Courtly Pleasures Read online

  Henry forced a polite laugh. He stood up and then grimaced and dropped down once more. He laughed again, this time at himself, then sighed and took a bite of his pudding. Lord Howard’s assumptions had been wrong—Henry had never done anything but his duty. He married the girl he was told to and got a child on her despite of how awkward the experience had been. He arranged for the LeSieur estate to be comfortable. He joined Parliament . . . He was so damned dutiful it made him sick. But in respect to Frances, that was all he had ever been. Honestly, he wouldn’t know how to have an open conversation with her. She intimidated the hell out of him.

  Lord Howard had been right on one point, though—he had kept her holed up in the country. He had never offered her the option to do anything else. She had her duties at home just as he had his duties at court. Why would he think of anything other than that? And she had never asked. Of course, finding out if that was something she wanted would have involved talking to her about more than household accounts and tenant farmers . . . The thought alone made him feel like he was still the ungainly fifteen-year-old boy who had been confronted with a pair of breasts attached to a wife.

  Henry’s thoughts were interrupted by the sensation that he was being watched. On alert, he scanned the hall. He could see no obvious threats—still, the unease persisted. More than that, he felt almost sick. He took a step forward and the feeling intensified. While not a superstitious man, Henry survived in Walsingham’s service by trusting his instincts, and, at that moment, his instincts told him that he should leave the palace at Hampton Court for now. Frances would have to wait.

  He prayed she would be able to take care of herself.

  • • •

  Dinner ended with all the pomp and ceremony afforded the Queen as She rose with her entourage of favored courtiers and exited to Her presence chamber. Frances remained at her table, waiting for the crowd to disperse before she made her way back to her rooms. The townspeople that had previously crowded the upper gallery hoping to catch a glimpse of the Queen in Her finery were jostling each other in attempt to exit the hall and get to the Queen’s privy kitchen door in time for handouts of left-over delicacies. Frances was watching this borderline mob behavior from a safe distance when she was tapped lightly on the shoulder.

  “Mistress LeSieur.” A liveried footman reveranced before her and waited to be given leave to rise. Frances waved for him to stand, and he continued, “Mistress Parry sends summons. You are to attend her in the Queen’s presence chamber.”

  “My thanks,” Frances replied as he turned to leave.

  Her breath caught in her chest, and she locked eyes with Mary. Her already pale skin blanched entirely, the dark arches of her brows the only color on her face. Mary looked as nervous as Frances felt. Jane squeaked something like a giggle and bounced in place. They were going to meet the Queen.

  The three gentlewomen rose in a fluster of skirts and tried to make their way through the hall and across the cobbled courtyard without hefting up their hoops and running. They met Mistress Parry in the gallery outside the state rooms, her assessing gaze taking in every detail.

  “I do wish at least one of the gowns had been ready today,” she began, “but mayhap it’s fortune’s way of showing Her Majesty your true colors when she is surrounded by artifice disguised in satin.”

  Frances considered Mistress Parry’s words as she allowed herself to be ushered through the crowded presence chamber. In her preoccupation with the newly intriguing world of bed sport, she forgot to care about her appearance. The insecurity came back in a nonce and in abundance. Here in the Queen’s presence chamber every single courtier was dressed exquisitely, although she felt sure many fashion decisions were based more on ostentation than taste. Frances’s mulberry kirtle with navy surcoat that she had embroidered with vining blue forget-me-nots was respectable but, aside from the simple needlepoint, was completely void of any adornment. That aside, it fit her body more like a tent than a dress. Mary and Jane, though obviously lower gentry, at least looked attractive in their gowns. Both had a fashionable silhouette. Still all three were sadly lacking, at odds with the court as much as a lump of coal compared to a cut emerald.

  Frances had not yet reached the dais to be introduced to the Queen when it was announced that the Queen would retire to her privy chamber, good night to all. Oh, and would Mistress Parry and her party please attend to Her Majesty immediately?

  Blanche Parry, stunning in a deep crimson and black velvet gown, took Frances’s hand and led her to the chaise where the Queen sat surrounded by her favorite ladies and a few very attractive men. The Queen’s privy chamber was only slightly smaller than Her presence chamber, but instead of being one large open space to hold court, it was arranged to allow for much more intimate conversation and interaction. At the center was a sizeable open section of inlaid parquet flooring that was currently being used by a handful of very young ladies who were working through the steps of the newest Italianate dance. There, by the bay window in the south corner of the room, was a display of a wide variety of very fine musical instruments. Frances immediately noted the magnificent spinet—she was proficient enough in playing to consider it an accomplishment, but she had never mastered the lute, lyre, or harp. A group of musicians played nearby providing the accompaniment for the dancers. Frances noted that they had their own instruments with them, leaving the ones on display untouched—they must be for the Queen’s personal use.

  Mistress Parry approached the Queen, sinking back on her left leg as she straightened the right so that the toe of her satin Turkish slipper was visible at the hem of her gown—a graceful reverance and an expected show of respect. Frances did the same.

  “Your Majesty, allow me to present Mistress Frances LeSieur, formerly Chatsworth, daughter of Elizabeth Hartford, the Countess of Spencer.”

  Frances used the formality of Mistress Parry’s introduction to inflate her confidence as she pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin proudly. Still in a low reverance, she waited respectfully for the Queen to raise her up.

  Queen Elizabeth gestured with a beringed hand for Frances to rise and said, “Ah, Bess’s girl. Come closer, child.”

  Frances rose and stepped forward until she was just beyond arm’s length from the Queen. Frances was impressed with her own composure—she had never been this close to her monarch before.

  The Queen gave her a searching once-over, raising a well-shaped eyebrow not evidencing any sign of disapproval. “I know your mother well and have heard much of you over the years. Your late stepfather, Sir William St. John, was a dear and loyal subject and turned to Us for advice in arranging your marriage some ten years past,” continued Queen Elizabeth, reminiscing thoughtfully. “His death was a loss to England.”

  Frances allowed herself to swell a little more with the pride of her familial connections.

  “And, of course, your mother’s new husband, the Earl of Spencer, is one of Our most trusted peers of the realm.” That had been made abundantly clear to all when the Queen chose Spencer to “host” the Scots’ Queen, Mary Stuart, during her enforced stay in England.

  “My mother has been most blessed in her marriages,” agreed Frances, feeling like she should say something.

  “Blessed indeed!” agreed the Queen with a barking laugh. “Let Us pray she has no need for any more husbands or her next marriage may well make her a Queen!” Elizabeth slapped her leg with a raucous laugh. “Your mother has requested that We take you into Our service until Christmastide,” Queen Elizabeth continued with a soberer demeanor. “She has given Us some explanation, but We do wish to hear it for Ourselves.” With the conclusion of Elizabeth’s statement, the courtiers who had formed little gossip conclaves nearby lowered the decibel of their chatter and pretended that they were not listening.

  Frances, obviously uncomfortable to have been asked to show her wounds in front of the Queen and Her entire court, hesitated before answering. “I thought it best for my health if I were to leave Holme LeSieur
for a time.” Frances gave her answer plainly and with no further explanation. She was not being false with the Queen, nor was she laying bare her soul for all of court to hear.

  The Queen, after an assessing gaze at Frances’s expression, nodded her acceptance and smiled, “We understand. We think We shall discuss this further in more private surrounds.”

  Relieved, Frances wondered if the Queen was ever truly private.

  “You will join Our ladies starting tomorrow and be of service to Us, if it pleases you,” declared Elizabeth. It was obvious to Frances that whether or not she was pleased was of no relevance. She should be pleased; she should be over the moon at the honor. What gentlewoman would not be thrilled to be asked to serve their anointed sovereign in the most fantastical court in Christendom? Frances wished she felt the joy she was supposed to.

  She sank into another graceful reverance. “It would please me very much, Your Majesty.”

  “Excellent! I look forward to your fresh face alleviating Our monotony. Now, mistress, join Us in Our circle. We are discussing a masque to lift the spirits of the court in this sad time of loss.” A few courtiers crossed themselves. “Your mother has told Us that you are a wit when you set your mind to it. So, madam, set your mind to it and help Lord Leicester here devise something spectacular for the Monday following St Luke’s day. My lords and ladies, We give you Mistress LeSieur, wife of Master Henry whom I believe you all know. Treat her as Our special friend.” With that, the Queen rose unexpectedly and started toward the spinet. The minute the Queen began to rise to Her feet, all of the court stood and saluted Her with formal reverance. Frances was amazed at how alert the courtiers were, especially since many were engaged deeply in conversation or in their cups. Still, it was evident every one had an eye on the Queen at all times. Frances made a note of this for future reference as she, and the rest of the court, were given leave to rise.

  Mary and Jane had melted into the woodwork during Frances’s audience with Queen Elizabeth. Frances looked hastily around and found them sitting on the rug in front of the hearth. Judging from Jane’s unsteady sway, she’d had more than one goblet of mulled mead.

  Frances looked back to her new companions. They’d already forgotten her existence and were sitting with their heads together over a parchment full of scribbles. Frances joined them and accepted a goblet from a server. The scent of nutmeg and cinnamon enveloped her senses as she allowed the warm spiced-honey wine to seep into her blood and give her a sense of belonging. For a moment or two Frances mentally girded herself, then jumped into the melee of creativity.

  Kit Hatton, a handsome man with a clean-shaven face, argued with the woman across from him. “A masque about flowers does not fit, Lady Rich. It has passed Michaelmas, and we are entering autumn. It would be silly to portray a parade of posies . . . ”

  “And not terribly unique,” inserted Lord Leicester with authority.

  “I know we have done Greek and Roman gods too many times, but I can think of nothing else.” Lady Howard sounded defeated. Frances noticed that Lady Howard was being a little less silly than she had been at supper earlier in the evening. She was glad that, in the presence of her husband, Lord Leicester, and Baroness Sheffield, Lady Howard could control herself.

  Frances looked at Baroness Sheffield’s tiny waistline as she heard her say, “Please no more gods or goddesses. What if we were pastoral? A masque about idyllic lovers . . . ” Disgusted sighs greeted Baroness Sheffield’s suggestion, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was gazing lovingly at Lord Leicester.

  Leicester either didn’t notice or care when he replied, “We need something different. Something almost indecent. Something Our Queen will remember for years to come as one of the nights she laughed loudest and longest. Something that will fill the hall with music and dance and a little debauchery.”

  At this, the lords and ladies in Lord Leicester’s company were silent, studying their cuticles. Frances glanced again at Baroness Sheffield running her pink tongue across the edge of her teeth in the direction of Lord Leicester. It seemed to Frances as if Baroness Sheffield wished to devour him whole. She turned away from the wanton woman and thought on Lord Leicester’s challenge. Something different. Something indecent. Lord Leicester would call for debauchery . . .

  She had it.

  “Sin.” Frances said the single word clearly and succinctly. The members of Lord Leicester’s masque planning party looked at her dumbly. “Dante’s seven sins—lust,” she looked at Baroness Sheffield, “avarice, gluttony, wrath, sloth, envy, and pride.” Frances was a little proud herself as she saw each of their faces light up with delight at the idea. Frances continued, “Couple the sins with virtues.”

  “Lust with Chastity,” inserted Lady Howard, obviously pleased with herself.

  “Generosity with avarice and moderation with gluttony . . . ” Lord Howard of Effingham added, gazing proudly at his young wife.

  “Diligence with sloth, patience with wrath, and kindness with envy . . . ” contributed Frances. She felt something warm growing at her center as the zeal of creativity took over. How long had it been since she had been able to make references to literature and have anyone understand her? How long since she’d cared? Too long, apparently.

  “And I think that only leaves . . . ” Lord Leicester counted on his fingers. “Pride. Humility goes with pride,” he finished. “Mistress LeSieur, you are a blessing to this sad group of jaded courtiers. I think Our Gracious Queen will not be the only one to benefit from your fresh face and ideas.”

  Lord Leicester was rumored to be charming, but Frances was surprised at how his words practically oozed out of his handsome mouth.

  The mood being thus lightened, the lords and ladies had a newfound camaraderie in their discussion of Frances’s idea. A smile on her face and a mind brimming with ideas, Frances asked, “What I can’t decide on, my lords and ladies, is whether the men or the women should represent sin.”

  Chapter Six

  Rule Twenty-One: Love is reinforced by jealousy.

  All that night, armed with quill, ink, and plenty of parchment, Frances worked diligently. She needed to write down each aspect of the event so that nothing would be overlooked, and there was no point in trying to sleep before completing this integral step of the planning process: Lists. The first included all the parts of sin and virtue along with suggested courtiers and costume ideas. Another list included suggestions for dances along with ideas on how to modify the dances to fit the theme. Yet another list outlined all of the items needed to transform Henry VIII’s great hall into paradise and the nine circles of hell. A list about different foods for paradise and hell. A list about costumes for the servers. A list of suggested lesser sins and virtues for the other revelers. A list of Dante-inspired rhyming words to aid the poet in composing his couplets. Frances even created one list to help categorize all the other lists. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep until an excited Mary bearing several large packages woke her the next morning.

  Frances felt like a child on the first night of Christ’s mass as she opened each package in turn along with a missive explaining that the second and third deliveries would arrive in no more than three days. Frances had handled all the payments, but Mistress Parry must have slipped the drapers something extra to ensure such prompt service—why, the semptresses must be working around the clock to accommodate Frances’s new wardrobe. Mary was just as giddy as her mistress as she handled the luxurious green damask, shaking out the folds in the dress to let the copper embroidery catch the early morning light that filtered in through the open window. The new elaborate gowns required that she have at least one attendant to help her dress.

  All thoughts about the masque temporarily disappeared while Mary laid the gown and accessories on the bed. Frances, used to the sensible woolen stockings she wore at Holme LeSieur, luxuriated in the feel of the cool white silk molding seamlessly to her calves. She secured her stockings with red leather garters and slipped her feet into the
new, custom-made, copper satin slippers. She pointed and flexed her feet, getting used to the inch-high heel. She tried walking, then decided to test her dancing, repeating the chorus of some random dance: reprise, reprise, two traubuchetti followed by a spetzatto tour. The delicate heels clicked in unison on the wood flooring of her room as she landed the final move gracefully—yes, these shoes would do nicely.

  “Mistress, if you are finished dancing in your underpinnings, stand still a bit while I lace you in.” Mary approached Frances holding a stiff French corset in her hands.

  Frances was not prepared for the force with which Mary yanked on the lacings. Mary, thankfully, expected such an event and helped Frances right herself with no damage done. The corset was only two or so inches smaller than her natural dimensions but would take some getting used to.

  “Almost done. Bend and lift,” Mary instructed.

  Frances remembered enough of the process to know to reach into the front of her corset and position her breasts so they would gently curve above the neckline of her dress and not be unnecessarily crushed by the corset. She thought it was a shame that the only looking glass in the room was just large enough to see her face. She would have to wait and see the full effect once she was in the Queen’s presence chamber.

  Jane wandered in just in time.

  “Help me with the gown.” Mary’s words were muffled by yards of heavy fabric. Together they hoisted the bulky gown over Frances’s head, having a care not to disturb the elegantly arrayed coils of hair. The emerald damask settled perfectly around Frances’s corseted form, and Mary set to lacing up the center back with a matching satin ribbon.