John Blakeley took Deirdre by the hand and led her forward to the queen. “My wife, Deirdre, Your Majesty.”
Deirdre curtsied again.
“God’s foot!” Elizabeth Tudor swore, staring hard at Deirdre. “You’re Skye O’Malley’s daughter, Lady Blackthorn, aren’t you?”
“Her daughter, and Lord Burke’s,” said Deirdre, “but I remember not my father, madame. He died when I was quite young.” She smiled. “I should like to present my youngest sister to you, Mistress Velvet de Marisco.”
Velvet stepped forward and curtsied prettily, making sure to keep her eyes modestly lowered.
The queen reached out and gently raised Velvet’s head up, cupping the girl’s chin in her elegantly gloved hand. “Rise, dear child, and let me look upon you. What a pretty thing you are! I have not seen you since you were a tiny baby, but then you would have been too young to remember. How old are you now, Velvet de Marisco?”
“I am fifteen today, Your Majesty,” said Velvet sweetly.
“Today?”the queen exclaimed.“Thisis your birthday?”
“Aye, Your Majesty, and I might have been May Queen in our village, but I far preferred to come to the priory to meet you.” It was said with such a lack of guile that Elizabeth Tudor smiled.
“We must give you a gift then, child. I am your godmother, Velvet de Marisco. Before you were born in France I was much angered by your parents’ behavior, for they had not obtained my permission to wed. Your clever mother made me your godmother in an effort to placate me, but I never knew your exact birthdate. Tell me, my dear, what can I give you?” The queen smiled more broadly at Velvet’s wide eyes and little gasp.
Velvet was stunned. Here was incredible good fortune, and she could scarcely believe it was hers. Now she would not have to find a way to wheedle the queen, but she must still be quick and clever. Her hands flew to her cheeks in a gesture of innocent surprise. “Madame,” she gasped, “Oh, dear Majesty, I cannot think!”
Elizabeth Tudor smiled once again and patted the girl in a kindly fashion. “Within reason,” she teased gently. “Remember I am merely queen of England.”
Velvet composed herself and looked adoringly at the queen. “Madame, I have everything I could possibly want in this life but one thing. My parents have always been more than generous with me and of material treasures I lack none; but all my life I have dreamed of serving you, Your Majesty, of being one of your Maids of Honor. Can you give me my dream, madame? If you would truly gift me, then gift me with the privilege of serving you.”
Lord Blackthorn squeezed his wife’s hand to prevent her from speaking. He was filled with genuine admiration for his young sister-in-law’s astuteness. She had not broken her promise to him and yet she was going to get her own way nonetheless.
“Dear child!”The queen’s face was wreathed in smiles.
By tradition Elizabeth Tudor had eighteen female attendants. There were four Gentlewomen of the Bedchamber, older, married women of rank; eight Gentlewomen of the Privy Chamber, also married women of noble birth; and six Maids of Honor, young girls of noble families whose ambitious parents believed that by serving the queen honorably they might increase their value on the marriage market. These eighteen saw to the queen’s wardrobe and toilette, her food, and all of her creature comforts within her private apartments. They were her closest companions.
The position of Maid of Honor was greatly sought after, and under normal circumstances the queen would have been forced to turn her godchild away since there would have been no opening available. By merest chance, however, one of the queen’s Maids of Honor had just given birth to a child in the Maiden’s Chamber. Enraged, Elizabeth Tudor had clapped both mother and child into the Tower along with the unfortunate father. The fact that the young people had been secretly wed for over a year did nothing to improve the queen’s temper, or ease her outrage. Both sets of parents were in equal disfavor with Her Majesty for having spawned and raised such disobedient offspring.
The valued post the girl had forfeited would have been swiftly filled, but the queen was so annoyed by this latest episode of what she considered rampant immorality amongst her ladies, that no one dared broach the subject. Now here was this sweet and unspoilt child begging her innocent birthday boon of the queen.
Elizabeth Tudor, of course, did not let her sentimentality override the humor she saw in the situation. This child was the daughter of Skye O’Malley. Skye O’Malley, that outrageous, prideful, rebellious, stubborn, haughty, and unsubmissive woman who had dared to do battle with England’s queen. That impossible creature who had had the effrontery to bargain with Elizabeth Tudor! That damned woman who two years ago had turned down Elizabeth’s offer to take her child under royal protection. The queen smiled, quite broadly this time. What a fine jest!
“Of course you may be one of my Maids, Velvet de Marisco!” she said. “When we leave here you will come with us. With your mama away I feel a moral duty to take you under my wing. Still, I would have you accept a small, tangible token of this our first meeting on your fifteenth birthday.” The queen drew from an elegant finger an emerald ring, square-cut and flanked with diamonds on either side. The stones were set in red gold, and the setting was engraved both in the front and the back in a design of graceful filigree. “Wear it always in remembrance of Elizabeth Tudor, my dear girl,” she said effusively. Then, taking Lord Blackthorn’s proffered arm, she moved forward into the priory.
Velvet slipped the ring onto her little finger and gazed down at it wonderingly.
“It matches your eyes, sweetheart,” came a deep, masculine voice, and she lifted her eyes to look directly at the speaker.
“We have not been introduced, sir,” Velvet said primly, though thinking at the same time that with his curly red hair and sparkling bright black eyes he was a divinely handsome young man. He was tall and well formed with a long face ending in a slightly weak chin. That, however, did not detract from his overall good looks. He was dressed in deep blue velvet trimmed in silver lace.
The man laughed and, turning to his equally well appareled companion, said, “Introduce us, Wat.”
The elegant gallant complied by making a leg to Velvet and saying, “Mistress de Marisco, may I present to you, Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, Master of the Queen’s Horse. My lord earl, Mistress Velvet de Marisco.”
The Earl of Essex bowed gracefully to Velvet, his black eyes twinkling mischievously.
“But, sir,” Velvet protested to the other gentleman, “I do not know you either!”
“That’s easy,” Robert Devereux said. “Since we have now been properly introduced, may I introduce to you, Mistress de Marisco, Sir Walter Ralegh, the captain of the queen’s Gentlemen Pensioners. Wat, Mistress de Marisco. There! We’ve all been properly introduced and may now be friends.”
“My lord,” Velvet scolded Essex, “I am not such a country mouse that I don’t know the queen dotes upon you. If you make her jealous, I shall be forbidden to accompany her, and then I shall have to …” She stopped herself just in time. “My lords, the queen will miss you shortly. You had best hurry into the hall.” Then she moved to brush past them and catch up with her sister.
“Ah, fresh sweet meat,” murmured the earl, blocking her path. “Perhaps the progress shall not be so dull this summer.”
