Sisters of Treason (39 page)

Hertford is weeping too.

The physician is searching for a pulse, his fingers pressed to her neck, but pulls his hand away with a shake of the head and begins to witter about cause of death and calling for a chaplain. I wish he would leave us alone, and what use is a chaplain now, anyway?

Katherine has clambered back up beside Juno and is whispering to her as if she is still alive and they are sharing a secret in the usual way.

Hertford pulls himself together enough to ask the doctor if he can please leave us to our grief, hustling him and his big satchel out of the door, closing it behind him.

I turn back to the bed. Katherine has Juno by the shoulders and is shaking her. “Come back,” she is whimpering. “Come back, my love.”

It is a sight to break even the hardest heart.

She turns eventually to Hertford saying, “You cannot leave me now.”

I watch him; his face is contorted with grief—I have never known a brother and sister so close. It dawns on me that Juno was the pivot upon which Katherine and Hertford’s love for each other turned. He seems about to say something, but then I notice what I think to be fear in his eyes, and he appears to change his mind with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, simply stretching out a hand to silently stroke Katherine’s upper back.

June 1561

Ludgate

Levina

The sky is dark and bruised with angry streaks of pink, and everything is still, as if God is holding His breath; even the birds are silent. Then the wind, a whisper at first touching the tops of the trees, gains strength, shutters beginning to bang, everyone scuttling for cover, waiting for the rain. Levina watches the distant lightning, brilliant forks illuminating everything, counting the beats until the thunder rumbles, assessing the distance—one beat to a league—the sound closing down on the light. Then it announces its arrival with a jagged slash that rends the sky overhead, making her skin prickle. A simultaneous boom of thunder sets Ellen, the new servant girl, off screaming and sends poor Hero scurrying to hide beneath the table.

She watches the rain pass to the south. But the wind continues its howling, punctuated occasionally by bursts of thunder. Levina, with the help of Ellen, closes and battens all the shutters, hoping
the glass in the windows will survive. The poor girl is petrified, too scared to sleep, though nobody could sleep through this racket, and so they sit up together, Ellen huddled by the fire, rocking back and forth, singing a children’s rhyme.

Levina takes a candle to the table and begins to sort through a pile of abandoned papers. There is correspondence to be answered, accounts to settle, and suchlike. She has hardly looked at any of it since George left for Bruges near on a month ago to make arrangements for his father’s will. She can barely remember the last time they sat together at this table, can barely remember the last tender moment they shared—her marriage has become neglected as a forgotten tomb. But, she tells herself, he loves her for the fact that she is not like other wives, that she has a profession, that she can afford to put glass panes in their windows. She knows, though, that the opposite may well be true—that he has grown to resent her for all those things, for all the time spent away from him pursuing her own life.

She picks up a pamphlet from a group of Puritans. They are not happy with the Queen’s middle way; they think she should go further with Church reforms, come down harder on the Catholics. There was a time Levina would have agreed with them, but there is little fight left in her, and she is happy simply to be able to practice her faith without fear of persecution. But it does make her think of all the risks she took in the old Queen’s reign, all those drawings, the smuggled documents. An image—that sickening crimson spurt—appears in her mind as if it was yesterday and not, she realizes with a shock, upward of seven years ago.

A great crash out in the street causes Ellen to start with a gasp of fear.

“Fret not, dear,” says Levina, trying to soothe her. “It’s probably just one of the tavern signs blown loose. They are never properly fixed. Why don’t you heat us a toddy—that will take your mind off it.”

The girl gets up and busies herself fixing a pan over the fire, and
Levina goes back to her paperwork. Near the bottom of the pile she finds an unopened letter addressed to her husband. Something about it ignites her suspicion; a certain flourish to the hand that makes her think it is a woman’s. She lifts it to her nose, sniffing. It smells of nothing in particular, there is no residue of perfume. The seal is smudged and unreadable. She places it back on the table and continues sifting through the rest of the papers. Ellen puts a steaming cup down on the table beside her, and Levina asks her if she wouldn’t mind sorting her paint jars, more to give her something to distract her than because the task is necessary. She sips on her drink, burning her mouth slightly. Her thoughts keep wandering back to the letter, niggling at her, her suspicions raised by those careful loops of an unrecognized female hand. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of her.

It is written in Dutch, which surprises her. She thinks for a moment that it must be from George’s mother, supposing she might have sent it after he left for Bruges, not realizing he was already on his way there. But no, his mother wouldn’t sign a letter,
Ever your true love, my heart is yours, Lotte.
She sinks back in her chair, now wishing she hadn’t opened the thing, wishing that she didn’t know about this Lotte and her feelings of longing, that she could return to the bliss of ignorance. So her husband has found comfort elsewhere; it is no surprise; she has taken George’s love for granted. She wonders when this began, supposing it must have been going on since he went to Bruges in the old Queen’s reign four years ago.

Anger prods at her: four years he has kept this secret. She thinks back, understanding now, his coldness, the air of distant respect. Her assumption had always been that he loved her so much more than she loved him, and all this time he loved another. She berates herself for her neglect of him, for all that time spent at court. Scrutinizing her feelings, she finds a little jealousy, a little anger, some guilt, but the prevailing sense is one of regret, that only now she has lost her marriage does she realize how very precious it
was. She can feel an emptiness opening up inside her, as if she is mourning.

Without thinking, she takes a sheet of paper and uncorks the lid on the ink jar, sharpening a quill, beginning to pen a request to the Queen for permission leave court and travel to Bruges. She will not lose George without a fight, and the Grey girls seem in no imminent danger now. Feria has stopped his scheming since the situation changed with France, and the Queen seems to be favoring her young cousins. She remembers her panic over Katherine a few months ago, how foolish she had been to imagine some secret marriage plot, and besides, Hertford is out of the country and will be for the best part of a year.

She thinks of her promise to Frances. She has done right by her friend; the girls are safe enough. Poor Katherine is mourning Juno. Levina cannot shake off the image of the girl’s wan face at the funeral, as if all the joy had been knocked out of her and would never return. But she has her sister to comfort her. Levina is reminded of what she felt when Frances died, an intense, painful longing that has diminished over the months but will never leave her. Did she choose her friendship over her marriage? She supposes she did. It didn’t feel like a choice at the time, not after the horror of Jane’s death, but that is all in the past. Yes, she will leave as soon as she can get a passage, and hope there is a future to salvage for her and George.

Someone is banging at the door. “It’s Henry Carruth. Are you there?” comes the call.

“Just coming.” She opens up, feeling the heave of the wind against the door.

“St Paul’s is struck,” he says. “The spire is ablaze. We are watching from our rooftop. It is quite a sight. I thought you might like to see it. Will you join us?”

“The cathedral? Good Lord.” He is right, she
would
like to see this awful spectacle. “I will bring my girl, if you don’t mind. She is too afraid to stay alone.”

She grabs her wrap and, taking Ellen by the hand, follows Henry Carruth the few steps from her front door to his. They climb upstairs through the house, up and up until the final flight narrows to accommodate only a single person at a time. Once they are out of the trapdoor at the top they can see Anne Carruth standing with her children, a row of dark figures silhouetted against a sky which is flushed an angry carnelian red. She calls out a greeting and Levina joins them as they stand in stunned silence watching the blaze. Ellen grips Levina’s hand tightly, trembling like a trapped animal. They can feel the heat on their faces. The flames are bright, licking up high above the spire, spilling out of the roof; it crackles loudly, spitting sparks like fireworks.

“This is God’s work,” says Anne Carruth. “He would have this place rid of Catholics for good.”

Levina nods, but she is thinking that the Catholics will have their own version of events—their God will be angry too. She is sure the Queen will find a way to make this event serve her own purposes. People, small dark shapes far below, have formed a line from the river, passing buckets, damping down the rest of the building to stop the flames spreading. But it is a futile task with a conflagration like this. She licks her finger, putting it up to the wind.

“It blows away from us,” she says. Then she thinks of all the souls living to the east, all the houses piled one atop the other; old houses built of wood and daub, toppling storys added to accommodate burgeoning numbers crammed into them—that is London nowadays. Alice Carruth cries out as the great bells topple into the south tower with a terrible crash. She is a pretty girl and still remains unwed. Levina thinks of Marcus, wishing he were here and courting her still, and inevitably her mind turns, with a needle pierce of grief, to George, cozy in Bruges with his Lotte. The wind changes direction, towards them, causing a buzz of panic, but behind it comes the rain, torrents of it, sending them back inside,
where they sit up about the hearth, drinking a hot brew and awaiting news that the fire is out.

•  •  •

Levina finds the hall empty when she comes down the following morning. Her mind is still ablaze with images of the fire, her imagination running wild with impressions that she would like to translate in paint. The storm has cleared the air and a shaft of sun streams in through the window, pooling on the floorboards. Levina can see that the room hasn’t been swept properly and that the dust has collected in the corners. When she looks about she begins to notice that the furnishings are looking tattered and that the whole place has an unloved air about it. She hadn’t noticed it until now, that she has neglected their home, neglected their marriage, neglected George. It is no wonder he has found a warm body elsewhere.

She remains resolved to go to Bruges, but in the cold light of day doubts have sprung up about what such a journey could achieve. She had felt so sure last night that if she went to him he would return with her, for they are married in the eyes of God, after all. But now she fears he will not want to come back. What is here for him with Marcus gone and his love alighted on another? But nothing ventured, nothing gained—she will go.

July 1561

Greenwich

Katherine

“Lady Katherine, where are the Queen’s linens? They need packing. Are they back from the laundry?” Kat Astley’s voice is hammering at my head. We are preparing to leave on progress.

“I have not seen them, Mistress Astley.” She looks on with distaste
as I pour some water out for my dogs, who pant listlessly in the heat. She does not approve of pets. I wave a fan at my face, but all it does is churn the thick air about a little.

“Well find them!” she says.

Her bluntness echoes the Queen’s. I am out of royal favor once more. I suspect the Queen has been told of a dalliance between Hertford and me, although in fairness I hardly sought to hide it. She cannot possibly know of my marriage, though, for only three living souls are aware of that aside from me. A flirtation alone, mentioned at the wrong time, would be enough to displease her, and there are plenty of vindictive spirits among the Queen’s women. Mistress Astley speaks to me as if I am a common servant maid—I suppose she thinks the Queen’s disfavor gives her the right. There is no point complaining—no one to complain
to
. Even Levina has left for Bruges on some business or other, not that she could have done anything to help me. Of all the people I have ever held truly dear—and that is only seven—six-sevenths are gone: Father, Jane, Maman, and Juno to Paradise, Hertford to God knows where, and Levina to Bruges. If it were not for Mary I would be entirely unmoored.

Mary does her best to cheer me, but it is a hopeless task; my spirit is quite broken. The Queen sharpens her vicious wit on me in public, singling me out for a ruthless drubbing whenever she can.

“Songbird?” she had laughed when Cecil praised my singing yesterday. “That caterwauling?” She has called me “Lady Caterwaul” several times since. The Queen has a nose for fragility, likes nothing more than to crush it, and my weakness is written all over me. Grief for Juno has emptied me, and now Hertford is gone too. He left me with a kiss, four hundred crowns, a will that names me as the beneficiary, and a promise that he will return immediately if it so happens that I find myself with child. I am bereft to the bone and plagued by a fear, twisting about in me, that he will not return, that something will happen to him. I curse Cecil for sending him abroad.

Cecil took me aside on the day of my husband’s departure.

“This
friendship
you have developed with the Earl of Hertford. It needs to stop.” He smiled, exposing a row of teeth, big and yellow like slabs of limestone, and I wondered how much he knew. “You are not any girl who can have entanglements here and there, Cousin. It would be wise to take
my
guidance on the matter.”