Rebecca blushed. “No, Your Grace.”
“The filthy French do give the English such lifelong gifts,” Elizabeth cackled. “Are you certain you’re clean?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“You must have hordes of men competing for your maidenhead.” Elizabeth smiled wickedly. “Or should I speak in the past tense?”
Rebecca turned a deep shade of scarlet.
“Come, come,” the Queen said abruptly. “Off the floor. You may sit at the foot of my mattress.”
Rebecca did as told, then asked, “May I speak?”
“I wish you would,” Elizabeth said. “Your voice is so much more palatable than the others that surround me.”
“May I rub Your Grace’s feet with ointment? I fear they are cold.”
“A fine idea,” the Queen said, exposing her legs. The skin was pale and loose, webbed with thin blue lines. She pulled off her sable slippers and slapped her feet into Rebecca’s lap—two blocks of ice.
“Rub, dear girl,” Elizabeth commanded.
Roderigo gave Rebecca a sympathetic look, then handed her a rag, a tin of sweet-smelling herbs, and a vial of ointment from his bag. The woman’s feet had become encrusted with flecks of dirt and scaly skin. Rebecca slowly eased away the dead skin and methodically picked off the dirt with her fingernails. After the royal feet were cleaned, she began her rubbing and perfuming. The toes turned from white to pink, from pink to red. As they did, Elizabeth almost purred with contentment. Then, still playing the feline, she turned to Roderigo, arched her back and snarled,
“I feel awful.”
“The demands placed upon Your Grace are endless—”
“I know the enormities of my duties, you drooling dolt. Quit fawning me. Instead, tell me what ails me.”
“You have a fever, madam. You need honeysuckle leaves steeped in water.”
“My throat hurts.” She rubbed her neck. Her eyes suddenly beseeched Roderigo’s. “Quimsy?”
“Open your mouth, madam,” Roderigo said.
The Queen obeyed.
Roderigo raised a lit candlestick and peered down the royal throat. A moment later he shook his head no. “Your gullet is merely raw and red. No telltale signs of quimsy.”
The Queen smiled and pushed the candle away. “Get that away from my face, you jack. The light irritates my eyes.”
“As you wish.” Roderigo tried to remain calm. “The posset that I have requested shall soothe your throat. Also, I will give Your Grace something to help the fever.” Roderigo took out a small jug sealed with wax. “A spoonful every hour until the royal forehead feels cool to the touch.”
“Your little girl has grown up, Ruy,” the Queen said, wiggling her newly warmed toes. “My, how she has grown up! Why didn’t you ever do this for me?”
“Why … Your Grace never asked,” he sputtered.
“And you never volunteered, you plant. The girl has brains under her coif. You must have been away from home the night she was conceived.” The Queen prodded Rebecca in the ribs with her toes. “When you are done with my feet, you may proceed with my hands.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth picked up the jug, poked through the wax seal with her finger, and sniffed the contents. “What’s in here?” she asked suspiciously.
“Four spoonfuls of the juice of red nettles, eight of ale, thirty grains of nicra picra, and a half pint of aqua vitae.”
She handed the container to Rebecca. “Taste it for me, my dear.”
“It would be my honor, Your Grace.”
Rebecca took a healthy swallow and passed it back to the Queen, who looked at Roderigo with a sly smile.
“It has been rumored that you have a special penchant for ratsbane and Indian acacia, Ruy.”
Roderigo turned white and coughed.
“Madam, I’ve—”
“Oh, stow your mouth!” Elizabeth laughed. She took a gulp of the medicine. “No matter,” she said. “I trust you. For your daughter’s welfare if not for mine. Tell me, what do your spies in Iberia say about His Majesty, King of Spain?”
“His treasury lessens daily, his navy is in ruins, the sailors poorly paid and mutinous. He has no means for war. He knows when he has been bested.”
“Go on, go on,” Elizabeth commanded.
“His Majesty is much bothered by the French Protestant Henry of Navarre and continues to stare wistfully to the north. So does the Duke of Parma.”
“Tell me something I know not.”
Roderigo hoped his voice was steady. He said, “They comprise a stronger team than either one individually.”
“Do you think it wise for England to continue to aid France and the two-faced Navarre?” The Queen smiled wickedly. “Speak, man! Give me your opinion.”
“It is costly,” Roderigo said cautiously.
“Your ancestry shows itself,” Elizabeth said, raising her eyes. “But tis true. Our involvement on the Continent is slowly bankrupting the treasury. Not that Essex is concerned. He spends as if I were magical rains always filling the wells he calls his pockets.” She shook her head in disgust.
Roderigo said nothing. The Queen knew of his rivalry with Essex, and her comments were meant to incite a reaction from him. She was a master of playing people against each other, thus neutralizing all forces against her. When it was clear that Roderigo refused to enter a game he could not win, the Queen said,
“What does the King of Spain conspire?”
Dark circles of sweat stained Lopez’s armpits. Praise God Rebecca had remembered to add the sweating salts to the sleeves. He would be wet, but at least his body odor would offend no one.
“It is rumored that though His Majesty wars with the French king, they meet covertly—”
“The bastards!” the Queen screamed. “When?”
“I’ve heard the gossip a few days ago.”
“And why was I not informed?”
“I had not been summoned to court, madam.”
Elizabeth winced. “Damn Essex,” she muttered.
This time Roderigo smiled. It had been just as he thought. Essex had been keeping him away. And in his absence, the Queen had lost a valuable piece of gossip.
“Damn him!” she repeated. “What are we to do about this?”
She was trying to trap him again.
“Your Grace,” Lopez began, “England is the Jeweled Maiden of the Sea, the mightiest and swiftest power in centuries. All because on the throne sits a just and fair monarch who governs by divine inheritance—”
“Oh bother! You speak a lot and say little … But you have worthy spies.” She thought a moment, then said, “I hear you have a fine falconer.”
“I do, madam,” Roderigo answered.
“I have a sick bird in my mew, a fine female peregrine. See if your falconer can restore her to health. If he can, you may have your pick of her eggs.”
“Twould be my honor, Your Grace.”
“Of course it would be your honor.” She waved him away.