We’d agreed that speed was the key. Surprise piled upon surprise. Keep it coming. Don’t give them time to keep up. The ancient Persians demonstrated not only their wealth, but also their contempt for it by casually flinging around their priceless carpets as if they were nothing. Exquisite kilims dropped carelessly one on top of the other, the visible top layer only hinting at the treasures buried beneath. We intended something similar.
Before anyone had time for more than a startled exclamation, Randall hurled a bolt of white velvet. Shot with metallic thread, it unrolled across the crimson carpet, glinting softly in the light. The queen leaned forward, but before she could take it in, it was gone, buried beneath an undulating ruby red silk, and then that was gone, covered by a black and gold brocade and then another silk, green, shot with blue. Great bolts of material tumbled down the room. We barely gave her time to assimilate one marvel before partially burying it under the next.
The musicians, who knew their trade, picked up the beat. The pace quickened. Purple and blue taffetas rolled across the carpet.
Peterson was laying out beautifully carved cedar wood boxes, inlaid with mother of pearl and redolent with the scents of the east.
Leaving Randall to hurl fabric around as if his life depended up it – which it did – Markham was working the room. He produced, apparently from nowhere, a number of flimsy, silken scarves, one of which he flung artistically into the air. It hung, weightless, glittering in the candlelight before he laughingly snatched it down, drew it through a ring seemingly plucked from behind a lady’s ear and presented both to her with a sweeping bow. She clapped her hands with delight and he made his way around the court, generating a vortex of colour and movement, presenting rings and scarves to every woman he encountered.
Randall tumbled bolts of lace in a heap and topped them with muslins and linens so sheer they were almost transparent. I could hear cries of astonishment from around the room.
I stole a look at the queen who sat quite still, her face expressionless.
With a final flourish, Randall threw his last bolt of velvet; Markham let his scarves flutter and rest where they fell. The musicians drew one final chord and to cries of appreciation and regret, it was over.
Everyone turned to see the queen’s reaction.
She sat back and regarded Farrell steadily.
‘A pretty show.’
He bowed.
‘You think to win me over with this display?’
‘Oh no, Your Grace.’
She looked at him.
‘These poor things are just today’s offerings.’
‘What else do you have for me?’
No pretence, no politely leading up to it – just straight out with it – what else do you have for me?
‘Spices, Your Grace, every flavour known to the east.’
She shrugged. ‘Nutmeg, cinnamon, I have all this.’
‘And yellow saffron, more precious than gold.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘And perfumes. All the scents of the Orient for your pleasure alone.’ He smiled at her.
She smiled back.
This seemed to be going quite well.
And then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t.
A flustered chamberlain appeared at her elbow.
‘By Your Grace’s leave, the Earl of Bothwell desires admittance.’
I had a sudden flare of hope. He was here. Would she see him? Was our intervention unnecessary? Was History working alongside us to put this right?
Apparently not. All the progress we had made flew straight out of the window.
The French Ambassador stepped forward with Ronan a pace behind.
‘Your Grace, if you remember, it was decided you would not receive my Lord …’
She didn’t even bother to look at him. Her eyes flashed with something. Anger? Fear? Guilt? Her voice effortlessly carried around the suddenly silent room.
‘I gave explicit instructions that Lord Bothwell is not to be admitted and yet, here he is. Again. God’s Blood, I would know why I am so ill served in this. Send him hence. With all speed.’
A man Schiller later identified as Lord Seton, stepped forward. ‘Your Grace, I beseech you …’
She said through clenched teeth, ‘I will not see him.’
‘But Your Grace,’ he murmured, placating, ‘the Earl of Bothwell was acquitted. Lord Lennox accused the Earl of murdering your hus – his son, but subsequently failed to appear at the hearing, and therefore …’
He was a brave man, but sadly, she was having none of it.
‘Enough!’
Her voice rang round the room like a pistol shot. Seton stepped back immediately and took good care to be lost in the crowd. There was a very careful silence. No one even moved until de Castelnau said quietly, ‘If Your Grace will give me leave, I will gladly convey Your Grace’s message to the Earl. Again.’
Bloody hell, this could be nasty. I had a very good idea of how that message might be conveyed. Especially with Ronan behind him whispering in his ear. Somehow, we had to get this back on track.