared to love. Whichever way my fate turned, I would be bound forever as Gabriel Wyatt’s wife.

I scooped up Moll’s fustian cloak, a disguise to conceal I was highborn. Moll adjusted its voluminous hood over my head to make certain no red-gold hair could be seen. I looped her basket over one arm, looking for the world like a servant girl off to do some errand for her mistress—I hoped.

Slipping through the back ways of the palace seemed to take forever, clinging close to the walls, my head bowed, eyes downcast. When I reached the litter outside the north gate I climbed in on shaky legs, then drew the painted leather curtains shut, blocking out the London sights as a strange groom set the palfreys on each side of the litter into a jarring walk. Clasping my hands, I prayed in phrases so broken I doubted even God could understand them. But God did not stoop to answer me; the yawning chasm of silence deafened me to all but my own desperation. Too soon the litter lurched to a stop. A groom came forward to pull back the curtain. “This is our destination.”

Our destination? And where exactly was that? I felt tempted to ask with a wild kind of irony. I had no idea where the litter had brought me. I only knew I wished to be almost anyplace else. Clutching the folds of the cloak under my chin, I passed the servant a coin. The groom bobbed his head in thanks. “You are to go upstairs. Third chamber to the right.”

Squaring my shoulders, I forced myself to enter a townhouse, a trifle shabby compared to the fine homes court visited. I walked through a hall strangely empty of either people or furnishings. Then I climbed up the stairs. A row of doors opened off the corridor. I knocked upon the third. It flew open, an arm sweeping me into the chamber in a rush. Panic jabbed me as someone swept off my hood. I saw a harsh, familiar face, a bruise somewhat faded.

“You came.”

“I did not know I had any other choice.”

“There is always a choice.” Gabriel unfastened my cloak and I shrugged it off my shoulders, my eyes taking in the chamber where I was to become a bride. Unlike the barren hall below, this suite of rooms was obviously occupied. The common area boasted a hearth of marble veined with blue. Fire crackled behind iron fire dogs shaped like wolves. Walls paneled in rich oak linenfold were polished a mellow gold, while a faded tapestry depicting the rape of the Sabine women covered the western wall.

A table was laid with platters of fruit and bread, cheese and sweetmeats and a bottle of what looked to be wine. A branch of unlit candles stood beside a single chair painted green and red, much of its former glory rubbed away. An elaborately scrolled
W
was still visible on its back. I might have stared at that single letter forever if it meant I would not have to face the conflicting emotions the Gypsy’s Angel raised in me.

“May I introduce you to the priest who is to marry us?” Gabriel asked. I looked up as a figure stepped from the shadows, the holy man’s feet stirring up the fresh rushes that strewed the floor. “Mistress de Lacey, this is Father Ambrose Larkin. He has been a friend of the Wyatt family these many years.”

“Back in the times when we spoke of the reformed faith only in whispers, and had to hide our belief in it,” the ruddy-faced priest said. “Long before you were born, Master Gabriel. A scrawny, wailing scrap of a lad you were. Your brothers were disappointed you did not skip out of the cradle immediately to play ball.”

Wyatt had brothers? I thought, startled. Why had no one mentioned them? And if they were older than he, would they not be the ones to inherit their father’s estate?

Gabriel smoothed the soft ruff around his throat, the Holland linen seeming all the more white contrasted against his dark blue doublet and sun-browned hands. “Mistress de Lacey is not interested in tedious family tales. And I can never disappoint Dickon and Hal again. So perhaps we might proceed.”

“Forgive an old man his ramblings.” Father Ambrose flinched at Gabriel’s tone. “Let me begin again. Good morrow on this happiest of occasions, Mistress. Might I wish you a lifetime of days exactly like this one?”

Gabriel interrupted. “Father, we have little time and are anxious to be wed.”

“Certainly, my son. If you will summon the witnesses.”

Gabriel went to what must be a privy chamber. “Keyes, Tyrell. It is time.” Two men appeared—one the sergeant porter who played the ogre the night of the masque. The other Sir Gabriel’s manservant.

Keyes grinned. “So I am not the only man to fall recklessly in love.”

I was too unnerved to question the kindly sergeant. This marriage was based on necessity, not on love. I wanted to beg Mary Grey’s good-hearted friend to get me away from here. But what point would it serve? Better to face the inevitable like Tyrell, who stood silent, only a beading of sweat above his upper lip betraying his unease. Little wonder he was rattled. Witnesses would face the queen’s wrath if we were discovered.

Father Ambrose cleared his throat. “Sir Gabriel, if you and your bride will stand before me and take hands, we may begin.”

I tried to hide my fists in the folds of my gown, as if that could delay the inevitable. Wyatt gently dragged my fingers out of hiding and gripped my hands in both of his. I stared at our locked fingers, unwilling to meet the Angel’s gaze.

Long, tapered fingers enveloped mine, Gabriel’s palm broad, his nails squared off at the ends. They were hands a sculptor would pay to carve onto a statue of Apollo or Odysseus. Soon they would be the hands of my husband. The man who had the right to my lands, my wealth, my body. The priest must have prompted us on the marriage vows. But it was only Gabriel’s voice I heard, rough as though it were a race he was determined to win. I repeated the words required of me, remembering all of the queen’s dire warnings
. It is a rare chance we two women have . . . our fate in our own hands
. . .

Not anymore, I thought as Gabriel took his ring, slipped it first to the knuckle of my thumb, next to my first finger, then to the middle one, and lastly pushed the cold metal circlet firmly to the base of my fourth. Each motion matched with his voice claiming me in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen. I stared down at the circlet of tiny emeralds now glittering from my wedding ring. It was done.

Father Ambrose beamed. “May I be the first to congratulate you, Mistress Wyatt?”

Elinor Wyatt. That was my name from now on. Elinor de Lacey was no more.

Keyes wished me happiness as he raised a glass in a wedding toast. After downing their wine he and Tyrell exited the chamber. Gabriel passed the priest a purse and hastened the holy man out the door behind them. I heard the latch click shut. Silence pressed my chest, Gabriel’s ring heavy on my hand. Gabriel stood for a moment with his back to me. I wondered if he, too, could think of nothing to say.

“It is done,” I said, retrieving my cloak from the chair where Gabriel had tossed it. “Perhaps I can catch up with Sergeant Keyes so he can see me back to the palace.”

Gabriel’s hand caught mine before I could pick up the cascade of rough russet cloth. “You cannot leave yet.”

“The ceremony is over. We are wed. Man and wife.”

“Not entirely. I will not risk this marriage being annulled. Until we consummate the union, our marriage would be far too easy to dissolve.”

“Can we not pretend that we—”

“No.” He said so fierce it startled me. Noting my reaction, he softened his tone. “You will be my wife, Nell. For good and all. We will rise or fall in this together.”

Gabriel crossed to the table, poured a goblet of wine. He pressed it into my hand. “Drink this. It will help you to relax when I bed you.”

But the thought of relinquishing any fragment of control made the prospect of what was to come even more unnerving. I pushed the goblet away from me. “I do not want it.”

“As you wish.” Gabriel gestured to the door leading to the privy chambers. My feet felt heavy as I moved through a sparsely furnished second room, then into what was a bedchamber someone had obviously taken trouble to prepare. A tester bed stood against one tapestry-covered wall, the bedposts patterned in the same gilt and green and red that the chair in the common room had been. Initials twined the columns and were stitched onto the bed curtains. H and A. I wondered who they stood for. Not King Henry and Anne Boleyn. The W was again picked out in gilt at the head of the bed.

Coverlets and pillows in a rich Lincolnshire green mounded the expanse of mattress, the damask embroidered with the device of a maiden rising up from the center of a rose. A motto: “The happiest” was stitched upon it in Latin. In counterpoint, a griffin spread its wings across the other pillow, with the legend “Honor above all.”

The words pierced me with sadness. I traced the elegantly stitched words. “I feel ashamed to touch these. Our marriage makes a mockery of both honor and joy.”

“Our marriage is no worse than many. Few wed for love. Most do so to get heirs, add to their estates. To build life on a solid foundation.”

“Ours is built on shifting sands.”

“That is true, but only for now. Life is full of more unexpected turns than the labyrinth where the Minotaur once dwelled. We can both hope for more secure footing in the future.” He crossed to me, crooked his finger beneath my chin. “I do regret the way we have begun. When I imagined our wedding night, I wanted more than this.”

“I’m astonished you imagined anything but the properties you would gain.”

“I suppose I have been guilty of your charge. That is what marriage meant to me. A union based on advancement and of course, to save myself from hell. What was it Saint Paul said?” His mouth lifted in a cynical smile. “It is better to marry than to burn?”

“I will reserve judgment on that. At present I am not certain I agree with him.”

“We will come to know each other in time. I hope one day you will find me not reprehensible as a husband. We are both ruled by reason, unlike those who are slaves of passion. Even your wedding ring attests to that. It is engraved ‘Let Reason Rule.’ ”

I chuckled without mirth.

“Nell, I do care about you. Perhaps more than is convenient. I mean to use every skill in my power to make sure you are satisfied when we arise from this bed.”

I folded my arms tight around myself. “I wish you would just get it over with.”

“You do not wish that and neither do I.” Loosening my clasped arms, he untied my sleeves, and slid them down past my wrists one by one, his calloused palms rough against my skin. “I have seen the way you look at me. Heard your breath catch when I touch you in the dance. And when I kissed you by the stream during your first hunt there was sweetness in it for us both. There can be sweetness between us again.”

He unfastened my gown, his knuckles brushing my spine. He pressed a kiss to my nape. “Confess it,” he urged me, “if only to yourself. Have you not imagined what we might be like together?”

I clutched tight to sorrow, rigid self-control, trying to wall out any feeling but that. Yet stiff as I tried to hold against him I could not lie to myself. I had wondered what Gabriel Wyatt’s hands would feel like on my body when the other ladies whispered about their lovers. I had imagined kisses flavored with the danger of the Gypsy’s Angel. With a few soft tugs my kirtle and petticoats pooled upon the floor; my stays followed. I scrambled into bed, pulling the coverlets between us, not caring if he thought me a coward.

The wretch smiled, almost tender, as if he understood, then focused his attention on his own clothing. He did not turn his back to me as a gentleman would, only made quick work of his doublet, shedding his stockings, boots and breeches. Once revealed, his fine silk shirt showed patterns of diamonds pressed into it, tiny pillows of fabric Tyrell had painstakingly pulled through the small slashes cut into Gabriel’s doublet.

I could have closed my eyes as he reached for the hem of his shirt to strip it away, but the naked male body was a mystery to me, and I could not resist seeing the whole of what I had heard discussed by the other maids. Light from the window warmed his skin a golden hue. He stood before me, a denizen of some seductive world I had never ventured to before: Hades when the Lord of the Underworld first climbed into his reluctant bride’s bed. Had Persephone come to love her dread lord? I wondered. The myths said only that she returned to her mother each spring. And yet, had it been difficult for Demeter’s daughter to resist the pull of currents older than time? With measured strides Gabriel approached the bed. Our bed, now. Our marriage bed. He grasped the coverlets in one strong hand. I was too proud to resist when he tugged them away, exposing me to his gaze.