The Lady Series Page 6

  Sir Amyas leaned close. “Smile,” he hissed, jerking his head to the left, “here comes Lord Deyville to meet you.”

  Anne looked in the direction her grandsire indicated. Dressed all in rich black save for his wide lace ruff, a man with a crooked nose worked his way through the crowd toward them. His cap wasn’t big enough to hide his balding pate, his hair having receded to naught but a narrow, silvered ring around his head. Despite his age, Lord Deyville’s shoulders were yet powerful beneath his coat, his build still trim. The nobleman stopped before them.

  Sir Amyas swept his cap from his head and bowed as deeply as his aged joints would allow. Anne dropped into a respectful but brief curtsy. When they rose, Sir Amyas extended a friendly hand in a far more intimate greeting.

  “My Lord Deyville, it has been too long,” he said with a broad grin.

  Anne stared in surprise. She hadn’t even known Amyas could smile. She certainly hadn’t expected the simple movement of her grandfather’s mouth to peel back time, giving her a glimpse of how handsome a man he’d once been.

  The nobleman answered Sir Amyas’s grin with a weaker expression of pleasure, his smile just wide enough to show he yet owned all his teeth, something Amyas could no longer claim. There was no answering spark of friendship in his eyes. “Indeed, it has,” Deyville replied as he caught the knight’s hand in his.

  The pleasantries addressed, her grandfather crossed his arms over his chest, and his expression took a mournful twist. “My lord, it is with deep regret that I offer you my condolences on the loss of your son. He was a man of virtue who will be sorely missed. I don’t doubt that he now dwells with the elect in our Lord’s house. I pray your faith gives you the strength to endure his passing.”

  Deyville gave a deep sigh. “My thanks, Sir Amyas. I would offer you the same sentiments upon your grandson’s passing. Such is the bane of folk who live as long as we. We must watch those we cherish reach heaven before us.”

  As he spoke, his gaze shifted to Anne, and new heat flared in the cool depths of his gray eyes. “It’s fortunate that you yet have your granddaughter as an heir,” he told Sir Amyas without removing his gaze from Anne.

  “Hardly a triumph, that,” Sir Amyas replied with a harsh snort. “Despite that I am His most faithful of servants our heavenly Father sees fit to leave me with naught but this weak and foolish woman, incapable of carrying forward my name.”

  Lord Deyville extended his hand. Anne set her kidskin-clad fingers into the cup of his gloved palm. The nobleman’s hand closed too tightly around hers.

  “My lord, may I present Mistress Anne Blanchemain, the fourth and only surviving daughter of my second son, Richard,” Amyas said in formal introduction, which was Anne’s cue to drop into a deep curtsy with a graceful bend of her knees.

  Lord Deyville’s thumb moved in a soft, suggestive circle atop her knuckles. Anne came bolt upright at this intimate caress. Lust and amusement tangled in the nobleman’s pale eyes, his smile widening into the grin of the hunting wolf.

  Unwilling to play his game, she gave her hand a tiny tug, trying to win free. His grip on her hand remained tight. As he held her fingers captive, his gaze drifted from her face down past her shoulders to the deep, square-cut neckline of her bodice.

  As was the custom for unmarried women Anne wore her shirt open, baring a triangular patch of skin from the bottom of her ruff to the top of her bodice. But the cut of her new undergown was far lower than those Anne was accustomed to wearing, leaving the upper curves of her breasts exposed almost to their nipples. Now, as Deyville’s gaze ravaged her chest she fought the urge to spread her free hand across her exposed skin to protect herself.

  Anne glanced at Sir Amyas, waiting for his protection or at least outrage over his acquaintance’s bold and inappropriate behavior. Instead, her grandfather’s gaze was aimed away from the nobleman. Anger shot through her. The old hypocrite! He blinded himself apurpose.

  “How now Amyas, I see why you saved her for last. She’s the best of the lot,” Deyville said to Anne’s cleavage.

  With no protection forthcoming from her grandsire, Anne set to saving herself. She yanked her fingers from his grasp. Twisted pleasure flared in the nobleman’s eyes then he turned his attention back to her grandfather.

  “Did I tell you my wife ails? May God preserve her, I fear her illness will be fatal.”

  “Is that so?” Sir Amyas replied, his tone speculative. “I’ve acquired new properties of late,” he offered, his eyes narrowing into a horse trader’s squint.

  Greed washed the lust from Lord Deyville’s expression. “Indeed? Where, and how many acres are attached to them?”

  New revulsion soured Anne’s mouth as she watched the two in disbelief. Theirs was a dance of words where the profits of wool and wheat along with new modes of architecture became a way of discussing a marriage contract without openly admitting the groom wasn’t yet a widower. Poor Lady Deyville. Although death might offer the lady a well-deserved heavenly reward Anne prayed for her own sake that the noblewoman regained her health.

  At the back of the room a door creaked as it opened and another usher, identified by the baton he carried, entered. Like the man who made the announcements at the public door, this man banged his staff upon the matting.

  “Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, France, Ireland, and Wales!”

  The call resonated ‘round the chamber and every man removed his headgear. Fabric rustled, shoes shuffled and older men groaned as to a one they all bowed before the unmarried woman who ruled them despite how this turned God’s proper hierarchy on its head.

  As Anne and the few other women in the chamber curtsied, Anne peered up at her queen. In the midst of her third decade of life, Elizabeth Tudor was still handsome despite her somewhat thin lips and slightly hooked nose. On this day the queen was a study in black and white. A brimless cap thickly sewn with pearls and jet perched atop her upswept fiery red-gold hair, the cap too small to cover her hair the way a modest woman’s should. Pearls played out a whimsical design on her black overskirt and black sleeves, while the same pattern was repeated in black embroidery and jet beads on her white underskirt and her high-necked and close fitted doublet.

  A smile lifted the corners of Anne’s mouth. Amyas had denounced this new trend of female doublets, proclaiming that women who dressed as men were an abomination before God. Apparently, God didn’t have the same opinion for He had yet to strike down England’s anointed queen for her supposed sin.

  A small group of women, Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting and maids-of-honor, followed the queen to her cushioned chair. Anne eyed them in consideration, wondering which woman among them was Mary Radcliffe. At least, Elizabeth made it easy to tell the ladies from the maids for the maids all wore white kirtles atop more colorful bodices and underskirts. Among this purer set only one was not a child: a plump woman who looked about Anne’s age. Mary, or so Anne assumed, wore a green headdress trimmed with golden threads atop her dark hair. Her bodice and skirt were made of a green and gold fabric. A golden belt set with amber held her white kirtle closed at the waist.

  As Elizabeth settled herself into her chair, curling her slender silken-gloved hands over its thick arms, the occupants of the room straightened. Anne stoked her courage for the coming ordeal.

  “Call them,” Elizabeth said, her voice strong and impatient. It left no doubt of her royalty or her unforgiving nature. “We’d have this behind us as soon as possible. The day’s too fine to spend within doors.”

  Again the crowd shifted, men moving back from the queen’s chair to leave an open space for the coming stream of penitents and plaintiffs. The motion seemed to be a signal for those courtiers with no interest in the queen’s business to return to their conversations, albeit with voices somewhat lowered. In the room’s far corner someone set to plucking at a lute.

  A few of the queen’s women moved out into the crowd, greeting men they knew. Fewer still clung to the chair’s back to listen, while t
he rest, including the maid Anne believed to be her cousin, retreated behind their royal mistress’s throne. There, they found seats upon the low chairs and cushions waiting for them. One produced a deck of cards and a game began.

  The same usher who announced the queen’s arrival stepped to the center of the room. “Come forward Sir Amyas Blanchemain and Mistress Anne Blanchemain.”

  Anne started. She wasn’t ready! She might have run, but Amyas caught her arm and drew her close to him, then started toward the queen’s throne.

  Fighting to breathe, Anne tried to follow him, but her feet refused to leave the plaited floor matting. Amyas’s jaw stiffened, and he leaned his head to the side.

  “Is it your intent that I should drag you to that royal bitch’s feet?” he breathed to her through the corner of his mouth.

  God be praised for Amyas’s heavy handed threats. Anne’s resentment both steadied her fluttering stomach and pinned her heart into its proper place. She strode boldly at Amyas’s side and into her queen’s presence.

  “Ah, there you are Sir Amyas,” Elizabeth said as they approached, her lips lifting into a smile that was neither warm nor welcoming.

  Now that she was closer, Anne could see the queen’s skin was delicate and pale as suited one with such fiery hair. Her brows were bare red-gold wisps above her large, almond-shaped eyes. Anne blinked in surprise. She and the queen shared the same almost black eye color.

  There was a movement from behind the queen’s chair. Of the sudden, the plump maid stood behind the throne. She bent a curious look in Anne’s direction, offering a warm smile of welcome as Anne and Sir Amyas dropped to kneel in front of their queen, Amyas again removing his cap. Anne kept her head bowed as they waited in silence for Elizabeth to give them leave to address her majesty.

  The quiet stretched. Anne shifted. Even through her many petticoats and her farthingale, the rubies that trimmed her skirt were biting into her knees. The silence grew punishing.

  “So, Sir Amyas,” Elizabeth said at last, “you bring your final grandchild to serve us.” A touch of sardonic amusement colored her voice. “How amazed We are at this turn of events. After all, you’ve called our court a den of iniquity because the woman who rules it remains unwed against what you say is God’s ordained order.”

  This comment provoked a low rumble of laughter from the listening courtiers. Beside Anne Amyas stiffened. She shot her grandsire a sidelong glance. Eyes narrowed to mere slits, Amyas’s angry gaze burned holes through the hems of his monarch’s skirts. A touch of satisfaction woke in Anne. Here, at last, was a woman he not only could not bully but held such power over him that she remained free to puncture his false pride with impunity.

  “I fear mine enemies have carried tales to Your Majesty’s ears to discredit me,” Amyas replied, his voice low.

  “Tales?” Elizabeth gave the word an actor’s dramatic emphasis. “We have always considered things said in Parliament as even more public than what is uttered before our royal person. You not only complained about our court, you decried our services Papist and called our chapels blasphemous, filled as they are with what you call Popish symbols.”

  Sir Amyas drew a swift breath as if to retort. Anne wondered if he’d dare deny opinions she’d heard him express often enough during her short time with him. At last, his shoulders sagged.

  “Majesty, you know me as a good and loyal servant with the crown’s interest ever in my heart. If I’ve rendered myself detestable in your Majesty’s eyes by speaking my mind, then I beg you to deprive me of my position as your justice. I place myself at your mercy.” He dared much. His speech was no apology despite his humble tone.

  “Know you, Majesty,” Amyas continued, “my prayers ever beg our Lord God to keep you, preserving your life and health.”

  “As you should,” Elizabeth agreed. “Indeed, as every man in this room should place themselves at our mercy.” Her voice rose as she gave odd emphasis to these words. “It’s fortunate for you that We are a most forgiving and patient prince.”

  “Madame, will you look upon my granddaughter?” Amyas asked, plowing gracelessly on, trying to steer his queen where he willed her to go. “I’m certain you’ll find her a fit servant, for she has years of service to her invalid mother to recommend her.”

  Those of the queen’s women who listened gasped while in the greater room men chuckled. Anne sagged in disbelief. God help her, but she didn’t have to worry about her lack of purity. Amyas would see them both dead with his unfortunate tongue.

  “So you think We need the assistance of one experienced with invalids, do you?” Elizabeth’s question was flavored with sharp amusement rather than anger.

  Anne heard Amyas’s teeth grind before he unlocked his jaw to say, “Majesty, you twist my intent.”

  The queen laughed at this, the sound of her amusement light and silvery. “Poor Sir Amyas, your faith leaves you humorless. We’ll look upon your precious heir. Raise your head, Mistress Anne.” This was a steel command sheathed in silk.

  Anne did as bid. As Elizabeth Tudor stared upon her prospective servant something flickered through her dark eyes. The corners of Elizabeth’s mouth drooped a little, and her brow creased. Leaning forward in her chair, the queen touched a gloved fingertip to the flared band of Anne’s red velvet headdress.

  “You’ve the look of my mother about you,” she said, her voice so low that only Anne and Amyas heard her words, “especially dressed in red as you are. So is my dam dressed in my favorite portrait of her.”

  “I am glad my appearance pleases you, Majesty,” Anne murmured, bowing her head to hide the terror that washed over her. Was every manipulation Amyas undertook so ham-handed? Two weeks ago he had studied her face in the parlor at Owls House and recognized her resemblance to the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, then played upon it apurpose when he demanded that her presentation attire be red velvet.

  “Do you indeed, have years of service to recommend you as your grandsire claims?” The queen asked, the fabric of her gowns rustling as she leaned back into her chair. Her voice was once more regal, but, blessedly, no more impatient or cooler than the previous moment.

  Anne forgot all else in her effort to save herself from Amyas’s not-so-subtle stratagem. “Aye, Your Majesty, I do,” she said in her meekest voice. “For all of my life I’ve lived with my mother, Lady Frances Blanchemain, widow of Sir Richard Blanchemain. In that time I’ve served her as both companion and attendant.”

  The queen made a noncommittal sound. “How you must resent the woman who thus bound you to her. I think me it was wrong of her to deny you the company of your peers.” However casual Elizabeth’s voice, there was nothing offhand about the question; this was a trap, pure and simple.

  Anne blinked in understanding. Elizabeth disliked Amyas and sought a way to refuse her new servant to punish her outspoken and abrasive subject. But if that happened Anne had no doubt Amyas would happily retire to wait upon Lady Deyville’s death so Anne might take her place. Somehow, Anne could not imagine Lord Deyville accepting her mother any more than he might forgive Anne her soiled state should they marry.

  There was only one escape from that possibility and it sat in the chair in front of her. Anne thought through her answer with care. If she denied resentment the queen would express disbelief, but to admit would give Elizabeth cause to despise her as a feckless, uncaring daughter.

  “Madame, my mother is crippled, incapable of walking or speaking,” Anne said, picking her way with care through the queen’s traps. “If I entertained moments of resentment they were in my early years when the impatience of childhood didst blind me. With age came wisdom. I came to understand how much my mother sacrificed on my behalf. Thus it is with joy that I’ve served her, just as I would serve you.”

  The queen’s laugh was a wondrous thing filled with amusement and life. Anne dared to glance up at her. Elizabeth Tudor’s smile was pretty, with only a few of her teeth touched with blackish rot. Her dark eyes were bright in pleasure and filled with
the welcome that she’d earlier refused.

  “Well said Mistress Anne,” she cried out in obvious pleasure, “well said, indeed. Tell us of yourself. Have you any education?”

  Another strange question. Surely, the queen’s secretary had told her all there was to know about the Blanchemains.

  “Although my mother has no tongue this has not dimmed the joy she finds in the arts, Madame. Thus I was tutored in many subjects, including Latin and Greek, mathematics and grammar.”

  Sir Amyas watched her as she spoke, worry creasing his brow. He’d hoped she wouldn’t have to confess her educated state in public. He believed all any woman needed to learn could be gained from God’s Holy Book. Anne found herself hoping Lord Deyville shared his belief.

  “Well now, this is a surprise,” the queen said, her voice growing warmer by the word. “Have you an ear for any modern tongues?”

  Anne breathed more freely at this eager question, recognizing she no longer teetered on disaster’s edge. “French, Madame,” she told the lush folds in her queen’s black and white skirts, “and Italian, although I have only begun my study of that language and cannot say with any truth that I speak it.”

  “We are liking you better and better, child. We must convey our praise to your invalid mother. She cared well for her daughter despite her disability.” Elizabeth made no attempt to disguise her approval now. “Here we thought you might be like your grandsire, sour and filled with condemnation for those who are not as holy as he.”

  Sir Amyas released a quiet angry breath as the woman he referred to as the royal bitch sent another insult his way.

  “Of course, you play an instrument.” There simply was no question in the queen’s voice. “The virginals, perhaps?”

  “I fear not the virginals, Madame, although my failure is not for lack of effort on my mother’s part. Much to her chagrin I prefer lute strings to the keyboard.” Anne glanced up to gauge Elizabeth’s reaction to this.