Chapter 1
Margaret de Beauchamp, eldest surviving child of Baronet Sir Timothy de Beauchamp, baronet of Churnet and Trent, waited patiently on a bench in the outer court of the Palace of Whitehall, nervous to see the king or the Earl of Cork. Such exalted personages were so far above her station that she trembled inwardly, but recalled the import of why she had come all the way to London from Staffordshire. She kept her back straight, not that her stiff, tight-waisted bodice would allow her to slouch, and arranged her voluminous woolen skirts so they didn’t weigh too heavily on her knees. Courtiers and court ladies in their gorgeous silken clothes and shining, coiled hair passed in and out of the enormous double doors, careful not to cause the portals to make a sound as pleas were being heard within.
She studied each of them as they passed. Not a single familiar face, alas. She hoped to find at least one friend in London who would give her more of a grounding in the ins and outs of pleasing His Majesty with her family’s desperate plight. If not, she would have to rely upon what she had been told by the de Beauchamps’ neighbor, dowager Lady Pierce, who had been a lady-in-waiting to His Majesty’s late mother, and on the gossip shared by the other passengers in the coach and the various inns she had passed on the way down from Staffordshire. Be honest, be flattering, and be brief, one man had warned her. Truth to tell, she must indeed be brief, or her breath would fail her and she would swoon before His Majesty. Not a posture that would impress him. She had to find calm within her. Margaret began again to murmur the Lord’s Prayer under her breath, hoping the divine would give her courage.
Her mother would have done better before exalted personages than Margaret could. Delfine, Lady de Beauchamp had been at court until de Beauchamp made his suit, and retired to the cold north to wear wool instead of silk. Poor Mother. How dismayed she was to see how their household had deteriorated in the last two years, but like the lady she was, she kept her counsel to herself. Her six children—five, after the untimely death of Margaret’s elder brother—could read her concerns.
Margaret determined not to let her worries overwhelm her, otherwise she would not be able to make a coherent plea once she reached the foot of the throne. She had rehearsed her words many times, even penciling a few notes on a scrap of paper which she kept hidden in the pocket tied on her hip along with the few coins to pay bribes. Two of those coins had already been dispensed: a copper to the guard who had directed her through the busy corridors to this anteroom, and a small but bright silver three-penny bit to the secretary, a good bribe indeed, to make certain that she would not be forgotten when supplicants were admitted to the court chamber. His Majesty had not yet appeared, so the rumors had it, but the Earl of Cork was hearing smaller suits and cases. He must listen to her. He must!
No question but it was going to be a long wait. She had been lucky to secure a spot on one of the plain wooden benches against the deep brown linenfold wall. Others milled around.
Lovely clothing the men and ladies of the court wore. The men’s clothes were as bright and showy as peacocks, in blossoming tunics with slashed sleeves, knee-length trousers and hose made of Ottoman silk and Venetian velvets. The ladies looked no less brilliant, with touches of embroidery and lace enlivening their oversized, starched white collars, perhaps in defiance of the enemy French making an edict against lace trim on one’s clothing only this year. Hair was scraped severely back from the face except for a few curls allowed to dance impishly upon the forehead, and fastened at the back with many pins. The side locks were curled in sausages close to the cheeks, not unlike the cylindrical hair-stalls of three centuries past. She envied those whose station and wealth allowed them to wear silk and eastern fabrics, then chided herself.
Why should she be ashamed of who she was? Her station was nothing of which she ought to be ashamed. The eldest daughter of a landed baronet—and a fine estate it was, too!—had as much place here as any of those with loftier titles. She had been taught to walk in the fashionable French mode by Lady Pierce with her back straight and her hips thrust forward. Still, to be able to gleam like reflected fire, as the enveloping russet gown on the chestnut-haired lady just going by, would have suited her so well and lit up her plain brown hair and ruddy cheeks, making her seem more than a country girl.
She had to settle for the best and finest worsted cloth that the Staffordshire guilds could devise, dyed a deep, rare blue, every panel subtly different. Would any of the passersby know the difference? Even her maid, Hettie, who waited on a bench outwith the anteroom, wore goods of outstanding quality. And even the brightest of silk no doubt concealed wool petticoats to keep out the chill of the palace. Finery was only the surface. It was the spirit underneath that gave one character.
Vanity! she thought, with a shake of her head. Her confessor, the reverend Mr. Olney, would chide her when she next attended services at the family chapel.
She smiled wryly at herself. No need to go to the confessor when she could hear his lectures in her own mind.
The tall young woman sitting next to her on the backless bench touched the fabric of her skirt.
“Tha’s a beauty,” she said, in a burring accent Margaret couldn’t place. “What’s it made out o’?”
“Wool,” Margaret said, with a kindly smile. She hadn’t paid much attention to the others waiting for their turn beyond the doors including her neighbors. This lady, for lady she must be, wore black velvet shot with silver thread, and her thick, ruddy hair was wound into fashionable sausage curls.
“So fine,” the woman said wonderingly. “It doesn’a feel itchy at all. Wool’s usually itchy, nae matter how long it’s fulled or treaded. I ought to know. It’s plentiful enow in our demesne, but warm as it is, it’s a trial to wear without ye use thick linens beneath.”
“Ours is not. My father’s flocks are famous for their long-staple wool. The longer the staple, the fewer the cut ends in the cloth, and the less irritating it is to the skin.” Margaret sighed. That was exactly why she was there.
“What ails ye?” the woman said, with almost a motherly look. Margaret realized that they were close to an age, around nineteen years. At their age, though, the other could indeed have had a child already.
“Flocks,” Margaret said, with a rueful expression, “are expensive to maintain. One would think that all one needs is clean, open grassland and shepherds to keep away the wolves, but there’s so much more.”
“Tell me all abou’t,” her companion said, raising her hands and letting them drop to her lap. “I’ve naught in the world but time.” “World” seemed to have ten or twelve R’s the way the redheaded woman pronounced it.
“I hope…I hope to see the Earl of Cork,” Margaret said.
“And I, as well,” the young woman said, forthrightly. “But forbye what else would we be doing here? We’ve all been waiting these many days for the wee man to grant us an audience. It seems the king himself, in all his grievin’, is no’ hearing petitions, leaving it all in the Earl of Cork’s lap. How d’ye call yersel’? I am Ann de Sutherland. My father is Earl Sutherland.”
Margaret rose and curtseyed. “It’s my honor to meet you, Lady Ann.”
Ann grinned, showing a bit of mischief behind her smooth cameo of a face. “Sit down, won’t ye? Ye’ll lose your place on the bench. There’s no’ enow spots to perch.”
Margaret followed her gaze. Indeed, a couple of the languid personages standing nearby had begun to sidle toward them. She plopped herself down on the hard wood. The others stopped and pivoted on well-shod heels, pretending to be interested in something across the room from her. She smiled, too.
“Thank you for the warning. I’d not noticed the crowd has grown.”
“Ye mentioned the wolves, but there’s more kinds than the one that chase your sheep. Then what’s yer name, fine lass? We shall be friends.”
“Margaret de Beauchamp,” she said, extending a hand tentatively. Ann took it in both of her own and pressed it warmly. “My father Sir Timothy runs our flocks on our estate in Staffordshire. But you’ve come much farther!”
“Well, my honorable Margaret, that may be true, yet it’s to the same dead end that we’ve come,” Ann said, with a graceful upturned palm. “Me mam sent me to become one of the queen’s ladies-in-waitin’. I’ve letters of introduction from past dames of my acquaintance who have served Her Majesty, but a’er th’ tragedy o’ Her Majesty’s passing, I must sit here until the Earl of Cork gives me leave to depart, or brings me into service in court. I’ve proof enow I’m the best there is at waiting!” The girls laughed. “But what ails your sheep that you must ask the king for a favor?”
Margaret lowered her voice so their neighbor on Ann’s other side couldn’t hear.
“Tax,” she said. “Wool attracts so much duty on every step of the way from the sheep’s back to the finished cloth, it’s scarcely worth the trouble to shear the poor mites. When we only take a pound and a half of good fleece from a single beast, only a few shillings are left from a finished bolt of cloth after we pay the spinners, dyers, fullers, sayers, and weavers. Every piece of good woolen is inspected to see if it fits the standard, and that’s another cost. We can’t raise prices far enough, or those bringing in cheaper cloth from the Low Countries and farther away will steal all our business. We make every economy possible, but Father will fall short this year in what he owes to the Crown. I am here to ask for mercy. Even a small respite would hearten Father. We’ll do what we can to pay the full share the next year.”
“No’ the next quarter?”
Margaret shook her head. “Impossible. We had a hard winter, lost a mort of lambs in the heavy snow. So, you see, it’s a large favor I must ask. Hundreds, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll pray to the Good Lord for him to open his heart to you,” Lady Ann said, kindly. “I’ve heard he is a sensible man.” She studied Margaret’s face, and shook her head. “Let’s no’ dwell upon it, or we’ll both be weeping. Have ye any good gossip from home?”
“Nothing much happens in Barlaston,” Margaret said, with a rueful smile. “How is it in Sutherland?”
Ann chuckled. “Much the same, I fear. But so much is afoot here in London! Hae ye heard of the Americans?”
“Only a bit, and half of that is rumor,” Margaret admitted. “They appeared like magic in the midst of the Germanies, and stopped an army with but a few men. My brother is a ship’s captain.” She paused, waiting for Ann’s disapproval, and was grateful when it didn’t come. Her mother found it to be a terrible disgrace that the gentry would even think of resorting to a trade. How she felt about Margaret stepping in to the estate’s wool trade had been the subject of many a heated argument, even though others of their class had been ennobled for becoming successful merchants. “His ship stopped to deliver cargo in the Netherlands when Grantville…arrived? He has not seen the Displaced Lands himself, but he heard many wild tales. Beyond that, I have heard little than they speak a crude form of English. But how can that be?”
Ann looked pleased. “Well, I would say ye can ask them yersel’, for there are some who are here as guests of His Majesty.” The word “guests” bore a cynical emphasis. “They came on a diplomatic visit from the President of this Grantville, and since then have inhabited rooms in the Tower, never meeting the king at all. I had just come to London then, and saw a peep o’ them before they were swept up and shown His Majesty’s hospitality. They looked ordinary enough, though I have heard they wield wonders, the likes of which no one has ever seen, and tidings of things yet to come for centuries. They say they come from the future. Hundreds of years on!”
“Never!” Margaret said, fascinated. She crossed herself with an absent gesture. “If it’s so, such a miracle must have been vouchsafed by God for a good reason.”
“I’m sure it has that,” Ann agreed, “though poor mortals such as we can only guess at it.” She shook her head, and her curls danced.
Margaret’s curiosity began to get the better of her. Such amazing creatures were only steps away. “But the Tower is under heavy guard!”
Ann smiled. “A few shillings make a good key to that lock. A few of the gentlemen here have gone to have a gawk. I must admit I’m dyin’ to do it mysel’, but I dare not. A queen’s lady must not show unseemly curiosity. But we dinna hae to turn away and stop up our ears if someone we know and trust happens to tell us all about it.” Her carroty eyebrows rose with clear meaning.
Margaret sat back on the bench. What a marvel! If indeed people had come from the future, the world was even more wondrous than she could conceive. Her mind spun with all the things she could ask them. What would the world become? Whom would she marry? (The very question made her blush.) What were they doing here in their past, and what did they think about it? Surely centuries in the future people would be living among the clouds like angels, not on the muddy Earth, and wearing clothes made of sunbeams that never got cold, no matter what the weather.
Or, would they? Mayhap they would still make use of the natural resources that the folks now employed. Like wool, perhaps?
“Tell me, how were their clothes?” she asked.
“Oh, nothin’ out o’ the ordinary,” Ann said. Her eyes twinkled. “Yer bound to do it, aren’t ye?”
Margaret blushed again. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not? Who ’ailse will tell me what they’re like?”
The big doors opened. Everyone in the anteroom fell silent. A couple of men-at-law in their long black gowns gathered up their satchels with an expectant air. A narrow-faced man with fair skin in modest though good black wool breeches and tunic emerged.
“My lords and ladies, his lordship will hear no more cases today,” the man said. His eyes told Margaret he hated to be the bearer of disappointment, but his set jaw showed he had no choice. “Pray return at eleven of the clock tomorrow.”
“I require to speak to the Earl of Cork about my son’s inheritance!” This came from a plump, older woman whose fashionable salt-and-pepper ringlets had clearly been augmented with bought-in tresses. “My thieving in-laws will have stripped the house bare by the time I return! He is only fourteen. He cannot stop them without the force of law!”
The man bowed to her. “I am sorry, Lady Brakespur. His lordship has many commissions from the king and must see to those first. Tomorrow, if you please.” He gestured with the back of his hand toward the door.
With a collective sigh, the assembled rose and made for the exit.
“Now’s your chance,” Ann whispered, gathering her full silk skirts in both hands. “I must return to my auntie in our rooms. I’ll hold a place for ye on the morrow. Go now!”
Margaret needed no further spur. “Tomorrow,” she promised.