Sisters of Treason (3 page)

Are you with God? I ask my dead sister silently, feeling a cool gust of air touch the skin of my face.

“Come on,” says Peggy, “Mistress Poyntz will be asking where we have got to.”

Katherine

“Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert . . .” I whisper the name over and over again as I run around the fishpond.
The ground is waterlogged, and the drenched hem of my skirt slaps at my ankles.

“Lady Katherine, Katherine Grey,” Jane Dormer is calling me from the steps. I pretend not to hear.

“Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert.” I have a keepsake tucked under my stomacher next to my heart; a length of satin ribbon Harry Herbert gave me to wear for good fortune at our wedding. It was palest blue, the color of water, but not anymore, as it has sat about my person for so long now it has dirtied to a drab gray. How fitting—a gray ribbon for a Grey girl. You would never think, given the plainness of our name—gray like roof tiles, or paving slabs, or an old duchess’s hair—that us Greys were such an illustrious family, that we were close cousins of the Queen. “Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert.” I try to focus all my thoughts on him so there is no space left in me for thoughts of my sister Jane or Father, whom I miss as if there is a hole at the core of me.

I remember, with a pang of guilt, how jealous I used to feel of Jane. Your sister is a marvel, people would say, a paragon, such intelligence, such grace. It made me so jealous I felt my head would spin right off my neck. But now I miss her to the core and I cannot think of her for fear that I will drown in grief. I must keep my mind on other things. After all I am fourteen, and girls of my age are supposed to think of love, are they not? “Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert.” And besides, everyone says that
I
am the beauty of the family and, given the fate of my poor sister, I would far rather be the beauty than the paragon.

I fling my arms out wide and spin in circles, pretending not to hear Jane Dormer, who has her skirts huffily gripped in her fists and is descending the steps towards me. I look up to the sky as I spin. The sun is a silver coin behind a down of cloud. “Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert.” I try to picture my husband’s face, but it is so long since I have seen him, a full seven months, and his image has faded to little more than a vague impression. I remember his smell,
though: almonds. The first time I set eyes on him was the day of our wedding. I was enraged by the whole idea, didn’t want to marry at all; I was mourning a thwarted fancy for one of my cousins. I can barely remember what he looks like now, that cousin, and I once thought I would die of longing for him.

My sister Jane always told me I was too sentimental and that if I weren’t careful it would be my undoing. But I cannot help it. Who can resist that feeling, the swoosh and whirl, the giddiness of love? That was what I felt when I first set eyes on Harry Herbert in his green silk doublet with green flashing eyes to match, casting themselves over me. On seeing Harry Herbert’s smile of satisfied approval, that poor cousin was cast to oblivion.

Jane Dormer looms. I stop spinning and have to hold her arm to balance myself. The for-goodness’-sake face she’s wearing makes me spill out with breathless laughter. “I don’t know what you have to laugh about, Katherine.” She stops, shifting her eyes off mine, and brings a fist to her mouth as if to prevent any more words from coming out.

“I am celebrating the Queen’s wedding.” I feel that even Jane would approve of this.

Jane Dormer is not so bad really, just so very unlike me.

“Mistress Poyntz asked me to fetch you, and we must hurry, for you are not even changed into your finery.” She tucks my arm under hers and leads me towards the courtyard.

“Harry Herbert will be at the wedding.”

“You’re not still mooning over
him
, are you? He is not even your husband anymore . . . and never was, truly.”

I can tell, from the sudden blush on her cheeks, that by this she means our marriage was unconsummated. Truth be told, I’m not sure about that. It is the official story, of course—that though I lived under his parents’ roof a month or so, we were still but children and for that reason kept apart. When all the trouble started and Jane was put in the Tower, the Herberts sought to distance themselves from the Greys so I was sent back to my mother’s
house, a pure maid of thirteen years. But the truth of it was different, for there were occasions when we conspired to escape our chaperones and steal some moments alone. If I think of it now, his exploring hands, his tongue in my mouth, my belly slides about as if an adder is unfurling in there. I don’t know exactly if that means our marriage was consummated; he certainly got his fingers to the wet part of me.

We talk a great deal about such things in the maids’ chamber at night, but none of us knows for certain what happens in the marriage bed. Cousin Margaret says that the man must have his hose undone. I am fairly certain that Harry’s hose stayed laced—but in the dark, when you are caught up in the heave and suck of it all, it is hard to tell. Magdalen Dacre says you can fall pregnant from a kiss, if the tongue goes in far enough, and Frances Neville says if a boy touches you down there, that will do it. We have all watched the dogs mating in the yard; but perhaps most girls cannot bear to believe that God would have us behave like beasts in order to beget children. Though I would never admit it to them, there is something oddly exciting about the idea of that.

“Oh dear, look at my slippers!” I notice the bedraggled things peeping from under my skirts as we climb the steps. They are my favorite dancing slippers. The red has seeped from the silk flowers into the pale leather, and they are smeared in gritty muck. It makes me rueful that I have been so careless with something so precious.

“They are ruined,” says Jane Dormer, and I feel the sudden prick of inexplicable tears.

Two men clatter by, all togged up in the Spanish fashion. The place is seething with Spaniards. They have nut-colored skin and dark eyes which appraise us briefly. They like what they see, if the little smile playing over the lips of the more handsome of the two is anything to go by. They bow and lift off their caps. Jane will not raise her gaze to them but I proffer a hand, which alas is snatched up by the pimply one, who gives the impression that he might swallow it whole.

Why is it with pairs of men, when one is comely he is inevitably accompanied by one who is not? The pimply one has a hungry-doggish air about him and, though I am fond of dogs (too fond, some say, for I have five altogether), I do not like this fellow, nor his greedy stare. The other one is not such a young man, about thirty-five I should say, but is quite splendid in his dress and exceedingly well built, though he only passes a cursory look over
me
and begins to goggle at Jane. Her eyes still cling modestly to the ground, while
his
are dancing over her like jumping fish.

“This is a beautiful fabric,” I say to him, running my finger lightly over his crimson sleeve in an attempt to turn his attention on to me.

“Gracias.”
His response is perfunctory and he barely glances my way. It would seem that Jane Dormer has him firmly under her spell, for now she has allowed him a glimpse of those soft, brown eyes set into the snowy planes of her face. He cannot seem to drag himself away, and I have to admit that I have lost this contest. But I concede gladly, for Jane Dormer hasn’t a bad bone in her body.

“Would dew be so kindest to allow myself to introduct me?”

He takes an interminable time to spit this out and I struggle to keep hold of my giggles, but Jane looks up briefly, the image of self-control, and says without even the slightest hint of mirth on her face, “It would please me greatly.”

“Gómez Suárez, Compte de Feria,” he announces with another bow, deeper this time.

Jane is quite dumbstruck so I quash my mirth and say, “This, my lord, is Jane Dormer and I am Lady Katherine Grey.”

“Yane Do-ma,” he says, and a further snort of laughter escapes from my nose, but he hardly seems to notice my rudeness for he is staring at Jane as if she is the Virgin herself.
“Delectata,”
he continues, in Latin.

“Ego etiam,”
she says.

I am wishing I had paid more attention to my Latin tutor. My nurse, when I was in frustrated tears over my studies and even my
baby sister seemed cleverer than me, used to say, “Never mind, you are pretty enough for it not to matter.”

“Si vis, nos ignosce, serae sumus,”
Jane Dormer adds, taking me by the hand and making to leave.

“Vos apud nuptias videbo,”
Feria says. The only word I understand is
“nuptias,”
which means “wedding.”

Once in the corridor I nudge Jane and whisper, “Someone likes
you
.”

“You can’t have them all,” she replies, with a shy smile.

“No, he is most definitely yours.”

She knows me well enough, knows that I want them all to want me. I cannot help it. It is what stops me thinking about all the things I would rather forget. I turn my mind to Harry Herbert, feeling a grip of excitement at the thought of seeing him. I know he is among Felipe of Spain’s English entourage, and I am glad I have arranged to borrow Magdalen Dacre’s wooden-soled chopines, for they will make me taller. She says they are impossible to walk in sensibly, but I practiced all morning, up and down the corridor, until I became accustomed to the feel of them, and fancy I will manage rather well. “Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert,” I murmur, as I rush to the maids’ quarters to get changed.

By the time I get to the Queen’s rooms, hurriedly tying my hood in place as I enter, everybody is almost ready to go. Susan Clarencieux is shouting out orders, telling everyone where they are supposed to be in the procession, and there are the usual disputes over precedence. Maman beckons Mary and me almost to the front where we belong, behind her and the Countess of Lennox, who is another of the Queen’s cousins on the Tudor side, but Cousin Margaret starts making a fuss, as she wants to partner me. She shoulders her way in front of Mary, so, in defense of my sister, I give her a shove and a glare and, by mistake on purpose, tread on her toe, which must hurt a good deal because of the chopines. But all the time I’m thinking that if my sister Jane were here
she
would be partnering me and Margaret would be with Mary. That twists
me up inside, and more so when I remember that Father will not be there in the cathedral either, kitted out in his garter robes, looking magnificent, with all the others. I cannot bear to think of him. I take a deep breath to stop the tears, pinch my cheeks, and bite my lips. “Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert, Harry Herbert.”

Later, when we are all bloated with feasting, the boards are cleared and the musicians start up. The Spaniards have gathered to one side of the hall, with barely a smile between them, looking as if they’d rather be anywhere but here. The English, on the other side in a hostile cluster, eye them up. It gives more the impression of a battlefield than a wedding feast. The Queen’s new husband is wearing a scowl on his Habsburg face because he was served on silver and she on gold. But scowl or not he cuts an undeniably fine figure, and I wonder how the Queen, who is entirely lost in her elaborate wedding dress and weighed down by her jewels, will hold the attention of her young husband.

Harry Herbert seeks me out with his eyes for the thousandth time today. He blows me a kiss; I pretend to catch it and press it to my heart. Throughout the service, when we were supposed to be praying for the Queen to give England a string of heirs, Harry and I were exchanging looks. He was there as I arrived on the cathedral steps, and it was all I could do to resist breaking rank and running to him. He flicked the dark wave of his fringe away from his eyes and threw me a smile as I passed; I thought I would faint.

The men are lining up for a pavane with the ladies opposite and I can see Harry Herbert approaching me, but his father grabs him by the wrist and pulls him over to dance with one of the Talbot girls. To make things worse, I am lined up with Feria’s doggish friend who doesn’t know the steps and keeps turning me the wrong way. Truth be told, I am struggling in the chopines, which have rubbed my heels raw, so I excuse myself as soon as is polite, leaving Cousin Margaret to be accosted by the pimply Spaniard, and sit to the side with Mary, who is all alone. None of the maids, save for harelipped Peggy Willoughby, who has gone to bed, would
be seen dead with her. It wasn’t until we came to court that I even really remarked that Mary was different—of course I could
see
she was crookbacked, but at home, no one made anything of it; she was always just Mary, our little Mouse. But here I find I have to defend her against the maids of the chamber, who are worse than a nest of snakes.

Mary leans her head against the paneling with a yawn, saying, “I wish I could retire.” I would put my arms about her but I know she likes it not. She says she has been tugged about too much in her life, by legions of doctors and wise women. They have strapped her and stretched her and concocted foul-tasting herbs to soften her bones, all in an attempt to straighten her out. Then there have been the priests and their prayers, and even one once who performed an exorcism in the chapel at Bradgate. But Mary has remained the shape she is. I hook my little finger through hers, which is what we do in place of a hug.

I watch Harry Herbert dance with Magdalen Dacre; they are laughing at some shared joke. I cannot bear to watch, but nor can I tear my eyes away. He takes her by the hand and I am scrunched up inside.

“I have some news,” says Mary.

“About what?”

“About Maman . . .” She hesitates, which makes me think the worst. I want to not listen, to put my fingers in my ears and hum, for I fear another piece of bad news and I might crumble altogether.

“Not something bad?”

“No, it is something good.” She looks up at me, round chestnut eyes like a just-born deer.