“What happens now?” I whispered. The show was over, and the room’s occupants were displaying signs of restlessness.
“I will wish to talk further, Master Roydon,” Elizabeth called while her cushions were being arranged to her satisfaction. “Do not go far.”
“Pierre will be in the presence chamber next door. He’ll show you to my room, where there’s a bed and some peace and quiet. You can rest until Her Majesty frees me. It shouldn’t take long. She only wants a full report on Kelley.” Matthew brought my hand to his lips and gave it a formal kiss.
Knowing Elizabeth’s fondness for her male attendants, it could well take hours.
Even though I was braced for the clamor of the presence chamber, it knocked me back a step. Courtiers not sufficiently important to warrant dining in the privy chamber jostled me as they passed, eager to get to their own dinner before the food was gone. My stomach flipped over at the scent of roasted venison. I would never get used to it, and the baby didn’t like it either.
Pierre and Annie were standing by the wall with the other servants. They both looked relieved as I came into view.
“Where is milord?” Pierre asked, pulling me out of the crush of bodies.
“Waiting on the queen,” I said. “I’m too tired to stand up—or eat. Can you take me to Matthew’s room?”
Pierre cast a worried look at the entrance to the privy chamber. “Of course.”
“I know the way, Mistress Roydon,” Annie said. Newly returned from Prague and well into her second visit to the court of Elizabeth, Annie was affecting an attitude of studied nonchalance.
“I showed her milord’s room when you were led away to see Her Majesty,” Pierre assured me. “It is just downstairs, below the apartments once used by the king’s wife.”
“And now used by the queen’s favorites, I suppose,” I said under my breath. No doubt that’s where Walter was sleeping—or not sleeping, as the case may be. “Wait here for Matthew, Pierre. Annie and I can find our way.”
“Thank you, madame.” Pierre looked at me gratefully. “I do not like to leave him too long with the queen.”
The members of the queen’s staff were tucking into their dinner in the far-less-splendid surrounds of the guard chamber. They regarded Annie and me with idle curiosity as we walked through.
“There must be a more direct route,” I said, biting my lip and looking down the long flight of stairs. The Great Hall would be even more crowded.
“I’m sorry, mistress, but there isn’t,” Annie said apologetically.
“Let’s face the mob, then,” I said with a sigh.
The Great Hall was thronged with petitioners for the queen’s attention. A rustle of excitement greeted my appearance from the direction of the royal apartments, followed by murmurs of disappointment when I proved to be no one of consequence. After Rudolf’s court I was more accustomed to being an object of attention, but it was still uncomfortable to feel the heavy gaze of the humans, the few nudges from daemons, the tingling glance of a solitary witch. When the cold stare of a vampire settled on my back, though, I looked around in alarm.
“Mistress?” Annie inquired.
My eyes scanned the crowd, but I was unable to locate the source.
“Nothing, Annie,” I murmured, uneasy. “It’s just my imagination playing tricks.”
“You are in need of rest,” she chided, sounding very like Susanna. But no rest awaited me in Matthew’s spacious ground-floor rooms overlooking the queen’s private gardens. Instead I found England’s premier playwright. I sent Annie to extract Jack from whatever mess he’d gotten himself into and steeled myself to face Christopher Marlowe.
“Hello, Kit,” I said. The daemon looked up from Matthew’s desk, pages of verse scattered around him. “All alone?”
“Walter and Henry are dining with the queen. Why are you not with them?” Kit looked pale, thin, and distracted. He rose and began to gather his papers, glancing anxiously at the door as though he expected someone to walk in and interrupt us.
“Too tired.” I yawned. “But there’s no need for you to go. Stay and wait for Matthew. He will be glad to see you. What are you writing?”
“A poem.” After this abrupt reply, Kit sat. Something was off. The daemon seemed positively twitchy.
The tapestry on the wall behind him showed a golden-haired maiden standing in a tower overlooking the sea. She held up a lantern and peered into the distance. That explains it.
“You’re writing about Hero and Leander.” It was not phrased as a question. Kit had probably been pining for Matthew and working on the epic love poem since we’d boarded ship at Gravesend back in January. He didn’t respond.
After a few moments I recited the relevant lines.
“Some swore he was a maid in mans attire, For in his lookes were all that men desire, A pleasant smiling cheeke, a speaking eye, A brow for Love to banquet roiallye, And such as knew he was a man would say, Leander, thou art made for amorous play: Why art thou not in love and lov’ d of all?”
Kit exploded from his seat. “What witch’s mischief is this? You know what I am doing as soon as I do it.”
“No mischief, Kit. Who would understand how you feel better than I?” I said carefully.
Kit seemed to gather his control, though his hands were shaking as he stood. “I must go. I am to meet someone in the tiltyard. There is talk of a special pageant next month before the queen sets off for her summer travels. I’ve been asked to assist.” Every year Elizabeth progressed around the country with a wagon train of attendants and courtiers, sponging off her nobles and leaving behind enormous debts and empty larders.
“I’ll be sure to tell Matthew you were here. He’ll want to see you.”
A bright gleam entered Marlowe’s eyes. “Perhaps you would like to come with me, Mistress Roydon. It is a fine day, and you have not seen Greenwich.”
“Thank you, Kit.” I was puzzled by his rapid change of mood, but he was, after all, a daemon. And he was mooning over Matthew. Though I’d hoped to rest, and Kit’s overtures were stilted, I should make an effort in the interests of harmony. “Is it far? I’m somewhat tired after the journey.”
“Not far at all.” Kit bowed. “After you.”
The tiltyard at Greenwich resembled a grand track-and-field stadium, with roped-off areas for athletes, stands for spectators, and scattered equipment. Two sets of barricades stretched down the center of the compacted surface.
“Is that where the jousting takes place?” I could imagine the sound of hooves pounding the earth as knights sped toward each other, their lances angled across the necks of their mounts so they could strike their opponent’s shield and unseat him.
“Yes. Would you like to take a closer look?” Kit asked.
The place was deserted. Lances were stuck in the ground here and there. I saw something that looked alarmingly similar to a gibbet, with its upright pole and long arm. Rather than a body, however, a bag of sand swung at the end. It had been run through, and sand trickled out in a thin stream.
“A quintain,” Marlowe explained, gesturing at the device. “Riders aim their lances at the sandbag.” He reached up and gave the arm a push to show me. It swung around, providing a moving target to hone the knight’s skill. Marlowe’s eyes scanned the tiltyard.
“Is the man you’re meeting here?” I looked around, too. But the only person I could see was a tall, dark-haired woman wearing a lavish red dress. She was far in the distance, no doubt having some romantic assignation before dinner.
“Have you seen the other quintain?” Kit pointed in the opposite direction, where a mannequin made of straw and rough burlap was tied to a post. This, too, looked more like a form of execution than a piece of sporting equipment.