Lady Arabella Purfoy wiped damp palms on her black skirt. Her husband was dead, her half-brother was on the Continent and her mother was nowhere to be found. And if that weren’t bad enough, a brief spate of illness on the road had made Belle days late for this unwanted and unexpected audience with England’s queen.
Between her timid nature and what lingered of her illness, the thought of facing Elizabeth with no family member at her side was enough to make Belle’s head spin. Stopping in the center of Richmond Palace's outer courtyard, she pressed her fingers to her temples and willed the whirling to stop. Instead, the narrow brick and timber residences crammed against the walls around her began to careen in earnest.
“Wait,” she called to the page escorting her from William Cecil’s office into the queen’s presence.
Already well ahead of her across the courtyard, the lad, wearing the gray doublet and flat red cap of his station, turned. His eyes narrowed. “Sir William said we weren't to delay,” he chided then continued across the cobbled yard.
Too intimidated to argue, Belle put her head down and followed as fast as she dared, praying she could hold tight to her senses. As the lad led her through the crowd of servants waiting on their betters before the Privy Garden’s gate Belle could feel their curious gazes on her. She didn’t look up until she stood directly behind the boy before the garden’s gate. Caught between Richmond's enclosing walls and one of the houses lining its outer courtyard the gate to the queen’s garden was surprisingly small.
Like the page, the two of Elizabeth’s life guard at the opening wore scarlet and silver. At the wave of the boy’s hand the guards lifted their pikes. Belle followed him into the Privy Garden only to stop stock-still and stare.
Caught between the walls and the onion-domed towers of Richmond's royal residence was a vast bower meant to please a woman's senses. Edged by stands of cypress, herbs and carefully pruned trees outlined masses of roses mounding over daisies. Showy peonies and orange lilies raised their heads above shy violets.
Ah, but nothing of God's making could hold a candle to the dazzling creatures who strolled the pathways or lounged beneath gnarled crab apple trees. Silken doublets and satin bodices shone in the mid-morning sun, their colors as true as the sapphires, rubies and emeralds that studded them. Ribbons, their ends encased in golden tips, glinted from every sleeve, doublet and skirt. Why, even the musicians in the walkway’s far corner glimmered.
Whatever grain of confidence Belle might yet have retained disintegrated as she looked down at her simple black mourning attire. The queen’s secretary had been wrong to think urgency more important than dress in this instance. No matter how fine the brocade or how rich her single golden pin, Belle’s clothing wasn’t fit for a royal audience.
She took a backward step as the page returned with a man dressed in a doublet and breeches of bright blue silk trimmed with silver lace. They stopped before her, the man carrying a long white staff in his hand, that length of wood proclaiming him the queen’s usher.
The usher eyed her from her headdress to her toes. His lip curled. “What is this? Cecil knows this isn’t Her Majesty’s day for public pleas,” he hissed to the lad who but shrugged. With a dismissing wave of his hand at Belle, the usher commanded, “Begone with you.”
It was everything Belle wanted and all she knew she couldn’t have. There was nowhere for her to go, not until she had seen the queen. “Sir, I am Lady Purfoy come at royal command.”
The usher's jaw dropped. Beside him, the page gawked in surprise. Ancient pain surged through Belle. So it was every time those who knew Lady Montmercy met her; Belle saw it in their faces, each of them wondering how one of England's greatest beauties had managed to produce so plain a child.
Collecting himself, the usher bowed to acknowledge Belle, or rather her rank as a knight's widow. “A thousand pardons, Lady Purfoy,” he said as he straightened, his tone yet tainted by surprise. He looked to the page. “Did you tell the guards at the gate?”
The lad blinked and shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Tell them, Master Bowyer?”
Master Bowyer nigh on threw up his hands in frustration. “Has Cecil lost his wits? Run lad, and tell Her Grace’s guards that Lady Purfoy has just come into the queen’s presence. They’ll know what to do.”
As the page leapt to his new task the usher turned his back to Belle and faced the flower of England's gentry gathered in the bower. He slammed the base of his staff against the ground to herald an announcement, even though it made no sound at all as it struck the thick sod,
“Lady Purfoy,” he shouted.
All conversations halted in the garden. Fabric rustled and shoes scraped on gravel as men and women alike turned to stare at Belle in pointed interest. She flinched.
The breeze lifted, turning the singing decorative vanes on Richmond's bulbous tower tops. As the quiet garden filled with their hollow moaning music, the crowd shifted, a corridor of sorts forming between their ranks. At its end stood England’s queen.
Beneath her tall yellow hat, Elizabeth Tudor's long face was framed by fiery red curls held in place with jeweled pins. An airy ruff clung to her delicate jaw line. So thick was the golden handwork decorating her doublet that little could be seen of the garment’s white fabric. Strands of pearls, each pearl as big as Belle's little fingernail, looped to well past the royal waistline. Smaller gems picked out a whimsical pattern on the queen's green sleeves and matching outer skirt while tiny emeralds sparkled on the golden brocade of her underskirt.
For a long moment, the queen eyed the daughter of her lady-in-waiting. No hint of kindness touched her dark eyes nor did any smile bend her thin lips. Turning, Elizabeth retreated to a gilded chair set beneath a crimson awning. Her ladies followed in a pretty multicolored cloud of silk and satin.
It took Belle a moment to realize this was her sign to approach. Heart hammering, senses spinning anew, she followed on trembling legs, dropping to her knees while still several yards from the queen’s throne. Bowing her head, she started to fold her hands only to stare in horror at her naked fingers. She’d forgotten her gloves in Sir William’s chambers! No one came into the queen’s presence bare-handed.
Hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, she opened her mouth to offer the clever speech she'd contrived for this moment. As had happened so often in her life, her clumsy tongue had forgotten all her brain had offered. All she could think to say was, “Majesty, you called for me and I have come.”
“So you have,” Elizabeth snapped, “albeit greatly late. You were commanded into our presence before July's end. If We are not mistaken this is the fourth day of August.”
Belle's shoulders hunched against the sarcastic blow. “I beg pardon Your Grace. My daughter grew ill upon the journey,” she said, thinking the tale of a sick child had a better chance of softening her female monarch’s anger than any mention of her own illness. Nor was it a lie. Lucy had suffered the same fever alongside her mother. “I sent word to your secretary that we would tarry until she recovered.”
“You put a child before your duty to your prince?” Outrage rang in the queen’s voice. “It was you We commanded into our presence, not your daughter. You should have left her behind.”
Belle shifted uneasily on her knees and set herself to repairing the damage as best she could. “Majesty, on the very day I received Your Grace's command to come to court, my stepson demanded that I and my daughter vacate my late husband’s home. With no time to make my jointure property habitable I could but bring her with me.” Belle wasn't about to tell her monarch she'd rather die than be parted from Lucy.
All this explanation won from Elizabeth was a harsh sound. “Lady Montmercy did not warn you We intended to call you into our presence?”
The words struck Belle like a slap. Not only had her lady mother known of the queen’s interest in her, she'd abandoned her daughter to it without warning. That brief bubble of pained surprise burst into dull acceptance. Rejection and scorn was all her dam had ever shown her. Why should she expect anything else at this late date?
“Madame,” she said, “I've had no communication from my lady mother since my marriage to Sir William Purfoy ten years ago. When I arrived at Richmond this morn I asked after her of Your Grace's secretary only to be told she is not presently in residence.”
“Then Cecil was right,” the queen replied, the steel easing from her voice. “You are as much an innocent as the maid your lady mother meant to abuse.”
Startled, Belle peered up at her monarch. “Madame?”
Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, her pearls rattling softly as the thick strands slid against her doublet's breast. Her perfume, a musky scent, reached out to envelop Belle in a choking cloud. “Your lady mother plotted the rape of one of our maids-of-honor,” she said almost gently. “God be praised the plot was exposed before harm was done. Lady Montmercy is presently residing in the Tower as We ponder her punishment.”
Terror roared through Belle, the emotion so intense stars burst to life before her eyes. Here was why her half-brother had so abruptly left England. He was running from royal wrath. Oh dear Lord, but the queen meant to wreak her vengeance on all of Lady Montmercy’s line for her mother’s sin.
“As part of her plot,” Elizabeth continued, “Lady Montmercy promised your hand in marriage to Squire Nicholas Hollier.”
Astonishment wiped out Belle’s fear. “She did what?!” As a widow of nine and twenty, she was well past the age when a parent might arrange a marriage for her child.
Behind Belle whispers hissed among the watching courtiers. The queen lifted a hand to demand quiet, but someone missed the sign. Amplified by a trick of the surrounding walls, a low-voiced comment rang out clearly.
“I hear the squire’s a monster, so disfigured he'll not leave his home.”
Belle wrenched around on her knees to stare in the direction of that voice. Her mother had promised her to a monster? The truth lay in the malicious smiles that touched some of the faces around her. Indeed she had.
Forgetting herself, Belle looked directly at her queen. Elizabeth watched her expectantly. What in the world was she supposed to say? She settled on a dodge.
“Madame, I cannot imagine why my lady mother might promise me to the squire. She knows I am too newly widowed to consider remarriage.”
Elizabeth’s faint fair brows flattened over her dark eyes. Disapproval nigh on pulsed from her. Belle's trembling returned full force. Refusal had been the wrong choice. So the price Belle would pay for the sin of being related to a woman England's queen now despised was forced marriage. She turned her attention back to her knees.
“It’s a fitting match in rank, age and income,” the queen said, her voice rising. “Despite the squire's infirmities We are informed that he is yet capable of siring children. Moreover, our wedding gift to you is the restoration of the squire’s title as Lord Graceton, which has been in abeyance since his father’s time. Bear him a child and it will be an advance for both you and your line.”
Raised as a mouse in a household of schemers and plotters, Belle easily deciphered the intent woven into these bits of information. There was more at stake here than revenge or even the simple union of man and woman. The queen was playing some greater game, one in which she had need of a pawn, someone incapable of refusing the squire no matter how monstrous or disfigured he might be. Who better for this purpose than the daughter of an imprisoned woman, one over whose head hung the possibility of joining her dam in that horrid confinement?
It was for Lucy's sake, to keep her precious child out of that awful prison, that Belle gave her queen the response she wanted. “If it pleases Your Majesty I will wed the squire. Your Grace is generous indeed to arrange a union on my behalf. You spend more care on this humble subject than she deserves.” How hard it was to spew these lies and sound truly grateful.
“Well said,” Elizabeth replied with a pleased clap of her hands. “The moment We saw you We knew you were a reasonable woman unlike your lady mother.”
Belle caught back a bitter laugh. Who wasn't reasonable with a noose around the neck?
Whispers rose from the watching courtiers as they recognized their queen's triumph and lost interest in the proceedings. Conversations hissed back to life. The queen’s women drifted away from their royal mistress into the garden. The musicians took this as their cue to once more tease a sweet and gentle tune from their instruments.
Praying only that her ordeal might now be over, Belle waited for her dismissal, her spine feeling like jelly after this royal trampling. But Elizabeth wasn't yet finished.
“By and by,” the queen said, happy confidence filling her every syllable, “word of your stepson’s treachery has reached us. As Master of the Court of the Wards, our secretary will see to it an inheritance is secured for your daughter.”
Astonishment struck Belle a second time, strong enough to make her sit back on her heels and gape at her beaming monarch. Her husband had been barely cold before his son, long married with a large family of his own to support, had claimed the income intended for Lucy’s dowry. Nor did Belle's jointure, the wee bit of her husband's property meant to support her in her widowhood, offer enough income to provide for Lucy’s marriage. But how did the queen know?
Belle's stomach took a sour turn. Elizabeth knew because she'd made it her business to know and now that she had what she wanted, she could afford to be generous. “I am honored that you should concern yourself on my daughter's behalf, Madame. You are indeed a most caring prince.”
The pleasure on Elizabeth's face deepened. Shifting in her chair, she beckoned to someone behind Belle. The usher stepped forward and dropped onto one knee, his head bowed before his queen. “Madame?”
“Make certain Lady Purfoy's accommodations in the palace are appropriate to her status as the future Lady Graceton,” Elizabeth commanded, not waiting for a response from the man before her gaze returned to Belle.
“Your betrothal is set for the morrow. Master Wyatt, Squire Hollier's steward will stand as his master's proxy. This We have commanded so you might travel to Graceton Castle in his company without fear for your repute. Had you arrived in a more timely fashion We would have witnessed the deed ourselves.”