A/N: Happy New Year! Sorry it's taken so long, but I'm nearly done, so I can start posting chapters more regularly; though the story took an entirely different turn in the last couple of days, and that seems to have shaken off the writer's block. For a short story, this one has been quite tough to bring to fruition! Anyway thanking everyone for their patience - the journey is about to begin, and Elizabeth will be on her way to Kent...
CHAPTER FOUR
Time to Depart
The Palace of Placentia - Late May, 1562
The mews echo with the clatter of a multitude of horses, and an equal chorus of shouting grooms, chamberers, wagoners and stewards. The first of the baggage trains is to leave in an hour, and already the schedule is coming adrift.
Such is the way of things, of course; no plan can ever take stragglers, wet weather or a broken axle into account, and the combination of all three has caused a considerable delay as a blacksmith has needed to be fetched to assist a wheelwright in repairing the damage. Their labours require a deal of space to accomplish; space that is not readily available, so much additional argument and contesting has taken place over the last quarter hour as those who desire to load the undamaged wagons complain vigorously at the lack of room for them to work.
Above them, watching from a gallery, Robert Dudley glowers with equal annoyance; God's wounds, they are so slow! All he wishes is for the rabble to depart upon their way to Eltham and allow him the space to fetch out and view the two fine geldings that he has procured for the Princes. With his tiresome wife now regularly in the company of the Queen, the need for a noticeable gesture has become urgent, particularly as his companions find it most amusing that he is all-but riding upon her train.
To most, his temperament would be a cause for scorn. He holds an Office of State that gives him the ear of both Queen and King, and still he is discontented? Certainly Ambrose has no patience or sympathy for his complaints, being altogether more content with his lot; but then, Ambrose has a better wife, and more respect and more…
And so the grumbling goes on. Patience has never been Dudley's talent: he must have it all, and he must have it now. In some ways it has been of benefit, for his desire to master skills as quickly as he may has given him a strong work ethic of which his father is rather proud, albeit tempered by embarrassment at the desire for equally speedy preferment that seems to have accompanied it. There is an excellent courtier lurking within Robert Dudley, but he seems buried by the buffoonishness that cannot bring itself to wait for its turn to shine.
A movement off to his left catches his eye, and Dudley turns to see an unfamiliar man approaching. From his expression, it is clear that the arrival had assumed that he would find the gallery untenanted, and he turns to depart.
"Hold, sir!" Dudley calls across, eager for a new face to which he can address his plaints, "I have not seen you hereabouts. Who might you be?"
His tone is friendly, and his words thus sound to be more an enquiry than a challenge. The stranger pauses, then approaches, though he does not answer.
"Robert Dudley, Master of the Queen's Horse." He introduces, extending a hand for shaking.
To his relief, the other accepts his greeting and takes the hand, "Robert Rich, Baron Leighs."
Damnation; another bloody nobleman, then Dudley makes the connection, "Then his Grace the Lord Chancellor is your father?"
Leighs nods, still a little standoffish.
"Mine is Northumberland, so I share your burden of a highly placed parent. Are you to make the journey to Eltham?"
"Indeed so." Leighs answers, a little more warmly at the mild barb over their shared problem, and its implication that his audience might be sympathetic, "I fear my inheritance rests upon it."
Dudley smirks, "In which case, my Lord, I highly recommend seeking and obtaining a Court appointment; for then one is less stung by the threat of its loss. I am one of five sons, and thus there shall be little set aside for me." Despite himself, he cannot keep the resentment from his tone; and that in itself wins over Leighs, "Then we are two men with much the same predicament, albeit different facets thereof."
"A bastion of rebellion against intransigent fathers." Dudley laughs, "Come, that bloody wagon seems to be fixed, and the train is moving off. Perhaps I shall now have the opportunity to walk the Princes' new horses. Your opinion would be most welcome."
"I am no expert in the quality of horseflesh." Leighs admits.
"Then I shall ask you if they are fine to look at."
Smiling altogether more cheerfully, Dudley turns and leads his new fast-friend down to the yard.
The wheels of the expensive carriage rattle on the cobbles as they cross the old bridge over the moat that surrounds the palace of Eltham, waking the two young occupants who had, at the point of leaving Placentia, been most insistent that they would ride with their elders. Mistress Peake smiles at them as the two princes sit up more straight, and look about them with an expectant air. Perhaps in a few years they shall be old enough - and strong enough - to undertake the journey on horseback; but not yet.
Edward pokes his head out of the window, his eyes bright with anticipation of a new palace to explore: he has lived in many of the royal houses, but this is one that he has never seen. To his young eyes, unused to the grandeur of Placentia, the palace seems as fine as any of the homes he has frequented, and he smiles with delight as they pull under a grand gatehouse into a base court where their chamberers are already awaiting them to escort them to their new apartments, "Hal!" He turns back to his brother, "See how big it is, what japes we shall have here!"
Henry is immediately beside him, attempting to push through the same small window to share his brother's view, "Where are we to stay?"
"You shall see anon, your Highnesses," Mistress Peake laughs, "Now, be seated again, for your royal parents shall wish to greet you, and would it not be better to exit the carriage as men, rather than as rats escaping a trap through the window?"
In spite of their excitement, the boys comply, and permit her to carefully smooth down their ruffled hair, and ruffled garments, before the window is darkened by a shadow as their tutor arrives to greet them, "Their Majesties are crossing the bridge, Highnesses."
Even he is indulgently amused by their delight.
Behind the carriage, the Queen's fine chestnut gelding trots across the bridge alongside that of her husband, a fine dark bay. The royal couple make a magnificent spectacle, dressed in rich velvets and silks, their horses' furniture equally well made. The burghers of the district have all-but lined the route from Placentia to cheer their beloved Queen, despite that route being almost entirely through the royal park.
Elizabeth has always loved the freedom of the saddle, chasing at the head of the hunt, or simply making her slow way through the shady avenues of trees in the growing shadows of a late afternoon before a private supper with her husband. A gift from both her parents, her talent as a horsewoman is scarcely matched even by the men of her Court, and she knows that they hang back not out of courtesy, but out of sheer inability to keep up.
The two young geldings that have been selected for her sons to continue their own riding lessons are following in the care of a groom that has been hand-picked for the task by Mr Dudley. He is not aware yet that he is to receive a knighthood this evening; though Elizabeth's intention is not so much to inflate his self regard as to give his wife some degree of authority in the Princes' household as Lady, rather than Mistress, Dudley.
She sighs inwardly; a talented man with a shocking lack of humility, he has already lost the regard of most of the Council with whom he is soon to sit as an Officer of the State. Perhaps she is making trouble for herself by elevating him, but there is always the hope that he shall find maturity if he is obliged to follow the example of his altogether more temperate brothers.
The sight of her children quickly banishes that lurking worry, and she smiles as they emerge from the carriage with barely concealed excitement. That is no surprise; they have never travelled with the Court on progress before, and the sheer numbers of people, the noise and colour, could hardly do less than fill them with bubbling anticipation of the pleasures to come.
Were she not in so public a forum, she would dismount quickly and easily; but she is surrounded by people who would be shocked by such indecorous behaviour as her riding habit would swirl about her in a most unbecoming fashion. Thus she submits to the provision of a mounting block, and sets herself down via oak steps softened with a covering of fine, red-wool carpet.
Edward bows, with Henry in immediate emulation, "Majesty."
Elizabeth's smile widens, and she can see that the boy longs to abandon such stilted formality and rush into her skirts in greeting, "Good day to you both, highnesses. Shall we go in?"
Their tutor bows, while Mistress Peake curtseys. Between them, they usher the impatient youths ahead of them into the dark, cool halls of the house, while their parents follow.
The grand entrance hall is paved with fine italian marble, while the best quality oaken wainscoting lines the walls. Even in the mild chill that the applewood fires in the grates do not quite mitigate, the fragrance of the oils that have been applied to the wood remains in the air, alongside the comforting aroma of beeswax that has polished the wood of the dressers and chairs to a rich sheen.
"We should use this house more frequently, Filipe," Elizabeth says, taking her husband's hand, "It lacks the grand dimensions of Placentia, but it is most well placed in fine countryside, and well away from the malodorous humours of the river. Perhaps the coming Christmastide?"
"I should not demur, my beloved." Philip agrees, his eyes upon the rich, dark wood of the beams above them, and the well-turned balusters of the gallery, "I think this is how those of the Nobility spend their time, and I should like to make a game that we are not royal, but instead a family of means in a loved house."
"Ah. Such pretence." Elizabeth smiles, "Come, let us pretend that our apartments are not royal, and exchange riding garments for those of a loving couple returning to their happy home."
Laughing, Philip leads her upstairs, leaving the chaos of arrival in their wake.
The reduced size of the palace is no matter for a reduced entourage, and Warwick is contented with his simple apartments. Two floors up and overlooking a small parterre garden, they are flooded with sunlight as the day draws to its close, while the welcome aromas of their forthcoming supper waft in from the kitchens through an open window.
The door behind him opens, and he turns with a sigh to reprimand his new steward again, then stops, "Robin." God above, familial relationship or not, his brother is singularly lacking in manners at times.
"I thought I was to be a member of the Council? Why am I in all-but an attic?"
Warwick blinks. The last he knew, the upper floors were blessed with decent accommodation, but apparently not for this ungrateful popinjay. Certainly they will match his in their state - and he is quite content with it.
Irked, he turns back to the window, "I take it you would prefer to turn the Lord Privy Seal or the Lord Chancellor out of their apartments and demand that they take yours instead?" The higher Lords of the Court are on the first floor, opposite the wing where the Queen and her family are installed, and only a fool would think that they are housed poorly.
There is no answer behind him, but he hears the light thump as his brother slumps into an armchair. The only armchair. He turns back again, crossly, "For the love of God, Robin; be a man, instead of a petulant boy! To be here at all is a privilege for us all, and still you are malcontented? I thought children were meant to become better mannered as they grew, not worse! Is it any wonder that the higher Courtiers do not give you their attention? Why should they do so to a mere child?"
To his surprise, Robert does not rise to his anger, but instead continues to glare into the fireplace with a foolish air of hurt. From petulance to sulking; how tiresome. Then he remembers, Amy is currently seeing to the welfare of the Princes, and thus is ensconced in a chamber across in the royal wing. That she shall be spending the night in his chamber is apparently insufficient to salve that bruised self-regard.
In spite of himself, he smiles: unlike Robert, Amy has seen all that she has received from the Queen as a grand gift, and is grateful for it. Indeed, she has blossomed like a flower in the light of the Queen's favour. Her carriage is better, she is less inclined to keep silent than once she was - though she never does so in a manner contrary to the requirements of a wife. His own wife, Margaret, has found her to be far better company these days, and the two are often to be found together.
Not here, though; with their sickly daughter showing signs of illness again, she has returned to their family home to care for her. The letter that he has written to her rests upon a nearby dresser, sealed and awaiting dispatch. Has Robin ever written to Amy when they were apart on any matter other than domestic necessity? He cannot know; but he thinks it highly unlikely.
"Come now, Robin; do not allow yourself to be so vexed over matters of so little import; you are the Master of the Queen's Horse - and shall take your place at the Council table this summer. Is that not good? You are taking your first steps towards becoming a favoured Courtier: do not risk all through such foolishness. Her Majesty is a wise young woman, but she has the temper of both of her parents. Best not to stoke it, I think."
Finally, Robert turns and acknowledges his brother, "Aye, Henry. That is true - she has all the fire and temper of her father and her mother. As you wish: I shall bite my tongue and see what she shall grant me as a loyal servant." He does not admit that, once he has left, he shall resume his grousing in the far more sympathetic company of Robert Rich. So habituated is he to being irked, that he seems not to know how to escape it. Or perhaps he does not recognise that he must do so.
Even though Henry has not heard those discontented words, he knows his brother well, and can see them lurking unsaid behind that stiff countenance. Ah well, if all goes to hell, then it cannot be said that he did not try. Watching as Robert heaves himself out of the chair and departs as swiftly as he came, he sighs to himself and shrugs into his furred simarre. Sulking brother or no, it is time to sup.
"Give it back to me, Ned!" Henry's voice is strident and indignant, "It is mine!"
"You should be at your lessons, Hal; I am done with mine and I can do what I will - I am your elder! And I will be King one day, so you must do as I say!"
"Highnesses!" Mistress Peake interrupts their quarrel, "Cease this squabbling at once! What would your mother think?"
"Make Ned give me back my soldier!" Henry insists, nearly blubbering in his frustration, "He will not give it back to me!" his small hands are clenched into fists, while he glares at his brother. Edward, on the other hand, is standing tall, and holding the small toy very firmly out of reach. It is naught but a childish squabble between brothers, of course; with the elder imposing authority over the younger - and shall be forgotten by suppertime - but such behaviour is unbecoming for an heir to the throne.
"Give it back, Edward. To behave so is inappropriate - and should not be the act of a Prince."
Everyone turns, startled; for Philip has not been announced. His expression is stern, for he, too, is a younger brother, and he understands that sense of injustice when an older brother imposes his will upon a younger sibling. They are children, of course, and children are hardly known for their sense of fairness - but Edward will be King in time: better to teach him to be fair to all while he is a boy. It is not a lesson he shall so easily learn as a man. Besides, a resentful younger brother would be troublesome for the Realm as much as for a brother.
Chastened, Edward lowers his arm and permits Henry to retrieve his soldier, "I am sorry, Hal."
Philip smiles at his elder son, and then looks to Henry, expectantly. For a moment, the younger boy's expression remains mutinous: but - eventually - he nods, "Thank you."
"That is good, Hal. It is never wise to hold a grudge; it hurts only you, not the one against whom you hold it."
"Yes, Papa." Philip holds out his arm and Henry accepts his embrace. They are still very young - quarrels are inevitable between them - but once they are older, those quarrels could well become destructive, and that is something both he, and Elizabeth, are keen to avoid. Ah well, once they are at Ightham Mote, Sir Richard's children will provide much needed companionship, and the opportunity to engage in sports and games. With no other children in the royal train, there are few distractions for them.
"Now we must sup with the court tonight, my sons; but, upon the morrow, we shall ride out in the park upon your new horses. Mama shall be along to see you before you are abed."
"Yes papa." The pair nod respectfully to their father, while Mistress Peake curtseys, with a relieved expression. Smiling at her, Philip turns and makes his way back to the apartments that he shares with his wife.
Elizabeth is in her dressing chamber, being carefully eased into the heavy gown that she is obliged to wear before the court. Adjourning to his own, where Mathias, his chief steward, is laying out his suit for tonight's feast, Philip feels, as he seems often to do, the sense of joy at knowing that she is his wife. Emerging again, washed and changed, he smiles at her. She is wearing his favourite of her gowns; the russet red brocade over a bronze kirtle embroidered with crowns and oak leaves. Her hair is elaborately curled and teased out under a gold net, while her cosmetics are a discreet enhancement of her gentle countenance, "Ah, my beloved; I am but a poor reflection of your beauty." His voice is mellifluous, and his expression impish. Elizabeth laughs.
"If I did not know you better, my lord; I should think that you had committed some error."
His arms encircle her narrow waist, "How can you be assured that I have not?"
"But you are perfect, my Filipe," She whispers, her lips moving towards his, "and I am the most beloved and joyful woman in Christendom."
Her ladies hasten out of view as the couple kiss. Even though they cannot do more than that in the time that they have available to them, their ladies and gentlemen prefer to grant them at least a pretence of discretion.
Elizabeth steps back, then laughs, "I have reddened your lips, Filipe."
"Then all shall see evidence of our love." He smiles and extends his arm, "Come, your Majesty - it is time to sup and display ourselves to the Court."
As always in such circumstances, they are escorted by an honour guard and followed by their entourages. Much as Elizabeth enjoys the formality and associated decoration of a full court display, her preference has always been for privacy with her family in the evening. On progress, however, matters are different - the Court is travelling, and thus she is expected to display herself for the inevitable entertainments and feasting that accompanies such an upheaval. So instead, she will move that private meal to dinner time, and eat with her children during the day.
Trumpets blare out to welcome her to the grand hall. Like the halls of most of her larger palaces, the great space is crowned with a magnificent hammer beam roof, while the players of the Queen's Consort are waiting to entertain the gathered throng from the gallery over the screens passage. The high table awaits upon a raise dais, where the most highly favoured of her courtiers are to be seated. Beyond, three rows of trestles and benches are dressed with linen cloths and set with polished pewter, and the rest of the Court are also standing to await her.
As they are not being hosted, the place of honour to her right is occupied by the elderly Lord Richmond, who smiles to her in welcome as she takes her seat. Beyond him stands Northumberland, then Lord Hackney: the three most powerful men of her Government. Pausing to squeeze Richmond's hand, she turns to face her Court, "Welcome all! On the first night of our Progress, let us give thanks for God's kindness in granting us bright weather for our journey, and the love of our subjects as they cheered us on our way." She turns to look across to her Chaplain, who speaks words of thanks for the feast to come, and all take their seats.
"I must thank your Majesty for the kind offer of the carriage." Richmond says, as the first remove is set out upon the tables, "Much as I would prefer to make this journey upon horseback, I fear that my age prevents it for more than short periods. I hope that I might accompany you in such manner as we arrive at each stop, and as we depart."
"You are of great value to me, my Lord." Elizabeth advises him, "It is important for the Realm that you are comfortable upon progress." Her eyes sparkle humorously, and he smiles in return.
The assembly sup upon venison and beef, while those further down the tables are served well-hung mutton and capons. The sauces are shining and rich with wines and spices and are sopped up with frumenty well spiked with fruit and nuts, or mountains of fine manchet bread. There is sweetened ale and claret to drink, and gentle music from the gallery trickles down to accompany the rumbling conversation of more than a hundred diners.
The second remove is a wide assortment of jellies and broths, scented with rosewater and garnished with petals, and the conversation is punctuated with delighted exclamations at the dishes that have arrived. Elizabeth has ruled that the conversation at the supper table must not be of a political nature, so all chatter and gossip, rather than discuss matters that are better considered at the council table. Instead, she discusses matters of a more domestic nature with Richmond and Northumberland; learning of their childrens' doings and the arrival of grandchildren. Once they have retired to sample the banquet course, things shall be different, of course; but for now the conversation is light and trivial.
As expected, Richmond does not disappoint in this regard, and she sits beside him in the banqueting chamber, allowing him to speak comfortably, "News from France, my Lord?"
He smiles, a little thinly, "I am told that Philip's ambassador has won a furious tirade from her Majesty the Regent of France over unwanted overtures to quell the low countries in their wish to govern themselves. Spain's inquisition is eager to root out heretics, and those who are not subservient to Rome are fearful that they might be set before inquisitorial courts."
Elizabeth sighs, and reaches for her hippocras, "I take it that Queen Catherine is interested only in ensuring religious uniformity within her own borders?"
Richmond nods, "She has no wish for Inquisitors to impose themselves upon her realm. She would prefer such activity to be undertaken by her own people. I am given to understand that she has continued her late husband's policy of granting a third of a reformer's property to the man who informs upon him."
"And so they inform?"
He nods again, "Whether truthfully or not."
"Then we must ensure that our borders are open to those who fear that they must find a more welcoming nation to practice their faith."
"That is in hand." He assures her, then smiles, "I have the letters patent to hand for the knighting of Mr Dudley."
"Excellent." She sees his expression, "What?"
He pauses for a moment, but then continues, "He seems not to have treated his elevation to a Court appointment with as much gratitude as his wife has treated her appointment to your Majesty's. His resentment is almost open."
"He is ambitious, my Lord." Elizabeth reminds him, "All the younger men of the Court are ambitious - maturity shall come in time. Patience is a virtue, is it not?"
He smiles again, "Indeed it is, Majesty. Perhaps he shall learn that gratitude in due course, and become the excellent courtier I am sure he has the potential to be."
"If he learns to be more like Henry, John and Ambrose, my Lord, then I have no doubt of it."
Lady Amy Dudley sits and embroiders as her husband preens at himself in the reflection from one of the windows of their apartment. For a moment, she thinks him to be delighted to have received his knighthood, and to be known as 'Sir Robert Dudley'; but his expression is an unbecoming mix of pride and discontent. His wounded pride has been salved to some degree - but it still remains tinged with jealousy of his eldest brother. After all, Ambrose also has a knighthood rather than a peerage, so what is it to have one himself when Henry and John have possession of their father's courtesy titles?
A part of her, the one that she has always been required to keep silent, desires to reprimand him for his childish behaviour. Until he came to Court, he had been quite charming: bright, sharp witted and excellent company to all. Even to her.
And then he came to Court.
It is not the fault of Henry, John or Ambrose; they seemed to take to Court life with sober good sense and kept their ambition rather more well-governed. Her Robin has an impulsiveness that they lack, and thus cannot keep his ambition as controlled. It is one of the traits that first attracted her to him, and even now that he seems to have tired of her, she remembers those early days of courtship fondly for that very impulsiveness.
In spite of her newfound success, that requirement to be silent remains strong, so she heeds it. The beautifully penned letters patent sit upon a dresser nearby, where Robin abandoned them. Bizarrely, he seems convinced that they should serve as a warrant to be granted better quarters, even though his brothers are no better housed than he. Such foolishness: perhaps the only way that it can be quelled shall be for him to make a fool of himself over it. Only to spike her Majesty's temper is likely to provide that dousing of cold sense that he so clearly needs. All she can do is be patient, and hope that he shall heed that moment when it comes.
Without acknowledging her, Dudley turns and departs for his first Council meeting. While he has been the Queen's Master of the Horse for some months, he has not taken his place at the council table before. That it is a reduced council, and little of substance is to be discussed, matters not. He has been appointed, and the opportunity to out-shine his less favoured brothers is highly tempting.
As he approaches the chamber that has been set aside for the Council, he spies Richmond limping along the passageway, leaning on his walking sticks and in quiet conversation with Northumberland. Partly out of deference to his father, and partly in order to ingratiate himself with the Lord Chancellor, Dudley falls into step beside them, "Father; your Grace."
"Ah - my hearty congratulations, Sir Robert," Richmond smiles at him, "Another member of the august Dudley family entering honoured service to her Majesty."
"Thank you, your Grace." The younger man's expression is slightly odd; as though he regards the honestly given complement as having an edge of criticism, or even insult.
Slightly bemused, Richmond opts to ignore it, "You enter the Council at a time when insight from our younger councillors is assuredly of great importance, Sir Robert. Your contributions shall be most welcome."
The expression shifts slightly as the bitterness is swallowed by a slightly proud upturn of the lips, "That is my hope, your Grace." Nodding politely, Dudley hastens his step to leave the older men behind.
"Forgive me, friend John;" Richmond sighs in a much lower voice, "but I wonder if we have erred in bringing that boy to the Council table at this time. I fear it has served only to expand his self regard."
Northumberland shakes his head, "There is nothing to forgive, Richard: the even as a boy, he always envied the success of his elder brothers, and it seems unchanged even as he has grown into a man - to the point that his envy masks his talent on occasions. It is frustrating - most frustrating. Robin has the potential to be the best of my sons if only he could set aside his irked jealousy of his brothers' better situations."
As they enter the chamber, most of the seats around the table are taken by the few colleagues that have travelled with the entourage. Wiltshire is already seated, with Warwick and Lisle alongside him, while Hackney sits opposite and laughs at a joke that Lisle has just made. Only three seats remain; but Dudley remains standing, as though uncertain of where to seat himself. To any other making their debut upon the Council, the choice would be obvious; for two of the seats are either side of the Queen's chair, and clearly intended for Richmond and Northumberland. The other, however, is at the far end of the table, and Dudley clearly does not wish to accept what he sees to be an inferior position.
"Oh, sit yourself, Robin." Warwick chides, "The seats at this table are equal; none shall judge you for sitting where you do."
Fortunately, rather than argue, Dudley opts instead to scowl somewhat and take the seat. Sharing a slightly weary glance, Richmond and Northumberland take theirs.
"Is there news from France, my Lord?" Hackney asks the Chancellor.
"Nothing new, my friend." He answers, "Her Majesty the Regent continues to ignore the importuning of King Philip over the matter of the Reformation in the Low Countries, though I have no doubt that she would think otherwise were it not for their Highness's existence."
The experienced Councillors exchange mildly irked glances: even now the validity of the marriage between the Queen's parents is questioned in some quarters. Had Elizabeth not borne sons, it is highly likely that the French regent would be far less reticent in her dealings with Spain, and that she would be attempting to enforce the distant claim of the Queen of Scots. After all the effort that was placed in securing the dismissal of that claim within the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis, it is most tiresome that it still remains in the minds of some of those who signed.
The door from the Queen's apartments opens, and all rise as Elizabeth enters. They bow their heads before she acknowledges them, and seat themselves as she does the same.
"Thank you, Gentlemen." She smiles at each in turn, and then switches her gaze to Dudley, "Sir Robert, welcome to my Council table; as my Master of Horse, it is your place to be here, and I am glad that you have taken your seat."
Reddening a little, he nods his head respectfully, "Thank you, your Majesty."
Something in his voice snatches at Richmond's attention, and he focuses more closely upon the young man. He is blushing somewhat, and that bombast that marked his arrival seems to have dissipated in an instant. As it is Northumberland's turn to speak, he stays quiet and watches Dudley carefully as the discussions commence.
Damnation; the youth has not taken his eyes from his Queen from the moment she entered the room - not once. Richmond may be elderly, but he has not forgotten the days of his youth, when his eye roved and the sight of a pretty face could captivate him. Now he understands why Dudley is dissatisfied with his marriage: just as he had once lost his heart to young Amy Robsart, he has now lost it in turn to the Queen.
This time, however, he has lost it to a woman that he cannot marry in foolish haste.
"And what news from France, my Lord Richmond?" Elizabeth's voice interrupts his reverie, obliging him to abandon his discovery and rejoin the conversation.
It is mere foolishness on the part of the Dudley boy, of course; and of little moment. No need to embarrass all by raising it. No, he shall keep a watch upon it and speak of it only if it becomes necessary.
"Sleep well, my precious highnesses." Elizabeth smiles as she gently kisses Edward on the top of his head, then does likewise to Henry, "We have had great games and jests this past week, and tomorrow we shall continue our journey onwards. If you are good, then you shall ride part of the way."
"I shall ride all of the way." Edward insists, drowsily, "Master Wynchcott says that my riding is coming on most well."
"So he tells me." She strokes his forehead, "He is pleased with both of you. Now, to sleep with you both; and I shall speak to Master Wynchcott tomorrow about how far you shall travel upon horseback."
Rising from the side of the large tester bed, she leaves Mistress Peake to see to the candles, and makes her way back to her own chambers. She has a feast to attend.
Anna is supervising the assembly of her ensemble this evening, and the choices that she has made are - as always - magnificently opulent, but also at the very forefront of fashion.
"Ouch!" Elizabeth snaps, flinching awkwardly as one of the dressers ties an undergarment, "Jesu, what has been set in this bum-roll? Wood?"
"My apologies, Majesty," Anna smiles at her, "The buckram is most stiff, for it is new. It shall soften as it warms."
The farthingale itself is also new: somewhat wider than that introduced from France by her mother when she returned to England, allowing the heavy fabrics of her kirtle and overgown to flare out rather more widely than was the case when the Queen Regent ruled the Court. The kirtle is, as is her preference, a rich ivory in colour, heavily embroidered with the rose of the Tudors, while the overgown is her favourite russet red. The sleeves are not too padded, but are elaborately quilted with raised diamond shapes, each with a small crown embroidered at the centre. The flattening stomacher is both embroidered and decorated with gems in gold filigree settings that her seamstresses have spent the last two days stitching to it. This evening, once she retires, they shall spend the entire night cutting the stitches again to return those gems to their locked coffer.
Such effort for a single night's entertainment. Still, better that than having a jeweller set them permanently into the garment.
Her hair has been artfully teased into a voluminous style that parts at her crown, with a fine gold diadem artfully set upon it, while her ears and neck are highlighted by delicate chains of gold from which are set deep red garnets to match her gown. All that remains to do is apply dabs of her favourite rose musk perfume, and all is done.
Philip awaits her, dressed in garments of a rich forest green, "Sua Majestade." He bows extremely floridly, and Elizabeth laughs at him, delightedly, "I am a primped and decorated creature who finds even movement a trial in such garments, but all shall see me and cheer, for I am the most beautiful creature in Christendom."
He takes her hand and leans in close to her, "Not half as beautiful as you would be were you not in those garments."
"Later, my love." She breathes softly.
Despite the opulence of the Court's garments, the feast itself is in keeping with the economies instituted by her mother: well presented, excellent in its quality, but not overmuch in its quantity. Her favourite dishes have been prepared for her, while even those at the lower end of the hall are served finer foods than would normally be the case. Above, in the gallery, her musicians are entertaining the assembly with rustic melodies performed on sackbuts and shawms, while young Tarleton jests in the centre of the hall. He snatches items from the tables to juggle, improvises ghastly doggerels for those whom he robs and even steals small morsels from the platters, which he tosses into the air to catch in his mouth to great applause as he chews each stolen prize.
As the throng retires to a canvas pavilion on the outside terrace, where the banquet has been laid out in an attempt to offer respite from the heat of the hall, Leighs catches up with Dudley, "So, Sir Robert," He smiles, with remarkable cheer, "your rise to prominence begins. I am right glad for you - soon you, too, shall bear a barony and we shall show this Court who are the true talents of the government, shall we not?"
For the first time, Dudley's response is not qualified with a sense of bitterness, "That is indeed so, friend Robert; for we stand in the shadows of our fathers, but are set to emerge from them and - in time - eclipse them, I think. Now that I am upon the council, I shall see about pressing for your employment thereon; after all, you are of excellent political stock, are you not? Thus we shall pick up what our fathers set down, and prove that we are the greater than they." He hiccups slightly, partly from overindulgence of venison, partly from overindulgence of wine. While his imagination has been released from good sense, and his tongue has also been loosened somewhat, he is still in sufficient control of his faculties to know that such speech is not welcome in the Queen's circle. Thus his voice remains low.
Leighs nods, smiling slightly. He knows, just as Dudley does, that such talk is foolish given that both of them are untried in government; but to do so comforts his sense of wounded pride over his father's threat to remove his inheritance. What, after all, is wrong with a touch of fantasy? Perhaps in time they shall lead the Queen's government; but while their fathers do so, they cannot.
Supping at the free-flowing hippocras, Dudley's speech becomes a little slurred. Being far less intoxicated, Leighs grows concerned at the direction that his friend's conversation is turning, and carefully guides him out of the pavilion to a distant spot on the terrace, "God above, she is a beauty." Dudley mumbles, "I wish that I had not seen the wretched, insipid creature to whom I tied myself before I could have played for the better prize."
Leighs shrugs, "Then make her your mistress, whoever she is. I have done so in the past, and my hypocrite of a father did so also when he was in his youth."
"Nay; I could not impose such a wanton state upon her. If she were to be mine, it would be as a wife, not a whore."
"Then who is this wench?"
Dudley does not reply. For all his drunkenness, he is not fool enough to let that be known.
"Ah well. Moon over her like a lovesick pup as you will, my friend. Sometimes it is more of a pleasure to sigh for love that is denied, than to win it, I think." Leighs looks up as people exit the pavilion to return to the hall, "Come, it is better that we return with the rest of the Court; besides, I am told that the Earl of Oxford's Men have travelled here to perform for us. Perhaps some bawdy repartee shall distract you from your unrequited passion."
Linking arms, partly out of a sense of camaraderie, partly to prevent Dudley from missing his footing, the pair turn to follow the Court back inside.