The Lady Series by Denise Domning

mother served Your Majesty’s stepmothers,” she paused to make certain the queen would be reminded of her mother’s past service, “she was lauded for her fine footwork. It seemed cruel to force one who had so loved the activity to watch others caper and skip to a tune when even the smallest step is beyond her. Thus I never pressed to learn.”
    Elizabeth’s face softened at this explanation. “Noble indeed. In this your mother’s blood reveals itself,” she said, referring to her mother’s connection to the Radcliffes and the earl of Sussex, while dismissing Sir Amyas’s far more plebeian roots.
    “Still,” she continued with a frown, “we cannot have a maid who does not dance.”
    “Majesty, might I offer a suggestion?” The woman who spoke was one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Dressed in green and gray, she was beautiful, being fair of hair and fine of feature, with eyes as blue as the sapphires glinting in her earbobs.
    Amyas caught his breath so sharply that Anne thought for a moment he was in pain. He straightened, coming upright on his knees once more, his head bowed. Fingers clenching into his thick gown, he stared at the floor’s matting, his lips moving as if in prayer.
    Elizabeth shifted upon her cushions until she could gaze upon this beauty. Although no emotion colored the royal face the queen’s fingers were tight on the arms of her chair. Years of reading her mother’s unspoken messages served Anne well. Now, why would a queen keep a woman she did not trust so close to her?
    This was followed by a sudden appreciation for the queen’s subtlety; no whit of what the queen felt showed on her face. England’s queen played those who served as ably as she claimed she worked the keys of the virginals. Anne fought a smile as she realized this could only mean that the queen’s open impatience toward Amyas had been an act, one calculated to make sure he paid with more than coin to place his heiress into royal service.
    “And what might your suggestion be, Lady Montmercy?” It was a blank question.
    The noblewoman dropped into a deep curtsy. “Mistress Blanchemain seems a worthy enough maid,” she replied, her head bowed, “and an inability to dance is a flaw easily rectified. While a tutor could be hired for her, you have often said there are many men at court who turn their legs with great skill. I find myself wondering whether there’s any difference between the skill transmitted by a man who teaches dancing as his trade,” a touch of scorn colored the word, "and one who dances for the simple joy of movement.”
    Interest sparked in the queen’s dark eyes. “A suggestion worthy of consideration,” she agreed. “Who might you suggest for this experiment, my lady?”
    The noblewoman shook her head. “Madame, I’m not the one to ask. Well you know that my skill in footwork is marginal. You’re better seeking names of candidates from those more nimble on their toes.” At her words a pair of the queen’s youngest maids giggled and whispered to each other from where they sat at the throne’s side.
    “That set you to hissing.” The queen threw this not-unkind comment at the lasses. “Does this mean one of you has a recommendation to make?”
    Elizabeth’s words brought the pair of highborn maids around the corner of her chair. Still tittering, they clutched together as if one needed the other to stand. The instant they were within their queen’s eyesight, they knelt, bending heads over bodices yet undisturbed by womanly curves.
    “Madame,” one offered, her golden curls resting against her sweet nape, “what of Master Christopher Hollier? You complimented him last week for how finely he turned his leg to music.”
    Amyas gasped. “Nay, I’ll have no Papists near my heir!” Even as the words exploded from him her grandfather cringed as he recognized his mistake.
    In her chair Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Her neck tensed until Anne could see the blue of her veins. “God’s