the cup again, holding it to his colleague’s lips. Montague grasped it clumsily and began to gulp the contents, spilling them liberally down the front of the borrowed robe. Northumberland eyed the ruin of the expensive garment with distaste. Maybe it could be made over for the Doctor? God knew that the man was going to need anew wardrobe and the thought of having to lay out the money for it was a cheerless one; he shoved the thoughts aside to be dealt with at a later time.
“You should rest now, Doctor,” was all he said before summoning a groom to see the weeping man to the chamber that had been prepared for him. They would talk in the morning.
Southampton smoothed the oyster-white satin of his doublet, glowing with that special pride produced by overshadowing someone else, in this case Lord Mounteagle, who had made the monumental mistake of bragging on the outfit he had commissioned for the Christmas court. He had been preening himself on the satin, taffeta silk that shimmered with the shifting colors of pearls, and so dear that enough to make a pair of sleeves and trim the rose velvet doublet had cost an entire year’s rents from one of his few remaining manors. Nothing else would do but that Hal should have an entire suit of the satin, trimmed in silver lace and black pearls. He had waited patiently, timing his entrance to the hall so that Mounteagle would have plenty of time to let everyone know the price he paid for the cloth before settling into some pastime. Hal then sauntered up behind his quarry, leaning nonchalantly on the back of his chair, so that everyone at the table, save Mounteagle himself, had a good view of the costume. “God you good den, my lords,” he said quietly. “And you especially, Will,” he added to Mounteagle, who did not bother to look around. Lord Sandys glanced up indifferently, then looked again sharply, a vicious grin splitting his weary face; Sir Henry Warren laughed aloud; Sir Edward, now Lord Selby, choked violently and sprayed a mouthful of wine across the table.
Mounteagle cursed, brushing at the flecks of wine and spittle dotting his oyster-white sleeve, then muttered a greeting to Southampton, still without turning. Hal grinned back at the others, raising an eyebrow before drifting away from the table to show himself off to the rest of the court, eddies of stifled laughter swirling in his wake.
“God’s teeth, my lord!” Elizabeth bellowed. How that tiny, wizened woman could produce such volume was a mystery. Every head in the large room swiveled towards them, and Hal swept into an elegant bow, so low that his dark auburn curls came close to brushing the floor. There was a further sound of choking from the corner where the gamblers laired, drowned by the tide of helpless laughter that flooded the room. Mounteagle indeed must have made doubly sure that every last person in the hall knew the cost of that oyster satin to every last farthing.
“Your Majesty,” Hal offered his hand to the Monarch, but she brushed him aside, a wink of her eye and the quirking of her lips forestalling insult, as she beckoned Ralegh to her side.
“I thank you, but no, my lord,” she answered in a voice gurgling with repressed mirth, and he understood. She might enjoy the prank, but that was not enough to overcome the antipathy she felt for him. Ralegh himself smiled with the purest appreciation as he bowed his courtesy to the earl before sweeping the Queen off into the dance, a stately pavane. Hal wandered back to the table, where Mounteagle was now conspicuous by his absence. He settled into the vacant chair and reached for the wine jug. Ned pushed it towards him, giggling helplessly.
“By Christ, Hal, you’ve made a friend into an enemy with this night’s work,” Sandys said sententiously.
“A poor sort of friend,” Hal shrugged, and sipped at the wine, a sorry sour excuse for a beverage, he found himself thinking, remembering his entertainment of the night before.
“A poor friend might still make a deadly enemy,” Sandys continued, seeming ready to extend the lecture indefinitely. A flash of color caught at the corner of Hal’s eye and he shoved the cup away, excusing himself to follow, as Libby had known he would.
Out of the hall, and down a corridor he went, the sweep of skirts always vanishing before him, but always lingering long enough that he would be