Just a Girl (8 page)

‘And yet your fondness for Lord Seymour was well known and much remarked upon.'

‘Indeed, he was a kind stepfather, but it was his wife, the queen, whom I loved. I thank God that she did not live to see this day.'

‘Perhaps if she had, events may not have come to such a pretty pass.'

‘You are wise, Master Tyrwhit, as was the late queen. The admiral, I fear, is not.' The slanders on my reputation upset me; I knew there was no one in London to defend me, no one to deny such damaging accusations. Worse, I knew that I had brought such rumours down upon my own head, thanks to my foolish behaviour at Sudeley. Hidden in my wide skirts, I balled my small fists against the memory.

‘May I go with my servants to London, Master Tyrwhit, to prove to all who see me that my virtue remains intact?'

‘No, my lady. My instructions are to remove only your servants.'

‘Will you take steps to restore my reputation, to refute the rumours?'

‘I will send a message, my lady, saying that the rumours that you carry his child appear to be untrue.'

‘
Are
untrue, my lord; they do not merely
appear
to be. They
are
untrue.'

I watched from the window as my servants mounted their horses for the miserable journey to London. Poor Kat had no love of horses. She sat awkwardly and clung to the pommel for dear life and one of her escorts had to slap her steed on the rump to make it move forward with the others. I watched her bounce ungainly down the avenue, her headdress askew, her skirts billowing behind her. I sensed rather than saw her fear and alarm, both at the long ride to London on a strange horse and on whatever horrors awaited them once they arrived.

Yet I knew she had been a fool, too. Why had she not warned me when the admiral had first begun playing those foolish games? Why had she not sternly warned him off and talked to my stepmother? Why had she encouraged him in his dangerous play, why had she flirted with him herself? I was now fourteen. She was meant to be my chaperone, my guardian – not my partner in crime. I turned back to my interrogator and saw immediately that it was useless to blame others or hope for rescue. My servants' fate as well as my own rested on my shoulders. There was no one left to help us now. I said a silent prayer that my natural caution and my wits would stand by me, so that I would make no
false step. It was at this moment, I now think, that my long dance beneath the shadow of the axe began.

To be interrogated by an expert is an agonising experience. What helped me survive it was my innocence. I have never forgotten this. It has influenced all that I have done – and not done – since that day. I knew that I had not conspired with the admiral about marriage. The last time I had seen him, his wife was still very much alive. With an effort of will I dismissed the admiral from my mind. My major dread now was for myself and for Kat and my cofferer, who were guilty of nothing but foolishness and romantic notions.

Sir Roger Tyrwhit asked me his questions, over and over again, all couched slightly differently, all polite, yet sinister. He was skilled, he was cold, and sometimes when he asked me a question I had not anticipated, I found myself admiring his technique. But I pride myself that I was his match. He did not trip me up. I could tell by his very persistence that he had not wrung from me the words he was looking for, and as our time together went on, I started to flatter myself that in turn he had begun to admire me. We had begun to respect one another as worthy adversaries. He was becoming convinced, if not of the truth of my answers, then of the fact that they were not going to change. And he was wary around me, conscious always of my status, that I was second in line to the throne, so I might be powerful
one day and that it was better we stay on good terms. Yet still I went to bed at night and, when at last I slept, I dreamt once more of my mother and the thin line of blood running from the small depression at the base of her neck down her chest and disappearing into the cleft of her breasts. Like a chimera, the dream-mother changed her shape. Sometimes the head she bore was that of Queen Catherine Parr, or Kat Ashley, or, one horrible night, Thomas Seymour. In this dream, I followed the path of the dripping blood from the soaked neckline of the rich gown, up, up, up, until I saw the head my mother wore that night, and then I woke, sweating, panting, starting up from my sheets in fear.

Eventually, Thomas Seymour, Baron of Sudeley, Lord High Admiral was executed on Tower Hill. When Roger Tyrwhit told me the news the shock was great. I had known the news was to come, but my inquisitor's words cut down through my chest and onto my heart like a thousand razor-sharp pieces, slicing it to ribbons. Unable to trust myself to maintain my calm demeanour while bearing such pain, particularly as I knew his penetrating eyes watched me more closely at this moment than at any other, I turned away and looked silently through the window. The rain fell steadily and I watched the drops run down the glass.

‘What say you, my lady? Have you no words to
mark the passing of the admiral? He was your loving stepfather, if nothing else.' He was not even that, I thought to myself, and then I thought about how to answer Sir Roger. It had to be done, I knew that, and the words I chose would be my final test. They needed to be just right: the words of a woman sorry to hear of the death of a man she has known well, but not of a man she has loved. They needed to be mournful, yet dispassionate. God, as always, came to my rescue and, through His grace, the sentence formed itself in my mind.

‘Today died a man of much wit and very little judgement,' I said, and turned back to Sir Roger and smiled.

He returned my smile with admiration. ‘Indeed, my lady, that he was, exactly.'

Then I caught sight of Lord Winchester. There was no sign of admiration in his expression.

Later, alone in my chamber and still oddly dry-eyed, I thought of Queen Catherine Parr's motherless and now fatherless infant, Mary. How quickly all her mother's bright shimmering hopes for her had turned to utter dust. Curiously it was this thought that at last brought me the release of tears.

I grew more cautious in the aftermath. I wore dark clothing, little jewellery and I carried my prayer book at all times. I had a reputation to protect. Indeed, as I had too late realised, a reputation was all I had. I hoped the storm would pass and, to that end, I kept my head bowed and isolated myself at Hatfield. My servants were returned to me, a little thinner and a lot wiser. They were shaken by their ordeal, immediately conscious of the stakes we were playing for. Kat seemed suddenly older; new lines had appeared on her forehead and around her eyes. There was even a streak of grey at her temple. For the next year or two, my attendants, my household, all of us stayed quiet and still. World events went on without us. The admiral had his posthumous revenge: Edward Seymour fell from favour with his brother's death. He was removed as lord protector, to be replaced by John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland and the father
of my playmate of old, Robin Dudley. I continued my studies, my hunting, my quiet and uneventful life. I no longer fretted like a child for high days and holidays. Peace and obscurity became my dearest friends.

By the summer of 1550, I felt secure enough to venture out from my haven at Hatfield. Much time had passed. I had grown from an impressionable child into a cautious sixteen-year-old. Time enough surely for tongues to stop wagging and for old scandals to be forgotten. After more than a year of refusing invitations, I agreed to attend the marriage of Robin Dudley and Amy Robsart. I wanted to attend, because I was fond of Robin Dudley. He reminded me of the happiest times in my childhood, when he and my brother and I had shared our lessons in the palace and our play in the palace gardens. And our friendship had been forged by something stronger even than that: the frightful memory of a woman's screams shattering a rainy afternoon.

Because he was the son of the new lord protector, I knew that no expense would be spared for the wedding feast. The minstrels would be the most melodic, the fools the most foolish and the guests the most glittering. Robin was young, but he understood very well that a wedding feast is a time for cementing friendships and alliances, both personal and political. I was pleased to be invited, because it suggested that my status had
not entirely been forgotten. I was also pleased to have a reason for a change of air and scenery. A change of company.

I had not met his bride before and, once I had, what I saw of her did not interest me. She was young and pretty enough, but she said little and giggled much. Her mother watched over her carefully and, once I had arrived, they clearly wanted me to be fully aware of their newly elevated status as relatives of the lord protector. So they gave themselves silly airs and preened themselves like pigeons. I have never been overly fond of my own sex and women like the Robsarts only confirmed my low opinion.

But it was wonderful to see Robin again; he had grown handsome and charming. His wit was as sharp as I remembered and his flattery highly skilled. Wary as I still was of attractive men who made much of me, I could not but admit it was pleasant to be flirted with.

‘You grow ever more lovely,' he whispered to me as we sat in the great hall, the night before he was to be wed.

‘And you ever more foolish,' I said, looking straight into his eye.

‘No, I mean it. I remember you as such a funny, skin-and-bone, whey-faced little girl.'

‘And I remember you as a plaguing, teasing, harum-scarum boy.'

‘I made you laugh, I recall.'

‘Indeed – and I made you cry.'

‘When? When did you make me cry?'

‘When we played hide and seek and I found you out so quick, even though you had been so smug about the clever hiding place you had found.'

‘And, prithee, however did you find me so quickly? I thought you a witch with magic powers.'

‘No.' I laughed. ‘I peeked.'

Now it was his turn to laugh. ‘What unseemly behaviour for a princess.'

‘Perfect preparation for royal life, it would seem to me.' It felt sweet to sit and banter with him. As I sipped the excellent wine his father had provided and laughed with the handsome groom-to-be, something inside me that had been clenched began to soften and expand. It was a delicious feeling, a sort of gentle unravelling, like finally teasing out the knot in a skein of thread. But my sense of ease was soon interrupted by a low voice muttering something nearby. I looked and saw that people in their turn were looking in our direction and beginning to whisper. Immediately I stiffened. What were they saying to one another behind their hands? Was it mere fancy or did they lower their gaze too quickly when they met mine? The rumour-mongering might not have stopped. Perhaps people still gossiped about the princess and the admiral. Perhaps my virtue
was still being speculated upon and, in the way of the world, considered to be lacking. I suddenly felt I could not be seen enjoying myself in public with a handsome young man. I got to my feet and bowed to my host.

‘Thank you, my lord, for your hospitality,' I said, ‘but I must away to bed. I had a long journey from Hatfield and I am sleepy. You would be well advised to follow my example, for tomorrow is your wedding night.' He looked up at me, surprised at the abruptness of my departing, but I was incapable of explaining my change of mood. Once I had noticed the whispering, no amount of will or commonsense could push away my fear that the slender protection I still had – my reputation – was under further threat. So, to avoid seeing the hurt and then the irritation that would follow my rudeness, I turned on my heel and left. People bowed to me as I passed them, and I acknowledged them as protocol demanded. But inside I was furious, hating them all, hating their self-righteous, simpering, sanctimonious faces.

When I reached the privacy of the grand chamber allotted to me, I threw myself on my bed and wept. Was I never to be able to simply enjoy myself? Must I always be on guard and aware of other people's eyes, prying and speculating about every move I made or word I said? Even as I lay there, angrily cursing my fate, arguing with myself that it would not always be so, I
knew the true answer. It hissed into my ears and could not be avoided.

The next morning my pleasure in the occasion had fled. I do not like this incessant marrying. I am nervous on wedding days, as nervous as if they were my own. I take no pleasure in speculating on the young couple's future. Marriage is the most dangerous of estates, it seems to me, particularly for women. But at this wedding, as I sat in my place of honour to watch the dashing groom and blushing bride plight their troth, my sympathy was with Robin, poor Robin, saddling himself with this milk-and-water wench. She would not suit him for long. Perhaps she would die, as so many did, bearing their child and release him. The bride's mother wept noisily in the next pew, irritating me beyond measure. It was unseemly for a woman of rank to display her emotions so. The lord protector knew how to behave. He sat ramrod straight and solemn faced on the other side of the aisle. Was he pleased with this alliance? The Robsarts were wealthy, but of no importance. The Dudleys were of high rank, and set fair to increase their grasp on power.

Why are people so foolishly sentimental about marriages? Maybe love features in the weddings of common folk, but among the highest in the land, breeding, money, influence and rank are all that matter. My thoughts strayed to the previous lord protector,
Edward Seymour, now languishing in the Tower under sentence of death. Then, as further proof of my gloomy cast of mind, my thoughts descended deeper into the past and settled on all the grasping, ambitious men I had seen rise and then fall. First, Cardinal Wolsey, not a man I had known, but who had lost Hampton Court and then his life, and Thomas More, Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Seymour, and soon, or so they said, Edward Seymour. I glanced back along the pew to the impassive face of John Dudley, master of England, at least until my brother reached his majority. I wondered if John Dudley was wiser than the others and able to navigate the stormy seas of power better than most.

‘Wilt though love her, hold her and cherish her until death do you part?'

Watching a man marry a woman casts a shadow over my spirit. The words of the service drop like weights on my chest. To this day, I find it hard to take pleasure in the announcement of any nuptials. Now, as queen, I have a household full of young ladies to whom I act as guardian. Parents clamour to have their daughters accepted into their ranks, with an eye to the young men they may meet and the important marriages they may make. The daughters of the finest families in England now sleep outside my door. It is my job, nay, my sacred duty to keep them safe and virtuous. My father seemed to regard his queens' ladies as a storehouse of both
mistresses and future wives, but my ladies will not find me either so predatory or so lax. Few of my ladies are far below me in age and most are older, but let that not mislead them. They shall find me as wary a guardian as any old dame with whiskers on her chin. I shall not accept simperings and blushings as reasons to wed.

Why do all women but me seem to want to marry? Can they not see the death and misery that follow so often on the heels of weddings? And their husbands make pious vows on their knees that they quickly break. I see them, I have always seen them, great lords and gentleman pushing some young maid up against the wall in a dark corner, married, most of them, to a woman they leave languishing with their brats in the country. If they have spent any time outside the schoolroom, other girls must have seen such things too (and some of them have done more than just watched, I'll warrant). Do they think themselves and their charms so exceptional that they alone will find a faithful husband? And do not prate to me about God-fearing men; they are as bad as, if not worse than, the rest. I cannot abide a married priest preaching virtue from his mouth and then slinking home to bed his lady wife like any common sinner. My sex deserves what it gets, since it seeks its doom so fatally, so blindly, without thought of the consequences. They sign their own death warrants, half the time, when they make their mark on their marriage papers.

I will dwell no more on the marriage of Robin Dudley and Amy Robsart. Suffice to say I was impatient to leave. Having looked forward so much to escaping the confines of Hatfield, I was now eager to return. But I endured, held myself stiffly and apart, behaving with all the dignity and detachment I could muster, so that no one could talk about me or make further dents in my reputation. I maintained my distant demeanour until the wedding service was completed, the wedding breakfast was in our bellies and the celebrations had begun in earnest. Then the musicians struck up a lively dance, the guests took up their places and my hauteur deserted me. I love to dance and it had been a very long time since I had anyone to dance with but my dancing master.

I hastened to my place among the women and, as we began the movements, I again felt a softening inside, a relaxation, a timid sense of enjoyment, but I kept my face impassive, expressionless and my eyes averted. Not by a look or a blush did I want to give rise to further talk, instead I concentrated on every leap. I wanted each to be the highest and most elegant and each landing to be the softest and most effortless. Even while I kept my face stiff and cold, this movement to the music was exhilarating.

How I love to use my limbs, to ride, to dance, to stride speedily from one place to another! When I am
alone with my ladies and in my nightshift, I like to leap from floor to bed. How I envy men then, their legs unencumbered by heavy skirts and their waists unrestricted by corsets. They are free to travel alone, to move with purpose and vigour, while we must sit, like so many niminy piminy misses, with our eyes lowered, as if it is possible to be fascinated by embroidery, while our limbs itch to be active.

Is that a bird I hear? Or is it merely the rustling of a rat in the wainscoting? If it is the latter I must remember to send for the ratter and his master on the morn. Royal apartments or no, the vermin get in. I woke yesterday to catch the glisten of red eyes as a giant black rat scuttled across my rich carpet. I screeched and, not only was my lady – Mary Sidney – startled upright in the truckle bed, clutching the covers in terror, but the guards were in my room upon the instant with swords drawn. The rat had disappeared, however, and I looked a foolish, frightened female, cowering on my bed with my knees drawn up under my chin. I was ashamed to be seen so and to see the half scornful, half amused looks those rough men exchanged.

‘What villainy is this?' I demanded, trying to recover my dignity.

‘We heard you scream, Your Majesty.'

‘Scream? I made no scream.' I looked daggers at Mary Sidney, compelling her to remain silent. ‘I slept
until you blundered in here in your great boots.' I pulled the covers closer to my chin. ‘Cannot a maid sleep unmolested in her bed? Have you so forgotten your duty as to attack me? Why are your swords unsheathed? Is this treachery?'

Their scornful looks had disappeared and in their place I saw fear. It gratified me, and I felt like their queen once more, not a terrified girl. They began to shake and fumble as they made haste to sheathe their swords, backing away from me, bowing and stumbling over themselves in their desire to disappear.