Prisoner of the Queen (Tales From the Tudor Court) (26 page)

From behind, Master Stokes
said, “But, alas, my lady, Mr. Jamison is needed. Her Grace requires appropriate attire.”

The man stared at me smugly, straightened his back and smoothed his tunic
, wiping water from his shoulders.

“There are other tailors, sir,” I replied, keeping my
angry gaze steadily on Mr. Jamison.

“
None so fine as him, I am afraid. Her Grace requested his presence specifically.”

“I assure you, sir, she will not keep this man in her employ after what has just happened.”

A loud sigh came from Master Stokes. “On the contrary, my lady. I have already asked the question, and she has said Mr. Jamison is to stay.”

“
If he is to remain at Sheen in Her Grace’s employ, then I shall take my leave.”

“As you say, my lady.” Master Stokes turned, dismissing me.

I wanted to shout at him for his rudeness, but I knew when an argument was futile. It was easier for him to dismiss me than to face the wrath of my mother. No man would bite the hand who fed him—unless, of course, that man was my own sire, Henry Grey, and it had been evident from the beginning that Master Stokes was nothing like my father.

“Mr. Roberts, let us see to a proper burial of my poor
Rex. Mrs. Helen, pack my things. I am returning to Hanworth as soon as possible. I cannot remain in a place that would harbor a man so careless as to find the life of my precious pup to be worthless.”

Those around me nodded solemnly, some shook their heads, but no one advised against my departure.

Ned lifted me, his strong, warm presence a deep comfort to the coldness I felt both inside and out.

Chapter
Twelve

As though hard destiny swore they should,

consume themselves with woe.

The Lady lost her freedom straight,

the Gods had so decreed:

Her knight by sudden flight abroad,

made virtue of a need.

~Thomas Churchyard

Elizabethan soldier and poet

August 5, 1558

Mother
had not contacted me at all since I left her home. Nor had she written or made a visit to Her Majesty regarding our wish to marry, and I feared she never would.

My
summons to court was abrupt, and just when I was beginning to enjoy Hanworth again. Jane steadily grew stronger by the day, and when Ned hadn’t been sent on some nonsensical errand by his mother—as he was about now—he was happy to oblige me in walks in the garden—but he did not offer up any more kisses.

My lips fairly burned for his to brush against mine… But
, alas, he was more gentlemanly than ever. Could it be he did not want to pursue our relationship further should the queen deny our request?

“Her Majesty
has not been well since last she thought she was with child. I heard it said she is not expected to recover. Her physicians, in fact, say she is near death’s door. And yet, she refuses to name a successor, despite the work of the Privy Council to have her name Elizabeth her heir. Some even fear she may look to her cousin, the Catholic, Mary Queen of Scots,” Lady Anne said as we supped in the comfortable yet elegant dining hall on simple fare of stewed mutton, berry tarts and almond milk.

I frowned. “W
hen was Prince Philip in England last?” Heretofore, Her Majesty had sent him letter after letter begging him to return, but all of her exhalations had fallen on deaf ears. I recalled only a visit the previous year for a few short months, when Mary had once again felt she was pregnant. But, alas, this past March, when the child should have been born, there was nothing. Phantom pregnancies were brought on by nerves or the constant problems she’d had with her woman’s curse, and still some suspect a cancer of the womb. Poor Mary. She’d wanted nothing more than to provide her country and her beloved husband with an heir. Perhaps this was God’s way of saying that, indeed, the Catholic Church should no longer occupy England, that her wars with France had cursed us—cursed her rule. Her sire, Henry VIII, would roll in his grave ceaselessly if he knew she’d lost him his prize—Calais and the right for English monarchs to style themselves king or queen of France.

“
’Twas only those few months last year, prior to her suspicions of a second pregnancy. I do believe he’s broken her heart. The ambassador to Spain sent a letter to His Majesty from Queen Mary, begging him to come to her side, since she is not sure she will survive, and he has denied her. Some say he’s already putting plans into place to win the hand of Princess Elizabeth.” Lady Anne’s countenance gave no indication of her feelings on the topic.

“
Can they be so certain she is deathly ill, Your Grace?” Jane asked, nibbling on a tart, her cheeks full of color. “Perhaps she is with child again and just ill from morning sickness?”

My eyes widened at Jane
’s innocence. Lady Anne tilted her head as she studied her daughter with sharp dark eyes.

“
’Tis not possible for her to be with child, Jane—” The duchess cut off her own words, her lips twitching in a smile. “Perhaps it is time we found a worthy nobleman for you, my dear.”

“
Oh, Your Grace, I could not possibly marry now…” Jane trailed off, not seeming at the moment to have a valid excuse as to why. Her face flamed redder than the strawberry tarts we dined on.

“We shall discuss it at a later date.”
The duchess’s shrewd gaze slid to me. “What of you, Lady Katherine? Have you word?”

Lord knew t
here had been many discussions, none of which had moved beyond a conversation or machination. I was so frustrated! All of my dreams were within my grasp, and now my mother would seek to punish me for leaving her house after poor Rex’s brutal death. But I could not relay that to Lady Anne. “I have not been made privy if there is.”

Lady Anne nodded. “Yes, I suppose Her Grace
wishes to discuss your betrothal with Her Majesty in person. Your position within this realm is of great import. You cannot marry any nobleman. But I do believe Queen Mary will find Beau worthy of your hand. Her Majesty and I were quite close once, and I would still consider her an ally, as I hope she would find me.”

I nodded, wishing Lady Anne could whisper
in the queen’s ear. “Indeed, my lady. Queen Mary has oft spoken highly of you.”

Perhaps it might
have been best for Ned instead to seek out the queen, as he’d originally planned. But if he did not have the permission of my mother, we could yet again stir her ire.

As if reading my mind, Lady Anne replied, “
Best leave those decisions to those with authority to make them, Katherine. You cannot marry without permission of the queen, and I advise against doing anything rash that would jeopardize either of your well-beings.” With that, the duchess stood and excused herself.

August 8, 1558

The queen’s presence chamber was filled to the brim with courtiers, but Her Majesty was not in attendance.

I swept through the crowd and was let into Queen Mary
’s own bedchamber by the liveried yeomen outside her door. Even from where I had stood beyond the door, the stench of sickness seeped from her chamber. Urine, feces, vomit, disease, rotting flesh… A combination that nearly had me turning to run for the freshness of outdoors. I was reminded of my mother’s sickbed. How could the physicians see this as fitting? I felt the wood-paneled walls closing in on me, the carved-wood ceiling with its paintings of saints and angels falling on top of me. I had to force myself to breathe.

“Lady Katherine,”
she said from her bed, where I could barely make out her form beyond the drawn sheer curtains, as she huddled beneath large coverings. “Cousin, come closer.”

I walked forward, feeling as though I
’d been hit by a blast of heat—along with the stench. A roaring fire filled the hearth. The shutters on the windows were clamped tightly closed, and candles were lit everywhere. Several priests walked about the room, muttering prayers, incense smoke seeping from the round silver thuribles swaying from linked chains in their hands.

I walked to the bed and curtsied, taking her gnarled fin
gers in my hand and kissing the large ruby of her coronation ring. Her flesh looked bloated, and a fetid smell came from her mouth filled with rotting teeth. I tried not to breathe too deeply. Standing opposite the bed was Elizabeth. Her face was deathly pale, lips pinched, and her gaze—directed at me—was full of venom. I forced myself not to take a step back. Why should she be so angry with me? Mary was family. Was I not allowed to console her in her hour of need? Did Elizabeth feel that I was a threat, even now?

“Majesty.”

Queen Mary’s voice was gravelly as she said, “It has been so long since last we saw you.” She took a deep breath, as if talking was a laborious chore. “Did you find Hanworth accommodating? Is Lady Jane’s health improved?”

Elizabeth huffed
. I followed her with my eyes as she crossed her arms over her middle and walked toward a table set up with wine. I tried to ignore her hatred of me, even though her disgust at the attention Mary afforded me was more than evident. I turned my gaze back to the expectant queen.

“Indeed, Lady Jane
’s health is much improved, and she has accompanied me to court along with the Duchess of Somerset, her mother.”

“Ah, Anne.” The queen smiled
, nearly toothless, and those teeth left quite black. She appeared to stare at some far-off memory. “We should like to see her. Summon her for us when we are through.”

“Indeed, Madame, I will.”

The queen started to cough, great wheezing draws of breath that shook her body. When the fit concluded, she waved me closer. “Lift us.”

I did as she
bade, plumping her pillows behind her so that she sat up in her bed. Was it possible I could approach her about Ned? For certes, if she was as ill as those at court alleged, she would want to see me happily wed? Oh! When would I see Ned again? We’d only just parted, but there was no telling when he would be about again. Not everyone came to live at court, and he had business and learning to attend to, his own estates to look after. How I wished I could be wherever he was.

“What
’s this?” Queen Mary asked, gazing at my face.

Elizabeth whirled from the table, her venomous gaze catching mine. Surely I imagined her lips turning in a snarl. She set her wine glass down with a loud clink and briskly walked back toward the bed.

My vision snapped back to the queen, and I cocked my head questioningly. “Majesty?”

“We
have seen that look before.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she squinted, and she pursed her lips in a frown. She held her hands up as if to examine the ravages of age on once-youthful skin. Her hands were gnarled at the knuckles, the skin wrinkled and riddled with brown spots. Veins ran the length of the tops of her hands, feeding into the thick fingers filled with rings.

Suddenly self-conscious
, I glanced about the room for a looking glass. How did she view me? But instead of a looking glass, Elizabeth loomed in front of me again, examining my face, as if trying to probe my mind, her eyes filled with fire.

With a great weary sigh,
the queen rasped, “It is the look of a woman in love. I myself used to have such a look about me,” she said, reverting from the formal use of we/us. “As if the whole world lay open at my feet. You have not gone against us, cousin, have you? For I gave you no permission to marry. Who is the man?”

Fear snaked its way up my spine and gripped my heart. I clutched my hands in front of me and gazed at the floor, unable to look at the sickly penetrating gaze of the
queen.

“Indeed, I have taken a fancy to a particular nobleman, Your Majesty, but I would never go against you, nor do anything that would jeopardize my
position and reputation within this realm or in your heart. I have been the most virtuous of women and most loyal subject.”

“Humph… Who is he?”
Elizabeth asked.

Mary nodded her head. “Yes, who?”

“Have you no word from my mother?” I asked, pretending Elizabeth was not there staring daggers. I truly did not want to answer the queen’s inquiry on my own and suffer the wrath of my mother, Frances Brandon—and also what seemed to be the wrath of the future Queen Elizabeth. My fingers twisted in my grasp, my knuckles white.