A Love Most Dangerous (10 page)

They paced on in silence, Dorothy fretful that she had
somehow angered her friend, Philippa fuming with a visible intensity. She was
intent on framing her revenge but instead her mind's eye kept returning ever
and again to the scene at breakfast.

How had the little chit bested her? How had she undone
the embargo she had placed on talking to her? So red were her thoughts she
could not focus her mind on true analysis of the situation. She could not, in
truth, bear to think that Alice Petherton had escaped her clutches by her own
devices. Instead, she repeated the scene over and over in her mind, replaying
it without sufficient examination. She saw how the other Ladies had ignored
Alice Petherton as she had required. She saw the slut's discomfort, which she
so desired. Then, next moment, there had been lightness in the room, a reaching
out towards Petherton and even conversation.

But wait, something else had occurred between these
two states. Two people had been the first to talk to Petherton. Two people. Ah
yes. Her thoughts whirled like carrion birds around Susan Dunster and Lucy
Meadows. Aye, they were the cause of this reverse. Susan Dunster and Lucy
Meadows. She dismissed Susan Dunster from her mind. She would prove too
difficult a foe for the moment. But Lucy Meadows?

She almost hugged herself. Hurting Lucy Meadows would
be just punishment for her careless misdemeanour. Better yet, hurting her would
hurt Alice Petherton. A smile as thin as a newt's lips broke upon Wicks' face.

'You could tell the Queen,' Dorothy said. 'You could
tell her your suspicions of the trollop.'

Philippa gave her friend a withering look.

'You fool, Dorothy,' she said, angered that her words
had intruded upon her lovely plan. 'Would the Queen believe us more than she'd
believe the King? And if she did, would she dare to anger him by seeking
retribution upon his new favourite?'

She hurried off, scheming still more, leaving Dorothy
standing alone, wringing her hands piteously.

'Come, Dorothy,' Philippa called. 'We have work to
do.'

Dorothy plucked up her skirts and hurried after her.

Lucy settled herself at her flute. She was poor at
playing it for she had only just taken up the instrument. Yet she had a love of
music and a good voice and ear and presumed she would soon be a reasonable
player. She pursed her lips and put the flute to her mouth.

'Quite the little songbird aren't we?' said a mocking
voice behind her.

She turned swiftly and saw Philippa Wicks and Dorothy
Bray leaning against the closed door. She felt her heart flutter nervously.

'I'm not,' Lucy said. 'I've only just taken it up. I'm
more skilled with the recorder.'

'Oh I'm sure that you'll master it soon enough,'
Philippa said, pulling the flute from her hand. 'I think that you are extremely
skilled at playing. Playing instruments, playing games and playing people.'

Lucy blinked. 'I don't understand.'

Dorothy gave a hollow laugh. 'I think you do, child. I
think you understand us very well.'

There was a silence and then Philippa turned to
Dorothy.

'I think perhaps you're wrong, dear Dorothy,' she
said. 'Yes, I do believe you may be wrong.' She turned and bent towards Lucy.
'I think perhaps you don't understand aright after all, my child.'

She touched Lucy's hair, stroking it softly, curling
the locks in her fingers. 'Or perhaps you understand too well.'

'I'm sure I don't,' said Lucy. She felt her eyes begin
to moisten.

'Isn't she a pretty little thing,' Philippa said in an
indulgent tone. 'So very, very pretty.'

Dorothy joined her and both stared down at the girl,
their faces immobile, their eyes shielded.

'Very pretty,' said Dorothy. 'But they do say that a
person's face comes to resemble her character.'

'Do they?' asked Philippa in startled voice. 'So if
someone is lovely of nature she will have a lovely face?'

Dorothy nodded. 'And if she is ugly of nature...'

Philippa put her fingers to Dorothy's lips. 'Hush, my
dear. We must not talk of such things. We don't want to alarm the child.'

She smiled at Lucy but the smile was potent with
venom.

At first Lucy did not understand their words. Why
would all this talk of faces and nature alarm her. And then, at last, she
realised what they were hinting.

'I haven't an ugly nature,' Lucy said. 'I haven't.'

The two women could not help but exchange a look of
triumph but Lucy, in distress, did not see this.

Dorothy placed her hand upon Lucy's shoulder.

'Not yet, you don't,' said Dorothy. 'But if you
continue to play games then that will surely change, as will your looks.'

'But I'm not playing games,' cried Lucy. The tears
were beginning to form now. She wiped her eyes swiftly, determined she would
not be seen crying.

'But you are, my child,' said Philippa. 'You're not,
however, playing them very well.'

Lucy shook her head in confusion.

'You were playing games at breakfast this morning,'
Philippa continued. 'Yet you played unwisely. You chose to play on the side of
the wrong person.'

'Alice Petherton,' said Dorothy.

'Quite the wrong person,' Philippa said.

'What do you mean?' Lucy asked. 'Alice is friendly to me, she is kind.'

Dorothy shook her head in a pitying fashion. 'Poor
child,' she said, her voice condescending.

'You have been beguiled,' said Philippa, 'bewitched.
You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Why else would the Queen hate
Alice Petherton so?'

'The Queen?' Lucy put her hand to her heart in shock.
She had heard no such rumour until now.

'It is not common knowledge,' Philippa said. She shook
her head in an even more pitying manner than Dorothy had done. 'We tell you
because we fear for you.'

'Fear for me?' The tears welled in earnest now, two
plump drops which coursed down Lucy's cheeks.

'Any friend of Alice Petherton's is an enemy of the
Queen,' Philippa said.

Dorothy grabbed hold of Philippa's arm, feigning
excitement and haste. 'Is it too late to prevent news of Lucy from reaching the
Queen's ears?' she asked.

'I fear it may well be.' Philippa touched Lucy upon
the arm. Her fingers were hot as fire. 'You were too public in your support of
Alice Petherton, far too public.'

Lucy felt her heart turn cold. A bitter taste of fear
filled her mouth.

'But can we help her?' Dorothy pleaded.

Lucy turned an anxious gaze from Dorothy to Philippa.
Would they help her? Could they?

Philippa placed her chin in her hand and gave great
thought to the question.

'Perhaps,' she said at last. Then she bent close to
Lucy's face. 'But I make no promises. The Queen's wrath may be too strong to
rein in.'

Lucy burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

'I didn't know,' she said, 'I didn't know about Alice
and the Queen.'

'Maybe you didn't,' Philippa said. 'But you know now.'

The two older women turned and headed for the door,
soft-padded like foxes who have left the hen-coop a charnel house.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wanted Once More

14th October 1537

'You're wanted. Look lively.'

I glanced up to see Page Humphrey looming over me. He
stood with hands on hip, all a swagger. I shot a quick look around, anxious
lest he be noticed by the other ladies. They were bending over their
needle-work, engrossed completely.

I gathered up my embroidery and hastened after
Humphrey who was even now at the door, stepping away without a backward look as
if he had no need to check on my compliance.

I stepped through the door. 'You need not make so
public a show,' I hissed.

Humphrey shrugged. A little grin played over his face.

I'll wipe that grin from your mouth my fine little
friend, I thought. In a little while, a very little while.

I risked a quick glance into the room. It was as I
feared. Every one of the ladies had dashed down their needle-work and were
whispering together like rats sniffing for food.

'Look lively,' the Page repeated. 'He won't be kept
waiting.'

He led the way through the corridors at a pace I had
trouble keeping up with. Skirts are a hindrance in any conspiracy. With their
stockings and hose it's no wonder men wield all the power. Perhaps that's why
women are made to wear such mountains of clothes. They slow us down, encumber
us, make it hard to chase and harder still to escape.

I was breathless by the time we reached the Study. The
Page pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the chamber. 'In here,' he said. Then
he grinned. 'But you know that already, don't you, miss.' He sauntered off
whistling tonelessly.

I stared after him, my eyes afire with venom. Then I
mastered myself and knocked gently upon the door.

It was opened not by the King but by Frost, his groom.
This would not have surprised me when I visited before, when I was coming to
read poetry. Now it did.

'The King is finishing off some work in his Holyday
Closet,' Frost said. He stood aside for me to enter. He half blocked the
entrance and I had to brush against him, feeling the pressure of his closeness.
I thought I heard a swift intake of breath or perhaps a sniff of his nose.

'Wait there until the King wants you.' He pointed to
one of the low chairs near the fireplace. This was a comfort to me for his eyes
were so crossed I did not rightly know where he was looking.

I sat and held my hands out towards the fire. Frost
busied himself without another glance towards me. I wondered what kind of man
would take and be given such a position. He would need to be as competent as a
Cathedral builder and secret as a tomb. What he witnessed, what he knew, could
cause untold embarrassment to the King. And, therefore, if he caused such
embarrassment, it could mean a potentially hideous death for him. I wondered
what had happened to Frost's predecessors, wondered what traps and snares the
future held for him.

He was swift and adroit in his work, no doubt about
that. He picked up the volumes strewn about the room with smooth, economical
movements, scanned the title of each book and set it in a decided place upon
the table. There must have been near a dozen of them scattered around the Study
but soon all were collected upon the table. He stood back, as if to examine his
handiwork. Then he bent, gathered them up with surprising tenderness and
slipped along the bookcases as gentle as a breeze, replacing them in their
rightful homes.

The last book he did not replace but opened somewhat
near the middle and swiftly riffled through the pages as if seeking for one he
knew. His face lit up and he leaned against the wall, reading deeply as if a
thirsty man slaking himself at a pool. So, Master Frost, you too have liking
for books. I stored the knowledge of this close within me.

I watched him as he read for, until now, I had little
time to take note of him. He was straight and narrow as a river reed, spare of
both muscle and excess flesh. He had a soulful face, like a hunting hound
which, strive though it might, had never been first at the fleeing fox and bore
this sorrow upon its face. His eyes were dark and still, shrouded by heavy
brows, with drooping lids which seemed to yearn to close, as if they sought to
hide the fact that they were crossed. His nose was long and thin, a questing
nose which made him look cold and disdainful. Yet his lips were full as a young
girl's, so red that one might have thought he painted them. Below this was a
chin cut square as if to say, don't cross me, don't risk yourself in doing so.
A decided face, I concluded, full of contradiction and enigma.

He looked up suddenly, not noticing me but aware of
something else outside the room. His nose seemed to scent the air and he
composed his face into impassive a visage. He returned the book to its shelf
and turned towards the far door.

'The King approaches,' he said to me although he did
not as much as look my way.

I turned in some bewilderment. The King was not yet
here, nor could I hear any sound of him approaching.

Frost gestured to me to stand which I did in some
haste and flurry. I craned my ears and still heard nothing. Finally, after long
moments, I heard the soft creak of a board and soon after the distant
purposeful tread of the King.

'How did you know?' I asked Frost in amazement.

'I just know,' he answered. 'I always do.'

The door was almost dragged out of its sockets and
there, filling its space, stood the King. He was dressed in a thick fur coat
and wore a little hat upon his head, a tassel of red cord hanging from it and
resting upon his brow. He would have looked quite sweet had he been a normal
man. But he was King Henry Tudor and the potency beat from him like summer
heat.