Watch the Lady (11 page)

“Poor soul,” sighed Penelope.

“But he is a traitor,” replied Martha.

“Even so, he is still one of God's creatures.” Her insides shriveled at the thought of what might be happening to that priest, traitor or not.

As they approached the door the guards requested they open their overgowns—“To be sure we do not carry any threat,” whispered Martha—before allowing them to pass.

Inside, though all appeared as usual, Penelope could sense a tautness in the air. The Queen and Burghley were disputing heatedly. Burghley's boy, Cecil, hovered behind his father, shuffling from one foot to the other as if he didn't know where to put himself. She caught him glancing her way and smiled; instead of smiling back, he averted his eyes, pretending to be fascinated by a nearby wall hanging.

“I will not become a prisoner in my own house,” said the Queen, unable to hide her annoyance with Burghley's cautious approach to the problem. “Those Spaniards have wanted me dead for years. I refuse to be cowed by a few rumors.”

“I beg of you, madam, be prudent and avoid the gardens until we can ensure your safety.” Burghley was crouched beside her, wringing his hands.

It was only then that Penelope began to see the realities of the Queen's life. She had merely seen the court as a place of benign glamour and romance, with the Queen at its core, like a bee in a hive, encircled by those who sought her favor, making honey. But she was beginning to understand the way each and every one of those bees was grappling for survival, even the Queen herself, and that the glamour and romance were little more than distractions. The threat hanging in the air of the privy chamber on that morning must have always been there. She thought of that time she had blurted out “I hate her. I hate the Queen”; how shocked she had been to hear herself articulate such a wicked thing, like saying she hated God. But how could she not feel such a thing in the face of her mother's degradation, her father's untimely death, and her own miserable marriage with its royal seal of approval? But now she understood that things were so much more intricate than she had ever imagined, and her feelings had become a muddle of contradictions. That simple childish hatred had been infiltrated by a kind of admiration, and fear too—always fear—though she would never show it.

It was a sobering thought that the Queen had to live each day in the knowledge that the whole of the Holy Roman Empire and Spain, the greatest powers in the world, as well as many of her own Catholic subjects, wished her dead. She was made ruthless by necessity. But still Penelope couldn't push the thought of the tortured Catholic from her mind, imagining his screams as his body was stretched a farther notch on the rack.

She waited by the entrance for her cue to approach, looking towards the window, wondering if a pistol shot could be fired with any accuracy through glass, imagining the chaos that would ensue. Her mind drifted to her husband—the thought of that term,
husband
, a prison of a word, made her heart feel like a stone. He would be halfway to Leighs.

She headed the thought of Rich off, gazing beyond the privy-chamber window. The sky was heavy with dark clouds and slowly it began to rain; just a few specks at first, building to a downpour that rattled angrily at the panes. She could hear people in the courtyard below running for cover, shouting to one another to move things under the arcades so they wouldn't be ruined.

“Ah, Burghley, it would seem God is on your side,” said the Queen, laughing. “I will not be going out in this weather. Neither will my assassins, I suspect.”

Burghley made an attempt at lighthearted laughter in response but his face was distorted with the effort. His son also managed to contort himself into a polite titter but no one else laughed, they all busied themselves with whatever it was they'd been pretending to do: their sewing or reading or letter writing.

The Queen cast her eyes about, eventually alighting on Penelope. “My songbird is back,” she said. “I am glad to see you; none of these girls can sing as you do and I've had to listen to them ruining my favorite tunes for days. How do you find married life?”

Penelope was unsure how to respond, afraid her true feelings would display themselves on her face. “It is different, Highness,” she said eventually, immediately aware of how inadequate her statement was, and noticed Peg Carey roll her eyes.

“Different?” replied the Queen. “I have never heard a bride describe marriage thus.”

“What I meant, Highness, was—”

“No, no,” she interrupted with a wry smile. “Different will do.” Penelope was impressed at the Queen's poise; nothing in her expression or posture hinted at fear, though the guards outside and Burghley's hand-wringing were testimony to the danger she was in. “Now I would like a song to distract me from all this.” She waved her arm in the general direction of Burghley and Cecil, who were in a huddle of quiet conversation, giving the appearance in their black gowns of a pair of crows picking over some carrion. Cecil revolved his eyes her way momentarily and Penelope was reminded of something her mother had said the last time they were together:
Keep an eye on Burghley's boy; if he is anything like his father he will not be a friend to us.
She smiled his way; once again he did not return it.

An usher announced Leicester's arrival and her stepfather strode in with his entourage. Penelope saw it then, quite clearly, the look of disapproval on Burghley's face which was mirrored in the son's. Leicester was dressed in a suit of silver with a rain-drenched cape swinging from his shoulders that was dripping water onto the floorboards. As he neared Penelope, he winked at her as if to say he knew what she had been up to the previous night. She felt nauseous at the thought of them all carousing after her wedding and speculating on what was going on in the bedchamber.

He approached the Queen, who patted the seat beside her and took his hand as if they were man and wife. Penelope's distaste simmered. Had the Queen truly caused her father's death? So many questions that were impossible to answer.

Sickened by their intimacy, Penelope looked about the chamber to see, of all people, Sidney with her stepfather's men, dressed in black as if he were mourning. His eyes met hers for the briefest instant before she turned her head away, back towards the window, where the downpour had not abated. All she could think of was running from the room, out into the rain, running on and on forever, never turning back.

“Lady Rich was about to sing for us,” the Queen was saying. “Someone find her a stool and a lute.”

Penelope recoiled internally on hearing her married name spoken aloud in Sidney's presence. A swell of heat moved up her body and onto her face as she was hustled forward. She kept her eyes rigidly away from Leicester's party, and a lute, fat and round like a baby, was thrust into her arms. She sat, bewildered for a moment, cradling the thing, then managed to gather the disparate parts of herself together and began to pluck, listening, tightening the strings one by one, matching the notes with her voice. All the while she was sure Sidney's eyes were boring into her, though she dared not look up, keeping her mind and eyes trained to the tuning of the instrument.

“Do you have a preference for the song, Your Highness?” she asked, hoping to be told what to play, for there was only a single song in her head and she didn't think it entirely apt for the occasion.

“No, no. Play what you will,” came the Queen's response.

She tried to think of other songs, she knew hundreds but they had all deserted her, so she began.

Who likes to love let him take heed!

Relieved to hear a sigh of approval from the Queen, she kept her eyes firmly on her fingers, trying to focus only on the taut catgut beneath them, sensing the vibrations, feeling out the sound, allowing her voice to fall in with the rhythm.

And what you why?

The song began to envelop her, take her along with it as a river might draw a boat in its currents, and she could sense the rapture of the audience infusing her with a feeling of potency.

Among the gods it is decreed

Looking up, emboldened by the music, she found Sidney to the side of the chamber and, locking her eyes onto his, sang:

That love shall die.

The look he returned was mournful, that of a tragic actor, and Penelope felt a frisson of glee, as if she had broken her lance on his armor and won the point.

And every wight that takes his part

Shall forfeit each a mourning heart.

Penelope was in her full stride. Sidney may have been the great champion of the tiltyard, the one men sought to emulate and women swooned over, cheering him on in the lists, but this was
her
arena. She allowed her eyes to dance about the room, playfully alighting on one person or another as she sang through the verses.

Complained before the gods above

That gold corrupts the god of love.

When she came to the end, the room burst into a great foot-stamping applause. Only Sidney wasn't clapping. He was staring into the unknown with a furrow between his brows. She stood, holding her lute in one hand, and curtsied to the Queen, as the audience called for more. A sudden splinter of self-doubt broke her surface on seeing the countess, seated, hands in lap, a rigid, pretend smile drawn on the lower part of her face, reminding Penelope of her own Puritan husband and how he would have hated this kind of merriment, would have called it an ungodly pleasure. But if Rich wanted her to keep her royal favor, then he would have to tolerate this. A further realization came to Penelope in that moment; that everyone at court was in a state of compromise, either of their principles, or love, or their beliefs—there was no escaping it—and look what happened to those who refused to compromise, like that poor priest. She had a vivid image of a man on the rack, sweating, teeth clenched, bones wrenched from their sockets with a terrible wet pop, like jointing a chicken.

Someone shouted out a song request: “ ‘Oh Sweet Deceit.' ”

“I shall need the music for that one,” she said. A songbook was procured and a page ordered to hold it for her, provoking some envious looks from the other lads. She settled back onto her stool, tucking her lute under her arm, beginning to pluck out the tune, finding the key with her voice. The requests came one after the other and she sang, lapping up the admiration, until her throat gave out. A group of musicians took over, and some of the maids lined up to dance, but Penelope, exhausted, went to sit by the window.

Sidney sidled over to her like a shadow, asking if he could sit beside her. She nodded without a word, feeling protected by her newfound strength, imagining her heart wrought of iron and welded with sharp spikes.

“Are you mourning?” she asked, pinching the black velvet of his doublet sleeve between her finger and thumb. “You certainly have a morose air about you.'

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied, looking at his knees. “You have heard of the Jesuit Campion who is to be executed?”

She nodded, confused by the serious turn in the conversation. She had not thought him truly grieving and felt suddenly shallow and naive, thinking only of her heart when events of far greater importance were taking place.

“He is a dear friend of mine.”

“But he is a Catholic, is he not? An enemy of the state.”

“Things are never as clear-cut as they seem.” He sounded impatient, angry even, as if trying to explain something to an idiot, and she wanted to express the sympathy she felt for the tortured man, but was held back by the sense of her ignorance of such things. “I believe people should worship in the manner they choose. Campion is a man of faith, not a political man.”

“But,” she looked straight at him, “how can you separate faith and politics when there are constant Catholic plots against the Queen's life?”

“Alas, you cannot.” He sighed. “Campion will not avoid his fate. And by association, I am pushed into the wilderness by the Queen. I cannot seem to do anything right with her. But you don't want to hear my gripes. Besides.” He turned his head away so she couldn't see his expression. “I am not only mourning Campion.”

“Who else?”

He mumbled out an unintelligible response.

“I cannot hear you,” she said, noticing Peg Carey and Moll Hastings looking at her over their needlework, whispering.

“Who else?” she repeated, ignoring the maids across the room.

“You,” he eventually hissed.

“Me?” Her emotions began to bolt but she reined them in firmly. “I am still alive.”

“But I have lost you.”

“You never had me. You never wanted me, and what of your pretty speech about how you ‘led me on' and how sorry you were?”

“I was wrong.”

She felt a knot of rage tighten. “Wrong? It is too late for that now.” She twisted her body away from him, making to rise, but he took her hand. Peg and Moll still had their eyes on her. “Don't touch me.”

“Let me explain myself.”

“There is nothing to explain.”

“What is this?” He had pushed her emerald bracelet up, revealing the angry welt on her wrist.

“Nothing.” She snatched her arm back.

“Did he do this?”

“It is none of your business.” She smiled a counterfeit smile, for the benefit of the heads that were beginning to turn their way. “Now, if you please, I must join my friends.” She held out her hand, with deliberate haughtiness, for him to press a kiss onto its back.

“Let me see you in private.”

His expression was so very tortured she almost relented but remembered her spiked iron heart.

“I beg of you.”

“Don't be silly,” she said, as if admonishing an infant, and walked sedately over to Peg and Moll, feeling like a swan, her smooth surface belying the urgent paddling beneath.