Sisters of Treason (26 page)

“I
have
heard it,” I say before she can finish.

I cannot bear the thought of poor Amy Dudley and her malady, with her husband and Elizabeth just waiting for her to be dead so that they can marry. People have said
I
am cruel—Harry Herbert has said it, and he was not the first—but I could never be cruel like that.

The musicians start up a galliard, just a pipe and a drum initially. Dudley offers his hand to the Queen, who surprises everyone by accepting. Across from where I stand, Norfolk and Cecil exchange a look, as Dudley leads Elizabeth to the center of the room where we have all crowded back to make space. They begin to move through the steps, eyes locked. He struts like a cock in a henhouse, in his pinked silver doublet and sleek black stockings, with a smirk on his face. I see the way his hands take ownership of her body, slipping behind her neck, stroking her cheek, tight about her waist—everyone must see, for he makes no effort to hide it, seeming not to care that the Queen appears loose—apparently she cares little either. Cecil is stone-faced.

I still have half an eye on Hertford, watching him speak to Norfolk; they are chinking their cups together as if celebrating something. Then he makes for the door. My stomach drops with disappointment as if it is suddenly filled with pebbles. People are joining Dudley and the Queen to dance now, and Juno pulls at my hand, but I am rooted to the spot by the weight in my gut, not daring to ask her where her brother might have gone. I suppose it is to some romantic assignation under the stars in the Nonsuch gardens.

“Will you not dance?” she asks.

I shake my head, for I fear if I say anything in this moment I will lose my composure altogether.

“
Now
, they must be lovers,” she whispers, nodding in the direction of the Queen and her prancing partner.

“The Virgin Queen,” I say, attempting to compose myself, behave normally.

“Nether hole!” she breathes. We both snort with laughter, and for a brief moment my belly is lighter.

I feel a tug on my sleeve. I turn, and there is Hertford.

“But—” I start, wondering how it is he has reappeared so suddenly beside me, like a genie out of a lamp.

“Come outside,” he says so quietly I barely hear it. I feel my insides melting. Juno is dancing with the Norwich boy, laughing as he lifts her in the air.

“What for?” It is all I can do not to fall into his arms.

“To talk.”

“To talk? Do you think me a fool?”

“No, Kitty, I mean it.” Then he leans in, whispering, “Just to talk to my precious Kitty.”

And my self-control is altogether lost, as if I am atop a bolting horse. I allow myself to be led out through the gardens, where the lake shines as if the moon has fallen to earth. There is hardly a breath of air and the music from the banqueting hall trickles out into the still night. He has hold of my hand; I dare not look at him in case I was mistaken and it is some other lad who has tempted me out into the dark with him. But I
do
look and see his dear, dear profile beside me, and I can barely resist the urge to reach out and touch his skin to see if he is real. We sit on a bench beside a willow and listen in silence to the frogs croaking out their night chorus.

“I have missed you so very much,” he says eventually, mumbling into his collar. “It was as if—” He stops and I fancy I can hear the whirr of his thoughts. “It was as if I were torn to pieces, as if my whole world were fragmenting. All the time you were at Durham House I feared . . . I feared . . .” He cannot seem to finish.

“Feared what?” It is all I can do to stop my own feelings from gushing out of me.

“All the rumors . . .” He hesitates; then blurts out, “I feared you would marry another.”

“But I did not,” I say.

“Thank God, Kitty. Thank God.”

“You did not behave as you should have.” I attempt to sound stern.

“You are right, my precious. I put my standing at court over my love for you. I thought I could harness my feelings but”—he squeezes my hand and I feel quite sick with desire—“I could not. I would rather die, than feel that I had not your favor.”

“Elizabeth must not know.” I remark the irony; that it is I now who insists upon secrecy. My mind interrupts me with the thought of the “illustrious marriage,” but I push it away. There is no need to think of any of that now, and besides, the Ferias are away. “I am hanging by a thread with Elizabeth. If she were to think—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I would not put you at risk, my sweet. I shall not breathe a word.”

“Only to Juno,” I say. I am on the brink of telling him of my hopes of promotion to the privy chamber, but I stop myself. I would rather he loved me knowing I am not favored by the Queen. But neither do I mention the inscription on my plate, for it is true what Juno said: “enemy” is a strong word, and I fear scaring him off.

“Only to Juno,” he echoes. I feel his arm slide over my shoulder, and I nestle into him as he strokes my hair. I believe I have not felt so content, so safe, since Father used to take me in his arms and squeeze me in a bear hug, whispering that I was his favorite and tickling me with his whiskers. “I would wed you tomorrow, Kitty Grey,” he whispers.

And I would wed you
; I don’t say it, but I think it. Then we are upon each other, unlacing, untying, unhooking, with urgent fingers desperate to press skin against skin. In my mind sits the thought that were I to marry him, Juno would be my sister-in-law. His mouth seeks mine. I sink into his kiss as if it is the first I have ever had; and then, lifting my disarrayed skirts, I climb to sit astride him, not caring that my bare knees are rubbing against the rough stone of the bench. As he fumbles with his laces I slip my hand around his neck, where I can feel the soft bristle of his newly shorn hair, and beneath it the throb of his pulse.

“Just to talk?” he breathes in my ear.

“We
are
talking, aren’t we?”

November 1559

Sheen Priory

Mary

I read to Maman from Katherine’s letter. “I am reinstated to the privy chamber. The Queen has relented at last.”

Maman brings her palms together as if thanking God. “I never thought it possible. I must say, Mouse, it is a great relief . . . a good sign.
Tu crois que c’est bon signe?
” Maman’s voice is a croak, despite her levity at Katherine’s news. She has been unwell these last weeks and can’t seem to shake off her malady. We are both sitting as close as we can to the hearth without getting burned, and Maman is wrapped in furs. The weather is the worst kind, both bitter and damp with a freezing drizzle that prevents us from taking the air. The summer birds have gone to warmer climes and the winter arrivals have begun. Last week I came upon a flock of redwings picking berries at the edge of the woods predicting the long, cold evenings ahead.

“I
do
think it a good sign, Maman. It shall keep her out of Feria’s clutches and evade that secret marriage he was trying to broker.”

“God only knows what mischief was behind that.”

“Is there more news of it?” I ask. “Has Levina heard anything more?”

“No,
Dieu merci
. Feria remains on the Continent. The French are less of a threat these days. But you can never tell what those Spaniards are likely to spring. I heard they had a boat moored on the Thames to smuggle her off under darkness.”

“They truly planned to snatch her away?”

“As rumor would have it. But that won’t happen while she’s under the Queen’s nose.”

“I sometimes wonder if she isn’t attracted to the danger of it all.”

“As an infant she was always the one to do the very thing she was warned against. I used to despair of her, Mouse. Not like you; you were good as gold, or Jane . . .”

“I wish she would come here, Maman. She would be safe here.”

“You know Katherine.” Maman exhales loudly. “She can’t bear the quiet.”

I read on: “The Queen called me up to her, in front of everyone in the privy chamber, and said, ‘Lady Katherine, your privileges are restored,’ and then she warned me to be on my best behavior, which I have been, I assure you, Maman. She has been most unusually pleasant to me.”

“Good news indeed. But you never know with Elizabeth.”

“She asks that her dogs and the monkey be sent to her.” They have been here with us, causing havoc. They chew up the carpets, gnaw at the bed legs, and, in the case of Hercules, steal foodstuffs from the stores. Maman had the monkey banished to the stables. I couldn’t bear to see him cuffed and chained, which was the alternative.

“Oh, Mouse,” Maman had said. “You cannot even bear to see a monkey’s freedom curtailed.”

At least in the stables he has the run of the place, and the lads like to play with him, so his life is not so dull. I have become quite attached to one of the spaniels, Echo, who sleeps on my bed and has taken to following me about like a little shadow. I will write to my sister and ask if she may stay at Sheen with me.

Katherine tells, in minute detail, which of the Queen’s ladies have the most beautiful dresses, what fabrics they are made of, what colors, which furs they are trimmed in, how fine their embroidery, and who has new jewels, which stones, set how, worn in which way. She has news of Peggy, too, who is to be married to one of the Arundel cousins early next year. “Peggy is bursting with excitement at the idea of her wedding,” Katherine writes.

Peggy has written to me herself of it, how it goes a little way to
assuage her grief for her brother who died quite suddenly in the summer. I am glad for her, and if I search my heart, there is a part of it that thinks: if Peggy can marry then there is hope for me. But a harelip doesn’t hinder the birthing of healthy infants. Marriage and women are for breeding, after all. What use is a woman who likely cannot carry a child, I ask myself, but I try not to dwell on my deformities. Jane always said it was my challenge—that I would become a better person for it, closer to God. If she were still with us, she would have produced some nieces and nephews. I sometimes imagine I can hear the whoop and giggle of children about the house.

Katherine also tells at length of the gossip about the Queen’s preoccupation with Robert Dudley. “She has given him rooms next to hers. Kat Astley is beside herself and Cecil is apoplectic. Erik of Sweden’s envoy threatens to leave court in high dudgeon, and the Habsburg ambassador is sulking,” she says. But we already know, here in Sheen, of Dudley’s goings-on, and of his poor sick wife—all the tongues in England are wagging on it.

“Elizabeth is like Homer’s Penelope with all her suitors,” Maman says dryly. “I am thankful not to be a part of that any longer. And glad that neither are you, Mouse.”

“I am cut of the wrong cloth for court life.”

“There were times,
quand j’étais jeune
 . . .” She seems to drift off in thought. “There were times, Mouse, when it was quite wonderful. When your father was courting me.”

“Did you love Father once?” I ask. I know well that by the time he met his death she loved him no longer, that she blamed him, his ambition—and his foolishness—for what happened to Jane.

“It was not a great passion, like some you hear of. But I liked him well enough. He was dashing and comely and given to grand gestures. When one is young those things seem to have importance.” She looks at me, then adds, “I suppose you are not so shallow, Mary. You have a different view of things, always have. Even very young, your thoughts were—
comment dire?
—so profound.”

“Perhaps that is the impression I give,” I say. “Because it is always assumed that I am not vain and shallow. But truthfully, Maman, I
have
had thoughts, thoughts of romance, like any girl my age. My shape only makes me different on the outside.” I am thinking of the scribe Percy, who served Maman once. He stirred something in me. Percy is long gone and never looked twice my way as it was. “But it is true, I am not like my sister.”

“Yes, Katherine, she is governed by her emotions—bless her. She is her father’s daughter through and through.”

“Maman?” I ask.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why, if you have been so worried for Katherine, did you not strive to remain at court yourself to keep an eye on her?”

“Do you mean why did I marry your stepfather?”

“In a way I suppose I do mean that.”

“Chances for happiness are few in life, Mouse. Sometimes they must be grabbed with both hands. I truly believed that Katherine would join us eventually.” She pauses. “Once her wild oats were sown.”

“I think Kitty’s wild oats will never be quite sown.”

She laughs at this, but it provokes a painful fit of retching that has her groaning and gasping for breath. I settle her and stoke the fire to keep the chamber warm. “And the other things, the package and . . . that?” She points to another letter that arrived from court with Katherine’s. “What is that one?”

I tear it open, reading it. “It is Peggy. She has leave from court and would like to come to Sheen.”

“Poor girl, she must be feeling the loss of her brother. It is harder when death comes to the young. Do you remember him?”

“Only vaguely. I was very young when he was with us at Bradgate.”

“Anyway, I am happy for her betrothal, and I am glad she’s coming to us here. Will you reply to her, Mouse?”

I am glad too, at the thought of having my close companion here with me. There is always a variety of cousins and suchlike
about the place, but none I am fond of as I am fond of Peggy, with her easy straightforwardness.

“And the package,” I say. “Shall I open it?”

“Let me see.” She holds out her hand for the parcel. “It is from Veena.” The delight in her voice is palpable. She unwraps it. “Look, it is Foxe’s book. In Latin. Did you know it was Veena who smuggled documents to Foxe for this book?” I remember the roll of papers I concealed beneath my clothes that day. It seems long ago now, the old Queen’s reign, though it is only a single year. Maman is shuffling through the pages searching for something, finding it, holding it out to me. “Look, Mary.”