Courtly Pleasures Page 7

  Thankfully, Mistress Parry did not question her further as they seated themselves at the board and accepted the first course, a soup of creamed duckling.

  Mary asked, “What more do you have left to finish for the masque?”

  “Too much to detail.” Absolute truth. “And, on top of the remaining planning, I am to be partnered with Kit Hatton. He seems to be an accomplished flirt—I’m unaccustomed to such attentions.” Frances’s skin puckered into goose pimples at the recollection of Kit’s nearness in the Queen’s presence chamber. His gaze. The way his words caressed her. “I hope I will not make a fool of myself.”

  Blanche Parry said nothing and focused on her soup. Frances shouldn’t have been shocked at Baroness Sheffield’s implication that Henry had not remained faithful. She should have expected it—in fact, she should welcome it. Why should she care one way or another?

  But she did. A sense of her own inadequacy stung far more than any betrayal. From what she’d seen between Jane and her lover, she knew Henry took no great care for her during their marital relations, and therein laid the sting. What was wrong with her? Well, based on the suggestions and blatant offers she had received since her debut in the Queen’s privy chamber, she would have to say the problem must be with him.

  It seemed fairly commonplace for married women to take on lovers so long as they had already provided their husbands with a legitimate heir. Even her gentlewomen thought that was the motivation behind her stay at court. Maybe with a lover she might find the tender caresses she had witnessed between Jane and her gentleman with the firm backside. A memory of her marriage bed snuffed that thought, and Frances frowned, taking a healthy bite of her honey and walnut pudding before turning toward Mistress Parry.

  “What do you think of the masque thus far, Mistress Parry?”

  “I think that there will be those who find it offensive,” Mistress Parry replied smartly. “This is to say, it will be an excellent entertainment and diversion for the rest of us.”

  “Offensive?” replied Frances. She hadn’t considered that. She celebrated the works of Dante, not actual theology.

  Mary piped in, “Of course some people may be offended—you are glorifying sin and portraying hell. Personally, I think it will be fun.” Nodding her head firmly, Mary took another spoonful of her sweet pudding.

  Frances considered a moment and said, “But we are also glorifying virtue. I, myself, am Chastity.” At this, Mary choked on her pudding and had to be thumped soundly on the back by a sniggering Jane.

  “Not for long, I wager,” sputtered Mary between hacking coughs. Jane laughed in full force.

  Blanche Parry smiled knowingly at the younger women. “Do what you will, but a warning—your husband is at court. Have a care for his consequence. Whatever may be between the two of you, do not make a public cuckold of him.”

  “Cuckold?” She choked on the word. “I do not wish for my own husband to touch me—why would I let another man do so?” She shuddered, wiping at imagined dirt on her sleeves. “Besides taking no pleasure in the act, taking the risk of having another man’s child would be foolish. No, he has naught to worry from me—although, perhaps it would do him some good.”

  “Though God has blessed us with a woman as head of our country and His church, His word and England’s law still holds that a wife is beholden to her husband. Again, do what you will but always publicly do your duty by him. That includes not insulting him behind his back.” Blanche Parry stared Frances straight in the eye as she finished with her brief lecture on behavior. Frances could not fault any part of the argument—it was all part of the social mores she had known since birth. Still, she could not help a natural urge to rebel against the standards that had stifled her spirit.

  “I have done nothing but my duty since my natal day. I am bone weary of being only a dutiful daughter, dutiful wife, and dutiful mother. What about my duty to myself?” Frances, like last night when she got caught in a creative surge, felt a pull of real feeling as the words poured out of her. “Oh, worry not—I am not so uncouth as to cause any person injury, but please, I am just starting to see myself for who I am rather than who I should be. It is difficult enough for me to accept this without added pressure.” Frances nodded toward Mistress Parry. “And more than your admonishments, I need your support that I am doing the right thing in being here at all.”

  The four ladies at the table stayed silent. A liveried server removed the remnants of their puddings while a butler refilled their goblets with a fine burgundy. Frances was shocked when Jane, obviously moved by impulse rather than social etiquette, leaned across the board and smothered Frances in a bone-crushing hug. For such a small person, Jane was extremely strong. Of all the responses that may have followed Frances’s declaration, she had not expected this. Tears welled up in her eyes as Mary joined in.

  “So, Frances, what role have you left for me in your masque?” Frances was surprised by Blanche Parry’s casual change of subject.

  “Leicester, at least, has taken it upon himself to cast the remaining parts . . . but I think that Patience and Humility are still available,” replied Frances, still wrapped in the collective arms of her gentlewomen.

  “I think,” Mistress Parry paused to sip her wine, “that Humility would serve me best at this moment.”

  Chapter Eight

  Rule Sixteen: The sight of one’s beloved causes palpitation of the heart.

  The last beams of the early autumn sunset filtered through the leaded paned windows and gave the room a golden glow. Frances smiled as she took a deep breath, enjoying the scents of fresh baking that wafted up from the kitchens and through her open window. With the knowledge that the kitchens were working at full capacity in preparation for that evening’s masque, she forced herself to relax as she lounged in a copper basin full of steaming water scattered with rose petals. This was her eighth bath in three weeks; even Queen Elizabeth took no more than one bath a month. Frances, eyes closed and her soapy hair piled high on her head, luxuriated in the heat of the scented water against her skin. She sank down to rinse and allowed the excitement about the masque to replace all anxiety. She had done everything she could, and all that remained was for her to enjoy herself. She breathed out in a flurry of bubbles and rose out of the water, stretched languorously, and reclined against the side of the tub.

  Tonight truly signaled the start of a new Frances. A Frances that was desired. A Frances that mattered. She was no longer just some womb waiting to ripen. No, she was an intelligent and attractive woman, and other intelligent and attractive people sought out her company. She should not care whether or not her husband saw her for what she was.

  Reaching over the side of the basin, she found a towel, wrapped her hair in a turban, and stood up. Was it her imagination, or did she hear cheering from somewhere outside? No matter. Stepping onto a thick bathmat, Frances toweled off her body and moved to sit by the fire for warmth.

  Lying on her chair, wrapped in fine linen and silk ribbon, was a bunch of jasmine. Had someone come in while she was bathing? Her languor was immediately replaced by tension as she grasped a towel to cover her body.

  Frances jumped with a shriek as her door opened to admit Jane and Mary.

  “Mistress, calm your nerves. It is just us.” Jane smiled sweetly and patted Frances on the arm as she bounced over toward the dressing table.

  “Jasmine!” Mary declared, picking up the bouquet. “Lovely. We can make sachets out of the flowers for your trunks. Where did you get these?”

  “They just appeared.”

  “Appeared? You mean you do not know?” Mary asked, incredulous.

  “No. I do not know, and I do not like it.”

  “Flowers are hardly sinister, my lady,” Jane contributed, moving to untie the ribbon. “And these were well-cut, the ribbon is silk—a lovely gift.”

  “Maybe you have an admirer?”

  An admirer. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Of course, she was so morbid that she only considered the
villain from the deserted chapel. But an admirer . . . That made much more sense. “An admirer. Of course.” She walked over to inhale the heady fragrance. Jasmine oil was supposed to inspire uncontrollable lust, and the flower represented sensuality. “But I cannot wear them tonight—I am Chastity!”

  Jane teased Frances for her concern and volunteered to wear them in her stead. “Don’t worry, I have no one to impress with my supposed innocence. Any who notice the jasmine will have a laugh. Speaking of sensuality,” Jane pulled a bundle from her basket, “this is the book I mentioned. It’s from the Orient and very exotic.”

  Frances removed the linen wrapping and opened to a middle portion of the book. With a gasp, she snapped it shut and immediately wrapped it once more. “That man was naked!” And had a member the size of a canon.

  Jane eased it out of Frances’s death grip and opened it. “This was written by a courtesan and describes the acts of love. This one,” she held up the page with an image of a man kneeling between a woman’s legs, “is what Jean, the fellow you caught me with, did—though he had to show me the book first too in order for me to believe that people actually did that.” Frances stared at the line drawing, feeling her face slowly catch fire. When no one said anything, Jane added, “He is very French. He said men love to kiss a woman there because it brings her pleasure.”

  “And does it?” Mary asked, breathless.

  Frances watched Jane’s eyes soften as she smiled. “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “Mais oui!”

  Frances took the book, closed it, then placed it on her bed. “It is unseemly for my unmarried ladies to have such a book. Leave it here for now, not that I seek to school myself in the way of the courtesan.” She tried to look stern, but she could tell from both Mary’s and Jane’s smirks that they knew full well Frances would be looking at the book later. She cleared her throat and willed her blush to subside. Catching view of the bunch of jasmine, she grasped that subject like a lifeline. “The jasmine. Do you think whoever gave me this expects a dalliance?”

  Jane, with a merry laugh, commented, “If you do not wish to have a dalliance, you had best put on your clothes afore another mysterious stranger bearing gifts finds his way to your chamber.”

  Jane started on Frances’s tangles while Mary laid out her gown. Immersed in preparations for the masque, Frances still felt a creeping unease. If an admirer could so easily come and go from her chambers, who else might? There was no reason to believe the sinister voice from the chapel knew who she was or what she had heard. Still, perhaps she should get a lock for her door.

  • • •

  The cast of sins and virtues waited in the courtyard for the trumpet salute announcing the entrance of the Queen. Frances watched the masked courtiers arriving, each outfitted as a lesser sin or virtue, and wondered if her husband would attend. She couldn’t imagine him engaging in revelry—that would be fun, and Henry and fun did not mix.

  She took her place at the head of the line beside Kit Hatton, costumed as rampant Lust. His new clean-shaven appearance did nothing to lessen the feeling of understated strength he exuded—there was nothing boyish about him. He took her hand gently, turning it over to place a delicate kiss on the inside of her wrist. Frances’s skin tingled, and he smiled knowingly into her surprised eyes as his caress caused goose pimples.

  “You are the loveliest vision in all of God’s creation tonight, sweet Lady Chastity. Pray do not let my lust frighten you.”

  Frances searched her brain for some witty response and found nothing. Opening her mouth to try to stammer something, she heard the trumpet and the music began for their entrance in a Pavane. Hatton led her into the hall.

  Left, together, right, together, left, right, left, together . . . Frances mentally repeated the steps in her head. She had known this dance since she could walk but was so distracted by her partner and the vision surrounding her that she had to concentrate to keep on step. The group of players in this masque entered a transformed great hall. The east end was swathed in white and sky blue diaphanous fabrics creating an ethereal domain. Tall pillars bearing sconces lit the heavenly half of the room to a spectacular brightness that was reflected in the crystals dangling on ribbons from the gilded timbered ceiling. The plush chairs and pillows scattered in both corners of the heavenly hall were already occupied with merry courtiers bearing full goblets of chilled Canary wine provided by servers wearing white robes.

  The Pavane promenade continued in a serpentine pattern throughout the hall led, in turns, by Lust and Chastity at the front and Pride and Humility at the rear. They continued through purgatory and into hell, the walls draped in shimmering red and gold silks reflecting the light of the few scattered candelabras in a fiery glow. There were cushions and chairs scattered to provide for the sinners’ comfort even though more than half of the courtiers planning the event had thought that hell should be themed as a place of punishment. Lord Leicester had overruled them all, correctly it seemed, and stated that their version of hell would allow for idleness and debauchery. Frances noted that the subtle lighting created a more intimate mood, and that this end of the hall had several arched alcoves, now completely obscured by the silken swaths. More courtiers grouped here than in heaven.

  Right, together, left, together, right, left, right—the Pavane continued to the cheers of the reveling courtiers. The seven couples ended in a line in front of the Queen’s dais, turned so each of the sins and virtues were facing front, and sank onto one knee reverently with the rest of the courtly revelers following suit. Queen Elizabeth wore a high-standing ruff that framed her in a halo of gold and white. Her bodice and overskirt was a pale-yellow gold embroidered all over in sunbursts of golden thread. The skirt opened in front to show a forepart of midnight-blue silk studded with scattered cut crystals depicting stars in the night sky. Her eye mask glittered with the outline of the moon and sun halfway through an eclipse. Glorious.

  With a grand gesture, Queen Elizabeth extended both arms and signaled Her court to recover. Once on his feet, the Earl of Leicester stepped forth. “Your Majesty is the sun and the moon and the stars this night presiding over all poor sinners herein.”

  Queen Elizabeth smiled a sweet and simple smile that contrasted with the overt splendor of her costume, “I heard that not all were sinners but that Our ladies are good and virtuous.”

  Quick on the draw as ever, Leicester replied with a boyish grin, “Ah, but as the ladies are virtue embodied and men the sinners, it will only follow that sin shall try to lead virtue astray.”

  “Have a care with my virtue, Robin,” laughed Queen Elizabeth with a coy flutter of Her lashes behind the mask.

  Leicester shared a personal smile with the woman who was the Queen, then returned to his role as a courtier. “You are beyond all things virtuous, Your Majesty. You are our Sovereign, our ordained Prince. You are the sun, moon, and stars and need no masque to proclaim your rightful place,” Lord Leicester finished splendidly. Turning to the players and the rest of the court, he shouted, “God Save the Queen!” to a resounding “God Save the Queen!” from every mouth and every heart in the hall.

  • • •

  Henry LeSieur had planned to strut his enormous codpiece with exaggerated arrogance for a humorous effect, but Frances left him dumbfounded. Speechless. Stupid.

  Hand in hand with Mistress Parry, he went through the courtly motions, smiling when expected, walking, breathing . . . but it was Frances glowing in her white gown that drew him again and again. Once more it confirmed that he did not know his wife at all.

  Frances, no surprise, had chosen Chastity. She had the face of an angel and a body to match, clad in a gown that seemed to be made of light. Could she be flirting with Hatton? He growled to himself as she blushed like a virgin whenever Kit Hatton smiled her way.

  Ten pounds, my arse. The rumor mill already had them together. If not with Hatton, then with Sir Harry Lee. There was no way Henry was going to let his wife go to another man. Other courtiers may not care about fidelity, g
iven their heir was already established, but Henry couldn’t stomach the thought of another man even touching his wife.

  “I see that you have noticed your wife, Master LeSieur.” Blanche Parry voiced the impossible sentence quietly from the corner of her mouth with a sidelong glance at her partner. “Isn’t she stunning?”

  “Indeed she is, Madam,” Henry responded through clenched teeth.

  “If you want to gain her affection, you’d best act fast or you will lose her.”

  “Mistress Parry, I wonder now if I ever had her.”

  • • •

  Frances began the next dance partnered with Hatton. Still very aware of the effect from his slight caress earlier that evening, she was surprised at the ease between them. Hand in hand they completed the four spezatti to the left as she tried to concentrate on the sensation of his hand surrounding hers. As they finished their turn together, Frances was surprised from her musing while Hatton tried to perform the chorus of reprise and trabuchetti as close to her as possible. Laughing aloud at his gall, Frances stayed at a safe distance thanks to his hilarious codpiece. Jane had pushed her to explore the possibilities there, but Frances couldn’t think past harmless flirtation. What would it be like to take a lover? Probably just like being a wife, humiliating and painful. Then again, after what she saw with Jane . . .

  The next stanza in the dance interrupted her thoughts.

  Hatton moved away, passing her to Gluttony. The notoriously lascivious, and somewhat disgusting, Earl of Oxford also attempted to sidle close to Frances during the chorus, but was impeded by the enormous, padded belly of his peasecod doublet. Avarice, Sloth, and Wrath, at least, did not try anything improper. Finishing with Wrath, Frances completed a spezatto cadenza to the left and found herself partnered with Envy, Sir Harry.

  Taking her hand for the series of spezatti and passi presti to the right, Sir Harry commented quietly, “I am truly envious of your partner this evening, Lady Chastity.” Sir Harry managed to speak smoothly in spite of being in the sixth set of a rigorous dance.