Sisters of Treason (28 page)

I rush to her chamber, Echo in my wake. There is a sliver of orange light beneath the door. My throat is clogged, and I picture the physician, called urgently in the night, standing over her like a shadow in the early-morning gloom. I open it stealthily, entering, meeting a wall of warmth and light. There is a blazing fire and
Maman is sitting up in bed with Stokes beside her. They don’t notice me for they are both laughing at something in a book Stokes is holding up. I feel, all of a sudden, silly for my fears and my pessimism. Katherine was right; Maman has rallied.

“Maman!” bursts out of me. They both look up from the book, flushed with mirth and health, and I run over, scrambling up on to the high bed. “You are better.”

“I
am
my sweet,
beaucoup mieux
. And it is thanks to your gentle care. You both have brought me back to life.”

I think that this is only partly true. It is the visit from Katherine that has lifted her spirits—and the idea of the forthcoming wedding. When I think about it, I suppose she must have worried herself sick over Katherine. And now she is to wed the Hertford boy, Maman will see to it that they have permission, and he will keep her out of harm’s way. I have become so used to worrying about my sister I find problems where there are none.

Maman turns to Stokes. “I find I am quite ravenous. Do you suppose there is anyone awake in the kitchens?”

Stokes seems unable to wipe the happiness off his face. “I shall go and investigate, my dear Franny,” he says. “What would you like? A caudle, something that will slip down easily?”

“As a matter of fact,” she says with a smirk, “what I really have a fancy for is cake.”

It charges me with joy to hear such a thing.

Stokes leaves with the words: “Then cake you shall have, my lady.”

“I think I shall start on my letter to the Queen. Mouse, would you find my writing box for me? I believe it is over there, by the window.” I do as she asks, pulling back the bed hangings to allow the thin November light to get to her, and bring over the candelabrum, putting it as close as I can without setting fire to the drapes. “I shall begin with a reminiscence of our times together in Katherine Parr’s household.” She stops, seeming deep in thought, running the feathered end of the quill over her lower lip.

“What happened there?” I ask.

“Oh goodness, Mouse. I don’t know that . . .” She hesitates. “Let us just say Elizabeth compromised herself, and I am sure it is something she would rather that people forget.”

“Maman, you missed your calling as a diplomat.”

“Perhaps not.” A vague smile passes over her mouth. “Being the Duchess of Suffolk has called for my diplomatic skills quite often enough.”

“But I would like to know, Maman. You always say it: knowledge is power. Maybe one day it will be useful for me to know the secrets of the Queen’s youth.”

She looks at me with a wry smile. “If I tell you, then you must swear never to inform Katherine. She does not have your talent for discretion.”

I nod solemnly. “I swear it, Maman.”

“Very well, I shall tell you. The scandal occurred when Elizabeth was about fourteen years—”

“My own age,” I interrupt.

“Goodness, yes. How time passes.” She strokes the side of my face with a papery finger. “It was an indiscretion involving Thomas Seymour.” She pauses, then adds, as if she has just realized it, “He was young Hertford’s uncle. He was married to the dowager queen at the time, Katherine Parr.”

“Who was your dear friend, was she not?”

“We
were
close, it is true, and your sister Jane was in her household at the time. I happened to be visiting her when Elizabeth was sent away for the sake of her virtue.”

“Her
virtue
?” I cannot believe what I am hearing.

“Yes. She was carrying on with the Seymour fellow in a most unseemly manner. I happened upon them once in each other’s arms, though I said nothing. I didn’t want to stir the waters. But soon enough they were discovered.”

“Yet his wife was her hostess?” Everything I have known about Elizabeth shifts in my mind, rearranging itself to accommodate
this new information. I can see why she wouldn’t want Maman talking too freely of this.

“Her hostess and her stepmother. Imagine! No one ever thought Elizabeth would be Queen then, of course. Things have a way of turning out how you least expect.”

“And was she—”

“I have said enough. Do not push me further. Just remember, she is not someone to be entirely trusted.”

Maman dips the quill, beginning to write, her spidery hand marking the paper like a line of black stitch.

Stokes returns, pushing the door open with his foot. He has a platter piled up with all kinds of delicious things, cake among them. The letter is set aside.

It feels like a celebration, some kind of midnight feasting, as we gorge ourselves on cake and sip on thick sweet caudle on a dark November morning, serenaded by the robins and redwings singing in the dawn.

December 1559

Sheen Priory

Levina

Levina rummages in her chest for her best black fustian gown. She pulls it out, holding it up by the shoulders, noticing that the moths have got at it, wondering if she has time to get someone to darn it. It must have been packed damp, for it is badly creased and smells slightly of mildew and there is a faint whitish tide mark above the hem too, which she hopes can be got out with a stiff brush. She bundles it up and begins to make her way to the laundry to see if someone there can do something with it before tomorrow. Tomorrow is Frances’s funeral.

The thought that Frances is no more makes a knot tighten in Levina’s gut, a knot of grief that will never be unpicked. Levina
has not been easily befriended by women; it isn’t that she is not respected, but she is regarded with suspicion by most, who cannot fully understand her profession as a painter—and she is a foreigner, after all. But Frances was different; they had their shared faith, yes, but more than that, it was a simple rare affinity they had that defied explanation. Sometimes friendship appears from nowhere, like an exotic flower that seeds unexpectedly, and that was the case with Frances. From the first time she visited Bradgate to paint the family an easy bond was forged. Levina wishes more than anything that she’d had the chance to say a proper good-bye.

The messenger had come to Whitehall with the news, and Levina had left immediately, with the Queen’s blessing. Elizabeth always had respect for Frances, in spite of her choice to marry beneath her, or perhaps because of it. The short journey by boat to Sheen seemed to take an age. She barely noticed the bitter, driving rain—she was numb already. She remembers, on arrival, the lonely black silhouette of Mary standing on the pier, surrounded by the naked November trees, watching the barge approach. As the boat pulled up Mary had taken her hand without a word, just a little shake of the head and a downward turn of her eyes, and they had run into the house and up the stairs, still in silence. Only when they reached the door of Frances’s bedchamber did Mary speak.

“She slipped out of consciousness an hour ago.”

Levina could see blotches on the girl’s pale skin where she had been crying. But she wasn’t crying then, and pulled herself up to her full height, opening the door and saying, as if all was as it should be, “Maman, Veena is here.”

Frances lay propped up on pillows, her head dipped to one side, cheeks sunken, her lips blue-tinged and hanging open slightly, with a thin trail of saliva trickling from one corner. Levina took out her handkerchief and tenderly wiped it away, only then fully understanding, with a twist of sorrow, that her friend was barely there. She stroked her cheek, feeling the clammy chill of her skin, only
just able to hold back her own tears. She had been almost unaware of the other people in the chamber, until Stokes spoke up.

“They say the hearing is the last thing to go,” he said. “Speak to her, Veena, she will hear you.”

She looked up to see him standing at the foot of the bed beside the chaplain, with his arm around Katherine’s shoulders. The girl seemed stricken, staring into space, glassy-eyed, a piece of paper hanging limply from her fingers. Peggy Willoughby hovered, half hidden behind the bed hangings; she lost her brother too not so long ago, and now this, poor child, thought Levina.

“Frances, dear,” she started, but then couldn’t think of what to say. She wanted to talk of fond memories, but all she could think of was Jane and that horrific, windblown morning at the Tower. “You will be with her soon.”

Mary ran a cloth over her mother’s brow, and Levina thought she could see a slight twitching behind her eyelids, a small sign of life. How do they know the hearing is the last thing to go? she wanted to ask. Then it came to her, an epiphany—the one thing Frances would want to hear. She moved close, close enough to see the empty little puncture in her friend’s ear where an earring once hung, the sight of it forcing a wave of grief over her, and said, “I will look after your girls—I promised it before and I promise it now—see they come to no harm.”

It may have been her imagination but she had the impression of something like an exhalation, as if that was the moment Frances chose to leave them. Stokes lay on the bed beside her and took her in his arms, succumbing to great heaving, choking sobs. The girls were gray with shock, and Katherine all but collapsed into Levina’s arms.

That had been two weeks ago. Levina has stayed at Sheen since, and tomorrow Frances’s body will be taken by river to Westminster, where she will be accorded full honors, a state funeral at the abbey—so Elizabeth is happy to recognize her cousin’s status in death, when she is no longer a threat. Poor Stokes is so grief
stricken he barely functions, and Levina has taken over the smooth running of things, preferring to keep busy.

She knocks gently at the door to the girls’ chamber, opening it ajar. They are all on the bed, poring over what appears to be a letter.

“Do you have your dresses prepared for tomorrow?” she asks. “I am taking mine to the laundry. Can I take anything for you?”

“The maid has seen to our clothes,” says Mary. “But thank you, Veena.”

“What is that?” Levina asks, pointing to the letter. “Condolences?”

“No,” says Mary. “It is a letter. Well a half letter, really. From Maman to the Queen.”

“What does it say?”

“She was to write and request permission for my marriage,” says Katherine. “But she has barely written three lines, preamble and reminiscences. Nothing about my wedding. Nothing.”

“Hertford will be here soon, dear,” Levina says, stroking the girl’s head. She feels stiff and brittle like a dried flower. “I’m sure he will have good news for you.”

“He has had nothing from the council,” she replies. “I
hate
them all, every last one of them, and I hate
her
more.” She gets up and walks to the window. “He says they want to wait for
her
to decide about
her
marriage.” She bangs her small fists down on the sill so hard she winces. “
Elizabeth
can’t bear the idea of anyone else being married if she is not. They won’t even broach it. Maman was right; she
is
more artful than her sister. I want my maman back.” She is sobbing now.

Levina goes to stand next to her, rubbing a palm over the black satin that covers her upper back. She can feel the bones beneath, bird’s bones. “Katherine, we will all do everything we can. You are grieving now; everything is bound to seem all the more hopeless. I overheard Cecil talking the other day. It seems he might take your part. No doubt
he
believes you deserve the respect of the next in line. Cecil is a distant cousin of yours, isn’t he?”

“Next in line! I don’t want
that
. Look what happened to . . .” She looks for a brief moment like a terrified little girl. “Even
I
know Cecil can’t be trusted.”

She is right, Levina thinks: there is something inestimably dark about Cecil. “Fret not,” Levina says. “Elizabeth will birth her own heirs. And Cecil’s favor cannot do you harm.”

Katherine has stopped listening. She is pressing her face right up to the uneven windowpanes, looking out at something.

“It’s him,” she cries, coming to life. Turning, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and rummaging among a stack of clothes, finding a fur-lined cloak, flinging it about her shoulders, searching for something else, apparently not finding it, and rushing from the chamber.

“Your shoes, Katherine,” Levina calls after her. “You cannot go out barefoot in December or we will be burying you next.” But she is gone and in a moment can be seen running at full pelt across the garden, the cloak flying out behind her like wings. She arrives at the pier before the barge has moored and jumps up and down waving, as if she is a little girl. They are all watching her from the window, Peggy, Mary, and Levina. There is something infectious about her joy, and God knows, thinks Levina, we all need a little joy at the moment—something to get us through tomorrow, when that barefoot girl down there needs to hold herself together enough to stand as chief mourner.

“Juno is with him,” says Peggy.

“So she is. That will cheer her up doubly,” Levina says.

Hertford is standing in his boat now, swaying about, and the craft looks fit to capsize. His sister is tugging him by the hand in what appears to be an attempt to get him to sit down, as the poor oarsmen are struggling to keep the vessel upright. The moment it touches the pier, Hertford is out and Katherine is off the ground and in his arms. It is a sight to behold. Juno is helped out and she too is subsumed into the huddle. When they have done with their
embrace, Hertford scoops Katherine up and carries her back to the house with Juno beside them.

•  •  •

Once she has delivered her dress to the laundry, Levina joins them all where they have gathered about the hearth with Stokes, who seems a little renewed. They are passing around cups of hot, spiced wine, and Levina is reminded that it will be Christmas before long. It has been a full year since Elizabeth came to the throne.