Watch the Lady (6 page)

“Indeed,” added Martha.

“Wits he has in abundance. I am told his father is grooming him for high office,” said Moll.

They continued, passing round the flask, comparing the various merits of all the unmarried men at court, sizing them up for potential. It was inevitable they would eventually turn to Sidney.

“He is so very chivalrous,” said Martha, softening visibly.

“And impenetrable,” added Moll. “You simply cannot tell what he is thinking.”

“He can be horribly brusque, but there
is
something about him,” said Peg.

“And he's a poet. Just think, he would write sonnets for you,” mused Martha.

“Mind you, the Queen is not pleased with him since he wrote that letter opposing her French marriage,” said Moll.

“She called him ‘uppity,' ” added Peg.

“I don't suppose she will be cross with him for long,” said Martha dreamily. “Do you know him, Penelope?”

“I . . .” She was about to tell them of her betrothal—wondered why they didn't know it, given the way gossip spread through them like the plague—but thought better of it, fearing it might cause some jealousy amongst her new companions. “I do not.” Perhaps, she considered, Leicester is waiting for royal permission before it is announced, but he had not even spoken of it to her. “Well, not really. I met him once briefly when I was twelve. I barely remember.” She didn't describe how that meeting had been etched indelibly into her mind and from it she had constructed a thousand imagined scenarios with Sidney at their heart. “But I do know his connections come from his mother's side so he is not so very well funded.” If she sought to put them off by this, she was misguided, for it merely instigated a protracted conversation about Sidney's great expectations.

“But he will come into his uncle Leicester's wealth, for Leicester has no issue.” This was Peg, talking breathlessly.

Penelope didn't mention that her mother was back at Wanstead, about to bear Leicester's child, which, if a boy, would knock Sidney out of the line of those great expectations like a felled skittle. She knew when it was best to keep such information close; she had learned that at her mother's breast.

“I fancy he would make a fine match for
someone
,” continued Peg, clearly hoping that the someone would be her.

“He never gives any of us a second look anyway,” said Martha pointedly.

“He is most aloof, it is true,” said Moll. “But that is part of his appeal. Let us hope that the Queen's marriage plans come to fruition, or none of us will have permission to wed at all.” She turned to Penelope, adding, “She cannot bear to have her maids make marriages when she remains single,” by way of an explanation. The humor had disappeared from Moll's voice and Penelope assumed there was more to what she said. Perhaps that was the reason Moll was in her middle twenties and still unwed, her petals dropping, still one of the Queen's maids when she should have been mistress of her own household and birthing babies. A sudden thought surprised Penelope, in spite of Moll's predicament, she wondered if she truly wanted to be married yet, just when her adventure at court was beginning.

“And she doesn't like anyone with even the smallest trickle of royal blood marrying anyone else with the same, for fear they will produce a boy to threaten her throne.” It was Martha who said that.

The atmosphere had dropped and the pleasant whirl in Penelope's mind was turning into the beginnings of a headache.

“Think of what happened to Katherine Grey,” said Moll, which provoked a leaden silence and Penelope was catapulted back to the countess's warning, feeling her unease flooding back.

“We can only hope the Queen's plans to wed the Frog come to something,” said Peg, her voice seething with hopelessness. “I'm going to sleep.” She turned and folded herself into the covers.

Penelope slipped out of the tester bed and into the truckle, enjoying the smooth chill of the sheets after the hot fug within the bed-curtains, but she could not quite shake off her sense of disquiet.

Penelope sat next to Martha on the royal barge with the Queen's party. She buried her hands inside her gown to protect them from the chill February wind that smacked frozen drops of water from the oars onto her cheeks. Another barge, conveying the French delegation, drew up alongside.

“You have an admirer,” whispered Martha with a giggle, as one of the Frenchmen blew a kiss their way.

“I think it was for you,” Penelope laughed, meeting the man's eyes briefly. “Those French are so indiscreet. I wonder if Anjou's as ugly as they say.”

“He will be here soon enough, if the gossip is true.”

“Do you think the Queen truly means to marry him?”

“I can't understand why she would. Surely at forty-seven”—Martha mouthed the digits rather than saying them aloud—“she is too old to make an infant. Oh—” She gasped and turned away, covering her mouth with a hand. “He made a rude gesture.”

Penelope glanced over at the Frenchman, who was licking his lips slowly with the point of his tongue, and turned away nonchalantly, saying, “Ignore him, Martha,” with a snort of laughter. “Perhaps the Queen wants a Frenchman in her bed.”

“The thought.” Martha shuddered.

“I suppose what she really wants from all this is to strengthen England's alliance with the French.”

“We are here!” Martha tugged excitedly at her sleeve.

Penelope looked up to see the great ship towering above—Drake's
Golden Hind
, on which he traveled to the farthest reaches of the world, bringing back untold riches for the Queen. The countess had described Drake with a sneer as “a self-made man. Not one of us. I don't understand why the Queen is so fond of him.” The maids, who were less concerned with such things, had discussed Drake at length, all agreeing it was a shame he wasn't more comely.

The Queen stood, taking Leicester's hand for balance whilst the maids scurried about straightening her skirts and smoothing her veil—fine layers of voile, which caught on the wind and blew up and out, almost lifting right off her head and taking her wig with it. The boat slid and bucked beneath Penelope's feet, causing her to grab the shoulder of one of the oarsmen to steady herself. She was the last of the maids to disembark, taking a proffered hand to help her out, not daring to take her eyes off her own feet for fear of falling into the muddy water below. Once on the pier she dropped the hand, looking up to see whose it was, finding him looking at her, his eyes holding her uncomfortably tight. His face, its sculpted planes printed with that faint constellation of scars, was so close to hers it made her heart jostle.

“Take care, my lady. Stand still; you are caught.”

She turned, not fully understanding what he meant, to see that the fabric of her gown had hooked itself onto a nail on one of the mooring posts. She watched his hands unhook it; his fingers were slender and one was smudged with ink. “I am sorry. It is torn.” He held it up so she could see the little rent.

“Oh,” she said, and for an instant he looked at her as if he could see beneath the surface, far into her secret depths. Her breath caught in her throat, and the moment had passed. “It will mend.”

Then they stood in an awkward silence face-to-face; she unbearably aware of his maleness, the sense of his musculature where his doublet pulled tight across his chest, the way he held the hilt of the sword, which hung from his belt, as if primed to use it should the occasion arise. Her mind raced desperately, seeking something, anything, to say, wondering how it was that she failed to be intimidated by the Queen, whom everyone was scared of, and yet was lost for words in the face of this inscrutable man.

Looking up, Penelope noticed that the Queen was already on the deck of the ship with the rest of the maids and that a great throng was building up behind her on the gangplank.

“I am most grateful,” she said, unable to meet Sidney's eye, or even look to his face for more than the briefest of glances. He didn't smile, or try to put her at her ease. Indeed, she had the sense that he might, in some way, be relishing her discomfort.

His reply, when it came, was so quiet it was swallowed up by the wind and she felt too timid to ask him to repeat it, just nodded and slipped away. As she pushed past the throng she imagined what she might have said: something witty; something that would have made him remember her. But she had been struck dumb by the proximity of the man who had existed for years safely in the well of her imagination.

The deck was exposed to the wind and all the women were holding on to their wigs for fear they would blow into the water. The Queen was making a speech about Drake's great feats of adventure and how, thanks to him, the coffers of England were full. As the applause went up a sudden almighty cracking sound filled the air.

Penelope looked up, thinking the towering main mast had broken, afraid it would crash down on them. But the mast was where it should be, soaring skyward. A turmoil of screaming and shouting began and she turned to see the gangplank gone, splintered under the weight of the crowd. About a dozen souls had fallen into the mud, where they writhed about shouting for help. One or two were clinging onto the railings, hanging on with white-knuckled fists, waiting to be helped back onto the pier by the guards who had appeared suddenly from nowhere. Those who had escaped the fall stood about laughing at the less fortunate, all but Sidney, who threw a knotted rope down to help pull people onto the pier, heaving them up one after the other, not minding that his pale silk doublet was becoming smeared with black river mud.

Drake, seemingly mortified, was barking orders to his crew and a new gangplank was procured so the French delegation might board. All the while the Queen was watching on with a look of mild amusement until she called Drake over, inquiring about the extent of the damage, and Penelope saw a look of concern break momentarily over her face. But no one had been hurt, save for a few scrapes and bruises and some lost dignity.

As they were being seated, packed in like salted fish, a great fuss was made because the Queen's lace garter had gone astray. The French ambassador, Marchaumont, insisted upon reinstating it himself, which caused a flood of giggles to wash through the maids and a fair amount of quiet harrumphing from the older ladies, who whispered to each other about the loose morals of the French. The Queen herself seemed to relish the episode, laughing and quipping with Marchaumont and Leicester as they took their places at the table. Penelope watched her, unable to relate that lighthearted woman with the one who had treated all those girls so harshly for their romantic misdemeanors. She thought of poor Anne Vavasour in the Tower with her newborn, imagining her fear in that place. She watched as Leicester whispered something in the Queen's ear; they shared a smirk and she couldn't help but think of her mother at home alone, feeling anger or hatred, or something like it, rise up through her like nausea.

Penelope tried to concentrate on the festivities. She had never seen such a spread; Drake had laid on everything imaginable. Dish after dish was paraded up the deck and presented to the Queen by red-faced servants struggling under their weight. There was a pie filled with live doves, which flew panicked to perch on the mast, one anointing the shoulder of the French ambassador's man, who merely laughed, brushing the offending mess away with a napkin only to smear his velvet cape further.

“
Mais c'est de la bonne chance, ça
,” he said lightly, but one side of his smile turned down. Penelope imagined he was thinking of his laundry bill and the fact that doubtless it was a new cape, fashioned for the occasion of meeting the English Queen.

A goose with a gilded head was presented and Drake was given the honor of carving, discovering in the carcass, with feigned surprise, a gold ducat that was presented to the Queen, who tossed it, catching it with a cry of “Heads or tails?” to her host.

“Heads,” Drake replied.

“Heads it is,” she affirmed. “Will a knighthood suffice as your reward?”

“It will more than suffice, Your Majesty,” came his reply. Even Penelope knew it was a jest, for the whole occasion had been designed around Drake receiving such an honor, though it didn't stop the countess from commenting under her breath, “I don't know, will cowherds be made earls next?”

Other splendid dishes followed and eventually, when the feasting was done, and a sugar replica of the
Golden Hind
had been trooped about to a fanfare of trumpets, Drake presented himself to the Queen to receive his knighthood. The Queen, still in effervescent humor, quipping about chopping his head off, handed the sword to Marchaumont that he might conduct the proceedings. This caused another remark of disapproval from the countess—something to do with the French gaining more privilege than they merited—and the woman beside her pointed out that it was likely done to annoy the Spaniards. Penelope was thinking about how she was supposed to be her mother's eyes and ears, wondering how she could achieve this when she barely understood the ins and outs of what was going on.

“What does she mean?” she whispered to Martha. “Why would the Spaniards be annoyed?”

“I have no inkling. But more importantly”—Martha nudged her, leaning in closer and cupping her hand over her mouth— “
he
is watching you.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Sidney!”

Penelope responded with a shrug, affecting indifference, and wondered if Martha had noticed something, but of course Sidney inexplicably fascinated all the maids, so why should she be different? The idea of his eyes on her made her light-headed and it took all her willpower to resist looking back.