Watch the Lady (37 page)

“Come closer!” The Queen is squinting at the two girls as they shuffle forward on their knees. “That's better; I can see you now.”

Penelope is reminded of when
she
was first presented, and an image of the Queen, as she was then, returns to her momentarily: that vibrant, haughty creature whose eyes flashed, whose long-fingered hands danced in the air as she spoke, whose voice had the tone of a well-tempered lyre in the hands of an expert. She was spellbinding at forty-seven, but at sixty-five the hands no longer dance and the eyes are granite; they have seen too much.

She had warned them that the Queen would seem menacing and that they were simply to answer her questions as if they were not afraid. But Lucy, particularly, looks terrified and caught in the grip of her crippling shyness; Essie, only just thirteen, is holding her own: answering her questions with aplomb.

“And what is your given name?” asks the Queen, picking out a sugar comfit from a dish beside her.

“Essex,” replies Essie, her eyes flitting back and forth between the Queen and the plate of sweets. “I am named after my uncle.”

“Ah, your handsome uncle! You resemble him a little too.” She munches as she speaks.

“He is my favorite relative.” Essie has a disarming glimmer in her demeanor and Penelope can see the Queen falling a little for her charm. She is reminded once more of that first encounter, how it felt to have such illustrious approval alight on her and how desperately she wanted a position at court as a way out of the grim Huntingdon household. She is shunted back to that day; it was this very chamber she cast her eyes about for Sidney, hardly knowing then what he looked like. Now his image is branded on her memory and she wonders how he would have looked in middle age. It is twelve years since he was taken. Time has disappeared with sickening speed.

She is thankful there is no vacancy in the maids' rooms at present, for were the Queen to offer either of her daughters a place, there is not a circumstance under which such an honor could be refused. Penelope will not see her girls swallowed up into this court—the court of an elderly, pitiless Queen with everyone looking over her shoulder at who will follow.

“But
I
am your relative,” teases the Queen.

“You are without doubt my most esteemed relative,” says Essie. “But as I have never known Your Majesty in person, it would not have been possible to call you my favorite. Now, though”—she offers a dimpled smile, just like the earl's—“he shall be my favorite uncle and I hope Your Majesty will allow me the honor of thinking of you as my most favorite cousin.”

Penelope wants to cheer; this is exactly the kind of spirited response the Queen will love.

“You may resemble your uncle in looks but you have your mother's wit.” The Queen returns Essie's smile and offers the dish of comfits. Essie takes one, popping it into her mouth. “And you.” The Queen turns to Lucy. Penelope can see that her hands are quivering. “What is your given name? Lucy is a pet name, is it not?”

Penelope takes a deep breath. She had hoped to avoid this, had told the usher simply to announce them as “Lady Rich and her two eldest daughters.” She had told Lucy to not mention her given name unless directly asked, and she can see the girl droop with fear.

“My name is . . .” Her voice is barely audible.

“Speak up, child,” says the Queen.

“Lettice.”

“Lettice?” The Queen directs a withering look at Penelope. The ruby gives her a mocking wink. “I thought as much. Not really a name to be proud of, is it?” Lucy's face turns beetroot and she shakes her head. Penelope wants to pick her up and run from the chamber. “Off you go, girls. Introduce yourselves to the maids over there.” The Queen waves an arm in the vague direction of a gaggle of young women on the window seat who are sewing. Penelope recognizes Bess Brydges, who has been the most recent object of her brother's clandestine attentions, or so he has told her. Bess smiles at her; she nods in return.

“Well,” the Queen says, “at least they look sufficiently like Rich to avoid rumors. There were those who suspected Sidney.”

Penelope staunches an angry riposte, taking a breath to calm herself. “My friendship with Sidney was entirely proper, madam.”

The Queen winks, an unappealing, lascivious gesture, which raises Penelope's ire further, but she stops herself from a defense that would only seem to underscore her guilt. The Queen takes another comfit, chewing it with closed eyes; then shuffles the cards deftly, like a conjurer, in spite of her swollen knuckles. Thankfully a boy comes to stoke the fire, for the chamber is bitterly cold. He throws on several logs and pumps the bellows until the flames flare, spitting and crackling, sending a scent of applewood into the room.

“I suppose that wicked cousin of yours has birthed her baby,” says the Queen, once she has finished masticating. She is talking of Lizzie Vernon and Penelope is on high alert, for she is clearly in the mood for a game of cat and mouse.

“She has. A girl. I stood godmother.”

“Another little Penelope, then.” She continues shuffling the well-worn playing cards. Dividing the pack and using the table as a support, she flicks the two piles together, then taps them against the hard surface. “I like Southampton, but I can't for the life of me understand what she sees in him. He is as fey as a girl . . . that abundance of hair, the way he carries himself.” She sits upright, one shoulder forward, chin down, looking up above her lashes, in imitation of Southampton.

“Attraction can alight in the most surprising of places, I suppose,” says Penelope.

“And he is not short of wealth.” The Queen laughs, a loud, brief burst like a trumpet salute. “If I'm honest, I miss them about the place. He was decorative and Lizzie was a bright spark.” The humor drops from her face as she adds, “But if I am seen to relent, they will all be disobeying me.” She casts her gaze in the direction of the maids across the chamber. They are talking in low voices, heads in a huddle.

Penelope pulls her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, glad she wore her fur-lined gown, but her shoes and stockings are still damp from the short walk through the snow to the stables this morning.

“It was an act of great kindness to grant Lizzie her liberty.” Penelope is thinking that the Queen's loss is her gain, for Cousin Lizzie, banished from court, is now ensconced at Essex House, at Penelope's invitation, and has proved to be a delightful companion. She has gone some way to fill the yawning space left since Jeanne departed for France.

“I am not made entirely of stone, as most would have it,” retorts the Queen.

“There are few who could be more aware of that than I.” Conversing with the Queen is like a game of chess, words placed carefully to best advantage, but Penelope has become used to it over the years. Blount had asked her once what she truly thought of the Queen, and she had not known how to answer but had eventually responded with another question. “If you have respect, do you also have to have admiration?” There was another Catholic plot uncovered only a matter of weeks ago: some fanatic named Squire planned to smear poison on the pommel of her saddle. He thought to do away with Essex too, so it was said. The Queen scrutinizes Penelope's demeanor as if trying to read her thoughts. “You have always been most tolerant with me,” she adds.

“I suppose you mean the blind eye I have turned to your”—the Queen pauses—“your unconventional arrangement with your husband. It has been in place for some years, I believe?”

Penelope nods. “I have often wondered why—”

“Why I have shown you such lenience,” interrupts the Queen, “when I have been harsh with others? It is all a question of appearances. And you didn't wed without my permission. That is the thing I object to most strongly—that kind of direct disobedience makes it appear that I have no control over my ladies. It gives the wrong impression, and impression is paramount in my position.” The Queen deals the cards.

“I understand that.” Penelope picks up her hand. The cards are smooth with use. “And I understand that trust is a precious commodity if you wear the crown.”

“Ah, trust!” The Queen emits a small sour laugh.

They play without speaking for a while, picking up and placing down cards, rearranging their hands, planning their strategies. They have played together so often each has learned to recognize the other's tics: the unwitting blink the Queen makes when she has picked up a winning card, or the way Penelope clenches her jaw slightly when she knows she has lost.

“Also,” says the Queen, breaking the silence, “I find the idea rather appealing of a woman behaving like a man. There are enough men who go about sowing their seed with women other than their wives.” Penelope scrutinizes her for signs that this is a veiled criticism of her incorrigible brother. But the Queen doesn't seem to be thinking of Essex. “Heaven knows how you have kept that husband of yours in line for such a time.”

A thought pops into Penelope's mind so wicked it makes her hot with shame: were she to reveal Rich's proclivity for sodomy, he could well be hanged for it and she would be free. She may have sinful thoughts but she would never act upon them.

“I must say,” adds the Queen. “I
have
had regrets in the past over your match with Rich. It seemed so advantageous at the time. I didn't want you impoverished. Your brother was never going to have enough to keep you. He is so indebted to me now it will take a hundred lifetimes for him to pay me back.”

Penelope nods. She can't think of an appropriate reply. The Queen could easily have erased his debt or given him a monopoly; but how will she control him if he isn't in her debt?

“I can see now,” continues the Queen, “that yours hasn't been a particularly contented union. You might have been happier with Sidney.” She looks at her cards, pulling one out and replacing it. “He begged for you once. I sent him packing.”

Penelope can barely believe what she is hearing. It is as close an expression of regret as she has ever heard from the Queen, but it makes a tight knot of resentment tangle itself in her, to be reminded that her life has been lived on the wishes of others. She has no sympathy now if the Queen is feeling wistful about the things she has done in the past—she will not get the satisfaction of absolution from her. “And Blount has something of Sidney; I have always thought so,” adds the Queen.

Penelope can feel the truth bubbling up, pressing to explode from her.
Blount was not some kind of consolation prize, for you to bestow on me to assuage your guilt; Blount was never yours to give. It was my own choice, nothing to do with you. I am not a player in your drama, speaking your lines, acting out the part you have given me
. She thinks it but doesn't say it. What she says is: “You have been most indulgent with me, and for that I am truly grateful.” She picks up her cards, fanning them out, sorting them into suits.

“I have been most forgiving too, towards your brother.”

“You have.” Penelope notices the Queen's tone of curt resignation; she has clearly not entirely forgiven Essex.

“It is only fair to give him a last chance. He is the nearest thing I have to a son, after all.”

The Queen has said such things before and it predictably raises Penelope's hackles further; she would like to point out that her brother already has a mother, but of course she doesn't.

“Besides, I require him in Ireland. Since the massacre, it has become imperative I have a strong arm out there.”

“Ah!” says Penelope. She is trying to work out if this is a good thing. “As Lord Deputy?”

The Queen nods and smiles, allowing her lips to part and reveal, briefly, her bad teeth. “It is an opportunity for him to redeem himself.”

Penelope doesn't allow her conflicting feelings to show. Part of her is relieved, for this means Blount will not be sent to the wilds of Ireland, but she fears that the commission may well be as much a poisoned chalice for her brother as it was for her father. Though, she reasons silently, if he manages to quell the rebels it will put him in a strong position, more than lands and glory.

She has talked this over at length with Blount; whoever is in charge in Ireland will have a vast company of men-at-arms at their disposal, which might outweigh the disadvantages of being away from court. The Queen is not getting any younger, she still hasn't named her successor, and it is quite possible someone may try to force the issue before long. “I feel sure he will excel in such a role. He is a fine leader of men.” She cannot swallow away the lump of disloyalty in her throat.

Then the Queen latches her eyes onto Penelope's. “I may have been tolerant with you and your brother, but don't imagine my lenience is infinite.” Her voice is cold and hard like a diamond, and sends a frisson of terror through Penelope, who is remembering that this is the woman who signed the death warrant of her own cousin, Mary of Scotland.

•  •  •

Penelope waves her girls off and watches as they exit the gates with the groom, looking away only when they have turned the corner out of sight. A great panel of snow slides from the stable roof, falling to the ground with a
thwump,
which startles her horse. She walks him slowly round the yard, humming a tune to calm him, while she waits for Blount. Gambit is a young gelding with a nervous disposition, and she can feel his fear flicker beneath her with each unfamiliar sound. She continues her humming, leaning forward, stroking the soft mound beneath his ear. “There, there, boy.” She wonders if he is unsettled by the feeling of trepidation that has set in her since her card game with the Queen.

Blount appears, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. Even after eight years the sight of him ignites a spark of excitement in her. He waves, approaching, and she wants to shout out the news to him that he will not be sent to Ireland, that it is her brother who will go, but she resists the urge. It would not do for it to be common knowledge just yet. She has learned the power of silence over the years.