The Spymaster's Daughter by Jeane Westin

you…. Expect nothing more than pity from him.”
    It was plain that Lady Stanley tasted the words as if they were glazed in sugar by the confection kitchens. With a great effort, Frances kept her face calm, not looking at the woman whose deep bramble scratches were not quite healed, nor fully hidden by the white Mask of Youth.
    Frustration in her manner, Lady Stanley deliberately bumped Frances as they stepped off the dais to wait for the queen’s departure.
    As Frances stumbled, Essex was there to grasp her arm.
    Lady Stanley controlled her face. “What a gallant knight of old you are, my lord,” she said. “We are so fortunate to have you to rescue us…first me and now this…gentle lady.”
    The earl turned his back on Lady Stanley, whose face flushed red under the mask and therefore showed bright pink.
    He had a firm grip on Frances’s shoulders with everyone in the presence watching. She shrugged against his hands. “I am quite steady now, my lord. Thank you.”
    Frances moved on, knowing she had made an enemy and now understanding why. Lady Stanley was one of Essex’s conquests, and apparently unwilling to give him up, though Essex seemed eager to let her go. She felt some sorrow for Lady Stanley, knowing too well how deep the rejection of a woman’s love could hurt.
    On this All Hallows’ Eve, Her Majesty did not sweep past the line of her ladies of the presence chamber on her way from her audiences, but stopped in front of Lady Sidney to raise her from a deep curtsy. Frances saw that this special attention from the queen was enough to attract many quick and wondering glances from the courtiers.
    â€œMajesty?” Frances said.
    â€œI see my lord Essex has a care for your safety, my lady, rescuing you from my tusker,” she said, as if the boar hunt had taken place but hours before instead of two weeks earlier. The queen’s steady dark blue, black-flecked eyes gave Frances no hint of her mood. “And now again, he has kept you from a hurt. He is very much a wandering troubadour of old, saving fair ladies from dragons and ogres…or in this case…wild boars.”
    At the queen’s side, Leicester whispered in her ear, “Bess, my stepson is very young yet.”
    Frances did not wait for an argument to commence between the two, as it often did. “Your grace,” she said, curtsying again, “I think your astounding crossbow shot was my Galahad. I thank you most humbly. Your great skill spared my life.” Knowing the queen disliked any female rivals for a favorite’s attention, Frances quickly added, “Sir Philip writes to me that he has asked my lord Essex to take special care of me at court.”
    â€œMy nephew is a loving husband,” the earl agreed, nodding.
    â€œA
most
loving husband, your Sir Philip,” the queen said, expressionless, leaving her meaning for a court guessing game.
    â€œMajesty.” Frances dipped another curtsy. She was unsure of the queen’s intention. If Her Majesty was not plain and loud, her mood could be anything.
    â€œI have talked with Dr. Dee about your interest in mathematics and Trithemius,” the queen said. “Go to his quarters tomorrow at any time before the supper hour.” She walked on with her train of ladies and courtiers, leaving Frances to hastily dip a knee.
    Had Frances’s mouth not been pursed in puzzlement at the queen’s sly talk of Philip, it would have dropped open at Her Majesty’s mention of Dr. Dee. Helping one of her ladies toward her ambition was rare in the queen. And she was not known for being a friend to women in the court.
    Frances knew her father often brought Her Majesty most unpleasant news from his intelligencers and she was often vindictive. Could using his daughter to defy him be the queen’s way of evening the score with Walsingham?
    Whatever the truth, Frances bowed her head to hide a victorious smile: The