Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [31]
Queen Eleanor said icily, “A strange merriment, to terrorize the kitchen servants on the eve of your brother’s wedding.”
“It is my choice,” the young queen said, “and mine to make.”
“It is not. Rupert!”
The prince unmasked and came forward. He wore green, not blue, perhaps to go unnoticed among Queen Caroline’s household. But even I knew that to wear his older sister’s colors and not his mother’s was a deadly insult. He looked just as handsome as when I had seen him chase Lady Cecilia, all those long months ago. He stood, sullen, beside his sister, one hand upon her shoulder.
The old queen said, “Rupert, return to your bride, who awaits you upstairs. Your manners are deplorable.”
“Yes, mother,” he muttered. This was not the imperious prince who kissed ladies-in-waiting. This was a pouting boy, ordered by his mother to behave or else take the consequences. What consequences? I could not imagine.
Prince Rupert skulked from the hall, followed by the old queen and her Blues. When they had gone, Queen Caroline said to the silent company, “Unmask.”
Everyone obeyed, but still no one spoke, not even those who were most drunk. They had seen their young queen reprimanded in front of her court and the palace servants. No one dared say anything until she had spoken.
Queen Caroline’s black eyes glittered. But she did not flinch. In a strong clear voice she said, “My mother has never been able to recognize merriment—just think what a gloomy time my father must have had while getting me upon her!” And she laughed.
The court, too, exploded into bawdy laughter. She had disarmed the old queen’s haughtiness, somehow turning Queen Eleanor into a comically prissy old woman. Courtiers guffawed and chattered. The young queen stood amid them, smiling. She was not far from me, and despite myself I looked for her famed sixth finger. Yes, it was there on her left hand, not a whole finger but just the stump of one, held bent inward to hide it as much as possible, and it seemed as if—
Among the unmasked throng I glimpsed Lady Cecilia.
The sight of her struck me like a blow. I stood, took a step toward her. My arm was caught from below and Maggie pulled me back down to my knees. “What are you doing? She has not given us leave to rise!”
Where had Maggie come from? She must have worked her way, on her knees, through the kneeling servants and over to my vegetable crates. But this thought, and Maggie’s presence, only flitted across my mind, which was turned to mush by the sight of Lady Cecilia.
She, too, wore green, soft silk billowing into stiffer, elaborately embroidered skirts. Her shining brown hair was braided and puffed as elaborately as Queen Caroline’s, and her bodice cut as low. A fancy mask of green-dyed feathers dangled from one little hand. But whereas the queen looked mature, luscious as a ripe pear, Cecilia was a little green berry. Her slim waist and small breasts started my heart thumping. Her face somber, she leaned against a courtier, a good-looking youth whom I instantly hated. Her eyes swept across me without recognition.
But in all the milling nobility, another pair of eyes found mine. Queen Caroline moved across the kitchen floor and stood before me. “Rise,” she said.
Confused motion among the servants on their knees—were they all supposed to rise, or just me? A few staggered to their feet, the rest did not. The queen ignored them all.
“Boy, why are you yellow?”
My throat would not produce sounds.
“Yellow is the color of the Princess Isabelle. You are of my household, not hers. So why are your face and hands yellow?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Are you trying to insult me, boy, by wearing the color of another royal?”
“No, Your Grace!”
“Then are you a fool?”
“I . . . I work in the laundry! We dyed the cloths for—”
“I think you must be a fool. And so you will be my fool.” She beckoned to a courtier, who sprang to her side. “Robin, bring this fool to my rooms at midnight.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, but he did not look pleased.
“You