We tap our glasses together, and then it’s time to shake what God and country gave us.
The musicians bring the heat as we start to dance with abandon. We drink and we move, and Bessie is up on a chair at one point. The musicians dance with us as they play, and Lady Wessex makes lewd gestures with a flute. This is the best team-building experience I could have hoped for.
The past few days, I’ve noticed that many of my ladies-in-waiting were more relaxed than usual. It could be due in part to the wild carrot root I delivered to Lady Barrow. She gratefullyaccepted it and set right to work blending it into tea, also promising to supply me with a fair amount. Maybe with that constant worry off their shoulders, my ladies can finally let loose. And letting loose they are as they whirl and twirl around the room.
I’m considering introducing a Tudor twerk when I suddenly see a tear-stained Cecily standing at the door. Everyone is having too much fun to notice when I rush over to her.
“Your Majesty.” Her voice is shaking, and her eyes are glassy. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I need your help.”
I grab her hands, moving off into the hallway with her for privacy. “Cecily, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
“No, not me, Your Majesty. It’s my sister, Maggie. She works in the laundry, and she’s been ill for days. Her fever won’t break, and I don’t know what to do.” Her tone is desperate, and I immediately nod.
“Of course. Where is she? We’ll go now.”
I begin to walk off, but Lady Rochford catches my arm. “You can’t, Catherine. What if it’s the sweat?”
Cecily moves over to face her. “It isn’t the sweat, Lady Rochford. Maggie has no rash or coughing. She had a babe less than a month ago and says there’s a burning pain in her chest, especially when the child feeds.”
“I’ll get Bessie,” I tell her. “Just wait here.”
When Cecily leads me and Bessie (and an unhappy Lady Rochford) to the north side of the palace, we’re not too far from the kitchens. We go up one staircase and then up another. There’s a chill around us, and the air is damp. Cecily pushes open a squeaky door, walking inside anarrow room filled with stale air. The thick wooden eves are so low that crouching every three feet is an accepted way of life.
As we go in deeper, we follow a long row of beds, “beds” being a generous word. These are small wooden frames with barely more than thin pallets of straw. Blankets are stained and threadbare if a bed has a blanket at all. We keep walking, and I piece together that this must be a women’s dormitory. Two girls are asleep in a shared bed with their aprons covering their eyes. Another woman is holding a screaming toddler as she walks him back and forth. An older woman sits on a wooden stool near the smudged window, and her stare is sharp as she looks at me. Not wholly unwelcoming but also not curious. Maybe she’s too tired for either.
We make it to the far end of the room, and I feel obnoxiously elitist in my gold-trimmed dress. We’re looking down at a young woman curled up in a fetal position on the bed, moaning in pain as keeps her arms pinned across her chest.
“Maggie,” Cecily says, kneeling by her side. “I’ve brought some people here to help you.” A baby lays beside her in small, simple crib, awake and squirming with a thin cloth resting over her. I freeze as I look down at the scene in front of me, not knowing what to say or do. Thankfully, Bessie isn’t thus afflicted.
She pushes past me and pulls up her sleeves, moving close to Cecily’s sister.
“First thing’s first, Maggie,” she says confidently. “Let me see those breasts of yours.”
Sometime later, Bessie has determined that Maggie has a blockage in one of her milk canals. Working in the laundry, she goes long spans of time without breastfeeding, which led to the infection. Bessie will prepare an herbal compress to treat her symptoms until it clears.
Cecily wipes her face as she gently rocks her niece. “Lady Elizabeth, I mean Bessie, I can’t thank you enough.”
“No thanks are necessary,” Bessie assures her. “It’s barbaric that women are forced to endure this nonsense when it’s so easily preventable.”
Cecily lays the babe back in her crib as I look around the dim room again. “Is this where you live, Cecily?”
“This is home,” she answers with a smile. “It’s not much, but we’re better off than many. My younger brother sleeps on the floors of the kitchen, or really anywhere he can find a place for himself.”
“I’m going to fix this,” I tell her. “I don’t know how, but I am.”
She wraps her arms around me with a hard squeeze, and Bessie joins in after her. It’s nice to know that group hugs exist in every era.
When the three of us rush back to the great hall, the dancers are in the corridor just outside, waiting for the masque to begin. Everyone is already lined up, since Bessie and I are almost an hour late. The choreographer is glaring at me with his arm shaking, like he’s actively restraining himself from throwing his shoe at me.
Our dance partners are donning light full-body armor with silver masks over their eyes. I spot Thomas as he makes his way toward me. His outfit is giving very strong 1996 Leonardo DiCaprio Romeo vibes.
“Is there a reason you supplied us with an army of drunken fishwives?” he asks when he arrives at my side.
I look around to see what he’s talking about and find that more than half of my ladies are laughing hysterically. Their posture is slouched. Some are still dancing. Elizabeth Norworth is doing high kicks.
“How dare you call us drunkards,” Lady Wessex says lazily, moving very close to Thomas’s face. “You may be handsome, but your ears offend me.”
She saunters away, walking in a zigzag pattern as I face Thomas again. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had something important to do.”
