Sisters of Treason (40 page)

“Your guidance,” I said. “Have you a match in mind for me?” I suppose I thought to throw him off the scent.

“I know there has been secret talk of a Spanish husband for you.”

“Where did you hear of such a thing?” I had all but forgotten my proposed “illustrious match.”

“There is nothing I do not know about, Lady Katherine.”

“Is that so?” I was thinking that he did not know I was wed to Hertford, and that gave me a misguided sense of triumph. For what use is a secret if you cannot lever something with it?

“If Feria contacts you, I want to know. Am I understood?”

I nodded, saying, “He will not.”

“We are kin.” The word
kin
was said as a chaplain might say the word
sin
. Then he’d added, so quietly I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, “I am on
your
side, my lady.” I wanted to ask what he meant by that.

“I sent away that pup you are sweet on for your own good,” he’d continued. “And perhaps when the time comes . . . It is all a question of timing.”

I couldn’t look at his eyes and kept my gaze fixed on the three warts decorating the side of his face.

“With the right wedding”—he wiped a clammy hand down my cheek—“sanctioned by Her Majesty. Well, I don’t like to say it, but the Scottish claim could be swept aside entirely.”

Then he chucked me under the chin as if I were an infant, saying, “You look in fine fettle, Cousin. Never better, I’d say,” and turned tail, leaving me wondering what plans he was cooking up with Kitty Grey at their heart.

I am exhausted with all the wondering. Once I might have shaken it off, but I am not me anymore. When the Queen prods me with a rapier quip, I find that, rather than delivering the kind of witty riposte that would smooth my way back to favor, I struggle to hold back tears. And Elizabeth can smell weakness—it is carrion to her. The fearless girl who jumped into the river pool is no more. It is as if she were buried alive with Juno—indeed, that is the dream that visits me nightly. I twist the death’s head ring I wear in her memory, bringing it to my lips for a kiss. It is cold, even in this heat—cold.

“We don’t have all day.” Kat Astley’s brusque voice cuts through my thoughts. “And what on earth are you doing wearing that in this weather? Don’t expect my sympathy if you suffer heat stroke.”

“I do not feel the heat,” I lie, wrapping my loose black gown about me. It is heavy and unbearably hot, but I will not take it off, and hope they all think I wear it in respect of Juno.

I make for the laundry, my dogs in my wake, glad of an excuse to get out of the privy chamber. In the dank lower corridor, where it is cool and there is no one about, I stop, leaning against the chill stone wall. I unlace my stomacher a little and hold my belly, feeling the unmistakable sensation, as if something is unfolding itself in there, a cat having a stretch. It is my baby.

I let the blissful feeling wash over me, obliterating my misery for barely a moment. But nothing can stave off thoughts of the pleading letters I have sent to Hertford and no reply, not a word, nothing. So much for his promise, he who was so enthralled by the prospect of making an infant with me. I can hear him whisper, “An heir for England,” feel his breath against the skin of my neck as he spoke those words. My longing is unbearable as a stretch on the rack, a twist of the thumbscrews.
You are abandoned
, says a voice in my head. There lies a dark fear in me that I shall lose my mind altogether and end up with the lunatics in St. Bethlehem.

Hearing footsteps, I wrap my loose gown about me once more, asking myself how it is possible that no one has noticed. Mary,
who is the only soul to whom I have confided, tells me it does not show, that I look as though I have developed an appetite, that is all. Soon, though, it won’t be hidden—the thought of that is a noose about my neck, whichever way I turn it tightens. I must not think of it, nor must I allow myself to believe Hertford has abandoned me. Can there be another reason for his silence? Do not think of it; do not think of it; do not think of it.

I walk on towards the laundry, taking a short cut through the stable yard, where I see Pembroke at a distance dismounting and handing his horse to one of the grooms. He sought me out not even a month ago and made the suggestion, in a roundabout way, that things might be “rekindled”—that was the word he used—between Harry Herbert and me. “You have the Queen’s favor these days, I am told,” he had said. I was looking at his hands, big and ruddy, remembering him slapping me across the face, and was laughing inwardly to watch him fawn.

I was tempted tell him he was too late if he meant to use that favor to his advantage. “Well,
your
tune has changed,” is what I said, not minding my manners, watching him hold back his anger at my impudence. He would have liked to slap me again, no doubt.

“Much has changed,” he said. “Give it some thought. Write to Harry at Baynard’s. He should like to hear from you.”

He sees me across the yard now, lifting his cap and nodding. If he knew I was with child and secretly married he would not be so eager to doff his cap. He must not have heard that I have fallen from favor with the Queen. He cannot know I am with child to a man who has disappeared, and that I am unable even to prove I am married, for the only witness is dead and the chaplain—well, God only knows where he has got to; I do not even know his name. Worse still, I have managed to misplace the will Hertford drew up before he left.
You are abandoned
, whispers the voice in my head. The air is so heavy I cannot breathe it in. I must not think of all those things.

I ignore Pembroke and, heedless of the Queen’s linens, go to
seek out Mary in the maids’ quarters. She is alone when I find her, stripped to her shift, reading a book on the bed. I flop down beside her, asking, “How did you get away?”

“Feigned a headache,” she replies. I unpeel my layers of clothing. “A rare moment alone together,” she says, helping me out of my kirtle.

“I miss Juno’s rooms,” I say.

“Yes.” She knows I mean it is Juno I miss.

I put my hands on my belly, stretching the fabric of my shift tight to show her my shape. “It
is
nine months, isn’t it?”

“From start to finish? I believe so.”

“But from when do you count it?” I try and think about when it might have been planted in me, but it could have been one of a thousand times.

Her reply is a shrug. “No one has ever spoken of these things to me.”

“Nor to me. Perhaps you count from when you first feel it move. Could that be right?”

“Maybe.” She sounds doubtful.

“To think, Mouse, how I was armed to the hilt with information on how to not get myself with child, but had never thought to discover how it goes at the other end of things.”

“More’s the pity you didn’t take—”

I interrupt before she states the obvious. “I am married, I had no need.”

Mary is disappointed in me; I can see it all over her. And she’s no help, she knows even less than me. Moreover, there is not a soul I trust to ask.

“I’m only saying it is a shame you find yourself thus.” She takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. “I wish I could help, Kitty.”

I remember the old Queen and the muddle over her pregnancy. I have watched married ladies in the privy chamber grow large and then leave for their lying-in, returning a few months on, slender as
girls again. But sometimes they don’t return at all. That is another thing I must not think of.

I pull up my shift, exposing my bare belly. Yes it is round, but not vast. “What say you, Mouse, pleasantly plump?”

She strokes her small hand over my skin. Her touch makes tears prick at the back of my eyes.

“This is my niece or nephew,” she murmurs.

“Stop daydreaming about becoming an aunt, and tell me if you think I can hide it still.”

“I think you might. You do not have the look of Mary Sidney when she left to have
her
baby.”

“How would you know what she looked like?”

“I helped her dress when she was too big even to fasten her shoes. I saw her in her shift when she had a month to go.”

“And she didn’t look like this?”

“Not at all. Her belly was vast and tight as a drum.” She makes a round shape with her arms as if hugging an invisible person. “But Kitty—” She doesn’t say anything else but I know she is wondering what will become of me.

All the things I must not think of crowd back into my head. I cannot breathe and run to the window, flinging it wide, trying to take in gulps of air. The stone flags below are smooth and hard. I imagine my head cracking open against them, bursting like a melon.

I feel Mary’s touch at my shoulder. “When things are at their worst, I ask Jane for guidance.”

“Jane? Our
sister
Jane? What do you mean?” I am still thinking of those smooth hard flags below.

“Sometimes it is a comfort,” she says, leading me gently away from the window. “I wonder to myself what Jane would do.”

“I know what she would say to me. She would point out that I have brought this upon myself through my own folly.”

“She would say you must accept God’s plan.”

I am thinking,
What use is God’s plan when this baby is growing inside me?
but I do not say so, cannot say it out loud.

July/August 1561

Essex/Suffolk

Mary

I am spent by the time we get to Lord Rich’s house at Wanstead. My pony Sygnet may be docile, but my bent body was not made for a whole day’s riding. My back aches terribly, making it hard to walk when I dismount. A thrush is singing somewhere, and I close my eyes for a moment, leaning against the wall to listen while Katherine retrieves her dogs from the luggage cart, letting them run about and do their business before we go inside. I fear greatly for her; she has barely said a word for the entire journey and seems more exhausted even than I, as if the light in her has been snuffed out. We slowly heave ourselves up the stairs; the dogs skipping behind, their claws clack-clacking on the stone.

As we get to the anteroom that has been set aside to serve as a privy chamber, a package arrives. It is brought by Henry Seymour, Hertford’s brother.

“For Her Majesty,” he says, and I’m sure I see him wink at Katherine. “From France.” It is a wooden crate about a half yard across and bound with twine.

“Here,” says Kat Astley in her usual brusque manner, “give it to me.” She takes the box and, ever cautious of foul play, inspects it minutely, sniffing it and asking Henry Seymour to lift it that she may scrutinize its underside. “From France, you say, my lord?”

“From my brother,” he replies. So that is what the wink was for. At last Hertford is in touch. I look at Katherine and see a bud of hope begin to open in her.

“Ah, the jewelry Her Majesty commissioned,” says Kat Astley. “Why don’t you open it, Lady Katherine, and relieve us all of our
curiosity? You certainly need cheering up, that face of yours has been long as a yard of sackcloth for weeks.”

Katherine kneels on the floor beside the parcel and we all crowd round to watch her open it. Someone passes her a knife to cut the twine. Kat Astley is standing at a distance, peering over our heads as if it is full of gunpowder and might explode. My sister lifts the lid with a bright look and pulls out, one by one, a dozen packages. Each has a name attached and they are distributed among the ladies. With the largest of them taken, by Kat Astley, through to the Queen’s bedchamber. We all tear them open, gleefully holding up the contents, each one a pair of gold bracelets. There is even a set for me, small like an infant’s. I hold them up to the candlelight to better inspect the fine work of the French goldsmith, whose mark is stamped on the inside.

Katherine doesn’t open hers, I notice, but tucks it beneath her skirts. I am so very eager to know what lies within it. A note announcing Hertford’s imminent return, I suppose. I sincerely hope so, for that would mean the end of my poor sister’s anguish is in sight, though there is still the hurdle of informing the Queen of the infant she carries. When Hertford comes back, he will explain and all will be well. With luck we shall all be given permission to stay away from court—that would be a blessing indeed.

“Kitty, dearest, would you accompany me to the house of easement,” I say, as an excuse to be alone with her.

“Of course, Sister,” she replies.

She is fit to burst with excitement, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes shining. We rush out down the corridor, not knowing quite where to go, for neither of us has been to this house before. We eventually happen upon a little music room where the candles have been lit beside a set of virginals.

Katherine holds the package to her face, breathing in its scent as if she might find something of him there, and then, smiling, fingers fumbling, rips the paper off it. Inside is a pair of bracelets, identical to all the others.

“Oh!” she says, her smile dropping away. She picks up the discarded wrapping, inspecting it to see if she has missed the letter which must surely be enclosed within. Finding nothing, she allows the bracelets to fall to the floor with a clatter and drops her face into her hands.

“I’m sure he was simply being cautious, in case it wasn’t you who opened it. Do not despair, Henry Seymour must have a letter for you. Come, Kitty, let’s seek him out.” She says nothing but rises and makes for the door, leaving the bracelets on the floor. I hand them to her. “You must appear as normal. If you are not wearing them, people will wonder why.”

She holds out her hand like a child and I slip them onto her wrist. I collect up the wrapping and inspect it myself, looking carefully through each layer in case she has missed something. But she is right, there is no word from Hertford.

Henry Seymour is still among the Queen’s ladies when we return, flirting with one of the maids. I take him aside, asking discreetly if he has anything else for my sister, but he shakes his head and opens both palms up to the ceiling, uttering “nothing” with a look of apology.