Brandy Purdy (22 page)

She was standing on the landing, seething, breast heaving, when she spied Kate and me poised to come up.

“You!”
she hissed venomously, pointing a rage-trembling finger right at Kate. “
You
did this to me! You made a fool of me!” She struck her brow with the heel of her palm. “There was something in the wine, there must have been, and you put it there to make me forget myself! You made me give myself to that . . . that . . .
lack-witted popinjay!
I will
never
forgive you, Kate,
never,
as long as I live! From this day forward, you are my enemy, not my sister!” Then, in a frenzy of uncontrollable tears, she hitched up her skirts and ran, stumbling blindly, tripping and barking her shins on the stone stairs.

I saw Kate’s heart break.

“Jane, wait, please!” Kate started up after her, but I, standing on a higher step so that I was of a nigh equal height with her, reached out and stayed her and shook my head, urging Kate to wait, to leave her be, and let her temper cool. But it was too late. All of a sudden we were engulfed in the voluminous, billowing folds of a pink gown and, freeing ourselves, looked up to find ourselves caught in a shower of falling finery. Jane was hurling Kate’s clothes down at us and running back for more. I hugged Kate close as she clung to me and wept amidst the hail of dresses, hats, gloves, fans, jewelry, and shoes.

“Get out! Go! I don’t want you here! I never want to see you again!” Jane screamed as she barked her shins and bloodied the creamy flow of her skirt trying to drag Kate’s heavy oak traveling chest to the top of the stairs. Kate and I quickly jumped apart as Jane gave one last hard kick to the trunk and sent it barreling down the stairs, straight at where we had been standing.
“I hate you, Kate, I hate you!”
she screamed so fiercely the words seemed to rake and tear her throat raw, and I feared that when I looked up at her panting, red-faced figure glaring down at us with shoulders and breast heaving, I would see blood bubbling from her mouth. I could not fathom how she could unloose such a scream without doing internal damage.

Kate sank down onto her knees in a welter of rumpled finery and wept as I had never seen before.

“Come away,” I said gently, tugging her hand, while Henny and Hetty silently appeared to gather everything up and pack it away inside the trunk that had landed on its side at the foot of the stairs.

I led my sister out to sit on the seawall, where we had passed many happy afternoons, eating cherries and vying to see who could pitch the pits farthest out into the river, contentedly swinging our feet, and watching the pink and yellow streaked orange sunsets. While we waited for Henny to collect the rest of Kate’s things, I did my best to soothe her, promising that I would remain, and that when Jane’s temper cooled I would do all that I could to convince her of the truth I knew—that Kate had acted out of the goodness of her heart, wanting only to see Jane find true happiness within her marriage.

“I was afraid her bitterness, contempt, and hate would destroy her,” Kate wept in my arms. “She has a chance at love—I only wanted to make her see that! She can’t be so cold as she pretends, so it
must
be fear, it
must!
I thought, if she could forget herself, just for a day, see what passion is truly like, she wouldn’t be so afraid of it!”

“I know, I know.” I patted Kate’s back as the barge that would carry her away, back to Baynard’s Castle and her wild, giddy, flirtatious whirlwind of a life, glided silently up to the water stairs.

While Henny and a footman saw to Kate’s trunk, I walked my sister carefully down the smooth, worn stone water stairs, giving her every comfort and reassurance I could that “sisters quarrel but never stay angry for long” and that “all will soon be forgiven.”

I stood and waved until she was out of sight, then I went back in to Jane with a prayer on my lips that the words I had just spoken were not just a comforting balm, that the wound truly would heal without leaving an ugly scar.

For more than a fortnight Jane kept to her chamber, maintaining a stony wall of silence, stubbornly refusing to see me or Guildford, who repeatedly banged on her door and demanded to know how she could refuse to fall in love with him. She admitted only Mrs. Ellen, but when she tried to remonstrate with her, assuring her that her sisters loved her dearly and had acted only with the best of intentions, and that Guildford was trying his best to be a good husband to her, Jane would turn her back and stop her ears, and in a loud, clear voice, that grew even louder every time poor Mrs. Ellen dared utter a word, recite Scripture, quoting, in maddening, monotonous repetition, the passage from the Book of Matthew about wolves in sheep’s clothing.

I passed many a wakeful night worrying about how I could possibly make things right between my sisters. I could understand Jane’s anger, how she felt betrayed, both by Kate and her own body, the volcano of emotions forcibly buried and concealed deep within that Madame Astarte’s potion had caused to erupt in a passionate explosion that had left Jane no longer a virgin. But I knew that Kate, more than our parents, who had arranged the match, truly had Jane’s best interests at heart. She could not bear to see the sister we both loved trapped in a loveless marriage, like a windowless cell so bleak and narrow one could scarcely take two steps in any direction, with barely an arrow slit in the wall to let the light in. She wanted to show Jane that she could have so much more.

Guildford, though vain and self-centered, and not the shining star of brilliance that Jane was, was not without kindness; he would, if Jane let him, be her friend and try to make the best of this marriage that neither of them had any choice about. But they had a choice within it, to be friends, kind, dear, loving friends, if they would, and, perhaps more, if they deigned to let Love enter and flood the sparse Spartan prison of Jane’s soul. I wanted to tell Jane this.

Some days I stood at her door and talked myself hoarse, and on many of those sleepless nights I felt compelled to creep out and kneel there and pour out my heart, to try to make her understand that Kate had truly meant only good and not a bit of harm. But Jane kept her door locked and would not hear me, and through the muffling thickness of the heavy wooden door I heard her voice loudly reciting Scripture, sometimes in English, other times in Latin, Greek, or Hebrew, but I knew it was always the same verse:
Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.

One unusually hot July night, when I could no longer bear tossing sleeplessly in a tangle of sweat-sodden sheets, I rose from my bed to bind the sticky curtain of my hair in a tight braid, to give some respite to my neck, and to bathe myself with a cooling cloth. As I stood poised beside the basin, ready to dip the cloth, I heard voices below my open window. I recognized them at once—my father and Guildford. I heard every word they said, but to this day I wish I had not. I wish I, like Jane, had stopped my ears and taken refuge—even if it was a cowardly refuge—in the recitation of Scripture or just jumped back into bed and hugged a pillow tight over my head.

“Must you go?” Guildford asked in a sensual, sulky voice, and I could just picture his pretty lips pouting so seductively that he was just begging to be kissed. “The night is young and I’m
so
beautiful . . .”

Next came a groan, torn passionately from Father’s throat and a rustle of clothing as though he were clutching another body close to his. “I can’t fight it anymore! You taste as sweet as a sugared lemon!”

“Oh, Hal!” Guildford sighed.

“Don’t call me Hal. My wife calls me Hal!” Father spoke the word
wife
so savagely, with such biting contempt it frightened me; it was as though he were stabbing my lady-mother with his words.

“Very well, I shall call you
Enrico,
” Guildford announced. “That is Italian for Henry; I asked Maestro Cocozza and he told me,” he added boastfully as though making such an inquiry of his music master was some monumental accomplishment of which he should be very proud.

Another blissful sigh and the rustle of clothing, then Father said, “And I shall call you
Il mio amore,
my love, my sweet,
mio dolce
. . .”

The silence that followed told its own tale—they were kissing passionately. Then, with a breathless gasp of wonder, they broke apart.

“We shall be
so
happy together, when we are away from here, in Italy.” Father sighed, dreaming their dream, their folie à deux, aloud. “My golden songbird that I keep in the gilded cage of my heart shall sing, his voice soaring like wings from the stage. You shall be showered with accolades, gold, jewels, and flowers thrown nightly at your feet by the adoring masses as you take your final bow, and I shall be right there in front every night, leading the applause, and every day I will bake the sweetest, most decadent, rich pastries . . .”

“Name your shop
Il Limone Zuccherato,
The Sugared Lemon, for me!” Guildford breathed, and another silence followed as I imagined their lips locked, their bodies crushed, close together, tart and sweet.

“But what shall we do for money?” Guildford asked. “When I sing, will the people throw enough money for us to live in the style to which we are accustomed?”

“Do not worry, my love, I shall supplement our earnings, from your singing and my pastry shop, at the gambling tables!” Father said, confident and reassuring.

Inwardly I groaned. Father was a
terrible
gambler. Some said he was the
worst
in London, and the higher the stakes, the better he liked it; his losses were astronomical, and we lived perpetually on the threshold of financial disaster. Dr. Haddon, our chaplain at Bradgate, had spoken to him
numerous
times,
pleading
with him,
begging
him, for the good of his soul and the sake of his family and to stave off ruin, to renounce this reckless and ruinous habit forever.

“What’s one fortune?” Father said with what I could well imagine was a blasé shrug. “I can
always
win us another and another after we’ve run through that one, and then another! You shall stand beside me and be my good luck charm! With your beauty and my brains we make a
perfect
match!”

“Heavenly!”
Guildford sighed and surrendered to Father’s embrace one more time.

Quietly, even though the heat was stifling, I closed the casement and returned to my bed, with a sick, frightened feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to hear any more and wished with all my heart I could erase from my mind what I had already heard. It was too absurd; my father, the Duke of Suffolk, wanted to run away with his son-in-law to Italy, to live and love, in the most sinful way known to man, warmed by the sun, while one sang, on a stage he would most likely be hissed and booed from as he was pelted with rotten vegetables, and the other renounced his proud and noble heritage to run a sweetshop. It was mad, utterly mad!

No, Father, no!
I sobbed into my pillow as I pounded it with my fists in pure frustration.
Guildford is meant for Jane! How can they ever become a loving couple if you come between them?

The next morning there was no sign of Father, and when I discreetly inquired if perchance he had arrived during the night, I was met with blank and puzzled stares from the servants. Clearly his clandestine visit was intended for one person alone—Guildford.

O
n the ninth day of July, 1553, the country idyll, and with it Jane’s self-imposed sulking isolation, came to an abrupt end when Lady Mary Sidney arrived, her barge gliding silently up to Chelsea like a black swan darkly silhouetted against a glowing orange sunset. She had come bearing orders from her father, the mighty Northumberland, to bring Jane and Guildford to Syon House “to receive that which has been ordered for you by the King.” More than that she would not say, not even when my sister stamped her foot and demanded, imperiously as a queen, that she be told for what and why she was being summoned.

Guildford did not bother to ask questions. Excited as a child over the idea of an outing, he ran back inside to change his clothes. When he returned, elegantly garbed for travel, with Fluff purring in his arms, he paused to kiss his sister’s cheek and called back casually to his valet to follow directly with his things, then settled himself comfortably in the barge, languorously against the velvet cushions, ready to be off. “This place begins to bore me,” he declared, nonchalantly trailing his fingers through the water.

But, ever balky, endowed with a stubbornness that put every mule in Christendom to shame, Jane resisted, digging her heels in and claiming that she could not go, she was too ill to obey the Duke’s summons even if the King commanded it. She tugged, slapped, and fought against the determined hand Mary Sidney clasped around Jane’s delicate wrist as she endeavored to pull her across the grass to the water stairs, urgently insisting that Jane
must
obey. “It is necessary for you to come with me, Jane; Father said you must come even if I must give orders to have you bound and carried into the barge, you
must
come
now!
”

With an anguished cry, Jane took refuge in unconsciousness and fell fainting to the ground. Before I could reach her, Mary Sidney had already summoned four of the bargemen, clad in the Dudleys’ blue velvet livery with their proud emblem of a bear clutching a ragged staff emblazoned on their chests and sleeves. They easily lifted Jane up, a featherlight burden in her flowing gray silk gown, with her arms outstretched, and her legs straight, like Christ nailed to the cross, and gently carried her to the barge. They laid her on the cushions beside Guildford, who flicked some water onto her moon-pale face on which her freckles stood out like cinnamon stars, Guildford observed, adding languidly that if mathematics didn’t bore him he would be tempted to attempt to count them. His sister did not dally; she clasped me beneath my armpits, despite my protests at this indignity, and nigh threw me into the barge, then climbed in herself and gave the order to “
Row!
Take us to Syon House!” as we crouched around Jane, rubbing her hands and fanning her, imploring her to open her eyes.

“Yes,” Guildford drawled, “it is such a beautiful sunset; you really should look at it. Lying down as you are, you have the most splendid view; I almost envy you, but I don’t want to take off my hat, it’s so beautiful, or rumple my hair after all the hours I spent on these curls. But”—he heaved a martyr-worthy sigh—“methinks beautiful things—like me—are wasted on you; you just don’t know how to appreciate the finer things in life—like me.” With those words he snapped open the yellow enameled comfit box Father had given him and began nibbling daintily upon a sugared lemon.

I opened the collar of the white lawn partlet that modestly filled the low black-braid bordered square bodice of Jane’s dove gray gown and pressed a damp handkerchief to her throat. She felt feverish to my touch, and I feared the nerve-induced illness that had lately plagued her was returning with a swift vengeance. Mary Sidney quickly poured a goblet of spiced red wine, and as Jane moaned and her eyelids began to flutter, lifted her head and urged her to drink.

Jane sat up, sputtering wine and demanding that we turn around and take her back to Chelsea at once.
“I order you!”
she screamed, hurling the goblet of wine at the bargemen, and balling her hands into fists and futilely hammering them and her heels against the floor, but they, being Northumberland’s men, ignored her, and Guildford petulantly ordered her, “Do sit still, Jane. You’re rocking the boat and will bring on the
mal de mar
—that means seasickness,” he added helpfully.

“I
know
it means seasickness. I speak perfect French, you nitwit!” Jane spat back at him. “And it’s not
mal de mar.
It’s
mal de mer!
”

“Who cares?” Guildford shrugged, selecting another sugared lemon from his comfit box. “It’s not the spelling that matters, only the meaning. And everything I say is very meaningful; isn’t that so, Mary?” He turned to his sister for confirmation.

“Yes, dear,
very
insightful
and
meaningful,” she promptly agreed, and our little voyage continued in bored, curious, and angry silence, making the two hours it really took seem like an eternity for all of us.

It was after nightfall when we arrived at the erstwhile convent of Syon that the Duke of Northumberland had converted into a country estate for himself as it was situated conveniently near London, so he need never stray too far from the throne and the puppet king whose strings he pulled. We passed through a long, torchlit corridor in which the gray stone walls were covered with ornate gold-fringed tapestries. The house seemed curiously silent, which had the unnerving effect of making our footsteps sound inordinately loud, and strangely deserted for a nobleman’s house; there seemed to be no one, not one single servant, about to welcome or attend us. Just as Guildford was complaining that such laxity deserved the horsewhip, a door at the end of the corridor swung open and the Duke of Northumberland emerged, smiling broadly, to welcome Jane as though she were the only one there and the rest of us were invisible. Guildford was so astonished he couldn’t even speak.

I watched my sister shy warily away from her father-in-law with fear and mistrust filling her eyes. But he ignored this and led her on, as we tentatively and uncertainly followed, through the door, into a room lit by hundreds of candles with a dais and gilded chair, clearly a makeshift throne, beneath a gold fringed scarlet canopy, at the far end. It was obviously a presence chamber intended for someone great and important to receive visitors or hear petitions.

As soon as Jane entered there was a great rustling as men and women, high born nobles all in fine array, and men who were clearly members of the King’s Council in somber black robes and the heavy golden chains of office they were so proud to wear, broke apart and moved to stand in a double row, facing each other, clearing a path leading up to the throne. As Jane passed them, the ladies curtsied low and the men knelt, all of them murmuring soft and reverent words such as “sovereign lady,” “Your Grace,” “Majesty,” “Your Highness,” and “our gracious queen.”

Jane gasped and leapt back and stumbled against Guildford’s chest. From his arms, Fluff gave a loud hiss and, claws bared, slashed an indignant snowy paw at Jane’s head, tearing the black veil hanging from her hood. “Now see what you’ve done!” Guildford petulantly wailed. “You’ve upset Fluff!” Whereupon he shoved her forward, as his father rushed to reclaim her hand and, walking backward, guided her, like a man pulling on the bridle of the most recalcitrant mule, to the throne even as Jane, meek and pale-faced, shaking with fear, repeating,
“No, no, no!”
dug in her heels and tried to wrench free, turn, and run away.

But Guildford wouldn’t let her; he stayed right behind her and made sure she kept moving forward. “You cannot run away from this honor. It is your destiny, Jane,” he said, patting her shoulder. “But don’t worry, you have me, and I shall be glad to share it with you. We’re young and beautiful and everyone will love us, once we do something about those plain, drab clothes of yours, of course; they’re
so
dreary, no wonder you’re so melancholy. And I
really
think you should have a henna rinse as soon as possible. Picture us standing side by side in the sun, you with your red hair and me with my golden. The people shall worship and adore us!”

I wanted to go to her, but Mary Sidney grabbed my shoulder and drew me back to join the others and gestured for me to follow her example and curtsy. Farther down the line, I saw Kate, standing between the Earl of Pembroke, in his long black robe and heavy gold chain, and frail, flaxen-haired Berry clad head to toe in the most delicate blue. Kate looked radiant in a beautiful gold-braided garnet satin gown with her hair glowing and free-flowing, dancing down her back like a cascade of crackling flames. Feeling my eyes upon her, she leaned forward and looked down the line, and when she saw me, her face brightened and she fluttered her fingers in a merry little wave before, at Berry’s nudging, straightening her back and assuming a properly dignified pose.

“As head of the Council,” Northumberland gravely intoned as he pulled the reluctant and tearful Jane along, “I do now declare the death of his most blessed and gracious Majesty, King Edward VI . . .”

Jane gasped loudly and staggered, and for a moment I feared she would faint. I noticed then that she was the only one who seemed surprised by this news; no one else reacted at all. Then our parents, smiling broader than I had ever before seen them, came from where they had been standing nearest the dais, to embrace and kiss Jane’s cheeks. Beaming as he embraced her, Father declared that he was so proud of her, that she was the shining star of the House of Grey, and even though he had been disappointed at her birth that she was not a boy, she had with this newly attained glory atoned for that more than a thousand times over.

Northumberland cleared his throat loudly, and our parents resumed their places, and, oblivious to Jane’s astonishment and distress, he continued his speech.

“We have cause to rejoice for the virtuous and praiseworthy life that His Majesty hath led, as also for his very good death. Let us take comfort by praising his prudence and goodness, and for the very great care he hath taken of his kingdom at the close of his life, having prayed God to defend it from the rule of his evil sisters.

“His Majesty hath weighed well an Act of Parliament wherein it was already resolved that whosoever should acknowledge the Lady Mary or the Lady Elizabeth and receive them as heirs of the Crown should be had for traitors, one of them having formerly been disobedient to His Majesty’s father, King Henry VIII, and also to himself concerning the true religion. Wherefore in no manner did His Grace wish that they should be his heirs, he being in every way able to disinherit them.”

As Jane shrank back from him in horror, still breathlessly murmuring, “No, No, No!” Northumberland, with a firm, unshakable grip, forced her up the steps of the dais, with a little help from Guildford, who gave a hard push to her rump. Poor Jane would have fallen face-first into the purple velvet cushions had Northumberland not deftly caught her beneath her arms and spun her around and sat her down properly.

“His Majesty hath named Your Grace as the heir to the Crown of England,” he announced, moving to stand beside the throne and gesturing for Guildford to do the same, as he calmly clamped a hand on Jane’s shoulder when she attempted to bolt up from her unwanted seat. “Your sisters shall succeed you if you should happen to die without issue . . .”

With these words, Kate suddenly became more important than she had ever been in her life, or ever imagined she would be, except to the man who loved her. Everyone turned to look at her, to appraise her, with calculating and conniving eyes, considering how she could best serve their interests. Until Jane birthed a child, or if she proved barren, or her babies died, Kate would be the heir to the throne. From now on, people would praise, admire, and flatter her more than ever before when it was only for her beauty, and they would look to her for favors and beg her to intercede with Jane or bring their petitions to her attention. Kate was now a young woman of
great
importance, after Jane, the highest ranking lady in the land, and I sincerely hoped Berry would be able to help her bear the weight that was about to descend upon her pretty shoulders.

“This declaration hath been approved by all the lords of the Council, most of the peers, and all the judges of the land,” Northumberland continued. “There is nothing wanting but Your Grace’s
grateful
”—he paused meaningfully as his eyes bored into Jane’s and his fingers dug deeper into the tender flesh of her shoulder—“acceptance of the high estate which God Almighty, the sovereign and disposer of all crowns and scepters—never to be sufficiently thanked by you for so great a mercy—hath advanced you to. Therefore you should
cheerfully
”—his fingers bit harder—“take upon you the name, title, and estate of Queen of England, receiving at our hands the first fruits of our humble duty, now tendered to you upon our knees”—he paused long enough to kneel—“which shortly will be paid to you by the rest of the kingdom . . .”

With a gesture, he brought the whole room to their knees and every voice swore to be loyal to and defend “even unto death, our sovereign lady, Queen Jane.”

With a wrenching cry, Jane levered herself up from the throne, staggered forward, then fell in a dead faint. Northumberland rose swiftly and stood staring down at her with a grimace of distaste, while Guildford, jostling Fluff from one arm to the other, bent to pull her skirt down into a more modest drape “as only the king and her female attendants should ever see the Queen’s garters.” The highborn lords and ladies made a great show of pretending not to notice. Only Kate and I attempted to break from their ranks and rush to assist her, but Pembroke and Berry held Kate back, adamantly shaking their heads, while Mary Sidney restrained me.

“Guildford, how well you are looking, you look good enough to eat!” Father exclaimed, breaking the awkward silence as Jane lay, defenseless and unconscious, upon the dais, with her hood knocked askew and her gray skirts trailing down the steps like dirty rainwater.