The Queene’s Christmas (36 page)

“Hm,” Elizabeth said only as she glanced at the partial portraits that Will Kendale and Henry Heatherley had done. She looked skeletal in both, but she had lost weight this winter, and they were only sketching outlines so far.

And then when the boy at the door, who had reminded her so of her brother, stood his ground, she knew who he was. Gil Sharpe! Gil had grown up and was back from Italy. He’d been gone but three years when she had assumed he’d not be back for at least five.

“Gil?” she cried and stepped around Kendales easel so fast her skirts caught its legs and he had to lunge to save it. The boy flew through the door and knelt before her in such a blur she could hardly note how his face had matured, how he’d grown sturdier and handsomer.

“Gilberto Sharpino at your service, Your Majesty,” came from a mouth muffled by the big hempen sack he toted.

“I hope you learned a thing or two on the Continent besides how to Italicize your name, Gilberto Sharpino,” she replied with a little laugh. “It’s hotter than the hinges of Hades in here so the court will be moving to the sweet, cool countryside, but you may come along—with my other artists, of course, and I’ll pose in the sun where there’s a decent breeze.”

Smiling as the boy rose, she began to signal messages with her quick hands, and he silently chattered back to her in turn, just the way they used to communicate before Gil began to talk. She ignored the mutterings and murmurs of her painters and her people, for the lad seemed to bask in her presence as if she were the sun.