Virginia Henley (42 page)

“Isobel, you must help me. The queen has angrily rejected every gown I have suggested this morning. She’s complaining of the cold, and I fear she’s about to work herself into a tirade.”

“Philadelphia, I haven’t even finished unpacking and refurbishing the garments she wore over Christmas and New Year’s. I’ll get Catherine. She must think of something.”

A page brought an urgent summons to Cat, who spoke with her mother in the Wardrobe Department then sought Philadelphia in the Queen’s Bedchamber. She was just in time to witness the tirade.

“Finally!” Elizabeth screeched. “Finally, someone who knows something about gowns. What’s your name, girl?” she demanded.

How could she have forgotten my name?
“Lady Catherine, ma’am.”

“Get that warm gown I wore at Theobalds and be quick about it!”

Cat was hard-pressed to know which she meant, for during the twelve-day sojourn the queen had worn twenty-four gowns. She curtsied, rushed to the Wardrobe Department, took out the warmest quilted velvet she could find and hurried back.

Philadelphia, with the help of two tiring ladies, changed the queen’s gown and fastened a ruff around her neck. Her Gracious Majesty immediately plucked it off and threw it to the carpet. “Piss on the lot of you! Where’s Kate? I want Kate to attend me! She has gentle hands.” The queen boxed a startled Philadelphia’s ear. Offended, Philadelphia immediately withdrew. Cat followed her.

“Kate has far gentler hands than that old bitch,” Philadelphia declared, “and a hell of a lot more patience than I!”

“I wanted to tell her that Kate was cleaning up after her Court visit and needs a well-earned rest, but I didn’t have the courage.”

“No, the virago is rather formidable, and she’s getting worse by the day. Nothing pleases her, and she accuses all of conspiring against her. Her language has always been blue, and that certainly doesn’t bother me, but when she resorts to blows, I’ve had enough.”

By nightfall, the long-suffering and gentle Kate returned to Whitehall, but even that didn’t stop the royal complaints. “I hate Whitehall! The bloody place is as cold as a tomb! I want to be warm like I was at your Arundel House. Even sprawling Theobalds is cozy compared to this draughty mausoleum! That’s it; we shall move the Court to Richmond Palace. It has ever been our favorite dwelling place. Pack everything! My Ladies of the Wardrobe and Bedchamber are a gaggle of lazy strumpets. I want the move accomplished today.
Today!
Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like me to brew you some herb tea?” Kate did her utmost to soothe her irate monarch, though she felt poorly herself.

Though Isobel had the gargantuan task of packing Elizabeth’s entire wardrobe and commandeering Catherine and Maggie to help her, she would utter no criticism of the queen.

“Once we’ve managed the move, I prefer Richmond myself,” Cat told Maggie. “Maybe we’ll be able to spend time at our own house.”

By the beginning of the third week of January, Kate collapsed and was put to bed with pneumonia. By the end of the third week, Kate was dead.

Y
ou cannot be serious.” But Catherine had the sinking feeling that a distraught Philadelphia was indeed telling the truth.

“Charles and I sat at Kate’s bedside all night as she struggled for breath. The doctor could do nothing. She died just before dawn. Nottingham is beside himself with sorrow.” Tears streamed down Philadelphia’s face.

Catherine felt numb as she watched Maggie cross herself.

Isobel’s first thought was of Elizabeth. “Her Majesty will be devastated. Who will dare to tell her such news?”

“That job will fall to me,” Philadelphia declared. “I sincerely hope she
is
devastated. The queen caused Kate’s death!”

“What a wicked thing to say. You are not in your right mind.”

“No, I am mad with grief.”

Cat feared that any moment her mother and Philadelphia would come to blows. “Let me help you. There are so many you must notify. I’ll come with you now.”
I want to say good-bye to Kate.

They found Charles with his head down on the bed, still holding his wife’s hand. Cat took Kate’s other hand and silently thanked her for acting like a mother to her, then she bade her farewell. She and Philadelphia put their arms about the Earl of Nottingham and urged him to allow Kate’s women to wash her, tend the body and change the bed linen before anyone else came.

“Philadelphia, you must put on a black dress, and I will redo your hair before you take the sad news to the queen.”

When Philadelphia left to inform Elizabeth, Catherine summoned a page and handed him a note she had scribbled to Cecil. She returned to the writing desk and penned short notices to all of Kate and Philadelphia’s siblings. Then, crying, she wrote a letter to Patrick Hepburn, which she would send north with Lord Scrope’s letter. She missed him so much. Her heart overflowed with sadness, but sharing her thoughts about Kate somehow eased her grief.

Queen Elizabeth fell into a state of melancholy when she was given the news that Lady Nottingham, the most long serving of her ladies, had died. The queen summoned her Lord Admiral, Kate’s husband, and kept him with her for long hours each day. She even forbade him to leave Richmond Palace.

The Carey family began to gather. Philadelphia’s husband, Lord Thomas Scrope, traveled from Carlisle Castle; George Carey, the new Lord Hunsdon, came from the Border stronghold of Bewcastle; John Carey and his wife, Mary, came up from their farm in Hertford; and Robert Carey and Liz journeyed to the Richmond house immediately.

“Elizabeth is convinced her grief is greater than any of ours. She even expects poor Charles to console her when it should be the other way about. It’s our fault, I suppose. We’ve convinced her that she is the center of the universe and that the sun and the moon rise and set upon her,” Philadelphia declared.

Robert waited until Isobel left the room, then handed Catherine the letter he had brought from Patrick Hepburn. Cat went out into the winter-ravaged garden to read it.

Catherine slipped the letter into the bodice of her black gown, where it rested against Hepburn’s betrothal ring. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and glanced down at her feet. There, among some dead leaves, a tiny snowdrop had raised its head.
Patrick is right! Winter will end and spring will inevitably follow.
She bent down and picked the delicate flower, then pressed it between the folds of his letter. Cat knew she must destroy the note, but not quite yet.
Tonight I will sleep with it beneath my pillow.

 

Patrick Hepburn was once again riding to Winton. Though he had told Cat that he had reason to believe her grandfather approved their match, it was more of a feeling than a fact. He had said nothing to Geordie Seton about betrothing Catherine.

Hepburn had fallen into the habit of riding to Seton every week because of his suspicions that Malcolm Lindsay wanted to be the next Earl of Winton. But since Geordie adamantly refused to believe such a base accusation against his nephew, Hepburn never broached the matter again.

“Hello, Lord Winton. You’re looking well these days.”

“Dinna
Lord
me—call me Geordie. I hope we have a mild spell o’ weather soon so we can turn the beasties out to pasture.”

“February arrives tomorrow—we’ll likely have a thaw before another blizzard in March. If it turns mild, I’ll start some of my moss-troopers on their guard duty again.”

“Good lad, Patrick. Bloody English Border reivers will be at it again as soon as the weather lets up!”

“I received sad news. Your daughter’s sister-in-law Kate Howard has died at the Court in Richmond. She was the queen’s principal lady.”

“Elizabeth will outlive us all!” Seton said with disgust.

“Nay, Geordie, that is a fallacy. I believe her days are numbered, and losing Kate will put another nail in her coffin.”

“So ye think Jamie will achieve his ambition soon, d’ye?”

“Yes, I do. I predict that this is the year James will become King of England as well as Scotland. When that happens the Border will disappear and James will set up his Court in London.”

Geordie laughed. “God Ahmighty, the English will shit theirselves when a horde o’ untamed Scots flock to London an’ swallow up all the best appointments and landholdin’s!”

“The only English who will thrive are those with Scottish connections. Would you be interested in a merger that would benefit the Setons, the Spencers and the Hepburns?”

“A merger?” Geordie puzzled.

“How would you feel about a match between your granddaughter, Lady Catherine, and myself?”

The puzzled frown disappeared as all became clear to the Earl of Winton. He looked Hepburn up and down. “’Tis no’ a question of how I feel, but of how Catherine feels in this matter.”

Patrick grinned. “I have reason to believe Lady Catherine favors a match with me. When she comes of age in March I shall ask her to marry me. I wanted to apprise you of my intention.”

Geordie thought it over and concluded, “I’d rather see my Seton lands and prize cattle go to ye than a bloody Englishman, but”—he assessed Patrick’s size one last time—“make my wee Catherine unhappy an’ yer a dead mon, Hepburn. Come inside an’ we’ll drink a dram o’ good Scotch whisky on the merger.”

As Patrick Hepburn left Seton he sensed that he was being followed. He stopped and waited for the rider to catch up with him. Hard black eyes stared into the blue eyes of Andrew Lindsay.

“Lord Stewart, ye have forbidden Jenny Hepburn from ridin’ out wi’ me, and I ask that ye reconsider the matter.”

Patrick stared long and hard at the well-built youth, using his sixth sense to guide him. “Have you been seeing Jenny on the sly, Lindsay?” he demanded.

“Nay, but if ye persist in yer refusal to let me court her, I shall try to see her behind yer back.”

In the face of such an honest admission, Hepburn was tempted to relent. “I’ll speak with Jenny and her father. She’s been hurt once, and I won’t allow her to be hurt again.”

“Fair enough, my lord.”

“Tell me true; do you think it was your cousin’s arrow?”

“I don’t know, Lord Stewart.”

“Do you think him capable of such a thing?” Hepburn persisted.

Andrew remained silent, and then slowly he nodded.

On a bleak February morning, Kate Howard, Countess of Nottingham, was laid to rest. Her cousin, Elizabeth Tudor, flanked by Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham, and Robert Cecil, Principal Secretary, swayed dangerously at the graveside. The two men immediately steadied their monarch and escorted her aboard her royal barge, which took her back to Richmond Palace.

Most of the nobility attended the funeral, not only because Kate was the wife of the Lord Admiral, but also because the queen held her in such high esteem. After the public funeral, Kate’s family gathered privately at their Richmond house.

Philadelphia took Catherine, Isobel and Beth aside. “I know that Kate would want each of you to have a token of jewels from her collection.” She gave her sister-in-law Beth a string of precious pearls, and she gave Isobel a large topaz broach. “You always admired her ruby and diamond earrings, Catherine. So here they are. Wear them in good health.” The three ladies were touched by the generous gesture.

Maggie, who was serving tea, made a dire prediction. “Death comes in three. First was Mary Fitton’s babe, now our dearest Kate. There’ll be another yet; mark my words.”

“Don’t you dare to include a child begotten in sin with the honorable Countess of Nottingham,” Isobel hissed.

“Death plays no favorites, my lady. It thumbs its nose at rank and wealth and even crowns,” Maggie said ominously.

“How dare you? Take your Celtic gibberish and go back to the house. Catherine will take over for you and serve the tea.”

Maggie withdrew as bidden, but Catherine and Philadelphia exchanged a glance indicating they believed in the rule of three.

“Isobel, death and superstition go hand in hand. Maggie didn’t invent it,” Philadelphia chided.

“Her veiled hint was directed at Her Gracious Majesty. I will not have my servants mouthing treason.” Isobel’s face was grim.

“Maggie is not your servant, Mother; she is my woman,” Catherine admonished quietly. “In any case, I am sure she was not referring to Her Majesty. We all know the queen is invincible.”

Philadelphia murmured to her brother Robert, “I’m afraid Cat is deluding herself, and of course Isobel is terrified for her position at Court.”

Robert agreed, “You are right, but least said, soonest mended.”

“Yes, emotions run rampant when a beloved dies. Will you be staying, Robert, or going back north with my husband, Scrope?”

“Since Liz is forbidden the Court, I shall take her back north.”
Then I will apprise King James of the queen’s condition.

“The queen has come down with a sore throat because she insisted on using the royal barge rather than taking a closed carriage to Kate’s funeral. The wind on the river Thames was bitter that day, but she wouldn’t listen to advice,” Philadelphia told Catherine in the dining hall at Richmond Palace.