The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [67]
Unless, of course, the Queen’s infant dies, Philippa thought. In which case the Lady Elizabeth, apparently so assiduous in her devotions, may well be the next Queen?
There was a guard outside Elizabeth’s door, and more were waiting below in the gardens. Bedingfield escorted Philippa there himself, and on the threshold handed her over to William Howard, who took her into the small, wainscoted room hung with pictures, where a tall, thin-boned girl sat erect by the fire, dealing playing-cards with manicured, tapering fingers.
Howard fingers. What else of Anne Boleyn could be seen in her daughter? An olive complexion, adroitly lightened, as Philippa saw with the interest of an expert. Long hair, falling shoulder-length beneath the pearled arch of her headdress, which also looked coarser than its light colour would merit. Pale, shallow eyes, light and clear, which certainly did not come from black-haired Anne, and a small mouth the image of the pink, pursed lips in every portrait of King Henry her father. Except that the Queen would not admit that King Henry was Elizabeth’s father, or that she could be her legitimate sister. Her voice was light, and chillingly clear; the expression on the small mouth perfectly affable.
‘Mistress Philippa. Place the books there. It was most courteous of you to call. I have so few visitors. Can you afford a moment to sit and take wine with Sir William and me?’
Philippa curtseyed and thanked her, sinking with ineffable grace into a rather hard brocade chair. Madam Elizabeth’s eyes opened slightly. Wine was brought. ‘So,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You also are learning the pleasures of Priscian’s grammar, and savouring the style of Xenophon’s Hippike, so vivid, so pure …’
‘And whose views on education,’ Philippa said, her lashes downcast, ‘are strongly founded and quite without equal. Master Ascham is well,’ Philippa said, ‘and sends you his duty.’
‘As well as some dutiful books. Or are those from the Cardinal? I am pleased,’ said Elizabeth, ‘to see Master Ascham safely returned from Brussels and comfortably installed with the Queen. I must demand a report on his travels.’
‘He was disappointed,’ said Philippa, ‘to discover, when praising the sincere emotion of Cicero’s lament for Hortensius, that Master Fugger was unable to lend him a copy as his library was always kept padlocked. Not a philologos, a lover of learning, but a bibliotaphos, a sepulchre for books. His disputations with Master Sturm have barely restored his confidence.’
The thin eyebrows lifted, and Elizabeth smiled, her long hands calmly crossed in her lap. Her servant had gone, and but for Howard, sipping his wine discreetly in the flickering firelight, they had the room to themselves. Elizabeth said, ‘He would find more sincere emotion, perhaps, in the pro Marcello, but he is too wise, I am sure, to make witticisms about it.’
The delicacy of the hint was nothing short of enchanting. Philippa, limp with the backwash of liturgical emotion, saw opening before her the prospect of a practical conversation at last. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Pope Marcellus is dead, and they have appointed another?’
The pale blue eyes opposite moved to Sir William and back. ‘Not Ferrara,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Quis demonium habet? I heard twenty for the hundred were being laid in the banks on the Cardinal of Naples. Or has the huckstering spoiled him? I cannot believe the Sacred College has been prevented from carrying out the election as the Holy Ghost inspires.’
‘I have heard it quoted,’ said Philippa blandly, ‘that the Emperor’s Ambassador in Rome thinks that a little canvassing might be better than waiting until the Cardinals, out of pure exhaustion, agree on some devil who will be no good to anybody. At any rate Caraffa, the Cardinal of Naples, has been elected.’
Elizabeth rose. Lifting the tall, silver-gilt jug, arched and spired and nestling with cherubs, she poured more wine with her own hands for her great-uncle, Philippa and herself. Then, sitting, she raised the cup a little and drank. Then she said, ‘A