The Queen's Dwarf A Novel

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reed clamped between Samuel’s lips, his fingers flying along the pipe’s length.
    I thrust and feinted with my pennon stave, swirling the banner into shapes, leaping through the circle of color as if it were a hoop. The assemblage cried out in amazement, the applause turning my feet into springs. Never had I leapt so high, my heavy breastplate now lighter than the muslin clouds. I glimpsed the duchess’s worried face and Buckingham’s mother’s contemptuous sneer as I danced on.
    At last I finished, sweeping down to one knee to pay homage. My breath came in gasps despite my effort to calm it. The silk shirt beneath my breastplate was soaked with sweat, but the glow in my cheeks was pure triumph. If I had been at the market fair, pennies would have rained into my father’s pocket.
    The queen rose in a gown green as a meadow, starred with gems. She was small in stature, delicate. Her quick, grace-filled movements and eager gaze reminded me of a sparrow.
    My gaze shifted to the man at her side. The queen’s husband stood only a little taller than she did. I stared, unable to believe that I was an arm’s length from the king. A most disappointing figure of a king. Garbed in sober black, Charles Stuart held himself apart, his shoulders stiff, his legs too thin. Rumor said he had not even learned to walk until he was four years old.
    His dark hair was forced into curls that tried—and failed—to match the natural lushness of Buckingham’s. Thin wisps of mustache and beard could not disguise a weak chin. His overlarge eyes were so aloof, they made me want to find a brazier to get warm.
    I wondered if His Highness knew what anyone who saw him next to Buckingham was thinking: Buckingham looked like the king, and Charles, his servant.
    “You have outdone yourself, Buckingham!” The king praised the duke with the eagerness of an awkward younger brother trying to please the heroic elder one he adored. “What a droll little man!”
    “I would wager even the queen, with her renowned menagerie, has never seen my freak’s equal.”
    “He is the most wondrous creature I have ever encountered,” Her Majesty said, Sir Tobie’s voice a murmur behind her. The queen reached toward me, then curled her fingers into her palm and let her hand fall to her side.
    Buckingham laughed, addressing the assemblage in English. “Her Majesty looks at my freak as if he were honey cake and she wants to take a bite.”
    The queen flushed at Mathews’s translation. “You overstep yourself, Your Grace.”
    “You always take Buckingham’s jests too seriously!” the king said. “He has gone to great trouble to please you tonight.”
    “Yet, I have offended Her Majesty somehow.” Buckingham appeared crestfallen. “I suppose there is a reason God fashioned women to be jealous of their dignity. How else can such frail vessels bring men to our knees? We husbands must chasten them for their tempers, even though they cannot help misbehaving. I vow I would go to any length to prove my goodwill to the queen.”
    It was the signal I was to listen for. “I know a way!” I burst out, then shrank back, appropriately appalled at my own boldness.
    Buckingham gaped as if the golden deer decorating the saltcellar had spoken, the queen startled, yet leaning closer to Sir Tobie, eager for his translation.
    “Your Grace, forgive me,” I rushed on. “But I could suggest a gift you might offer the queen.”
    “I would grant Her Majesty anything in my power,” Buckingham said with an ominous undertone, as if I would be punished for my impertinence. “You think a dwarf knows how to please the queen better than a nobleman of the realm? By all means, enlighten my guests. What would you have me give the queen?”
    “Me.” I did not have to pretend I was fighting to master my nerves.
    “You?” Buckingham echoed.
    “To act in her masques and caper about and make jests. If Her Majesty would have me.” I turned to the young queen, silently pleading that

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