Lady Merry's Dashing Champion (4 page)

Meriel stopped a boy wearing the king's scarlet livery. "Where is the revel?"

"In His Majesty's Presence Chamber beyond the Stone Gallery, girl, but such as you cannot attend, though you be a pretty miss,"

Meriel shrugged.
Hey, well, life is unfair, but at least it is life in a palace. Someday. ..

The lad grinned, giving her cheek a pinch just before hurrying away. "Go up the stairs at the end of this side hall to the gallery opposite the musicians and you can watch the quality until the majordomo sees you and gives you his boot,"

"Yes, please, please, Meriel," begged young Elizabeth. Edward tried to hide his eagerness under a lordly pose, which he could not quite, as yet, maintain.

"If you promise to be quiet and obedient." But Meriel was off and leading them by the hand down the side hall and up the stairs to the gallery, the sounds of strings, hautboy and bassoon and many feet tapping a pattern upon marble floors coming closer and closer.

Meriel crept, bent near double, the children holding to her gown, along the wooden gallery and came to a wide place that afforded a view while hiding them well. She looked down through the thickly carved railing on a mass of lords and ladies moving in the stately pattern of a French sarabande, the colors and rich cloth of their gowns and doublets, many inlaid with jewels, glowing in the light of a dozen glittering candelabra. Immense gilded mirrors at each end of the Presence Chamber magnified the swirling color and light until Meriel had to squeeze her eyes tight for a moment against the dizzying splendor below.

She put a finger to her lips to shush the children, and realized that it had been herself who had said, "Ahh!" Best she keep her finger where it was since she could not trust her own mouth.

Meriel's gaze was drawn to the throne dais, where the king sat laughing with a chestnut-haired young woman standing before him whose lithe body seemed to be dancing, though she did not move a step. Meriel realized at once that this must be Nell Gwyn, the king's favorite actress, notorious for her high wit and japes about London, the delicious gossip having carried her fame as far as Canterbury. It was said the king was besotted with her entertainment, while not neglecting the queen or his other mistresses and ... some nights it was rumored ... seeking further sport at Madame Ross's establishment with the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Rochester. No wonder commoners called the king "Old Rowley" after his amorous stallion. Meriel flushed hot at her thoughts and the images they evoked, which were ones that no decent maid should entertain, although she suspected many did because they came unbidden and refused to leave.
Hey, well, everything to excess is the motto of this golden age.

Her attention was next drawn to a couple dancing near to the throne, the lady, wearing a dazzling gown of lilac velvet trimmed with large pearls, just turning into Meriel's view.

She sat suddenly and very hard down upon the wooden gallery floor, in as much amazement as she had ever felt. Was she looking in a mirror? It was her face she saw, her black hair, her olive complexion, and though she could not see the eyes, she knew, somehow, that they matched her own gray color.

Meriel removed her finger from her lips, for she no longer feared that she would make a revealing sound. She was incapable of words, but her mind was swiftly dealing with the amazing resemblance. This must truly be the Countess of Warborough, wife to the Earl, Meriel's hero. Felice, the spymaster had called her. Meriel was no longer surprised by his mistake. It was perfectly natural, and no doubt would happen many times until Sir Edward was forced to send her away or dismiss her. Back to Cheatham House or into the London streets. On her oath, she knew that a countess and a common maid could not share the same face in the same place.

Merial gathered herself to leave. She must speak with Sir Edward at once, before some high personage came to him with a complaint. Quickly, she looked one last time through the gallery railings to assure herself that she had not suffered some sudden malady of the eyes, seen what was not there. The countess and her partner had exchanged places.. . . From the gold braid on his doublet, glittering medals, the blue sash of the Garter order ... he must be the Earl of Warborough! Meriel knew that she was looking upon the form of Lord Giles Matthew Harringdon, her beloved hero.

She could not see his face, in shadow from his wide hat, although one side was turned up. They had danced away from the nearest chandelier, but she did not need to see, since she knew that face from tracing her fingers across his marble features countless times. But now his form caused a quick intake of breath that made her dizzy enough to grasp the railing. Though she knew she should take the children and leave rather than be discovered and draw all eyes, she could not move from staring at her idol made flesh.

He was a man of more powerful manly stature than she had ever seen, taller even than the king, and with greater shoulders and a more elegant turn of leg, although few would probably say as much aloud. And who had not heard of Lord Giles's courage during the Battle of the Four Days against the Dutch? He had been splattered by the blood of his slain younger brother and yet had stayed on the deck of his burning warship, spars and sails raining down upon him, fighting against a dozen Dutch sabers, astride the boy's body. Every Englishwoman had sighed with pride to think of such a courageous lord, who was said to be the most handsome man in all the court, a court swarming with handsome men.

Meriel's cheeks blazed as a sweet and fiery elixir coursed through her, heating her blood with a need she had never acknowledged before and could not now name. Still, she recognized what that need meant. It was what kitchen maids whispered about and then hid behind nervous laughter as one of the footmen passed by. Even the kitchen spit boy came in for his share of glances and sighs from the younger maids.

Against her will, which she realized at that moment was not as strong as she had thought, Meriel looked again. His lordship held himself rigid and apart from his wife, as if her body's touch would turn him to ice. Could it be that Lord Giles disliked Lady Felice? His own wife! Meriel fought a wild desire to laugh, admitting the crazed thought. What did it matter to her? That it did... there was no denying .. . frightened her because it made no sense. And she had a sensible mind. Or so she had always prided herself. She needed more courage and she needed it now.

Grasping the children, she crept along the gallery to the stairs where they had entered, casting glances behind her as if Beelzebub himself were flying after her with all the imps of hell.

She must get to Sir Edward before she was exposed to Lady Felice or to the earl. And how would his lordship react to another face he so obviously disliked? Or worse, she could be taken to the king. Though this was a modern age and she did not have to worry that she would be burned for a witch, still she would have better treatment from her master than from offended quality.
Hey, well, how dare a lowborn maid have such high, mocking features? A natural death begins to look good.

A further thought propelled her toward the door leading to the stairs. Was she bewitched? How else could she account for her close likeness to Lady Felice? Although she had rejected witchcraft as lacking reproducible proofs, as had many scholars of this modern age, there seemed to be no explanation but wizardry. Unless... Meriel almost laughed in her flight. An abandoned noble babe on cathedral steps was a thing of fairy tales, like a princess spinning hay into gold in a castle tower, or fairies dancing in the night woods.

Shushing Elizabeth and young Edward, who did not want to leave the king's ball, though their eyelids were drooping, she hurried them down the stairs.

William Chiffinch stood at the bottom.

He bowed to her, very low and mocking, his hand upon his heart, as if she were truly the aristocratic Lady Felice, throwing his shadow high up on the polished wood walls until it seemed to hang over her with dark menace.

"Sir," she acknowledged with a hasty curtsy, and did not breathe again until she turned the corner and was out of his sight.

Sir Edward was up and away in haste at first light to break his fast with the Duke of York and thence to the Admiralty, promising Meriel his full attention when he returned for his supper.

"But, sir—"

"Have a care with Lady Cheatham," he said, frowning and rapidly bundling ship's plans under his arm. "She does seem to have a new ailment, and this of her belly."

Meriel bobbed a curtsy, but could say nothing about the cause of his lady's new complaint. The little doctor had guessed right, and Lady Judith did blame the laudanum and had earlier refused it. Yet Meriel's greater concern was to give Sir Edward quick knowledge of her own desperate problem. ... That the king's spymaster had mistaken her for Lord Giles's wife! ... and that the news of her remarkable resemblance might reach court officials at any moment. Or worse, reach Lord Giles.
Hey, well, as I think it, I have to admit that I desire that he know I exist.

Tom-a-Bedlam! She must be crazed. His lordship would demand to see her, and when she faced him, she would suffer his scorn and ... what? . .. anger, a demand that she be shipped immediately to the Sugar Isles and Jamaica plantations? White slaves brought a high price, and lasted a year if they were lucky.

"But, sir—" Meriel protested, yet Sir Edward hurried away to the duke's apartments, seeming not to hear.

The children were now with palace tutors, so she busied herself with airing her lady's gowns, while glancing often out the windows to watch the boats on the Thames, their lanterns yet alight against the morning fog drifting atop the river. She wondered if Sir Edward would ever take her sailing again, perhaps all the way down the Thames to the sea.

Although determined not to go about the palace, such proved impossible. Lady Judith insisted the little doctor attend her, since she could no longer take her physic and was feeling such flutterings of her heart as to put her in fear for her lite. Meriel tried kneading her ladyship's shoulders and neck, but nothing would quiet her mistress except that the royal medico, who so completely understood her problem, should come to her. And at once.

So, pulling down her cap, clutching her shawl about her and lowering her head as any humble maid would, Meriel walked quickly along the halls. Up and down the stairs and across a connecting courtyard, morning sun shining through breaks in the mist, she made swift passage to the offices of the royal physicians.

"Doctor Wyndham is not yet from home, girl," an attendant told her.

"Please tell the good doctor that Lady Cheatham requires his physic most urgently." She retraced her steps, again as quickly as possible.

Perhaps too quickly.

"Surely a healthy young maiden is not in want of such vigorous exercise. Indeed, I think you could o'erwalk His Majesty."

The king's spymaster sat on a bench beside the sandy path where he had not been just two minutes earlier.

Breaking her stride, she dipped a curtsy, then before she could hurry on, the sun disappeared. Her shawl had been pulled over her head and two hard hands held her in their tight grip.

"Quiet, now," said Chiffinch close to her ear, "and I vow you will not be hurt. Indeed, you may be grateful to me, girl. In time."

Meriel drew what breath she could against the cruel hands that clasped her, and shrieked, "Help!"

That was all she remembered until she awoke with a throbbing head to the rocking of a boat and the slapping of oars against water.

"She be stirring, sir. Do I give her another crack?"

Meriel heard the spymaster answer as from a distance, through a buzzing in her ears.

"Nay, leave be as long as she is silent. Pull in at the Traitor's Gate. It is less used."

Mend's eyes opened wide against the dark cloth. Silent was all she could be with a cloth around her mouth. Then the full import of the words she'd heard caused her to struggle against the rope that bound her upper body and hands. Traitor's Gate? They were taking her to the Tower. Why? What had she done that she would be taken to a prison for high lords of the realm, a prison that many did not leave with their heads still atop their necks?

A hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing slightly, in what felt like an attempt to reassure her but had no such effect. Close to her ear Chiffinch's harsh voice whispered: "Silence, girl, or you will rue it, soon and forever."

Meriel shuddered and ceased her struggle, though her mind was screaming questions. Not that she had much hope of answers.

The boat bumped hard and the oars were shipped. She heard water lapping against what must be the water stairs and sensed by the violent rocking of the boat someone stepping over her to the landing.

"You know the work you must do by nightfall," Chiffinch said, and Meriel heard what sounded like the footfalls of two other men. "Take her gown from her."

Meriel kicked out with her feet and hit something, but was firmly held and stripped to her undershift.
Oh, Lord of Blessed Name, they are going to rape me and throw my body in the river!

"Sweet lugs on this 'un, Master," said the coarse voice attached to two groping hands.

"I have other plans for the wench, Jack. Have a care you don't end in the river your own self," Chiffinch said, in his threatening tone. "Now cease your struggle, m'girl, and walk. Have you never been taught to obey your betters?"

"You whoreson pissabed!" She spat the worst oath that she'd ever heard into the cloth gagging her. Though the sounds made no sense, even silent defiance gave her new courage.

Meriel heard the boat push away while a firm hand thrust her ahead and she stumbled up the slimy stairs, scraping her shins. She could see nothing, but she could hear everything. A rusty gate rasped open, the cawing of the ravens that had lived in the Tower grounds forever; it was said they would stay as long as there was an England. And that distant roar of animals was probably from the hungry lions and tigers in cages at the king's menagerie. She had heard that the king's elephant swam in the Thames on a long lead, a grand sight she'd longed to view. All these things that she had heard in traveler's tales and hoped to see for herself, she was now walking amongst, unable to see. And glad of it. She shivered, for the thought of ravenous lions did not hold the excitement for her that it once had. Catching her toe on a cobble, she nearly fell.