The Queen's Lady (6 page)

‘You, my lady, are a tigress. You had no need of my poor services, did you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, sir, you make a very good rescuer. I was fortunate you came by just at that moment.’

He sheathed his rapier through the loop on his belt. ‘Not luck, my lady, but thanks to the fact that they chose to attack you on the path to the fencing hall. If not me, some other practitioner of the art would’ve come by at any moment.’

‘I always thought my stepsons were idiots; they can’t even stage an ambush right,’ Jane muttered.

James surprised himself by laughing. The young marchioness had always had a vinegary sense of humour, adding relish to any situation that other ladies might make bland with vapid remarks. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her before; he had never understood why his brother had thought her insipid and too proper. For his part, he’d always suspected her of being as tempestuous as he was. Events had proved him right.

They found Jane’s man snoozing on a bench by the western doors to the abbey. James gave him a shove.

‘Do your job, man. While you were sleeping, your mistress was accosted.’

The servant stammered his excuses.

‘Next time, keep her in sight at all times.’ James bowed to Jane. ‘I’ll leave you here.’

She dipped a curtsy. ‘Thank you, sir.’

James waited on the steps until he had watched them arrive safely at one of the doors to Whitehall Palace. He shook his head, puzzled by his actions and hers. The day before they had been throwing insults at each other; now, they were acting very much like friends.

5

Silver Street, London

Milly read the letter from Jane several times, trying to make sense of it. It had clearly been written in two parts: the first, spitting with fury at the unmannerly conduct of her James, the second, recounting a quite different treatment at his hands. Her poor friend had it bad: she did not seem to realize that her strong swings of emotion betrayed her deeper feelings. What remained a mystery was quite what he felt towards Jane.

‘Mistress, there’s a young man to see you,’ Henny announced, hovering in the doorway to the upstairs parlour, wringing her hands.

Milly tried not to be irritated by her servant’s nervous habit – and failed.

‘What manner of man is he?’ she asked, threading her embroidery needle with azure silk. ‘Not the bailiff I hope? I thought all my accounts were settled.’

‘No, no, not him.’ Henny tugged her black apron straight. ‘He’s one of those blackamoor fellows like you see in the households of the great lords. Dark as the devil himself.’

Milly put her work aside with a huff of displeasure. ‘I beg you not to speak so.’

Her reproof sailed over the head of London-born Henny who shared the prejudices of her fellow citizens. They were accustomed to thinking anyone different – Jew, Moor, Spaniard, Russian – the spawn of Beelzebub.

‘Shall I send him up, mistress?’

What else would she ask her to do with him?
Patience, Milly, patience
, she reminded herself.

‘Please.’

‘And Old Uriah too?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, he might turn nasty on you.’

‘Henny, go downstairs this instant and show our caller up with all the politeness you are capable of displaying. I will not require a guard. I expect he brings us business from his master or mistress, not threats.’

Milly checked that all was in order in the room, making a final inspection of her own person to ensure a neat, efficient appearance. She stood by the window, waiting for the visitor to arrive.

‘Go on up, um, sir. First door on the right,’ Milly heard Henny say cautiously, as if she were baiting a lion, throwing meat scraps to stop him turning on her.

The man’s steps were light and fast on the stairs. The door opened, the draught making the flames in the fireplace leap up the chimney.

‘Diego! My goodness, it is you!’ Milly was shocked that she recognized the caller. It had been three years since they had last met. He had served her father as a groom and pageboy for years until Porter had fallen into disgrace. When Diego had been sold off with her father’s horse, Barbary, she had lost track of what had become of him.

Diego grinned and made a flourishing bow. ‘Mistress Milly.’

Questions crowded into Milly’s brain like groundlings rushing to grab the best places to see the play. ‘How are you? Where are you living? How did you find me?’

He laughed, seized her outstretched hands and twirled her around. ‘You look well, mistress.’

‘I am – but I refuse to let you call me that: I have to be Milly to you or it feels all wrong.’ So many memories danced between them: around the same age, they had become friends when her father had ordered Diego to teach her to ride. Milly suspected Diego found the many-layered class distinctions of England incomprehensible and amusing, observing them when he had to, but ignoring them when it suited. He was one of the few who had not been scared to offer her comfort when her father was dragged off to the Tower. They had kept in touch for a while, but his messages, sent in the form of bead necklaces and bracelets, all handmade with loving attention, had ceased after she had moved for the fifth time. She guessed she had just become too difficult to track. ‘Please, how did you find me?’

Diego laughed at her curiosity – she was never one to let a secret rest. ‘I remembered, Milly, that you were friends with Lady Jane. I came across her two years ago and asked her maid if she knew where you were but that girl was not helpful.’ His brown eyes twinkled with humour, suggesting the reception of his request had met with a much less polite response. ‘When I saw the lady was at court, I tried her new servants and they were much kinder. They said their lady had called here.’ He squeezed her hands and let go. ‘You have done well for yourself, Mistress Porter.’

Few others would think the fall from gentlewoman to needleworker a good thing but Diego never saw matters in the usual light. Milly clasped her hands together in delight, this unlooked-for visit making her giddy with happiness as he brought a reminder of the many good times of her childhood. With him, she had always felt somehow more vibrant, more herself.

‘I’m so fortunate you took the trouble, Diego. Oh, I have so much to tell you! I thought I had lost sight of you completely. I imagined you were caught up in the household of some great lord, an ambassador perhaps, travelling the world in his entourage.’

Diego picked up some half-finished embroidery and inspected her work, running his fingers lightly over the fine stitching. ‘You mostly have the right of it. I serve the Earl of Dorset and his brothers.’ Milly’s squeal of surprise made him flinch and grin. ‘By the toes of the great crocodile, mistress, I had forgotten you did that.’

She giggled. Diego had always teased her with outlandish oaths. ‘By the tears of the white elephant, it is an incurable disease with me, I vow. But the Earl of Dorset – how did that come about?’ How strange that three of her friends had become entangled with the fortunes of that noble family.

He laid the embroidery carefully back on her worktable. ‘I went with Barbary. My lord the earl was in need of a horse and your father’s was up for sale. You see it is simple really. I am with Master James Lacey for the moment.’

‘But of course – that’s how you know Lady Jane is at court.’ She gestured to him to sit. ‘How long do you have for your visit?’

‘Long enough. My master is closeted with Master Ralegh and his friends. They’re planning a voyage.’

Milly threw a shovel of coal on the fire, not wanting Diego to feel cold. She remembered he hated the English winters. ‘Oh? Where are they going?’

‘The Americas.’ Diego pulled a sceptical face. ‘These Englishmen, they are strange people. They think to take the land for themselves. Is not this country enough?’

Sitting opposite him, Milly shook her head. ‘Come now, Diego, we English aren’t as bad as the Spanish and Portuguese with their huge empires. We have to keep up with the neighbours.’

‘But why do they think these lands theirs?’ Diego seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘They go to the other side of the world and steal gold and silver then squabble over it like a pack of dogs and a bone. Why can we not all stay where we are and be content?’

Milly shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it seems in man’s nature always to want more. I know I’m always thinking of the next thing – a successful business, friends, happiness, family one day.’ Her eyes flicked up to meet his and dropped almost at once. ‘I want to sew my own little embroidery empire. Don’t you want more than you have?’

Diego did not answer immediately. Instead, he gave her a penetrating look, gaze travelling from her eyes down to where her hands rested in her lap. He cleared his throat. ‘Aye, I have always wanted more, but I am afraid to ask.’

Milly wondered what he was trying to tell her – a little scared to guess, if the truth be told. He had always treated her more like a sweetheart than his master’s daughter. Their stations in life had set them miles apart then, but now she worked for a living they were very much on a level.

‘I never thought of you being afraid of anything,’ she said, blushing. Silently, she cursed her redhead’s pale skin for making her so obvious with her embarrassment.

‘Oh, but I am.’

A loud rap at the door broke the moment. Christopher Turner burst into the room, already in mid flow.

‘My jewel of the Thames, you must help me!’ he exclaimed dramatically. ‘I have a poem to write but my muse has refused to visit me. I am desperate, nay, thirsting like a man in the midst of a desert, for an idea.’ A little late, Christopher noticed she had a guest. Undeterred, he spun round to sharpen his wit on Diego. ‘Master Moor, at your service. Forgive my rude interruption; bear with me and I will try not to bore.’

Diego had risen to his feet, as uncomfortable as a cat doused in cold water. ‘Sir Player.’

Milly rushed in between her two guests. ‘Kit, this is an old friend of mine, Diego – he … er … served my father once. Diego, Christopher Turner, as you guessed, a player, neighbour and very good customer.’

‘And who do you serve now, my blackberry of the English hedgerow?’ asked Christopher with his customary sparkle.

His teasing fell flat with Diego. ‘I am part of the Earl of Dorset’s household, sir.’

Christopher stiffened, his warm manner frosting over like a window on a January morning. ‘Indeed? You have my pity.’

‘My master is most generous,’ Diego said staunchly. ‘I have no need of your pity.’

‘Then I’ll have it back.’ Christopher snapped his fingers. ‘See, ’tis gone.’

‘Mistress Porter, I take my leave,’ Diego announced, turning his shoulder to the interloper.

‘Oh, but I thought you were able to stay for a visit!’ she protested.

‘I will call another day. I see you have more pressing demands on your time.’

She tried a smile, but the harmonious mood had gone. ‘You’re quite wrong. Master Turner can wait, can’t you, Kit?’

The player was silent, staring at Diego with dislike.

‘Kit?’ Milly prompted.

‘It is always my pleasure to wait for you, my dear,’ he said with unnecessary warmth, sending out quite the wrong signals to Diego as to the nature of their relationship.

‘Mistress Porter, good day.’ Diego bowed and hurried out.

Angry with Christopher, Milly threw a cushion at him. ‘Urgh, you infuriating creature! You scared him away!’

The player slumped into the chair Diego had vacated, unconcerned. ‘No good can come of any dealings with the Dorsets or their servants, love. Here speaks bitter experience. Best for you that he leaves you alone.’

‘You, sir, are insufferable! I’m not your love – and I don’t need you patrolling the boundaries of my friendships.’

Christopher clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘That’s it! A beautiful image – the scornful woman, the boundaries of love – I can see the sonnet now.’ He leapt up and smothered her hand in kisses. ‘Thank you, thank you, sweet Milly. You’ve saved my bacon.’

Milly found it hard to remain cross with Christopher for long. He had a deep, sometimes irrational, prejudice against anything to do with his father’s family, but otherwise meant well.

‘Oh, I’m so pleased I could be of service,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Almost worth you running off one of my best friends to make you a few pennies.’

‘My heart and my purse are yours, dear one!’ Christopher called over his shoulder as he made his exit.

‘Shame both are usually empty!’ she shouted after him.

‘Brilliant!’ Christopher’s laughter floated up the stairs. ‘I’ll use that image too, O muse of the gold thread heaven.’

Diego marched back to Durham House through the streets of the city, for once oblivious to the interest his unusual colouring attracted from the pallid Londoners. Milly Porter had for a long time been his ideal girl. He remembered the extraordinary copper sheen of her fine hair when she had worn it down as a child, the lightness of spirit she always displayed, her sweet and very kissable lips. He knew that he was not thought unhandsome by English girls – he had dallied with enough to know that his dark skin was not scorned by them at least – but Milly had always seemed impervious to his charms, persisting in seeing him just as a friend.

But then, they had been very young when they had parted, thirteen or fourteen. She had never understood that his handmade gifts were courting presents in the traditions of his country. He had come to her workshop with high hopes that she might now be ready to recognize what lay between them – hopes that had been dashed by that ridiculous long-legged chattering monkey in his too-loud clothes.

As he walked lost in thought a man staggered backwards out of an alehouse, knocking Diego into the path of an on-coming cart. Diego quickly rolled out the way and got to his feet only to be swiped by the carter’s whip.

‘You stupid foreigner! Got a death wish?’ the oaf bellowed.

Diego wished him a speedy passage to the Christian Hell and walked on, trying to wipe the muck from his livery. He hated Londoners – apart, that was, from one particular citizen. For her, he would make an exception.