Tudor Rose Page 21

  Rose nodded, too distracted by Dr. Dee’s struggle with his meal to listen.

  “And on top of everything else,” Mr. Marlowe prattled on, “the queen’s father was wounded in a jousting accident, and that wound festered the rest of his life!”

  Dr. Dee’s spoon dug around a bit more as his eyes blinked at something on the plate.

  Yes!

  Dr. Dee rudely dumped the oily contents of his plate onto the table. Then, as if realizing he was drawing far too much attention to himself, he began scooping it back up. This, of course, was even more noticeable so, he abandoned that cause as well. He settled on gazing down at the plate, and then raised his eyes to look around the room.

  Rose waited.

  When he eyes connected with hers, she gave the slightest wink.

  He squinted at her.

  Good Lord above, give me patience.

  Rose winked again, this time in a more exaggerated style. Anyone watching might think she was having a fit.

  But if Dr. Dee registered the first or the second wink—or even Rose herself—it wasn’t clear. Instead he turned to the nattering woman next to him and began nodding along politely to her talk about a lame horse she couldn’t bear to send to heaven.

  Rose felt as if she were on the edge of a precipice, ready to dive off … and had been suddenly pulled back. The blood thrummed in her ears. Now what? She forced herself to eat a bite or two and turned to make meaningless chat with Mr. Marlowe.

  “Haversh diem?” a voice whispered in her ear. Dr. Dee had come around the table without her noticing. His face was just inches from hers and his eyes were ablaze. One long bony finger tapped the plate in front of her. “Haversh diem?” he repeated.

  Was he speaking in that gibberish language from the diary? Sure, she may have copied some of the symbols from the book, but Rose had no idea what they meant or how to respond to his question. Laugh, cry? Maybe it was a yes or no question. If that were the case, she figured she had a fifty percent chance of being right …

  Rose nodded.

  With a small jerk of his head, Dr. Dee straightened and walked out of the room

  Sybille was far too drunk to notice when Rose left the table.

  Her fiancé was bleeding in his bed. The queen had never arrived.

  Her gala was over.

  Sybille had lost.

  Half-lidded, her eyes scanned the dregs of the table. Avis Scarcliff was gone. Only those without any real social standing remained. A few servants had even plopped down into empty seats, legs looped over arms of chairs, and laughed loudly as they drank the wine and played mumblety-peg with the sharp implements arrayed on the table.

  “To hell with it,” Sybille murmured. She reached for a cup of wine—whose cup she didn’t care—and downed it. Then another. Time for a little fun. Wiping her pale sleeve across her red lips she turned to the befuddled old woman next to her and demanded in slurred speech, “Where the hell’s that Holstan?”

  Rose found herself back in the maze-like passages of the palace. This time, though, she wasn’t walking alone. Clearly she had passed some kind of test because Dr. Dee had waited for her outside the dining room and now led the way. When they reached the final locked door, he produced a flat piece of metal from his pocket. Unlike anything Rose had seen, it unfolded into a key that opened the door. Once inside, they were greeted by the fragrant scent of rich earth—and a very changed room.

  Gone was the bathtub with the rose petal; in its place were two wide tables, one covered with several piles of crystals of varying shapes and sizes, and the second heaped with books. Many volumes were opened, others had scores of bookmarks popping out from the pages. While several candle stands provided more illumination than before, their light still couldn’t penetrate the shadowy corners of the room. On the far wall was the source of the earthy odor, a shelf covered in pots that contained a strange bubbling liquid.

  Leaving Rose near the door, Dr. Dee made a bee-line for the table of crystals. As if it were calling his name, he picked up the largest stone and gazed into it. “Rose Castletown wrote a message in Enochian on my plate. She speaks the tongue of angels,” he said, and for a moment, Rose thought he was talking to the crystal.

  Then a deep voice responded, “She does, does she?”

  Out of the shadows stepped a young, balding man. There was something quiet and subdued about him, especially in contrast to Dr. Dee’s constant fussiness. Without moving, the man examined Rose. Not yet thirty, he was what Sybille would call ugly handsome.

  “Just think about the blacksmith’s face sleeping, Rosie,” she had said one afternoon back in Gordonsrod when they were hiding from the boys up in the hayloft. “Handsome awake because of the way he works to arrange it, but asleep, it’d be all slack and droopy and saggy!” The two giggled and continued torturing (or, in Rose’s case, flirting with) Howell by dropping hay on his head.

  Those days seemed so long ago.

  “Hello, Rose,” the man said. She noticed that Dr. Dee had dipped his head in an almost deferential posture when the other man stepped forward. A high-ranking member of Queen Elizabeth’s court wouldn’t take such a stance for just anyone. Was this new man running the show?

  “Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

  A powerful new courtier has arrived. Fulke’s words floated back to Rose and she responded instantly. “Francis Walsingham.”

  The man laughed a little dismissively. “Lucky guess.”

  “You fled England when Mary was queen,” Rose said, silently thanking Fulke for the information he’d given her outside the monastery. “And now that her Protestant half-sister has been on the throne for seven years, you’ve decided it’s safe for you to return. And thanks to the second Earl of Bedford you’re going to be elected to the queen’s parliament next year.”

  Walsingham had stopped laughing after Rose finished her first sentence. He seemed to take her in all over again. “Well done. Clever girl.”

  He walked closer to her. “The queen and I are old friends. Isn’t that right, Dr. Dee?”

  John Dee grunted his agreement and Walsingham continued, “I am here to protect and promote the interests of my friend. To do that, I have taken it upon myself—or I should say we have taken it upon ourselves—to secure the knowledge and intelligence necessary to do that. I will transform this palace into a structure made of clear walls where all secrets will be laid out before me. Do you know what that means?”

  Rose didn’t, of course. But Walsingham wasn’t waiting for an answer. His path had taken him to the table stacked with books. He removed one of the smaller books from a pile and placed it on top.

  She knew it on sight, of course. It was the diary.

  Rose automatically took a step to reach for it, but Walsingham stopped her with just a slight twitch of his head.

  “You’ve earned the diary back … ” he started, and then clarified, “ … into existence, but not into your hands. It belongs to someone who can be close to the queen, and that’s where you need to be. Do you even know why?”

  In this case, Rose knew he would catch her in a lie, and answered honestly, “No.”

  Walsingham frowned. “That’s a shame. The answer is in here.” He tapped the diary. “We gave you weeks with it. If you can really speak the tongue and know the code, why didn’t you perceive the truth?”

  Rose shrugged, forcing herself not to touch her birthmark. “I suppose I wasn’t ready. But I am now.”

  Nodding, Walsingham said, “Show us that is the case. Show me you have the resources required to control the power that comes with this knowledge.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Claim victory in the Challenge and get ever closer to the queen,” he instructed. “You have the ability. We see you and how you manipulate and maneuver those around you.”

  Rose didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted by the last comment, but she definitely felt unnerved at the thought of the two
men spying on her.

  We see you.

  All those feelings of being watched in the palace hallways rushed back. Had she been right all along? Had they—or their cronies—been keeping an eye on her in the hallways, her room … in the bathtub?

  Doing the opposite of what her body begged her to do, Rose took a step forward. “Sir, I don’t have time to unravel more riddles,” she said in an even tone. “Time is running out until my gala. I need help now.”

  With a cocked eyebrow, Walsingham seemed fascinated by the step she had just taken. “I’m impressed,” he said. “You must do the work to discover your destiny, but you may ask Dr. Dee for some assistance. He will be more receptive to your requests now, right, John?”

  “I have my own projects, Francis,” John Dee sniffed, indicating the crystals and the bubbling pots. “My own pursuits.”

  Patiently, Walsingham said, “Then it’ll be another challenge for you. And from what we’ve seen from her in here,” he touched the book, “you two share an affection for more than one topic.”

  They must have read the notes about her gala she wrote in the back in the diary. They would know what she had planned.

  As if exhausted, Dr. Dee pinched the bridge of his nose. “But my niece—”

  Avis? Was he talking about Avis?

  “—she took so much of my time, pestering me for historical facts about the queen—about the clothes, about the physical qualities of those in the queen’s life—” He interrupted himself and looked at Rose. “One of those people will prove of great interest to you, Rose Castletown.”

  Either to get him back on the right path or to stop him from saying more, Walsingham cleared his throat.

  “Oh, very well,” Dr. Dee said. “Rose can meet with me at the north tower and I will advise her. With only have four days, however, we’d need an army for what she has proposed in the diary.”

  Rose went for boldness. “Not to worry, that’s exactly what I have at my disposal, an army. Well, an army of sorts.”

  A skeptical eyebrow rose on Walsingham’s face, but he nodded. “Interesting. Win your spot on the progress, and I will find you again. If not, I’m afraid I was wrong about you and you’ll simply disappear back into oblivion.”

  So many questions churned in Rose’s mind. But Walsingham was already waving her out of the room. This encounter was over.

  FOURTEEN

  “Welcome! Welcome to the Masque of Masques!”

  As intended, Avis’s shouted greeting made Rose jump. She might as well have shrieked, “Attack!” No doubt Rose’s straggly hair would’ve stood on end if it wasn’t so stringy and filthy.

  “Oh, Rose, I’m so happy you’re here!” Avis crowed with a giddy laugh as her blue eyes danced over the slightly torn seam of Rose’s jacket. “And is that Sybille Maydestone just behind you?”

  Still startled, Rose gave a wary curtsy. And Sybille eyed Avis like a proud, but abused housedog who wondered when the next kick was coming. Her puffy eyes and pale cheeks spoke of the wine—and whatever other debauchery—she had consumed over the past two days to drown her crushing defeat.

  With a waggling finger, Avis clucked at their hesitation to move away from the entrance. “What’s this? Are we letting our small rivalry interfere with our bonds of sisterhood?” She wedged herself between them, taking each by an arm. “Surely that cannot be the queen’s intent!”

  Avis was still shouting, putting on a show for those already crowded at the entrance of the palace’s extensive gardens. A wall of red fabric, two hundred yards long and over six feet high, ran the entire length of this side of the grounds, blocking the main portion of her masque from view. Just as Avis had planned, curiosity among the hundred or so guests was growing, and all were eager to get inside.

  Sybille shifted her arm in Avis’s grip, accidentally driving an elbow into Avis’s side. “Has my fiancé arrived?” Sybille asked sweetly. “I’m sure he’s longing for my kiss.”

  For a split second, Avis felt her veneer crack, but she quickly regained her composure. “Oh, that darling boy!” she gushed. “He’s still in bed thanks to that … scratch. But there’s no time for worries now!”

  How Avis wished the queen would arrive at this very moment and see her taking command of the situation, being ever so graceful, even in victory. And what better way to keep an eye on the harlots than to keep them close, and leave absolutely nothing to chance?

  “Are you ready, girls?” Avis literally chirped. A few raised eyebrows from those nearby alerted her to the fact that she might be overdoing it. But she stuck with the tone. “I’ve been waiting for you before opening my masque. Her Royal Highness will be arriving in an hour or so, with my parents. We’ll want to have all the festivities ready for the queen, won’t we? Won’t we?”

  “Are you perfectly all right, Avis?” Rose asked nervously.

  Ignoring the question, Avis cried, “You’re correct, darling! I should speak the opening words and let the celebration begin!”

  Avis gave each girl a small, but firm push off to the side, so that she was standing alone. She snapped her finger at Francois Alamonde, the French architect who had helped her design and construct the intricate masque that awaited inside the park. He, in turn, clapped his hands twice. Avis waited for everyone’s attention, and then in her strong, clear voice announced,

  “Let this Masque of Masques

  Prove to those who might ask,

  ‘How is it that our ruler

  Shines like the envy of a jeweler?’

  Enter to see what I mean,

  She is the queen of queens!”

  As she finished, the smattering of polite applause grew to a thunderous volume punctuated by loud gasps as the center of the curtain was tugged away from the other side by a team of six servants. As the curtain collapsed, it was dragged into the grounds, along the central, winding path. The servants released it when it connected with the rich red carpet that covered the remaining half mile or so of walkways running through the snow.

  The extensive gardens of Richmond Palace had been transformed. For two weeks, a hundred carpenters, sculptors and other artisans had been hard at work, all under the careful supervision of Avis—and she supposed she had to give some credit to Francois and perhaps to the advice of her uncle, Dr. Dee. Even the dirty snow had either been completely removed or covered with fresh powdery flakes carted in from the countryside.

  Avis pulled Rose and Sybille by the arms again, so that their shoulders touched her own. The applause continued to grow, and Avis spoke loudly to be heard. “Do you hear that, my darlings?” she asked the girls, excitedly. “That is the sound of your defeat. I hope you have the best possible day! This will be the very last gala you ever attend at this palace.”

  Avis removed herself so quickly from between them that Rose and Sybille stumbled into each other. Now Avis could revel in her hard work at last.

  This wasn’t just the masque of all masques. This was a progress unto itself!

  The red pathway that branched out and crisscrossed the grounds would lead visitors to a total of seven destinations, each one representing an important time or event in the life of Queen Elizabeth. Painstakingly and lovingly replicated, there were houses, a cathedral, and entire small towns—all scaled-down, of course.

  Along the walkway servants handed out refreshments, such as perfectly sliced chunks of sausage and bread, and cups of beer and wine. This was an outdoor event in winter so the food was as hardy and vital as Avis herself.

  Avis couldn’t stop smiling. For once, the pride she felt in her accomplishment tamped down the red sea of rage that she normally felt bubbling up inside. Her hard work had come together so beautifully! She even felt a strange kind of warmth toward those two imbecilic country girls. After all, without their presence, the Challenge would never have been born and Avis wouldn’t have this moment to shine so brightly. Was this the glow her sister Agnes had felt when working with the demented and the down
trodden?

  No, Avis decided, her sister had never danced on the edge of a blade as Avis was now doing. She was quite aware that Francois hovered nearby, making his presence felt by clearing his throat every few seconds and even delivering a raised, expectant eyebrow her way. He and everyone else had yet to be paid a single coin for the work they had done or were doing. Avis had promised that he would receive payment at exactly noon. She knew she had timed things perhaps a bit too tightly—but that was two hours away—and she was certain the Spanish delegation and the target of her blackmail scheme would arrive by then.

  To keep her mind occupied in the meantime, Avis found her good friend Dorothie. She took her arm and together they strode into the park. Avis pretended that she was one of the guests, viewing the magnificence of the masque for the very first time. Already others were approaching to heap congratulation and praise upon Avis. She received all of it gracefully, enjoying every moment.

  The first stop on the red path was a replica of the palace where Elizabeth had come into this world. A gold-painted sign in front of the building had the words 1533—7 September—Greenwich Palace inscribed in black.

  Everything about the palace had been shrunk down, except for its entrance. Guests were invited to mill about the structure, go inside and examine the great hall and audience room, even the kitchens. She wanted it to be a total experience, as if the visitors were truly there. And she had hired actors to complete the effect. Playing the parts of the servants and the royal family, dramatists were in the palace—and all the other displays—to fully transport the guests to another time and place.

  Francois had bowed to the English tradition of not allowing females to take part in dramatic presentations. In the great hall, a man in a woman’s flowing gown, make-up, and wig showed each passerby a beautiful, swaddled bundle cradled in his hairy arms. The “baby Elizabeth,” which was actually just a rolled up blanket, was meant to be the main attraction here, but all eyes of the visitors were on the male actor.