Sisters of Treason (44 page)

I watch the river change color through the day; sometimes it is
rich and green and flat, sometimes choppy, the boats it carries at awkward angles, and in the early morning, when the cool sun is low, it is a length of silver satin. A few showers hail the approach of autumn; my belly has become stretched and round, the navel popped out. I wish I could show it to Mary, let her feel her the hard curve of her nephew’s heel shifting slightly, or the flutter of a little hand. I long for Mary almost as much as I long for Hertford and pray constantly for their safety—that we might all be reunited once more.

And then one morning, like any other, Ball pokes his head around my door, proffering a posy.

“Ball,” I say, in mock surprise, “flowers for me? You are becoming quite the soft heart these days.” I throw him one of my best smiles; I have developed quite a rapport with my two jailers, who sometimes bring me sweetmeats and even snippets of information. I know from them that Mistress St. Low has been released and is back with her family, which makes my heart a little less heavy.

Ball flushes red, glancing behind him to ensure we are alone, before he stammers, “N-no, my lady, these are from your husband.”

My head is full of fireworks. “Hertford is here?”

“He is, my lady. Arrived last evening, late.”

“Shall I see him?” We are whispering, and I am prickling with excitement as I take the flowers, bringing them to my face, burying my nose in their scent.

“Sadly, no. Warner must verify your stories separately.”

“But where is he held?” I ask.

He says nothing, but inclines his head towards the Beauchamp Tower, which is clearly visible beyond the window. “He will be there later. But
I
never told you so.”

I run my finger across my lips to demonstrate that they are sealed.

“And say the flowers are from me, if anyone asks.”

I nod. “Why? . . . Why do you do this for me?” I have never had to ask this of a man before. I always knew why they would spring
to do me service. Not now though, with my great belly and stuck in the Tower in disgrace.

He looks behind him, to verify once more that we are not overheard. “Because I believe you are the Queen’s rightful heir, my lady. And I would not see that Catholic Scotswoman on our throne. I am not alone in this opinion.”

“Who else, then?”

“Others—I cannot say.” He stops and seems on the brink of naming someone. “But you do not know this. And,” he adds, “do not assume you can trust
anyone
.”

I run my finger over my lips again.

There is a shuffling on the stairs. It is Nan with a pile of clean linens.

“Thank you for the flowers, Ball, it is most kind,” I say. “They remind me life goes on out there and that the fields are full of wild blooms.”

Nan smiles at me, saying, “How lovely. I will fetch a jar for them and take the pets down to do their business.” She leaves the linens on the bed and then leaves me, hoisting the monkey onto her hip as if he is a baby and calling for the dogs to follow her. I hear the key crank as Ball turns it and I am alone with my posy.

Though there is no note with it, the flowers themselves are as good as a letter. The purple heartsease says “you occupy my thoughts” and the sprinkled mist of baby’s breath says “everlasting love,” as do the white anemones with their yellow pollen hearts. But the anemone tells me more than just a story of unfading love, it also stands for the truth, and the parchment circles of honesty need no explanation, the green fronds of chervil too: they all speak of sincerity. The message is as clear as if Hertford is in the chamber talking to me himself; he is telling me I can speak the truth, that he will do so too, and that our accounts will match. Something lifts away from my heart with that realization. I am lighter, as if there is more space for air in me. My baby shifts and I am spilling over with love. Bringing the flowers to my nose, I breathe in their
bouquet again, finding something else there, something I had not noticed before: rosemary. Rosemary for remembrance, remembrance of Juno, and for a moment I imagine Juno’s soul has found a new home for itself in the heart of my infant.

The sound of the lock brings me back from my thoughts. It is Nan with the pets. She arranges the flowers in a jar and goes to place it beside the bed. “Not there, Nan,” I say. “On the windowsill.” I point to the window that looks out on the Beauchamp Tower, so if my dearest Hertford should look out when he is taken there, he will see that I have received his message. I can feel the excitement gathering in me at the thought of his proximity. It is as if the very air I am breathing contains fragments of him.

I move my chair to a position from which I have a clear view of the Beauchamp Tower, waiting until eventually I see the flicker of a candle within. I stand, holding my own light to make a silhouette of myself, willing him to seek me out, wondering if he knows I am here so close, no more than a dozen yards away. I do not see him, though, and Nan eventually urges me to go to bed, but my sleep is fitful and I am jolted awake by that dream of death again.

As soon as it is light I leave my bed, with Nan snoring on her pallet, and open the door to the walkway. The dogs run out in a frenzy, scaring the pigeons. I stand for a moment looking at the door to Hertford’s prison—solid planks of oak weathered to gray, punctuated with black nails, just like mine. He is beyond that door. I am not abandoned. I notice Stan is whimpering, his nose pressed to the crack at the bottom, realizing with a thrill that he has caught Hertford’s scent. I lumber over as fast as my great shape will allow and, without thinking, drop to the floor, bringing my own nose to the base of the door, imagining I too can catch a whiff of my love.

“Something wrong, my lady?” It is Nan, standing in her nightgown, looking half asleep still and puzzled to see me sprawled thus.

“Oh no, Nan,” I reply. “I dropped my ring and it seems to have fallen into the crack at the base of the door.” I surreptitiously slip
the mourning ring from my finger, holding it aloft, calling out, “Look here, I have it.”

And then I’m sure I hear it, “My Kitty, my love,” from behind the door.

“Let me help you up,” says Nan. Who is now halfway towards me. I dare not reply to him, for fear that she will suspect something.

Stim has joined Stan now, and they are both scratching furiously at the wood and yelping, setting off the others in a great cacophony. Hertford will certainly know who his Tower neighbor is now, and just to be sure, I name the dogs loudly one by one, bidding them cease their noise. Nan takes my hand, helping me heave myself up to my feet; I allow her to conduct me back inside and it is all I can do to keep my excitement from spilling out of me.

It is not long before Warner, with his sly-eyed deputy, arrives for his daily visit and as ever he asks, “Are you willing to tell me the story of your marriage, my lady?”

He says it in such a way as to make it clear he knows my answer already. And so when I say, “I
am
,” with a smile, he looks as if his eyes might pop out with surprise. And so I recount the day of my wedding, in great detail, repeating things when bid, so that the deputy may write it all carefully in his ledger.

My interrogation—for however kindly Warner may seem to be, that is what it is—continues for three days. All that time I feel the strings of my heart reaching out like a spider’s filament, along the walkway, and into the chamber that houses my husband. I am asked the same questions over and over again, first by Warner and then by his deputy. The small details of things are reiterated differently by one or other of them to see if I will trip up and contradict myself. Between them, they pull the most intimate moments of my marriage out of me, as if to strip me naked and search my most secret pockets.

When Warner finally announces, “That will be all, my lady. We have what we need,” and they finally go to leave, I feel that a great weight is lifted from me, allowing my optimism to flood back.

Once Warner has left, the deputy lags behind, corking his inkhorn and taking a time to gather his things before making to go. Almost at the door, he turns to me, whispering, “Your husband is here.”

“I do not believe you,” I reply, thinking it a trick. He looks directly at me with his bead eyes, and I imagine, with a shiver, that he can see into the depths of my soul. “I would know it in my heart if my husband were here,” I say. He is testing me, to see if I have wind of Hertford’s presence, if we have communicated and made our stories tally.

“It is the truth.” He makes an attempt at a smile, but it is more grimace than anything and I notice his eyeteeth are long and pointed, more like those of a hound.

“I doubt it,” I say, keeping the pretense.

“We have questioned him also. He told us almost exactly to the word what you have just recounted.” As he makes for the door, he adds, “I champion you, my lady.”

I feel I must have misheard such a thing coming from this ghoulish fellow and want to ask him what he means, but dare not. He slips a small pouch into my hand as he takes his leave, slinking off like a shadow, whispering something to Ball as he passes through the doorway.

When he has gone, I pull the neck of the pouch open to find a limning of my own Hertford, his face haloed in brilliant blue, a black-feathered cap set at an angle, a half smile at the edges of his bow-shaped mouth. It is by Levina’s hand; of that I am sure. Just to see his likeness there in my palm tugs at my heart unbearably.

Ball clears his throat to gain my attention. He has a wide grin upon his face that I don’t fully understand until he says, “You will find the door to the Beauchamp Tower is open today, my lady, and your girl is occupied in the kitchens.” With that he locks me into my chamber.

I rush out onto the parapet and there, leaning against the wall
as if he is just passing the time of day, stands Hertford. I remain in the doorway, suddenly feeling shy in the face of him. He too is motionless, gazing at me as if I am a stranger or someone returned from the grave.

“Kitty, it is you . . . look at you,” he says, now, at last, striding towards me. “The size of you.” He comes to a halt and drops onto his knees, taking my hands in his, scattering kisses on them, then lifts his face. His eyes are full of tears.

“My love,” is all I can manage to say, for I too am choked with tears.

He has his hands on my belly now. “Our infant. Oh, Kitty, this is the most wondrous sight. I feared it was one I might never set eyes upon.” He buries his head in my skirts sobbing and then, standing up, begins to laugh and I am awash with joy.

“Come to the bed,” I say. “When I lie down he moves and you shall be able to feel him.”

We lie, side by side, holding hands, heads turned to each other, eyes interlocked. I open my gown, one hook at a time, and lift my underclothes so he can see the full extent of my vast belly, and taking his hand I place it where I can feel a shifting limb.

“He moves! Oh, Kitty, I never imagined.” He kisses the place where our infant kicks. “Is it not an irony, given the name of my prison, that this son of ours will be Lord Beauchamp? Do you think he can hear me?”

“I like to think so. I have told him all about you.” I pause, for there are things I need to know, but I hesitate to spoil this wondrous moment. But now I have begun to think of those things I feel a great surge of anger rise up through my body that lifts me up on to my feet. “You abandoned me,” I say, barely able to keep myself from shouting. “You abandoned me!” Then, like a pan of milk, I boil over, punching and slapping and biting at him like a wild beast, crying out over and over again, “You abandoned me! You abandoned me!” He doesn’t move to defend himself or try to push me off but allows me to attack him, until I am entirely spent
and collapse exhausted back onto the bed. He sits staring at the floor. “Why did you not reply to my letters?” I say at last.

“I was a fool—a coward and a fool. I know you will never forgive me for leaving you in such a situation.” He slides off the bed and onto his knees, like a supplicant. “I cannot forgive myself.”

“But you abandoned me.” I cannot think of anything else to say and we sit in silence for what seems an age. “Why?” I murmur eventually.

He speaks, still looking at the floor as if too ashamed to meet my eyes. “Cecil changed his tune; he told me that if I obeyed him, he would help our cause. But he said it would put you in grave danger if I made contact with you, told me of the Queen’s spies, men who know the secrets of poison”—the words tumble out of him one on top of the other—“and he reminded me that I had already lost one person close to me, that surely I didn’t want to lose another.” His face screws up as he says this.

“What did he mean by that? Juno—” I stop, for I can’t believe what it is I am saying. “No, Juno was sick for months. She was never quite right since the influenza.”

“I truly feared for your safety, Kitty, and I stupidly believed Cecil would champion us with the Queen when the time was right.”

“Well he hasn’t, has he?” I can still feel the anger roiling in me.

“I cannot expect your forgiveness but let me try and explain.” I nod minutely and turn my head away. “I was terrified something would happen to you. Cecil’s son, Thomas, was traveling with me, you see, and watched my every move. I made a great show of throwing your letters on the fire unopened, in front of him, to prove my obedience to his blasted father. I wondered why you wrote so often, feared something was amiss. But in the end, Kitty, I was nothing but a gutless coward.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask, casting a stony look over him. “You had the courage to wed me, but not to stand up to Cecil—twice.”

“Everything I have done was through fear of one kind or another,
fear for myself, fear for you, fear of losing you to another. I am the worst kind of coward.” He says it again, spitting the word out this time. “I have let myself be Cecil’s puppet. I had no backbone, Kitty.” Then he stops, meets my gaze, and, lowering his voice, says, “I
did
think to abandon you, convinced myself you might fare better without me. But the idea of a life without you was unbearable. I couldn’t do it, and had I known of this . . .” He touches a hand to my belly.