Wild Jasmine

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The Earl of Lynmouth’s Twelfth Night gala was to be the largest he had ever held. The weather being unusually mild for January, lanterns were strung among the trees in the gardens of Lynmouth House, which bordered the river Thames. Bonfires were to be set in select areas of the gardens and kept burning all the night long. At midnight the guests would stream out from the house to view a magnificent display of fireworks that were set off from a large barge in mid-river. No one had ever done such a thing before, and many who must entertain the king in future were certain to be overcome with envy at the handsome Earl of Lynmouth’s cleverness.

The great ballroom had a stage constructed at one end. Inigo Jones had come himself to oversee the placement and building of the temporary structure. The Earl of Lynmouth, however, had borne the expense of it all. Although he would have never admitted it to his sister Willow, he was beginning himself to consider the great expense of this court and whether it was worth it. The brief magnificence of a masque was wonderful to look upon, but the values it instilled were not those values that Robert Southwood wished to pass on to his children, or grandchildren. His three eldest daughters from his first marriage were safely married; but the children his beautiful second wife, Angel, had borne him ranged in age from his heir, Geoffrey, who was twenty-one, to his youngest daughter, Laura, who was just eleven.

Laura Southwood, who was her father’s pet, had been rehearsing her role for days with her cousin, Neddie Gordon, and little Prince Charles, both of whom were ten. He had never seen her more excited over anything than she was over this masque. Lady Laura Southwood, for all her father’s worries, loved the Stuart court.

The family gathered at Lynmouth House in mid-afternoon in advance of the guests. A single room had been set aside for the costumes. There were tables set up by the various tiring women, and valets for their mistresses and masters; and beautiful decorative screens behind which they would don their costumes. There were several large mirrors set in carved, gilded frames, so that the masque’s participants could view themselves prior to their performance. They would not appear before then.

A light meal was served, and then the family scattered, each to bedchambers assigned to them. Jasmine had eaten lightly. She had not felt particularly well these past few days. Her mother asked the obvious question as they sat together before a cozy fire.

“Are you with child, Jasmine?” The Countess of BrocCairn looked genuinely concerned, for no matter what her husband said, it was disturbing to her that Jasmine should give birth to a royal bastard.

“I am not certain yet, Mama,” Jasmine replied serenely.

“How long since your last moon cycle?” her mother asked.

“Five weeks,” Jasmine answered. “It is not enough yet for me to be sure. Please say nothing, Mama. I should feel quite the fool if it were not so, and Hal would be disappointed.”

“But you are sure, aren’t you?” Velvet probed.

Jasmine’s turquoise-blue eyes met her mother’s distressed green ones. How sweet she is, Jasmine thought, feeling almost protective of Velvet de Marisco Gordon. She is more of a sister to me than a mother, Jasmine considered, and then she nodded. “Aye, I am sure, Mama. I am sorry that it distresses you, for I am happy with the knowledge. It is what the prince desires most of all.”

“But the baby will be a bastard!” Velvet fretted.

“A royal bastard, Mama. ’Tis quite a different thing. Was not Lord Gordon’s father a royal bastard? The Gordons of BrocCairn do not seem to have suffered from the stigma of bastardy.”

“That was Scotland, Jasmine,” Velvet said. “This is England.”

“King Henry the Eighth had a well-loved bastard son, Mama, upon whom he heaped honors and love. ’Twill be the same for my child, I know. I realize the idea is difficult for you to digest, and poor Aunt Willow will rant and rave over the news when I choose to tell her; but Grandmama would understand.”

The two women sat in silence before the fire for a time, and then Velvet said, “When will you withdraw from court, Jasmine? You will certainly have no great desire to parade a big belly before the court, I know. Discretion has always been your finest quality.”

“Why, thank you, Mama,” Jasmine said with a small smile. “I shall wait until May, I think. The roads will be good then, and I shall go to Queen’s Malvern, not Cadby. I always feel safest with Grandmama.”

“What will the prince say? I wonder.”

“He will be pleased with the idea he is to be a father, but unhappy that I would leave him. It must be, however. I will not remain at court while I grow as fat as a shoat and wagers are made as to when I shall deliver my child, or whether it will be a boy or a girl,” Jasmine said to her mother. “I shall stay with Grandmama until after the baby is born. Perhaps I shall rejoin the court next winter, and perhaps not. The king and the queen argue over a choice of a bride for Hal, but they will make their decision quickly once they learn I am with child by their heir. It is past time Henry Stuart had a wife. You must say nothing of this, Mama. Not even to Lord Gordon. Promise me!”

Velvet nodded. “I promise,” she told her daughter wearily.

The Earl of Lynmouth’s guests began arriving with the early evening. A long parade of carriages lined the drive leading from the high road, through the park, and to the earl’s front door. Ladies and gentlemen, masked and in utterly magnificent costumes of every possible color and hue, stepped from the vehicles and tripped lightly into Lynmouth House. There were all sorts of amusements for them. They danced. They drank. They gossiped, played cards, and watched cockfights in a special cockpit that had been set up in one of the beautiful salons. There was much wagering back and forth amongst both the men and the women.

A buffet was served. There were barrels of oysters just up from the coast that same day. The oysters were devoured mostly by the men, who were unable to refrain from lewd remarks on how the shellfish would increase their sexual prowess that night. Next to the oyster barrels was an entire table devoted to fish. There was Scotch salmon in calf’s-foot jelly, trout baked whole in pastry, smoked sturgeon, smoked eels, creamed cod with dill, salted herring, and prawns that had been steamed delicately in fine white wine and set a-swimming upon their platters with wedges of carved lemons.

A second table was devoted to game birds and poultry. It had a centerpiece fashioned from a magnificent peacock with its colorful tail spread full. Upon the table was roast goose, and ducks stuffed with saffroned rice and herbs in plum sauce. There were capons filled with dried fruit in a lemon-ginger sauce, large roast turkeys, platters of partridge, quail, and ortolons, and large pies of lark and sparrow, oozing rich brown gravy.

A third table was groaning with six sides of beef that had been packed in rock salt and roasted over the great, open kitchen fires. A servant in livery stood by to carve for the guests. There were legs of lamb, two roast pigs, country hams, and several dozen large rabbit pies, not to mention a new dish from France consisting of chunks of beef, red wine, and carrots and onions, which seemed to please everyone who tasted it, and there were many who did.

Another table held braised lettuce in white wine, bowls of peas, beets, carrots, turnips, and marrows. There were loaves of bread, plenty of sweet country butter, and great wheels of cheese for the guests to sample, which came not just from England, but France as well.

A final table held sweets of all kinds: cakes, jellies, sugar wafers, custards, tarts of dried fruits, candied angelica, violets, and rose leaves. There were bowls of pears and apples as well as oranges from Spain for the guests. Ale and wine flowed without ceasing.

The queen would not allow any of the players to either eat or drink before the masque. Several years prior, before she had sternly instituted this rule, Ben Jonson had written a masque to be performed during her eldest brother’s visit from Denmark. Unfortunately, the fete during which this masque was to take place had gotten quite out of hand. Most of the ladies that evening were swept up in the spirit of the moment and became intoxicated.

The masque, which dealt with the seven virtues, turned into a riotous scandal as Faith vomited upon the King of Denmark’s boots. Hope, too drunk to utter a syllable, stammered unintelligibly, and Charity was found behind a curtain futtering Lord Oliver, which one wag declared at least gave evidence that she understood the meaning of the virtue she was portraying, for Lord Oliver was neither handsome, rich, nor particularly likable.

Inigo Jones had designed wonderful scenery for the masque this particular Twelfth Night. The story was set in the faery kingdom. Its inhabitants lived the vital part of their lives during the warmer months of the year. They did not like the few winter months when the Frost King and his minions, the brownies and elves, were dominant. The faeries slept that time away in secure little nooks and crannies.

The court settled itself, and as the music began, the curtains of dark blue velvet were drawn back by two young pages garbed in pale blue velvet and lace ruffs, their soft velvet caps dripping white plumes, the toes of their shoes upturned in medieval fashion. The little lads drew the curtains open but halfway, revealing the oak tree bedchamber of the faery king and queen. Oberon lay sleeping alone, the coverlet next to him thrown aside.

Suddenly Oberon awoke, rubbed his eyes, stretched, and then saw that Titania was gone. He leapt up. The audience applauded as Henry Stuart stood before them, and the ladies of the court nudged each other over the prince’s costume. His gilded leather boots were studded with gems and had wings upon the heels. Far more of interest to the ladies was the fact that the prince’s legs were quite bare above his boots all the way to mid-thigh. He wore short, close-fitting pants striped in silver and gold, and trimmed with gold lace. The upper part of his costume was fashioned to resemble a sleeved breastplate such as might have been worn in Roman times. A royal-purple silk capelet was artfully draped from front to back.

Angrily the faery king aroused his court. He ordered them to find the queen. The faeries dashed to and fro, diligently seeking the missing Titania. Finally the three adorable wood sprites—played by Prince Charles, Edward Gordon, and Lady Laura Southwood, garbed in forest-green tights, green and brown blouses with ragged edges, and with small wings of a pearly hue edged in gold attached to their backs—hurried to tell the king that they had overheard some young brownies gossiping in the forest. The wood sprites danced quite charmingly as they told their tale, their tiny wings appearing to flutter realistically.

The Frost King had stolen Titania! He intended by means of enchantment to make her his own queen, for he had long envied Oberon the beauteous faery woman. Titania had been put beneath a spell which had caused her to forget Oberon. The wedding was set for dawn of the following morning.

Oberon was devastated. Then, as he placed a plumed gold helmet encircled with a gilded victory wreath of laurel upon his head, he had an idea. If he could convince Springtime to come early, the Frost King and his court would be banished until next winter. Under the influence of the birds and the flowers, Titania was certain to regain her memory.

As the masque progressed, Inigo Jones’s genius was evident to all who watched. The scenery, beautifully painted and affixed to tiny wheels, was moved effortlessly by liveried servants with each change of scene. The costumes tonight were thought to be the absolute best that the designer had ever created.

Aurora, the glorious goddess of the Dawn, arrived, bringing with her the new day. Party to Oberon’s plot, she moved slowly, drawing her colors lazily across the sky. The Frost King, played by Viscount Rochester in silver and white, prepared to take his bride. The court waited avidly for Jasmine’s entrance. The gossip surrounding her costume was scandalous. A large snowflake, which had been made from wood and painted silver, was lowered from the ceiling. Seated upon it was Lady Lindley in her role as Titania.

At first the audience was disappointed, for it seemed that her costume was nothing out of the ordinary. The Frost King moved forward to help her from her precarious perch, and when she stepped forward into the lights, a collective gasp arose from the spectators. Never had anyone seen a costume of such gossamer quality. It could have very well been fashioned from moonbeams and spiderwebs, for it was both alive and pearlescent at the same time. The hem of the garment was deliberately ragged, and consequently allowed for glimpses of long, slender legs. A silver ribbon had been tied beneath her bosom, thereby underlining her full breasts, and her nipples had obviously been painted carmine-red. Jasmine’s long, dark hair was loose, and dusted with both gold and silver dust. Atop her head was a delicate crown of crystals and pearls, set in a gold frame. When she danced with the Frost King, her buttocks and belly glowed pale and tantalizing beneath the sheer silk.

“I shall swoon,” Willow, the Countess of Alcester declared dramatically, a hand going to her heart.

“Do not bother, my dear,” her husband James told her. “ ’Twill not divert attention from our niece, I assure you.”

Willow glared at him. “ ’Tis outrageous and shocking, James!”

“Aye, my dear,” he agreed, his mild blue eyes upon the stage.

“God’s nightshirt,” murmured Tom Ashburne softly. “What a pity my cousin Rowan died. To leave such a woman is more than just a tragedy.”

“Do you think her more beautiful than me?” Sybilla demanded, a tiny worm of jealousy gnawing at her heart. What was it about Jasmine, she thought irritably, that made her so fascinating to all men?

The Earl of Kempe heard the annoyance in his young wife’s voice, and turning to her, he looked deep into her eyes. “No one, my Sybilla, is more beautiful to me than you are,” he said sincerely.

“Oh, Tom, you are such a rogue,” she replied, pleased, soft color flooding her cheeks.

“Jasmine’s costume is certainly daring,” Angel Southwood whispered to her husband. “I am surprised that the prince allowed it.”

“He would show his prize to all the court,” Robin Southwood said quietly. “They’ll marry him off soon enough. ’Tis time, I think.”

“Have you no feeling for my daughter, Robin, and her position?” Velvet hissed angrily. “What of Jasmine!?”

“Jasmine, like our mother, dear Velvet, will survive quite magnificently, I assure you,” the Earl of Lynmouth told his sister, patting her hand comfortingly.

Onstage, the Frost King’s hall was suddenly overrun with warm southern zephyrs. They danced gaily about. Birds were heard chirping spring songs. Mistress Springtime and her maidens, attired in flowing silken robes of varied pastel hues, flowers entwined in their long, loose hair, entered the hall of the Frost King dancing and singing. Springtime was being played by the delightful Princess Elizabeth, younger sister of Prince Henry. Betrothed to Prince Frederick V, the young Elector of the Palatine, she was to be married in the coming year.

With Springtime’s arrival, the Frost King was thwarted. The warm zephyrs dancing about Titania, the fragrance of the flowers, all worked to restore the faery queen’s lost memory. The spell was broken. Rejecting the Frost King’s overtures, she flew to the arms of her lover, Oberon. Vowing revenge, the Frost King was banished for another year while Oberon, Titania, their court, and their allies all danced joyfully, celebrating their victory.

The Earl of Glenkirk watched the masque, his green eyes fixed upon Jasmine. It was ridiculous, he knew, but it seemed that she flaunted herself expressly for him. He wanted her! Why had he not said that he would marry her that morning several years back when they had been caught abed? Their combined pride had cost him so much. He watched as the masque came to a triumphant end. Jasmine and Henry pirouetted together with joyous abandon, surrounded by all the members of the faery court.

The curtain closed briefly, only to be drawn halfway back once again. The royal bedchamber in the oak tree was revealed. In the pale golden light of the candles on stage, Oberon, king of the faeries, walked across the stage, his beautiful queen, Titania, in his arms. Gently he laid her upon their marital bed, joining her, their lips meeting in a tender kiss even as the candles on stage were extinguished by the three wood sprites, and the two young pages drew the curtains discreetly closed.

For a moment there was complete silence in the ballroom of Lynmouth House, and then the audience commenced a thunderous clapping. The curtains were drawn back to reveal the players who took their bows, and then the curtains were closed a final time. Those members of the court who might have wished to get closer to Jasmine in her revealing costume were disappointed, for she and the prince quickly disappeared from the room.

“Ohh, you have outdone yourself, Master Jonson, Master Jones!” Queen Anne enthused. “What a charming and romantic masque you have given us this Twelfth Night. I do feel that Lady Lindley’s costume was perhaps a bit daring, however.” The queen was garbed this evening as Bel-Ana, Queen of the Ocean, a role she had played in a previous masque two years prior entitled The Masques of Queenes. She had always loved the costume with its magnificent crown and floating plumes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ben Jonson replied. He wisely left the matter of the costuming to his compatriot.

“Lady Lindley’s costume was indeed daring, my gracious queen,” the designer said, “but ’twas necessary for authenticity. Had she not agreed to play the role, I could not have had such a costume. Her figure is quite perfect, and her skin tone marvelous. Did you see how it glowed beneath her silks? She is a charming woman as well, madame. There is no artifice or deceit in her. A most pleasant change.”

“Indeed,” the queen said thoughtfully. She was more than aware, for how could she not be, that Jasmine Lindley was her son’s mistress. Royal mistresses could be difficult, and yet lnigo Jones was perfectly correct in his estimation of Jasmine. The queen wanted to dislike her son’s mistress, but she could not. Jasmine cared for Henry Stuart, and was respectful to the other members of the royal family. Recently, Princess Elizabeth had wanted a particular silk for her trousseau, and no London merchant had been able to supply it.

“I would be honored if Your Highness would accept this small token of my genuine affection,” Lady Lindley had said, presenting the silk to the young princess. “I brought it with me from India, but it has been lying in my grandmother’s warehouse. I know Your Highness will make good use of it, and it suits you so well.”

Jasmine Lindley had also strived to bring Henry and his little brother, Charles, closer together. Charles had been born prematurely, and had been physically ill fit his entire life. He could not walk until he was past four, and then his little legs had been spindly and weak. Henry enjoyed teasing his younger sibling, saying that he would make him the Archbishop of Canterbury one day since his legs would not show beneath his long clerical robes. The younger boy used to get furious when his brother said that. Of course, the angrier Charles got, the more Henry teased.

Jasmine had taught Prince Charles to fight back in a most clever way. “You must tell Hal when he becomes king, and you the archbishop, you will oversee his morals closely,” she said. “He only teases you because you react so angrily. If you do not get angry with him, he will not tease you. He loves you dearly, my lord.”

“He does?” Charles Stuart was quite surprised to hear this. He was amazingly advanced intellectually for his age, and his elder brother’s behavior did not seem particularly loving to him.

When the younger lad, however, teased the older back, Henry Stuart laughed, surprised but pleased. “So you’ll watch my morals closely, will you, runt? And what will you do if you don’t like them?”

“Why, I’ll excommunicate you, Hal!” Charles shot back.

“But I will be head of the Church of England, laddie.” His brother chuckled smugly, certain he had the boy.

“Not if I excommunicate you, you won’t,” Charles Stuart told Henry Stuart. “Remember, I shall be the archbishop, and you just a king. God always takes precedence over man, brother. Even Father admits to that.”

Henry Stuart had appeared astounded for a moment, and then he had laughed heartily.

Aye, the queen thought, Jasmine Lindley was certainly not a bad influence on her son, but she could also see that Henry was in love with her. There was, of course, no future in it. It is time that he married, the queen mused. His deep and obvious devotion to Lady Lindley proved that he was more than ready for it.

She had been party to a conversation between her husband and eldest son just a week ago. Henry had told his father that he wanted to marry Lady Lindley. James, to give him credit, had not lost his temper, but he had said to Henry, “She is nae worthy of ye.”

“Jasmine told me that you would say that if I should ever ask you,” the Prince of Wales told his father.

“Did she, laddie?” The king was surprised.

“Aye, she did,” the prince replied. “She says that I must marry into France, or Spain, or the Germanies.”

“Did she?” King James said, pleased. “Well, Henry, the lass is far wiser than ye are, and she obviously knows her duty.”

“I want her!” Henry Stuart said fiercely.

“Ye hae her,” his father replied blandly. “ ’Tis nae secret that she is yer mistress, laddie. ’Tis all she can ever be to ye.”

“What if she has my child?” the prince asked his father.

“I would certainly expect ye to recognize the bairn,” the king said, “and we will provide for it. This family hae never been negligent toward the bairns it’s spawned, no matter the side of the blanket they’re born on, Henry. Blood is blood, laddie.”

The prince had left his father afterward, and the queen had come to sit by James Stuart, taking his hand in hers. “We must settle this matter of Henry’s marriage,” she had said. “Old King Philip’s daughter would be perfect for him. She is wellschooled, and the family are proven breeders.”

“Yer mad, Annie,” the king responded. “The Spanish lass is a devout member of the old Kirk. She’ll nae change, nor will Spain allow his grandchildren to be brought up in England’s Kirk. The French, however, are not so stubborn. I say we look to France. Old Queen Marie has a little daughter, Henrietta-Marie, who would serve us well.”

“Spain is stronger!” the queen insisted. “Besides, how could King Philip interfere in the raising of our grandchildren so far away?”

“I hae nae love for the Spanish,” James Stuart said stubbornly.

“If you had chosen the Spanish Infanta, we could have had the young Spanish king for Bessie’s husband instead of that German prince!” the queen said, losing her temper. “But no! You must pander to your Protestant subjects, and Henry sides with you in all of it. Well, Jamie, you may forget your French princess for Henry, for he tells me he will not marry any Roman Catholic for fear of dividing the country once again. For love of him have I accepted Prince Frederick for our daughter, and for no other reason. Now, I defy you to find a Protestant princess worthy of our son and heir!”

So they were stalemated, and while they sought a wife for Henry Stuart, he fell more and more in love with his mistress.

The holidays over, the court descended into winter and the Lenten season. Jasmine’s scandalous costume was quickly forgotten by most in the wake of the many new scandals associated with the Stuart court, notably the growing and most public affaire de coeur between Frances Howard, the Countess of Essex, and Viscount Rochester.

By the end of February, Jasmine was absolutely certain that she was with child again, and told her lover of the impending birth. Henry Stuart was, as she had predicted, ecstatic. He was less ecstatic to learn that Jasmine desired to leave the court in early spring.

“No!” he said. “You will have the child here at St. James.”

“Our baby is not due until autumn,” Jasmine told him. “Would you have me remain in London in the plague season, Hal? Despite the fact this palace is on the edge of the city with a park about it, and green fields to the north, it is still London. I am going to Queen’s Malvern. I would be with my grandmother and grandfather when our child is born. You cannot deny me this, Hal. I must be happy now.”

“You can go to my palace of Nonsuch, in Surry,” he said.

“Nonsuch is too close to London,” Jasmine complained.

“I shall send you to Richmond, then,” he suggested.

“Richmond?” Jasmine looked horrified. “ ’Tis in the north, in Yorkshire. I do not want to go to Yorkshire.”

“Have you ever been to Yorkshire?” he asked her slyly. “ ’Tis certainly far enough away from London, my love.”

“I have heard of the Yorkshire moors, my lord. ’Tis a wild and desolate place. How can you even consider sending me to such a place?” She began to weep. “You claim to love me, Henry Stuart, and yet you would send me to some terrible, dank castle in the north of England.”

“But you said you wanted to leave London before the plague season, Jasmine,” he said, confused. “Nonsuch and Richmond belong to me.”

“I want to go home to Queen’s Malvern,” she told him. “I need to see my children, Hal. I have not seen them in over six months. They are very little, my babies. My grandmother’s house is a wonderful and peaceful place, Hal. Worcester is green and inviting. I love it there. ’Tis there I would have our child. You have been neglecting your position of late because of me, and you are not well, I know, though you try to hide it from me. You are overburdened with your duties, my lord. You need more rest. If I return home, you will get it. I want to leave the last week in April. The roads will be passable then, my darling, and ’twill still be safe for me to travel a long distance. I want to go home, Hal. Let me go!”

He sighed deeply. “I want to be with you, Jasmine, particularly now when you are ripening with our son, but I know that breeding women are subject to certain vagaries. If you would truly go home to your grandmother’s house in Worcester, then I will allow it. The royal progress is to be made in the Midlands this summer. I shall join you then to be with you for the birth of our son. May I, my love?”

“Aye,” she promised him, feeling better now. Then, her eyes twinkling, she asked him, “What makes you so certain that I shall deliver a son? I have two little girls, but only one little lad, my lord.”

“Stuarts generally spawn lads,” he said, his own eyes twinkling. “A daughter, however, would suit me as well if she looked like her mam.” He bent and kissed Jasmine’s forehead, his hand running lightly over her belly, which had only just begun to round slightly.

“A lad will be better,” Jasmine said. “ ’Twould be harder for a girl to bear the stigma of her birth.”

“What stigma?” He looked genuinely perplexed.

“My child will be bastard-born, Hal. Is that not a stigma? Oh, I have bravely told my family it will not be, but won’t it?”

He knew what she needed to hear now. “I will recognize my child, madame, and it will bear my name, I promise you. I would call a son Charles Frederick; the Charles for my brother, and the Frederick for me. Will that please you, madame?”

“The Charles for my brother,” she told him happily. “The Frederick for you, my lord. Charles Frederick Stuart. It has a nice ring to it.”

“May I tell my parents of our child?” he asked her.

Jasmine laughed. “I think you had best tell them soon, before my belly begins to show,” she said. “As for the rest of the court, let them speculate. It will not be hard for them to decipher once I have left court, but until then let us keep them guessing.”

“You have a wicked sense of humor, madame,” he approved.

“I hate the gossip,” Jasmine told him. “Sometimes I could but wish we were just a simple man and woman, Hal, that we might wed and live our lives together in peace.”

“Then you do love me,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him, startled. What had ever made her say such a telling thing? Jasmine forced herself to laugh lightly. “I did not say that, my lord. I simply desire a less complicated life than I seem to have. ’Twould be easier. Do you always relish your position and impending fate, my love? Ahh, well, perhaps you do. I know my brother Salim could not even wait for our father to die, so anxious was he to rule.”

“I want both you as my wife and England to rule,” Henry Stuart told her honestly. “I will make a fine king, Jasmine. I know it!”

Again she laughed, but this time her amusement was more genuine. “There is an old saying about the acorn not falling far from the oak tree, and you are certainly proof of it, my lord. You will make a good king, my darling. You want it all! Sadly, however, even kings do not always get everything that they desire. It is God’s way of keeping them humble.”

“You were meant to be a queen,” he said with sincerity.

“Perhaps I was,” Jasmine admitted, “but I shall not be Queen of England, Hal. That honor will go to another woman, and ’tis best we realize it, else we bring great unhappiness to each other. I do not want that.”

He tipped her face to his and kissed her softly. “I do not want that, either, my love,” he told her. “I know what you tell me is true and what must be, but I cannot help but dream, Jasmine. I weep secretly in my heart not just for my personal loss, but for England’s loss. You would be a great queen-consort.”

But she was not his queen-consort, nor would she ever be. Jasmine had accepted her fate, though not perhaps as easily as she had previously believed she might. As her child grew within her, she thought of how if she were Henry Stuart’s wife this child would be England’s king after his father. But of course he would not be. He would be Lord Charles Frederick Stuart, for Jasmine was convinced the baby she carried was indeed a boy.

The winter was a relatively quiet one at court, for even Queen Anne dared not hold her beloved masques or dances during the penitential season of Lent. The only exception was the English New Year, which fell officially in March, although every other civilized nation celebrated this occasion on January first, and actually so did many of the English. Parliament, however, could not be convinced to make the calendar change that all of Europe, even Scotland, had made long ago. It would be another hundred years before it did.

The spring was early and wet. In the fields to the north of St. James Palace, the daffodils bloomed copiously, and in the common pasturage, lambs nursed upon their grazing mothers. As April drew to a close, Jasmine’s servants packed up all her possessions both at St. James and at Greenwood. There were at least six baggage carts sent on their way as soon as they had been loaded. They were attended by a group of men-at-arms the de Mariscos had sent from Queen’s Malvern. The roads were not always safe, and Jasmine did not want to lose her belongings.

Prince Henry had had London’s finest coach maker at work all winter long building a traveling coach for Jasmine. “Your grandmother’s vehicle is old,” he said. “I want you to return home in safety and the utmost comfort, my love. With your new carriage I can be assured of it. We must do nothing that would endanger our child.”

The coach was indeed a magnificent one. Its springs were firm and tight, yet possessed just the right amount of give so that the ride was a smooth one. Inside, the entire vehicle was padded thickly; the walls in beautifully tanned soft, white leather, and the seats in matching tufted velvet. The seat facing the front was extra wide on the chance that Jasmine would want to he down. The back of the seat sloped just slightly in order to give her back better support.

Inside each door of the coach, a panel six inches wide, four inches deep, and six inches high had been hollowed out, and lined in iron. There was a tiny grate over each door, and another within the iron box upon which small pieces of coal and kindling might be placed for the purpose of heating the interior of the vehicle. When these miniature stoves were not in use, a decorative panel fit over them, hiding them from view.

The day of Lady Lindley’s departure, the head cook at St. James’s Palace personally oversaw the provisions that she would carry in the coach with her. The journey, usually just a few days in duration, would take far longer, for Prince Henry did not want his mistress wearied in her delicate state. A full dozen bottles of wine from Greenwood’s cellars were put into the coach. There were two fully cooked capons, three loaves of fresh bread, a dozen hard-cooked eggs, half a small ham, a large wedge of hard, sharp cheese, some pears and oranges, which would take Lady Lindley through her first day.

“I have sent one of my undersecretaries ahead, my love, to see to your accommodations. You will be provided with a fresh basket of food for your journey each day, and should your wine give out, you will also be supplied with the best wines available,” the prince told her.

“There is more than enough wine,” Jasmine told him, thinking that wine did not agree with her particularly now as it was. She far preferred springwater, and her Assam tea.

“I do not like to let you go,” Henry Stuart said tenderly at their parting. He put his arms about her.

“I do not like being parted from you, my lord, but I would see my children, and I am told that plague has already broken out in the poorer sections of London. I am safer with my grandmother, and our bairn is too,” Jasmine told him.

He smiled at her use of the Scots for baby, and placed his hand upon her belly, which was beginning to swell visibly now. “God keep you, my love. I will come to you in September. I cannot come before, for the press of my duties is great.”

Their lips met in a tender kiss, and Jasmine felt tears prickling behind her closed eyelids. She did love this handsome prince, and she was unhappy to be leaving him, but the safety of their child depended upon her behaving in a sensible and responsible manner.

She sighed deeply, and breaking off their embrace, he looked deep into her beautiful turquoise-blue eyes. He wanted to beg her to stay, but Henry Stuart realized all too well that he could not be selfish. A future king made decisions based on what was best, not on what he personally desired. Only sometimes were the two the same.

“I love you, Jasmine,” he told her softly, and he helped her into the carriage, where Toramalli was already seated. “Watch over your lady well for me, Mistress Toramalli,” Henry Stuart said, and then he closed the door of the coach. With a last silent farewell to her, he signaled the coachman, and the vehicle began to move slowly off.

Jasmine lowered the windows of the vehicle and looked out at him. “Farewell, my lord! Farewell, my love!” she called to him. He could not see the tears shining brightly in her eyes now, and he waved back to her, but there was no smile upon his face.

It took nine days to reach Queen’s Malvern, but as she stepped from the coach into Skye’s open arms, Jasmine knew she had been right to come home. Home! Aye, Queen’s Malvern was home, and so she told her grandmother, who beamed with pleasure at both Jasmine’s return and her words. The two women hugged once again, and then Skye released Jasmine.

“Thank God you are home safe!” she said fervently, and putting her arm through her granddaughter’s, led her into the house to the Family Hall, where the fires were blazing merrily, for the spring day was damp.

Jasmine laughed. “I but went to court, Grandmama,” she said.

“And came back with something you did not leave with,” Skye replied, reaching out to touch her granddaughter’s belly.

“I love him, Grandmama,” Jasmine said softly, “though I shall never tell him. He is young, and would in one moment cast aside his obligations, while telling me in the next what a fine king he will be someday. But he is a good man, and he will be good to his child.”

“I will not scold you, Jasmine, my darling girl,” Skye told her. “In my youth I would have done the same thing you have.”

“In your youth you did worse!” Adam de Marisco teased as he came into the hall. “Welcome home, Jasmine, my love!” He enfolded his granddaughter into his large embrace.

She kissed him heartily, and then stepping back, said, “Grandpapa, you are limping. What is the matter?”

“What is the matter?” Skye interjected. “I will tell you what the matter is! Your grandfather is an old fool, Jasmine, who will hunt all day in a driving rain and then drink wine and eat foods that are too rich for his stomach. That is what the matter with him is!”

“I have the gout in one knee,” the Earl of Lundy said with as much dignity as he could muster, allowing his granddaughter to seat him by the fire. “Now what is this I hear about another baby, madame?”

“Mama has written to you?” Jasmine sat next to him as Skye took the place opposite them.

“She has,” Adam said. “Are you happy, my love?”

“Aye, and nay,” Jasmine admitted. “I am happy to be having this child. Even though I know its father and I cannot ever wed, and I always knew it, I am yet disturbed by it.”

“Of course you are,” Skye told her, “but you knew when you began this affaire de coeur with Prince Henry what your life would be if you bore him a child. Put all distress from your mind, my darling girl. It is wasted effort. The prince loves you, your mother tells me, and he will be good to both you and his child even when he finally takes a wife.”

“When is my new grandchild due to enter this world?” Adam asked her. He reached for a goblet of wine the servant offered, ignoring the glowering look his wife shot at him.

“In mid-September, Grandpapa,” Jasmine said. “Hal has said he will come when the baby is near to being born. It is his first child, you know. The royal progress will be made through the Midlands this summer, and ’twill not be hard for him to slip away.”

The de Mariscos nodded. Skye was pleased that Henry Stuart wanted to be present at the birth of his child. It spoke well of the young prince.

“Where are my children?” Jasmine asked her grandparents. “I have missed them greatly, and long to see them.”

Skye nodded to a servant, who hurried out. A few minutes later the three little Lindleys entered the Family Hall in the company of their nurses. “Here is your mama, back from court,” Skye told them. “Come and make your curtsies, lasses, and Henry, make your bow.”

Jasmine was astounded by the change in her offspring. She had only left them nine months ago! Now here was India, her silky dark hair coaxed into ringlets, her golden eyes—so like Rowan’s—wide with curiosity. She wore a gown of rose-colored velvet that was most becoming to her. She was both neat and subdued. And Henry! “You have breeked him,” she said surprised. Her three-year-old son was wearing dark blue velvet breeches, and a doublet with ivory lace.

“I do not hold with the custom of keeping children swaddled so that their limbs develop crookedly and they cannot walk until they are four or five,” Skye said emphatically. “I also do not believe in leaving little boys in skirts until their fifth birthday. It is ridiculous!”

“I did not swaddle the children past their first month,” Jasmine said weakly. The children were so quiet. Even Fortune. Fortune! Her baby was close to two years of age. “Her hair has not darkened,” she noted, and fingered one of Fortune’s curls. It was silky soft. Large blue-green eyes stared back at her. “Why, Grandmama, she has your eyes!” Jasmine said excitedly. “What a beauty she will be one day!” Fortune was also clad in deep blue.

“ ’Tis a fine litter,” Adam observed. “Even this little fox vixen,” he chuckled, tweaking one of Fortune’s curls.

“Welcome home, Mama.” Lady India Lindley curtsied prettily. Her brother bowed neatly, and her little sister spread her tiny skirts in imitation of India, glancing from beneath golden lashes to be certain she was doing it correctly.

Jasmine bit her lip to keep from giggling. It was just the sort of thing she would have done as a little one. She would wager that Lady Fortune Lindley’s fires were merely banked, but not extinguished. “Grandmama, you have tamed them very well, I must admit,” she said.

“Boundaries!” Skye said. “Children must have boundaries, my darling girl! They need to know what is correct and what is not, what they may do and what they may not do. You were far too lax with them, and I hope when you return home to Cadby, you will not undo all our hard work. Manners! Above all, manners. Good manners will cover a multitude of sins and other deficiencies, Jasmine.”

Jasmine bent as much as she could and enfolded each of her children in a warm, loving embrace. Then straightening up, she said, “I am happy to see you all, my loves. India, you have become quite the young lady, I vow. I have seen none finer at court.”

India beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mama,” she said, and Skye gave her granddaughter an “I told you so” look.

“You have grown muchly, my lord,” Jasmine told her son. “Perhaps when you are older you may serve the king at court as a page. Would you like that?”

“Thank you, Mama,” Lord Henry Lindley said, but nothing more.

Jasmine looked to her grandmother, and Skye told her, “Henry is very deep, darling girl. He has many thoughts, it would seem, which he keeps to himself, but he is a good lad.”

“He seems so serious for three,” Jasmine said, and bending again, she asked her son, “Would you like to serve the king, Henry?”

Henry nodded, but there was fear in his eyes. “Must I go to court soon, Mama?” he asked.

Jasmine hugged him and gave him a kiss. “ ’Tis many years away, my son. You must not fret yourself,” and she was relieved to see Henry smile at her revelation. God’s boots, he was just a baby, for all his fine clothes!

“Mama! Mama!” Fortune tugged at Jasmine’s skirts. “Kiss me! Kiss me!”

Jasmine laughed, and turned her attention to her littlest daughter. She kissed her on each cheek, and Fortune giggled. “Like kissing!” she announced enthusiastically.

“We had best teach her discretion,” Jasmine said merrily.

In the weeks that followed, Jasmine experienced some of the happiest times of her life. Surrounded by her family, cosseted and fussed over, she grew more content with each passing day as the child within her grew. She took walks with her children in her grandmother’s gardens, and in the fields and orchards belonging to Queen’s Malvern. The days grew longer and the weather warmer as spring moved into summer and the summer progressed toward autumn.

She had explained to her children that there would be a new baby in the family by the end of September. They were fascinated by her growing belly, and pressed ears against it to hear the infant.

“Why is the baby in your tummy, Mama?” India asked one day.

“That is where it must grow until it may live safely in the world,” Jasmine told her little daughter.

“How did it get there?” India persisted.

Skye looked at her granddaughter, amused. “Indeed, my darling girl, how did it get there?” she teased Jasmine.

“The papa put it there, India,” Jasmine replied serenely.

“My papa?” India demanded.

For a moment a look of sadness flitted across Jasmine’s face, but then she smiled down at her eldest child and said, “No, India, not your papa. Another papa.”

“Will the other papa be my papa, Mama? Will he come and live with us one day?” India inquired curiously.

“Nay, India, he cannot come and live with us, but soon you will meet him. He will come to be here when the baby is born. You will like him, and he will like you, I promise,” Jasmine told her daughter.

On the third day of September a messenger arrived from Henry Stuart. He was ill. Having spent an afternoon at his palace at Richmond in the tilt yard overexerting himself, he had gone swimming in the river afterward and come down with an appalling chill. He would, he assured Jasmine, be with her by the fifteenth of the month at the latest. She was not to give birth before then. Jasmine laughed at that although she was worried. There was still plague about the countryside, and in his weakened condition, the prince was vulnerable.

“How is he, really?” she demanded of the messenger.

“Feverish, and he has a cough,” the royal messenger told her. “He’ll not die, madame, if that is what frets you. I’ve seen him like this before, and he has always recovered.”

Jasmine heard no more. On the fifteenth of September she watched the road nervously the entire day long, but Henry Stuart did not come. Finally, when they had sat down to the evening meal in the Family Hall, he arrived. Jasmine, who had been pale with worry all the day long, regained the color in her cheeks as she ran awkwardly toward him across the hall.

“My love! You have come at last!” Dear heaven, he looks so wan, she thought. He was not fully recovered, and yet he had come to her. Her arms went about his neck, and she kissed him passionately, realizing as she did so how very much she had missed him.

He kissed her in return, and then setting her back, smiled as his hand reached out to caress her large belly. “My love,” he said, “you bloom beautifully, and the sight of you does my heart good. Ahhh, my darling one, I have missed you so these past few months!”

A look passed between Lord and Lady de Marisco, and they smiled at one another, pleased. Jasmine had not exaggerated. Henry Stuart was deeply in love with her. They were content now that even if their beloved granddaughter could not be his wife, he would care for her and their child, no matter a royal marriage.

Jasmine now brought her lover to the high board to introduce him to her family.

Adam de Marisco arose slowly and bowed low. “My lord,” he said, “with your permission I will see to your men. Their horses will need stabling, and they will need hot food as well as shelter. I can see you have ridden hard.”

“There is no need, my lord,” the prince told him. “I have but come with my valet. This is no time for pomp and show, but a private time between us. I thank you for your gracious hospitality.” Then he broke off and began to cough.

“Cherry bark syrup,” Skye said. “I will see that your valet has a goodly supply. ’Tis a wicked cough you possess, my lord, and it needs tending. Have you no physician at Richmond?”

“I do not like doctors,” the prince replied.

“How so like a man,” Skye said sweetly, and Prince Henry looked startled. “You could be one of my grandsons,” Lady de Marisco continued, “and so I intend to treat you as I would treat one of them, my lord. We will get you to bed right away! You need some competent nursing, not the quackery and mumbo-jumbo that always surrounds a royal court and its physicians.”

“You have been to court?” he asked her, amused. He liked this determined old woman. Seeing her with Jasmine, he noted the very obvious resemblance of not just face and form, but of manner. Lady de Marisco was very beautiful for one of her years.

“Bess’s court, and a nest of vipers it was!” Skye responded, leading the prince from her hall. “I suppose you have your vipers too.”

She saw him tucked into bed, with bricks wrapped in flannel set at his feet. She fed him delicate, nourishing foods, and her own cough syrup made from the bark of the cherry trees in her orchards. To his great surprise, Henry Stuart found himself feeling better within a few days’ time, so that when Jasmine went into labor with their child on the morning of September eighteenth, he felt well enough to attend her.

“I have never seen a bairn born, madame,” he told Skye. “Pray, what is it like? I want to comfort my love in her travail.”

“Well, my lord, if I may speak plainly,” Skye began, “birthing is painful, noisy, and bloody. If such things disturb you, I would ask that you remain in the hall. We have no time for anyone right now but my darling girl, and the little one she is working so hard to bear.”

“Lead on, madame,” the prince said, and he followed her into Jasmine’s bedchamber.

There he found his beautiful mistress pale and dripping with perspiration. Her loose hair was lank and swung about her as she paced the room nervously. “ ’Twill be quick this time, Grandmama,” Jasmine said, ignoring Henry Stuart. “I can sense it. This child is anxious to be born.”

“All the better!” Skye said, her glance sweeping about the chamber to be certain that all was in readiness. The birthing table was in its place. There were plenty of clean cloths, and water. The cradle and swaddling were in evidence.

“Ohhhhhh!” gasped Jasmine, and she doubled over.

“Help me get her on the table, my lord,” Skye said to him.

“Is she all right?” he asked low.

“As all right as any woman in the throes of childbirth can be, my lord,” Skye answered him, amused. But she fully approved of how the young man took charge of Jasmine, lifting her up to lay her gently upon the birthing table. “Get behind her, my lord,” Skye instructed him, “and brace her back. She will need your strength.”

Henry Stuart did as he was instructed, bracing Jasmine, bending low to murmur encouragingly to her, reaching forward to massage her distended belly with gentle hands. He seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of what was needed in this situation, and encouraged by his presence, Jasmine relaxed, pushing her child into the world.

“Ahhh!” Skye said. “The head!”

“Adali!” Henry Stuart barked. “Take my place!”

Adali leapt forward to obey the prince, and Henry Stuart moved around the birthing table to join Skye.

“God’s bones,” she muttered beneath her breath. This was all she needed. He would grow faint with all the blood, especially in his weakened condition. But to her surprise, the prince did not falter. Instead he watched the birth with great curiosity, encouraging Jasmine in her efforts, and when it became apparent that the baby would be born, he gently pushed Skye aside and birthed his child with his own hands, even as Skye cut the cord.

The infant began to howl immediately. Henry Stuart grinned as he noticed the tiny genitals. “A son!” he crowed to Jasmine, and he held the screaming boy up to show her. “We have a son, madame!” Then he thrust the baby at Skye and came around to kiss his mistress. “Thank you, my love,” he said softly. “Thank you!”

“I would not have believed it,” Skye told Adam afterward in the privacy of their own apartment. “What a king he will make, young Henry Stuart! A king even I can respect and admire. He did not falter once, Adam, and he thrust me aside to birth the lad himself! What a man! No wonder Jasmine loves him, and what a pity that they cannot wed. How unfair life can be sometimes. She would be a fine queen. Do you realize that if they were wed, this child should be England’s next king after his father? God’s bones! ’Tis not fair! He will wed some overbred royal virgin who will give him weaklings and stillbirths while our magnificent great-grandson is so strong and filled with life!”

“The babe is better off a simple Englishman,” Adam said to his wife. “If he were Henry Stuart’s heir, he would be taken from us to be raised by strangers. They would instill their values in him, and not ours. We would never see him, Skye. I thank God he is not England’s heir, because he will be ours to love and know, ours to watch grow from infancy to boyhood. I shall never see him a man, but I will live long enough to see our little Charles Frederick Stuart a boy to be reckoned with, sweetheart. ’Tis good enough for me!”

Skye looked at her husband, stricken. She had never before heard Adam de Marisco speak of his own mortality.

He patted her hand, instantly understanding her fears. “I am eighty-two, little girl. I know my time is short, but not too short,” he finished with a deep chuckle, and leaning forward, gave her a kiss.

Lord Charles Frederick Stuart had been born at twelve noon on the eighteenth day of September in the year 1612. Prince Henry, fascinated with his blue-eyed, auburn-haired son, could but stay with mother and child another three days. He left them on the twenty-second of September to join his royal parents as they made their progress from the Midlands back south. Before he left, he spoke privately with Skye, Adam, and Jasmine.

“I have taken the liberty, my lord,” he told Adam, “of making a change in the line of descent for the Earldom of Lundy.” Then he looked to Skye. “Robert Cecil told me last spring before he died, madame, that you arranged with the late Queen Elizabeth for the line of descent to come down through the female line. Your daughter, the Countess of BrocCairn, will have no need for this title; nor will Jasmine, who is Marchioness of Westleigh.”

“Dowager Marchioness,” Jasmine corrected, and he laughed.

“Dowager Marchioness then, my love.”

Skye was ahead of him. “You have arranged for your son to inherit the title from my husband, my lord. Is that it?”

The prince nodded. “ ’Twas bold of me, and if you are truly distressed, I will see that the matter is reversed, but I did not think you would mind. I can ask my father for a title for my wee Charles, but I think this is a more discreet way of handling the matter.”

Skye nodded. “It is,” she agreed, and looked to Adam.

“I concur,” he said.

Jasmine was yet too weak to leave her bed, and so Henry Stuart bid her farewell in her bedchamber, where she was nursing Charles. Fascinated, he watched as his son suckled strongly on her nipple. “I am jealous of the wee laddie,” he told her with a smile. “When will you rejoin me at court?”

“Charles must come first, my lord, and he is much too young to travel. It is my desire to nurse him myself. It is better for him,” Jasmine said. “I nursed India and Henry both.”

“I want you back at court for Elizabeth’s wedding in February,” the prince told her. “Either you must hire a wet nurse, or Charles must travel with you, which I do not think advisable in the winter weather.”

“We will discuss it further when Charles is older,” Jasmine evaded him, not wanting to refuse him, but her maternal instincts overrode her passion for this man.

“In time for Bessie’s nuptials, madame,” he warned her. “I will brook no disobedience from you in this matter.”

“Yes, my lord,” she told him with false sweetness.

“Toramalli, take the bairn,” the prince said, and the tiring woman hurried to obey him.

“Now, madame, you must bid me a proper farewell,” he told her.

Their lips met, and Jasmine was quite startled to find her dormant passions being aroused by her lover.

He chuckled as she pulled away. “You see, my love, your desire for me is already warring with your desire to mother our child.” Giving her a final quick kiss, he said, “I will try to visit you before you must return to court, my darling.” Then he arose from her bed and, with a wink, departed.

“Adali,” she called. “Carry me to the window that I may see my lord’s departure.”

He rushed to obey her, cradling her in his grasp as she leaned forward to watch the prince below, bidding her grandparents farewell.

“Now keep taking the syrup for your cough,” Skye said. “I have given your valet the recipe for it. The ingredients are easy enough to obtain, so don’t let him tell you he cannot. That cough is still deep in your chest, my lord. My syrup just keeps it at bay.”

Henry Stuart bent and kissed Skye’s cheek. “I never knew my grandparents,” he said. “I consider you both their surrogates.” Then he mounted his horse and rode off down the drive with his valet in his wake. Turning to wave to them, he smiled to see Jasmine in the window above saluting him. He blew her a kiss.

“A fine young man,” Adam said.

“Aye,” Skye agreed. “A fine young man.”

Above them Jasmine watched from the security of Adali’s arms as her lover departed Queen’s Malvern. Why, she wondered, do I feel so sad? Tears slid down her cheeks. Farewell, my love, she thought silently. God go with you always. Now why did I say that? she wondered. It was the sort of thing one said when one did not expect to see a person again. Jasmine shivered, and Adali fussed at her.

“Back to bed with you, my lady, else your grandmother blames me should you catch a cold,” and he placed her in her bed again as she brushed away the tears on her face that he discreetly ignored.