She nestled next to him. “I’ll find time, Southwood. Never fear!”
CHAPTER 19
“HURRY, MILADY,” SCOLDEDDAISY. “YOU KNOW HOW THEQueen dislikes it when her ladies are late to vespers.”
“None of the Queen’s other ladies are about to give birth,” grumbled Skye. “Let any of the others become pregnant and they’re sent home to the country immediately. But not I! Oh no! The Queen must have her ‘dearest Skye’ near her. I wonder if she will allow me the time to birth my son?”
“Remember, milady,” cautioned Daisy, “that you’re not supposed to give birth for another two months. Keep it in your mind, ma’am.”
Skye laughed ruefully. “Thank God it’s not really that long! If I don’t have this child soon I think I shall burst.” She smoothed her gown over her protruding belly. “There! I am finally presentable. Give me my pomander, girl.” Catching it up, Skye hurried from her apartment and through the maze of palace corridors to the chapel. She could hear the sweet, fluting voices of the choirboys singing: “Therefore we before Him bending, this great sacrament revere.” Avoiding Geoffrey’s little frown, she slipped into the pew beside him.
“I couldn’t wake up,” she whispered.
He took her hand and squeezed it. “You should be down in Devon,” he whispered back, and she nodded.
The service was brief. The Court then trooped gaily off to the dancing, which would be followed by supper. Elizabeth’s sharp dark eyes scrutinized her favorite lady as they all moved through the halls, and she thought,So Southwood tasted of forbidden fruit before his last wife died. I wonder what they would have done if she hadn’t died?Then the memory of Robert Dudley’s dead wife, Amy, assailed her. Elizabeth tried to push it away. But this time, as had happened before, she could not banish the thoughts. Amy Dudley haunted Elizabeth Tudor. The Queen was a person of strong and certain morals, and she knew that she had coveted another woman’s husband. Now that other woman was dead, dead under distinctly mysterious circumstances, and the Queen wondered what the truth of the matter really was. It was not the first time she had wondered.
She did not believe, as many others did, that Robert Dudley had had his wife murdered by a hired killer. Elizabeth knew Dudleytoo well. His lust to be King of England was great and consuming. All he had had to do was wait, just a little time, until Amy died a natural death. She had been mortally ill. No purpose would have been served by killing her and, thus, casting suspicion upon himself. No, Robert had not ordered Amy’s death.
But there were two other possibilities. One was that her dear Cecil or someone else who did not want to see Dudley become her husband and their King had arranged Amy’s death, well aware of the furor a suspicious death would cause. The other possibility was that poor little Amy, in revenge against Elizabeth for stealing her husband’s love or else in despair over her doctor’s grim verdict, had thrown herself down the staircase, knowing that this unhallowed death would destroy Robert and Elizabeth’s chances of marriage.
Could someone love a man as deeply as Amy Dudley had loved Robert, and one day come to hate him with equal passion? Elizabeth wondered whether this could be. Oh! If only Amy had died a natural death! Sometimes Elizabeth felt actually responsible. It wasn’t fair! Angrily, she managed to put the subject from her mind and looked again at the Countess of Lynmouth.
I really should let Skye go home to Devon, she mused,but there are so few women who amuse me. Perhaps in a week or so, she considered.
The Queen also noted how radiant the Countess of Lynmouth was. Her gown was of mulberry-colored silk, cut low to reveal her very full breasts. There was an attempt at modesty in the soft creamy lace tucked into the bodice. The same lace overflowed the sleeves. Skye’s dark hair was styled severely, drawn into a chignon at the nape of her slender neck, and tucked into a net of very thin gold wires. The long double rope of pearls she wore about her throat were a source of envy to every woman in the room, including Elizabeth.
Skye did not join in the dancing, remaining instead on her footstool by the Queen’s chair. She watched the others dance, and was content. The Queen loved dancing and scarcely sat at all during the entire evening. When he was not partnering Her Majesty, Lord Dudley stood by her throne. At one point his hand dropped to Skye’s bare shoulder. She froze. Dudley laughed softly.
“I’ve heard Southwood brag of the fineness of your skin.” His long, elegant fingers moved slowly downward to the swell of her breasts. He stroked her lightly, casually. “He does not lie,” drawled Dudley insolently. Slowly, he drew his hand away.
“You play a dangerous game, my lord,” said Skye in a low, furious voice. Skye studied the Queen’s favorite without bothering toconceal her scorn. He was a handsome enough man, if one were drawn to his type, she considered. He was tall and elegantly slender, and always dressed himself with foppish care. His long, aristocratic face and slender hands enhanced his … well, elegance. She had to admit it. He was not an easy man to overlook, even among the well-dressed courtiers. But Dudley did have one flaw, as though nature, having designed him so well, could not bear to endow a mere mortal with everything. His dark red hair, his mustache, and his very short, carefully clipped beard were all very sparse.
His dark eyes were slightly hooded and he never managed to look one directly in the eye. By contrast, however, his words were brutally straightforward.
“I enjoy the game I play, my dear, and I shall win it,” he said sharply. His eyes now held a mocking expression. “You’d like to slap my face, wouldn’t you, Lady Southwood? But you can hardly slap your King, can you?”
“You’re not the King yet, Lord Dudley!” Skye was shocked by the man’s boldness.
“But I will be, my dear, never fear. Bess must wed and produce heirs for England. The council would far prefer a good, solid Englishman to some mincing foreigner. Would you like to be the King’s mistress, m’dear?”
“You’re insufferable,” Skye raged, struggling to her feet. “And, my lord, you are insulting!” Finally standing and balancing herself, she walked slowly away with as much dignity as she could muster. Finding an empty chair in the card room, she sat down and joined the game. She was very angry, and played with a fierce concentration.
She had never liked Robert Dudley, finding him overly ambitious, and arrogant to boot. Given free access to the Queen’s apartments, he came and went at will, particularly when the women were likely to be in states of undress. His eye was bold, and when the young, love-besotted Queen was not looking, his hands were even bolder. Skye was shocked that he would so lewdly approach a woman in her condition. She prayed that Elizabeth would not choose him for a husband. She smiled. The young Queen was sharper and a great deal wiser than those around her gave her credit for. If only love would not cloud her judgment.
The pile of gold coins before her grew higher, and then de Grenville was leaning over her asking, “May I escort you in to supper, Skye?” Her anger cooled, Skye gave him a bright smile and stuffed her winnings into the little silk pouch that hung from herwaist. She excused herself from the card table, to the relief of the other players.
“Aye, Dickon, I am famished!” she said. “Where is Southwood?”
“With the Queen. I’ve news of Robbie.”
“Oh, Dickon, tell me! Is he all right?”
“A small merchant fleet that’s just put in to London hailed him on the Indian Ocean side of Cape Horn. His entire fleet was intact—and so was Robbie. I’ve letters for you which I’ll bring around tomorrow.”
They had reached the dining room. Courtiers in full, colorful finery were milling about, chatting and helping themselves from the vast buffet. “I shall eat nothing but Colchester oysters,” announced Skye, piling her plate high.
“The outrageous vagaries of breeding women,” teased de Grenville.
