Trapped at the Altar

And when it had, it had been predicated on a life with Gabriel Fawcett.

Ivor had been watching her closely throughout dinner. She was off center, had been since the previous evening, and he couldn’t think why. When he asked her if anything was wrong, she denied it immediately, offering a bright smile that somehow didn’t ring true. He saw now the sudden darkening of her eyes, as if a cloud had crossed them. But it was only momentary, and then she seemed to visibly shake it off, giving a tiny, almost unconscious shrug before smiling at him across the table, saying with that same slightly false brightness, “Well, it’s another adventure.”

“Yes,” he agreed coolly. “Another adventure.”

? ? ?

They walked across the park of St. James’s in an icy wind, the bare branches of the trees ice-tipped. The clouds were gravid with the promise of snow. Tilly, wrapped in her cloak, looked around warily, her eyes returning always to the sprawling edifice of the palace across the canal. She couldn’t quite grasp the fact that she was going to go into the Palace of Whitehall, maybe even see the Queen . . . maybe the King. It was more than a girl from Daunt valley could comprehend, and she imagined the disbelief of her old companions in the valley. The thought brought a wave of homesickness, but it passed quickly under her fascination with her new surroundings.

Despite the cold, there were plenty of people in the park and almost as many in the grounds of the palace itself. Courtiers, merchants, servants all swarmed the courtyards and the outer corridors of the buildings. Everyone seemed in a hurry, and no one took the slightest bit of notice of the three people hesitating for a moment in the first great palace quadrangle.

“Where are the Queen’s apartments?” Ari asked, trying not to sound as cowed as she felt by the sense that everyone else knew where they were going and what business they were on, while the three of them stood like country bumpkins in a city marketplace, being brushed aside by all and sundry.

Ivor peremptorily hailed a passing flunky. “Lady Chalfont is bidden to her majesty’s apartments. Which direction do we take?”

The man looked at them, took in Sir Ivor’s commanding countenance and the finery of their garments, and bowed. “If you will follow me, my lord, I will escort you.”

Ari hid a smile as she tucked her hand securely into Ivor’s satin-clad arm, and they followed their escort as he threaded through the crowds, down seemingly interminable drafty corridors, all equally crowded, and finally into a galleried hall.

“Her majesty’s antechamber is that door, my lord.” He pointed to double doors across the hall. “Her own attendants will escort you from there.” He bowed and hurried away.

“Tilly and I will go alone from here,” Ari said with decision. “Will you wait here, Ivor? I don’t know how long an audience with the Queen takes.”

“Once you’ve made your curtsy, you will be free to leave.” Ivor looked around the paneled space. Deep window embrasures lined the wall that looked out onto a small courtyard. Tapestries lined the remaining three walls. They flapped forlornly in the drafts needling through the long windows. The floor was like a giant checkerboard, tiled in black and white marble squares. It was an inhospitable space despite the presence of small groups of chattering courtiers.

“I’ll be here. Go in now,” he said, adding softly. “There won’t be another woman to hold a candle to you, I promise.”

Ariadne gave him a brave smile, gathered up her emerald silk skirts, and glided to the doors to the Queen’s apartments. Tilly scurried along behind her, casting fearful but awed glances from lowered eyes.

Two armed men stood on either side of the double doors. Ariadne handed one of them her invitation, or, rather, royal command, and looked haughtily ahead of her. “My lady.” The men threw open the double doors into a smaller apartment, where maidservants stood in silence along the walls, hands folded against their aprons, eyes lowered.

An equerry came towards the newcomers. He took the document from the guard and bowed to Ariadne. “If you will follow me, my lady. Your maid will wait here.”

Tilly scuttled to a vacant place against the wall, and Ari gathered her skirts again and followed the equerry through another set of double doors into the Queen’s presence chamber. She was met by a gust of female voices, a waft of heavy perfume, and the thick scent of wax candles.

The equerry led her across a rich Turkey carpet towards a rather plump lady seated on a gilt chair raised on a small dais, her ladies of the bedchamber gathered about her. One of those ladies Ari recognized instantly from the previous evening as the Duchess of Portsmouth. The King’s mistress served his queen consort. It spoke volumes for life in this royal court, she thought. But then she was making her curtsy, and the Queen was speaking to her in a heavily accented voice.

“Lady Chalfont, we bid you welcome. His majesty most particularly recommended you to our notice.”

Ariadne curtsied deeply, her head bowed. She kissed the Queen’s extended hand and rose as the hand indicated she should, her skirts settling gracefully around her. “Your majesty is most gracious.”

“Not at all, Lady Chalfont.” The lady’s black eyes twinkled with something akin to malice. “We must all obey our husbands, must we not, ladies?”

Titters from behind strategically wafted fans greeted this sally, and Ari smiled and curtsied again. “Indeed, madam. As you so rightly say, husbands are to be obeyed in all things.”

“And your husband, my lady? Does he make obedience easy for you?”

“So far, madam. However, we are but recently married . . . so it is perhaps premature to make such an assumption.”

Queen Catherine laughed. “You are wise for your years, Lady Chalfont. You shall take a dish of tea with me. Are you acquainted with the drink?”

“No, madam.” Ari took the shallow china cup handed to her by a footman and peered at the pale liquid.

“It is a very popular drink among the nobility of my country,” the Queen said, taking a sip from her own cup. “We Portuguese find it very refreshing, very good for the blood.”

Ariadne took a sip. It struck her a savorless brew, but as everyone around her was drinking with apparent enjoyment, she followed suit.

“Oh, ladies . . . ladies . . . are you drinking that insipid stuff again?” A boom of a voice heralded the arrival of the King and several of his gentlemen. Charles came forward, resplendent in gold and crimson silk and Brussels lace. His cheeks were flushed, his eyelids drooping heavily, and his forehead was rather shiny, as if he were hot. He carried his little dog underneath one arm as he came up to the Queen. “Madam.” He kissed his wife’s hand before turning to survey the curtsying group around her.

“My lady Portsmouth.” He smiled at his mistress, who rose from her curtsy with her own discreet smile. “And who have we here . . . why, my lady Chalfont.” He took her hand, drawing her upright. “Charming . . . quite charming. Don’t you think so, my dear madam?” The question could have been directed at either his wife or his mistress as he cast his eye somewhat possessively from one to the other.

“Indeed, sir,” the Queen said with a small smile. “We are most pleased to welcome Lady Chalfont.”

“Good . . . good. I shall be a frequent visitor to your presence in that case, madam.” He spoke without question this time to the Queen and then turned his lascivious gaze upon Ariadne. “We are well met, as it happens, my lady. I have a present for you.”