By Royal Command Page 8

  Mr Sylvester. I had feared that he might blight my position in the magician’s household, but he’d done no such thing, for he’d wiped the slate clean, so to speak, that first morning, and I’d almost forgotten about the incident on the riverbank, which I’d concluded may have been due to anxiety about his forthcoming position here.

  I hardly saw him: I took the girls, faces washed and hands clean, into him at ten o’clock each morning and there they stayed for two hours, receiving instruction, following which, at midday, I took in their dinner. The girls ate this alongside Mr Sylvester, who saw that they conducted themselves in a mannerly way and had also introduced them to forks, which were pronged instruments to hold down meat while cutting it. The girls had told me that the conversation which accompanied the meal was always conducted in French, as this was the language much used by lords and ladies.

  Mistress Midge had quickly made use of the extra hours I now had to spare in the mornings and would ask me to run errands for her, help prepare dinner, or attend on Dr Dee and Mr Kelly, fetching and carrying them food and drink. It was on one of these occasions, going to clear a tray from the library, that I heard voices raised and, the door being ajar, paused outside in the passageway in order to hear a little more.

  ‘This is proving impossible!’ Dr Dee was saying.

  ‘It’s only impossible because you cannot discover the key,’ said Mr Kelly.

  Dr Dee groaned. ‘I have transcribed pages of characters, letters and numbers, exactly as you have given them to me, but they mean nothing!’

  ‘I gave them just as Madimi and Ariel dictated,’ Mr Kelly said somewhat loftily. ‘And – do you question the word of Ariel, the noblest of the spirits? It was Ariel who instructed Noah how to conduct himself during the Flood.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Dr Dee. There was a pause. ‘You say that Ariel points again and again to a figure of seven squares shown within a circle of light.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘But what should it mean to us? What use are all these images – and all these letters and words written in this angelic language?’

  ‘That is for you to discover,’ said Mr Kelly dismissively. ‘I don’t purport to be a magician. I am just a humble scryer.’

  ‘Yes, yes . . .’

  ‘The medium through which the spirits speak to you.’

  ‘But Her Grace grows impatient! The Spanish are already said to have turned a dozen brass rings into solid gold! An Italian philosopher is said to have restored three people to life with an elixir!’

  ‘Pish!’ Mr Kelly said. ‘The Spanish are counterfeiting. ‘Tis nothing but sleight of hand – a conjurer’s trick.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the Spanish court is buzzing with the story.’

  ‘If we had the money to buy a dozen gold rings, Dee, then we could do such things.’

  ‘But we have not the money! There is none to spare, and I already have to buy a New Year present for the queen.’

  I heard Mr Kelly rise and begin to walk about the room. ‘If our earlier plan had succeeded . . . if there had not been an evil spirit in the house who wished us ill.’

  ‘Quite! But ‘tis damned strange, Kelly, that a spirit should be capable of . . .’

  As soon as I heard where his sentence was heading, I thought it best to go in, for if they began to reason between them what a spirit might or might not do and whether it could have released Miss Charity, then they might come to the conclusion that only someone on earth, someone human, could have caused their prisoner to escape.

  * * *

  A thaw had set in over the last couple of days and we’d heard that, following someone falling through a patch of thin ice at the frost fair and being drowned, it had been dismantled. No one knew, of course, when there might be such an entertainment again, for this was so dependent on the weather, and I counted myself extreme lucky to have been able to attend.

  One afternoon Mistress Midge asked me to take the girls out to collect greenery for the house for, the Walsinghams having been invited to dine on the day after Christmas, Dr Dee was demanding that the house should look as fine and as festive as possible. Mistress Midge sniffed mightily at this. ‘The Walsinghams are used to dining at Whitehall, at Windsor Castle and Syon,’ she said. ‘What sort of show can we ever hope to put on?’

  Nevertheless, an old handcart was found in one of the outhouses and, with Merryl and Beth sitting atop, I set for Barnes Common, which I’d been assured was replete with holly, ivy and fir. Here I quickly filled the cart to capacity with all sorts of berried and evergreen branches, cutting and chopping and getting mightily scratched along the way.

  On the way back, knowing that Isabelle lived nearby, I called at her little cottage on the chance that she’d be in. Her mother came to the door, however, to say that Isabelle and her sister were on the common engaged on the same errand as I, so I thanked her and didn’t ask to wait. I could see by the way she stood to prevent me seeing inside that she was embarrassed about the humbleness of the cottage, which was very bare and had little in the way of furnishings or comfort. Isabelle had told me that there was never any money to spend on such things, for there were five children and no father to provide for them.

  Happily, however, we three met up with Isabelle and Margaret, their shawls full of great amounts of mistletoe, as we trundled back over the common towards the river path. We stopped and spoke for a while and I told her a little about the mission that Tomas had given me.

  ‘You are to go to the palace?’ she gasped. ‘To an entertainment?’

  I nodded. ‘And I’m excited and afeared equally.’

  ‘But whatever will you wear?’

  I stared at her in consternation, for I hadn’t had a moment to consider this. ‘My pale green linen, I suppose.’

  ’That?!’

  ‘Is it not grand enough?’

  She shook her head. ‘I should say not.’

  ‘The grey wool?’

  ‘Never!’

  I was stumped then, for although I had two kirtles and bodices of my own – and two gowns which had been given to me by Mistress Dee – they were all fearfully out of fashion and, now I thought of it, of course were not at all suitable for a grand occasion.

  ‘But does it matter?’ I asked. ‘No one will notice me. Or if they do, they’ll just suppose me to be a lady’s maid.’

  ‘Even ladies’ maids dress like ladies – especially if they’re going to the palace,’ she said. ‘You’ll only slip into the background if you’re dressed as fine and fashionable as everyone else. If you’re dressed like a drab, then you’ll stand out and people will wonder who you are and how you come to be there.’

  I sighed, thinking that possibly she was right.

  ‘We must try and think of something else for you to wear.’ Her eyes suddenly sparkled. ‘But now tell me of the frost fair, for I was monstrous sorry to have missed it.’

  ‘Indeed! I felt sure I’d see you there.’

  ‘I had no time. I’ve been working every day these five days past, making kissing boughs and selling them at market.’

  ‘Have you done well?’

  ‘I have. I’ve sold so many that we are to have a roast goose for Christmas Day – and I’ve already picked him out!’

  ‘Kissing boughs . . .’ I mused. ‘Perhaps we should have one such in the magician’s house, for the Walsinghams are coming and Dr Dee wants everything to look very fine.’

  ‘The Walsinghams!’ she said, impressed. She smiled. ‘But did you know that if a man catches you under the mistletoe bough, then he can claim a kiss?’

  I nodded, for this was an old tradition.

  ‘Then perhaps there will be a young male Walsingham who is comely and catches your eye . . .’

  I shook my head, smiling. ‘Their children are all too young. Besides, any young sir would not look at me!’

  ‘The girls’ tutor, then?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Dr Dee himself?’

  I screamed.

/>   ‘Then, perhaps . . . Tomas, the queen’s fool?’

  I laughed. ‘Perhaps! But what of you? Which young man will you be lingering under the mistletoe for?’

  ‘I think . . . the ‘prentice boy at the butcher’s,’ she said. ‘For he has a fine head of red hair and always winks at me when I go in the shop.’

  I laughed. ‘A butcher’s ‘prentice?’ I said. ‘Are you sure that you’re not just after his pigs’ trotters?’ And we both giggled immoderately at this.

  Isabelle gave me an amount of mistletoe, saying I’d not be able to get any for myself for, it being only found atop of trees, her little sister had had to climb for it, and she showed me how to make a kissing bough by twisting it around and about with strands of vine and making it into a globe shape, then balancing a candlestick inside. ‘You must hang it in the hallway, and for every kiss given, you must take off a berry,’ she informed me.

  I nodded. ‘And after Twelfth Night, we will count our berries and see who has the most!’

  We bade each other goodbye, and Beth, Merryl and I set off across the common for home (with me pondering all the way about what I should wear to the palace) and reached the river path just as dusk was falling. It was only a short walk back to Mortlake but was made harder by the unevenness of the ground and the cart I had to push, so I was happy to see the magician’s house come into sight around the bend of the river. As it did so, Beth clapped her hands delightedly, saying, ‘Jack Frost!’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Where?’

  ‘Standing behind that tree,’ Merryl pointed to a willow on the bank. ‘Ready to come around the house and paint our windows white.’

  And indeed it was he and I found a smile coming to my face and my heart giving a skip, for I couldn’t help thinking of all the mistletoe on my cart.

  The girls ran up to him. ‘Will you do a somersault for us?’ Beth asked.

  ‘No, I want you to spin round and round like a top!’ Merryl commanded.

  ‘Stop!’ I said to the girls. ‘Even the queen’s fool is entitled to have some time off.’

  ‘I would speak with you alone,’ he said to me. His voice was low, throaty, and he put his hand to his mouth as he spoke.

  ‘Are you well?’ I asked, concerned.

  ‘No . . . you must excuse me . . . I have an ague.’

  ‘That such as Jack Frost should take chill! Shame!’ I said.

  But he didn’t continue with the jest and, feeling a little perplexed at this, I sent the girls indoors saying I’d follow directly.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘Have you anything to tell me?’

  I shook my head, not knowing what he meant.

  ‘You have to watch someone . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘Can you recall the name of this person?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said straight, thinking this some testing of my sense or my memory.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nodded assuredly.

  ‘And that name is . . . ?’

  I was about to blurt out the name Madeleine Pryor when I heard a voice inside my head, a voice clearly telling me not to reply, and I looked more closely at the white mask of Jack Frost . . . through the eyeholes to the eyes underneath . . . which were not grey, but brown.

  ‘Come, Mistress, have you forgotten?’ he said briskly.

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  I put out my hand and would have snatched off his mask, but he judged what I was about to do and stepped back. ‘You are not Tomas!’

  He tried to make light of it. ‘No, indeed, I am Jack Frost.’

  ‘You are not he, either!’ I said. I wheeled around and, taking hold of the handles of my cart, would have pushed it into him, except that he sprang away from me and I heard his laughter echoing down the empty riverbank as he ran off.

  Chapter Nine

  At the frost fair Tomas had told me to trust no one, but I’d hardly heeded his words. I would from now on, however, for clearly someone had seen him speaking to me – someone who knew that he was not only the queen’s fool, but also acted as her emissary, and thus had reasoned that I’d been asked to engage in some secret work. Realising all this, I would have written to Tomas to inform him, except that I had no parchment nor quill. Besides, I realised, if I was being watched, any letter might be taken straight to the counterfeit Tomas.

  I did nothing, therefore, but used what little leisure time I had in the worry of what I was going to wear to the palace and how I was going to behave while I was there, for I had begun to fear that I might show myself up through not knowing what was mannerly. I didn’t know what the entertainments at the palace might consist of: music, dancing, a masquerade, mummers singing Christmas songs? Even, perhaps, jousting in the tiltyard. Each of these would demand a different response from the onlookers and, the Court being so conservative in its customs and etiquette, I had next to no idea of what this response might be.

  That evening, when the girls had gone to bed, I laid all my clothes – bodices, kirtles, sleeves and smocks – on my bed, held my candlestick high and scrutinised them for some time, unhappily coming to the same conclusion as Isabelle: nothing I owned was in any way suitable to wear to an entertainment in front of the queen at Richmond Palace. The style of the kirtles – and the necklines, lacing, embroidery, bodices and ruffs, too – was dated, the fabric dull and faded, and those items of clothing that were not darned had either grease spots or marks around the hems where I’d endeavoured to brush away the winter’s mud. I looked at them, and then I thought about the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and maids of honour, those bright young women who acted as an attractive and elegant backdrop for Her Grace, and sighed heavily. I’d been to the palace before, that was true, and had not worried about my gown to that extent, but then I’d just been one of a couple of hundred other ordinary citizens seeking an audience in the presence chamber. This time I was actually going to be part of the Court.

  My eyes fell on the only costly and fashionable thing I owned: the sable mittens given to me by Miss Charity, and I suddenly remembered how grateful she’d been to me. She’d told me I must go to her if I ever wanted anything. Had she meant what she’d said?

  There was, I thought, only one way to find out.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said politely when Thomas Mucklow’s front door was opened the next morning.

  The housemaid – who was not the one I’d met previously – looked me up and down. ‘Trades at the back door,’ she said.

  I felt my face turn pink. ‘I am not trades,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to speak with Miss Charity.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’

  I stood my ground. ‘Would you kindly tell her that a friend . . .’

  As I said this last word, she smirked.

  ‘A friend,’ I said firmly, ‘wishes to speak to her.’

  ‘And who is this person? This friend?’ asked the housemaid.

  ‘My name is Mistress Mary Ditcham,’ I said, making up the name on the spot. I hoped that Miss Charity would remember me, but I’d bought her mittens along to jog her memory, just in case she didn’t.

  ‘I’ve not heard of no one of that name.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I am she. I am a friend of Miss Charity’s and bring something belonging to her,’ I said, indicating the package under my arm.

  ‘Very well,’ said the maid sullenly. ‘I’ll tell her.’ She left me standing at the door, went up the facing flight of stairs and knocked on a door. I heard her say, ‘A person has called who says she is your friend, Miss, but I think it might be someone from the market trying to sell you something.’

  After a moment Miss Charity came down the stairs on her own. She was dressed very neat and pretty in a deep red gown embroidered with gold leaves and flowers, her auburn hair caught into a gold net studded all over with tiny red stones. She looked at me hesitantly for a moment, and I brought out the package. ‘Your mittens, Miss,’ I sai
d.

  Her face cleared. ‘Oh! What shall I call you?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Mistress Mary Ditcham, if it please you, Madam,’ I whispered back.

  ‘Do come upstairs, Mary,’ she said, and she led me into a long bedchamber at the front of the building. This, I saw immediately, had not been furnished on Puritan principles like the rest of the gloomy house, but was very light and pretty, with a four-post bed hung around with light draperies and two wood benches having coloured velvet cushions. The wall hangings, too, were not improving stories from the Bible, but gaily coloured pastoral scenes on painted silk, with maidens and lambs frolicking in fields, or lovers walking together through flowery meadows.

  ‘I suppose that Mistress Ditcham isn’t your real name?’ my young lady asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Very sensible.’

  I hesitated. ‘I hope you’ll forgive my boldness in coming to see you, Miss, but . . .’

  ‘You must call me Charity if we’re supposed to be friends!’

  ‘Charity,’ I ventured, ‘you said that I was to approach you if ever I needed anything.’

  ‘I did indeed. And I meant it.’

  ‘I trust you have suffered no harm as a result of what happened to you?’

  ‘I can barely remember it!’

  I nodded. ‘I daresay that is because of the poppy juice.’

  ‘But do tell me more, because I’m most intrigued as to why you’re here.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Well, here it is as plain as flour, Mi— . . . Charity. I have to go somewhere very important on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Do you?’ she asked, and sighed. ‘Is it a dance or a ball? I wish very much that I could hold a dance, but father has banned any form of gaiety from the house this Yuletide.’

  I looked at her with sympathy.

  ‘But I’m sorry I interrupted. Do go on!’

  ‘You see, I haven’t got anything suitable to wear to this important place, only my everyday gowns, which – now that I’ve looked at them closely – are very dull and horrid.’

  ‘And you’d like me to give you something?’