Feud Read online

  I glanced cautiously at Nick, who looked well enough for a drinking man.

  He caught me looking at him and smiled ruefully, touching his cheekbone. “Do you like my battle scar, my lady?” he asked.

  “I heard you got it in a fight over a card game,” I said. “Is that true?”

  “In a way,” he admitted. “Lord knows, some men get very impatient for their money. Do you like to play?”

  “I play a little Primero with the Queen sometimes,” I told him. “But she generally gives me the money to play in the first place.”

  He smiled again, and shook his head. “But where's the excitement in that,” he asked, “if you can afford to lose?”

  I didn't know what to say to that.

  Lady Sarah, who was perched on a stool on the little dais, sighed, and I remembered I was supposed to be reading to her. I had a new book about brave warriors and magical lands and a quest for a magic sword.

  Mrs. Teerlinc went to her desk in the corner and began to cast up her accounts with an abacus and a long list of bills. I tried to watch her as I read aloud, attempting to learn how she could write accounts with pen and ink and not get ink on her at all.

  Mrs. Teerlinc is the Head Limner at Court and has a pension from the Queen, so all the other limners are jealous of her, especially as she is a woman. Because of her position she has little time for actual painting, so she mainly creates beautiful, tiny portraits and pictures on vellum stuck to playing cards.

  It's the latest thing to have a miniature portrait of your love to carry with you. Daft gentlemen are always saying they want to carry Lady Sarah's beauteous visage next to their devoted hearts. Ha!

  I tried to concentrate on reading. The book is translated from the French and has some very long words in it. I quite like romances, if only they could get to the fighting sooner and leave out some of the description of the beauteous lady's golden locks, wondrous samite gowns, and tiny feet clad in Cordova leather and so on. Of course, Lady Sarah loves those parts.

  I read and read, but I also kept looking up to see Nick Hilliard painting. It is interesting, for he is intent, like a cat watching a bird before pouncing, and his hand moves so fast with the brush, it is as if he can't paint fast enough to catch the colours in front of him.

  Lady Sarah was scowling at me, her cheeks pink from wearing the Queen's heavy robes, and I realised that watching Nick Hilliard had stopped me from reading. So I started again hastily.

  “You've read that bit,” she snapped crossly. “Twice!”

  I coughed, skipped a paragraph, and read on. One of the stainers tutted because Sarah started fanning herself with the Queen's ostrich fan instead of staying still.

  Mrs. Teerlinc had finished her accounts and now had her hand on the shoulder of the stainer who was painting nearest to me. He was an old man with a tangled grey beard and eyebrows like birds' nests. He squinted at Sarah, and then squinted up close to the panel he was painting, as if he could hardly see what he was doing. I thought the pupils of his eyes looked odd, as if there were milk in them.

  “I think you should rest your eyes now, Ned,” said Mrs. Teerlinc. “You go for your pipe and a bit to eat.”

  “Ay, well,” he said. “My eyes are tired. Maybe the morning mist will have cleared when I come back.” He cleaned his fingers on a rag, tucked the brushes into the easel so they wouldn't touch anything else, and went out of the Workroom.

  Mrs. Teerlinc looked at his painting and sighed. “Nick, my dear,” she said sadly, examining some mistakes in Ned's painting, “would you mind?”

  Nick came over from his own easel, bringing his palette and brushes. He scowled at Ned's painting. Then he grabbed a brush and painted like lightning, right over Ned's mistakes—which you can do with paints that are mixed with oil, for they don't run at all.

  And the result was so much better. As Nick used his colours and lit the sheen of the pearls with silver in resin, the jewels seemed to grow there on the panel, hanging on the bodice like the real jewels!

  “Oh, really, Grace,” snapped Sarah, “please, will you stop stopping?”

  Guiltily, I returned to reading some elaborate speeches about lady-loves while occasionally sneaking glances at Nick Hilliard's work.

  I read about the terrible dragon and the beauteous lady in its clutches, and I tried to concentrate, but every so often I'd forget to read as I watched jewels and brocade spring up from Nick's brushes as if burning through the wood panel.

  By the time Ned came back, smelling of that horrible henbane of Peru that some people smoke to cure their phlegm, Nick had finished reworking all that the old man had done that morning and was back at his own easel, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

  I remembered Mary Shelton's embroidery pattern and forgot all about reading again. “May I have some heavy paper for pouncing an embroidery pattern for Mary Shelton?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Teerlinc, and she beckoned one of the two apprentices to bring some scrap paper to me. “You Maids certainly do a great deal of embroidery work,” she added.

  “Well, it is the only way we can make pictures with colours,” I explained, a little sadly, for I would love to do some painting myself. “I wish I could learn to paint with the beautiful, bright colours you use.”

  Mrs. Teerlinc smiled and shook her head. “Ah, no,” she said. “I'm afraid they are too valuable. The blue for the sky is made of ground lapis lazuli. Besides, it takes years to learn how to use all the colours. And at least embroidery silks will not stain your kirtle.”

  “No, thank the Lord, or I would never have a clean one!” I declared ruefully. “I have trouble enough with pen and ink.”

  “Grace,” moaned Sarah. “What happens next? Stop chatting about drawing and painting and read to me.”

  But Mrs. Teerlinc was patting my arm. “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “Here is a graphite pen—see, it makes only a grey dust if you brush it. You can write with it and never need to dip your pen in an ink bottle.”

  “How wonderful!” I exclaimed. “It would be marvellous not having to use ink.” Of course I tried it— and that is what I am writing with now! No ink at all!

  “You can draw with it, too,” Mrs. Teerlinc added with a smile, and gave me two more graphite pens from her little table, which I put straight in my penner. “Now, be careful with them, for they are quite easy to break and very expensive, so I will not be able to give you more.”

  “Gra-a-ace!” moaned Sarah once more. “What happens with the dragon?”

  So I sat there for another hour, burbling speeches from the beauteous damsel, and even more speeches from the brave knight who rescued her.

  At last the Queen's kirtle was done and we could leave. I helped Sarah change her clothes again—it's lucky she doesn't mind doing that, at least. It is terribly fiddly: lifting off the heavy gown and putting it on its stand, unlacing the sleeves and drawing them off, unhooking the bodice down the side, and then unhooking the back of the kirtle and drawing that off. Finally, I untied the Queen's stay laces so Sarah could stand in her shift and bumroll and farthingale and sigh and breathe again. And then, of course, I had to do her up again in her own stays and bodice and kirtle. It's agonisingly boring, wearing fine clothes, really it is. I wish I were like Ellie and could put one thing on in the morning and wear it all day. In fact, I don't think she even puts it on in the morning. I think she just wears it day and night until it falls apart or she grows out of it and has to find a new kirtle.

  I went back to the parlour for a bite of dinner with Lady Sarah. Olwen was waiting for us, and Sarah decided I hadn't been very good as a tiring woman, so after we ate, she had Olwen dress her all over again. But the good thing was that I managed to sneak a little time in my chamber to try out my new graphite pen. And so here I am, and this pen is a wonder of the world, for it never blots nor runs at all!

  Mary Shelton has just come in from visiting Carmina, who has a terrible megrim, poor soul, and was not with us for dinne
r. “Penelope says there is to be a play tonight in honour of the Scottish Ambassadors!” Mary has just said excitedly. “And Her Majesty desires you to walk the dogs, Lady Grace.”

  So, off I go.

  In the evening, in my chamber,after supper

  Lady Sarah and Mary Shelton are painting their faces and readying themselves to see the play. I am ready now, so I have time to write in my daybooke.

  I changed into my old hunting kirtle, put my graphite pens into the petticoat pocket, with my daybooke and some sugared almonds for Ellie, and then ran on tiptoes downstairs and along the Painted Passage to the door to the Privy Garden, where a Chamberer was waiting with the dogs.

  There were a couple of carts just coming into the Lesser Courtyard. People were rushing about and the Master of the Revels arrived looking pompous in his velvet gown with his white wand of office, to talk to the handsome middle-aged man sitting on the lead cart. Both carts seemed to be full of brightly coloured cloth and I wondered what on earth they were come for, but then I remembered the play. I would have stayed to watch the players prepare but I had promised Masou I would see him as soon as I could and walking the dogs gave me the perfect opportunity to meet with him and Ellie.

  I went through the orchard, towards the New Buildings. Because the village of Epsom is too small to take everyone connected with Court, extra housing has been built. There are still not enough chambers for everyone. Some people have to take haylofts and attics in the village, others just camp wherever they can. The richest lords have chambers near the Queen or stay at houses they have built nearby. It's always a problem finding lodging space for everybody who wants to come to Court and make their fortune by catching the Queen's eye. All the young men complain about how expensive it is, and how they have to share rooms and servants, but still they come.

  At the furthest end of the orchard, the wall has tumbled down and it is easy to climb over. I did so, with the dogs yapping excitedly and lifting their legs against the stones, and got into the nearest coppice. The wood will not be cut for another year or two, so it is nice and thick with trees.

  Masou was waiting for me in the den he and Ellie have made, by curving the withies over and tying them at the tops and then covering them with dry branches. It is quite hard to see in from the outside, except that Masou's suit of coloured patches shows a little through the branches.

  “Ellie will be along in a moment, only Her Majesty's silk-woman asked her to help with some partlets and a veil,” said Masou. “And I, who am merely the best tumbler in Mr. Somers' troupe, am not at all important and may be kept waiting by players and their stupid carts!”

  He usually has a smile on his face when he says something like that, so I was surprised to see he was really quite cross.

  “Lord, Masou, what's to do?” I asked.

  “Hmf!” said he. “Players, players, nought but players. They have been here in the village two days awaiting their scenery, for they said they cannot play without it—as if we had none!”

  Aha, I thought, that is why we did not know of them before—they were not yet properly come to Court.

  Masou was still grumbling. “They lost two axles in a pothole on the road from London, and had to have them mended, but they finally came today, alas. And the way they strut about as if they were Pashas … Ptah!” And he spat on the ground in disgust.

  And so that was why the two carts were coming into the Lesser Courtyard.

  I wanted to experiment some more with my lovely graphite pens, so I settled down with my daybooke on my knees and started to draw Masou. It was very difficult to limn him, especially as he would not stay still. He was tossing red and green leather balls up and about his head, and I drew them, too, like a halo for an old saint in a church window. It was hard to get the shine on his cheek, but one of the good things about graphite is that you can smudge it with your finger, so at last I had something I thought was nearly good.

  Masou looked. He said something in his own language and grinned. “Wonderful,” he translated for me. “Though my father told me that a true Mussulman never makes pictures of living things, for that is God's privilege.”

  “What do the kings decorate their palaces with, then?” I asked curiously.

  “Our writing—which is graceful and beautiful, like the wind patterns in the sand. I have seen whole walls covered in it.”

  He took one of the graphite sticks and carefully drew a sort of curly shape on the paper. You could tell it was writing, even if there was no way of making sense of it. He told me it was his name—and then he rubbed it out with his finger and some spit, so no one could make a charm out of it and enchant him.

  We heard singing coming through the thick bushes, and suddenly Ellie pushed her way into the bower, bright-eyed and happy. “Now then, Masou,” she said, “are you still as snippy as you was this morning at the buttery?”

  Masou scowled and sniffed loudly.

  “Oops, I shouldn't 'ave reminded him,” said Ellie with a grin, elbowing me painfully. “He's jealous.”

  I sighed because Masou was now looking as sour as before I did his picture.

  “I see no good reason why a performance we have been practising for two weeks should be cancelled, because some starveling, pig-eating mummers catch the eye of the Master of the Revels and so are hired to make exhibition of their stupidity!” Masou declared, very haughty.

  “That's a good likeness of 'im,” interrupted Ellie, catching sight of my limning. “'Cept for the nose, o' course.”

  Masou stopped his speech about the terrible badness of the players, looked confused, and rubbed his nose. “Why? What's wrong with it?” he demanded.

  Ellie munched up the sugared almonds that I'd brought her and dug me in the ribs again with her sharp elbow. “It is a pity about 'is nose, ain't it?” she said to me, winking.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed, looking as serious as I could. “It's terrible.”

  “Dunno what could of 'appened to do that to it,” Ellie went on, shaking her head. “Must be them players …”

  “What?” demanded Masou, crossing his eyes in an effort to look at his nose.

  “Yes,” I sighed, sucking the last sugared almond. “I think the players did the damage.”

  “What damage?” Masou said, looking annoyed and worried at the same time. “Is there a pimple? What have they done?”

  “Put your nose out of joint, o' course, you great ninny!” Ellie shrieked, and started laughing. And so did I, I'm afraid, because Masou looked so cross. “Your nose is so out of joint it's round the other side of your head!”

  “Honestly,” I said, as Masou started throwing leaves and bits of earth at us. “Aren't you pleased to get a night off and the chance to watch a new play?”

  “I heard it's very good,” said Ellie. “Susannah at the laundry said she saw it at the Bel Savage Inn, near Lud Gate, last week and it's wonderful. And as for that Richard Fitzgrey …”

  “Who?” asked Masou and I together.

  Ellie leaned in, grinning with mischief. “Oh, he'll put all your delicate Maids of Honour in a fluster, all right. 'Course he's really called Dickon Greyson, but 'e likes to fancy 'e's secretly a lord's son,” and she winked, “so 'e calls 'isself Richard Fitzgrey.”

  Masou and I looked at each other. I shook my head. “I don't think a poor travelling player will make much progress with Lady Sarah or Lady Jane,” I said. “They know they've got to marry rich nobles.”

  Ellie wagged a finger at me. “You wait,” she said. “You'll see.” And with that, she jumped up. “Come on, I'll show you. They're setting up in the Great Hall right now,” she said eagerly.

  Masou sniffed. “I've seen all I need to,” he snapped. “We shall soon see how they compare with skilled acrobats.”

  So Ellie and I left him there and climbed back over the wall. It took a while to round up the dogs, who had been trying to catch rabbits and were all covered with mud, but at last we had them leashed. I gave Ellie the leashes, so I could say we were ta
king the dogs to the laundry courtyard to wash them down, and give her a good reason to be with me.

  We passed by the back steps to the Great Hall in the Lesser Courtyard and there were the players unloading one of the carts, carrying poles and bundles of coloured cloth into the hall. One of them was standing on the cart in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, shouting orders at two boys who were struggling with a huge bundle.

  Ellie nodded. “There 'e is,” she whispered. “Richard Fitzgrey hisself.”

  I looked at him. Well, he is tall and has that sort of triangular shape all the gentlemen at Court either have, or try to fashion by having the shoulders of their doublets padded. He has a long jaw, bright blue eyes, and black hair cut long about his ears.

  Then I noticed something soppy about Ellie's expression. “Isn't he gorgeous?” she said.

  “Well, I suppose he's all right,” I admitted reluctantly. His flashing blue eyes were certainly attractive. But he did look rather big-headed.

  Ellie elbowed me again. “Oh, you!” she giggled. “Don't 'e tickle your fancy even a little?”

  And then I saw a funny thing. Lady Sarah and Penelope were crossing the courtyard together, arm in arm. I could tell that Sarah had pulled her stomacher down as far as she could, and her hair was doing that thing where it's pinned up perfectly under her little green hat but a few red ringlets seem to be falling down. It takes her ages and ages in front of the mirror to make her hair do that and somehow it makes young gentlemen's brains go soggy—at least, it seems to when Lady Sarah does it. She was smiling and laughing at something Penelope was saying.

  The unloading stopped. The two boys stood staring with the enormous bundle of cloth in their arms, and Richard Fitzgrey vaulted straight down from the cart and swept off his hat to the ladies, in the most elegant, courtly bow you can imagine.

  Both Sarah and Penelope seemed to think this was terribly witty and giggled as they walked past.

  Then all of a sudden, Lady Jane appeared holding a posy of crocuses and swaying elegantly as she walked in the opposite direction. She was wearing her most fashionable Parisian gown, and pretending to ignore Richard completely—though I saw her watching him out of the corner of her eye. And then, good heavens, there was Lettice Knollys, Penelope's pretty aunt, casually strolling along, followed by two of Her Majesty's lady Chamberers!