Sisters of Treason (35 page)

“Mouse, Mary, are you dreaming?” My sister’s voice seeps into my thoughts. Her light touch on my shoulder brings me back. “Will you accompany us on the virginals?”

“But what of the portraits?”

“I do not need you for the moment,” Levina says.

A pair of fat cushions is procured and they are placed one above the other on the instrument’s stool. I am balanced on the top of that, just high enough to reach the keys. I catch the boy watching on with an amused smile. He looks as if he would laugh outright were he not in such company. I suppose he thinks I resemble a performing monkey. The girls cluster round so he is out of my line of sight. “ ‘Poor Bird’?” I ask, my fingers hovering over the keys.

“Not that one, it is much too gloomy,” says Juno.

“ ‘Old Woman’?” suggests Lettice.

“Yes,” says Juno. “In rounds.”

I begin to play and Katherine sings the first line.

“There was an old woman who lived under a hill.”

The others join her:

“Fa la la, la la la la la la,

“If she’s not dead she lives there still,

“Fa la lo, fa la lo, fa la la la la la lo;

“A jolly young man came riding by.”

I notice Harry Herbert walk past, slowing his pace to take in the scene, and fancy I can detect a look of longing for my sister in those green eyes of his. I know that look well. Now we are so conspicuously in the Queen’s favor it is likely Pembroke will change his tune about their marriage. But I cannot forget that slap the brute gave her. I calculate when it was, counting back in my head: six years ago. I remember as if it were yesterday, the red mark on Katherine’s cheek. She deserves better than a bully for a father-in-law. I pick up the speed until my fingers ache with it and the words jumble up, crowding into one another, which makes us fall about with laughter.

“I am ready for you, Kitty,” says Levina, who stands before her easel, gesturing for Katherine to take the stool facing the window.

Katherine perches herself prettily, larking about, pouting, batting her lashes and sticking her tongue out for our amusement. Levina’s helper cannot drag his gaze from her; he flushes beetroot when he sees I have noticed him staring, shuffling round to Levina’s other side, pretending to be busy arranging the pigments from light to dark.

“I fancy Her Majesty would not appreciate a portrait of you with your tongue stuck out,” Levina says, but she is smiling too. We are all drawn to Katherine’s irrepressible sense of fun, but I am particularly happy she appears to have overcome her heartbreak so soon, and I suppose this exuberance is a sign that her desire has alighted elsewhere.

Levina straightens Katherine’s ruff and smooths her hair back under her coif with a smile, then adjusts her necklaces. “What is this?” she asks, pulling out something on a chain from Katherine’s stomacher. I cannot see what it is, but the curious expression on Levina’s face makes me wonder.

“Nothing!” Katherine replies firmly, tucking it back under her dress and closing the conversation.

As Levina paints I watch the comings and goings. People are
beginning to congregate for Dudley’s investiture, and the watching chamber is filled with groups of finely clad courtiers loitering about, playing cards or dice, laying down wagers they cannot afford to lose, gossiping, assessing each other.

A messenger, blue-lipped with cold, passes through and is stopped by the pair of guards at the privy chamber door.

“Important news from France,” he states, proffering a letter that one of them casts his eyes over before nodding to his colleague. Lady Knollys is called to the door, and she too reads the letter before beckoning the messenger into the chamber.

“What do you think it is?” I ask.

“French news, perhaps Mary of Scotland has insulted the Queen again,” says Lettice. “I shall ask Mother when she reappears.”

When Levina is finished with Katherine, it is my turn. I sit quietly, watching her quick fingers work. She stops after a while, approaching to show me my likeness, and I am surprised, for she doesn’t usually like sitters to see her unfinished work. On a bed of brilliant blue lies my face, which though lacking in detail is surely the me I see from time to time in my sister’s looking glass. My round brown eyes beneath a high brow, my pursed heart lips, my high-necked gown with the sleeves puffed. But it is not me, for there is no hint of my true shape, no twist or hunch to my shoulders or awkwardness in the set of my neck. I look at Levina, questioning, remembering the sketches she made of me in my shift all that time ago.

“I know,” she says. “The Queen has requested it thus. I’m sorry.” I wonder for a moment how the Queen might have put it:
Make her look normal, Mistress Teerlinc
, perhaps.

“I know we must all do as we are told in this place.” Saying it out loud makes me long for my freedom all the more. I sit and she paints on in silence. The starched edge of my ruff begins to irritate the skin of my cheeks. The boy is sketching something, one of the other girls, I suppose, for he flicks his eyes their way every now and again.

The privy chamber doors open and Lettice is on her feet in
an instant, talking to her mother in the entrance. The messenger walks out clutching a purse full of coin—he must have brought news that pleased the Queen. Lettice glides back to us, sitting herself down on the window seat, absently pulling her betrothal ring on and off her finger.

“So?” inquires Juno.

“The King of France is dead,” Lettice announces. We are silent and I am trying to work out whether that is a good thing for England or not, concluding that it probably is, for it means that Mary of Scotland is no longer also mistress of France. It is a good thing for the Queen, certainly. I remember clearly how she reacted to news of the French king’s illness.

“Those French kings do not last,” says Katherine with typical flippancy. “He was only sixteen. How old is the brother?”

“The new king is ten,” says Lettice. “Charles. And I am told to say that the Queen wishes to take a hunting trip on the morrow—to Eltham. She wants us all there.”

“Even me?” I ask.

“Especially you. Mother made a point of that.”

I notice Juno exchange a look with my sister; it is no more than the briefest meeting of eyes but there is something behind it that puzzles me, and I mean to ask Katherine about it later. But then the Lord Chamberlain arrives and we are hustled down to the great hall to witness Dudley’s ceremony. Dudley himself is done up like a peacock in his finery, and one of his men carries the ermine cape and the coronet and all the other bits and pieces of earls’ regalia. He gets on his knees before the Queen, who has an odd look of amusement on her face as if this is a game. In contrast, Cecil, across the room, surrounded by his black-clad clan, looks as if he has just drunk a flagon of rancid ale.

Dudley begins his speech, but I am not listening, for Katherine is rocking back and forth, clutching at the side of her face, making a low moaning sound. I whisper to Lizzie Mansfield, who is standing between us, asking her to find out what is the matter, but
she continues gazing forward as if I am not there at all. Then, to my horror, Katherine collapses to the floor. I jump to her aid, as do Juno and Lettice, one cradling her head, the other stroking her cheek, whispering, “Kitty, Kitty, what ails you?” But Katherine has fainted clean away. Dudley drones on, apparently oblivious.

The Queen turns to Mistress St. Low, indicating with nod of the head that she should see to it. Mistress St. Low quietly calls over a page, who scoops Katherine up and out of the room. Juno is sent to accompany her and another page is dispatched to find a physician. All this is done so fast that those on the other side of the chamber seem hardly aware of what has happened. I try to attract Levina’s attention, but she is far from me, focused on sketching the scene, and doesn’t see. I am about to ask Mistress St. Low if I may go too, but she is back in her place, and the ceremony continues as if nothing has occurred, leaving me worried out of my mind for the health of my sister.

When Dudley, who has remained on his knees all that time, has finished, the Queen gets to her feet and moves towards him, asking for the papers to be brought to her. She takes them, pinched between her finger and thumb, holding them away from her body as if she fears that the ink is still wet and might stain her dress. Her seal dangles on its ribbon from the papers, almost touching Dudley’s upturned face.

“Cecil,” she says. “Your penknife.”

The man scurries forward fumbling in his gown to produce a small blade, saying, “Have your quills not been sharpened, Your Majesty? I shall see to it.”

“Just give me the knife,” she says. He hands it over, then backs away from her, his eyes following a triangular path between Dudley, the papers in the Queen’s left hand, and the blade in her right.

The Queen then takes a step towards her favorite, offering him a cold smile.

“Lord Robert,” she announces with a slight toss of her head. “Are we not a woman?”

“Your Gracious Majesty is indeed the finest woman in the land,” he replies.

“And as a woman we have decided to exercise our prerogative to change our mind.”

The chamber shuffles and watches on in astonishment as she slashes the papers right through several times, shredding them. Finally, the seal falls with a crack, shattering on the floor. There is a collective intake of breath, and Dudley looks as if he might not be able to contain his rage, but I notice that Cecil is struggling to keep a sly smile at bay.

“I think it not meet,” continues the Queen, “to elevate one to the peerage who comes from three generations of traitors. If we cannot learn from history, then what?”

Dudley opens his mouth as if to say something, but the Queen lifts up a hand, palm forward, to stop him. “We shall see you on the morrow at Eltham, Lord Robert. We trust you shall make arrangements for our finest horses.” She wears a smile, as if the whole thing has been some kind of elaborate joke, and as Dudley reverses his way out of the chamber I’m sure I hear someone hiss at him, as if he is the Devil in a masque.

“What was the meaning of all that?” I ask Levina, once we are out, filing along the gallery in a slow squash of people.

“I can only assume it is some kind of test for Dudley. She is just like her father; he loved to test those close to him. It was no game.”

“Kitty is taken ill. I must go to discover what ails her.”

Levina’s voice is full of concern. “The Queen has asked to see my sketches and I cannot keep her waiting, but you must send word to me at once if it is serious.”

When I get to Juno’s chambers, the physician is just leaving. The bed hangings are drawn and the room is lit only from the fire that blazes in the hearth. Juno takes me to one side, whispering, “A badly infected tooth. She will not be able to leave for Eltham tomorrow.”

I open the hangings a little to see the shape of my sister’s sleeping
body, just able to make out her pale hair splayed out over the pillow. “She has begged that I stay with her,” continues Juno. “Would you kindly ask the Queen’s permission that I may be excused the hunting trip, Mary?”

“Is it serious?” I ask.

“I think not,” she replies. “But she must rest.”

Even so, as I go back to the Queen’s chambers I have a knot of anxiety in me, once an infection is established it can spread and then . . . it doesn’t bear thinking about.

The Queen is in a merry mood when I return, is quite bright-eyed, teasing Lettice about her imminent nuptials. But she turns to me without ceremony asking, “How does your sister, Mary?”

“She is sleeping, madam. She has an infection in her tooth. The physician orders her to rest and Lady Jane begs to stay with her.” The Queen is nodding.

“Have they bled her?”

“I believe not.”

“It is wise when there is infection. I shall ask my physician to arrange it. And yes, Mary, you may convey to Lady Jane that she has permission to stay.”

“And I, Your Majesty; might I stay also?”

“And miss the amusements? That would be a shame. Leave Lady Jane to tend your sister. It is only a toothache, not the plague.” She turns to Kat Astley, who is hovering nearby. “Ah, Kat. I want you to . . .”

Our conversation has been perfunctorily closed, so I sidle away, bobbing in a curtsy though the Queen is not looking at me.

In the anteroom are both Cecil and Dudley, each one surrounded by his men. Cecil’s are ebullient and do not seek to hide it, whereas Dudley’s are seething and silent in a huddle. Suddenly I understand the purpose of the Queen’s antics: it is to divide and rule. She needs both men but cannot let either be more powerful than the other. I see, too, that she will never commit to wed Dudley; her power in Europe lies in her being able to play off France
against Spain: just as she does with Cecil and Dudley, so she does with Europe. It demands high regard; a woman who knows her power lies in her vacillation.

One of Dudley’s men strides over towards Cecil’s crowd, his hand on the hilt of his sword. I move swiftly towards the door. I do not want to find myself at the center of a violent squabble. Some harsh words are exchanged and Dudley’s man is dragged aside by two of his friends. “Leave it,” they are saying. “He doesn’t merit it.” The air is charged with rage. I slip away.

•  •  •

The morning is dull and bitterly cold. I can see the pattern of frost on the window and snuggle farther into my blankets. Two of Katherine’s dogs have curled themselves close, one in the crook of my knees and the other tucked into my belly. Due to Katherine’s illness, I was given leave to sleep in Juno’s rooms, on the truckle at the foot of the big bed that the two of them share. Since she was bled yesterday, my sister has seemed better, and the giggles and whispers emanating from the bed last night assuaged my fears for her health.

It occurs to me, remembering the look they exchanged yesterday, that the whole thing might have been a ruse to avoid the discomfort of a December trip to Eltham, which is not the most comfortable of the palaces. The Westminster bell sounds out six of the clock; I drag myself out from my warm cocoon of blankets, feeling the chill air through the thin fabric of my shift and raising my arms to stretch out the ache in my back. Peeking round the hangings, I spy Juno and Katherine sleeping soundly side by side. If I am honest, I am a little annoyed that they didn’t include me in their ruse, for the idea of a day’s ride through the biting cold and ending in that vast drafty old place pleases me not one bit.
Be stoic, Mary
, I imagine Jane telling me. At least I will not be expected to go out with the hunt, for my pony is too small to keep up the pace
when the going is fast, and the Queen gets impatient if there are stragglers.