Assassin (4 page)

The Great Hall was festooned with red and purple ribbons and tinsel hearts dangling from the beams. The Maids of Honour don’t often go in there because the Queen likes to eat in the Privy Parlour and we usually keep her company. (Last month, the Queen was so busy with paperwork and Council meetings that she had her food brought on a tray, and we had to find our food as best we could. In the end, I gave Ellie some money and sent her out to get pasties for all of us at the nearest cookshop. We all burned our mouths because they were still so hot!)

We lined up behind the top table on the dais, facing all the other tables in the hall. The Queen made some sort of speech of welcome, but I was still feeling sick so I didn’t listen. I looked quickly for my suitors, but they were all at the other end of the top table, next to Lord Worthy, ignoring each other. The Queen had kindly arranged things so that they
wouldn’t be staring at me. I saw Ellie right down the other end of the hall and she waved to me, only I couldn’t wave back because of being dignified.

I thought I would run lunatic with all the to-ing and fro-ing. I hate feasting. I hate having to sit around being polite and conversing while my stomach’s rumbling like a cart on cobbles as we wait for ages for the food to arrive. This time there was a
really
long wait while the serving men, squires, and pageboys sorted themselves out by the hatch outside. Then I nearly jumped out of my skin when the musicians blared on the trumpets to announce them. They processed in to very loud stately music, carrying beef and venison and swan and suckling pig and some chickens—and a game pie as big as a well-head. I felt quite sorry for them, having to carry the food above their heads on huge silver platters. Then there was
another
long wait while they took the meat to the carving table for carving.

By this time, my mouth was so dry and my stomach so clenched up about the dancing (and whatever the Queen was going to do), I couldn’t eat anything at all except a bit of manchet bread and butter and a few candied carrots and potherbs, like the ones decorating the sallet. So it was wasted.

The only good thing that happened was that when
the serving man brought me the candied carrots, he had a very strained expression on his face. Then, when he leaned over to get the plate of fried-bread sippets, he farted very loudly—which made me and Mary Shelton giggle.

And as for swan-meat—ptui! (Mrs. Champernowne says a lady must only spit discreetly into her handkerchief, but I can spit in writing, if I want.) They only have it because it looks so pretty. It’s all put back together after carving and covered with a suit of swan’s feathers with a cunningly carved head and neck as well, so it looks as if it’s still alive and swimming on the silver platter. But I don’t care if it is a royal bird, it tastes fishy and horrible—even worse than turkey!

Lady Sarah would not talk to me at all during the two covers of food; she just kept chatting to Mary Shelton and Carmina, who was next to Mary. It was fine—at least I didn’t have to try to chat back with my mouth so dry. Mrs. Champernowne told the page to give me watered wine, which helped a bit. I had to sip it really carefully, though, because I was terrified of spilling any on my gown.

After the first set of dishes, there was a pause. I was just beginning to relax, thanks to the wine, when
bam-bam-da-da-bam-bam!
I nearly fell off the bench with fright.

In came French Louis with a big drum, banging on it like a madman. Behind him were the dwarf twins, Peter and Paul, juggling with red satin hearts, and behind them was Mr. Will Somers, the Queen’s Fool, flipping slowly over and over and jumping up to turn over in the air. And then, with the drum going
bam-da-da-bam-da-da-bam
and the trumpets making an even more awful noise than they did to start with, in came Little John, the huge strongman, holding a pole on his head. And at the top of the pole, standing on a little platform about the size of your two hands, was Masou. I stared with my mouth open. I was already tense! I thought this was really too much. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ellie watching, too, white as a sheet, hands to her mouth.

And as if that weren’t dangerous enough, Masou stood on one leg and started juggling with batons. He saw us, grinned, and winked at me. And then he tilted, waved his arms, wobbled, and fell …

I couldn’t help it—I screamed. Everybody else was screaming, too. But then, in midair, Masou turned a backwards somersault and landed perfectly on his feet like a cat. And then he caught the batons he’d
been juggling and carried on—while doing a jig. Everybody whooped and clapped; even the Queen was laughing and clapping.

I clapped, too, but only a bit because my hands were shaking so much. Ellie looked as if she’d nearly fainted. I don’t know what gets into Masou when he tumbles for an audience. I think he goes wood-wild in the head.

The Queen spoke to one of the pages and Mr. Somers brought Masou up to the dais to be presented to the Queen. I didn’t hear what she said, but when all the tumblers bounced and jumped and cartwheeled off again, Masou turned somersaults in the air and his face was shining.

And then it was time for the banquet course and we all stood up and processed out to the Banqueting House in the garden. They had taken it out of storage and put it up specially, and the rude pictures on the canvas walls of Venus and Cupid had lasted quite well—the paint had hardly cracked and Venus’s naked bottom was still quite pink.

I like the banqueting course usually, with all the jellies and sweetmeats and custards—and the beautiful marchpane subtlety in the middle. This one was a sculpture of Venus again, with Cupid aiming an
arrow made of liquorice, all made in pink sugar plate and really pretty. Except I could see that there were three blue velvet cushions lying on the table in front of the banquet, and little squares of white silk covered the things that were resting on them.

So that meant I couldn’t even enjoy the sweetmeats—like the marmelada of quinces, which is my favourite, or the vanilla egg creams. I was too busy trying not to stare at those cushions. On one was a sort of roundish lump, on the second was a long and pointed shape, and the thing on the third one just looked like a heap of peas!

They had laid a floor of polished wood to dance on and the musicians in the corner began a Burgermeister dance to break the ice. It’s such a silly German dance; you can’t be dignified when you’re wagging fingers and linking arms.

All the Maids of Honour swept off in a long line to face the gentlemen and bow and curtsy. Somehow, Lord Robert had managed to barge into the row facing me, so we partnered and, while I held his hand and did the first bit of dancing, he stared at me and went red and said, “Umm … er … Lady Grace … um…”

“What?” I said breathlessly. But by that time it
was his turn to hop and point his toes, and by the time he’d come back to me he’d missed his chance because we had to go back and change partners.

It was like that every time he looked at me, or we took hands in the dance: he was trying to say something he’d clearly made up beforehand, but each time he just stammered and looked sweaty. It was very irritating. I think that a lot of Lord Robert’s manly silence is Lord Robert not knowing what to say. Still, at least he’s only twenty. That’s something. And he has quite good legs. The other girls say he has high birth and low pockets—by which I suppose they mean he has no money and his estates are mortgaged. But I don’t care about that as long as he loves me. I’ve got plenty of money of my own. Though it would be nice if he could say something other than “Um…” occasionally.

Next there was a Pavane, otherwise known as the most boring dance in the world. Dances are for jumping about and getting breathless. What’s the point of all that stately walking to and fro in lines, holding hands, turning, bowing, curtsying, and stepping backwards and forwards? Yawn! For this one I got Sir Charles, who was looking unusually sour and bad-tempered.

“At least this is a tune we know,” I said to him, as he walked me back and forth.

I’d realized that the musicians were playing “Greensleeves.”

“Hm?” He looked puzzled. “What do you mean, my lady?”

I nudged him in the ribs. “It’s ‘Greensleeves,’” I said. “The song you always sing when we go riding?”

He smiled wanly. “Oh yes, how silly of me to forget. ‘Greensleeves,’ of course …
Ta dah, di dah, di dah, dah dah dah
…” His voice was flat.

I tutted. “You seem to have a bad throat, Sir Charles,” I said. “You really should not sing. And nor should you dance.”

Not that he can. A Pavane is about all he can manage, though his knees seemed a bit less stiff.

Next thing, the Master of Ceremonies announced a Volta. We’ve just done it in dancing class. It’s very scandalous because you have to show your knees! But the Queen loves it. I myself don’t like the bit where you have to dance while the gentleman stands there, or the bit when he gets to show off. What I like is when the gentleman takes hold of the lower edge of your stays and lifts you up as you jump and bang your feet together. That’s great fun. Though last Tuesday morning the dancing master was very
upset. “You are supposed to come down like a feather! A
feather
!” he shouted at me, when a painting fell off the wall of the Long Gallery.

As we lined up, ready to go round to our partners, I thought that Sir Gerald was going to partner Lady Sarah (whose bosom was nearly hanging out over her bodice again—honestly, I know not why Mrs. Champernowne doesn’t chide her for it). But then Lord Worthy moved next to Sir Gerald and said something in his ear, and he changed places with another gentleman, who looked very pleased.

So for the Volta I got Sir Gerald. He smiled and bowed and looked straight at me. The new gentleman was staring at Lady Sarah’s chest, but Sir Gerald was looking at my face. (Well, I’ve got nothing to see further down, even in a French-cut bodice.) He has one of those very handsome faces, all straight lines and angles, with quizzical black eyebrows. He’s tall, so it looks as if he’s staring down his nose at me. I’ve played some Primero with Sir Gerald (I won! Ha ha!) and walked in the Privy Garden for our formal meetings, but that’s all. He’s quite old—though not as ancient as Sir Charles. I think he had a wife, but she died in childbirth. At least he’s neither fat nor tongue-tied.

“Your ladyship is more beautiful than I have ever
seen you,” he said. “Rose velvet becomes you, Lady Grace.”

I tried to blush, but couldn’t. “Thank you, Sir Gerald,” I replied.

I’d done my bit of the footwork so he did his. The thing about a Volta is, if you can dance, it gives you a chance to show off. Sir Gerald can certainly dance. I’ve never seen anything like it, the way he jumped and kicked and moved his feet in time to the fast drumbeats. Then it was time for me to jump and, when he caught hold of my stays and lifted me, I went higher than I ever do with the dancing master, who’s always complaining that we’ve utterly undone his back. I went right up, twirled, and came down quite well, too, because I’d gone up so straight. He steadied me as I landed and lifted me again, so I was breathless by the time the jumping bit was over.

“Do you think Lord Robert could do that, my lady?” he whispered, and he wasn’t even breathing hard as we paced around in a circle with others of our set. “Or Sir Charles?”

I know Sir Charles couldn’t—he makes heavy weather out of helping me into the saddle. But Lord Robert? He’s young and quite skinny but I think he’s strong, too. I saw him tossing Mary Shelton
into the air without much difficulty. And she’s no slender reed.

“Don’t throw yourself away on rustics,” Sir Gerald went on as we joined up once more. “Lord Robert is poor and Sir Charles will always love horses more than you. Marry me.”

And then the dance parted us, leaving me rather annoyed. I really don’t like being told what to think. Besides, I knew who I liked more and it certainly wasn’t Sir Very-very-sure-of-himself Gerald. Let Lady Sarah have him.

At last the Queen clapped her hands, the dancing music stopped, and she beckoned me forward. “Good friends,” she said, while the musicians in the corner played a pretty, soft tune on their viols. “Today is a joyous day for our dear Lady Grace. She has petitioned me to marry her to some gentleman of my choosing…”

I hadn’t, but I know that’s what my father put in his will before he died serving the Queen in France in the first years of her reign.

“… and I have chosen three goodly nobles, each of whom would be a fine husband for any woman. But which man will kindle our Lady Grace’s young heart?”

There was a murmur and then Lord Robert came
forward and dropped to one knee. “Umm … I will, Y-your Majesty,” he stammered.

Behind him came Sir Gerald, who also kneeled. “Your Gracious Majesty … who by offering Lady Grace increases her own grace …,” he began. I saw Lord Worthy smile fondly at his nephew’s charm. “My Lady Grace needs a
man
to her bridal bed, not a mouse.
I
am the most manly of the suitors,” Sir Gerald declared.

At this, the other Maids of Honour giggled a little, and Lord Robert went purply red and looked at the polished floor.

Sir Charles then came forward and put his knee down firmly. “But
I
will be the best husband for Lady Grace, Your Majesty,” he said. “Because she and I have friendship in our favour.”

I looked at Sir Charles, feeling very uncomfortable. Yes, we were friends—of sorts—but he did look particularly old tonight. And his face looked not nearly as pink and jolly as usual. Perhaps he was nervous, too.

The Queen clapped her hands and smiled. “You offer yourselves, but what of your inmost hearts?” she said. “And what of Grace’s young and unschooled heart? We shall try if heart can speak to heart upon this Feast of St. Valentine.” She turned
to me and beckoned, so I went forward and curtsied to one knee.

She caught my hand and raised me up. “Each of Lady Grace’s lovers has presented a gift, unmarked and unknown. Now it is for Lady Grace to select the gift that likes her heart best, and so, the man who will have her heart.”

My heart went
thump! lurch!
and I wanted to be sick, which I obviously couldn’t, standing next to the Queen like that.