Sisters of Treason (41 page)

I consider telling him of the situation, asking him to get word to his brother, for perhaps Katherine’s letters have gone astray. But the more I think on it the more it seems impossible, for she has written several times and how could they all be lost? The more likely explanation is that Hertford has had a change of heart—he would not be the first to leave a girl in such a way. I decide it is best to say nothing, for the more who know it the more likely it is to get out. Though get out it will, eventually, whether we like it or not.

•  •  •

We travel from Wanstead to Havering, packing up, the Queen’s bed dismantled, all her jewels carefully stored and given into the care of one of the guards. The poor yellow lovebirds, flagging in the heat, are fetched from the house and their cage hung from a
hook on one of the carts to swing back and forth for another leg of the journey. It is the closest they will ever get to freedom. If I am bone tired from restless nights on itchy straw pallets, I cannot imagine how Katherine must feel. But she will not talk of it—she will not talk at all unless asked a direct question, and even then answers with a nod or shake of the head if she can. The Queen loves to travel, to be seen, relishes the crowds that line the road to catch a glimpse of their beloved monarch. They hold out little bouquets of wildflowers; pots of jam; sweetmeats; loaves that they can ill afford to give away; and occasionally a sick child is proffered in the hope that it will be cured of its ills by the Queen’s touch.

We are like a party of splendid ghouls with our legions of servants and guards, our fine apparel, and our faces wrapped against the dust and sun, just eyes peeping out. Most of the maids find it hard to suppress their excitement on progress, for we move about so much to unfamiliar places, which means they are less closely watched, giving more opportunities for romance. I am not so fond of plodding around the countryside in the blistering heat and, for the sake of my sanity, imagine myself back at Beaumanor, by the lake, reading or watching Aphrodite glide by. Sometimes I recite Latin verbs in my head to stop my thinking of the things I can do nothing about.
Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant
. I watch Katherine, who rides beside me listlessly. She is glazed about the eyes and silent as a slab of marble. I have stopped asking Jane’s council: her voice whispered from beyond the grave has nothing to say on this situation. It is beyond her experience.

In mid-July we come to Pyrgo, the house of my uncle Lord John Grey, who is my father’s brother. Dudley has arrived with an army of servants, all in new green livery. He is back in splendid favor, the puzzling thwarted investiture seemingly forgotten. I suppose, given his dead brother was married to my dead sister, he is our brother-in-law. So perhaps here, surrounded by family of sorts, Katherine will find a way to petition Uncle John and Dudley for help. I can think of no better plan. We all dismount and shake
the dust from our clothes in the courtyard. I suggest it to her in a whisper, as we are shown the way to the Queen’s rooms.

“But Uncle John is so terrifying,” she replies.

“He is gruff,” I say. “But he is family. And you are beginning to show. I heard Lizzie Mansfield remark how fat you’d become earlier. Kitty, you must say something.”

We are seated near Uncle John at dinner, and he is friendly enough, which gives me hope. But when the Queen arrives, she has Katherine moved farther down the table, away from her. From that moment she may as well not exist, for Uncle John, who has read the situation for what it is, assiduously ignores his out-of-favor niece. He knows which side his bread is buttered. He must have half bankrupted himself to put on this display of hospitality and is not about to waste it. I watch him as I try to eat, ingratiating himself with Dudley and the Queen, a counterfeit smile spread over his face. I try to catch his attention, but he goes out of his way not to see me.

We leave Pyrgo and nothing has changed save for Katherine’s belly, which seems to swell hourly. She keeps her loose gown about her even though the heat is intolerable. There is hardly a breath of air, and I fear she will faint and fall from her horse into the road. Most of the ladies take turns to sit in one of the litters, which are shaded with canopies, or the new coach, when the Queen is not using it. But Katherine is determined to stay mounted and has set her jaw in a stubborn clench. Despite my own exhaustion I remain at her side, thankful for docile Sygnet who lumbers along, giving me no trouble.

We spend a weekend at Ingatestone and then on to Beaulieu, near Chelmsford, where I am haunted by vague memories of my infanthood. We used to come and visit Cousin Mary here long before she was Queen. I remember the vaulted ceiling in the great hall and the particular incense smell of the chapel, and an image comes to me of Maman with a beaming smile. Those were happy times, I suppose, but I barely remember them. I imagine a world
in which Katherine and Hertford have set up house together and I am with them awaiting their firstborn. The thought makes me slack with sadness.

The weather becomes so close by the time we leave Beaulieu that we can only travel in the morning; by midday we need to find shade. All anyone talks of is the insupportable heat and how they have not slept a wink. My sister says nothing, though I know she lies awake tossing and turning every night, for I lie next to her. We can all feel a storm brewing—the air is thick with it. But we get past Felix Hall and on to Colchester, where there is still no letup, then on to St. Osyth, watching the bank of angry cloud accumulate ahead of us as we ride. We have just dismounted and entered the house when the storm finally breaks with an almighty clap of thunder that has all the ladies squealing. Echo is petrified, trembling in my arms, and the other dogs are cowering behind the mountain of trunks that hold the Queen’s effects. Katherine sits on the floor huddled with them—she looks as frightened as they are.

I watch from the window as jagged streaks of lightning slash the sky, illuminating the parklands, and I remember the recent storm that burned down the steeple of St. Paul’s. We passed the cathedral on the river a few days after it happened and saw the blackened stump where the spire used to soar up to the heavens. It was a sign, they all said—of what, each had their own idea. The rain comes at last, like a stampede of cattle over the roof, bringing with it a drop in temperature, a relief to us all. But the rain is torrential and falls for hours in relentless sheets, with water gushing everywhere, flooding the gardens, and the horses have to be moved from the stables for they are standing in six inches of water. Even inside the house the scullions have to run about with buckets to capture the leaks where the roof is letting in the rain.

Soon after we are on to Ipswich, a cooler ride, if a muddy one, and we are splatted up to the elbows. The Queen is in an ill temper, railing at everyone. Cecil, who joined our party at Colchester, circles round and about, trying to placate her constantly. She even
snaps at Dudley, which is rare of late. She has taken umbrage with the number of married churchmen in the city. Though why, I do not know, since she is of the new faith which champions wedded clergy. But Elizabeth is a conundrum that can never quite be understood. We all keep out of her way if possible; only Kat Astley has the nerve to deal with her moods. I keep Katherine well away, making excuses for her when it is possible. There is no hiding her belly now and my greatest fear is that her infant surprises us here in Ipswich. We are not all lodged together; Katherine, myself, and a number of others are thankfully billeted in a town house a short walk from the Queen’s lodgings, which at least gives us some space to breathe.

It is the dead of night when I overhear whispers from across the chamber where we are all bedded down on pallets.

“She is fit to burst.” It is Frances Meautas’s voice, I am sure, and even surer when I hear Lizzie Mansfield reply.

“Does she really think we can’t see?”

“Whose do you think it is?”

“Hertford?”

“Herbert?”

“That Dudley page who stares at her all day, eyes on stalks?” I hear a muffled giggling. My anger brews.

“It could be any one of the fawning varlets about court.”

“She is not known for her modesty, is she?”

There is more giggling and a shushing that seems to come from Mistress St. Low’s direction. If there is anyone among the ladies who will be sympathetic to Katherine, it is kindly Mistress St. Low. She is steady as a rock in the sea, and I resolve to persuade my sister to talk to her on the morrow, for we have gone beyond the point of keeping this secret. I lie awake listening to Katherine shifting and groaning all night. The poor girl seems unable to find a comfortable position and no wonder, given the size of her.

The first of the birds are singing, when she heaves her body up and plods from the chamber to relieve herself. I follow her
lumbering figure out and divulge my suggestion that she fall on the mercy of Mistress St. Low. She is entirely spent of spirit and agrees to do so, knowing there is no choice in the matter. Back in the room, and once the other maids are up and gone to their duties, I contrive to leave the two of them alone together and I wait outside, expectantly, like a husband outside a birthing chamber. I am not kept waiting long before the door is flung open and Mistress St. Low appears, utterly beside herself, distressed in a way that is completely out of character.

“I wish to God I had been left in ignorance,” she wails, rushing past me and down the stairs. “This will visit trouble on us all.”

I find Katherine lying on her side, spectrally white and staring at the wall. Her dogs stand uncertainly beside her; Stan whimpers quietly, apparently aware that something is very wrong with his mistress.

“I’d be better off dead,” she says, repeating it several times as if in a trance.

“Kitty,” I say softly, taking a cloth, which I rinse in the ewer and wipe over her forehead. “You
must
pull yourself together.” I help her to sit upright, turning over in my head all the possible actions she might take, rejecting them in turn, alighting eventually on one that at least makes sense. “I think you should put your trust in Dudley; he is our brother-in-law, after all. He can approach the Queen on your behalf—you know how she is with
him.
”

“Dudley?” She is looking at me as if I have suggested she offer herself up to the Devil himself.

“If anyone can persuade the Queen to show you clemency, then it is he. And,” I add, as it occurs to me, “when she discovers you are with child, she may well think it best to finally wed Dudley and spawn an heir of her own. Remind him of that. His sympathy is guaranteed if it means he may get what he wants.”

I can’t imagine why I have not thought of this before. I am beginning to think if I had been born a man I would have made a serviceable politician.

After some coaxing, Katherine resolves to speak to Dudley before the day is out, and it is just as well, for when we get to prayers several of the maids are whispering behind their hands and glancing over their prayer books towards her. It has already spread far enough, and it won’t be long before the entire Queen’s retinue is aware of Katherine’s secret, and Heaven only knows what calumny will be invented to add to the story with each retelling.

•  •  •

It is late afternoon when the guards come, as we finish supper and are filing out of the hall. Katherine had returned from Dudley’s quarters earlier bright, optimistic even—a little of her old self returned—and I had dared to think her reprieved. But here they are, half a dozen of them in full guards’ dress, red-faced and sweating in the heat, armed with halberds and one even with a musket.

One of them grabs her by the upper arm, no greeting. Everyone gawps. I find myself wishing, not for the first time, that Levina were here or stalwart Keyes, for moral support, but I alone must take her side.

“Lady Katherine is the Queen’s cousin,” I say, pulling myself up as tall as I can. “Treat her with some respect.”

My words must have some effect as the guard lets her go and, standing before her, unfolds a paper from which he reads the terms of her arrest.

The color drops out of her face and I fear she will faint there on the cobbles, so I take her hand and lead her to the side of the courtyard where there is a bench. One of the guards tries to tell us to remain standing, but I give him a look of such ferocity he is silenced before the order is fully spoken.

“Where are you taking her?” I ask the guard with the musket, who appears to be in charge.

“The Tower,” he replies. I think I can hear regret in his voice, but perhaps I am imagining it. I ask myself if Katherine is thinking,
as I am, of Jane and Father, and wondering why it is that all the roads in our family lead to that dreadful place.

“I shall accompany her on the journey,” I say. “She is with child and must be treated with care.”

“I am instructed . . .” He stops and is unable to look me in the eye. Then he drops his official tone, saying quietly, “She is to come alone.” He opens his palms at his sides and makes a small shrug, revealing a sliver of sympathy that gives me a pinch of hope that at least she will be well treated on the journey. He is acting on the Queen’s orders and has no choice. I feel a storm of rage gathering in me towards that woman who hasn’t an ounce of sympathy in her. It is as if time has collapsed and I am back on Mary Tudor’s lap, hearing that Jane is to be executed. They are not so different, those sister queens, their spirits both woven through with ruthlessness.

A small crowd has gathered to watch. They all know her; all the girls have helped her dress and they have sewn together, hunted together, shared jokes and trenchers of food, exchanged their secrets, but not a soul comes forward with a soothing word. Eventually it is Kat Astley who shoos them all away. I never thought I’d find a reason to be grateful for something
she
has done.

“Do you have a litter prepared?” I ask, and the man tells me there is one waiting in the outer yard. I can see clearly now from his expression that he is ashamed by this duty he must perform, arresting a young woman so burdened with child. He points through a nearby arch and I see that her litter at least has a canopy. I call out to one of the pages, asking that he fetch some pillows and blankets and her chest of belongings from our rooms. “And the dogs, the monkey,” I say, glancing at the guard, who makes to speak but then seems to change his mind and nods his assent. If I cannot travel with her, then at least she shall have the comfort of her pets.