Sisters of Treason (29 page)

“Cheer us up, Hertford,” says Stokes. “Give us news from court.”

“The thing everyone is talking about is Mary of Scotland. Somehow the Queen discovered that she had quartered the English arms with her husband’s French ones.”

“So she claims the English throne. That is a bold gesture. The little Frog king doesn’t plan an invasion, does he?” laughs Stokes. “How old is he, fourteen?”

“It seems unlikely,” says Hertford. “But Mary Stuart’s Guise uncles might, on behalf of Scotland. The Queen is beside herself with rage.”

“Not surprising,” says Katherine. Her face is flushed from the wine, and she slurs a little.

“The Privy Council are hot under their collars,” adds Hertford.

“I can imagine.”

“And as for Dudley . . .”

“Yes,” adds Juno, “Dudley and Norfolk almost came to fisticuffs the other day and it is rumored a fellow has gone to the Tower for attempted murder.”

“Of Dudley?” asks Stokes.

“Yes, Dudley. People are wondering if he’ll last till Christmas. Cecil loathes him as much as Norfolk does. But the Queen—”

“Can’t keep her hands off him,” interrupts Juno.

“If she would only hurry up and decide who she will wed, then . . .” Katherine doesn’t finish and silence falls for a moment.

Hearing of court makes Levina glad to have been away from it
for a couple of weeks, though the reason for her being here is such a distressing one. Frances’s absence follows her about like a shadow.

“Oh,” says Juno, breaking the hush. “I forgot to give you this.” She passes Katherine a letter. “From the Spanish embassy.”

“What do
they
want?” says Hertford.

“Who cares?” chirps Katherine, draining her cup and holding it out for a refill. She puts the letter in her lap and swigs from her cup again. Hertford shares a smile with his sister.

“But on a lighter note,” Hertford says, “the Queen is showing favor to your dear mother with a full state funeral. I think it may well be the moment, after the proceedings of course, to present the Queen with the letter. Don’t you?”

The room falls silent. Levina looks at Hertford anew, seeing the youth and ambition bursting from him, wondering if this boy doesn’t have an ulterior motive after all. Everybody knows that any son he produced in wedlock with Katherine would have a greater claim to the throne than all those royal girls put together. But no, she reminds herself of the passionate greeting she witnessed from the window earlier—if that is not a man in love, then she doesn’t know what is.

“It was what your mother wanted.” Doubt creeps into Hertford’s tone. He continues, trying to fill the uneasy silence. “It would be a fitting—”

“There is no letter,” states Stokes, stopping him in mid-flow.

“What do you mean?” snaps Hertford. “What do you mean, no letter?” His eyes flit back and forth, and it is as if all his assurance has deserted him.

Stokes tactfully asks if Hertford will join him in taking the dogs out, slapping an arm across the young man’s shoulders, leading him from the room, and whistling for the little pack to follow.

Levina sees the other letter has slipped unnoticed from Katherine’s lap.

“Let’s go up,” slurs Katherine, draining the dregs from her cup once more, and tugging Juno’s sleeve. They get up, Katherine stumbling slightly and leaning heavily on her friend.

“Keep an eye on her,” Levina whispers to Juno. “She is a little the worse for wear.”

Mary and Peggy both look wan with sorrow and fatigue, and Levina doesn’t know how they will cope with the funeral. “Why don’t I ask the kitchen to send you something to sup on in your chamber? Then you can rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Mary hangs back as the others leave the room.

“What is it, Mary?” asks Veena.

“Must I go to court? Can I not stay here with Stokes?”

“I’m afraid you must, Mary. The Queen has commanded it.” The girl slumps miserably and Levina’s first instinct is to wrap her arms about her, feeling a surge of maternal love, but she stops herself, remembering that Mary can’t stand to be touched. “
I
will be there, and Peggy too. And Katherine. You will be among friends and family, at least. But you can’t defy the Queen.” It seems that Elizabeth wants to keep a close eye on her cousins.

When they are gone Levina picks up the forgotten letter, hesitating before ripping open the seal. It is from Jane Dormer: . . .
We are making progress, dear Katherine, with plans for a match. Don Carlos is the son of King Felipe, he is yet young but he would be a fitting husband for a woman of your stature . . .

Levina screws the paper up and flings it on the fire without thinking. It was inevitable, she supposes, that Feria would turn back to Katherine now the French are looking troublesome once more. She can see it all now. The Spaniard would counter Mary of Scotland and the French king’s claim by marrying his own son off to Katherine Grey, would he? She has an image of Cecil rubbing his waxy hands together at such an idea, and a shiver of fear runs through her. Suddenly Hertford, whatever his motive, seems by far the better proposition. But love and ambition make uneasy bedfellows. She feels the weight of responsibility hanging heavily over her, and fears she will struggle to keep these girls out of harm’s way without Frances in the background.

IV

Kitty and Mouse

September 1560

Hampton Court

Mary

“Where did those come from, Lady Katherine?” says Kat Astley, pointing to the decorated gloves that my sister is unwrapping. I am in a corner of the presence chamber sewing with Peggy and Mistress St. Low, who has dropped off and is snoring slightly. Mistress St. Low is charged to take care of the Queen’s maids, myself included. She is a solid, motherly sort and kindly enough, but she cannot begin to fill the great chasm of emptiness that was carved out of me when Maman died. Maman has been gone almost a year now. Our family is shrunk to a meager two; it is a sorry excuse for a tribe. I watch Katherine on the far side of the chamber with Juno and Kat Astley, whom I have spent the last year assiduously trying to avoid. Of all the ladies, she is closest to the Queen and does not seem fond of us Greys.

“I don’t know, Mistress Astley,” Katherine says. “The package was handed me by one of the pages.” I can tell she is trying to sound respectful, but a sliver of insolence lies beneath her words. She cannot help it. “A gift for Her Majesty, the messenger said.”

“Here! Show me.” Kat Astley beckons her sharply with a hand. “Is there a letter?”

“I haven’t seen one.” Katherine begins to burrow among the wrapping, eventually pulling out a fold of paper, which is snatched smartly from her.

“But the treaty with France and Scotland was signed weeks ago and Marie of Guise is dead,” says Juno.

I suppose she means there is no longer a need to be suspicious of offerings for the Queen. For months we have been burning gifts—candied fruits, jeweled gloves, scented handkerchiefs, finely tooled books of poems, and gallons of exotic perfumes have been given to the pages to pour down the jakes—ever since the rumor came of the Guise plot to poison Elizabeth.

“You can never be too careful,” says Kat Astley, reading something written on the note but not sharing it. “Put them on the hearth.”

“But there is no fire,” says Katherine with a little smirk. Kat Astley looks towards the empty fireplace with her lips drawn tight like a leather pouch.

“Give them to me.” She holds out her hand, but then seems flustered, snatching it back. “No don’t give them to me. Wrap them up again and
then
give them to me.”

“So you don’t mind
Lady Katherine
risking herself on poisoned gloves, but not you,” says Juno, taking one of the offending objects and waving it close to the woman’s horrified face.

I swap a look with Peggy; she raises her eyes to the ceiling. We both know it doesn’t do to cross Kat Astley. But a part of me admires Juno’s gall—she will say anything to anyone.

“Lady Jane, kindly desist.” Juno drops the glove to the floor. Kat Astley looks like thunder.

“Just leave them,” says Juno, taking my sister by the hand. “We will be late anyway.”

“She’s right,” says Katherine. “You wouldn’t want to make us late for the Queen’s hunting party now.”

The woman is purple with rage.

“Where is your sister?” she calls out. “I need her to help finish stitching the ornamental—”

“I am here, Mistress Astley,” I say. Peggy shifts, arching her back like a cat, with a little groan; she will be leaving court for her lying-in before long. I cannot bear the thought of her departure. Katherine comes over to me and plants a kiss on my cheek. She
smells faintly of lemons, and I wonder if it is the vestiges of Hertford’s pomade. They have been trysting in secret—but there are no secrets my sister can keep from me. “We
are
working on the ornamental birds.” I hold up my embroidery as evidence.

“So you are,” says Kat Astley.

“Your stitching is beautifully intricate, Mouse,” Katherine says. “I almost think that finch there might fly away by itself. You are doubtless the deftest needlewoman at court.” Kat Astley scowls. She believes the accolade belongs to her, as Katherine well knows.

“No one would disagree with that,” adds Juno, taking my sister’s hand and marching towards the doors.

As she tentatively picks up the offending gloves, protecting her hand with a piece of the wrapping, I hear Kat Astley mutter, “To think, she has been made a Lady of the Bedchamber—whatever next.” She has made no bones about her disapproval of the fact that the Queen seems to be warming to my sister and has bestowed this further privilege on her.

A pair of lovebirds twitters in a cage beside me, egg-yolk yellow with blushing faces—they were a gift from Dudley to the Queen. “I’m surprised she didn’t make us burn those too,” I whisper to Peggy, who brings a hand to her mouth to disguise her snort of laughter. I scoop up a little of the bird seed, pouring it through the bars, and am tempted to open their prison and set them free. I wonder if they know there is a better life than the one they have.

The far doors are opened and the Queen sweeps in, dressed in her riding habit, with a collection of councillors. I remember once hearing a group of courtiers described as a threat—a threat of courtiers, how very apt. Mistress St. Low starts out of her nap in response to a poke from Kat Astley, and we drop into curtsies, but the Queen is deep in conversation with Cecil and doesn’t look our way. Eventually, Kat Astley, who is bustling about seeming to be busy, indicates silently for us to continue with our stitching.

“You
must
make her sign it,” the Queen is saying. “If she won’t, it is a sure indication that she continues to believe she has a claim
on
our
throne. Peace treaty or not, it means Scotland remains our enemy. All that good work you did will be undone, Cecil.”

I suppose they are talking of the Scottish Queen, who is proving stubborn in her belief that the English throne belongs to her.

“Your Majesty, I have done all I am able. We must not forget she is an . . .” Cecil pauses. “She cannot be
made
to do it.”

“Yes, yes, an anointed Queen. Oh come, Cecil.” The Queen’s tone is sardonic. “You have a few tricks up your sleeve, we are sure.”

I am thinking about how it must be to feel your heels snapped at perpetually as hers are, how hard it must make you.

“Will you stop clucking around,” she says, giving Kat Astley, who is making an attempt to tie the Queen’s riding hat on, a little shove and snatching the hat, tying it on herself. “Now to my Master of Horse.” She says this with one eye on Cecil, who looks suitably disapproving. Everybody knows he cannot stand Dudley. A part of me admires the way she has these men dancing back and forth. She knows exactly what she is doing, is quite the puppet master, and has none of the self-doubt her sister had.

“And, Your Majesty,” says Cecil diffidently, “the coinage—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupts. “Have Northumberland arrange it.”

“It is an expensive measure, Your—”

“The coinage of England stands for our reputation. It is our face on it, not yours. We will not have our face on such debased coin. What kind of message is that for the world?”

Cecil shrinks slightly, and there is a general nodding of assent among the councillors as they move on through the chamber. When they are gone, quiet descends and I am content at the thought of an entire day of calm, for most have joined the hunting party. I crave solitude greatly and there is so very little to be found, these days, even at night, for we maids are crammed in a single chamber together like salted fish packed tight in a barrel. I long for the peace of my bedchamber at Sheen and being able to lose myself in a book without it being snatched off me and thrown about, which is a great game for some.

Katherine

The courtyard is high with the stench of fresh horse dung and alive with people. Grooms are running to and fro, bringing last-minute necessaries, tightening girth straps, lengthening stirrups, helping riders mount their horses. Dudley is trotting back and forth on a skittish black Barbary named Bellaface, barking out orders, assigning horses.

“Is Delicate ready for Her Majesty?” he calls out to one of the grooms. “Quarters chequered?”

“Aye, M’lud.”

“Hooves oiled?”

“Aye, M’lud.

“Mane plaited?”

“Aye, M’lud, and beribboned.”

“Whiskers trimmed?”

“Aye, M’lud, I never did see a mare look so fine.”

“Bring her out, then, so I can look at her.” The boy scurries off. Though there are at least two dozen senior grooms to do his bidding, Dudley always likes to inspect the Queen’s mount himself. I watch him for a moment. He cuts a fine figure, and the way he handles the difficult Bellaface is impressive, making little clicking sounds to calm him and giving him a long rein, when others might make him more nervous by pulling his mouth back. He catches me looking.

“Like what you see?” he asks.