Sisters of Treason (49 page)

“Have you not slept at all, madam? Can I bring you a soothing drink?”

“Not a wink,” she answers. “Come and sit up here with me, Mary.” She pats the bed next to her. “And bring those comfits from the far table.” I fetch the dish and clamber up. We sit for some time without talking, while she satisfies her sweet tooth, popping the comfits into her mouth one after the other, as if she will never be sated. I can’t help myself from watching her and she must feel that I disapprove, for she holds one out to me, saying, “Where else shall I get my pleasure?” in a voice sharp with cynicism. I take it, touching my tongue to its sweet, crystalline surface. “It won’t poison you,” she says. “Try a little indulgence, Mary. You might find you like it.”

“I could mix you a tincture to help you sleep, madam.”

“I have tried most things and none have any effect. My head is filled with worries of such great import. But I have never slept well, since I was a girl.”

“I suppose it both a blessing and a curse, to be Queen,” I say, and then regret it, thinking I may have offended, because she looks at me askance.

But then she smiles. “That is the truth. Most wouldn’t say it to me, though. Only him.” By “him” I suppose she means Dudley. “I watch them—all my courtiers—minding their words so very carefully.” She stops for a moment, bringing another comfit to her mouth. “And there is Cecil,” she continues. “But he seems to think he knows better than I what is good for me. He becomes carried away.”

She doesn’t explain herself and I do not ask what she means, but I wonder if she refers to my sister’s wedding.

“I suppose you to be lonely, in a manner of speaking,” I say.

“Yes, lonely,” she repeats, as if it has never quite occurred to her. “Yet always surrounded. I suppose marriage
is
the answer.” It is hard to tell, from her deadpan tone, if she means this, or its opposite. “Since I was brought low with the pox, my council have
been petitioning me to wed more than ever before. I have to invent increasingly ingenious ways of keeping them at bay.”

“They all think you follow your heart, but it is your head you follow.”

“Clever Mary. You understand it all, don’t you?”

“Not all,” I say lightly, implying I understand most things. She laughs at that.

“If I followed my heart our ship of state would be sunk.”

She picks up a gilt casket from the table beside the bed, taking some little packages out of it, unwrapping them to reveal a number of limnings. I have heard of the Queen’s miniature collection, but never seen it. I suppose the likenesses Levina made of Katherine, Lettice, and me are among them. I wonder if my sister’s has been removed.

She holds one up. “My Scottish cousin. You are one of those who believes
she
should be named as my heir, are you not?” I am surprised she remembers our conversation about primogeniture, so much has happened since. “It was due to you, Mary, that I spared your sister’s life. There were those who called for her execution.”

I want to remind her that my sister is hardly spared; she may have her life but she lives it in a cage, separated from those she loves. But I remain silent, respectful—obedient Mary, in the Queen’s pocket. I am so full of bitterness now; I fear if I died and was opened up they would find me black to the core.

She passes me the tiny portrait, saying, “Do you find her beautiful?”

I know what she requires from my reply; I am meant to say “not as you are” but what I actually say is, “I
do
think her a beauty.”

The Queen narrows her eyes and her mouth tightens. I prepare myself for an outburst of anger but she surprises me by saying, “Honesty is a quality I greatly admire. It is true, she
is
a beauty.” She has taken another limning from the bed and is rubbing it between her fingers. “I have wedding plans for my beautiful cousin.
This is who I mean to send her way.” She tosses the portrait over to me. I pick it up.

“Dudley?” It is his face in the palm of my hand.

“Once he is made Earl of Leicester, he will be quite a suitable match for her.”

“You would do that?” I ask, finding a shred of begrudged admiration for the woman. I hear the first notes of the dawn chorus; a lone blackcap sings out and is joined then by the trill of a chiffchaff.

“It is you who said I follow my head, not my heart. He is the only one I fully trust. It would be for England.”

“I see.” What I see though, in a flash of clarity, is that this is some kind of revenge. I remember hearing of the scathing comments Mary of Scotland made about the Queen and her “horse keeper.” It is Elizabeth’s way to put her ambitious cousin firmly in her place—marry her off to the “horse keeper.” A song thrush now makes itself heard. Does she truly mean to do such a thing?

The Queen gathers up her miniatures, replacing them in their box.

“Well, at least
you
will never be a threat to my throne, Mary.”

What she means is that I am the wrong shape for greatness and will not produce boys. I wonder if she intends to be cruel or if she is oblivious of the sharpness of her tongue, for she smiles as she says it and rubs my arm, as if she has paid me a compliment.

“In spite of everything I have become fond of you, Mary Grey.”

I try to return her smile, but find I can barely tease an upward lift from even the furthest reaches of my mouth.

September 1563

Pyrgo

Katherine

I am banished to deepest Essex. I know our destination is Pyrgo even before the house comes into view. I remember the great oak
at the head of the drive. I used to climb in it as a child on visits to Uncle John and Aunt Mary. I recognize the dairy where we used to go for cups of warm milk fresh from the cows. I recognize the spinney where I once kissed one of Uncle John’s pages, and I remember Uncle John locking me in the store cupboard for a full day and night to teach me a lesson. I fared better than the page, who was beaten and dismissed. Uncle John was nothing like Father, for where Father was sunny and gleaming he was sullen and sharp—jealous of his older brother, perhaps.

Uncle John and Aunt Mary are waiting for us on the step and I must look a fright from weeping the whole length of the journey, for Aunt Mary gasps when the litter curtain is pulled back fully. Uncle John helps me out with his mouth set in a taut line. Aunt Mary goes to take Tom from my arms, but I grip him tightly. I will not be separated from him too. They introduce me to the lineup of staff: three men, three women, and a lackey, none of whom I have ever seen before. They are my household—my jailers, in truth. There is a big-breasted wet nurse too, grinning stupidly—so they mean to take Tom off me anyway. I fear that when that gurning girl with her pendulous breasts comes to take my boy, I will have no resolve left in me to fight to keep him; it is lucky then that I have not allowed myself to fall so deeply for Tom as I did for Beech, or so I tell myself. But I am a mother and any mother who has felt her infant suckle falls deep, whether she chooses to or not.

Uncle John lays down the law, his voice cold and hard as a slab of ice: I am not to leave my rooms, not even to walk about the house or stroll in the gardens, unless I am accompanied; I am to attend chapel twice daily to ask pardon for my sins; I may not receive any letters, visits, or communication of any sort from outside unless first verified; I may have only sanctioned reading materials and nothing to stir my “wanton emotions further,” as he puts it; my baby is to reside with the wet nurse in the east side of the house and shall be brought to me once daily, and, finally, my pets are to live in the stables.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he adds. “You are to write to the
Queen begging forgiveness and demonstrate to her that you have seen the error of your ways. You have tipped our family into this mire and you will do all you can to make amends.”

Uncle John’s icicle face looks as if it would shatter with the slightest smile, and Aunt Mary’s is not much better, though she has a crease of sympathy on her brow. I do not speak to them, nor to anyone, save to tell the stable boy the particular whims of my pets, as it is he who shall be caring for them—he alone has a smile for me.

I am taken upstairs to my rooms at the back of the house. These are the rooms I used to share with Jane and Mary on our visits here. I remember the tree that grows so close to the window it scratches against the glass in the wind and used to terrify us at night. It all seems so very long ago, as if that Katherine was another girl in another life.

There is a book on the bed. I place my sleeping Tom beside it, surrounding him with pillows in case he rolls off, and pick the book up. It is familiar, the worn leather binding, the well-thumbed pages—I have seen this book before. It is Jane’s New Testament in Greek.

“Your sister sent it,” says Aunt Mary. “We are not supposed to let you have anything from outside but we thought this could do no harm. It is God’s word. It can only do good.”

I do not reply, do not look at Aunt Mary; I just sit on the corner of the bed and open the book. There is Jane’s letter. It is Jane’s book,
her
blessed fingers have touched the places where mine are now, Mary’s too, even Maman’s—the faintest shred of joy finds its way into me. Remembering Mary’s words about asking Jane for guidance, I hold it to my breast and lie on the bed next to Tom, feeling his snuffling breath against the skin of my cheek, closing my eyes.

I wait for Aunt Mary to leave, but she clucks about for a time, telling the maids where to put my things. People come and go but I do not move, I am talking silently to Jane. I watch through half-closed
eyes as someone comes with a plate of food, leaving it on the table. The smell of it makes me nauseous. Then the girl comes for Tom. I don’t fight for him, don’t even open my eyes to see him go; he is better off with the grinning wet nurse than with me now. I search myself for feelings but I have none left—I am all turned to dust inside.

When everyone has gone and I am alone, save for one of the girls who is snoring on the truckle, I light a candle and read Jane’s letter:
It shall teach you to live and learn you to die
.
And learn you to die. And learn you to die
. I wish I could read the book and learn how to die from it, but Greek is worse than Latin even, just lines of dead spiders. I try and recall the stories from the New Testament I once knew so well, only really remembering the prodigal son and the story of the two loaves and the five fishes—there is nothing that will learn me to die there. I search my memory for snippets of sermons and a picture appears in my mind of the crucifixion, Christ’s hands pierced and bleeding, his body wounded, his eyes filled with pain and love.

Seeing that I feel weighed down with sin, to have had all this visited on me—to have had each and every soul I have ever loved wrenched from me—I must have sinned most horribly. I get on my knees and find I have forgotten how to pray, do not even know how to speak to God. But when I fall asleep to the sound of the tree scratching at the window with its claws, I dream of Katherine of Siena and I am back in the chapel at Durham House, with Jane Dormer telling me the story of how St. Katherine purged herself of her sins by allowing only the host to pass her lips, and with it God’s pure grace.

I wake to a shuffling behind the bed curtain. The maid must be awake and dressing. She peeps in through the hangings and I pretend to be asleep. I hear the clank of dishes—more food, I suppose—and the curtains are whisked back to reveal Aunt Mary’s stern face.

“You must be hungry, Katherine,” she says, even before she has
wished me good morning. “Here.” She places a platter on the bed—some manchet bread and a piece of cheese with a cut of meat. I feel like that saint who was tempted in the desert. She sits on the bed awhile, talking, wittering really, to fill the silence. I don’t listen.

“Eat, dear,” she says.

I say nothing but find I am weeping once more, though I thought I had no tears left in me. She offers me her handkerchief, which is small and dainty and will go no way to wipe away the sea of tears that I can feel welling. I think of filling the room with them and drowning. They say it is a peaceful way to go, but how would they know?

She leaves eventually and I sit in the window looking out, hoping for a glimpse of my dogs in the park. Two of the women come to straighten the bed and get me dressed. I am like a doll. They try not to look at me. I look at the plate of food on the bed.

“Chapel now,” says one. I allow her to lead me there. I try to listen to the word of God, try to make sense of it, imagine I can hear Jane explaining it to me, but my sins are pressing down on me, making it hard to think. I push the hassock out of the way so my knees are on the hard flagstones. I wonder who is buried beneath me. I open my mouth for the host. My mouth waters. It is on my tongue, in my throat, in me, filling me up with God’s grace. I ask His forgiveness—He hears me, I know it for I can feel Him all about me, emptying me of sin.

After chapel, Uncle John stands over me while I write to the Queen. The two women stand by the door watching. I dip the pen. The vinegar smell of the ink turns my stomach. A drop falls on the paper. Uncle John tuts loudly, snatching it up, screwing it into a ball, placing another before me. He dictates, I write.
I dare not presume, Most Gracious Sovereign, to crave pardon for my disobedient and rash matching of my self, without Your Highness’s consent, I only most humbly sue unto Your Highness, to continue your merciful nature towards me. I knowledge myself a most unworthy creature 
. . . then I stop, put the pen down, and sit in silence, my eyes streaming once more.

“You can finish it tomorrow,” he says, and calls for one of the women to take me back to my rooms, telling the other to fetch a plate for me from the kitchens.

She brings it up, putting it on the table, clearing her throat. “Your uncle says if you eat you shall see little Lord Thomas, but if not he shall be kept from you until you do.”

I think of my dear sweet Tom, his tiny fist gripped about my finger, his long eyelashes in a perfect curve against his pale skin, his apple cheeks, and I ache with longing. I take a morsel of cheese and put it in my mouth, chewing it, swallowing it, then another, and another, coaxed like an infant by the woman. “Three more pieces and little Lord Thomas will be with you.” But as I eat I feel each mouthful congesting me with sin. By the time my boy is brought to me, I am black to the soul and can hardly see his perfect small hand, nor his curve of lashes, nor his rosy cheeks, for I am clouded with wickedness.