being held in honor of the Queen’s birthday and the dancing that would follow. Though worded as an invitation it was certainly a command.
“I cannot attend in the afternoon,” I said, wondering how much I should tell Ralegh about my limitations.
“I will appear in your place, Christopher,” Geoffrey said, “As is my right as your liege-lord. There will be no trouble, I think, if I place a bond against your later appearance, if required.”
I lazed back on the pillows, indifferent to the glares aimed at me, toying with the heavy strand of pearls I wore. The Queen idly stroked my hair, giving it a sharp tug now and then when I made some particularly derisive, albeit apt, criticism of the masque. Geoffrey sat beside her in a chair, giving a more erudite and far less corrosive commentary.
I had arrived with the dusk, just as the inquest brought in its verdict of death by misadventure. I joined Geoffrey, and we were immediately conducted to a private audience, where her majesty questioned us both sharply, ending with a query that had puzzled her for some time. She wanted to know how it was that a man unable to even read could hold his own in a country over-devoted to print, and thus learned both that the disability was caused by my injury, and that Geoffrey had nothing to do with it.
“Other than seeing to it that I was better able to defend myself another time,” I added, smiling, and we adjourned to watch the play.
“You shall sit beside me, Cousin,” she had said to Geoffrey and indicated a chair so close to hers that it was half under the cloth of state.
“And where shall I sit?” I bantered.
“Why where else would a good shadow be, but at his mistress’ feet,” she replied, matching me tone for tone and motioning to the cushions waiting there. I slung myself down with easy grace and smiled up at her. “No,” she said, consideringly, “I find thou art too dark, cousin, and would lighten thy aspect somewhat, as the moon doth kindle a dark night.” She beckoned to one of her ladies who stepped forward and removed a strand pearls from the royal gown. It was obvious to the entire court from the easy way it was dislodged; the necklace had been donned with just such a removal in mind. With a swift birdlike movement she dropped the jewels over my head, and scowled at the faces surrounding her, as if daring them to react. The masque began then, providing a welcome distraction.
Cecil had watched this by-play sourly. He had frequently expressed his opinion, within my hearing, though prudently not within the Queen’s, that her habitual playing at dalliance with men a third her age reflected absurdly upon the dignity of the Crown. He was close by, and watching us rather than the masque, most intently. I had seen such attention before, anywhere a cat waited by a mouse hole. My own gaze narrowed, and I sat up to look at him more closely, but just then his groom touched his sleeve, whispering that the awaited messengers had arrived. He stood and slipped from the crowded room, only to return a few minutes later, a complacent smile on his lips while he composed himself to await the end of the masque. When it ended and the courtly compliments had been paid, he made his way to the Queen, bowing low.
“I have just received some information I think will interest your Majesty,” he purred, bending over her hand. She snatched it away.
“Not now, my lord,” she snapped.
“Robert—” his father, Lord Burghley, started, and broke off at a gesture from the Queen.
“I humbly entreat your pardon, Majesty, but I think you must hear. The information is from Sybria.” Geoffrey turned a steely gaze on him.
“Perhaps we both should hear,” he said quietly as I scrambled to my feet.
“Speak, then,” Elizabeth said waspishly.
“I would prefer to speak privately,” he began, then shrugged his crooked shoulders and continued. “The ruling Prince of Sybria, Mihai Viteazul,” he stumbled a bit on the unfamiliar syllables, “sends his greetings to your gracious Majesty, and knows nothing of any Princes Geofri and Kryštof.” He paused to allow the implications of this to sink in, then continued. “The Holy Roman Emperor, Rudolf, claims a cousin Geofri, who calls himself a prince—” he broke off with a gasp at the Queen’s baleful glare.
“Majesty, may I speak plainly,” Geoffrey asked smoothly.