“If so, ’twas only because I was maddened at being driven from your side.” Elizabeth dared raise her head, and she sent Mary a look of appeal. “I waited for one word, for one sign from you of sisterly forgiveness.” A sob choked her voice.
I hoped Elizabeth would not take the contrite pathos too far. I’d observed this sweet, penitent princess unmercifully abusing poor Bedingfield, even tricking him into writing to Mary’s council whatever she dictated.
“Well, you are here now,” Mary said with finality. “Here you will remain until the birth of my heir. Then we will speak of better days to come.”
She spoke stiffly, as though she wished to say other words, but had forced herself to speak these. As though someone stood behind the screen at her back and murmured lines to her.
“There is someone there,” I whispered to Susan, who’d remained beside me. “Behind the screen. I saw a movement through a crack in it.”
“Hush,” Susan advised me in a severe tone. “This is none of your affair.”
Mary glanced at me as though she’d noted my observation, and I dropped my gaze as I should before the royal stare.
“You are good to me,” Elizabeth was saying. “Though I do not deserve it.”
Did I detect a softening in Mary’s expression? I could not tell from this distance. Mary’s pregnancy, I reasoned, had bolstered her confidence. She could afford to be generous to Elizabeth when the next heir to the land grew in her belly.
I started when I detected another furtive movement behind the screen. “Someone is spying on them,” I hissed to Susan. “Friend or foe? And whose foe?”
Elizabeth had excellent hearing and jerked her head up at my questions. She shot a searing gaze at the screen behind Mary, while Mary turned a bright, angry red.
The tapestry-hung screen was suddenly shoved aside and around it stepped the last person I expected to see: Philip, King of Naples and Jerusalem, Regent of Spain, consort to the Queen of England.
Chapter 20
“Well met, Your Grace,” Philip said to the still-kneeling Elizabeth.
Elizabeth remained fixed in place and watched Philip with steel in her eyes.
I hadn’t decided what to expect of the man, whom I’d never beheld either in person or in painted likeness. I could understand, though, why so many ladies found him pleasing.
Philip stood tall next to Mary, though in truth, he wasn’t much taller than I was. His hair was so light brown it was nearly blond, and his neatly trimmed beard framed a strong face. He had an athletic body hardened by tournaments and sport on horseback, which gave him an upright grace.
On looks alone, I could understand why Mary had fallen for him, this dashing, handsome hero who’d ridden in to rescue her and her country.
Not being Mary, I studied Philip with rather more objectivity. He did not carry an aura of either evil or foolishness, as his detractors claimed. Instead, he exuded strength of character and the determination to succeed at whatever it was he set his mind to. He might practice much diplomacy to obtain what he desired, but he’d have it in the end by pure force of will.
He did not love Mary. I saw that at once when he turned to her. Mary was another piece of diplomacy he’d use as means to the greater glory of the Hapsburgs. He’d put up with her deteriorating looks, her temper, and her stubborn piety so that he could hold England in his hand.
“Dear sister,” Philip said to Elizabeth. “We are pleased at this reconciliation.”
By Mary’s pinched mouth, she had not seen the interview thus. A chance to vent her pique, perhaps, but never a reconciliation.
Philip took Elizabeth’s hands and raised her to her feet, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. Elizabeth returned the kiss but warily.
“We should have wine,” Philip declared. “To celebrate.”
Mary remained seated, her sour look more evident, but she nodded at her husband.
“Have it brought,” she barked to Susan, and Susan slipped out the door, pulling me along with her.
I’d wanted more than anything to remain in that room so I could report to Colby every word Philip uttered. But Susan curtly gave me orders that I in turn relayed to the servants.
Despite the late hour and exhausted staff, we soon collected wine and cakes from the kitchens and carried them back into Mary’s chamber.
They awaited us, Mary rigidly in her chair, Elizabeth on a stool at her feet, Philip standing behind his wife. They made an elegant tableau, one begging to be immortalized by the court painter, Hans Eworth.
Philip crossed the room to us as Susan and I entered. I clutched my tray while I curtsied deeply to him.
