The next morning I went walking again, but there were far fewer people about than there had been the previous day. None of them seemed approachable. Beset by self-pity, I was on the verge of retreat when a spaniel dashed across my path. A moment later, a young woman about my own age burst out of the shrubbery in hot pursuit.
“Rig!” she called, frantic and out of breath. “Rig, come back!”
“He went that way,” I said, and pointed.
“Wretched beast! If I have to leave the path again, my shoes will be ruined.”
“Take them off,” I suggested.
Her wide-spaced, sea green eyes widened for a moment. Then she laughed. “I will if you will.”
I kicked off my soft leather slippers and left them on the graveled path. In stocking feet, we raced across a terrace and down a flight of steps, past open flower beds raised above the level of the path on oak frames, and through a covert walk created by entwining the branches of two rows of willow trees overhead.
Rig led us on a merry chase. We could climb over the low-growing hedges of lavender or box or rosemary, but every time he ducked under one of the high, clipped hedges planted in privet or briar or whitethorn, we had to go around. By the time we ran him to ground, he had reached the man-high hedgerow that surrounded all of Woodstock. We would not have caught him then had he not found something interesting to sniff.
My companion pounced, scooping him up. “Bad dog,” she scolded, trying to hold on to him and pluck leaves and twigs from his fur at the same time.
I studied the young woman as I untangled the spaniel’s leash for her. She had a long face that narrowed toward a pointed chin and pale, flawless skin. Her cloak concealed most of her clothing, but that cloak was made of brocade and had pearls set into the trim, as did the border of her French hood. The little dog squirming in her arms wore a collar of crimson velvet. It had been embroidered in gold thread with the head of St. Katherine—the queen’s emblem.
“Is Rig Her Grace’s spaniel?”
“He is, and a more spoilt and pampered pup you will never meet.” We began to retrace our steps toward the place where we had discarded our shoes.
“I am Elizabeth Brooke, Lady Lisle’s waiting gentlewoman.”
“And I am Alys Guildford, Lady Lisle’s kinswoman. You replaced me in her household when I left to wait upon the queen.”
We recovered our shoes and walked together toward the palace. I was uncertain of what to say next, but Alys solved that problem for me.
“Tell me,” she said, eyes twinkling as she glanced my way, “how have you been sleeping? Does Bridget’s snoring keep you awake? I always found it useful to stuff cotton in my ears before I went to bed.”
6
Alys Guildford and I soon became fast friends. Even though she had only been a maid of honor for a short time, she seemed to know everyone at court. It was not long before I met all the maids of honor and chamberers. I found another kindred spirit in Mary Woodhull, a plump, pretty girl with sand-colored hair and mild gray eyes. She was the queen’s kinswoman, the granddaughter of Kathryn Parr’s uncle, but she did not push herself forward because of that. She was happy just to be at court. As a chamberer, she waited on Her Grace in the royal bedchamber but did not attend Queen Kathryn in public.
Both Alys and Mary shared my interest in exploring the maze.
“You promised you would show me the way to the center,” I teased Jack Dudley when he joined us in the great hall after supper to laugh at the antics of the king’s fool, a juggler, and a man who could walk on his hands. “Instead you abandoned me for nearly a week.” I pretended to pout.
“I would have found you sooner if we had not been forced to lodge so far away.”
Jack and Harry Dudley, and many other late arrivals at Woodstock, had of necessity been billeted at nearby manors. Even one of the king’s “great houses” filled up quickly when the entire court assembled.
It was Harry who suggested that we gather together a congenial group, eat our supper while sitting on blankets on the grass near the entrance to the maze, and afterward make the trip to its center together. Besides the Dudley brothers, Mary Woodhull, and Alys Guildford, our little company included Dorothy Bray and two more young gentlemen. Ned Brydges, the oldest at twenty-one, was a gentleman pensioner and an esquire of the king’s body. He was a moonfaced young man with blue-black hair and eyes so dark a brown that they appeared to be black, too. He had a little tuft of a beard that I thought looked foolish, but he was quite proud of it and stroked it continually. Davy Seymour was a member of the queen’s household. Like Ned, he had a beard, a wispy little thing beneath a trailing mustache, but he’d been blessed with high cheekbones that allowed him to carry it off.
Harry Dudley was the most toothsome of the lot, with his sculpted features and his height and his muscular build. Jack might be nearly as tall as his brother, but he was beanpole thin, all angles and gangly limbs. He was also slightly bowlegged from the endless hours he spent on horseback. I supposed that the rest of him would catch up to his height in time, but for the nonce he was gawky and uncoordinated and I was shallow enough to prefer his older brother’s company.
Servants delivered food packed in baskets, and one of the queen’s musicians played soft music while we ate. Halfway through our meal, I realized that I knew him. He was Jasper Bassano, the same Venetian musician who had performed at Cowling Castle.
“That’s Will Parr’s man,” I whispered to Alys.
“No longer. The Bassano brothers are the queen’s musicians now.”
Jasper paid no attention to me, but he watched Dorothy all the while he played, a look of disapproval on his swarthy face. She was oblivious to his scrutiny. She was too busy flirting with Ned Brydges. I was glad that Jasper left us when we finished our meal. His glower had begun to cast a pall. He took his lute and the empty food basket with him.
“Are you ready for a great adventure?” Harry asked, helping me to my feet.
I grinned up at him. “Lead on.”
Jack glared at his brother, but allowed Alys to partner him. They followed Dorothy and Ned into the maze, leaving Davy to escort Mary. Harry and I came last, chatting amiably, in no great hurry to overtake the others. But within moments of entering the hedge maze, my smile faded. I tightened my grip on Harry’s arm.
Even though I had seen the maze from the outside and had a vague sense of how large it was, I had expected to be able to see over the plantings. I’d been under the impression that mazes were low, using hyssop or winter savory or germander to lay out the paths. This one rose man high, just like the hedgerow that surrounded Woodstock. It was impossible for any of us, even the tallest of the gentlemen, to peer over the top. Moreover, the royal gardeners had clipped the thick growth of evergreens to make the sides flat and as solid as stone.
Sound was eerily muted. The path was sanded, not graveled, so that we could not even hear our own footsteps. I felt cut off from everything I knew. A deep uncertainty crept over me, the fear that I would never be able to return to the world that lay outside the maze.
Why had I imagined this would be a pleasant walk? I knew the path inside would twist and turn, but I’d reckoned without the shadows and the sense of confinement. I was trapped. Imprisoned by impenetrable green walls.
“Are you sure you know the way out?” I whispered.
Harry freed his arm from the death grip I had on it and slung it around my shoulder. “Would I ever put you in harm’s way? Trust me, Bess.”
The others were some distance ahead, out of sight. I shivered at the sound of Dorothy’s disembodied laughter. My sense of impending doom increased with each step I took.