Watch the Lady by Elizabeth Fremantle Page A

Burghley’s hand-wringing were testimony to the danger she was in. “Now I would like a song to distract me from all this.” She waved her arm in the general direction of Burghley and Cecil, who were in a huddle of quiet conversation, giving the appearance in their black gowns of a pair of crows picking over some carrion. Cecil revolved his eyes her way momentarily and Penelope was reminded of something her mother had said the last time they were together: Keep an eye on Burghley’s boy; if he is anything like his father he will not be a friend to us. She smiled his way; once again he did not return it.
    An usher announced Leicester’s arrival and her stepfather strode in with his entourage. Penelope saw it then, quite clearly, the look of disapproval on Burghley’s face which was mirrored in the son’s. Leicester was dressed in a suit of silver with a rain-drenched cape swinging from his shoulders that was dripping water onto the floorboards. As he neared Penelope, he winked at her as if to say he knew what she had been up to the previous night. She felt nauseous at the thought of them all carousing after her wedding and speculating on what was going on in the bedchamber.
    He approached the Queen, who patted the seat beside her and took his hand as if they were man and wife. Penelope’s distaste simmered. Had the Queen truly caused her father’s death? So many questions that were impossible to answer.
    Sickened by their intimacy, Penelope looked about the chamber to see, of all people, Sidney with her stepfather’s men, dressed in black as if he were mourning. His eyes met hers for the briefest instant before she turned her head away, back towards the window, where the downpour had not abated. All she could think of was running from the room, out into the rain, running on and on forever, never turning back.
    â€œLady Rich was about to sing for us,” the Queen was saying. “Someone find her a stool and a lute.”
    Penelope recoiled internally on hearing her married name spoken aloud in Sidney’s presence. A swell of heat moved up her body and onto her face as she was hustled forward. She kept her eyes rigidly away from Leicester’s party, and a lute, fat and round like a baby, was thrust into her arms. She sat, bewildered for a moment, cradling the thing, then managed to gather the disparate parts of herself together and began to pluck, listening, tightening the strings one by one, matching the notes with her voice. All the while she was sure Sidney’s eyes were boring into her, though she dared not look up, keeping her mind and eyes trained to the tuning of the instrument.
    â€œDo you have a preference for the song, Your Highness?” she asked, hoping to be told what to play, for there was only a single song in her head and she didn’t think it entirely apt for the occasion.
    â€œNo, no. Play what you will,” came the Queen’s response.
    She tried to think of other songs, she knew hundreds but they had all deserted her, so she began.
    Who likes to love let him take heed!
    Relieved to hear a sigh of approval from the Queen, she kept her eyes firmly on her fingers, trying to focus only on the taut catgut beneath them, sensing the vibrations, feeling out the sound, allowing her voice to fall in with the rhythm.
    And what you why?
    The song began to envelop her, take her along with it as a river might draw a boat in its currents, and she could sense the rapture of the audience infusing her with a feeling of potency.
    Among the gods it is decreed
    Looking up, emboldened by the music, she found Sidney to the side of the chamber and, locking her eyes onto his, sang:
    That love shall die.
    The look he returned was mournful, that of a tragic actor, and Penelope felt a frisson of glee, as if she had broken her lance on his armor and won the point.
    And every wight that takes his part
    Shall forfeit each a mourning heart.
    Penelope was in her full