Sisters of Treason (34 page)

“From the beginning?” Lady Knollys asks, lifting the book, which is bound in embroidered velvet worn thin in places by the fingers that have held it.

“No just the end—it is the part I like best.”

Lady Knollys begins to recite in a voice that is clear, like clean water:

And graven with diamonds in letters plain

There is written, her fair neck round about:

Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

There is a moment’s silence before the Queen speaks. “That was written for my mother. Wyatt was in love with her before she married my father.”

“It is beautiful indeed,” I say.

“He found himself in the Tower for his love. Did you know that?” It is a question that seems directed at me, for the Queen has locked her dark eyes onto mine, but she does not mean for me to reply as she continues immediately. “
He
escaped execution, unlike the others.” There is an unmistakable sadness in her voice. “We have all lost those close to us.”

I wonder if this is her attempt to forge a bond with Mary and me, to bring us back truly into the fold, for we have all lost a parent to the axe. I allow myself to imagine that we may be forgiven the accident of our Tudor blood, indeed that it may even be thought of as fortunate, and another spark of hope is ignited in me for my wedding. I touch the chain at my neck once more, to remind myself of the ring nestling against my hidden skin, feeling the memory of Hertford’s warm hand resting there.

“What terrible times those must have been.” It is Mary who says this, and I am struck, as ever, by how she always seems to be thinking of the way others might be feeling—so unlike me, who always first thinks of myself.

“Yes,” the Queen replies. “But I do not have the memory of it. I was but an infant at the time.” I notice only now that she has been
using the first person singular rather than the plural—another sign of her desire for intimacy, I feel sure of it.

“Still,” says Mary, “a great loss such as that leaves its scar, even on the young.”

“What age are you now, Mary?” she asks.

“I am fifteen.”

“You have depth for one so young.” She stretches out to run a hand over Mary’s hunched shoulders. It is a rare fond gesture, and I am the only one to see Mary flinch slightly. She hates to be touched as much as she ever did. “Just as well no one will want to wed you, Mary,” continues the Queen. “Men do not like wives who think too deeply on things.” She appears amused, seeming entirely unaware of her cruelty, and I have to stop myself from jumping to my sister’s defense.

But Mary doesn’t need my help, for she replies, “A clever woman knows how to appear shallow.”

Both the Queen and Lady Knollys burst into laughter at this. They are not laughing
at
her, this is clear—they are impressed. I exchange a look with Lettice, filled with pride for my little sister.

“Depth
and
sense,” says Lady Knollys, her mirth subsiding.

“If you weren’t so well born, Mary, I should appoint you my fool.” It is the Queen who says this. I am not sure whether it is an insult or a compliment.

“Shame then for my birth, as it would be an uncommon honor to be the Queen’s fool,” quips Mary.

“But your birth makes you my cousin. Do you not think it better to be the Queen’s cousin than the Queen’s fool?”

“The opportunity to serve my Queen is all I ask.”

Elizabeth seems satisfied with this as she pats Mary on the shoulders, saying, “It would seem you have inherited the Tudor intelligence.”

It is only now that I notice a page hovering with a sheaf of papers
in his hand. Lady Knollys bids him pass them over, which he does with a bow, fumbling simultaneously to remove his cap. The Queen takes the documents, beginning to shuffle through them, and the page is dismissed.

“Can you guess what these are?” the Queen asks, tapping a paper. “The patent for Dudley’s earldom. I intend to give him Leicester. A few noses will be put out of joint by this.” Her face gives nothing away, except for her eyes, which glimmer like faceted gems. “What think you to that?”

She is directing her question to me. I wish I were as sharp-witted as my sister and could come up with some clever repartee about Cecil, for that is surely the primary nose she refers to, but all I say is, “My lord Dudley is wholly deserving.” She seems moderately satisfied with this as she nods in agreement. But what I am thinking of is that once Dudley is made Earl of Leicester the Queen will wed him—after all, Leicester is a title usually reserved for the sons of royalty. That will displace Cecil’s nose sufficiently far as to render his threats to Hertford entirely empty. Then the Queen will be happy to see me married, I feel sure of it.

We sit silently as she looks through the rest of her papers. One appears to grab her attention. She holds it up, reads it through again with a smile threatening the edges of her mouth. “Seems that young upstart François is ailing, and it is serious.” I suppose she talks of the King of France. “Perhaps my Scottish cousin will not be the French Queen much longer, then.” She sits back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “It would please me greatly to no longer have the French waiting to jump into my grave. They think me weak for being a woman. Let them think that.”

“Indeed,” says Lady Knollys.

I am wondering if it might not be such a bad idea to capitalize on the Queen’s good humor and simply ask her for permission to marry, but something Juno said earlier echoes in my mind.

“Ask permission and have it refused, yet wed anyway,” she had
said, “and it is a far greater misdemeanor—to flout a direct command—than if you simply marry having asked nothing.” She is right of course.

December 1560

Whitehall

Mary

“Would you be so kind as to direct me to the Sergeant Porter’s lodge?” I ask one of the pages milling about in their room off the watching chamber.

“It is something of a walk,” he replies. “Are you sure you can manage . . .” He stops, looking me up and down, as if he has never seen such a creature, and is surprised I can speak his language.

“I may be hunched about the shoulders, but my legs work perfectly,” I say a little too brusquely. It was only an attempt at kindness on his part, but I am as tired of pity as I am of spite, and I no longer care if I offend.

He leads the way to the Westminster watergate and up a set of steps tightly spiraled like the inside of a sea shell, knocking on the door at the top. A muffled voice bids us enter, and I find myself staring up at the towering shape of the Sergeant Porter. I have seen him often from a distance at the palace gates but up so close in this small space he seems inhumanly tall, and my first thought is to wonder how he negotiates that cramped stairway. He is gruffly bearded and also, I notice only then, pink about the eyes, as if he might have been weeping.

“Lady Mary,” he says, bending into an awkward bow. I ask myself how he knows me, but I suppose I am well known as the Queen’s crooked cousin—certainly I would never be mistaken for someone else.

“You are Keyes, the Sergeant Porter?” I don’t know why I ask,
as I know very well who he is, but I feel awkward in the face of the sadness he is clearly taking pains to hide.

“I am he, my lady. How can I be of service?” I am sure of it now, in the wet glottal sound of his voice, that this man has staunched back tears, and I ask myself what kind of misery could reduce such a man thus.

The page is loitering on the landing, his nose pressed up to the window, from where there is a view of the river and the passing boats.

“Mistress Astley bid me deliver this. ‘Directly into your hands,’ she said.” I hand over a sealed fold of paper. “It is from the Queen, though I am not privy to what it contains.” It is likely something to do with Dudley’s investiture, which is to take place today. Perhaps the Queen expects trouble and wants Keyes to be extra vigilant.

He opens it and begins to read, and really I should take my leave, but something moves me in the sight of this man’s misery.

“Mr. Keyes, what has upset you so?” I ask quietly, so the page cannot hear.

“It is nothing, My Lady.” But a tear slides down the side of his nose, incongruous on a man such as he.

“It is not nothing. You can tell me. It may help to share your woes.”

“My-my wife is ailing,” he stammers. “And my duties here keep me from her.” He pulls out a handkerchief, blowing his nose noisily.

Watching him I am reminded a little of Stokes, who is also a burly man much given to uxoriousness. “Does she have a servant, or someone to care for her; do you have children, daughters?”

He nods in reply. “My eldest is with her now.”

“Then I am sure your wife would rather you did your duty to the Queen. It would vex her the more, I think, if you did not.”

“Perhaps you are right, my lady. I am sorry to have made such a spectacle of myself.”

“There is no need to be sorry, Keyes, and I am sure she will rally.” As I say it I feel disingenuous—it is nothing but a platitude, after all.

Once back out in the courtyard I hand the page a purse of coin, instructing him to visit the apothecary for some physic that I list for him and also some comforts and foodstuffs, telling him to find the whereabouts of Keyes’s wife and deliver them to her. I find myself deeply touched by this man’s situation, perhaps because he reminds me so of my stepfather, and in turn I am led to think of dear Maman, for whom he grieved so deeply. Maman is gone a full year now; that is a year spent at court. I must not allow myself to think of her, for I fear my fastenings shall begin to break and I will be in tears like Keyes.

I find my way to the watching chamber, where Juno and Katherine are practicing scales with the singing master nearby. By rights they should not be in so public a space, but the Queen is with her councillors in the privy chamber as the council chamber is being decorated. Levina, brush in hand, stares intently at Lettice, who sits on a stool in the window embrasure making the most of the morning light. Levina has a boy assistant today who cannot help but keep glancing over at Katherine, as if he has never seen such a creature—and perhaps he never has. All my life I have seen boys respond in such a way to my sister, and it amuses me to watch him quite befuddled in the face of her beauty. He is invisible to her, though, despite his raven curls and bright eyes. And in turn I am invisible to him, despite the fact that Levina makes a fuss of introducing him to me as her pupil. He removes his cap but looks over my shoulder at my sister.

As we are all dressed in our finery for Dudley’s investiture, Levina is adding the finishing touches to the set of portraits that the Queen had commissioned. The Queen has been curiously forthcoming towards us Greys of late. Since our exchange the other day she has requested that my sister and I accompany her quite often when she eats in her privy chamber, and I am expected to perform witty verbal acrobatics for her amusement. She has even decided that she wants me to accompany her out riding and has had Dudley procure a miniature pony for that purpose. Sygnet is the kind
of docile animal on which children are taught to ride, and gives me no trouble. There are benefits to the Queen’s favor, for it means that those who torment me for their sport have realized that it is in their interests to be kind to me, in public at least. But it has also caused some jealousy, which is not something I am accustomed to, as my sister is.

I settle nearby, unable to rid myself of the image of Keyes stifling his sorrow. A great gruff man such as he, who is charged with the safety of all within the walls of the palace, so brimming with kindness, is incongruous in this place, where such gentle qualities are not held in high esteem. I saw in him a glimpse of kindred spirit, though perhaps it was my imagination, that he too, with his beloved wife, would do better leading a more simple life away from court. I take out a letter from Peggy that I have already reread several times. With capable fingers Levina stirs some vivid blue in an empty mussel shell and the paint smell wafts over to me: sharp resin and chalky pigment. She occasionally asks the boy to do this and that, “Move the easel a foot towards the window, would you; pass me the gold leaf; add a little cadmium to a measure of resin.”

The boy notices me watching him and I swiftly drop my eyes back to Peggy’s letter.
I have been churched
, she writes,
and the baby thrives with the wet nurse.
But she says her husband is taciturn and she wishes I were there, for sometimes she doesn’t know how to behave with him, whether to fuss over him or to leave him alone. Nothing she does seems to please him, or so she says—poor Peggy. I miss her too and hope she will be back at court before long and not obliged to stay in the country with that husband of hers. I tried to imagine if motherhood has altered her and am struck by a momentary sadness that I will never know what it is like to birth an infant, to create a life. But I soon shake off my mawkishness, allowing myself to imagine one day being aunt to the brood that my sister will surely produce.

The Queen’s yellow lovebirds chatter in their cage that hangs in the window. I think perhaps it is a worse torture for them to have
a view of what they are missing—the expanse of open sky above the river where a cluster of gulls wheels—than to have no view at all. Yesterday at dusk I watched a flock of starlings dip and dive out there, making a great dark cloud in the sky, in constant motion. They formed shape after shape, each in silent communion, separate yet moving as one, and I tried to imagine what kind of sensation it must be to feel the rush of air beneath outstretched wings. I look out now at the December morning, muffled with cloud, the little boats struggling upriver against the tide. Perhaps it will snow and there will be a morning’s excitement, throwing snowballs, making snow angels, faces bright with cold. But then will come the slush and the icy flap of drenched hems about the ankles and the bitter air and chilblains.