LIBERTINE in the Tudor Court. Juliet Landon
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father always at hand for protection if danger came a mite too close. On more than one occasion, he had been a very efficient tool to use against a too-persistent trespass, and running for cover became Adorna’s foolproof defence against over-attentive men, young or old, who would like to have taken more than was on offer. Though guests came and went constantly to her home at Sheen House next door to the palace, there were at least a dozen places in the fashionably meandering building where Adorna could remain out of touch until danger had passed.
True to form, she sought refuge with her father in the Revels Office for, despite Sir Nicholas’s refusal to be put off by the mention of him, she could think of no reason why the younger man would venture there to find her. There was still time left in the day to see how her father had proceeded without her, nor was it far for her and her maid to pass from Sheen House down what had lately become known as Paradise Road and through the gate in the wall of the palace garden.
To Sir Thomas’s annoyance, the Revels Office had no separate buildings of its own and was therefore obliged to share limited space with the Great Wardrobe where some of the Queen’s clothes were stored, others being in London itself. Consequently, tailors and furriers, embroiderers, carpenters and painters, shoemakers and artificers all worked side by side with never enough room to manoeuvre. Adorna’s creative talents were often put to good use in the Revels Office where men with flair and drawing ability were always in demand to design sets, special effects and costumes for the many Court entertainments.
Today, she had found a relatively private corner in which to examine some of the sumptuous and fantastic creations being prepared for a masque at the palace at the end of the week. She had helped to design the costumes and choose the materials and jewels, also to construct the elaborate head-dresses and wigs, for all the Court ladies taking part must have abundant blonde hair. She lifted one of the masks and held it above a flimsy gown of pale sea-green fringed with golden tassels, holding her head to one side to judge its effect.
‘Try it on,’ her father said. ‘That’s the best way to see.’
‘That won’t help me much, will it, Father?’
‘Perhaps not, but it’ll help me.’ He grinned and, to please him, she took up the mask and the robe stuck all over with silver and gold stars and went into a corner screened off from the rest of the busy room. Maybelle, her maid, went with her to help, though Adorna was wearing no farthingale or whalebone bodice to complicate matters. In a few moments she emerged to confront her father, but found to her surprise that he was not now alone but in the company of Sir John Fortescue and another officer of the revels who assisted her father.
This was not what Adorna had intended, for she was not wearing the correct undergarments, nor was the pale green robe with stars even finished, and it was only the papier mâché mask of a Water Maiden covering her face that hid her sudden blush of embarrassment as she held the edges of the fabric together across her bosom. And there was only one sleeve; her other arm was bare.
Before she could retreat, they had seen the half-dressed sea nymph and immediately began an assessment of its cost multiplied by eight, the amount of white-gold sarcenet with Venice gold fringe and the indented kirtles with plaits of silver lawn trailing from the waist. Not to mention the masks, head-dresses, shoes, stockings, tridents and other accessories, multiplied by eight.
‘Put the head-dress on, my dear,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘Which one is it? This one?’ He picked up a conch-shell creation covered in silver and draped with dagged green tissue to resemble seaweed and passed it to Maybelle.
‘Er…no, Father, if you please,’ Adorna protested.
But she was overruled by the three of them, and the thing was placed on her head, pushing down the mask in the process and making it difficult for her to see through the eyeholes. She must alter that before they were used. She heard murmurs of approval. ‘I must go,’ she mumbled into the claustrophobic space around her mouth. ‘Excuse me, if you please.’
Blindly, she turned and was caught by a hand on her arm before bumping into the person who had been standing silently at her back, someone whose familiar voice made her tear quickly at the mask, lifting it and tangling it with her loose hair and the head-dress in an effort to see where she was. The fabric across her front gaped as she let go of it and was snatched together again by Maybelle’s quick hand, but not before Adorna had seen the direction of the man’s eyes and the unconcealed interest in them.
‘Not a good day for water nymphs,’ Sir Nicholas whispered, letting go of her arm and stepping back to allow her to pass.
Summoning all her dignity, Adorna quickly snatched at a length of red tissue from the nearest tabletop and held it up to hide herself from the man’s gaze. ‘This is the Revels Office,’ she snapped, ‘not a sideshow.’
Amused, Sir Nicholas merely looked across at her father and Sir John.
Sir Thomas explained. ‘It’s all right, my dear. Sir Nicholas comes from the Master of Horse. He needs to know about our luggage for the progress to Kenilworth. Don’t send the poor man away before he’s fulfilled his mission, will you? Or I’ll have his lordship to answer to.’
Fuming, Adorna swept past him and returned to the screen, her face burning with annoyance that the man had once again seen her at a disadvantage. That he had seen her at all, damn him!
‘It’s all right, mistress,’ Maybelle whispered. ‘He didn’t see anything.’
‘Damn him!’ Adorna repeated, pushing her hair away. ‘Here, Belle. Tie my hair up into that net. There, that’s better.’ Her second emergence from the corner screen was, in a way, as theatrical as the first had been, for now she was not only reclothed in her simple day gown of russet linen but, covering the entire top of her body in an extravagant swathe of glittering red was the tissue she had snatched from the table. It trailed over one shoulder and on to the floor behind her, blending with the russet of her gown and contrasting brilliantly with the gold net caul into which her hair had hurriedly been bundled.
Astounded by the transformation as much as by the sheer impact of her beauty, the four men’s conversation dwindled to a stop as she approached, her head held high, and it was her father who spoke, at last. ‘Quick change, nymph!’ he laughed.
Sir Nicholas was more specific. ‘Water into fire,’ he murmured.
Sir John cleared his throat. ‘Ahem! Yes…well, your designs for the masque appear to be well in hand, Sir Thomas. I trust you’ll not leak any of this, Sir Nicholas. The masque theme must be kept secret until its performance.’ The Master of the Great Wardrobe looked at the younger man sternly from beneath handsome greying eyebrows.
‘I quite understand, sir. No word of the masque will be got from me, I assure you. My lord the Earl of Leicester is planning several for Her Majesty’s progress to Kenilworth, and he’s just as concerned about secrecy.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘you need to know how many waggons and carts we need for the Wardrobe, don’t you? Well, why not come and join us for a late dinner on Wednesday? Lady Marion and I are celebrating my appointment with some friends. These two gentlemen will be there, too. Do you have a lady, Sir Nicholas?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.’ He smiled at their grins, and Adorna was aware that, had she not been there, more might have been said on that subject. But her father had blundered by inviting him to their home, which meant that both her places of refuge were now no longer safe from his intrusion.
Sir Thomas was clearly expecting his daughter’s approval of the invitation. He looked at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Adorna?’ he said.
The expression in her eyes, though fleeting, said it all. ‘No lady yet, Sir Nicholas? Perfect. Cousin Hester will be with us by tomorrow and Mother was wondering what to do about a partner for her. Now the problem is solved.’
Sir Nicholas bowed gracefully. ‘Thank you, mistress. I look forward to meeting Cousin Hester. Is she…?’
‘Yes, the late Sir William Pickering’s daughter. The heiress.’ That should turn your neat little head,