Sisters of Treason (30 page)

“I like your horse.”

He laughs. “I have given you Gentle today, Lady Katherine.”

“Truly?” I ask. Gentle is one of his favorites, and I have become unused to such preference.

“Indeed,” he says with a grin. “Her Majesty made a point of asking that you be given one of the better horses.” I can see Gentle being led over now. He is a chestnut gelding with a sweet temperament and a white star between his eyes.

“I am honored,” I say, scratching Gentle on his star. He flares his nostrils in pleasure and huffs out a billow of hot breath towards my neck. I stroke the velvet-soft tip of his nose and place a kiss there.

“Got one for me?” quips Dudley.

“Don’t be silly,” I say. Dudley is always like this with me when the Queen is not about. It is harmless, his flirting, just a sign he is on my side. Or that is what I suppose. I wonder if this new favor I have with Elizabeth isn’t something to do with
his
influence. There has even been talk of her adopting me; not to my face, but people tell me things and what is discussed in the council meetings leaks out one way or another. It would appeal to Cecil, I’m sure, to have the succession secured in such a way, he is kin of some sort, after all. Perhaps it was
his
suggestion. Juno thinks Cecil champions me. She says it is because he would do anything to prevent Mary of Scotland getting her Catholic backside on the throne of England. I flatten a twisted strap on Gentle’s bridle.

“Let him have his head,” Dudley says. “And go easy on the whip. He won’t need much encouragement.” He wheels round and leaves me with the groom, who helps me mount.

Juno is up as well and pointing out her two brothers across the yard. “Let’s join them.”

We nudge our horses forward to where Hertford and his younger brother Henry are sharing a stirrup cup. Just the sight of Hertford makes my insides churn, and I am awash with thoughts of our snatched moments alone together—a glorious year of secret trysts.

“We shall be accompanied by the finest beauties of the entire court,” says Henry, by way of a greeting.

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” I quip. “There is someone who wouldn’t appreciate it.”

As if on cue, the Queen appears. Dudley helps her mount, as is his duty—he is the only man with the right to touch the Queen’s body—and it shows on his face each time he does it, as
if he has taken ownership of her. She signals for him to fall in beside her as she picks up the pace, trotting out through the arch. The rest of us urge our horses on to keep up. Hertford is beside me, our legs pressed together in the crowd; he allows his hand to brush mine. The thrill is as fresh as it was that first evening at Hanworth when I was pretending I did not care a fig for him. I smile to myself, remembering. Our eyes meet, he winks, I blow him a kiss, not caring who sees. Our so-called secret is quite well known, among our friends at least, but the Queen is sufficiently preoccupied with her own passion that she seems entirely blind to ours.

Uncle Arundel has sidled up beside Juno. He is wearing the most inappropriately overembellished doublet, with a swinging cape fringed in gold, and looks as if he is off to a banquet rather than out hunting.

“Lady Jane,” he says. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to ride with you?”

“My lord,” she replies, “I have promised Lady Katherine that I shall accompany
her
.”

“Then I shall escort you both.” Juno and I exchange a look and I try not to laugh. Hertford and Henry
are
laughing.

“Arise, Sir January,” whispers Hertford to his brother, but not so quiet that
I
can’t hear it. Arundel has made no secret of the fact that he wants Juno’s hand, and since he is nearly fifty and she only nineteen, we have dubbed her Lady May and he Sir January. He has given her a miniature of himself dressed as a Roman emperor with all his hair miraculously and abundantly returned to his head and all the creases ironed from his skin. It is not one of Levina’s;
she
wouldn’t take flattery to such lengths.

“You find something amusing, my lords?” This is directed at Hertford and Henry, who are red-faced with laughter. “You think me an old fool like the one in Chaucer’s tale, do you?”

Both boys look abashed and Hertford begins to form an apology, but Arundel continues.

“You should be careful where you throw your insults, Hertford. You may need my influence one day.”

“They meant no harm, Uncle,” I say in my softest voice, touching a hand to his sleeve. “They are only envious of your”—I am about to say manliness but stop myself, for it occurs to me that it might be interpreted as an extension of the jest—“riches and command.”

“Ha!” he puffs, seeming satisfied, mumbling “riches and command” under his breath, with something that resembles a smile, and flicking his crop over his horse’s quarters.

Once out in the open we all break into a canter. I give Gentle his head, as Dudley bid me, and feel the strength of him, his exhilaration. The horses’ hooves against the hard summer ground make the sound of a thousand drummers, and I am gripped with excitement, urging Gentle on to a gallop, feeling pleasure and laughter bubbling up in my throat. The Queen is far ahead with Dudley, who struggles to keep with her and her pack of deerhounds streaking beside her. One picks up a scent with an ebullient yelp, and Elizabeth yells, “Hoy!” further picking up speed.

Hertford is beside me on his roan mare. I watch how the muscles of his legs ripple as they grip at her flanks. I look behind to see Juno and Henry coming up.

“I see you have shaken off Sir January,” I call out, above the thunder.

“His horse was lame, he had to call for another.”

“Seems God is on your side, Sister,” cries Hertford, causing us all to laugh.

The countryside is parched; most of the crops have been harvested now, leaving dry stubble with stacks of hay punctuating the view. The river is a silver ribbon in the distance. The hounds circle back towards it. The Queen, riding, as ever, like a demon, turns and shouts something to Dudley, who is a length behind her. The wind has detached my hair from its ties, I can feel it flying out behind me and my breath is quick with effort, but Gentle still has plenty of go in him. We are approaching a spinney. The Queen and
Dudley have slowed to a canter, and the hounds are baying about the edge of the trees. The buck must have taken cover in there.

“Find him! In you go,” cries Dudley, urging on the hounds, who disappear into the undergrowth. All the riders have crowded about the edge of the copse, hoping for an early kill.

“This is your moment,” says Juno, tapping my arm. “Slip away before the beast breaks cover.” She calls to her manservant, “Mr. Glynne, would you accompany Lady Katherine back to the palace?”

Hertford catches my eye, drawing up beside me. “You go first, my sweet,” he whispers. “I’ll follow on in a few minutes and meet you in Juno’s rooms.” He points vaguely in the direction of the palace. There is a hullabaloo from within the spinney; the buck must be at bay in there, and I feel a moment of regret for the animal, there in the dark, surrounded.

On my return I meet Uncle Arundel on his fresh mount. I tell him I am suffering from a slight ague and point to where he can find the rest of the field.

“Glad to see you have someone to accompany you,” he says, indicating in the general direction of Mr. Glynne. “Would you like me to come and seek out my physician for you?”

“My sister will be there and Mistress Astley; they will take care of me. I have more need of rest than a physician, I think. Don’t miss the hunt on my account, Uncle.” He looks relieved not to have to play the chivalrous role.

“If you are certain.”

“I am, Uncle.” I urge Gentle into a sedate walk, only increasing my pace when Arundel is out of sight. I hope he will not also come upon Hertford heading the same way as I. I imagine the big tester bed in Juno’s rooms, sinking into it, with Hertford’s lean arms clutched about me. But beneath my eagerness I feel something else. I am tired of the subterfuge, of always having to take care not to find myself with child. I have had enough of remembering the stinging vinegar-soaked ball of wool, the tinctures of rue and
Queen Anne’s lace, of the worry each month that my courses will not come. And Elizabeth may be entwined in her own affairs, but things have a way of getting out. I long to spend a whole night in his arms, but I know a single night would not be enough. I am twenty now and should by rights be wed. But there is not a soul who would dare broach the idea of the match with Elizabeth. Perhaps
I
will approach her. If no one else has the stomach, then why not me?

When I get to Juno’s chamber, I am surprised to find Hertford is already waiting for me, stretched out on the bed with his doublet undone and his boots flung onto the floor.

“What kept you?” he says. He doesn’t return my smile and is holding something in his fist that I cannot see.

“How did you get here so fast?” I press the door shut behind my back, leaning against it. I can see a few twists of golden hair where he has loosened the lacing of his linen shirt.

“I saw Arundel with you and skirted round, not to be spotted.” He looks me up and down in silence. “What is this?” He waves a small silver relic box containing a phial of rust-colored liquid, supposed to be the blood of St. Francis. “Been flirting with popish superstitions?”

“It is nothing. Just a gift from the Spanish ambassador,” I say.

“What does he imagine you are going to do with this?” His jaw clenches, and he flings the little box at the far wall. It opens and the phial shatters, creating a small dark puddle on the floor.

“I don’t know. People give me presents all the time. You know what those Spaniards are like about their relics.” What I do not tell him is that Jane Dormer has written, more than once, talking anew of the Spanish match.

“Bolt the door,” he barks. I do as he bids, sliding the bar over its fixing. “I will not have you accept things like that. Send it back.”

“It is broken. I cannot. Besides, I do not welcome such tokens. You know that.”

“I’m not completely blind, Kitty,” he says, scowling. “I know there are some who would have you wed to Spain.”

“But I will not marry Spain. I will marry Hertford,” I say, and watch the spite fall away from him.

“Now come here.” His voice is a growl. “The color of your riding habit doesn’t suit you; I think it needs to be removed.”

•  •  •

I wake to an urgent rapping, momentarily confused. The late-afternoon sun is blazing in through the window and for a moment I wonder where I am. The rapping starts up again. I sit up in an attempt to wake myself, and see Hertford’s naked body sprawled beside me. My mouth curls into an involuntary smile.

“It is Juno. Let me in.” I crawl from the bed, wrap myself in a blanket and undo the bolt, opening the door. “You took your time,” she says, slipping into the chamber, and on seeing her brother she adds, “Cover yourself, Ned.” He rummages about for his trunk hose, pulling them on, and sits on the edge of the bed rubbing his eyes with his fists. I sit beside him and bring my nose to his shoulder, breathing in his scent—he smells of me—my mind drifting back to the intimacies of an hour ago.

“What is it, Sister; is something wrong?”

It is only then that I notice the look of contained panic in Juno’s eyes.

“Something has happened,” she says. We are both looking at her, waiting for her to continue. “Dudley’s wife is dead.”

“Everyone expected that, she had a malady of the breast,” says Hertford.

“No. I mean yes, but . . .” She stops, as if trying to work out how to put it. “She was killed, and it was made to look like an accident.”

“Oh,” I sigh, thinking of poor Amy Dudley, whom I have never met but often thought of, with her husband dancing about the Queen constantly and she never seen but always whispered about.

“I suppose people think it done by Dudley’s order?” says Hertford.

“Most, yes. An investigation has been launched. Dudley has left
the palace, and the Queen will admit no one, save Lady Knollys, Kat Astley, and Cecil, of course.”

“How did it happen?” I ask.

“I know only what I have heard, but it is on everyone’s lips. Amy Dudley sent the entire household at Cumnor Place off to the village fair this morning and when they returned they found her with a broken neck at the bottom of some steps.”

“So it could easily have been an accident,” says Hertford.

“Just a pair of stairs—how can you break your neck falling down a pair of stairs?”

“True,” he replies.

I cannot stop thinking about the poor woman and her miserable life, wondering if she is not better off dead, imagining what it must have been like to be her, knowing the Queen wished her gone so she could have her husband for herself. But I am also thinking of myself, as usual, and that Amy Dudley’s suspicious death has thwarted my plans to petition the Queen with my request to wed.

“Do you think she took her own life?” I ask.

“Some have said it. But most are calling it murder.”

“She can’t marry Dudley now,” I say. “Not now people think him a murderer.”

“You are right, Kitty,” says Hertford. “They will never be able to marry without seeming guilty.
Cecil
is the one who gains most from this affair. He would have done anything to prevent the Queen from marrying Dudley.”

“Are you saying it is Cecil’s doing?” asks Juno, clapping a hand over her mouth as if to censor herself.

“I am not saying anything and neither must you,” he says. “Cecil is not one to cross.” He gets up and begins to dress himself before leaving with a warning: “Go carefully. We don’t know what the outcome of all this might be. Who knows if the Queen will survive this scandal.”

Juno and I dress hastily and go to the presence chamber, which has been laid out for supper. Mary is there, looking white as a
winding cloth. Indeed, everyone seems horrified by the news, and we all sit down to eat, just the Queen’s ladies, no one else, in virtual silence. The Queen herself doesn’t make an appearance, but Kat Astley comes out, haggard with worry, carrying each of her sixty years on her face. She asks one of the servers to prepare a platter of food, which she takes in herself, without ceremony, coming back out for a flagon of ale, closing the door behind her without a word.