What the fuck? Will stood up for me!
I can’t help giving the rubbish bin a punch of delight,which leaves a small dent.
Camilla’s annoyed expression is photoworthy. She gives a garbled squawk, hefts her tote, and stalks off in the opposite direction.
Resting my forehead against the rubbish bin, I replay Will’s words:Hester’s not a nobody. She’s a great actress. The best I’ve seen.
If I had a working heart, it would be beating fast for him right now. That’s the first compliment he’s ever given me. Pity I had to hear it by eavesdropping, but still, it’s thrilling that he’s noticed me and has an opinion about me.
Yet self-doubt creeps in. Will’s never actuallyseenme act. I only take notes or listen in class. And I never participate in any workshop scenes. If I do, it’s only in the background or if they need an animal character.
However, Will isn’t the type of guy to straight up lie about something like this. I’ve seen him reduce actors, even staunch male ones, to tears when they ask for his critique. So he’s not afraid to tell it like it is. No, I believe he means every word he’s saying. So what the fuck is he going on about?
Chapter 2
Hester | London, 1560
Insistent knocking jerks me from slumber in the dead of night. My bare legs are tangled in the sheets; the windows are wide open, against my better judgement.
But I don’t believe in fairy folk stealing me away. I only wanted some coolness to alleviate the heat of this summer. Even here at Hampton Court, miles from London, we’re feeling the burden of it. Smelling the stink of it wafting up the river.
I stumble over to the door, skin sticky, mouth dry. There had better be a good reason for rousing me when I’ve finally managed to doze off. Last week, a drunken French cook, turned hot and silly from lust, chased a couple of kitchen maids with a knife because they wouldn’t kiss him. Their screaming roused the palace, and he took off over the fields. Everyone was out looking for him. Well, apart from Queen Elizabeth. The food in his absence has been atrocious. It’s given me a constant bellyache, which has made sleepingdifficult.
‘What is it?’ I call out sharply.
‘Her Majesty requests your presence, my lady. It is a matter of some urgency.’
‘It is always a matter of urgency with her,’ I mutter to myself. But to the night guard, I reply, ‘I will be out anon.’
‘Very well, my lady.’
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I shuffle to the dresser and pull on my robe. My hands hover over the messy plait that hangs over my shoulder. There is no time to replait it. I have been summoned, and I must obey in a timely fashion.
As chief lady-in-waiting, I am at my queen’s beck and call. Day or night. But she does not take kindly to a slovenly appearance, even after the witching hour. Donning my leather slippers, I reach for a fresh candle and dip a hand in the water jug to wet and smooth any stray hairs.
The night guard, a bearded hulking fellow in a plain doublet with a dagger at his hip, nods once when I appear. He lights my candle with his own and escorts me down the shadowed gallery to the royal chamber. I am glad of his company as I dislike moving through the palace at night, and I do not want to bump into Catherine Howard’s miserable ghost.
‘What ails Her Majesty?’ I ask him, hoping to get some information before we arrive. ‘Was it a nightmare?’ Theyoung queen is a terrible sleeper. She is plagued by dreams of stealthy assassins creeping through the palace intent on murdering her. That is why she has recently employed half-a-dozen night guards to be stationed outside her locked chamber. But their burly presence does not seem to greatly reassure her. In her times of nightly trouble, she requires a female ear—usually mine—to unburden her woes upon. So the quicker I can soothe said woes, the quicker I can get back to bed.
‘I believe so,’ replies the guard. His thick neck is beaded with sweat in the light of my candle. But his voice is deep and even, with no hint of fear, and it calms my nerves and my thudding heart. ‘She was screaming and such. I know not what it was about, though. She would speak only to you.’
I heave a sigh and steel myself for the hours of reassurance ahead of me. My bed will be stone cold when I return to it, my eyes drooping. The night now looms as long as the dimly lit passageway ahead.
***
‘Will you not take a little wine, Your Majesty?’ I cross the richly carpeted room, plush under my thin-soled slippers, heading for the cut-glass decanter filled with ruby liquid. ‘Itmay help to ease you back to sleep.’
I have listened to her fears, kneeling dutifully beside her bed and spoken gentle words to allay them: ‘Your Majesty is safe. All is well’. I have even offered my kerchief for her wet cheeks and stroked her hand (with her permission)—all this I have done to comfort my queen.
The wine is a last desperation on my part as she has grown querulous and refuses to believe she will not be dead by morning. I am all out of ideas.
‘Yes, bring me some,’ she intones. ‘I will sup, and you shall tell me a tale. But of nothing gruesome. No swords or battles. A tale of romance. That one I like with the handsome knight!’
I smile to myself as I carefully pour the wine into her golden cup. Her Majesty does enjoy my romantic tales. Even more so if I add a pinch of spice to the story; her freckled cheeks flush, her brown eyes widen, and her hand flutters to her bosom with an ‘Oh, Hester!’
This latest story has caught her attention as I have described in some detail the knight’s passion for a certain high-born lady (she has red hair, of course, like our own) and how he keeps riding past her house to catch a glimpse of her in a state of undress.
‘Will he achieve it this time, do you think?’ she asks, settling back on the pillows and reaching an elegant palehand for the cup.
