The Tudor Conspiracy

She said to Jane Dormer, “I don’t think this gentleman is here to see you. And you must muzzle that little dog of yours if it’s going to keep nipping everyone it doesn’t know.”
A riot of choked giggles ensued from the other women. Jane Dormer turned bright red. With another shy smile at me, she returned to her seat. Though I didn’t know most of the women staring in open curiosity at me, I noted at once that Elizabeth wasn’t among them. Then I caught Lady Clarencieux’s quick gesture at one of the matrons, who hastened to yank a linen sheet down over a large portrait propped in the corner. Before it was covered, I caught a glimpse of the image on the canvas-a fair, bearded man with a jutting chin and fine legs in white hose.
“Master Beecham, I am here.”
I turned to where the queen stood before a looking glass. She peered at me in the reflection, her head swathed in a turbanlike confection.
I bowed low. “Majesty, I am honored you could receive me at such short notice.”
The queen’s lips pursed. She surveyed me from head to toe before she broke into a terse smile that revealed tarnished teeth. “Why, it is you. I wasn’t sure at first.”
Mary Tudor was not beautiful. Whatever physical appeal she’d once possessed had been spoiled by years of bitter antagonism, so that she looked older than her thirty-seven years, her close-set hazel eyes pleated by wrinkles and her sunken cheeks betraying a premature loss of teeth. Poor eyesight had carved a furrow between her near-invisible brows, and she was gaunt, her figure almost childlike in her rigid, gem-encrusted finery. What she lacked in beauty, however, she made up for with a regal presence and a generosity of heart that had engendered loyalty in many of those who served her.
“Someone, pray take this off me,” she griped. Lady Clarencieux hastened to remove the turban. The queen’s lank red-gold hair, liberally threaded with white, fell to her shoulders. With a sigh, she passed a ringed hand over her unkempt tresses before she peered at me again. “Something is different. I find you quite changed.”
“Perhaps the beard, Your Majesty?” I suggested.
“No, you had a beard last time, though it wasn’t as fancy.” She startled me with her recollection. Feeling every woman’s eyes in the room on me, I said gently, “I have grown out my hair and put on some weight, Your Majesty.”
She brightened. “Yes, that’s it. You’re heavier.” She looked inordinately pleased she’d deduced the change. Then, as if a cloud had passed over the sun, her expression darkened. If I was heavier, I could almost hear her think, where had I been? In whose pay? Under whose roof?
Her next words were barbed. “Perhaps we’d have recognized you earlier if you had deigned to attend us at court before today. We seem to recall issuing an invitation when we were still in Framlingham, offering you a post in our service.”
“Yes, Majesty, I beg your pardon for my untimely delay. I thought it best to absent myself from court for a time.” I lowered my voice and took a step closer, seeing her draw in a breath at my intimate tone. “I feared there might be some here who would not appreciate my having betrayed their trust. Though I would gladly put myself in jeopardy again for your cause, I had no desire to risk my life unnecessarily.”
She went quiet, looking at me, before she took a small step back, restoring the proper distance between us. “We understand. And we assure you, you are completely safe. We’ve not forgotten how you rendered us valuable service.” She held out her right hand to me, adorned with her coronation ring. As I leaned over to kiss it, I let out a sigh under my breath. Cecil had been right: I still had her trust.
Then I heard her say, “Though you should remember in the future, we do not like our invitations being ignored. Your former master learned that lesson the hard way.”
A chill crept up my spine. I righted myself. She clapped her hands, eliciting another round of barking. As the ladies dug through the piles, Mary said to me, “We should discuss the reason for your visit. Rochester tells me you’ve come to seek employment?”
“If I may be so bold,” I said. Lady Clarencieux handed her a bolt of canary yellow satin. I glanced to the window seat where young Mistress Dormer sat, caressing her dog. She blushed when I winked at her.
Mary held the yellow fabric to her chin. “Well? What do you think?”
I started. The queen tapped her foot. I caught Lady Clarencieux’s amused regard. Was the queen offering me a post in her wardrobe? “It’s … rather bright,” I said helplessly.
“At last, someone who speaks the truth, Majesty,” said a rough-silk voice, and a woman unlike any I had ever seen stepped forth.
She must have been sitting, hidden, in one of the window bays, for I would have noticed her. I couldn’t have done otherwise; she was the kind of a woman I could not help but notice. She wasn’t beautiful in the popular sense. Her figure was too slim, despite the shapeliness of her breast and hips, and her features too distinctive in their chiseled perfection. Her luminous skin enhanced deep-set eyes of startling violet-blue, a thin nose, and angular cheekbones that gave her face an almost feline cast. The overall effect of aristocratic frigidity was softened by her seductive, full-lipped mouth, which hinted of voluptuous promise just simmering under her surface. Hair the color of autumn gold was coiled into an elaborate coiffure under her small pearl-edged cap, showing off her fashionably plucked brow. As she glided to the queen’s side I noted her elegance of movement, as well as her distinctive cap sleeves and stiff triangular skirts. She wore a fashion that set her apart from the other ladies present.
Mary groaned and let the sample drop at her feet. “What, then?” she asked. “It’s been hours already and I’m weary of all this.” She waved her hand at the mess in the room.
The woman turned to me. I heard a hint of challenge in her voice. “Perhaps we can impose on Your Majesty’s friend for a suggestion? He is a man, yes?”
The queen frowned. “I hardly think Master Beecham is in a position to…” Her voice faded as I moved assuredly to a nearby table heaped with samples. I scrutinized them, lifting and discarded several before I settled on a plum velvet shot with gold.
“This one,” I said.
Mary took it from me. As she held it up to her face, the ladies oohed in chorus. It was, thankfully, a perfect choice, the rich purple hue distracting from Mary’s wan skin while lending her faded hair luster. It didn’t hurt that it was also the preferred color of royalty. When in doubt with a queen, always choose purple.
“All this time and all we needed, it seems, was a man.” The woman laughed-a delicious throaty laugh that issued from low in her chest. She extended her hand to me. “Allow me to present myself. I am Mistress Sybilla Darrier.”
I leaned over her extended fingers, detecting a unique scent. “A pleasure, my lady,” I said. “Have you been in France? You smell of lilies.”
Sybilla’s eyes widened.
Mary said, “I see you are as perceptive as ever, Master Beecham. Indeed, Mistress Darrier has recently returned to England after many years abroad.”
I assumed as much. Besides the unusual scent, it explained her distinctive apparel.
“She hails from Lincolnshire,” added Mary, turning again to the looking glass to assess the sample against her complexion. “Master Beecham, weren’t you also born there?”
I went still. She had not forgotten a thing about me, it seemed.
“Indeed.” I smiled to hide my consternation. “But as Your Majesty may recall, I left following my parents’ deaths. The Sweat,” I added, with a sad shake of my head in Sybilla’s direction. “I was left an orphan while still a child.”
“How terrible,” she murmured. If I’d hoped to gain a revelation from her in return, I was disappointed, but I thought I caught a flash of interest in her eyes. My alias was one Cecil had assigned me, the persona of the sole surviving son of a client family of his. The real Daniel Beecham, like the rest of his kin, was dead. The family had been minor gentry, unlikely to have mingled with someone of Sybilla’s evident rank, but I couldn’t be too cautious. I didn’t want this woman to see me as a fellow shire man, well versed in the area.