Watch the Lady by Elizabeth Fremantle Page B

stride. Sidney may have been the great champion of the tiltyard, the one men sought to emulate and women swooned over, cheering him on in the lists, but this was her arena. She allowed her eyes to dance about the room, playfully alighting on one person or another as she sang through the verses.
    Complained before the gods above
    That gold corrupts the god of love.
    When she came to the end, the room burst into a great foot-stamping applause. Only Sidney wasn’t clapping. He was staring into the unknown with a furrow between his brows. She stood, holding her lute in one hand, and curtsied to the Queen, as the audience called for more. A sudden splinter of self-doubt broke her surface on seeing the countess, seated, hands in lap, a rigid, pretend smile drawn on the lower part of her face, reminding Penelope of her own Puritan husband and how he would have hated this kind of merriment, would have called it an ungodly pleasure. But if Rich wanted her to keep her royal favor, then he would have to tolerate this. A further realization came to Penelope in that moment; that everyone at court was in a state of compromise, either of their principles, or love, or their beliefs—there was no escaping it—and look what happened to those who refused to compromise, like that poor priest. She had a vivid image of a man on the rack, sweating, teeth clenched, bones wrenched from their sockets with a terrible wet pop, like jointing a chicken.
    Someone shouted out a song request: “ ‘Oh Sweet Deceit.’ ”
    â€œI shall need the music for that one,” she said. A songbook was procured and a page ordered to hold it for her, provoking some envious looks from the other lads. She settled back onto her stool, tucking her lute under her arm, beginning to pluck out the tune, finding the key with her voice. The requests came one after the other and she sang, lapping up the admiration, until her throat gave out. A group of musicians took over, and some of the maids lined up to dance, but Penelope, exhausted, went to sit by the window.
    Sidney sidled over to her like a shadow, asking if he could sit beside her. She nodded without a word, feeling protected by her newfound strength, imagining her heart wrought of iron and welded with sharp spikes.
    â€œAre you mourning?” she asked, pinching the black velvet of his doublet sleeve between her finger and thumb. “You certainly have a morose air about you.’
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” he replied, looking at his knees. “You have heard of the Jesuit Campion who is to be executed?”
    She nodded, confused by the serious turn in the conversation. She had not thought him truly grieving and felt suddenly shallow and naive, thinking only of her heart when events of far greater importance were taking place.
    â€œHe is a dear friend of mine.”
    â€œBut he is a Catholic, is he not? An enemy of the state.”
    â€œThings are never as clear-cut as they seem.” He sounded impatient, angry even, as if trying to explain something to an idiot, and she wanted to express the sympathy she felt for the tortured man, but was held back by the sense of her ignorance of such things. “I believe people should worship in the manner they choose. Campion is a man of faith, not a political man.”
    â€œBut,” she looked straight at him, “how can you separate faith and politics when there are constant Catholic plots against the Queen’s life?”
    â€œAlas, you cannot.” He sighed. “Campion will not avoid his fate. And by association, I am pushed into the wilderness by the Queen. I cannot seem to do anything right with her. But you don’t want to hear my gripes. Besides.” He turned his head away so she couldn’t see his expression. “I am not only mourning Campion.”
    â€œWho else?”
    He mumbled out an unintelligible response.
    â€œI cannot hear you,” she said, noticing Peg Carey and