The Lady Series by Denise Domning Page A

teeth, but you do tread roughshod over ground you should not tread at all,” she shouted at the one who claimed to be her good and faithful servant. “We’ve had enough of you and your pompous ilk, all of you thinking to command God’s chosen monarch to your will. It is ours to decide who serves us and how they serve.”
    With every word, Elizabeth’s voice rose until the sound of her rage echoed about the now still and breathless room. “Not even our councilors have the right to demand otherwise, although God knows they dare to try. We say Master Hollier is your granddaughter’s tutor, and so it will be!”

     
    As the echoes of the queen’s shouts faded, Kit straightened out of his slouched stance against the wall. All around him men cleared their throats or coughed, the more daring whispering to each other. No matter their reaction, every one of them was giving thanks he wasn’t Old Amyas. God knew Kit was.
    Although Amyas’s head was bowed, his back was stiff in eloquent declaration of how deeply he resented his queen’s tongue-lashing. Poor old man. He probably had no idea of the sort of morass into which he’d blundered.
    Amyas’s arrogant outburst had given Elizabeth just what she needed: a whipping boy on whom to vent her rage over the actions of those more highly placed and powerful than he, and a pulpit from which she could inform her courtiers just how she felt about her council’s attempt to usurp her authority in February, two months past.
    The corners of Kit’s mouth lifted. Amyas must be eating at his heart right now, knowing that if he’d held his tongue the queen would have asked the onlookers to submit names for Mistress Blanchemain’s dancing master. Indeed, the appointment would have become like unto a tennis match, hours passing as the highest nobles at court swatted names about like balls until the strongest faction settled the chore upon their favorite.
    Against Lady Montmercy’s admonition not to do so Kit glanced at her, his respect for her ability to scheme rising. It was a stroke of genius to use a maid to proffer his name, all the more so since to the best of his knowledge the queen had never offered him a word one way or the other over his footwork. It was Kit’s fellow pensioner of the same name, Master Christopher Hatton, who received all the queen’s praise for his dancing.
    The question remained: how did yon devious, amoral viper know that devout old man so well to be certain he’d explode at the mere suggestion of the Hollier name?
    John clapped Kit on the back, the congratulatory blow so powerful it nearly knocked Kit from his feet. “By God, that was a neat trick,” John cried in quiet awe as he gave up pounding on his friend to come around Kit, grab his hand, and pump vigorously. “Who did you have to pay and how much did it cost to arrange that?”
    “I had nothing to do with it,” Kit declared, glad his words rang with truth.
    Lord Andrew appeared from around John’s back to catch Kit by the arm. “In honor of your appointment I will not pursue the woman,” he offered in his own version of congratulations.
    Kit stifled his laugh. “Magnanimous of you, my lord,” he said, sarcasm almost dripping from his words.
    Ned’s laugh rang out. “I fear this generosity of yours has more to do with the color of Mistress Blanchemain’s tresses than our Kit’s good fortune,” he said to his charge. “We all know you prefer fair-haired lasses.”
    “So I do,” the boy replied with a grin so charming it drove all arrogance from his face.
    Near the queen’s chair Sir Amyas mumbled his way through the appropriate humble apologies. When he finished the usher called Mistress Blanchemain forward to recite her oath of service. John looked at Kit.
    “Since you’re vowed not to marry do you think you can whisper a good word to her about me? I can even help you with your lessons, being as light on my feet as you.”
    Dismay filled Kit. Those lessons were his opportunity