Conspiracy Read online

  “I taught him that,” Masou said proudly.

  The little boy came scampering over to Masou, doing a couple of cartwheels just for fun as he came. “Did you see it, Masou? Did you see what I did? Did you see? Wasn't it good?”

  “It was brilliant,” Masou said, clapping him on the back. “You only need to turn a little faster and you won't need French Louis at all!”

  The little boy beamed with pride. He was very small and I wondered how old he was to be working in Mr. Somers's troupe already.

  “This is Gypsy Pete,” Masou said with a flourish. “Gypsy Pete, these are my friends, Ellie and … urn … Lady Grace, who will be my patron one day.”

  Gypsy Pete did a somersault. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Wasn't that good?”

  “Have you practised standing on your hands yet?” Masou asked. The little boy jumped up and tried to do a handstand but fell over.

  Masou tutted. “Your arms need to get stronger, Pete. Go and find a tree and stand on your hands against it for practice. I'll come and help in a minute.”

  “Yes, Masou,” the little boy said, and he ran off looking very determined.

  “When did he arrive?” I asked.

  “We found him doing a few tumbles with some Gypsies we saw a few days ago, and Will Somers thought he had promise,” Masou explained. “He doesn't have any parents, so the Gypsies sold him to us. He's older than he looks. He's about eight or nine, he thinks, and very nimble.”

  Ellie had a long list of things that Mrs. Fadget wanted her to do, so we left Masou to work with Gypsy Pete, and headed back to the castle. As we did so, we saw Mr. Secretary Cecil arriving late, with all his attendants and bags of letters. He is very old and balding and boring! But he is one of the Queen's most trusted advisers. We watched as he dismounted wearily and then headed straight to his own quarters higher up in the keep.

  I got back to our parlour a little later than everyone else, and found that the Maids of Honour were sitting at embroidery to keep the Queen company. The Earl of Leicester was there with the Queen as well, so I settled down to wait until she should dismiss us to go to bed.

  “Now, what are your plans for tomorrow, my lord?” the Queen enquired.

  The Earl rubbed his hands together, looking very pleased with himself. “On the morrow,” he began, “we shall have the hunt and dinner en plein air, as they do in France. And in the evening, there shall be entertainment and fireworks and then—”

  “When will Prince Sven be arriving?” interrupted the Queen. “I should be sure and welcome him myself, or he will think I am not interested in his suit.” And she smiled at the Earl to let him know she was only teasing.

  The Earl sighed. “Of course. I shall send the messenger this evening to say that you will receive him tomorrow morning. He is only three miles away and can be ready to greet Your Majesty within the hour.”

  “Hmph,” said the Queen, taking another grape and popping it in the Earl of Leicester's mouth. “He had better not come too early as my toilette will take longer—I shall be at my best for him.”

  “But “four Majesty, how can there be any way of improving perfection?” asked the Earl with a look of false innocence.

  The Queen smiled. They always play this kind of game when they are together, and the Queen is at her most relaxed when she is with the Earl. Mrs. Champernowne doesn't like him—and I don't, either, when he's being bad-tempered—but I think it's a pity he can't marry the Queen because of the scandal over his wife. I'm sure the Queen is only pretending to be interested in Prince Sven's suit for her hand—it's all about diplomacy and alliances being forged, as marriage always is for everybody except peasants. That's why half the courtiers talk so wistfully about being shepherds and shepherdesses who don't have to care about such things, and can wed purely for love if they choose.

  So that is what happened yesterday evening, and now the sun is up and everyone is getting dressed for a new day.

  And Mrs. Champernowne is scowling at me, so I must stop writing.

  Well, that was most interesting! I have just changed into my hunting kirtle—my black wool, because the green wool is too disgraceful to be seen, according to Mrs. Champernowne—and I am writing this while I wait for the other Maids of Honour to do likewise. It takes some longer than others—especially Lady Sarah, who must have everything just so.

  I shall begin with where I left off writing as we were dressing for to meet the Swedish Prince. We were told to wear black and white, and the Queen wore black velvet and white sleeves and forepart, so we all looked like a chequerboard when we were ready. Despite what she had said, she was up very early—and bad-tempered about it—because she didn't want to miss any hunting. The Earl had been up even earlier, of course, because he was to escort the Prince into Kenilworth.

  I think it is very funny when the Queen is engaged in a courtship. Sir William Cecil fusses horribly over the arrangements. I'm afraid he is very dull— ditchwater is exciting by comparison. He never talks about anything except business and politics and administration, which is why the Queen has him as Secretary to the Council.

  Anyway, as I was explaining to Mary Shelton, a courtship is like an elaborate game: the Prince or Duke, or whatever, has to pretend to be madly in love with the Queen. And the Queen has to pretend to be a shy, timid maiden! Mary thought that would be a sight to see.

  This one had been carefully planned. The Queen would be casually taking the air in the garden, which has been hew planted with roses to scent the air, and we would be with her. Then Prince Sven, so full of love for her that he couldn't wait for an audience, would come to find her there.

  While the Chamberers finished dressing the Queen, we were all making ready in our own chamber. My ankle was still quite sore, but I was desperate to see this Swedish Prince, so I was hobbling about while Sarah and Jane sat with their backs to each other fussing about hair and smearing beeswax—pounded with little beetles from the New World—onto their lips to make them red and beautiful.

  “Good morning, my lady,” said a friendly voice from the door. “May I be of service?” I turned to see John Hull bowing to me. There was quite a flutter, and both Lady Jane and Lady Sarah turned to give him very gracious smiles because both thought he meant them. “Mrs. Champernowne asked me to help you,” he explained. “Because of your injured ankle.”

  Jane and Sarah scowled at each other. As for me, I must say I think I am sickening of some distemper or other, for I suddenly felt very hot. “Um … my ankle is still very sore,” I said, wishing it were a bit more swollen so I could show him. My voice sounded quite odd when I spoke. Definitely a distemper—I hope not plague.

  I leaned on his arm to hobble down the stairs and, at the bottom, thanked him. I felt fine once we were on flat ground in the courtyard, but I did a bit more hobbling anyway as he went away.

  The Queen came down with Lady Helena and we all went into the walled garden, where there are apricots trained on the south-facing walls and new roses in raised beds.

  The Queen started pacing around as she always does, walking very fast, with the lapdogs skittering about behind her. Mary Shelton took the leads. As arranged, neither the Earl of Leicester nor any of the other courtiers were there, although the Gentlemen of the Guard were standing by the gates, of course, and their Captain, Mr. Hatton, wouldn't be far off.

  We heard all the clattering and neighing when the Prince's entourage arrived, but of course pretended not to. And then the gate swung open and a very tall handsome man, dressed all in black velvet, with crimson lining showing in his trunk hose, came hurrying in, followed by a couple of noblemen, one carrying a long package. Prince Sven has the most amazing long legs and broad shoulders, and he has bright blond hair and quite the palest blue eyes I have ever seen.

  “Vere is she, the Goddess Diana, the fairest Queen?” he demanded, in English spoken with a strong Swedish accent.

  The Queen turned and put her hand to her mouth as if she were shy. Then she turned back again.

&nbs
p; Prince Sven came striding past the rose bushes and threw himself on his knees in front of her—after one of the noblemen we met yesterday had discreetly pointed the Queen out to him.

  “Your Majesty, forgive me!” he said. “I could not vait for your gracious audience. I had to come and see you in the garden, vere all the roses are ashamed to bloom if you are near.” He gabbled this speech in a sort of shout, as if he were afraid he might forget the next words. I was sure he did not know what it all meant.

  The Queen smiled and gave him her hand to kiss, which he did very passionately.

  “Rise, Your Grace,” she said. “Your presence is most welcome to us in this our realm of England.”

  Lady Helena was at her side, translating now, and the Prince answered in Swedish, rolling his eyes at the Queen very romantically.

  It sounded funny when Lady Helena said in her sweet, gentle voice, “When my lord of Leicester came to say that you would receive me, my joy was infinite.”

  “Will you join us in our pleasures and revels here, then, Your Grace?” asked the Queen, and Lady Helena translated.

  “Yes,” said the Prince, nodding vigorously, and he beckoned over his shoulder to the nobleman carrying the long package.

  Lady Helena said, “His Grace begs you will accept a small token of his love, most beauteous Diana—Artemis, maiden of the chase.”

  The Queen clapped her hands and laughed quite girlishly. Considering how many presents people give her, I think it's very nice how much she still likes to get them.

  The man holding the package was the Prince's secretary, who had looked so serious when he delivered the hunting horn to the Queen yesterday. I noticed that he still looked rather grim-faced, as he came forward and kneeled to givethis new present to the Prince, who gave it to the Queen.

  She unwrapped the crimson taffety and gasped. It was a short hunting bow—the kind a lady uses, but made of ivory, not wood, and amazingly carved and decorated with gold and jewels. The Queen loves hunting and this was a beautiful bow. It came with a red leather quiver and in the quiver were the arrows. One of them was larger than the others and glittered in the sun. The Queen drew it out and we saw that the arrow was made of silver, with a gold barb and diamonds all along the fletching.

  Prince Sven went to one knee again. “Vith this arrow, the arrow of your beauteous gaze, Queen Elizabeth, you have pierced my poor heart, most chaste, most puissant Queen,” he gabbled, frowning with the effort of remembering.

  “You gladden my heart, Your Grace,” the Queen said, handing the bow to Lady Helena to hold for her. “Would you like to attend me as I make trial of your gift at a hunt my lord of Leicester has arranged for today?”

  I expect the Earl had already told Prince Sven about the hunt on the way over to Kenilworth, but he bowed again and said, “Gladly.” And then came lots more Swedish in the direction of Lady Helena.

  “His Grace asks that he may withdraw to prepare for the hunt,” she said, and the Queen nodded graciously and let him kiss her hand again.

  As soon as he was gone, we had to come up here to change. I'm not looking forward to the hunt at all. I'm really not a very good rider, despite all the lessons I've had, so I always try to trail along at the back. Last time I fell off my horse into a bramble bush, and had to spend ages pulling thorns out of my bum.

  I've just had a brilliant idea for getting out of the hunting party. The Queen is in her Withdrawing Chamber, and the Chamberers are bringing in her hunting kirtle, so I'm going to see her now….

  My plan didn't work. I must go hunting, after all. Hell's teeth!

  I was so pleased with my plan to get out of hunting. I got one of the Chamberers to let me bring in Her Majesty's choice of gloves, and hobbled in pathetically with them laid out on a velvet cushion.

  The Queen was in a hurry, and smiled fiercely at me as if she was expecting me, though I don't know why. “Yes, Lady Grace?”

  “Um … Ybur Majesty …” I curtsied with what I'm sure was a very realistic wobble. “May I be excused from the hunt?”

  “What have you against hunting?” asked the Queen, picking up some white kid gloves with spring flowers embroidered on long cuffs.

  “Well, nothing, Your Majesty,” I said awkwardly. “I know it is the best way to get venison for the Court, and if deer were not hunted they would eat all the crops, but, urn, I hate looking at the deer being killed.”

  The Queen shook her head. “You are too soft for this world, Grace, my dear. Here it is kill or be killed.”

  “Er, yes, but I am not at all good enough to hunt with you and my riding is still very poor …,” I gabbled.

  “It will only amend with practice,” said the Queen, drawing on the other glove and wriggling her fingers.

  “And, urn, my ankle is sore where I twisted it, Your Majesty.”

  She smiled. “Which makes no odds at all, since it is your horse that will be running, not you. Come, Grace, I desire to have all my attendants to make a good show for the Prince. And you must overcome your timorousness with horses. I would do you no favours by listening to your fears.”

  I sighed. It's not that I'm afraid; it's just that I'm embarrassingly bad at it. But there was no point arguing, so I curtsied again and withdrew.

  Still sighing, I went to the stairs with the others and found John waiting for me. I leaned on him and hobbled all the way down the stairs, reminding myself which ankle was the sore one as I went.

  Behind me, Lady Sarah was laughing with Carmina. “At last we shall have a good run. I am so weary of ambling along roads in the sun,” she was saying.

  I wanted to kick her. It's not fair, she loves to ride and, what's worse, she's good at it. Her horses always do what she wants.

  “Urn … are you hunting too, John?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “I shall follow you if it likes your ladyship.”

  “Oh, er, yes,” I said, wondering what had happened to my tongue, which felt as if Mary Shelton had been knitting with it. Really, John Hull makes me feel quite uncomfortable and flustered, though he is most pleasant. I think it might be his eyes that unsettle me—I've never seen any so bright.

  I leaned on John all the way to the Earl of Leicester's enormous stables, which turned out to be the cleanest I have ever seen, even compared to the ones at Charing Cross. The stones were gleaming and there was not a wisp of straw out of place. Our palfreys were standing waiting. I had one called Borage, with small twitchy ears, who sidestepped as I came near.

  John took the bridle and brought Borage up to the mounting block. Then he helped me get myself settled into the saddle—which is always the tricky bit. The one good thing about side-saddles is that they are very hard to fall out of—though I've managed several times.

  Then I had nothing to do but wait. John went off—to see about the hounds, he said—and a little while later the Queen's horse was led up to the mounting block. Then some pages arrived shouting, “The Queen! The Queen!” And everyone stood, or sat up straighter, as the Queen came into the yard.

  The Earl of Leicester held the Queen's stirrup for her, as she mounted and settled herself in the saddle with her whip in her hand.

  The ladies dropped back as the gentlemen rode up to surround the Queen, each more upright and dashing than the last, all desperately trying to impress her with their horsemanship.

  The Queen was now surrounded by gentlemen, with the Earl of Leicester and Mr. Hatton the closest. Sir William Cecil wasn't there—he doesn't like hunting, and was probably busy with paperwork. When everyone was ready we rode out and through the village, towards the forest.

  Borage snorted and trotted to keep up with the crowd of other horses. I sighed. I much prefer lazy horses to eager ones.

  The Queen was chatting to the Earl as he rode beside her, her face all lit up with excitement and pleasure. She beckoned to one of the grooms, who was carrying her quiver for her, and took out the bow to show the Earl.

  He examined it gravely.

  “Isn'
t it beautiful?' she demanded. “I have never seen a bow like it.”

  “It is very pretty,” agreed the Earl loftily. “But will it shoot?”

  “We shall try it, my lord. But do you not like it?” the Queen persisted teasingly.

  “It is well enough—a fair toy for a maiden,” said the Earl, scowling now. “But I fear “four Majesty shall find it bends but stiffly, and is not so apt to your hand as it may be fair to your eye.”

  Mary Shelton caught my eye and her eyebrows went up at this. We'd both guessed that the Earl was speaking in riddles. He was really talking about the Swedish Prince.

  “String it for me,” ordered the Queen.

  The Earl did so immediately, pushing the bottom end against his saddle-horn without much effort, which was quite impressive. Normally you string a bow by pushing the bottom end against the ground. He passed it back to the Queen, who twanged the string a couple of times, then took an arrow, nocked, drew, and loosed. It thunked into a tree nearby. “I think it is apt for the purpose,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  ““four Majesty is a true Artemis,” replied the Earl, bowing from the saddle.

  We had come to the edge of the forest. Waiting there was the Swedish Prince with five of his men, looking dashing and handsome in their hunting jerkins. I couldn't see John anywhere, although I had seen him going to mount.

  I prefer it when the Queen waits in a hide for the beaters to drive up the game, and then shoots whatever tries to run past. But really, to Her Majesty, hunting is just an excuse to ride as fast as she can through woods and across country. She has no fear. If it would not make Sir William Cecil faint with horror, I think she would even hunt boar as the King of France does.

  The Earl had organized everything in advance, so the deer had already been found by the men with lymer dogs. One of the huntsmen showed us where to go as the dogs milled around snorting and trying to find the scent. I settled myself with my whip and found John riding nearby on a strawberry roan. I was quite pleased to see him there, though I really really hoped I wouldn't end up head-first in a nettle bed.