Farrell and I led the way through the muddy streets. Small boys and dogs followed on behind us. Markham swung into action. Peterson, a little apart from us, bowed and smiled his way through the crowds.
We stopped at a trinket stall. Farrell bought every item I admired. I don’t think the stallholder could quite believe his luck.
Following the smell of cooking, we entered a small inn. The landlord made a private room available. We enjoyed a roast bird and a pastry stuffed with dried fruit. Drink flowed. Farrell ruthlessly over-tipped everyone.
A small crowd waited in the street, all with invitations to visit their brother’s inn/shop/stall/whatever and possibly buy their sisters.
Markham and Randall were slowly weighed down with our purchases, which included several pairs of soft gloves, ribbons, a length of lace (‘Oh good, more lace!’), some honey cakes, a couple of small and very shrivelled lemons, a birdcage complete with songbird occupant (who was released around the very next corner), a packet of needles (which would be very useful should any of us ever learn to sew), a small pillow stuffed with herbs (to ensure my ladyship’s peaceful repose), a copper bracelet (to ward off painful joints), and a pot of honey.
Farrell was measured for a pair of boots he was assured would be ready on the morrow and even Guthrie was sorely tempted by a small Italian dagger, complete with worn leather sheath.
Peterson divided his time between young girls (who giggled and blushed) and old women (who made him giggle and blush).
It felt as though half the town was following us from stall to stall and I suspected a good number of them were from Holyrood. Eventually, as it began to get dark, Guthrie called a halt.
We returned home, tired, muddy, and hungry. We could do no more. It was all in the lap of the gods now. Or History herself.
I went out the next day, walking around town with Schiller and Markham, getting our bearings and planning possible escape routes back to the pods which were located about a mile outside town, and so we missed it When we got back to the house, everyone was upstairs, frantically lugging down bolts of cloth and all the other bits and pieces. While we were out, the Queen’s messengers had called. We were summoned to the palace the next day. To present ourselves to the Queen. All of us.
My restlessness that night was not completely due to the fleas in the mattress. I hardly slept at all, running over everything in my mind. Beside me, Schiller tossed and turned as well.
We were downstairs early, sitting around the table, drinking tea (our one luxury – we’re St Mary’s – we run on tea) and eating bread and cheese. There wasn’t a great deal of conversation. We all knew what we had to do; there was no point in banging on about it.
Schiller and I disappeared upstairs to start dressing. We had decided that, for our first appearance, I’d go for something a little different. I had two court dresses. One was magnificent but conventional, in black and gold. However, the second was of a glorious turquoise, a colour that would not be widely known in this country until around 1573. For the purposes of this assignment, we were calling the colour Celeste. We’d chosen it specifically because it looked spectacular with red hair and Mary Stuart had red hair.
In common with the English court, fashion here followed the Spanish tradition, with dark, heavy colours and wide sleeves. Mrs Enderby had dressed us in the lighter Italian and French styles, hoping they would appeal to an exile from the French court. Schiller fastened my exquisite lace ruff and we bundled my hair into a jewelled net.
Farrell and Peterson looked magnificent, in similar outfits of black and silver. Guthrie wore dark red and even the security team looked good. We’d dressed them in the richest fabrics allowed in an age where your rank clearly defined the clothes you wore.
By the time we got downstairs, the wagon was loaded, the horses were ready, and this was it.
Once again, Markham and his drum preceded us. You could argue it was all a bit over the top for so short a journey, but we were too important to visit the palace on foot or without an entourage.
Reassuringly, we were received with the greatest courtesy. Guthrie and his team remained behind to supervise unloading the wagon and the rest of us were escorted inside at once, relieved of our outdoor clothes by an army of servants, shown into a large, chilly, crowded room, and just when I was beginning to think it might be easy after all, they left us there.
We clustered together for security and, in my case, warmth.
Time passed.
Then some more time passed.
‘Come on,’ grumbled Peterson. ‘We’ve only got three weeks, you know.’
It was unlike him to complain. He was nervous. We were all nervous.