Read Online The Lady and the Poet by Maeve Haran - Free Book Online Page A

own sister, Mary, and how she had gone in bravely, stopping only to announce, ‘Here standeth as true a subject as ever landed at these stairs.’
    I told myself we lived in kinder times than under Bloody Mary, yetthe sight only a mile or two round the bend of the gibbet at Wapping, with its occupant swaying in the breeze, carrion for the crows, made me shudder all the same.
    ‘At least he weren’t a pirate, mistress,’ the barge’s master commented, following my eye. ‘They’re hanged at low water and the tide must wash over them three times.’
    I was quiet after that, wondering what constituted piracy. Was it shipping the odd barrel of brandy, an occurrence which happened frequently enough in Sussex, or was it a practice that happened only in the far-flung oceans?
    A few more bends and we passed the quiet village of Bermondsey with its three corn-grinding mills. Only a short time now and the palace of Greenwich would be in sight.
    Out of nowhere the wind got up and the water scudded and eddied and a sheet of muddy water blew off the surface, making us wet even though we were so high.
    ‘I envy the Queen her barge’s glass windows,’ my aunt said as she shook the river water from her skirts. ‘This water is as brown as my mother’s sere-bark potions.’
    ‘It was a deal muddier when I was a boy,’ commented the master. ‘So muddy then you could catch haddock in your hand at high tide. The fish saw not where they were going!’
    Any thought of mud-blind haddock was pushed from my mind as the palace, its tall lead-roofed turrets gleaming in the sloping sunshine, hove into view. It was a glorious sight indeed. The Palace of Placentia was favourite of all the Queen’s palaces, and the one where she was born.
    The bargemaster shouted to a groom on the river bank to look out as we slid in through a great watergate. From there we walked up the steps and through a garden and thence to a courtyard where many people crowded together, some holding petitions, all eager for what could take months or years to secure: an encounter with the Queen herself.
    My heart pounded as finally we were led, with great pomp and ceremony and sound of trumpets, into the vast Presence Chamber where lay Elizabeth’s great canopied throne. But the Queen herself was not there, only some of her ladies. These were dressed in greatsplendour, all in white and silver, as my aunt had told me, though each outdid the others in trying to make her dress more gorgeous than her rivals’.
    My aunt nudged me. ‘They are Ladies of the Presence Chamber, the lowest of the Queen’s attendants, though believe me the competition even for that position is as fierce as a battle. If one of the ladies has a headache, some nobleman will be suggesting his daughter take her place before she recovers.’
    She led me past the discreetly chattering women into another smaller room beyond. Even though its size was the less it took my breath from my body. The walls were painted in a midnight blue that glowed with richness, and on them were embellished every flower that could be found in the field, in hues of scarlet, orange, purple and gold. It put me in mind of walking inside a jewelled casket. The hangings, too, were the richest I had ever seen, of ivy and fleur de lis, picked out in dark green upon a cloth of gold.
    There were several ladies reclining on great cushions opposite another throne, also canopied. My aunt nodded to them. ‘These are the Ladies of the Privy Chamber. Until recently I have been among their number. The most favoured of all are those of the Bedchamber, who dress the Queen and meet her most personal needs.’
    All at once I imagined the Queen calling out in the middle of the night for her close stool and some sleepy lady trying to be grateful for the honour of helping her to it. But I did not voice this for I was fast learning that it was best to keep such thoughts locked inside my breast.
    ‘Stay here awhile, Ann, while I discover Her