Lady in Waiting. Anne HerriesЧитать онлайн книгу.
men of the age, she was perhaps too slender to please those who found more roundness their ideal, but child-bearing would no doubt change that soon enough. ‘You look even prettier than when I last saw you. I had feared that at almost nineteen your looks would have begun to fade, but I see it is not so. I think we shall have no problem in establishing you at court, and then who knows? If Her Majesty is pleased with your conduct she may arrange a prestigious match for you.’
‘You are kind to trouble yourself on my account, Aunt.’
Catherine thought it wise not to impose her own thoughts and wishes too soon. She had her father’s promise and did not wish to quarrel with Lady Stamford for nothing. Her aunt had shown her great kindness over the years, especially when she had gone to stay at her home in Berkshire after her mother’s untimely death.
‘I have often wished for a daughter, but most of my babies did not survive their first year. Willis has given me my heart’s desire in part, for Margaret is a good wife to him, and they have a son already. A beautiful boy and strong, praise God.’
‘You must be thankful for it,’ Catherine agreed, only too happy to change the subject. ‘I trust the child will continue healthy and that they will have more fine babies.’
In an age when babies were fortunate to survive their infancy, the need to produce strong sons was often paramount, second only to the importance of marrying for wealth and position.
‘I pray it may be so—but to other matters, Catherine. Your gown is sufficient for country wear but will not do in town. Before you can be presented at court you must be properly dressed. It is my intention to leave for London on the morrow. We shall have time to visit the silk merchants and my own dressmaker—a Frenchwoman of some skill—before we are summoned to attend the Queen.’
Catherine hid her sigh. Since both her father and her aunt were determined on this she must accept with a good heart. Yet she was aware of regret and an unease she could not name. Given her choice she would have remained at home, but perhaps no gentleman would be brought to offer for her and then she could return to her old pursuits in peace.
Catherine eased her aching limbs. They had been on the road for hours now, the unwieldy carriage lurching and bumping over deep ruts carved out by the frosts of the past winter and as yet unrepaired. Lady Stamford had insisted on travelling this way, with an entourage of servants in train, their baggage following behind on another even more cumbersome coach together with Martha and her ladyship’s maid.
Feeling bruised herself, Catherine pitied her elderly nurse, who had insisted that she must be the one to accompany her young mistress to town. Out of consideration for her age, Catherine had suggested taking one of the other maids, but Martha would not hear of it.
‘And who is to put warm cloves in your ear when it aches?’ she demanded, though it was many years since Catherine had complained of the earache. ‘Only Martha knows how to make you a soothing posset when you have a putrid throat, my sweeting. Of course you cannot go without me.’
Listening to her devoted nurse, Catherine could not deny her, though once she went to court Martha would no longer be able to stay near her.
Catherine would have preferred to ride, being used to travelling that way with Sir William when they visited the county fairs, and she was sure that Martha would have been more comfortable riding pillion behind their trusty groom Jake. However, Lady Stamford would not hear of it, and so they were being shaken to bits in the uncomfortable carriages for league after league.
It was a relief when they saw signs of a busy inn ahead. The road had certainly improved for the past few leagues, and Lady Stamford told her that it would be much better now that they had at last joined the main highway for London.
‘Country roads are always the worst,’ she said as the jolting ceased at last and their groom came to open the door and let down the steps. ‘And I believe Cambridgeshire is worse than most.’
Refraining from answering her aunt’s comments on her home county, Catherine followed her through the inn yard. A grinning urchin, who ran up to them holding out his hand, had swept the yard clean of horse droppings and straw.
Catherine placed a farthing into his grubby paw, and then, noticing the hubbub and crowd to the rear of the inn, asked him what was going on.
‘Why, ’tis the mummers, mistress,’ the urchin said. ‘They be giving a performance of a play.’
‘A play?’ Catherine’s interest quickened. She had seen strolling players perform religious plays at Christmas in the village square at home, and sometimes her father asked roving minstrels to come to the house at that season to entertain them and their friends—but this seemed different.
Leaving her aunt to enter the inn alone, Catherine walked under the archway to the large courtyard at the back. There was a raised dais at the far end in a position that gave watchers from the upper windows of the inn an excellent view. For those watching from the inn yard the view was somewhat obstructed by the milling crowds.
However, Catherine found a space at the back, and by standing on a metal anvil often used as a mounting block she had a clear view of the stage. One of the players was declaiming a speech in a loud voice, while another rolled about the ground at his feet clutching himself and groaning awfully.
‘He has been poisoned,’ a voice said close to her. ‘It is a Greek tragedy, mistress, and he is dying. He should lie still now, but methinks he enjoys the part too much.’
It was clear the audience agreed, for there were shouts of ‘Die! Die!’ from the more rowdy elements, and as Catherine watched someone threw what looked like a rotten cabbage at the actor rolling on the floor.
‘Oh, the poor man,’ Catherine said moved to pity. She glanced at the boy who had spoken to her. He was a lad of perhaps six years or so, but with a bright intelligent look and a precocious manner. ‘Do you like to watch plays, young sir?’
‘If they are good plays.’ His mouth curled in scorn. ‘This is a very bad play. When I am older I shall write much better ones. People will not throw rotten vegetables at my actors.’
Catherine smiled to hear such a proud boast from one so young.
‘I shall remember that,’ she said. ‘May I know your name, sir? Then I shall know when one of your plays is being performed in the future.’
‘I am Christopher Marlowe, known as Kit to my friends.’ He bowed elegantly to her, showing more presence than any actor now performing on the stage. ‘Come to the theatre when my play is being performed and I shall remember you.’
‘I shall not forget, Master Marlowe…’
She was about to tell him her name when an uproar from near the front of the audience drew her attention. The group of rowdy gentlemen was throwing things in earnest now and shouting out rude remarks to the actors, and the man who had been rolling about was up on his feet and throwing something back at his tormentors.
Catherine’s eyes were drawn to one of the young men in particular. So far she had not seen him throw anything, and he neatly avoided what was thrown in his direction, but he was clearly enjoying the ruckus, his generous mouth curved in a smile, his eyes glinting with what she thought malicious amusement. It was unkind of him to mock the poor actor so!
He was dressed in a brown jerkin of leather with breeches of the same material slashed through to show a lighter coloured woollen cloth beneath. His boots were thigh high and looked well travelled, and the cloak slung over his shoulder was dusty and slightly shabby. Yet he looked a gentleman, tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful air around him. He was an attractive, distinguished man, who ought to have known better than to associate with the clearly intoxicated young rogues about him. If they did not know better then he certainly ought, which was perhaps why she had picked him out for particular censure.
It looked very much as if the play was about to become a riot. Catherine was turning away when she heard her aunt’s voice calling to her.
‘Come away, Catherine. There will be a