The Fugitive Queen Read Free Page A

from Sir William Cecil to tell us that, having been removed from Dr. Lambert the tutor, she had now fallen in love with Master Rowan the interpreter and was causing embarrassment and would we come to court—now at Richmond—to deal with her.
    â€œOh, really!” grumbled Hugh. “And riding makes all my joints ache. I don’t want to travel to Richmond. It’s all of twenty-five miles. Why can’t this Master Rowan fend her off without our help?”
    I wondered, too. Among them—Master Rowan, Queen Elizabeth, Sir William Cecil, and the mistress in charge of the Maids of Honor—they really should have been able to call Pen to order. However, a summons from Cecil could not be ignored. Dutifully, we set out for Richmond Palace.
    I had always liked Richmond. Of all Elizabeth’s homes, it seemed to me the most charming, with its gardens and wind chimes, its delicately designed towers and its gracious rooms, so many of which looked out on the Thames. On days like this, when the sun was out and the gardens were full of scent and color, and the Thames sparkled under a mild breeze, it was at its most beguiling. I would have enjoyed this visit, my first in years, if only we hadn’t had to cope with Pen.
    Cecil had arranged lodgings in the palace for us and Pen was sent to us there. She stood miserably in front of us, and Hugh and I, enthroned side by side on a broad window seat, probably looked and sounded like a pair of judges as we took her to task over her behavior.
    Penelope obviously felt both frightened and embarrassed. First of all she turned very red and indignantly denied the charge. Confronted by the evidence in the form of Cecil’s letter to me and also the sonnet in her handwriting (it was technically rather good, as a matter of fact; Pen was a clever girl), she did the only thing left for her to do and burst into tears. Hugh, without speakingand with a most unsympathetic expression on his face, took a napkin from his sleeve and handed it to her.
    Gazing at her as she snuffled into the napkin, I sighed. It is no light responsibility, taking charge of someone else’s daughter.
    As her mother had said, Pen was not a beauty. To be truthful, she was almost plain. Her forehead bulged too much and her chin was too square. Her hair, demurely folded into waves under a white cap with silver embroidery, was no more than mousey. Her best features were her dark gray eyes, which were beautifully set, and her complexion, which when not swollen with tears, was clear and pale. She held herself well, too, had good taste in dress, and she was intelligent, as that confounded sonnet demonstrated. I was sorry for her now but I hardened my heart. Pen was not going to spoil her reputation through girlish inexperience, or waste herself on the wrong man if I could save her, and I meant to do that for her sake as well as to please her mother.
    â€œDry your eyes,” I said firmly. “And listen. You have fallen in love—well, it happens. Few of us, though, marry our first loves and most of us realize later what a good thing that is . . .”
    â€œ You married your first love,” said Pen mutinously.
    â€œAnd what would you know about that?” Hugh inquired. Soberly clad in a dark formal gown, his blue eyes icy with annoyance, my husband looked particularly judgmental. He also looked tired, I thought. We had taken two days over the ride from Hawkswood and his mare was an ambler, thus providing a very smooth and easy pace, but the rheumatic pains in his joints had troubled him badly. It gave me an extra reason to be angry with Pen.
    â€œI heard about it when I was with you at Hawkswood,” she said in a resentful voice. “Dale told me. You ran off with your cousin Mary’s betrothed. You pleased yourself. Why can’t I?”
    â€œThat is enough. You will not address either of us in this pert fashion,” said Hugh.
    â€œI should say,” I