Cate of the Lost Colony - Lisa Klein [11]
In America I shall be a veritable king, one rich as Croesus.
Your fortunate brother,
Walter
P.S. Unfortunately the voyages will not be financed from Her Majesty’s treasury, forcing me to seek investors. As the success of my endeavors will make us both renowned, can you recruit from the Devonshire gentry ten investors at £200 each, or two earls worth £1,000?
Chapter 4
The Queen’s Gifts
It was six months since I had arrived at Whitehall, and I had served the queen in loyal submission without so much as a ribbon or scrap of lace for a reward.
“I think she does not love me,” I said to Emme one night as we sat in the great hall, watching Dick Tarleton entertain the court. Everyone had drunk too much and therefore howled with delight as the clown danced a jig, played his fife and drum, and jingled his tabor all at once. “What will become of me if I do not please her?”
“She does favor you,” Emme insisted. “She takes you with her when she goes to Durham House.” She prodded me with her elbow and pouted, pretending to be jealous. All the maids and ladies were of one mind, that Walter Ralegh was the queen’s handsomest courtier.
I sighed. “That is because I am plain and silent, a foil for her wit. I cannot hold a candle to her brightness.”
“No, you simply have not mastered the art of flattering conversation,” Emme said. “You must learn to imitate Anne.”
“I cannot flatter the queen’s bright hair, knowing it is false,” I said.
“Or her white skin, knowing that it is covered with lead powder,” said Emme, giggling.
“I wish I could write a poem. Do you know that Walter Ralegh sometimes speaks to the queen in verse? Why, it sounds as if it came naturally to him, and it certainly pleases her.”
“Perhaps his wit is on display for you, Catherine.”
“Nonsense!” I said, blushing despite myself. I thought of the way my heart fluttered when I was in the same room with him and fairly leapt when I felt his eyes on me. “I wish for the queen to favor me, for my fortune depends on her.”
“She sets a great store by those who are learned and pious in the true religion,” said Emme.
Indeed the queen made a spectacle of going to church on Sunday, preceded by heralds and guards in blue and gold livery and accompanied by all her councilors. We, her maids and ladies, wore our soberest attire and pretended to pay attention to the sermon.
“You may borrow my Book of Martyrs, by Mr. Foxe, and read it where she is sure to notice you,” Emme suggested.
So while the ladies gossiped and plied their needles, I read about the Christians persecuted in all ages, through the time of the late Queen Mary. It seemed the whole world was the battlefield of the evil papists and believers in the Protestant religion, which Elizabeth had restored in England. It sickened me to read of so many men and women suffering death at the stake, their flesh broiled in the fire until the fat dripped from their bones. I put the book away. Neither the queen nor anyone else had taken note of my study.
Or so I thought. One day while I waited upon Elizabeth at her table, she asked me why I no longer read the Book of Martyrs. I nearly spilled the soup I was serving her.
“Your Majesty, I did not think you noticed.”
“Nothing escapes my eyes,” she said evenly. “I approve of the good Mr. Foxe. Does he displease you?”
Under her gaze I could not craft a flattering reply, so I blurted out the simple truth. “Your Grace, I could no longer read of the torments the martyrs endured, praising God all the while. Were flames engulfing me, I would scream in agony.”
To my surprise, the queen burst out laughing, and soup bubbled from her lips. I rushed to hand her a napkin. She dabbed her lips, then grew serious.
“To be weak and fearful will not serve you well in this world or fit you for the next,” she said.
I did not know how to respond. Finally I said, “Your Grace, I fear nothing but your displeasure.”
“Nothing at all?