Elizabeth I (121 page)

He housed us on the second floor, in the west wing, overlooking the orchard and, beyond that, meadows. It was cozy, embracing. We settled ourselves. Our attendants would be housed beyond the moat in outlying buildings. We were alone—or as alone as a queen and her cousin could ever be. The tidy folded blankets and stand with its ewer and pitcher saw to our needs in the simplest manner. A plain candlestick sat on a polished table.

I walked about the room, taking its measure.

Something in my mother's spirit had wanted to soar beyond this homely comfort and security, to seek adventure. It was not her parents who had driven her, but she herself.

And Mary, her sister, progenitor of Catherine and Lettice? She may have danced and bedded with kings, but she had been content with an untitled soldier in the end. She had escaped ignominy but also immortal fame.

The choice of Achilles: Go to Troy, have a brief life but eternal fame; stay home, have a long, safe, uneventful life but be forgotten. My mother and Achilles had chosen the brief but stirring life. When she was born, no one noted it, and no one was sure of the exact date today. When she died, the whole world knew. I would have made the same choice.

“Thank you, Mother,” I murmured. “Thank you for your courage.”

We passed a restful night. There was still another day before Lettice would join us. We explored the house and asked Sir Charles for the records. And all the while the shadows of former owners dogged our footsteps, doubles that followed us about.

“Lettice will arrive tomorrow,” said Catherine as we readied for sleep.

“I know,” I said.

“Are you ready to greet her?”

As ready as my father had been when he rode to Hever, I supposed. “Yes,” I answered her. I blew out the candle and pulled the bed-curtains shut.

I
slept more soundly than I had thought possible behind these old walls. I was untroubled by ghosts or dreams and awoke just before dawn, when any specters would have vanished.

I thought of meeting Lettice after such a long time. Had I ever liked her, my younger cousin? We had once been close. I had known her as a child, her blazing red hair a tie between us, her spirit and daring still more of one. She was more like me than my half-sister Mary, whom at that time I was trying to soothe and reassure. Lettice did not have to do so; her parents left England rather than submit to the reintroduced Catholicism. As heir to the throne, I did not have that luxury. I had to stay here and survive.

When it was safe to return, the Knollyses did so. Lettice was fifteen then. The girl who came to court to serve as my maid of honor was no longer the winsome child who had gone to Protestant Europe; now she was sensual and sly. She spent her time at court trying to captivate men, and soon she was married to Walter Devereux, the future Earl of Essex. Had she been like most others, that would have been the last of her.

But she was not like all the others.

I needed to see her, this creature whom my Robert Dudley had once held so dear, this renegade cousin who nonetheless mirrored me in so many ways. And together we needed to touch the base from which we both sprang, and which would explain much. That was why I had come.

While waiting, Catherine and I crossed the drawbridge to stroll in the gardens outside. The water came up to the very edge of the walls, making the castle appear to float. On firm ground beyond the moat, there was an orchard and a formal garden, with flower beds and box borders and a worn sundial in its center.

“What did your father tell you about Hever?” I asked her.

“He was not one for describing houses,” she said. “He would just get a smile when he mentioned it.”

I wanted details, memories.

“It is a beautiful setting,” I said. “It is hard to imagine what lured anyone out of it. But court is a piper, playing melodies only some ears hear.” That was the real difference between people—those who heard, who were susceptible to its glittering promises, and those who were deaf to them.

“She comes,” Sir Charles came to tell us. “From the tower I saw a rider on the road, approaching slowly. I think it is she.”

It was midafternoon. Catherine and I stood with our host and waited. Eventually a slight dust cloud signaled someone coming over the rise, and a dun horse appeared, its rider swaying, her hand on her hat. She was dressed all in black. Behind her rode an attendant.

Servants rushed out to welcome her and take her horse. She dismounted, stiffly, and walked toward us. She was no longer young but had not crossed the line into appearing elderly. Her expression was masklike, and the smile she gave as she came closer seemed as false as one drawn on a sheet of paper.

She bowed, tipping the top of her hat upward. Its black feathers trembled. “Your Majesty,” she said. She stayed bowed a long time.

“Please rise, Cousin,” I said.

She did so and stood looking at me, face to face. Then she truly smiled, and her face became fluid. “Catherine. Your Majesty.”

“Welcome,” said Sir Charles. “I am pleased that you honor me by gathering here.”

“It is you who honor us,” I said. “This house has been closed to us ever since we were scattered in many directions. Now we have come home.”

We stood awkwardly until Sir Charles said, “I will be pleased to show you every corner and niche. The house has many secrets.”

While he directed Lettice's attendant to her room with their baggage, I turned to her. I decided not to comment on the black, but we made an odd contrast, for I was all in white, my favorite “color.” Both were equally flattering to red hair. Her choice signaled mourning, mine virginity—the only two colors that served as definitive labels for others to read.

“Shall we sit?” Several benches were scattered about the garden; we sought one under the shade of a sycamore tree. “You must be tired,” I said to Lettice. “Would you prefer to rest in your room?”

She cocked her head. “No. I am not to that stage yet.” She walked, straight-backed, to the bench.

As we settled under the tree, several birds flew off, rising with a rush of wings.

“I would make a comment about three old crows frightening off the sprightlier birds,” said Catherine, “but I fear it might seem rude.”

“I give you license to say whatever you please,” I said. “Lettice, do you agree?”

“Yes,” she said, but her voice was icy.

“Very well, then!” said Catherine. “It's sad that, cousins though we may be, Lettice, I cannot remember the last time I saw you.”

“Nor I, you.” Then silence. Diplomatic silence, for they knew very well when they had last met.

This was even worse than I had imagined. Why had I let Catherine talk me into this? I would plunge in, break the barrier, for better or worse. “I remember,” I said. “It was when you accosted me in the passageway at Whitehall and attempted to give me a gift.”

As I knew she would, she rose to the bait. “Accosted you? You had avoided me, insulted me, after your invitation to meet with you.” Her eyes, beneath the brim of her hat, were narrowed.

“The invitation I was forced to extend, because of your unruly son, who never knew when to cease and desist. You have heard the old country saying ‘Lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink'? I wanted to teach your son that lesson. Alas, he was a slow learner.”

“I did not come here to hear my son insulted.” She stood up.

“Sit down, Lettice,” I said. How fine to be a queen and for that to be a command. She sank down. “I have no wish to insult anyone. He was headstrong, as we both know. But he was loyal to his mother, thoughtful of her feelings, and I honor that. So many children disobey the fifth commandment. He did not, and we both appreciate what that meant.”

“But before the meeting in the passageway, I cannot think when last I saw you,” said Catherine, ever the peacemaker.

“I have not been at court since 1578,” she said. “Ten years before the Armada.”

“Then we must search our childhood,” I said, “and that is what we are here for. Lettice, did your mother ever speak of this place?”

Lettice smiled for the first time. Was she relieved to have the obvious stated and over with? “Yes. In her memories, it was an idyllic time. The country. Butterflies. Fields. Horses. Hawking. When her father, William Carey, died, she was only four. She remembered him swinging her over wildflowers in a great circle, her feet flying out.

“You are the only one who met Mary Boleyn,” continued Lettice. She was addressing me. “You are the only one of us alive when she was.”

Was she asking me a question? Underlining my age? “Yes, I did. After the—After I lost my mother, I was shuffled around from one house to another. Sometimes I was brought to court to see my father and his newest wife. Mostly I was kept in the country, far from where the sight of me might give offense. I loved Aunt Mary Boleyn. She was warm and encouraging, and I wanted to call her ‘mother.' She had a way of looking at me, paying close attention, that spun my little head. No one else paid any attention to me in those days.”

“Well, they've made up for it now!” said Lettice.

The bold remark made me laugh; it did not anger me. I was relieved that she had felt free to say it. We were finally making headway.

“I think those first twenty-five years of vicissitude prepared me well for the flattery that followed,” I said. “It should be a requirement for rulers: be castigated, ignored, and insulted. It teaches you to weigh the adulation that comes with the office, to know its true worth.”

“Was she—was she pretty?” asked Lettice. Of course she would want to know that.

“To me she was. But I was inclined in her favor because of her kindness to me. I remember she had golden hair—unusual in an adult. And that her skin was exquisite—pale but all one hue, no mottling.” I thought hard. “Her voice was low, confiding.” I paused. “I am so sorry you never knew her. Yet both of you carry her traits. Catherine, your voice is very like hers, and you have her kindness. Lettice, she was catnip to men, and so are you.”