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Authors: Karen Harper
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lumped in the pit of her belly, for it seemed to have permeated the nearby tents. Despite the fact that she must now suspect her two remaining artists—not counting Gil, of course, who had been in a more distant tent with Jenks and Ned—with good conscience she could not ask those living closest to the site to remain here. After all, she had invited these people to accompany her. She owed them kindness and hospitality, at least until she could prove someone’s guilt.
“I’m going to order these closest tents to be pitched on the other side of the encampment,” she announced to Lavina and Heatherley as she returned to the entry of the tent. “It won’t do anyone any good to try to sleep near this site. I suggest you go inside the palace to get something to eat, then attend the memorial service. Afterward, you will find your tents on the far side of the encampment with everything moved for you.”
Both of them looked immensely relieved, as if they had just been exonerated from any wrongdoing. They had no notion that she, Cecil, and Dr. Dee were going to give their tents a thorough tossing before they saw them again.
As if he weren’t on edge enough, Gil fumed, the queen kept him waiting outside her apartments a good hour after she sent for him. He paced the grand, ornate staircase up and down. Each time on the ground floor, Gil studied the frescoes of cavorting gods and goddesses that Master Kendale had boasted he’d painted in the six months he’d lived here while the palace was being built. Gil could almost hear the man’s voice now, for his bragging last night had been as bloated as his flesh. But now that the blowhard was dead, Gil had regrets.
“Great King Henry visited many times to see the progress we builders and artists were making, and he complimented me especially,” Kendale had boasted just the night before, after he’d invited Gil into his tent and, stupidly, Gil had gone. The man had been drinking overmuch; he reeked of wine and slurred his words. “Complimented me especially” had come out more like “come peaceably.” He’d looked unsteady on his feet too, though the cause of that might have been balancing his excessive girth on those spindly ankles.
Gil had replied, “Her Majesty fondly recalls how proud her royal sire was of Nonsuch.” As he pictured Master Kendale’s annoyed expression again, suddenly the entire encounter came rolling back in a vividly colored scene in his mind.
“Oh, flaunting that you’re more’r less her foundling again, eh?” Kendale had goaded. Gil could tell that Niles, the young artist’s assistant, was vexed with his master for baiting another young man, or at least that’s the way Gil read things.
“I’m just recalling something she said yesterday,” Gil replied, and sidled toward the open tent flap.
“As if she’d share personal mem’ries of her royal family with a vagabond like you,” Kendale said with a hiccup. “A pox on you wi’ your inflated sense of worth, you rough-edged whelp. So what if you had three years’n Urbino or wherever—”
“And a four-month visit to Venice,” Gil said, his bile rising at Kendale’s insulting tone and glare as well as the pointed words. This man annoyed but didn’t frighten him. What scared him to death was the possibility that he’d been followed here from Urbino. Master Scarletti had said the guild of artists would kill to keep its secret. Could it have hired the man who might have been following him in Dover and again in London?
“Venice, eh?’S’at so?” Kendale needled, but Gil could tell he was impressed despite himself.
“Aye, Venice, where I met the artist I admire most in all the world, Tiziano Vecellio, called Titian.”
“Who? Well,” Kendale said, moving his bulk to deliberately block Gil in the tent, “Her Majesty’ll be sad to hear you ven’rate a foreigner over a pure English painter, like at least two of us she selected to do her official portrait.”
“One thing
“I’m going to order these closest tents to be pitched on the other side of the encampment,” she announced to Lavina and Heatherley as she returned to the entry of the tent. “It won’t do anyone any good to try to sleep near this site. I suggest you go inside the palace to get something to eat, then attend the memorial service. Afterward, you will find your tents on the far side of the encampment with everything moved for you.”
Both of them looked immensely relieved, as if they had just been exonerated from any wrongdoing. They had no notion that she, Cecil, and Dr. Dee were going to give their tents a thorough tossing before they saw them again.
As if he weren’t on edge enough, Gil fumed, the queen kept him waiting outside her apartments a good hour after she sent for him. He paced the grand, ornate staircase up and down. Each time on the ground floor, Gil studied the frescoes of cavorting gods and goddesses that Master Kendale had boasted he’d painted in the six months he’d lived here while the palace was being built. Gil could almost hear the man’s voice now, for his bragging last night had been as bloated as his flesh. But now that the blowhard was dead, Gil had regrets.
“Great King Henry visited many times to see the progress we builders and artists were making, and he complimented me especially,” Kendale had boasted just the night before, after he’d invited Gil into his tent and, stupidly, Gil had gone. The man had been drinking overmuch; he reeked of wine and slurred his words. “Complimented me especially” had come out more like “come peaceably.” He’d looked unsteady on his feet too, though the cause of that might have been balancing his excessive girth on those spindly ankles.
Gil had replied, “Her Majesty fondly recalls how proud her royal sire was of Nonsuch.” As he pictured Master Kendale’s annoyed expression again, suddenly the entire encounter came rolling back in a vividly colored scene in his mind.
“Oh, flaunting that you’re more’r less her foundling again, eh?” Kendale had goaded. Gil could tell that Niles, the young artist’s assistant, was vexed with his master for baiting another young man, or at least that’s the way Gil read things.
“I’m just recalling something she said yesterday,” Gil replied, and sidled toward the open tent flap.
“As if she’d share personal mem’ries of her royal family with a vagabond like you,” Kendale said with a hiccup. “A pox on you wi’ your inflated sense of worth, you rough-edged whelp. So what if you had three years’n Urbino or wherever—”
“And a four-month visit to Venice,” Gil said, his bile rising at Kendale’s insulting tone and glare as well as the pointed words. This man annoyed but didn’t frighten him. What scared him to death was the possibility that he’d been followed here from Urbino. Master Scarletti had said the guild of artists would kill to keep its secret. Could it have hired the man who might have been following him in Dover and again in London?
“Venice, eh?’S’at so?” Kendale needled, but Gil could tell he was impressed despite himself.
“Aye, Venice, where I met the artist I admire most in all the world, Tiziano Vecellio, called Titian.”
“Who? Well,” Kendale said, moving his bulk to deliberately block Gil in the tent, “Her Majesty’ll be sad to hear you ven’rate a foreigner over a pure English painter, like at least two of us she selected to do her official portrait.”
“One thing
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