The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(42)
“So, your husband wishes you to spy for us at court,” Lady Frances said.
“Um, yes, my lady. He is well aware of the great service you did your father in that respect.”
“I would be happy to do so again, of course, but it appears that God has other plans for me.” She stroked her stomacher and smiled in contentment. “I hope to provide my husband with an heir, as you have done for yours.”
Coby had no answer to that.
“I must say,” Lady Frances went on, “you look a great deal like that servant of Sir Maliverny’s, the one he brought to my father’s house before he went to Venice. What was his name…?”
“Jacob Hendricks, my lady. He’s my cousin.”
“Ah, well, that would explain it.” The smile she gave Coby suggested she was not fooled. “A pity he had to leave your husband’s service.”
“Y-yes, my lady. He… he had news of my uncle and aunt, whom he feared had perished at sea, so of course Sir Maliverny had to let him go back to Antwerp to see them.”
She wished it were the truth, but no news had ever come to her of her parents’ fate, though she had made enquiries amongst the Dutch community in London for years afterwards.
“And yet I heard he was seen entering the Sign of the Parley not three weeks ago,” Lady Frances said.
Coby froze, clutching her hands together and staring at the bright yellow trumpets of the daffodils that shook their heads in the breeze as if mocking her.
“My dear…” Lady Frances halted by a bower covered in climbing roses, their new leaves still dark crimson and folded against the frost. “If I am to recommend you to the Princess of Wales, I must have the truth from your own lips. Are you or are you not the same person I saw three years ago, in the service of Sir Maliverny Catlyn?”
Coby swallowed. If she lied now, would Lady Frances report her to the city authorities for lewd and unwomanly behaviour? But surely she would not cause a scandal over something that had happened so long ago? She licked lips suddenly gone dry as old leather.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And are you a man or a woman?”
Coby felt a flush rise from her collar.
“A woman, my lady, upon mine honour.”
“Well, that is something. I would not like to think that your husband was making fools of the entire court.”
“No, my lady.”
“And the child; he is yours?”
“No, my lady.”
“You have taken your husband’s bastard into your family?”
“Certainly not, my lady.”
Lady Frances laughed. “Now that was the truth, if a little too near the knuckle, eh? Men are such wayward creatures…”
“Kit was born in wedlock,” Coby said stiffly. “But… his parents were unable to look after him. Venice is a rich city but there are poor people to be found there too, as everywhere.”
“So your son is an Italian pauper, whom you and your husband took in out of the kindness of your own heart.”
“Yes, my lady.” It was true, after a fashion. And perhaps other truths would bolster it. “My husband wanted an heir and I… I fear I may be barren.”
“I am so sorry, my dear.”
Coby nodded her thanks, a sudden overwhelming grief choking the words in her throat. Until she had said it aloud just now, she had not admitted the truth of it, not even to herself. But there it was. Three years of marriage, and no sign of a child. Perhaps it was a punishment from God after all, for her unnatural ambition in trying to live like a man.
She was vaguely aware of Lady Frances holding out an embroidered handkerchief, and realised that tears were spilling down her cheeks. She took it and blew her nose loudly.
“Well, you have proven yourself capable of great discretion already, and more than able to look after yourself. I shall write to Princess Juliana immediately, and recommend you to her.”
Coby curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lady.”
“But I warn you, be on your guard. You may be well-versed in the ways of men’s deceptions, but women are just as cunning and twice as ruthless. After all, we have so much more to lose, do we not?”
The Princess of Wales sat stiff-backed on a carved chair under a canopy bearing the arms of the Duchy of Lancaster – a legacy of her ancestors’ heritage – quartered with the leopards and fleur-de-lys of the English royal coat of arms. Around her were seated her ladies-in-waiting in order of precedence: some on stools at the side of the low dais, others on cushions at her feet. Coby, as newest and least important of them, had a cushion off to one side and half-hidden behind a senior lady; a position that suited her very well, since it meant she could observe most of the royal party as well as those being presented to the princess.
Such observances were her only amusement in a life of stifling routine: dressing the princess when she rose, eating when she ate, amusing her when she grew bored, going to bed when she felt weary. How the other ladies endured it, Coby could not fathom. No wonder they were all obsessed with marriage. At least as head of a household they would have some control over their own lives, especially if their husband were often at court. Coby was a curiosity to them, a married woman who had nonetheless chosen service to the princess. Over the past few weeks she had had to use all her wits in fending off their endless questions and speculations, and she still was not sure she had convinced them she was not seeking an affair with a more powerful nobleman. This was particularly irksome as it put her at odds with Lady Derby, the one woman Coby had hoped to befriend. Lady Derby clearly considered her a rival, whilst simultaneously dismissing the possibility that any man could be interested in such a plain creature of common stock and no wealth. Coby was beginning to wish she had let “Lady Catlyn” die in the fire after all.