Virginia Henley (43 page)

“Has she gone to bed?” Catherine asked.

“No. She banished Lady Throckmorton for suggesting it.” She bit her lip. “Elizabeth called me Kate three times today. I don’t know if it’s just a slip of the tongue, or if the queen is confused and truly thinks I am Kate. She’s very demanding.”

Catherine touched Philadelphia’s hand. “I don’t want you to get sick. If she dismisses her other ladies, you will be overburdened. I know Mother is at the moment. She’s had to clean and put away all Elizabeth’s garments that have any trace of color and take all the black clothing out of storage and refurbish it.”

Philadelphia looked about the hall. “The entire Court, men and women alike, is in mourning. I know it shows respect for Kate, but it drapes the entire palace with a suffocating air of melancholy. I not only feel drab, I look drab too!”

“You need a new gown to cheer you. Black can be elegant in the extreme. I have nothing to design at the moment; the queen has an abundance of mourning garments.”

“Thank you, darling; that will be lovely. I’d better get back to Elizabeth. Cecil has an audience with her this evening, and she will want everything to be just right before he arrives.”

Philadelphia entered the Queen’s Bedchamber and found her with her eyes closed. Elizabeth lifted her scant sandy lashes and a look of relief came over her face. “Kate, I dreamt something awful happened to you. What time is it?”

“It’s almost seven, Your Majesty. Lord Cecil is coming.”

“I remember. Help me to my desk; it lends me authority.”

When Philadelphia ushered Robert Cecil into the chamber, he saw Elizabeth propped like a death’s-head behind her desk. He set his portfolio of papers on the chair and approached her. He bowed solemnly and waited for her to speak.

“We see you are well.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” He coughed. “I come about Ireland.”

“It’s always about Ireland!”

“I have dispatches from Mountjoy. He confirms that Tyrone has taken refuge in the wilds of Ulster, where it is nigh impossible to run him to ground. The Lord Deputy and myself are in favor of permitting Tyrone to make a formal submission, Your Majesty.”

“I refuse! To show favor to him now would allow the world to impute weakness to us. We will hunt him down!”

“Your Majesty, the Council as well as Mountjoy and myself advocate extending mercy to Tyrone. War in Ireland is costing three hundred thousand pounds a year and too much bloodshed.”

“I shall take the matter out of your hands and give it to your father. Burghley is absolute and will never back down.”

Robert Cecil immediately realized that Elizabeth was not in full command of her faculties. His father had been dead for almost five years. He bowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

As he left, Cecil signaled to Philadelphia that he wished to speak with her in private. “Does Her Majesty seem confused?”

“Since my sister’s funeral she confuses me with Kate, my lord.”

“Keep this matter confidential, Lady Scrope. Allow only those in whom you put complete trust to have access to the queen’s person. Her Majesty may well improve.”

Cecil did not believe for one moment Elizabeth would improve. He returned to his office and sent a dispatch to Mountjoy, Lord Deputy of Ireland, informing him that Her Majesty authorized him to accept Tyrone’s offer of submission, and accord the rebel life, liberty and pardon to avoid any further bloodshed. Cecil then penned a letter, in cipher, to King James Stuart of Scotland.

After meeting with the king and Robert Carey at Holyrood Palace, Patrick Hepburn was returning to Crichton late. Having heard Robert’s report on Elizabeth’s deteriorating condition, James was now convinced that Patrick’s prediction of March 24 for the Queen of England’s death could be relied upon. The King of Scotland would put his affairs in order so that he would be ready to depart for London the moment Carey brought him the official news. Robert was returning to Elizabeth’s Court on a deathwatch.

During the eight-mile ride on the moonless night, Hepburn’s thoughts were filled with Catherine. Not only could he see her image, he experienced her sadness over Kate’s death and he could feel her loneliness. Moreover, he knew more sadness would follow.

When he arrived at Crichton, he went upstairs, took Cat’s white ribbon from his bedside table and climbed into bed. He focused his full attention on the object of his desire, and gradually her image came before him. She, too, was abed, and he saw that one delicate hand was tucked beneath her pillow. It rested upon his letter, which he’d advised her to burn. The corner of his mouth lifted.
Impulsive little wench.

Since she was touching something that came from him and he held an object that belonged to her, it would be easier to make the distance between them disappear. “Come to me, Cat.”

Catherine stirred restlessly in her sleep. The slight breeze that touched her face and ruffled her hair made her lift her lashes. She was not really flying, but floating, and decided it must be a dream. Then she saw Tor, the raven, at her side and knew exactly where the black bird was leading her.

“Patrick!” She stood just inside the door of his chamber.

He held out his arms. “Cat, why do you hesitate?”

“Your arms are like a circle of fire. Once I step into them, the flames spiral high about me, the heat leaps between us, and I lose complete control of my senses.”

He grinned. “Come, feel the fire.”

She tossed her hair about her shoulders in feline abandon and ran to his waiting arms.

Catherine awoke to find herself back at Richmond Palace. The hand on her shoulder was not Patrick’s, but Maggie’s. She blushed at her disheveled hair and kiss-swollen lips.

“Yer mother is ill, my lamb. She’s come down with a bad cough and a cold. I’ve persuaded her to stay in bed but only because she fears infecting Her Majesty. She asks that ye take her place in the Queen’s Wardrobe today.”

“Of course I will.” Cat dressed quickly and entered Isobel’s chamber. “Mother, I cannot hope to fill your shoes, but I will do my best. Promise me that you will stay abed and let Maggie look after you today?”

Catherine told Isobel’s assistants that her mother was ill and that she was taking over her duties. She quickly unpacked two large boxes of mourning garments that had been sent upriver from Whitehall and selected a black velvet gown. She chose white silk undergarments for next to Elizabeth’s body, a black farthingale and black shoes and stockings. She unlocked one of the queen’s jewel cases and took out a set of jet beads as well as pearls.

Cat picked out a small, unadorned red wig and carried everything to Philadelphia in the Queen’s Bedchamber. “I thought I’d save you the trip to the Wardrobe Department,” she murmured.

Philadelphia rolled her eyes, indicating that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea that Catherine had invaded the inner sanctum.

Cat brought the garments to the bed and stared in disbelief at the frail figure wearing a damp night rail who’d just been sponge bathed by two ladies who were now removing the hip-bath. Without magnificent royal garments, and without wig and makeup, the shriveled and emaciated female sitting on the edge of the bed was reduced to a pathetic old woman. England’s monarch was almost bald, with a few patches of short gray hair and no eyebrows.

Black beady eyes examined Catherine with uncertainty. “Mother?” A thin, blue-veined hand went to her throat, which hurt when she spoke. A smile that looked more like a grimace came over her face. “I wear your picture in my locket ring,” she croaked.

Philadelphia whispered in Cat’s ear, “Because of your beauty and your shining black hair, she thinks you are her mother.”

“This is Cat, Your Majesty. She designs your lovely gowns.”

“Kat? Kat Ashley? My Mistress of the Robes and my dear old friend! Where have you been? My throat’s sore; please make me some barley water, Ashcat?”

Cat curtsied. “I shall make some immediately, Your Majesty.”

She hurried to the kitchens and told the head cook that the queen had asked for barley water. Then she sat on a stool to wait. For the first time it dawned on her that the queen was a mortal woman. The façade her ladies created, dressing her in clothes and wigs and makeup, and then propping her up like a doll, was completely false.
Her body wasted away long ago; now her health and her mind are deteriorating too. Only the spirit seems willing, but the flesh is frail.
Catherine sat, stunned.
We are living a lie! This is all a fantasy. Queen Elizabeth is going to die.

By the time Cat returned with the barley water, Elizabeth was dressed in the black gown Cat had chosen. Wearing wig and makeup seemed to have helped clear the queen’s mind somewhat, for she was issuing croaking orders to Lady Huntingdon and Lady Radcliffe.

Philadelphia heaved a huge sigh of relief. “We’ve managed to hold it together for one more day ... one more month, actually. It’s March tomorrow.” She passed Cat a hand mirror. “Take this away.”

When Catherine returned to her own rooms, she took Maggie aside. “You were right about Death coming in three. This morning I saw Her Majesty in her night rail.”

“Don’t say aught to yer mother, or she’ll become the third one.”

“I won’t say a word. She would run mad at the thought of the queen’s death. She has no other life but here at Court.”

Robert Cecil, Secretary of State, decided that the time had come. Bearding the lioness in her den, or more precisely her bedchamber, he broached the delicate subject matter-of-factly. “Your Gracious Majesty, it is my duty to put the question to you. Will you have the King of Scots to succeed you in your kingdom?”

Black eyes narrowed. “We will not speak of it, little man!”

Cecil bowed, withdrew and had a private word with Philadelphia. “Keep me informed on her condition. I shall return tomorrow.”

“She has stopped sleeping. Her physician comes each day, but she refuses all medication for her swollen glands. She eats less than a bird, though she has developed an incessant thirst.”

Cecil nodded. “Keep her clean and comfortable.”

Later that day, one of the queen’s godsons, Sir John Harrington, came to read some of his fashionable verses to her.

Elizabeth took no interest. “When you feel creeping Time at your gate, these fooleries will please you less.”

The following day, Robert Carey arrived, and Philadelphia brought him to Elizabeth to see if he could cheer her. She had stopped eating, and all she drank were sips of rosewater.

“Robin,
I am not well.
”

That night Elizabeth refused to undress and go to bed. In the morning, her ladies realized that she had stopped speaking. When darkness fell, the queen lay on the floor. Philadelphia, with the help of Lady Huntingdon and Mary Radcliffe, forcefully undressed her and lifted her into her royal bed. Catherine took away the queen’s soiled garments, which she had worn for fifty hours.

The next morning, Cecil paid his usual visit. With Philadelphia at his side, he again asked Elizabeth, “Will you have the King of Scots to succeed you in your kingdom?”

After a moment’s silence he looked into Philadelphia’s eyes. “The queen nodded her assent.”

When Philadelphia Scrope did not demur, Cecil withdrew.

From that moment on, Cecil, Philadelphia and Robert Carey were on a deathwatch. The Queen’s Council filed in to see her, and after that she saw only her physician and Archbishop Whit-gift. Her Ladies of the Bedchamber professed that they could not bear to see her in such a pitiable state. Philadelphia alone sat vigil.

Two hours past midnight, Thursday, March 24, Elizabeth Tudor drew her last breath and died. At last she slept the long sleep.

Philadelphia stepped into the antechamber and shook her brother awake. Without a word she handed Robert the beautifully wrought locket ring that Elizabeth had always worn next to her heart.

He gazed down at it, almost in disbelief, then he kissed his sister and swiftly departed for Scotland.

Within the hour Cecil arrived and insisted that no one else leave Richmond Palace without written authority. At 7 A.M. the councilors rode to Whitehall for a formal meeting to draft the Accession Proclamation making James Stuart King of England.

A
t the same time the councilors were meeting, Maggie hurried into the rooms the Spencers occupied at Richmond Palace, and before she set the breakfast tray down on the table, the words came rushing out. “Her Majesty the queen is dead!”

Catherine’s face paled. “Sit down, Maggie. You learned this in the kitchens? Don’t tell Mother yet; she’ll be devastated.”

“She’ll know soon enough, my lamb. She intends to go back to work this morning, now that she’s recovered from her cold.”

Her emotions in turmoil, Cat greeted her mother when she emerged from her room. “You must eat a good breakfast to give you stamina for all your duties today.”

Isobel sat down at the table. “I can only imagine the chaos I shall have to face in the Wardrobe Department. Thank Heaven my health is improved. I sincerely hope Her Majesty is in like case.”

Cat and Maggie exchanged a significant glance and kept their tongues between their teeth. After Isobel left, however, Cat broke their silence. “I feel so guilty! Inside, I’ve tried to contain a growing excitement about my birthday a week from today and Patrick’s promise that he would come. Now this has happened, and my first thought was that Elizabeth has spoiled it for me. Oh, Maggie, how can I be so selfish?”

“Yer no’ selfish, my lamb. Life is fer the living. Elizabeth had a spectacular life. Death brings her peace and ends her suffering. In the kitchens, all the talk is of the new king and what changes James will make, and if they’ll keep their jobs.”

“Truly? Perhaps the servitors; but the courtiers will mourn her deeply and perhaps not wish to give their loyalty to James.”