The queen’s pause was pregnant with the reminder of how near Belle had come to owning her monarch's enmity instead of her favor. “We and all our court leave for our summer progress upon the morrow’s dawn. Therefore We've named Sir Edward Mallory to serve as our witness for both betrothal and wedding.”
The lift of Elizabeth’s hand indicated a tall young man, golden-haired and handsome to the point of prettiness, who stood a few yards distant. The golden chain of knighthood was displayed proudly across the breast of his yellow doublet.
Here, Elizabeth paused again, this time to eye Belle's black garments and her single pin. “Four months is twice the time most widows mourn,” she said. “See to it you're dressed more appropriately for the morrow's ceremony.”
“Aye, Madame,” Belle replied meekly enough, then once more awaited the queen’s dismissal.
A quiet moment passed, then another. Still Elizabeth said nothing. Belle raised her head. The queen’s gaze was aimed at the garden’s far wall. Her expression might have been carved from stone. Her eyes had darkened to a stormy black.
Startled, Belle shifted to see who might win such a glare from England’s monarch. All she could see in that direction was a covered two-storey wooden walkway, complete with fine windows, that ran the length of the east and south walls. The strange construct was no doubt meant to offer gentle strollers a place to walk despite the weather.
There was a shift in the shadows revealing a short man. Beneath his fringe of dark hair crossing his broad brow, his eyes were caught in lines of worry. His hat was in his hands, his fingers clenched so tightly that he was crushing the velvet. Although Belle didn't know him she had no trouble recognizing his nobility. The massive golden chain resting against his green doublet's breast bore the emblem of the garter knights.
Elizabeth came to her feet with a creak of her farthingale. Surprised, those male courtiers nearest to her pulled frantically at their hats as they bowed. Their queen paid them no heed as her mouth stretched into what should have been a smile.
“Why here is our noble cousin Norfolk, just returned into our presence,” she called out, a strange note of challenge in her now brittle voice.
Belle stared in surprise at the duke. He seemed too young and hesitant to be England’s highest ranking peer. At Elizabeth’s call, the nobleman stepped out of the walk far enough to show Belle that his face was pale despite the day's hot sun.
“Madame,” was all he said as he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“Have you news for us?” This was no question, but a demand.
As if at a tennis match everyone’s heads turned for the duke’s response.
“News, Madame?” Norfolk asked, looking up at his monarch. Despite his calm voice, his expression was wretched and his face, now even more ashen.
“What?” Elizabeth’s gaze bored holes into her duke as her faint brows arched high upon her forehead. “You’ve come from London with no news of a marriage?”
Belle drew a sharp breath. The queen’s tone was dangerous indeed. The duke’s only response was to blink furiously.
A happy laugh rang out from the back of the garden. Oblivious to what was going forward between queen and duke, one of Elizabeth’s women danced forward, her steps keeping time to the quiet music rising from the garden’s end. Pretty and dark-haired, she held a single rose in her hand.
“Oh Madame,” she cried to her royal mistress as she came to a halt, her pink and green skirts swinging around her, “you must look upon this bloom. I vow it’s the most perfect blossom I’ve ever seen.”
Her jaw tense, the queen lowered her head as if to look upon her lady’s flower. The very instant he was free of the royal gaze, Norfolk came to his feet and backed into the walkway’s shadows. In the space of a breath he’d disappeared into the garden beyond it. If he thought his departure went unnoticed, he was wrong. From where she knelt Belle could see Elizabeth watch him retreat from the corner of her eye.
Then, as if nothing unusual had occurred, the queen lifted the flower from the noblewoman’s hand, turning it this way and that in the pretense of study. “Indeed Lady Clinton, it is a beauty,” she said at last, handing it back to the woman.
Then Elizabeth threw her arms wide. “Faugh! We've had enough of gardens and flowers for one day. What say you?” she bellowed. “What say you to an activity more like to stir the blood?”
Caught unprepared by her challenge, her courtiers only stared at her. A touch of a smile bent the queen’s lips. She whirled and strode at a smart pace down one leg of the walk toward her palace. Just beyond the walkway's far end was a door. If the two guards at either side were any indication, this was access to the royal apartments.
Elizabeth paused before that door to look back upon her startled courtiers. “What? Do all of you plan to stay the day in the garden, leaving us to ride out by ourself?” she called, then ducked inside and was gone.
With her words the crowd around Belle exploded into frenzied motion. The queen’s women sprinted after their mistress with squeaks and quiet shrieks. Men scattered into the garden, dodging one another as they raced toward the public gate. In no time the bower was empty.
Left alone in the new quiet, reality settled heavily upon Belle's shoulders. Easing to the side to sit upon the grass, tears rose, stinging her eyes. She was to marry again, only this time instead of an ancient and uncaring man her new husband would be a monster so scarred he never left his home.
She surged to her feet, wanting to run as far and fast as she could from this place. Instantly, spots danced before her eyes and her legs wobbled. With a groan she pressed her hands to her head.
May the Lord save her, but she was going to swoon in earnest this time. Slowly, carefully, she began to make her way by tiny steps toward the garden’s gate. “Oh help,” she muttered as she went, but there was no on in the world left to help her.
“Not once in the month of my attendance upon Her Grace have I been denied access to her royal presence.”
Master James Wyatt, steward to Squire Nicholas Hollier, glared at the Privy Garden's guards. Never mind that both he and the soldiers knew his inclusion in Elizabeth's court was a sop, meant to disguise the fact the queen was holding him here against his will. His complaint was loud enough that the noisy conversations of the servants and underlings crowded into this courtyard dropped to a hissy hum as they sought to listen in without seeming to do so.
Elizabeth's guardsmen only stared back at him, their faces closed and quiet. Jamie snapped his teeth shut on an angry bellow and sent his uncle a pleading glance. Not that he believed any hope of rescue remained.
Although only five years older than Jamie's own five and thirty, Percy Neveu was dressed more like a grandfather, what with a long black robe belted atop his doublet and breeches and an unadorned black cap perched atop already graying hair. Percy offered Jamie a brief nod, a promise to do what he could, then turned to face the guards.
Thin nose quivering with manufactured indignation, his brows flattened over eyes as blue as Jamie's. With all the authority of his position as the Lord Chamberlain's undersecretary wrapped around his long, lean body, he took a step toward the gate. “I demand you allow my kinsman entry.”
The soldiers' pikes didn't waver where they crossed in the gateway. “We have our orders, Master Neveu,” said the leftward man, “and they are that Master Wyatt shall not enter.”
“If you have complaints you may take them to Sir William Cecil.” The guard to the right spoke this time.
Whirling, Jamie stormed a few yards from the gate with Percy at his heels. When they were out of earshot of the guards, he sent his uncle a seething, aching look.
“Death” he snarled, filling his quiet word with all the rancor his stay at court had made in him, “would be easier to tolerate than standing by while Elizabeth interviews that Protestant bitch she means to marry to my employer. This is blackmail. Either Squire Hollier agrees or the queen strips him of all he’s worked for these past years.” It had taken Nick a decade of careful effort to reestablish the wealth his father and grandsire had squandered.
“Are you mad? What if someone hears?” Percy demanded at a bare whisper over so honest an expression of emotion, even one quietly done. Catching his nephew by the arm, Percy dragged Jamie a few feet farther from the garden gate. “Should they, you, I and perhaps even your squire might find ourselves in prison for impugning Her Grace, that’s what.”
Although Jamie’s uncle was named for the Percys of Northumberland, Percy owned none of that family’s bluster and bravado. However, what Percy lacked in courage he made up for in cunning and intelligence.
Jamie offered his uncle a tense smile. “My apologies. I do know better. Once again I give thanks for having you at my side. I'd not have survived these past weeks at court without you.”
“True enough,” Percy replied with a nod, granting Jamie the forgiveness he requested. “A courtier must be a reed, willing to bend whichever way the wind blows, friend to all, enemy to none. You, Jamie, are forever ready to defend to the death whatever untenable position you've taken no matter how sensible or profitable retreat might be. Do us both a favor and stay in England's backwaters.”
Jamie laughed, his anger draining from him just as Percy no doubt intended. “Now, you wouldn't be calling me mule-headed, would you?”
Percy almost winked. “I might just be. I expect you inherited that from that Scots mother of yours. God knows you didn't get it from my brother,” he finished with no idea the pain his comparison woke in Jamie.
He was nothing like his mother. His dam had owned a wanton temper and a vicious nature, her battles with his father having more than once driven their youngest son into hiding. Although Jamie had been but ten when his sire sent his wife back across England's northern border to Scotland and her own barbarous people, there'd been nothing but relief for Jamie upon her departure.
“Bah,” Jamie said to hide his ancient hurt. “I happily leave you to your life here among these gentleman snakes and noble carrion eaters. Give me the quiet countryside where if one man hates another he commences an open and honest feud.”
Then, seeking to divert Percy from a conversation that was rapidly becoming too personal, he turned to look at the garden's gate. “May God take me. I should have realized Elizabeth might twist Squire Hollier’s request to resume his title to suit her own purpose.”
Percy peered down his long nose at his kinsman. “I think this marriage is a very small price to pay, considering how the Hollier and the Montmercy families used and insulted Her Grace’s court. Her Grace could have demanded the marriage without restoring the squire’s title. Nor should you think the lady has any more choice in this matter than your squire,” he replied with the lift of a chiding brow.
Jamie waved away his uncle’s words. “As if any daughter of Lady Montmercy could be other than the same ambitious, scheming bitch her mother is? How can it not be to her advantage when this marriage of hers turns a country knight’s widow into a far wealthier Lady Graceton?”
Angry shouts and frantic calls exploded from the garden. Startled, both Percy and Jamie stared at the wall as if they could peer through bricks.
“Heavens,” Percy murmured, “if I didn't know better I'd say the whole of Her Majesty's court is running in this direction.”
Elizabeth's usher appeared in the gateway, his arms moving as if by gesture alone he could sweep the crowd out of the middle courtyard. “Stand aside, they come!” he shouted, his eyes wide, only to be shoved out of the garden by the weight of those behind him.
Servants and others screamed and scattered as the flower of England's manhood fought its way through the opening. Pressed against the wall behind him, Jamie watched in perverse pleasure as men accustomed to moving no faster than an arrogant strut dashed past him. Ribbons streamed and hats were knocked askew as the courtiers battled their way through the middle courtyard and into the outer courtyard.
“Well well, it seems my chance to confront the lady may not yet be lost,” Jamie said to his uncle with a bitter laugh. “Watch for her. I warrant you'll know her immediately. She'll be the only woman—nay, the only person in all the court you do not recognize.”
Percy preened just a bit at this compliment. He knew everyone and everything around Elizabeth, turning his knowledge into income. Many a country gentleman like Nick paid Percy a small fee for regular letters updating them on court doings.
Holding their position against the wall, they scanned the passing crowd. No woman, be she beauty or crone, appeared. Then a popinjay dressed in a yellow satin doublet atop ballooning breeches in the fashionable shade of goose-turd green broke from the rumble and tear of men.
Jamie fought his grimace as Sir Edward Mallory strode toward them. Although the man was a friend of Kit Hollier, Nick's younger brother, Mallory was no friend to Nick. Not only was the knight a Kentsman and a fervent Protestant, he was the man Elizabeth had named her witness in the matter of this forced marriage.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Percy said quietly, his head leaned close to Jamie’s, “but look again at yon knight and see not your enemy but a man who gave free rein to his ambition only to regret it. I daresay he now fears he'll soon be a reminder to us all of how swiftly one man’s career can come and go. Tsk, but he wears his panic like a cloak.”
Indeed Sir Edward did, much to Nick’s detriment. According to Kit Sir Edward had allied himself with the duke of Norfolk, believing, as the duke did, that England’s most powerful nobleman could win Elizabeth’s approval for Norfolk’s marriage to the captive Scots queen. Now that it seemed certain the duke would fail to gain Elizabeth’s approval, the only way Sir Edward could save himself would be to give his queen something of enough value to make her forgive, if not forget, his misstep. Jamie feared the only avenue left for the knight to use would be Nick.
As Sir Edward stopped before them, both Jamie and his uncle swept their caps from their heads, giving their better the bow due his rank.
“Master Neveu,” Sir Edward said in abbreviated greeting to Percy. Offering but a nod in response, Percy turned his gaze back on the departing courtiers, yet seeking Lady Purfoy.
The knight’s gaze shifted onto Jamie. His mouth lifted into a taunting smile. “Why, Master Wyatt, dare I say I’m astonished to find you here?”
“And why would that be?” Jamie asked, his words carefully enunciated to soften his country burr. It did Nick no favors to remind the queen's witness that Graceton's steward came from England’s Catholic north.
“I didn’t expect to see you until the morrow's betrothal,” the knight replied, pressing a graceful hand to his chest, “when the guard drags you into the chapel, forcing you to do your duty as the squire's proxy.”
It was such an obvious attempt to prod Jamie into violence—a reaction that might seem to prove Nick disloyal through his servant’s behavior—that Jamie would have laughed except the knight’s words told him that Lady Purfoy had agreed to the wedding.
“How can you think me so poorly mannered, Sir Edward?” Jamie offered in a gentle chide, refusing to be baited. “Of course I am here. To delay introducing myself to Lady Purfoy for even for a moment would besmirch the squire's repute and insult his future wife.”
Sir Edward's pale eyes darkened as he sputtered, seeking some other weakness to exploit. “So you say now. What of how you protested this marriage after our Gloriana so graciously granted the squire’s request for his title's restoration? All Her Grace asks is that Squire Hollier does as all eldest sons must: wed and breed up heirs.”
Here, the knight paused to sneer. “I say any man who can't do so basic a thing isn't worthy of either his estate or his title.”
This personal attack on Nick blind-sided Jamie. Anger rose like a red haze before his eyes. Bitch’s son!
Although Percy's gaze never left those departing the garden, he laid a hand on his nephew's arm. It was enough to remind Jamie he was to be a weak-witted reed, not a mule-headed idiot. Rage receded, leaving him even more grateful for his uncle’s presence.
“Did Squire Hollier not agree to the queen’s request?” Jamie replied. “He's content with the union.”
This was a lie of the highest order. The only woman Nick wanted to wed was a barren cottager's daughter who had rightly and repeatedly refused her gentleman-lover's offers.
Sir Edward leaned close enough to make his next words a threat. “I will believe that only after I witness this wedding’s consummation as Her Grace requires. And witness it I shall. The squire will do his duty to his queen or I will drag him to court so he can explain to Her Grace why he refuses.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode for the side gate.
Jamie watched him go. Was this Sir Edward’s plan, to demand conditions at every turn that made the completion of this marriage progressively more difficult, hoping Nick would finally be driven to refuse? If that happened, Nick would seem a recalcitrant and disloyal Catholic peer. And that would turn him into the perfect shield for yon knight.
“Stinking codpiece.” Jamie threw quietly after the younger man.
“That he is,” Percy murmured in agreement. “Jamie, the guards are leaving and Lady Purfoy never departed.”
“What?” Jamie pivoted to stare at the Privy Garden’s gate.
The two men who’d earlier blocked his path were shouldering their pikes. Together, they made their way toward Richmond’s middle courtyard gate. Their departure was a sign that all the courtiers had left the garden and it was again open for public use.
If Percy hadn't seen the lady depart then she must still be within yon walls. Jamie hurried through the gateway only to collide with a small woman dressed all in black. Their meeting was so forceful his breath huffed from him as she tumbled backward with a quiet cry.
He snatched her by the arms, catching her just before she hit the ground. As he lifted her back onto her feet, she made a tiny sound. All the color drained from her face. Her clear gray eyes lost their focus. A spark of worry hit Jamie. She was going to swoon.
“Nay now, don't you leave me,” he warned her.
Too late. She sagged against him as she took leave of her senses. There was nothing for Jamie to do save sweep her up into his arms. As he held her against his chest he drew a deep breath. She radiated a delicate aroma of roses atop the clean scent of soap.
Percy came to a halt beside him. Jamie turned so his uncle could see her face. “Do you know her?” Hope filled his voice.
“Nay,” Percy replied after a moment’s study, “but this cannot be Lady Purfoy. No knight’s widow would present herself to the queen bare-handed with but a single brooch to break the sobriety of her dress.”
Jamie stared in disappointment at the woman in his arms. Percy had to be right, for the daughter of England’s most notorious beauty would hardly own so plain a face set with such unremarkable features.
If this wasn’t Lady Purfoy, there was but one other place left that the lady might be. Frustration gnawing at his vitals, Jamie stared across the garden toward the royal residence. Walls of solid red brick stared back at him. Once again he and Elizabeth had made their moves in this game of theirs and once again he had come up wanting. He should have known the queen wouldn’t leave her pawn open and vulnerable to his capture. Elizabeth had taken the lady with her into her apartments.
Exhaustion crept into his very bones. Lord, but he hated feeling trapped and helpless, and that was all he’d felt since coming to court.
“Then the queen keeps her close until the morrow's ceremony,” he said.
“My pardon, Jamie, I should have realized such would be Her Grace's plan,” his uncle replied, sounding truly chagrined as he offered a crooked smile. He nodded toward the woman in Jamie's arms. “Set her down and we'll be on our way.”
“What, and leave her sprawled upon the grass?” Jamie shot a chiding look at his kinsman. “Nay, we need a decent spot to deposit her, some place she might lay unmolested until she awakens.