Kathryn Kramer (2 page)

"What is the matter with you, you bold strumpet?  Bow your head.  Are you so busy
ogling that you do not see the queen is near?"  A sharp-featured noblewoman elbowed the plainly garbed stage-master's daughter out of her way.  "You should be with the other servants in the kitchen, not mingling with your betters!" she hissed in Alandra's ear. 

Heeding the rebuke, Alandra ducked into the shadows, watching as the lords and ladies streamed into the hall to view the masque.

She was such a fool, she thought.  A simpleton to have let herself dream even for an instant.  Alandra stared down at the fabric of her skirt that she clutched in her hand.  The drab linen was a reminder of what she was not.  She would never be one of them.  There was no use in letting such an illusion take flight.   She was as out of place here as a chicken among peacocks, and yet for just a moment......

Quickly
, she put such a thought from her mind.  It was not wise to flit into such imaginings.  She was what she was and she was proud of that.  She was Alandra Thatcher, Murray's daughter.  It was enough.  She would never give the nobleman another thought.  Squaring her shoulders, holding up her head, she walked through the door, firm in her determination.

Chapter Two

The air was pungent with the fragranc
e of spices and perfume as the lords and ladies moved from the great hall to the banquet room. From the tip of her red bewigged head to the hem of her voluminous skirt, Elizabeth Tudor looked every inch the royal personage as she swept by the others.

"Your Majesty!"  Each man and woman she passed was cautious to show the utmost deference.

The Queen enjoyed perennial adulation; in truth she insatiably savored it, surrounding herself with handsome men who vied with each other to be her favorite.  Thus the position of queen's favorite was often a tenuous one, for Elizabeth was quick to anger and glaringly surly when crossed.  Was it any wonder then that Nicholas Leighton felt the prick of apprehension as he followed the tall, thin, red-haired monarch into the hall?  She had berated him because of Morgana and he could not risk angering her again. 

The q
ueen's procession passed through the line of groveling courtiers, reminding him anew of the perilous position he found himself in, all because Elizabeth had looked upon him with a favorable eye.  The court was filled with ambition, jealousy and intrigue, and even now he could feel eyes appraising him, wondering what must be done to send this latest favorite toppling from his lofty perch.  Well, he would fool them, he thought.  He would not give these vultures reason to rejoice.  He was ever Her Majesty's faithful subject.  He would not fall from grace!  The climb had been too arduous for him to slip now.

It seemed to be a never-ending march past doublets and gowns
, but at last Elizabeth reached the far side of the room and seated herself gracefully upon her high-backed chair despite the hindrance of the wheeled farthingale beneath her gown.  Motioning to the place beside her, she said but one word, "Nicholas!" 

The cloud of momentary disfavor had been lifted and Nicholas once again enjoyed the sunshine of
Elizabeth's attentions. 
How like the Queen
, he thought.  She often lost her temper but soon regained control of herself and replaced frowns with smiles.

"I am honored, your Majesty," he murmured, and he was.  Nor did the honor go unnoticed by those assembled
, he noted. 

But
, the taste of victory was as bitter as ashes in Nicholas's mouth.  There was another whose company he sought, but being by Elizabeth’s side would keep him from seeking Morgana out.  Still, one could not say no to a queen, especially after the anger she had openly displayed only a few moments ago toward the woman she considered her utmost rival.  Nicholas reminded himself again and again that he must be wary despite his desires.

"I can still bedazzle them even after all these years as queen, Nicholas,"
Elizabeth stated proudly.               

Quickly his eyes appraised her,  and he thought how she looked undeniably awesome dressed in all her finery.  She seemed at that moment to personify the glory of England.  Though she was in her sixties, her face sprinkled with wrinkles, the bloom of her skin long since gone, he could still see a hint of the woman she had been in her youth--Gloriana.

Eli
zabeth read her young gallant's thoughts as his eyes swept over her, and she wished with all her heart that she were that younger woman again.  She was old and knew it well, though she buffered the truth by pretending.  If just for a little while she could fulfill her dreams by sitting at this handsome young man's side, then she would be content and could make believe that she was beautiful once again.               

"Ah, Nicholas," she sighed, wondering what might have passed between them if she were still in the bloom of her years.

Brushing wistfully at her ruff, her gaze swept over him with the keen eye of a connoisseur. Nicholas Leighton was just the kind of man she was always drawn to. He was tall, six feet in height with a strong, well-muscled body that bespoke of a man used to exercise.  His wine-colored doublet and trunk hose emphasized the strength of his frame, his oyster-hued nether hosen clung tightly to his well-formed legs.  The stark white of his ruff contrasted sharply with the blue black of his hair, hair that was thick and had just a hint of natural curl.  As was the fashion, Nicholas Leighton wore a mustache and a small light beard, but even this facial covering could not hide the chiseled perfection of his face nor the strong chin which told the queen that this was a man who was not easily bested.

Nicholas was the antithesis of her other curr
ent favorite, Owen Stafford, who was as fair as Nicholas was dark..  They were a study in contrasts in temperament as well, as different as day from night, the sun from the moon, the light from the darkness.  Nicholas was a bold man, an adventurer who relished action. Owen Stafford was a courtier who was more prone to wield a pen than a sword.  Right from the first Stafford had been jealous of Leighton's manliness and bravado, and it had made for a very amusing game.   Even now Elizabeth could see Stafford's eyes flashing fire at his opponent, and her mouth curved up in a smile, cherishing the rivalry.  It made her feel omnipotent, furthered her longing to be desired.  To fuel the competition between two handsome gallants, Elizabeth gestured to the golden-haired Lord Stafford.

"Come closer....."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Nicholas
watched as the haughty, lithe-framed, elegantly dressed nobleman hastened to the Queen's side as soon as he was beckoned, sweeping low in a graceful bow.  For just a moment he felt a prick to his self-esteem, felt threatened by the gloating smile upon his rival's lips.  How he loathed the man.  His dislike of the vain, arrogant popinjay was intense and all for good reason.  From the moment Nicholas had set foot in Elizabeth's court, Owen Stafford had made it obvious that he was to be an enemy.  He had babbled vicious rumors, made Nicholas the butt of a hundred jests, and in all ways tried to have Nicholas banished from court.  Only by his intellect and a reasonable measure of good luck had Nicholas survived. Now Nicholas was seated on the Queen's right side while Owen Stafford took a position on her left. 

"I believe your Majesty will be pleased by my litt
le masque," Nicholas heard Stafford say.  As Nicholas turned his gaze to Stafford, the smile upon the blonde lord's lips gave him sudden cause for alarm.  Why was he grinning like the cat that ate the sparrow?  What mischief had been planned? 

"I hope 'twill be a brief one.  I am overly tired and wish to retire to my chambers,"
Elizabeth retorted, stifling a yawn.  "I have danced myself into weariness."

"I do not think you will doze when you see the entertainment I have prepared.  You will, I think,
find it most stimulating." Stafford nodded his head to that spot across the room where the costumed and masked revelers waited. "Most stimulating indeed."

"T
hen let the masque begin!" The queen declared. 

With the beating of the timpani
, the masque was unraveled, beginning with the courtier-dancers, those carefully costumed and masked aristocrats.  Perhaps nothing  suited the courtiers love of intrigue and admiration for personal cleverness as did the masque, Nicholas thought. More often than not these guileless-appearing performances hid a sinister intent, making light of court scandals or secrets.  He wondered who was to be the victim of tonight's masque.

The theme seemed innocent enough, depicting the scene of a shepherd tending his fields.  Nicholas noted with amusement that the garments of satin that
the young actor wore were hardly appropriate to such an occupation, but then costumes were always lavish and flamboyant.   Owen Stafford was a man of incomparable wealth who could well afford the extravagance.

The stage was a
swirl with color-- reds, blues, yellows and greens--as the dancers began the main dance, accompanied by the torchbearers.  Stafford had chosen to give a double masque so that the dancers were equally balanced between men and women, giving Nicholas something lovely to look at. Twirling and whirling, the young women passed by him with a smile. Though professional actors had been hired, the masque used a minimum of dialogue, for no speaking was really needed.  By gesture and mime, the story unfolded quite clearly.

A dancer
, dressed all in pink, joined the shepherd on the stage.  Only a fool would not have recognized that this young woman was portraying Morgana, wife of Lord Woodcliff.  Nicholas sat up in his chair with a start, clenching his jaw in indignation and alarm.  Morgana was overly fond of pink, as the entire court knew.  The dancer wore a long flowing blonde wig that seemed to give further hint to her identity.  Another indication was the well-known fact that Morgana's ancestors had made their fortune in the wool trade as merchants.

I
n white, obviously portraying sheep, several male dancers joined the pink clad dancer on the platform.  Following the young woman about, they watched as she took the staff from the shepherd's outstretched hand.  At court it was jested that Morgana turned even the fiercest lion into a lamb.

Nicholas could not hold his tongue.  "What foul infamy is this?" he growled, looking Lord Stafford's way.

"Silence, Nicholas, I find this interesting."  The queen's jealousy of the  lady in question made her appreciate the portrayal.  "I would see more."

In an unmistakable pun of Morgana's marriage to an old man, another actor joined the dancers.  Bewigged with gray hair, bent over and stooped with old age, h
e maneuvered his way to where Morgana stood.  To dispel any doubt as to his identity, the Woodcliff coat of arms, a bear upon a shield of blue and gold, was embossed upon his back.  From behind the curtained area of the stage came the sound of thunder.  The dancers made mime of argument and quarrel, proving theirs was a most stormy union. 

He watched as another actor entered the stage via a trapdoor.  Dressed all in black
, the dancer obviously depicted the villain of the scene. Apprehension gripped Nicholas, for he knew what was coming.  Owen Stafford had somehow learned of his secret meetings with Morgana and sought in this way to make that knowledge available to the queen.

"The bastard!" he swore beneath his breath.  "The vain, pompous, evil bastard."   God's blood
, he would be ruined.  All that he had worked for so long would be for naught and all because of one man's spite.

Reaching for his sword
, the darkly costumed man danced about with the weapon as if in combat.  Nicholas was certain that everyone present would know at once that this dancer was supposed to be him.  He was known as the finest swordsman at court.  It was because of his valor in Ireland that he had been knighted.  Seeing the Queen glance his way, he knew that she recognized the identity too.  Raising her brow, she looked at him in question.

"I know not what buffoonery this is, your Majesty.  I would suggest that Lord Stafford is suffering from sun fever."  Nicholas answered quickly.

"Yet I have seen you with the lady.  I have given you fair warning."  Her answer was a breathless hiss as her jealousy was inflamed anew.

"I am innocent of any wrong-doing.  In all ways
I strive to please and obey my queen."  There seemed to be nothing that he could say to cool her anger.  Nor did the continuation of the action upon the stage help him.

The pink-
and-black garbed dancers were entwined in a slow passionate dance that left little to the imagination.  From behind a shrubbery of wood and paste, the  male dancer procured a set of deer's horns and walking to where the gray-wigged dancer stood with his back turned towards the pair, put the horns upon his head.             

"The stallion has put horns upon the bear.  What hail the once brave beast to be so cuckolded?"

A gasp hissed through the crowd.  Sympathetic eyes turned to look at Lord Woodcliff, an aged man creaking with gout, who managed to stand proudly for a moment before he stormed from the hall.  Having been in his time a bold and fearless fighter, one who had secured Elizabeth's claim to the crown, it was no great wonder that the compassion in the throng was for the respected nobleman.  Hostile eyes turned towards Nicholas, accusing and condemning.  In that one moment all of his self-control snapped.  Bolting from his chair, he grabbed Owen Stafford by the front of his doublet.

"Apologize!  To me, to Lord Woodcliff
, and to the lady," he snarled.  "I will allow no man to do as you have just done."

"Apologize?  For telling what is true?"

"It is
not
."

"I say it is
, and now there are many others who will know as well.  You follow after the lady like a hound after a bitch in heat.  It is obvious to all."

The
ir quarrel became heated and intense, culminating with Nicholas drawing his sword. "BiGod, you will right this wrong or rue the day you were born!"

Lord Stafford drew his own sword, his face a mask of concern, for no one would want to face Nicholas Leighton in combat much the less when he was angered.  With a whimper he whispered, "Your Majesty.......!"

Elizabeth quickly stood, coming bravely between the two men.  "I will not have this!  I will not!  You will not pursue this foolish quarrel in the queen's presence.  This is not a jousting field, my lords."  She cuffed both men across the face as was her custom when angered.   "Out of this hall!  Both of you.  Until your tempers have cooled.  Then and only then will I speak further about this matter."