Innocent Traitor (13 page)

One thing intrigues me as we hasten along behind the groom. I have noticed that, in all the courtyards, someone has painted red crosses at intervals along the walls.

“Why has this been done, sir?” I ask our guide.

He grins. “Well, my lady, it’s been done in the hope that no man would think of pissing on such a holy symbol.” I feel my cheeks burn and wish I had kept my mouth shut, especially since we have now traversed several of the royal apartments and are only a door or so away from the Queen.

A gentleman ushers us into Queen Katherine’s presence chamber, where there are more crowds of people waiting to present petitions, beg favors, or just gawp at Her Majesty in all her glory, should she deign to make an appearance. Pushing through the throng and opening a farther door with a flourish, the gentleman informs us that only privileged persons are allowed beyond this room to the privy chamber. How extraordinary it is that I, a humble child, should be honored above all those gorgeous and important-looking lords and ladies, who are jealously staring at us as we pass.

The great door closes behind us, and at the far end of an airy, flower-adorned apartment stands a red velvet throne on a dais beneath a fine canopy of estate. There sits Queen Katherine, her ladies standing on either side. I espy my mother among them, tall and haughty in crimson satin slashed with gold. I feel her hawklike eyes upon me, constraining me to conduct myself with the dignity due to my status. Gravely, eyes cast down, with Mrs. Ellen following several paces behind, I advance toward the throne with as much grace as I can muster, then spread my skirts and execute a perfect curtsy, bowing my head demurely.

“Rise, child,” says a kindly, musical voice, and I lift my head to see the Queen smiling at me with great warmth. In truth, I have rarely seen such kind eyes as the ones that are now twinkling in that homely, yet regal face, and I cannot help returning the smile.

“Why, your lady mother has been overmodest in her accounts of you,” declares the Queen. “You are a very pretty girl, Jane. Is she not, ladies? And eager to begin your studies, I hear.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say. My mother’s eyes are boring into me.

“Well then,” continues Katherine Parr, “you must come and sit by me and hear the good news I have to impart.” She indicates a stool at her feet, and I gingerly settle myself on it, trying to keep my back straight. The Queen does her best to put me at ease, admiring my gown and stroking my hair and cheek. I did not expect the Queen of England to fuss over me in the same way that only my devoted Mrs. Ellen does, and I am not sure how to react, so I sit stiff and unresponsive to Her Majesty’s caresses and listen to her speaking of the Lady Elizabeth and Prince Edward, and how well they are progressing at their lessons.

“And now, since you are seven years old and quite a young lady,” she continues, “it is time for you to begin your proper studies. Your lady mother and I have given much thought to the matter, and I have by good chance found a tutor for you. His name is Dr. Harding, and he is from the University of Cambridge, like Dr. Cox and Dr. Cheke, who both teach the Prince. Dr. Harding is an amiable man, and very well learned, and I am sure you will like him.”

I cannot speak my gratitude. The words will not come. I am overwhelmed by the Queen’s kindness and care for me. Belatedly, as I open my mouth to thank her, I feel a vicious nudge in my back from my mother’s knee. How can she think that I will forget my manners? Does she not realize that I am nervous?

“I am most grateful to Your Majesty,” I say in a hurry. But the Queen is looking at my mother with a slight frown. I realize that she has espied that nudge. She turns to me, leans forward, and pats my arm.

“Do not be afraid, little one,” she murmurs. “I am sure you will do very well, and I will watch over your progress. Dr. Harding will report personally to me.” So saying, she looks at my mother, and her gaze is no longer so kind.

The Queen calls for refreshments to be served and leads us into a small adjoining chamber, beautifully paneled in oak, where a cozy fire crackles on the hearth. On the walls are portraits of the King and a lady in a gable hood, and by the fire sit two ladies, who rise as Her Highness enters.

“Please be seated,” says the Queen warmly. “We can dispense with ceremony here. My Lady Mary, may I present to you your cousin, Lady Jane Grey.”

I curtsy before an old, short, stick-thin personage in a gaudy purple satin gown bedecked with jewels and a large rosary. The hair beneath the pearled hood is red and wavy, and her face is blunted with a snub nose and a pursed mouth.

“You are welcome, Cousin,” says the Lady Mary. I am surprised by her voice, which is deep, like a man’s. I venture a polite smile, but the gray eyes are sad and unresponsive.

“And my Lady Elizabeth,” the Queen is saying, “meet your younger cousin.”

Elizabeth seems friendly, but she is more like a grown woman than a girl of eleven. She has a pointed chin, a sharp nose, and black, piercing eyes that hint of mischief. Her rose-pink gown shows off a slender figure, and her beautiful hands, with their long, tapering fingers, are posed affectedly against her wide skirts. She too has the Tudor red hair, and I am gratified to see that she has a sprinkling of freckles on her hooked nose. I am not the only one cursed with them.

We smile at each other as the Queen picks up Elizabeth’s sewing from the chair.

“The Lady Elizabeth has been stitching a cambric shirt for her brother the Prince,” she says, beaming, “although I have a faint suspicion that she does not much care for needlework.”

Elizabeth laughs. “Your Majesty is very perceptive! It is a terrible chore to me. I would rather read a history book or be at my translations.”

“But you are so good with your needle,” protests the Queen.

“I told you, I hate it.”

“You see how willful she is.” Katherine smiles. I am amazed at the easy familiarity between them. I would never dare jest like that with my mother, or even with Mrs. Ellen. Even to hint that I have no liking for my tasks would be considered a crime to be severely punished. I glance at my lady, but she is, astonishingly, laughing along with the rest.

A maid of honor enters, bearing wine and comfits. The banter continues.

“Now, Elizabeth, do not be greedy,” says the Queen. “Our guests should be served first.” Elizabeth pulls a wry face and sits down. Stools are drawn up by the fire, and we help ourselves from the buffet. The Queen seats herself in a high-backed, carved chair and bids me sit on the stool next to her. She sips her wine.

“You shall show me how well you read,” she commands, taking a book from a table. It is my favorite: Sir Thomas Malory’s tales of King Arthur. The Queen opens it and places it in my hands. Seated upright, taking care still to keep my back straight, I read aloud in a voice that sounds surprisingly steady and clear, doing my best to put expression into the passage.

Engrossed in the story unfolding before me, and concentrating so hard on pronouncing long words correctly, I do not at first notice the door opening, and only when all present rise to their feet do I realize a splendidly dressed old man has entered the room. He is a big person, almost as broad as he is tall, and leans heavily on a stick. His coat is of cloth of gold trimmed with fur; his fingers are laden with rings. Everything about him bespeaks magnificence, but I can see the bulge of bandages under his tight white hose.

The ladies sink into deep reverences, skirts billowing, and I realize just that little bit too late that this must be my great-uncle the King, who looks so much older than in his portraits, so I do likewise, praying he has not noticed my tardiness.

“Rise, ladies, be seated,” he commands in a high, imperious voice. “Well, Kate, you have a merry party here. Who is the young lady who reads so eloquently?”

He beams down at me as he stumps across the room to the chair that the Queen has vacated.

“Sir, this is your very own great-niece, the Lady Jane Grey, daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorset,” the Queen tells him in her soothing, musical way.

“Then, Frances, I congratulate you on your daughter,” the King says to my mother. “This is a fine girl you have.” He turns to me. “How old are you now, Jane?”

“I am seven, sir,” I tell him, as steadily as I can, for I am abashed to speak to such a great personage.

“You’re small for your age,” he observes. I wince inwardly until he adds, “But pretty for all that.”

“The girls in my husband’s family have their growth spurt late, Your Majesty,” my mother tells him. My ears prick up—I have never heard this before. “She is little, but she will grow.”

My uncle chucks me under the chin affectionately.

“She’s a true Tudor, and no mistaking it!” he exclaims, and my lady visibly preens with pride. I relax with relief. I have made a good impression on the King, and she must be pleased with me.

His Majesty greets his daughters, raising them from their curtsies and kissing them.

“I see you are kept busy at your needlework, Elizabeth,” he says. She forbears to tell him how much she dislikes it, but smiles sweetly. “How is your Latin progressing?”

“I am reading Cicero, sir,” she tells him proudly. “I have the book here. It is
De Finibis Bonorum et Malorum.
Would Your Majesty like me to read a passage?”

The King nods approvingly.

“Quamquam,”
she begins,
“si plane sic verterem Platonem aut Aristotelem, ut verterunt nostri poetae fabulas, male, credo, mererer de meis civibus, si ad eorum cognitionem divina illa ingenia transferrem, sed id neque feci adhuc nec mihi tamen, ne faciam, interdictum puto.”

I watch in admiration, wishing I could be as clever as the Lady Elizabeth, and that I could fully understand what she was saying.

The King is pulling a face.
“Gloriosus inveteratus turdus!”
he retorts, at which everyone begins laughing. Noticing my bewilderment, he leans forward and chucks me again under the chin. “It means ‘pompous old thrush,’” he tells me, grinning.

“Bene loqueris,”
says Elizabeth. “Well said!” And that has us all giggling.

The King turns his attention to the Lady Mary. “How is your health, Daughter?”

“I fear I have been plagued by headaches again, sir.”

“You are taking the powders I had made up for you?”

“Yes, sir. And I am feeling a little better.”

“Excellent. Now perhaps I can cheer you up further.” The King’s face grows impish. “Would you ladies blush to hear a naughty jest? Nothing too coarse, mind you, just a clever joke to put a smile on your faces.”

“By all means, my lord,” says the Queen, smiling.

The King grows confidential. “How, then, can you tell if a traitor is well hung?”

There are bursts of giggles from the women. I can’t see the joke, and the Lady Mary’s face is a puzzled blank.

“How can you tell?” asks the Queen.

“You can’t get your finger between his neck and the rope!” says the King, laughing, sparking more mirth. I smile politely.

Mary is frowning slightly. “I don’t understand it.”

“What does
well hung
mean? Surely you know, my lady?” asks my mother.

Mary shakes her head.

“I truly believe she hasn’t a clue,” smirks His Majesty. “Let’s try you on another, Daughter. What is the difference between a husband and a lover?”

“I—I don’t know,” replies Mary.

“About four hours!” mutters the King with a smirk, provoking squeals of laughter. I am still lost, and Mary looks no more enlightened.

“I regret that the meaning entirely escapes me, sir,” she says.

“Then I give up,” he retorts. “It’s a comfort to know that my daughter here is so virtuous that she is innocent of any bawdy language.”

He turns to my lady mother, his expression growing serious again.

“How are the Lady Jane’s studies progressing, Frances? Kate here has told me something of them.”

My mother is only too eager to tell him about all the fine plans she is hatching with the Queen for my education and makes much of the fact that it will be similar to that of Prince Edward and the Lady Elizabeth.

I stand mute, listening, unable to fully believe that I am not only in the presence of the King and Queen, but also witnessing the easy and amiable relationship between them. The lack of formality, the relaxed atmosphere, and the way the King condescends to joke and laugh with us like any lesser mortal amaze me. It’s hard to reconcile this jovial old man with what I have heard about His Majesty in the past; I know that he is not always so merry a companion. My mother once said there are days when his bad leg so pains him that he is like a baited bear, and there are also tales of him boxing the ears of his councillors when they displease him, or losing his temper at any slight impertinence. This is the terrifying monarch who had two of his wives beheaded, yet here he is, before my very eyes, a jolly and caring father sitting with his wife and daughters, discussing domestic matters as any other father would, and drawing the rest of us into this charmed circle to put us at our ease.

All too soon, the idyll is over. The King has a council meeting to attend and bids us a hearty farewell, planting a robust kiss on Queen Katherine’s mouth. Soon afterward, it is time for us to go home, but before I leave, the Queen draws Mrs. Ellen aside and begins speaking to her in a low voice. As she does so, I notice her glancing in my mother’s direction. My mother is deep in conversation with another lady and does not notice.

Mrs. Ellen looks startled and briefly shocked, but she quickly recovers.

“My lady is most diligent in the matter of the Lady Jane’s upbringing, Your Majesty,” I think I catch her saying.

“But is she overharsh?” The Queen’s voice is not so subtle. I can hear her clearly. My mother chats on in ignorance that she is being discussed. I pretend to study the portraits on the walls.

“She is strict, madam, like many parents.”

The Queen is silent for a moment. “I charge you, Nurse, to look to the child,” she commands. “She is a good girl, but she does not appear to be a happy or confident one. I hope I am mistaken in my suspicions. If so, I beg you to forgive me.”