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Authors: Jane Feather
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this empty corridor with a cipher.
“Do you attend the musical entertainment this evening?”
Pippa shook her head. “No, I have no stomach for it. I feel as if I haven't slept properly in weeks. I shall ask Martha to bring me a cup of hippocras and sleep until daybreak.”
“You look as if you could do with it,” Robin said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Leave the rest to me.”
She smiled, a wan smile but it was an attempt, returned the kiss, and they parted. Pippa made her way to her chamber. Martha should bring her a cup of hippocras and a dish of coddled eggs with manchet bread. Nursery fare. And she would sleep. No strange tangled dreamworld tonight, just sweet oblivion. Stuart, she knew, would not touch her in her sleep this night.
Queen Mary nodded gently to the strains of music plucked from the musicians' instruments. They were playing “Greensleeves,” an air composed by her father, Henry VIII, and a tune particularly close to her heart. Her father had ill-treated her in her adolescence and earlier womanhood, but as a child he had adored her and she had never ceased to adore him, to long for his love and approval even during their worst estrangements. She had longed for it, but for many years she had refused to do the one thing that would have given it to her: agree to accept her own illegitimacy and disavow the pope's authority as head of the church in England.
Finally she had yielded and had been restored to the succession. After her brother Edward's death, she had fought for and won the throne. And now here she sat under the canopy of estate, married to a Catholic king, for the moment undisputed queen of England, her enemies confounded.
But for how long? The question was ever-present, lurking on a good day just below the surface of her mind. On a bad day all she could think of.
A child, most especially a son, would ensure her throne. The son of Philip of Spain would return England to the Catholic fold forever, link this country to the Holy Roman Empire through Philip's father and Mary's cousin, the emperor Charles V.
Mary leaned back on her throne, the jewels set into the chair above her head blazing in the brightly lit chamber. She laid a hand fleetingly on her belly, wondering if Philip's seed had yet taken root.
In her womb?
Or the other?
Her gaze roamed the chamber, glanced off the courtiers standing in knots or sitting in little groups on stools or thick cushions. Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador and her longtime ally and conspirator, stood with Philip's most trusted councillor, Ruy Gomez. Their heads were together as they murmured to each other.
Mary glanced at her husband, who sat beside her. He seemed uninterested in the music, his chin resting on his palm, his elbow propped on his knee clad in hose of gilded doeskin. His eyes were on the two men by the window as if he was trying to read their lips.
Another man joined the two. Lionel Ashton, elegant in doublet and hose of emerald green, with a short cloak of ivory velvet studded with jet, seemed, Mary thought, to materialize from the air. An unconscious frown deepened on her brow. Unlike her husband she found the Englishman a puzzle. Philip considered him a useful asset, a cultivated Englishman who had embraced Spain. A man who knew both sides, who could offer useful insights into both camps. A man who was vital to the business that concerned them both.
A distasteful business, Mary would be the first to acknowledge, but in general she refused to allow herself to dwell upon it, and certainly not upon the details. But there was something about Lionel Ashton that made her uneasy. Nothing she could put her finger upon, but something about his remoteness, his seeming detachment, that gave her a prickle of uncertainty.
Her husband leaned over to her. “You will excuse me, madam.”
She smiled at him. “Of course, my lord.”
Philip rose from his throne, causing a flurry of activity as pages and attendants
“Do you attend the musical entertainment this evening?”
Pippa shook her head. “No, I have no stomach for it. I feel as if I haven't slept properly in weeks. I shall ask Martha to bring me a cup of hippocras and sleep until daybreak.”
“You look as if you could do with it,” Robin said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Leave the rest to me.”
She smiled, a wan smile but it was an attempt, returned the kiss, and they parted. Pippa made her way to her chamber. Martha should bring her a cup of hippocras and a dish of coddled eggs with manchet bread. Nursery fare. And she would sleep. No strange tangled dreamworld tonight, just sweet oblivion. Stuart, she knew, would not touch her in her sleep this night.
Queen Mary nodded gently to the strains of music plucked from the musicians' instruments. They were playing “Greensleeves,” an air composed by her father, Henry VIII, and a tune particularly close to her heart. Her father had ill-treated her in her adolescence and earlier womanhood, but as a child he had adored her and she had never ceased to adore him, to long for his love and approval even during their worst estrangements. She had longed for it, but for many years she had refused to do the one thing that would have given it to her: agree to accept her own illegitimacy and disavow the pope's authority as head of the church in England.
Finally she had yielded and had been restored to the succession. After her brother Edward's death, she had fought for and won the throne. And now here she sat under the canopy of estate, married to a Catholic king, for the moment undisputed queen of England, her enemies confounded.
But for how long? The question was ever-present, lurking on a good day just below the surface of her mind. On a bad day all she could think of.
A child, most especially a son, would ensure her throne. The son of Philip of Spain would return England to the Catholic fold forever, link this country to the Holy Roman Empire through Philip's father and Mary's cousin, the emperor Charles V.
Mary leaned back on her throne, the jewels set into the chair above her head blazing in the brightly lit chamber. She laid a hand fleetingly on her belly, wondering if Philip's seed had yet taken root.
In her womb?
Or the other?
Her gaze roamed the chamber, glanced off the courtiers standing in knots or sitting in little groups on stools or thick cushions. Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador and her longtime ally and conspirator, stood with Philip's most trusted councillor, Ruy Gomez. Their heads were together as they murmured to each other.
Mary glanced at her husband, who sat beside her. He seemed uninterested in the music, his chin resting on his palm, his elbow propped on his knee clad in hose of gilded doeskin. His eyes were on the two men by the window as if he was trying to read their lips.
Another man joined the two. Lionel Ashton, elegant in doublet and hose of emerald green, with a short cloak of ivory velvet studded with jet, seemed, Mary thought, to materialize from the air. An unconscious frown deepened on her brow. Unlike her husband she found the Englishman a puzzle. Philip considered him a useful asset, a cultivated Englishman who had embraced Spain. A man who knew both sides, who could offer useful insights into both camps. A man who was vital to the business that concerned them both.
A distasteful business, Mary would be the first to acknowledge, but in general she refused to allow herself to dwell upon it, and certainly not upon the details. But there was something about Lionel Ashton that made her uneasy. Nothing she could put her finger upon, but something about his remoteness, his seeming detachment, that gave her a prickle of uncertainty.
Her husband leaned over to her. “You will excuse me, madam.”
She smiled at him. “Of course, my lord.”
Philip rose from his throne, causing a flurry of activity as pages and attendants
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