A Court Affair. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ …” The handsome stranger tilted his head and tapped his chin thoughtfully as we both turned and scrutinised the peeling. “It could be a D, yet … that little flourish there at the bottom … it just might be an R instead, but …” His face brightened as he turned to flash the full brilliance of his pearl-bright smile at me. “Either way, whether it’s R, or whether it’s D, it’s me.” He swept me a half bow. “Robert Dudley, that’s my name!”

      And before I knew what was happening, he had pulled me into his arms and was kissing me, rolling me onto my back, pressing the weight of his body onto mine as his hand reached down and gathered up my skirts to rove beneath.

      With a startled cry, I pushed him away and leapt to my feet and bolted away, my heart pounding so hard and fast as I ran, I could hear it in my ears. It was as if it had split into two pieces, two separate hearts, and both had floated up out of my chest to become lodged, to beat hard and fast like little drums, inside my ears. I ran all the way back to Stanfield Hall.

      The servants looked up, startled, as I burst through the kitchen door. But I didn’t tarry. I didn’t stop running until I was safe behind my bedroom door, where I collapsed in a fit of giggling upon my bed. He must have thought me some light-skirted milkmaid whom any man could tumble; imagine his surprise were he ever to discover that I was Sir John Robsart’s daughter, and one of the richest heiresses in Norfolk! I convulsed in gales of gleeful laughter at the thought of it. If not a milkmaid, maybe he thought me a humble shepherdess, never guessing that I was sole heiress to a flock of 3,000 fine sheep. Oh, how it made me laugh! I knew I should be, but I wasn’t offended, though I was not the sort of girl to allow a man to take liberties; I had only been kissed once before, a chaste and hasty peck on the lips, light as a feather, from young Ned Flowerdew when we bumped into each other while dancing round the Maypole at the fair, each of us clinging to one of the long, gaily coloured streamers. Red-faced and sheepish, we laughed together and hastily rejoined the other dancers weaving round and round the Maypole in the intricate series of steps, and no more was ever said about it.

      I never dreamed I would see him again, this Robert Dudley. Why should he linger hereabouts? It was obvious he was one of the men, the thousands of soldiers, who had been sent to put down Kett’s Rebellion, the outburst of furious protest that had erupted over the enclosure of common grazing land and had fast gotten out of hand, boiling over to the extent that the frail boy-king, Edward VI, had to send out troops to quell it.

      I was drowsing on my bed, dreaming of Robert Dudley’s playful smile and dancing dark eyes, and the warm weight of his body on top of mine, with my new kitten, Custard, a fat, cream-coloured ball of fluff, curled up beside me, when my mother burst in. It was one of the rare times she was up and out of bed, so I knew something momentous must have occurred. She came in all aflutter, gesturing with her hands as if they were a pair of anxious butterflies, to tell me that the Earl of Warwick and two of his sons—“two fine, handsome sons, Amy, and neither of them yet married!”—were doing us the very great honour of lodging with us tonight, then breathlessly went on to say that I must look my best when I came downstairs to dine. Thereupon she turned away from me and fell to arguing with Pirto about what I should wear.

      Mother was set upon the new silver-trimmed milk-and-water gown. White with the barest hint of blue, it was the colour of the moment in London, but Pirto thought it much too pallid and was adamant that I needed something bolder and brighter to show off my golden curls and blue green eyes to best advantage.

      While they bickered back and forth, Mother never once wavering in her support of milk-and-water, as Pirto suggested one robust, jewel-bright hue after another, I took from a chest an apple green satin gown embroidered all over with white meadow daisies, their centres like little yellow suns, and brazen red ribbons that playfully crisscrossed the bodice and came together in a flirtatious bow when they reached the top—a pert little flirt of red satin that begged to be toyed with and untied. Next I found a bright cherry red taffeta petticoat and under-sleeves dotted with seed pearls and dainty gold beads, and a pair of cheerful and bold red stockings, and went to stand before my looking glass, humming as I held the ensemble up against me.

      I never worried about such things then; I always knew my own mind with complete and utter certainty. I never worried or prevaricated, doubted or second-guessed myself. I was as far from nervous as we were from the Emperor of China’s palace. I was just me—Amy Robsart—and I did whatever felt right for me to do. I never worried about what other people might think of me. “You wear your confidence like a queen wears her crown, Amy, my lass,” Father used to always say of me with a broad, beaming smile and a hearty nod of approval.

      I smiled as, behind me, my mother wagged an emphatic finger in Pirto’s face and insisted, “No, no, Pirto, I tell you the milk-and-water gown is much more refined!”

      “Aye, My Lady,” Pirto nodded, wagging her finger right back in Mother’s face, “that may well be, but I tell you it’s too subdued; Mistress Amy’s beauty needs a bolder colour to set it off best! Now a nice, robust red …”

      I laughed and, hugging my gown, pale and bold hues perfectly married, against me, I pranced and spun, dancing around them, then kissed them each upon the cheek, making them both smile at me. That was the Amy I used to be!

      When I saw him again, I nearly fell straight into his arms. I was at the top of the stairs, with my head in the clouds, about to come down with not a thought in my head about what my feet were doing, as he was bounding up them, as easy, confident, and graceful as a young tomcat strutting on the prowl. I gasped in surprise and stumbled, my foot missing the next step and losing its slipper. He caught me before I fell, and from the safety of his arms, I watched my little black shoe tumble down to the bottom of the stairs. Closing my eyes, I murmured a quick prayer of thanks. That could so easily have been me falling downstairs, my bones and head banging and jarring against every step.

      He clutched me close. Without the metal breastplate, I could feel how muscular and firm his chest was, and he could feel the soft fullness of my breasts.

      “Safe in my arms … beloved!” he whispered, his breath hot against my face as his lips grazed my blush-scorched cheek and slid down to my neck. “You should be more careful, Buttercup”—that was the first time he ever called me that dear, special name—“this is far too beautiful a neck to break.”

      Then, with a smile, he put me from him, holding me at arm’s length, gazing at me in a sort of dazed wonderment; then he blinked, gave his head a little shake as if to clear it, and pressed a kiss onto my brow before he turned and bounded down to retrieve my slipper. He was back in a trice, kneeling on the stairs before me to lift the hem of my gown, and, encircling my ankle in a caressing hand, he boldly bent to press a kiss onto my foot, before he put my shoe back where it belonged.

      “I like a lass who is as bold as brass and dares to wear red stockings!” He grinned up at me, then stood and folded my arm through his.

      “You thought me a light-skirt today, the kind of maid any man may tumble,” I said, frowning a little in mock rebuke as, arm-in-arm, we continued down to the Great Hall to dine.

      “Such a woman as any man may tumble can hardly be called a maid in the true sense of the word.” He smiled at me. “All I know is that you struck me like the first sunbeam does a man coming out of a dark cave, and I wanted to be close to you, to bask in your golden beauty and be warmed by you. And when you ran away from me, your little naked feet were like a pair of white doves flying away from me, and I wished with all my heart that I were a hawk so I could soar and pounce and bring you back to me”—he paused, turned me in his arms, and pressed me close to his chest again—“back into my arms again, Amy … beloved!” And, again, he kissed me in a way that СКАЧАТЬ