Assassin (2 page)

Once I am out of sight, I often go to see a particular cherry tree that reminds me of my mother. In spring it has blossom the exact same colour as a silken gown she wore in summer. My mother died only a year ago, saving the Queen’s life, and she wasn’t like some of the other girls’ mothers—all angry and fierce and strict. She was lovely.

The tree has tiny buds but nothing more yet. I let the dogs off the leash and they went scampering off on their short hairy legs, barking wildly. I knew why, because I could see little drifts of smoke coming from behind the compost heaps right at the end of the Orchard, near the river. The dogs yipped excitedly and disappeared behind the nearest heap. Henri came back out with a bright red shiny juggling ball, glittering with glass chips.

I grinned as I heard Masou’s singsong voice saying, “Unclean beast! Get away from those. Come back, spawn of Shaitan!” Masou is my good friend, and the best boy acrobat in the Queen’s Court—or so he says.

I took the ball from Henri’s dribbling muzzle and went round to the hide I had made with Masou and
Ellie, my other good friend. She is a laundrymaid. We have furnished the hide to look like just another compost heap.

I have to be careful nobody finds out about our friendship or they would get into even worse trouble than me—and probably they would get beaten with birch twigs for not knowing their proper places. I hate it when they have to bow and curtsy to me in public, and call me “my lady” and “mistress.” And it’s very difficult not to laugh when Masou winks at me. Behind the compost heaps we can be just Ellie and Masou and Grace and nobody has to curtsy or bow to anybody.

(I had decided to write this secret information with Seville orange juice so it could only be read if the page is warmed. But when I visited the kitchen, I found that Cook has already used all the oranges for marmelada. Fie! I shall just have to be careful to keep my daybooke from prying eyes.)

Masou had lit a little fire just outside the hide, which is a dangerous thing to do, except that compost heaps do smoulder sometimes when they get too hot. He was cooking some crayfish out of the river, spitted on twigs, and Ellie was sitting over the fire warming her poor chapped hands. She works in
the Whitehall laundry and, as she’s an orphan, she sleeps there, too, in one of the storerooms, and she never ever has enough to eat. I feel guilty that she has to work so hard. I wanted her to be my tiring woman to take care of my gowns, but my guardian, Lord Worthy, who is one of the Queen’s most trusted Privy Councillors and in charge of looking after my estates, said it was an unnecessary font.
I
think he just wanted it to be a girl of his own choosing—so I share Fran with the other girls.

Masou was juggling absent-mindedly with his glittering red and yellow balls. When I threw him the third, he just caught it and mixed it in with the others, along with a knife and a cup and a horn spoon. I really like Masou. He’s a little shorter than me, though we think he’s about the same age. He comes from the south, where they’re burned by the sun, and his skin is a lovely colour like a wooden casket. As he’s a tumbler for the Queen’s Troupe, he wears a brilliantly coloured tunic made of dozens of different brocades and velvets. He has two: a new one for performing and an old one for the rest of the time.

The dogs came scampering up, barking. Ellie scooped up Eric to give him a cuddle and then tried to rub the paw marks off her apron. I felt in the
pocket of my petticoat for the couple of manchet rolls and sweetmeats I’d saved for her.

Masou sprinkled pepper on the crayfish and he and Ellie started stripping off all the legs and chewing on the bodies. I don’t like crayfish—I’ve never even tasted them, but the look of all those legs puts me off.

“What will you perform at the St. Valentine’s Ball?” I asked Masou.

He winked and made a throat-slitting movement with his finger. “Can’t say,” he said. “Hanged, drawn, and quartered for telling you.”

I know that the Queen has devised a riddle for me to solve at the ball. I have some reputation at Court for fathoming riddles, puzzles, and the like. I am very curious (and not a little nervous!) about this one, so I thought I would see if Masou had heard anything of it—the Queen’s Troupe is often privy to the Court gossip, especially if the Queen has planned a special entertainment.

“The Queen said she’s got a little riddle for me—do you know what it is?” I ventured.

Masou put his hands on his chest and looked wide-eyed and innocent. “Me? Why would a poor tumbler know?”

“Lord Robert’s had a bath specially,” said Ellie thoughtfully. “He went down to the stews yesterday to get ready for it.”

I laughed at this. Lord Robert Radcliffe of Worcester is another of the three suitors the Queen has chosen for me. He must be anxious to look—and smell—his best.

“His heart burns with passion for the beauteous Lady Grace and so he must quench it!” Masou said dramatically, so I had to kick some earth at him for making fun of me.

“Well, I think it was gentlemanly of him,” said Ellie. “Very considerate. He can’t afford new clothes at the moment—all the moneylenders are after him. Sir Gerald Worthy’s arrived, too, and he’s got a new shirt
and
a new velvet suit for the dance.”

Sir Gerald Worthy is my Lord Worthy’s nephew and my third suitor. I have hardly ever seen him because he has been travelling round Europe. Lord Worthy doesn’t have any children and his wife died young. Sir Gerald is his only heir, which is one reason why he would be such a good match for me. I’ve heard he is quite handsome and that is all. I was just going to ask what else Ellie had heard about him, when I heard someone shouting my name at the Orchard gate.

I jumped up, and the dogs all started barking madly, just like we’ve taught them. Masou scuffed earth over the fire, Ellie gulped down the last two crayfish legs whole, and the two hid in the little compost-heap house, while I ran up through the trees.

Sure enough, Sir Charles Amesbury was standing there, big round face all red. “Come along, my lady,” he said, patting his stomach. “Remember how important it is to ride every day so you become used to it.” He smiled fondly. “At least you remembered to wear your riding kirtle, Lady Greensleeves.”

Yes, but please, please don’t sing it, I thought.

“Alas, my love, you do me wrong,”
carolled Sir Charles as we went through the Privy Garden and down the passageways leading to the Tilting Yard.
“To cast me off discourteously, When I have loved you so long…
”

In fact Sir Charles has a very nice deep voice—very tuneful. He often sings for the Queen with other Court gentlemen. It’s just embarrassing being sung at by a man who’s old enough to be your father but wants to marry you—especially when it’s such an old-fashioned song. Doesn’t he know any Italian madrigals?

Two horses were saddled and waiting in the yard. I
took the dogs on their leash over to the groom. Henri started growling and snapping at Doucette’s hooves, which just shows you how stupid lapdogs can be.

Sir Charles caught the horse’s bridle just as she started tossing her head. “Now then,” he said. “Now then, Doucette, you could squash that little dog with one foot. He’s quite beneath your dignity. Gently now. See, my lady? See? With horses you move slowly and gently and so…”

I moved slowly and gently to pat Doucette’s neck. Then Sir Charles cupped his hands for me to mount, and I managed to get myself hooked over the side-saddle without going right over the other side and falling flat on my face as I often do.

Once I had my front foot arranged, the other one firmly in the stirrup, and my whip, Sir Charles climbed up, puffing, onto the other horse. Then, suddenly, he was a completely different creature—straight and relaxed and quite at home. I’m sure that’s how he looked when the Boy King was alive and Sir Charles was known for his prowess at the Tilt.

“Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold …,”
he sang as we trotted off, and I tried not to tense up and
bounce, but just to rock my bum into the saddle with the horse’s movement.

While we trotted the horses to warm them up, Sir Charles talked to me. He does it so I won’t think about falling off so much. Today he told me something quite sad: his twin brother died recently fighting the religious wars in France.

“I had the letter last night,” he said, looking sombre. “Just the bare news of it. Alas, Hector and I were not good friends when he left and I would it had not been so. In truth, he was always the black sheep of the family—and oftentimes up to no good—but he was my brother still.”

“I am sorry. Was he fighting for the Protestants?” I asked gently.

“Ay, against the foul Papist Guises,” he replied grimly.

I frowned at the name of Guise. I hate them, too, and I have good reason: my mother died in one of their wicked plots to kill our Protestant Queen and put a Catholic monarch in her place.

Sir Charles distracted me then by telling me the proper way to ask a horse to canter. We practised and then tried it and dear Doucette went from a trot to the slowest canter, which was just like a hobbyhorse and not frightening at all. In fact, it was
almost fun to go cantering down one side of the Tilting Yard, round the fence, and then up the other side. It’s the first time I’ve managed a canter without falling off! I was so proud!

Sir Charles laughed at my flushed face.
“… And who but my Lady Greensleeves,”
he sang, and gave me a kiss on the forehead as he helped me down. “Well done, that was very good, my lady. We’ll have you out-riding the Queen yet.”

“Better not let her hear you say that,” I told him, and couldn’t help smiling as he pretended to be dismayed.

“Oh, you wouldn’t tell her, surely?” he said. “Please don’t. I beg you. Shall I kneel down and beg you that way?”

I tried not to laugh. “I don’t want you to hurt your poor knees,” I said.

He looked cunning. “Good thought, my lady, and I must keep my hose decent for tomorrow. Are you looking forward to it?”

“No,” I said, because I’m too lazy to tell polite lies. “I am not sure I am ready to choose a husband and married life.”

“Small blame to you,” Sir Charles sighed. “But not all ladies can be like the Queen, you know. If
only you would marry me—darling Grace, Lady Cavendish—I should treat you no differently than I do now, until you were grown to your proper womanhood.”

I sighed. I do like Sir Charles, but even though he’s one of the three suitors the Queen has chosen for me, I don’t want to marry him.

I just had to go and get some more ink. When I started I didn’t realize how much there is to say about even a dull day.

The next thing that happened as soon as I got back from my riding lesson was a gentleman telling me the Queen was already in her chamber and I was bid attend on her. So I had to run upstairs and change into my damask again and then run to wait on the Queen.

I got there and curtsied. One of the Wardrobe tailors was kneeling in front of the Queen, sweating.

“But wherefore is Lady Grace’s kirtle still not finished, Mr. Beasley?” the Queen asked disapprovingly. “Surely this is not your wonted service to me. Why so long a-making? I had desired to see it before she wears it.”

“But Your Majesty,” the tailor said desperately,
“the beauteous Lady Grace keeps on growing, but the cloth does not!”

I could see the Queen wanted to laugh at that, but she only told him he had her permission to burn ten more wax candles, to save his men’s eyes while they sewed another hem tonight, and sent him off.

The Queen is very grand and frightening. She has red hair and snapping dark eyes and a lovely pale complexion, apart from a very few, very tiny smallpox scars, from when she was so sick while I was a little girl. She’s about middling size for a woman—though she seems much taller, especially when she is displeased! And she wears the most glorious gowns imaginable, all made for her by the men of the Privy Wardrobe. She’s very clever and it pleases her that I am quick enough to learn to read and write and so on. She says that she is bored by girls who can only think of jewellery and clothes. She likes me especially because she’s known me all my life and my mother saved her life a year ago.

“What have you been doing to make your cheeks so red, Lady Grace?” the Queen questioned.

“I managed to canter on Doucette, Your Majesty,” I told her excitedly. “And I didn’t fall off once!”

She clapped her hands. “You must be tired then,”
she said. “You shall have a little light supper and go straight to your bed, for tomorrow will be a long day.”

I didn’t really want to be alone but there’s no point arguing, so I had my light supper of pheasant pasties and salt-fish fritters, with a couple of sausages and manchet bread and some overcooked potherbs, and went to our bedchamber.

And here I am at last, in my shift and three candles lit. I’ll just say my prayers and