Sisters of Treason (46 page)

April 1562

Whitehall

Mary

I have a letter, smuggled out of the Tower. In it Katherine tells of my nephew—Beech, as she calls him; how well he suckles; how enchanting is his gummy smile. He has his first tooth, she says. He is seven months old already, and I wonder if he will have a mouth full of teeth before I know him, if I ever shall. The thought of it twists my heart out of shape.

She also writes of how, occasionally, the doors go unlocked, allowing her and Hertford to continue meeting.
So it is not as bad as you’d think, Mouse.
I am so very glad to know that her endless optimism remains alive and well in spite of everything. But then
she
isn’t party to the rumors that find their way to my ears—all the gossip about what Elizabeth may or may not do with the disgraced couple. As support for the baby’s claim grows, so the Queen’s rage burgeons.

I snatch a moment alone to read it once more in the peace of Keyes’s rooms, before I am needed in the privy chamber, and find myself gazing listlessly out across the water at the archbishop’s palace. From here I had watched the barge transporting Katherine and Hertford upriver day after day in February, seeing them at a distance disembark at Lambeth Palace opposite, to testify before a Church Council. The object of this exercise, for the Queen, was to publicly prove their marriage to be void. In the absence of either poor Juno or the priest who conducted the nuptials, it was easy to give the Queen the verdict she wanted. My nephew is now officially deemed a bastard, though I know better. I am thankful I wasn’t called to testify, for I couldn’t have lied before all those bishops and would likely have ended up in the Tower myself for harboring secrets—there is some advantage in seeming so insignificant, it seems.

I pray this judgment means my sister and her husband have shifted a step away from the executioner’s block. I waited each day to catch a glimpse of dearest Katherine as she was taken inside for a further grilling. Seeing her small shape, rendered smaller by the accompaniment of guards, all a good foot taller than she and seeming taller still with their long halberds rising upwards, caused a lump to form in my throat—a lump that will not be dispelled.

I hear the door creak and turn to see Keyes, alone.

“There is something I must show you,” he says quietly, closing the door and pulling a limning out from beneath his doublet. I can only imagine that he wants to show me the likeness of a woman he
is courting, to see if I approve; so I am surprised to see the image is of my sister holding her baby and that it is almost identical to the one I have hidden beneath my own stomacher. I take it and on closer inspection it is different, clearly a copy. Levina’s likeness has a background of azure and this is dark, almost black; even Katherine’s eyes are dark and not the cornflower blue they should be, and her hair is flame red rather than pale as summer straw. But it is certainly meant to depict her and little Lord Beauchamp; his tiny hand is tucked beneath her fur collar exactly as it is in my own portrait; Katherine’s long fine hand sports the pair of rings I remember so well hanging from the chain about her neck; but the style of painting is wrong, it is too precise, it lacks Levina’s looseness, the unmistakable character of her brushwork.

“This is not Mistress Teerlinc’s work,” I say, taking my miniature out from beneath my clothes and holding them together for him to see.

“No,” he says, “When you see them side by side it is clearly a copy. I fear there are a number of them circulating among the reformers.”

“Where did you come upon it?”

“Dorothy Stafford passed it on to me. Said it belonged to one of her cousins. She was concerned, thought you should know. It would not do for the Queen to get wind of it.”

I feel a tightening about my guts. “Can I take it?” I ask. “I will show Levina. See if she knows how this came to be.” He nods and then seems almost to say something, but stops himself, his gray eyes swiveling towards the window and back to me again. “What?” I say.

And he just says, “Go carefully.”

•  •  •

When I arrive at the privy chamber, the Queen has not appeared yet, and, despite a group of musicians playing, I can hear a heated discussion going on beyond the door where the council are meeting. Spotting Levina alone sketching in a corner, I join her, showing
her the limning from Keyes, which she examines for some time, eventually saying quietly, “Who has seen yours? It is the only one.”

I touch the place where the miniature sits invisibly beneath my dress. “Not a soul, Veena; I wear it even when sleeping.”

“I don’t understand.” Her face is etched with worry. “This is a copy and there are too many similarities to make it coincidence. Someone has taken great care to make this appear to have come from my brush. The untrained eye would assume it so.” She studies the image once more. “Look at the differences though, Mary. Her collar here is ermine, the fur of royalty, and the color of their hair—not golden but flame red, as is Elizabeth’s, as was her father’s.” She lowers her voice further, though we can’t be overheard where we are in the very corner of the chamber. “The implication is clear, that this infant is of the royal line. The Tudor line. And look here, the limning Katherine wears pinned to her dress; it shows no face in it. Hertford has been erased altogether. I don’t like this, Mary.”

“Keyes says there are a number circulating.”

“This is exactly what we didn’t want to happen.” Levina folds her fist about the limning and slaps it into the palm of her other hand with an intake of breath. “I know whose work this is.” She lowers her voice further still. “He was about my workshop when I was putting the final touches on the original.”

“Hilliard?”

My disbelief must register in my voice for she replies, “To think I trusted him. It could only be him, Mary; he has a fine hand for one so young
and
he comes from a family of staunch reformers.”

“As do we all,” I say. “Perhaps he thinks he does us a service.”

“That’s exactly the problem; everyone thinks it is what the Greys want. I suppose these images are circulated in every quarter by now.”

“It is only the Queen’s opinion that matters, Veena. Not a single one of the Privy Council would keep Katherine in the Tower were it not the Queen’s wish.”

I am aware of Frances Meautas watching us; she is trying to listen but must be too far off. I look up and hold her gaze.

“What? Have I a wen on my nose?” she says, thrusting her hands to out either side in pretended innocence. She is too thick-witted to be much of a threat.

The doors are opened and the council members begin to file out behind the Queen, who breaks away from them, slumping into her chair and calling Lady Knollys over for a huddled conversation. Cecil hangs back, seeming in hope of a quiet word with her, but she waves him away with a dismissive hand and he skulks from the room.

“Where are our yellow birds?” she booms, pointing to the empty birdcage hanging in the window, the latch of which I discreetly loosened earlier. “This must have happened at least a dozen times. Did we not ask for their cage to be properly secured?” Levina turns to me, raising her eyebrows minutely. I try to look guileless.

“Your Majesty’s birds must be excessively clever to know how to operate the latch,” I say. The Queen gives me a blank, hard stare. “In intelligence they clearly emulate their esteemed mistress.”

“We see your wit is sharp as ever, Lady Mary.” I detect a glimmer of the admiration she once had for my repartee.

I spot the pair of escapees perched up high, fluffing their feathers, hidden among the fixings of the wall hangings; no one else has noticed them. A little frisson runs through me, as if it is I who is balancing there, gazing down upon the Queen and her ladies. Then, driven by the sudden inspiration of my vengeful demon, I sidle over to Kat Astley, whispering, “Frances is the culprit. I saw her let them out.” I should be ashamed of such mendacity, but I am not. I cannot always be good-as-gold Mary.

A hubbub of excitement starts up in the corridor, distracting attention from the birds. A man I have never seen before enters, removing his cap to display a head of dark hair slicked to a sheen. His face is shiny with grease, as if his pomade has run. He whispers something to Lady Knollys, which she conveys to the Queen,
whose face breaks into a smile as she says, “Send her in, then. We have been waiting for her.”

The man slides away, returning almost instantly accompanied by a female dwarf, who appears terrified, her eyes swiveling. Her hair is inky dark and pulled back from her high square forehead into a single plait, which reaches almost to the floor. She looks towards me, presumably as I am the sole person present of the same height as she. I smile and her mouth twitches with the promise that it might be returned, but I can see her hands are trembling and the smile never quite appears. “May I present Ippolyta the Tartarian, Your Majesty?”

Lizzie Mansfield is gawping and, as Ippolyta makes an attempt at a deep curtsy, which is difficult given the shortness of her limbs, Frances Meautas lets off a snort of laughter that ripples out among the maids. Ippolyta’s dress is unusual and I can only suppose it is Tartarian in style, the skirts cut high enough to expose a fat pair of calves, crisscrossed with red ribbons that attach a pair of pink dancing slippers. The man, still bowing and simpering, addresses the Queen.

“I have taught her a modicum of our language, Your Majesty, but she is not much given to learning . . . quite savage, really—”

“We are told she has a fine voice,” interrupts the Queen. “Sing!”

The man begins to clap in a rhythm and Ippolyta, having taken a deep breath, puffing her small chest forward, begins to warble out a song in her own tongue, twisting the tune about the strange-sounding words. She seems to come to life with the music, a smile spreading itself over her face. It is true, her voice is finer than any I have heard, and all are captivated, seeming to forget her odd shape that had them staring with their mouths agape only moments ago. Even Frances Meautas is listening blissfully, her eyes tight shut.

When the song is finished Ippolyta curtsies awkwardly again and the Queen begins to clap slowly, with the rest of us taking her lead. “We shall have her sit beside us.” The Queen does not
speak directly to Ippolyta but to her oleaginous keeper, who wears a smug look now. “And, Lady Mary,” she turns to me, “you will sit with us too. She will feel more at home that way.”

I doubt that the proximity of a crookbacked midget will make this poor dwarf feel more at home. It is likely that the unfortunate girl was torn unwillingly from the bosom of her faraway family, and brought here to this unfamiliar place to become a queen’s plaything. But if there is a chance that my presence might alleviate her fears a little—I notice her hands are quivering once more now the song is finished—then I am happy to do so. Besides, it gives me an unexpected opportunity to converse with the Queen.

I sit beside Ippolyta, smiling stupidly, not quite knowing how to communicate. “Your song was exquisite,” I say and she tilts her head to one side, shrugging slightly, making it clear she comprehends nothing. Then she picks up the dangling end of the Queen’s girdle as a child might, examining the trinkets hanging there, a jeweled fan, a tiny prayer book, a limning of Dudley set in gold.

The room holds its breath, wondering how the Queen will react to the audacity of this girl who deigns to touch the royal garb. No one has yet worked out Ippolyta’s position here, whether she is a kind of fool, in which case her behavior is acceptable, or merely a curiosity, or even—and I laugh inwardly to think how some of the maids would react to it—a new maid of the chamber. For all we know she might be a princess in her own land. But the Queen laughs and chucks Ippolyta beneath the chin, saying, “You are not the only one after our jewels,” and, turning to me adds pointedly, “Is she, Mary?”

“No, Your Majesty.” My voice is barely more than a whisper; the implication is clear.

“What think
you
of your sister’s behavior? You have not exactly been vociferous in her defense.”

My throat is blocked and dry, as if I have ingested a length of
linen. “I think her foolish, madam.” I am being tested, scrutinized, but I will not let this woman get the better of me.

“She
is
a little fool if she thinks to get her rump on our throne.”

“If I may say so,” I clasp my hands together to prevent them shaking as I say this, “I think her a fool for love, no more. She has not the wit to think beyond her own nose.”

The Queen huffs at this, and I fear I may have overcooked my goose. Then she looks me directly in the eye, saying, “And what do you think we should do with her, Mary?”

I am about to say that it is not my place to make decisions of such importance, but with a flash of insight I see my opportunity. “I think, madam, that she is of little consequence, if one takes primogeniture as the basis for one’s beliefs on the matter.”

“You would deny your family’s ambitions in the name of primogeniture?”

She seems to inspect my very soul with those dark eyes of hers, but I continue. “I think of the good of England before the good of my family, for one is but a small fragment of the other. I know well enough of the terrible bloodshed of the last century when the crown was passed from cousin to cousin and the direct line was denied . . . there was not an English soul untouched by suffering.” I cannot read the Queen’s face; it is the blank one she wears to play cards—to win.

“But my Scottish cousin will not renounce her claim to my throne. It seems she does not want to wait till I am gone. Would you have me favor such treachery?”

“She can dream,” I say, feeling bold as brass now. “But she will never have the power to oust Your Majesty.”

The Queen stretches out her hand, and taking the frill of my collar between thumb and forefinger, rubbing them together, says quietly, “Not stupid like your sister, are you, Mary?”

I force myself to look directly at her, to show her I am not afraid. She is smiling. “Indeed, no,” I say.