Page 4 of The Favourite

“Nothing of the sort,” Queen Armenal scoffed. “Your razor-sharp wits seem decidedly blunt this morn, Bardulf.”

Alisander sighed and dropped his head against the back of his seat. “It is too early for observations in any case,” he said closing his eyes.

The Queen’s most recently appointed lady-in-waiting, a tall Northern woman by the name of Magnetrude Bartree snorted loudly. “On the contrary, it is nearly midday, my lord,” she said with heavy disapproval, lowering her embroidery.

“As I said, far too early,” Alisander yawned by way of response, making the older woman’s lips purse.

“You must not pay him any heed, Magnetrude,” the Queen said turning to her companion. “He is merely provoking us because his usual target is not here to receive his barbs.”

Alisander’s eyes sprang open. Did he detect an underlying sharpness to her tone? A somewhat soured note? It had him immediately intrigued. He had noticed Jane’s absence the moment he had crossed the threshold of course, but the fact that the paragon of virtue, Jane Cecil, was in the Queen’s bad books was news to him.

“Of course,” he said aloud, “that is it! Where is my sweet Lady Disapproval?”

Armenal’s expression darkened. Now, this was highly unusual. Jane Cecil was devoted to the Queen and would never do anything to incur her disapproval. What could the little Cecil have possibly done to incur the Queen’s displeasure? It would not be scandalous of course; Jane was far too staid to do anything so interesting. Still … he wondered at the coldness in Armenal’s manner.

“She has family troubles, it seems,” the Queen answered curtly. “And has seen fit to prioritize those over her duties at court.”

Alisander’s interest abruptly dropped away. He knew it would be something dull. All the same, this did not suit him at all. How long would the Cecils’ family problems take to resolve? Something about the Queen’s brittle manner told him now was not a good time to ask. Jane’s family, as far as he was aware, was not extensive. She had a mother, an inconsequential creature who lived somewhere in the country.

Then, there was her scheming uncle, Sir Phillip, but Jane seemed to avoid him at all costs. That left just her sister, of course, the most famous paramour in all the land, for she was the King’s acknowledged mistress. These days, Jane seemed to avoid her sister too. Their loyalties were divided after all. It was odd how these things worked out. One sister, the Queen’s favorite, and the other, the King’s.

“You should be pleased, my lord,” opined Lord Melvin’s ward, Mistress Lucy Melvin, boldly. “For Lady Jane’s looks and manner generally displease you, is that not so?”

Twelve elegantly veiled heads immediately turned in his direction to observe his response. Alisander regarded the speaker blankly for a moment. “Is this someone else new?” he asked in complaining tones, half-turning toward the Queen. “How can I be expected to remember all of these new faces? It is too much!”

Whispers and hushed giggles greeted these words as all twelve ladies noted his devastating snub. Mistress Lucy flushed bright red. “I have been at court some six months now, my lord,” she said plaintively. “We have met at least a dozen times in this very room!”

“If you knew Lord Bardulf as well as I do, Mistress Melvin,” the Queen said, regaining some of her usual spirit, “then you would know he has a very bad head for names and faces.”

Alisander waved a hand which might be taken for either an apologetic or dismissive gesture, depending on your generosity of spirit. “What a dull, displeasing morn,” he pronounced. And for once, he actually meant his words.

What had been the point in donning his new lavender tunic with its huge sleeves, if Jane was not there to shudder at its ostentation? His lime green hose was wasted on this lot and the gold-fringed shoes were not even comfortable. They were pinching his toes damnably.

He had spent a good quarter of an hour last night memorizing a sonnet purely because he had known Jane would loathe it, and all that effort had been for naught. The morning crawled onward, and without Jane’s disapproving eye on him, it felt interminable.

He made several observations and remarks which would have annoyed her a good deal and ruffled that milk and water composure of hers. Whenever he turned his head to note the spark of irritation in her eye, the rigidity about her shoulders, the flush of irritation to her cheek, she was not there.

It was disappointing, to say the least; indeed, it almost vexed him. When a troop of musicians arrived to entertain the Queen, Alisander could stand it no longer and made his escape. By the end of the week, Jane would doubtless be back where she belonged, sitting demurely at the Queen’s side and things could return to normal.

Without Jane there, it was a damnably dull business and he found he had no taste for a lot of women prating and jostling for Armenal’s good opinion. For now, he would quit the Queen’s company for a few days, write his diplomatic reports and visit with some of his informants throughout the city. In a few days, things would be set once more to rights.

On the first day Jane Cecil had not attended the Queen, Alisander had felt mildly put out. When he returned some four days later and found her still absent, well, it was intolerable. It cast a pall on his entire day. Damn it! It was too much.

He wondered that the Queen would stand for it. He would not in her shoes, he thought as he surveyed the company scattered throughout the room: that monstrous Bartree woman with her sour face; the insipid Melvin girl; an ambassador from Samare who was depressingly loyal to his emperor, and the ruddy-faced Bishop of Hudde.

Gods, what a prospect. He did not even count the dozen young women fluttering about the place. In this, he was of the same opinion as the Queen. They were not even worthy of notice until they proved otherwise.

The only bright spot he espied was that little Lady Martindale was dancing attendance on the Queen for the first time in an age. She must have dragged her barbarous husband southward for one of their rare visits. He rather wondered that she was able to prize him from his cold, draughty halls at all.

Martindale was a dour, moody bastard who spent his time at court skulking and glowering and no doubt dreaming of a bygone time when they had their own court, and moreover their own King in the North. They were all the same, these Northerners, Alisander reflected.

Karadok’s civil war had been settled for some years now, but the dust had taken a long time to settle, and resentments simmered, never too far from the surface. He heartily pitied Lady Martindale, forced to reside in the North, a ghastly place, where snow remained scattered on the mountains even in the height of summer.

Lady Martindale, seemingly oblivious of the need for condolence, looked cheerful as ever and threw him a dimpled smile. Though not remotely flirtatious, she was his best chance of diversion this morn, he decided, drifting in her direction. Alas, she was a devoted wife and mother these days and inclined to talk about these facts at length, if one gave her half the chance.

Still, before she had married, she had been a little mouse, terrified of her own shadow, so he supposed he should not complain. She was a good deal livelier these days, despite her lamentable marriage. No doubt his favorite quarry would be back soon and normal relations could, once more, be resumed.

However, on the following Monday, a full week later, when he entered the Presence Chamber, he was destined once more for disappointment. Resplendent in a purple cotehardie, embroidered down both sleeves with golden pomegranates, he was appalled to find Jane still absent. So appalled was he, that he was moved to plain speech, something he usually abhorred.