Sisters of Treason (42 page)

She still hasn’t said a single word as she is bundled into the conveyance, just stares silently ahead, lifeless as a wax effigy.

“I will petition the Queen, Kitty,” I whisper, kissing her on both cheeks. She doesn’t respond, seems to have disappeared inside
herself, and it is with a leaden heart that I watch them heave her litter up and march off, with a cart trundling behind and more guards at the rear.

I go immediately to seek out Kat Astley. “The Queen will not see you.” She is folding linens and doesn’t look up as she speaks.

“I beg of you to ask her.” I try not to sound too pleading, too pathetic.

“Look, it brings me no pleasure to see her taken to that place in her condition. You think I am made of stone; well, I am not. I have already asked the Queen to allow you an audience but her answer was no.” Kat looks at me now, must see how surprised I am at what she says, that she has taken the risk of raising the Queen’s wrath in support of the disgraced Greys. “The words she used were, ‘That girl is from a family of traitors and she has shown she cannot be trusted—like her father. Do not ask me again, Kat. I will not see her, nor the sister, so leave it be.’ ”

“I see,” I reply, sitting down, feeling hollowed out by the whole thing, completely exhausted.

“She had a match in mind for your sister,” Kat says. “The Earl of Arran, I believe it was.”

I simply shake my head. I do not know this man, but only suppose that with a name like Arran he is close to the Scottish throne, another card in Elizabeth’s pack. Elizabeth likes to win at cards.

“The Queen had talked privately to me of your sister’s marriage prospects. She might not have been altogether against Hertford if the Arran thing hadn’t come to pass.” She straightens her gown, pulling the sleeves tightly down over her wrists, adding, “But it is too late now.”

She leaves the room and I am alone with the lovebirds, whose cage I open. “Go on, fly off. You are free.” But they look at me from their perch, heads tilted to the side, and do not take the opportunity to escape, as I have so often imagined they would.

V

Lord Beauchamp

August 1561

The Tower of London

Katherine

It is a beautiful day—not hot, not cold, with white puffs of cloud in a jewel-bright sky. A day for lovers, I am thinking, for I am trying to forget that a whole company of guards is marching either side of me across the courtyard before the White Tower. I don’t know why there need be so many of them. Do they truly believe I, who can barely lumber a few paces without the need to sit and catch my breath, would try to escape? I watch as a cart is unloaded of my effects, imagining this is an ordinary arrival, that I am merely visiting relatives in an unfamiliar place. A man struggles with my pets, Hercules wants to perch on his shoulder, and he is having none of it, shouting angrily; I will my monkey to bite him. Echo has spotted me and has begun to howl. The sound is getting right inside my heart, churning it up.

“Steady, Echo,” I call out to her, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. “We shall be together soon.”

I am shocked to see that Mistress St. Low is here too, arrived with another consignment of guards. She is being taken inside and I think I am not supposed to have seen her, as I am swiftly moved along, out of sight. Poor woman; had I not confided in her, she wouldn’t be here. I have a glimpse of the way my thoughtlessness, my desire to pursue pleasure at all costs, is like a pebble thrown into a pond, the ripples moving outwards. If I thought more of God it would all be different. But if I thought more of God I would not be me.

The Chapel of St. Peter is opposite. Seeing it, realizing that Father and Jane are buried there, I fully understand the gravity of my situation. The thought of them beneath the earth—my handsome father food for worms—swells in my head, expanding until I feel my skull will break in two. My throat constricts; a surge of panic runs through me. What did Mary say about asking Jane for guidance? I remember something. Closing my eyes I try to calm my breath, slowly, in and out, slowly, in and out. I see Jane’s face as clear as if she is standing before me.
I shall learn you to die
, she whispers. I question how I will manage to hold on to my sanity in this place, without Mary by my side.

I open my eyes to see a smiling, voluminously bearded man before me with a wriggling Echo in his arms, holding her out for me to take. I clasp her to me, reassured by the way she snuggles into the crook of my arm and laps at my hand with her tongue.

“Sir Edward Warner,” the man says, taking a bow and removing his cap to reveal a shiny pate—it is as if all the hair has fallen from his head and landed upon his chin. “I thought your spaniel might be of solace to you, my lady.” He reaches out and scratches Echo’s ear. “This is difficult, I know, and I am sorry to be your host under such circumstances. But it is my hope that you will be comfortable here at the very least, and that your stay will be a short one.”

I manage a smile, my panic receding. I make myself imagine it is not so bad after all. Then I realize the implication of what he has said and become agitated once more.

“There is a fine chamber in the Bell Tower,” he points across the green. “You will be comfortable enough there, I believe.”

A question insinuates itself into my mind. “Was . . .” I cannot say it. Warner, still smiling, waits for me to continue. “Was my sister housed there?”

“I think not.” His smile has dissolved. “But the Queen herself spent some months there.”

I suppose he is trying to reassure me that most who come here do not end on the block, and I find I
am
a little reassured. Perhaps
it is his kindly demeanor; perhaps it is the relief from the terrible anxiety of recent weeks, when I could see no way to turn and my secret was sucking all the life from me. I wonder about Mary, if she spoke to the Queen on my behalf as she said she would. I wonder if she is to be brought for questioning like Mistress St. Low, but Mary is clever enough to outfox her adversaries.

“Mistress St. Low . . .” I begin.

“Yes, my lady?”

“She was not party to any of this.” I point at my great belly. “She only knew when I fell upon her mercy. She never tried to conceal anything from the Queen.” The words are tumbling out of me now. “Please spare her from any anguish on my behalf. She is a good woman and truly loyal to Her Majesty.”

“She will be well treated, as will you, my lady.”

“And Hertford?” I am suddenly gripped tightly about the breast with a longing for him. “Will he come?”

“Herford has been sent for, my lady. Now, shall we get you settled?” He takes my elbow firmly, I let Echo jump to the ground and we walk towards my lodgings. “My wife is waiting there for you and the Queen has asked us to provide a servant girl, who, I hope is to your liking.” Then he leans in to whisper, “If not, then we shall find another.”

As we arrive at the doorway I can’t help but take another look at the chapel and I know, for everyone does, that the scaffold is erected on the green before it when it is required. That is the exact spot where brave Jane met her death. I wonder if I would be so brave—I wonder if I will need to be. She whispers again—
I shall learn you to die
. I try to remember the exact words she wrote to me, but it is so long since I saw it. I can’t even recall what became of that book.

Warner has to help me up the stairs, for I find myself faint. “A lady in your condition,” he mutters, “in this place. It is not right.”

The main room is spacious and round, with small window recesses at regular intervals, offering views of the Thames. I can see
a great effort has been made on my account as a bed with damask hangings has been put up, and in one of the window alcoves sits a red velvet chair, a pair of footstools and a purple cushion. Hercules is seated on the floor grooming himself, seeming quite at home.

I am greeted by Lady Warner, who says she supposes I would like to rest, “But perhaps you should like to first see outside,” she adds, leading me out onto the parapet where there is a sizeable walkway that leads to another tower. “The Beauchamp Tower,” she tells me, when I ask its name.

“Was it there that my sister was held?” I inquire, once more. I don’t know why but I feel compelled to know. She looks at me. Her demeanor is a little timid; she is younger than her husband by a decade, I’d say, and has the kind of smooth skin you want to reach out and touch, like the fine vellum they use for Bibles. I imagine her being scratched by that enormous beard.

She shakes her head. “I think not. I am of the mind it was her husband who was held there, but I am not sure of it. I was not here at the time.”

“Guildford Dudley.” It is a long time since I spoke that name. He died too. I remember when I first saw him at my wedding to Harry Herbert, how Jane could hardly bring herself to look at Guildford Dudley for all his handsomeness, and I couldn’t take my eyes off my own groom. Thoughts of that first wedding bring back the other: dear Juno and that nameless chaplain, Hertford and I kneeling before him, fingers entangled, as someone banged urgently at the street door. I am assaulted with fragments of my husband: the smell of sweat and horse when he has been riding; his fingernails, black new moons of dirt beneath them; the look in his eye when he wants me. With those impressions comes a rush of longing; whatever he has done or not done, I cannot help that feeling. It is love, I suppose, and I am in its grip. The past swirls about my head, Jane and Juno and Father all there with my love, but I push them away. I shall be all right here if I do not dwell on things. I must not think of absence or death or the dead; that is the rule for this place.

“Do you need rest?” inquires Lady Warner, making me realize I am speechless with fatigue and must look it. “Lie down, my lady. I have had Cook make a cold broth of cucumbers for you. It is what I liked when I was with child. I shall have the maidservant fetch it here. Her name is Nan; she is a sweet girl and will see to all your needs.” She settles me onto the bed and allows my dogs to clamber up beside me; she smells fresh, of cut grass.

I sink into the bed murmuring, “Feathers.”

“Feathers indeed, my lady. From my own cupboard. You deserve a featherbed in your condition.”

My eyes begin to well up, thinking of all those weeks on a thin straw pallet spread on the floor, and the constant fear night and day of my secret being discovered. Though I am in this place, a place of nightmares, now that my secret is out the fear has receded. They will not execute a woman with child, I reassure myself—but I must keep my thoughts in check.

•  •  •

I hear the key rasp in the lock and Nan goes to the door. It is Warner with another man, who bids her leave. I am sitting in the window combing the tangles out of Stan’s coat. Warner has removed his cap, exposing his shiny pate, and the other man is shuffling in his wake, wearing a sneer. He has a long pointed nose and an ill-fitting doublet, and refuses to look me in the eye.

“May I introduce my deputy, my lady?”

The man approaches, making a modest bow, lifting his cap a mere inch from his head and still not meeting my gaze. He holds a ledger carefully as if it is a gift from a lover.

“We have come to question you, my lady.” There is the hint of an apology in Warner’s voice. It strikes me that the Queen can’t possibly be aware of the kindliness of my jailer; he would surely lose his post if she was.

“Please, Sir Edward,” I say, as if we are in the great watching chamber or some other illustrious setting. “Be seated.” I indicate
for him to take one of the footstools as I have only the single chair and it would not be proper for him to sit on my bed.

“I think I shall stand,” he says. The deputy, I can see, is wondering how he will make his notes in his ledger while remaining upright. I indicate another of the stools to him. He plants himself there, his knees reaching up beyond his elbows, giving him the look of a spider.

“I hope you don’t find my manners lacking, that I remain seated,” I say. “I find my condition makes standing rather arduous.”

We continue in this polite vein for a while, he asking if I have all I need for my comfort and suchlike, skirting about the real reason for his visit. But eventually he asks artlessly, “Would you kindly tell me how you came to be with child, my lady?”

I am tempted to deliver him a quip at this point—
You, a married man and a father yourself, must know well how I came to be with child
—but, though I am encouraged to see my spirit has not deserted me, I resist and say nothing.

“What are the circumstances of your wedding, if indeed there was a wedding, if indeed the Earl of Hertford
is
the father?”

I say nothing of my secret marriage, for I fear I might find myself in deeper water for it. I know I have told of it to Mistress St. Low and to Dudley, but that was not like this, with a man scribbling each word I utter in a ledger. Anything that is said in here, in the Tower, cannot be unsaid. The more I think of it the more I find myself tangled in it, and cannot tell if it is a worse crime to have dishonored myself by getting an illegitimate child, or to have wed without the Queen’s permission. The latter is treason, that much I know. So I say nothing of that winter’s day at Canon Row; I do not tell of the fact that of the two witnesses, one is in Heaven and the other is—well, I know not where nor even who the other is—and I do not tell of Hertford’s will, that named me and which I have already managed to misplace.

“The Queen believes you are not truly wed,” says Warner, adding to my confusion. Is he playing some kind of trick to force me to incriminate myself?

“Is that so?” I try to keep my voice steady, but as I think of all the things that I do not say, my heart becomes heavier and heavier until I fear it will fall through the bottom of me. I am so afraid to say the wrong thing that I say nothing except, “I trust Mistress St. Low will not suffer on my account.”

“I am to question her myself.” It is the deputy who spits this out, scrutinizing me for any response.