Sisters of Treason (32 page)

Frances snatches it back, folding it carefully and tucking it once more next to her heart. All the while she looks directly at Katherine, and I am wondering how it is possible that Hertford could want to send a poem to a girl who has the allure of a turnip. I could understand were it Lettice, but Frances Meautas doesn’t even have charm or kindness on her side. Juno has moved over to where we are now and is standing between Katherine and Frances, who turns back to Lizzie Mansfield, whispering something in her ear, provoking giggles. I am glad for that needle, would happily do it again.

“Did you know about this?” Levina asks Juno.

“Of course not,” she whispers. “I haven’t seen my brother for a couple of days. I would have said something.” She looks almost
as upset as Katherine. “Come on, Kitty. Let’s go to my rooms. It is too dark for sewing now, anyway.” She holds her hand out, Katherine takes it and they leave together in silence.

•  •  •

I find them later in Juno’s rooms. Katherine had given in to her tears if the redness of her eyes is anything to go by. But she seems to have pulled herself together and the two of them are playing primero on the bed, using pebbles as wagers.

“Juno told me about how you stuck Lizzie Mansfield with a needle,” is the first thing my sister says, looking over at me. “Well done, Mouse! She had that coming.”

But I do not want to think about my anger and the extent to which it pleased me to vent it in such a way.

“Will you play, Mary?” asks Juno. “It is much more fun with three.”

We settle into the game, flicking out the cards and laying our wagers silently. All the while I am thinking of the times I have comforted Katherine’s broken heart and I ask myself how it is love makes such fools of people. I suppose I am saved from that at least. I am reminded of Plato’s wheels, split in two, seeking their other halves, and find I am wondering once more if there is such another half for me, but I squash the thought—it can lead nowhere.

“You should write to him,” says Juno, and I suppose she means to Hertford. “Tell him he will lose you. I don’t believe for an instant he has fallen for Frances Meautas.”

“But what should I say?”

Juno slides off the bed and fumbles about beneath a pile of detritus on the table, finding paper, quill, and ink, placing it in front of Katherine, saying, “Tell him what you think of him.”

The game abandoned, Katherine begins to write, reading phrases out loud as she goes:
“You are not what I thought. I shall have forgotten you by the time you regret your actions. My love is dead. Vex not for my future, Hertford, for more fine men are after my hand than you could ever imagine. There is an illustrious marriage in the offing for your sweet Kitty . . .”

“Do you not think you go too far?” I say. “Is it not better to say nothing?”

“Mouse, you do not understand these things. I know what makes a man turn his attentions back to a woman. A little jealousy will not hurt him.”

A knock at the door reveals Lettice Knollys. “You will never believe who is back,” she says, barely able to hold in her excitement. “Dudley!”

“Thank goodness for that,” says Juno. “Perhaps now we shall have some entertainments again.”

“He is already making preparations for three days of feasting and a tilt.”

Juno gives a whoop of delight and claps her hands.

“And . . .” Lettice adds, “she means to make him an earl.”

“Do you suppose she is ennobling the man in order to wed him, after all?” poses Juno.

“It seems hard to believe, given the scandal,” I say. “But you can never tell what she’s up to.”

“True,” replies Lettice. “You should have seen Cecil’s face. Like vinegar.” She nudges Katherine, who is still scribbling away at her letter.

“She plays those two men off against one another with expert ease,” I say.

“Oh, and I put a frog in Frances Meautas’s bed,” says Lettice. To which Juno starts up a round of applause.

“Poor frog,” says Katherine.

November 1560

Westminster

Levina

The sky is exploding. Levina stands in the door of the workshop watching as the Queen’s accession day fireworks burst in golden
cascades. She ventures a little way farther down towards the river, where she can clearly see the flotilla of barges bobbing on molten-metal water. With each blast and fountain of fire the crowd cries out in amazement, necks craned as the sparks fall silently in the aftermath. She watches the way the brilliance kisses the edge of things, momentarily flooding them with light in the darkness. Were she to paint a picture of Hell, then this would be her palette. Her mind conjures up an image of Bosch’s Hell that she saw once long ago. There was no beauty it in, just grotesque distortions, perpetual pain and fear.

She thinks about the girls down there at the core of the inferno, on the Queen’s barge, and wonders to what extent she can truly protect them as she promised their dying mother. Her memory of Frances surprises her with its clarity and the well of feeling that accompanies it brings the faint twinge of threatening tears. Frances had warned her about Elizabeth, but Levina hadn’t needed warning, she knows the woman well enough. The Queen has been in good humor of late, now Dudley is cleared of suspicion—publicly, anyway. He prances about as before, basking in her favor. He will never shake off the whiff of scandal, though; it is stuck to him as egg tempera adheres to old church walls. But the Queen’s mood can change on a pinhead—in that respect she is truly her father’s daughter.

Levina returns to the workshop, where an army of artisans, during the daylight hours, has been painting scenery for a grand masque. As she is taking a torch from the sconce she notices the vast shape of Keyes, the Sergeant Porter, all six and something feet of him, across the courtyard, checking that the doors are bolted. She waves to him, calling out that she will collect her things before she leaves.

“Don’t tarry, I might lock you in by mistake,” he jokes.

“How is your wife?” she asks, remembering Mistress Keyes has not been well of late.

“She will mend, I’m sure.”

She notices how his shoulders slump a little as he says this.

“I’m sure,” she echoes, as he moves away to continue his rounds.

Levina enters the workshop holding up her torch to inspect the images. It is a woodland scene, festooned trees with deer loitering, a centaur here and there peeping from behind the vegetation. The maids of the chamber all have costumes of nymphs and dyads, which were fitted and altered this afternoon, the seamstresses, with mouths full of pins, gathering waists, stitching darts, lifting hems, while the girls tested each other on their lines of poetry.

She hears a sound, deep in the shadows—heavy breath, as if someone is hiding in the dark—and feels her skin prickle, her stomach shrink. She puts a hand out to the wall, hoping for reassuring solidity, but what she finds is a makeshift piece of scenery that sways against her touch. Her breath quivers, too loud. Pull yourself together, she says inwardly, holding her torch forward, throwing some light into the gloom. The door slams shut behind her, making her jump. Was it Keyes, thinking her gone already? She listens for the sound of the bolt being shot, about to shout out that she is here, but then from behind, she feels a light touch on her shoulder.

Gasping, she turns, brandishing the torch, ready to use it as a weapon, seeing only then the mess of black curls that belongs to the Hilliard boy. He is the son of a goldsmith, a friend of Foxe, recently back from exile in Geneva, who has been helping paint scenery.

“You!” she says.

“Mistress Teerlinc, beg pardon if I scared you.”

But, she is thinking, he intended to scare, shutting the door, not calling out to her that he was there. She maneuvers herself around him to get to the door, relieved to find it unlocked, pushing it wide.

“What are you doing?”

“I fell asleep.”

“You’ll catch your death sleeping in this place. You don’t even have a blanket.” Perhaps it is true, she disturbed his sleep and the
wind slammed the door. But there is something about the way he is smiling that makes her uneasy. Perhaps he enjoys scaring people—there are boys like that.

“I know,” he replies. “But I became carried away . . .” The light has fallen across a painted area behind him. Levina moves in to better inspect it. It is a group of satyrs in animated conversation. The detail is astonishing, each face with its own characteristics and, she notices, each resembling a member of the Privy Council: there is Arundel pulled up to his full height, hands on hips, speechifying but paunchy about the girth, and there is Cecil, smooth, darkly furred, his curved horns polished to a sheen but with a slyness about the eyes, and holding his white stick of office as if it is a weapon.

“This is most excellent work, Nicholas,” Levina says, moving closer to see the detail, silently admonishing herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. This is just a boy with a passion for painting that has kept him here long after all the others have left. “What age are you?” She touches the back of his hand. It is icy.

“I am fourteen.”

“Well, you have a rare talent for one so young. And I will not risk you catching a chill and have it wasted. Gather your belongings and you can ride with me to Ludgate. Where do you reside?” She feels silly for having been so afraid.

“I am a page at the Bodleys, Mistress Teerlinc, at Cheapside.”

“And Richard Bodley allows you to offer your talents as a painter for the Queen? I see.”

“He says it pleases him to serve Her Majesty in any way he can.”

“Well, Cheapside is only the other side of the cathedral from Ludgate. I shall have my man accompany you home. Mr. Bodley must be missing you at this hour.”

She notices that the festivities have moved inside as they leave the palace. Keyes waves, bidding them a safe journey from the steps, and the sound of music fades as they head east, allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness. There is a stream of folk heading
back home from the riverbanks where they had gathered to watch the fireworks, and a few carry torches, making the occasional splash of yellow light in the gloom. Levina is feeling the uninterrupted hours of work and, thinking of her bed, would like to speed up but the horses have to wind their way carefully between the walkers and there are children and dogs scurrying willy-nilly about their feet.

From time to time her groom shouts out, “Hoy there! Mind your backs.” Nicholas is mounted pillion behind him, clutching onto his leather bag of painter’s equipment as if it is the most precious thing he owns—which it probably is. Levina remembers her first satchel of materials, given her by her father; she can’t have been much more than twelve. Her sister Gerte teased her, for she slept with it on her pillow so that when she woke in the night she could bury her nose and breathe in the glorious chalky scent of the crushed pigments and the sharp tang of the gum arabic. Those odors still remind her of her father, and the memory sends a wave of longing through her, even after so many years.

“Mistress Teerlinc?” the boy asks tentatively.

“What is it, Nicholas?” She thinks he sounds worried about something; he’s probably imagining Richard Bodley’s anger at his lateness.

“I was wondering . . .” he pauses, then says, “Never mind.”

“No, what is it you want to say?” Levina’s curiosity is aroused.

“I would like . . . Would you ever consider teaching me the art of limning? I find I am quite drawn to making miniature likenesses.” It seems now he has started he cannot stop. “Father intends for me to become a gold worker, as he is. I am to be apprenticed to the Queen’s goldsmith soon, and though I like working in metal, and I have an eye for a fine setting, and it is a good trade, and I do not want to defy my parents, but I am so very drawn to portraiture.” He takes a gulp of air.

“What is it that draws you so?” asks Levina.

“It is the closest I can imagine to seeing into men’s souls.”

“I will write to your father.” Levina is thinking of those satyrs, the way he had invested so much character into them, the delicacy of the brushstrokes. She feels quite excited at the thought of passing her skills on, as her father did for her. This boy shows such promise. “You certainly are suited to the skill. Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement with your father and Mr. Bodley.” She is thinking as she speaks; he could help her prepare the cards for painting, gum the vellum, paint the carnation, even fill in the fine details on the clothing. She laughs silently at herself for being so frightened earlier—this boy is no threat, but she has become used to suspicion.

Besides, she misses Marcus, now he has settled in Rome. His most recent letter announced his hopes to wed a girl out there. His letters have been full of her, “Letitzia,” this and “Letitzia” that, and she had felt that emotion mothers feel when they must let go of their sons and hand them over to another woman—in this case a stranger. It is a jealousy of sorts. She had always imagined he would return home and marry one of the daughters of the families now crowding back into London from exile abroad. George and she had discussed the possibility of ordering Marcus home, forcing him to break with this “Letitzia.” But neither of them had the heart.

“I shall be forever in your debt,” Nicholas says, half looking at her but not quite able to meet her eye. Embarrassed, probably, she supposes, now he has asked a favor.

“I can’t promise you anything just yet. Your father must be in agreement.” She finds herself hoping that the father will prove willing, and is already imagining the things she will teach him, already thinking about where the boy will bed down at Ludgate. In a flash of wayward imagination she thinks of Katherine and Mary housed with them too—quite the family. She slaps that thought down, aware of how far-fetched it is. But she is left with the residue of worry for those girls, poor Mary’s difficulties in settling at court, the viciousness of most of the women there. And Katherine—there
have been more noises from Spain. She cannot get the thought out of her mind of the old plan to smuggle Katherine out of the country and into the arms of one of the Spanish princes. She wonders if that plan has been reignited, now the French are rattling their swords once more. And then there is Hertford blowing hot and cold—it is such a mess and the poor child tangled up in it all.