Sisters of Treason (31 page)

I remember the gloves from this morning, thinking of all the fears we had that someone would try to poison Elizabeth and in the end it is poor Amy Dudley who has met an untimely death. They say her marriage to Dudley was a love match, that they cared deeply for each other and that he married her against his father’s wishes. You only do that when it is love. That makes me think of Harry Herbert, and I feel a pang of sadness, for I truly believed I loved him and then it was gone, like the pop of a bubble, and I wonder if that is how Dudley’s love for Amy went, all in one go. I resolve that I will never stop loving Hertford, that
our
bubble will never burst—just the thought of it makes me feel sick to the stomach and, worse, the thought of Hertford’s love for me popping to nothing.

Mary seems exhausted, black rings circling her eyes, and Mistress St. Low suggests I take her to settle her in the maids’ chamber. She doesn’t speak as we walk the length of the corridor, only saying as I open the door, “Empty, thank goodness. I can have the bed to myself for a few minutes.”

Once Mary is out of her things, I help her into bed and we lie alongside each other, little fingers interlinked. “I wish Veena was here,” she says.

“She will be back before long.”

“I wonder what her home is like.”

“She lives at Ludgate, doesn’t she?” I realize that it has never occurred to me to think about Levina’s real life, away from court.

“She has a husband and a son,” says Mary.

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes, Marcus is her son. He is away on the Continent, and her husband, George, is in the Queen’s guard.”

I berate myself internally for not knowing any of this when Levina is such a dear friend to us, for not asking, for being so wrapped up in my own affairs that I forget to think about anyone else.

“Do you miss Maman?” I ask.

“Of course I do.”

“I do too,” I say, not even realizing quite how much until the words are uttered. It is as if the two of us are floating unmoored on a small raft in the ocean with not a parent or sibling to our names. “Thank God for Veena,” I add.

“If you marry Hertford,” she says quietly, “do you think you will set up house somewhere and I can live there with you? With you and the dogs and Hercules, and Veena can visit and you will have little ones that I shall help care for. We would be like a proper family again, Kitty. I could create a fine library there for you, and people shall come from far and wide to seek out our rare volumes.” She sounds as if she is telling a story.

“
When
I marry him,” I reply, but it all seems so very intangible, so very far off, for the two of us are stuck here at court, at the Queen’s pleasure. It is a kind of prison when I think of it. And now there is this scandal and all is on the brink of shifting once more, so yet again my dream of marriage seems to slip further and further away. “I will do my very best to make it happen, Mouse.”

October 1560

Greenwich

Mary

A group of us are gathered close in about the hearth, sewing, encircled by the yellow glow of candles. Levina and Mistress St. Low
are talking quietly across the room. I am glad to have Levina back at court, for I felt quite lost without her. Katherine is nowhere to be seen, and I am wondering where she has got to, for she hasn’t appeared since dinner at midday. Though it is barely four of the clock, autumn sits gloomily over the palace. I hear the unmistakable honk of geese flying over and turn towards the window, but cannot see them. That is a sure sign that autumn is almost gone. Daylight has become a rare commodity, and I can sense the edges of winter, the dismal stretch of cold dark months that awaits us. I dread the day it becomes too cold to walk out, for a stroll in the gardens is the only solitude I have. I remain raw with grief for Maman, as if I have been flayed, and pine for the glorious simplicity of my old life. Those precious moments of quiet give me the chance to think of her.

There is barely a moment alone at court and I am herded about with this bunch of spiteful maids, who, when they are not gossiping about Dudley’s misadventures, talk only of whom they will marry, or who has caught their eye, or which one they have kissed or which they want to, ad nauseam. I turned fifteen this year, marriageable age—now there is an irony. But at least I have Juno and my sister to defend me, though Katherine is more often slunk off with Hertford, whenever the Queen’s back is turned.

Cecil parades through the outer chamber with his entourage, ignoring the bustling petitioners and their attempts to gain his attention. His eyes flit about, giving the impression that he misses nothing, and there is something about his exquisitely tailored black damask, with its careful embroidery and the quietly expensive touches of gold here and there—a buckle, a ring, a row of buttons—that makes him seem dissembling. Since Dudley’s banishment he has taken on the look of a dog triumphantly marking out its territory, which belies the discretion of his garb.

We all look up from our stitching to watch him pass, but he doesn’t look at us until he is at the far end of the room, almost at the entrance to the privy chamber. Only then does he turn briefly
and cast his eyes over us women slowly, as if taking a head count, before disappearing through the door. I imagine a puff of smoke left behind him. He is one of the few the Queen will see since the scandal broke with Dudley. No one is permitted to talk of it, but they do, speculating in corners as to who might have been behind this murder. For there is no doubt, in my mind, that it was murder, although the official word is “accident.” Cecil’s men are left waiting outside, leaning against the wainscoting, appraising the women in the room, talking in hushed voices. One flashes a wink at Lettice Knollys, who is seated next to me.

“Who’s that?” Juno asks her in a whisper.

“Oh, him. He used to work for my father.”

“And,” says Juno, “why was he winking at you?”

Lettice, who bears a striking likeness to the Queen, though in my opinion is a good deal more beautiful, taps the side of her aquiline nose with her forefinger and raises a single eyebrow.

“Lettice Knollys,” says Juno.

“Actually, he is a good source of gossip.” She smiles conspiratorially. “He told me something that Mary of Scotland said.” Lettice leans in and all the women follow suit. “She said that the Queen of England is about to marry her horse keeper, who has murdered his wife to make way for her.”

“What, publicly? Is the Queen aware she said that?” asks Frances Meautas.

“If not, she will be soon,” says Juno.

“She will be incensed at such a slight,” says Frances.

“The Scottish Queen is only saying what half the court thinks,” I mutter, more loudly than I realize, as Frances turns to me with a face bitter as dandelion greens.

“
You
may be thinking it, but I am not, Mary Grey.” She makes a stabbing motion towards me with a pointed finger.

“Of course I’m not thinking it,” I say sharply. “Dudley is not so much of a fool as to have his wife murdered, knowing that the suspicion would fall on him.”

Frances exhales loudly, turning her nose to the ceiling. “It is wrong for another Queen to say such a thing publicly, even in jest.”

Lizzie Mansfield, who is relatively new to court and has adhered herself to Frances Meautas, throws me a look that would freeze Hell over. I make myself hold her gaze until she looks away. I am learning how to negotiate this place.

“I’m sick of hearing about that business,” says Frances. “No one has talked of anything else since it happened. Besides, this place is dull indeed without Dudley about. Do you think we will ever have any music or dancing again?” She sighs dramatically.

“Not if Cecil has anything to do with it,” says Juno. “I believe he comes out in a rash if he gets too close to anyone who is enjoying themselves.” This provokes some muffled laughter.

“Dancing,” I utter, though I do not mean to say it out loud. I am thinking of a time long ago, when I learned a few steps.

“What do
you
care about dancing?” spits Lizzie. “You can barely walk in a straight line as it is.” She looks around the group for support, catching Frances’s eye, exchanging a little nod with her and a couple of the others.

In an instant my hand flies out, needle pinched between thumb and forefinger, making sharp contact with Lizzie’s bare wrist.

“Ow!” squeals Lizzie like a stuck pig, snatching back her hand and bringing her wrist to her mouth.

Frances makes an indignant gasp. “You
can’t
do that.” She places a protective arm around Lizzie, who has now descended into outraged sobbing.

My head is spinning with what I have just done; I have shocked even myself, for I usually keep such a tight grip on my anger. Shaped as I am, people expect me to be doubly virtuous as proof I am not the Devil’s issue. But it is as if a little demon has colonized my heart, for I am enjoying Lizzie’s anguish and I can see I have allies in Juno and Lettice, who are holding their needlework up to their faces to cover their mirth.

“What’s going on?” says Mistress St. Low, approaching us.

“She pricked me with her needle,” Lizzie squeals, pointing at me.

“It was an accident,” announces Juno. “Wasn’t it, Lettice?”

“It was,” adds Lettice.

“I am truly most sorry, Lizzie dear,” I say. “I took fright when a log fell in the fire. I was jolted.” I am quite surprised at the ease with which the falsehood slips out of me. I like it more than I should.

“Try and be more careful,” Mistress St. Low says.

“But . . .” sobs Lizzie.

“She has apologized, Lizzie, and no one ever died of a little prick.”

Lettice emits a burst of laughter, trying to disguise it as a sneeze.

“Bless you!” says Juno, pressing her lips hard together, presumably to stop herself from laughing too.

I hope it will put a stop to Frances and Lizzie’s constant taunting. It is a triumph of sorts, and I can feel a little warm swelling in my chest. It occurs to me that Jane would have been horrified by what I have just done. I can feel her disapproval tapping at me and I think of Peggy too. I am glad she wasn’t here to see it. I can imagine the look on her face. She is not so full of pent-up anger as I seem to be.

She birthed her baby boy last month. The Queen refused me leave to visit her, but I write daily and thank the Lord she survived her lying-in, for many do not. I reach for the blue thread, unwinding a length, and snip it off, sucking the end of it to thread my needle. The blue is for a row of small parakeets that Levina designed as the border of some hangings for the Queen. I am reminded of poor Forget-me-not and wonder how it happened that my life became like his, scratching about in a gilded cage, repeating the ends of people’s sentences, feeling once more a surge of that anger.

Levina comes to sit beside me, sliding along the settle away from the others, drawing me along with her. She unrolls a new design across my lap—more exotic birds for the Queen’s bed. “They are beautiful,” I say. And they are, flying over the paper with their bright plumage. I lean my head back to the wall, closing my eyes for a moment, enjoying the blackness. How I wish I could install myself at Ludgate with Levina and her husband, but my sister and
I can barely sneeze without the Queen’s say-so, and she is keeping us uncomfortably close these days.

“Where is Katherine?” Levina asks quietly.

“With Hertford, I suppose.”

“I worry about that. If the Queen gets wind of it—or worse, if she finds herself with child.”

“I know. I worry for her too.” I suddenly feel so very tired—tired of always having those close to me stalked by danger. “I wish Kitty could . . .” I stop, unsure of what I mean to say.

“Could . . . ?”

“Just be herself.”

The door to the privy chamber swings open, and Cecil reappears, setting the petitioners twitching once more, gathering his entourage about him, talking to them in a low voice. At that moment Katherine bursts into the chamber out of breath, with Echo in her arms and two of the other dogs trotting behind. She is quite disheveled, her coif at an angle, her hair falling out of its ties, and there is a line of worry running vertically between her brows.

“Lady Katherine,” says Cecil, turning to her. “Where have you been?” There is a threat hidden beneath his steady voice that makes my insides shrink slightly.

It is as if Katherine draws herself together with an intake of breath and, standing as tall as is possible for someone of her slight stature, she says, “I have had some trouble with my pet monkey, my lord. Hercules bit one of the pages—drew blood. I had to deal with it.” She smiles disarmingly at the man and hugs Echo more tightly to her. So that is where I developed my talent for fibbing—of course, Katherine is the expert in that art.

Cecil nods slowly, revealing nothing, and then leaves, disappearing like a shadow, entourage in his wake.

Katherine collapses onto the bench beside us, puffing out a sigh, setting Echo onto her lap and whispering, “It’s not what you think.”

“What’s the matter, dear?” asks Levina, leaning across me to stroke the back of her hand.

“He’s disappeared.” I can see now that she is trying to blink back tears. “We were to meet at the river gate, and he didn’t come.”

“I’m sure there is a simple explanation,” says Levina.

“There is.” I see a flash of anger run through her. “I saw Harry Herbert in the long gallery. He told me that Cecil had warned Hertford off me.”

“But Harry Herbert,” I say. “He may be making mischief. He must be jealous, surely?”

“I don’t know.” She drops her face into her cupped palms.

From the side of my eye I notice Frances Meautas pull something out from beneath her dress; it is a letter. “If you’re looking for Hertford,” she says with a sly smile, “he is gone to his house at Canon Row.”

“How would
you
know that?” Katherine snaps.

“He sent me this.” She hands over the fold of paper with a moue of triumph.

Katherine takes it, opening it eagerly. “A poem!
He
sent
you
a poem?” She cannot quite disguise the fault in her voice and holds the offending paper between her thumb and forefinger away from her body. I catch sight of the title: “The Long Love That in My Thought Doth Harbor.” It is one of Wyatt’s, they are quite the fashion at the moment.