The Fallen Queen (12 page)

All of a sudden I began to shake and shiver, and then the tears came, uncontrollably, though I did not wish to appear babyish before my sisters, especially after I had just been scolding Jane for resisting what could not be changed, but I could not help it.

“Mary, what is it?” Kate turned to me. “I am sorry for what I said about Lord Wilton, truly I am. I did not mean to make you cry. Oh
please
don’t cry, or I will cry too!” And even as she spoke, tears began to trickle down my sister’s lovely face.

“It’s not that!” I blurted. “It’s just … you are both going to leave me! In only a few weeks … I shall lose you both!”

“Oh, Mary!” Kate threw her arms about me, and Jane levered up her sore body and crawled over to put her arms around my waist and lay her head in my lap.

“Don’t cry!” Kate pleaded. “I promise I shall have you visit me often, mayhap you can even come to live with me. I shall use my every charm to persuade Lord Herbert to allow it.”

“And you shall visit me too,” Jane promised, “as often as you can. Just think, soon you will be grumbling about all the time you spend on the road going from Kate’s house to mine.”

“R-really?” I blubbered hopefully.

“Really!” my sisters promised and hugged me tighter.

“We are sisters,” Kate said, “and we shall never truly be parted, not even by time and distance.”

“Even when we are apart, we will still be together—
always!
” Jane declared in a voice filled with unshakable confidence, as solid and strong as the bond between us.

And I felt better, with their words I truly felt the weight and strength of the invisible chain forged between us, a wonderful set of unbreakable shackles binding us together forever that not even marriage, motherhood, or death could sever.

The next morning, Kate and I helped Jane dress her stiff and aching body in a plain, high-necked black velvet gown and quilted dove grey petticoat and held her hands as she hobbled bent-backed between us out into the Long Gallery to enact the ritual we knew so well. Each time one of us was punished, the next morning we must crawl on our hands and knees the full length of the Long Gallery to where our parents sat waiting and humbly beg our lady-mother’s pardon. By the time we reached them, our arms would be aching, our palms smarting and red from the hard stone floor, and our knees scraped raw despite our skirts and stockings. Sometimes our lady-mother would bestow her forgiveness right away, like a queen graciously granting a petitioner some bounty, and raise and kiss us once on each cheek; other times she would fold her arms across her chest, frown, and shake her head emphatically, and the ritual would have to be repeated each morning until she deigned to give it. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes she would instantly forgive the most grievous offence and deny it for the most trifling. I remember when I pilfered some bright yellow embroidery silk from our lady-mother’s sewing basket, I had to crawl the length of that gallery seven mornings in a row, but when a curious Kate, at the time aged eight, charmed one of the kitchen boys into showing her his cock, and with an obliging smile returned the favour by lifting her skirts and displaying her cunny, our lady-mother instantly forgave her the first time she asked. And poor Jane, when she dribbled gravy on that white and gold gown, her first adult raiment, she was forced to crawl the Long Gallery and crave forgiveness a full five weeks—one for each stain that the laundress could not remove—before our lady-mother finally gave it.

This particular morning, seeing what pain our sister was in, Kate had “a brilliant idea” and ran back to her room and snatched two small cushions from the baskets where her puppies and kittens rested, and two lengths of wide satin ribbon from her sewing basket. She knelt before Jane and bade her hold her skirts up high and then with the ribbons bound a cushion around each of Jane’s knees.

“There now”—she smiled up at Jane—“now it will not be so bad.”

And at first it didn’t seem to be. Kate and I held hands and watched anxiously as Jane crawled slowly down the gallery’s great length to where our parents waited, our lady-mother clearly impatient to be off hunting, slapping her riding crop against her leather-gloved palm and dangling a leg so that the golden spurs on her leather boots jangled.

It seemed as though whole hours crept past, but at long last there she was, kneeling, a humble supplicant before our lady-mother.

Head bowed, she softly intoned the requisite words: “I most humbly crave your pardon, my lady-mother.”

Compassion lighting his face like a candle within a gourd, Father whispered, “Dearest girl,” and reached out a hand to stroke Jane’s hair, but our lady-mother slapped it away with her riding crop. Poor Father started and snatched back his smarting fingers, raising them to his mouth to suck away the blood welling from his knuckles.

Supremely cool, our lady-mother lifted one finely plucked Tudor red brow. “Will you marry Guildford Dudley?” she asked.

There was a moment of lengthy tension in which I could feel the war raging within Jane, but at last she surrendered, and with head hung low and shoulders sagging in sad defeat, did what was expected of her and answered, “Yes, my lady-mother.”

With a brisk nod and a smile of triumph upon her lips, our lady-mother reached out to clasp Jane’s shoulders and bent to brush her lips against each of my sister’s cheeks, then, sitting back, gestured with her riding crop for Jane to rise.

It was then that disaster struck. As Jane struggled sorely to her feet, the ribbons securing the cushions slipped. Jane stood there mortified, staring down at the plump little cushions of plum purple and cherry red puddled at her feet, and the pink and blue satin ribbons snaking out from beneath her skirts.

Our lady-mother’s whip shot out, to whisk Jane’s skirts up and reveal Kate’s “brilliant idea.”

With a nervous glance at our lady-mother, Father began to laugh and clap his hands, hoping against hope that his wife would see the humour of the situation rather than fly into a rage.

But our lady-mother was not amused. Two slaps, one to each of the cheeks she had just kissed, sent Jane toppling backward, barking her palms painfully against the floor when she tried to break her fall.

I tried to restrain her, but Kate broke away from me. “My lady-mother, no,
please
no, it was my idea!” Tearfully, she flung herself at our lady-mother’s feet, bruising her own tender knees, and grabbed our lady-mother’s hands and kissed and pressed them to her own tear-dampened cheeks, and said, “I most humbly crave your pardon, my lady-mother.”

“This was
your
idea?” Our lady-mother flicked her riding crop at the cushions and ribbons lying in a guilty heap upon the floor. When Kate, still kneeling, nodded, a bright smile spread across our lady-mother’s face and, beaming, she swept Kate up into her arms, nigh smothering her against her ample bosom. “My darling, you are almost as clever as you are beautiful! That kind of thinking will serve you far better at court than Plato ever will.” She sneered at Jane. “Come, my love.” She took Kate’s hand. “Walk with me to the stables and you may pet the spotted hunting hounds and feed a carrot to my horse. Come, Hal!” she called back over her shoulder to Father, and he snatched up his feathered cap, gloves, and riding crop and ran after her, obedient as a dog himself.

I stood there, longing to run to Jane, but cowardly not daring to move lest I somehow incur my lady-mother’s wrath. I stood there, staring after them, my heart beating as though it might at any moment burst through the wall of my chest.
Please, Lord, don’t let our lady-mother turn round,
I prayed.
Let her forget about Jane
.

But it was not to be. In the doorway, our lady-mother paused and looked back.

“Mrs. Ellen!” she called to Jane’s nurse, who through it all had stood back, an unobtrusive presence in her crow-black gown and hood, silently observing the scene. “Fetch some pins! You are to secure Lady Jane’s skirts above her knees and then remove her shoes and stockings.” Then she turned to Jane and directed sternly, “You are to crawl back and forth the entire length of this gallery on your
bare
hands and knees until we return from the hunt.” Then she was gone, spurs jingling, the feathers on her hat bouncing, without waiting for an answer, confident as a queen that her will would be obeyed.

As soon as she was gone, I rushed to Jane, but she sat up and held out her hand to stay me. “No! Stay back, stay away, Mary, or she’ll punish you too!”

All through the morning and long into the afternoon Kate and I sat, holding each other and sobbing, helplessly watching our sister, weeping all the harder when we saw the trails of blood that marked her slow progress up and down the Long Gallery as the day wore on. Kate pleaded for Jane to stop and rest a while, imploring Mrs. Ellen with tear-filled eyes to lie and say Jane had enacted her punishment exactly as described.

“My lady, I cannot, I dare not,” Mrs. Ellen said sadly as she gently unclenched Kate’s fists from the folds of her black skirt.

And Jane would not stop until, as the sky glowed orange through the windows, our lady-mother appeared in the doorway and spoke a single word: “Enough!” And Jane fell fainting, facedown, flat upon the floor.

If memory doesn’t deceive me, it was the next day that we were called again to the library and the portraits, gifts from our betrotheds, were unveiled before us.

For me there was a lush, sable-bearded likeness of Lord Wilton in all his former glory, a big, handsome, burly bear of a man, towering and overpowering in a suit of satin-slashed buff brocade and golden breastplate and feathered helm, armed with a sword and shield like a war god. For the life of me, I couldn’t rightly say whether I found him more frightening before or after his battle scars. He did not have the look of a kind or patient man, but the sort who would order his household with military precision. I only knew, in my heart, I didn’t want him; he was not the man for me. But I also knew it was my duty to obey and futile to resist; no one cared what I thought; like all nobly born girls, I truly had no say in the matter. And so I praised the portrait, calling it “a handsome picture,” and retreated into silence.

For Kate there was a miniature of Lord Herbert with a bail at the top of the round gold frame so that she might wear it upon a golden chain, jewelled necklace, or a rope of pearls. Lord Herbert had thoughtfully sent along a dozen of these as a betrothal gift so that no matter what gown she was wearing Kate would have something to suit and thus his likeness could always be with her until the day he took his place at her side, he gallantly explained in the accompanying letter. Kate squealed with delight. “How handsome he is!” she enthused again and again, dancing around the room as our lady-mother bent to examine the necklaces with the practised eye of a pawnbroker, alert for any flaws or duplicity.

Her inspection done, and apparently satisfied with both the quality and workmanship, our lady-mother laid down a rope of pearls and ruby beads and smiled at her favourite daughter’s girlish enthusiasm and pointed out that the miniature she was holding was ringed with diamonds. “Particularly fine diamonds, daughter; take note of them and measure any jewels that come after against them and you will always know
exactly
where you stand in your husband’s affections. There are ways of managing a man,” she added pointedly, “and the important thing is that you
never
wear anything that is not first-rate. Never settle for anything inferior, for once you do, he will never bring you the best again.”

Kate clasped the picture to her bosom and breathed, “But he is
so
handsome; I am
certain
I would love him even if they were glass instead of diamonds!”

“Then you are a fool,” our lady-mother stated simply, “a beautiful simpleton, nothing more, and you shall never amount to anything.”

Kate gave a wounded little cry, and her lips began to tremble as her eyes filled with tears and she stared, hurt and uncomprehending, at our lady-mother.

“Now, now”—our lady-mother pulled her close—“it is good to see you so excited and eager to love your husband; you need only temper your exuberance with a little wisdom, daughter, and all shall be well.”

“Yes, my lady-mother, yes, I promise, I will!” Kate vowed, all sunny smiles again. “I shall see to it that Lord Herbert gives me the best of everything, for I shall ensure that I am worth it by always giving my best to him!”

“That’s my clever girl!” our lady-mother beamed and patted her cheek. “There are brains behind that beauty after all!”

Lastly, for Jane there was a full-sized portrait of Guildford Dudley. Its ornate frame of carved gilded gillyflowers and the Dudleys’ heraldic bear and ragged staff was so heavy that it took two men to carry it in. When our lady-mother removed the gold-fringed yellow velvet that covered it, we all gasped and stepped back.

“My, my,” Father said, patting his heart as he looked the painted likeness of his soon to be son-in-law up and down.

Head to toe, the spoiled and decadent darling of the Dudleys was like a gilded idol; all that was missing was a pedestal for him to stand upon and a throng of adoring minions kneeling at his feet. Each perfectly arranged golden curl adorning his head shone as though it had been sculpted by a master goldsmith, his lips were arranged in a perfect, petulant, pink rosebud pout, and his green eyes were the exact colour of gooseberries; they made me shudder and think of snakes and pale emeralds all at the same time. His lavish yellow brocade vestments were woven thickly with golden threads in a pattern of gillyflowers accentuated with diamond brilliants and creamy gold pearls. His long, shapely limbs were encased in hose of vivid yellow silk, and he held one foot pointed just so that we could see the bouquet of golden gillyflowers embroidered over his ankle, and upon the toes of his yellow shoes, golden gillyflowers bloomed and twinkled with diamonds that made the ones that ringed Lord Herbert’s portrait look paltry and dull in comparison. Even the rings on his fingers and the heavy golden chain about his neck were bejewelled golden gillyflowers; clearly Guildford considered this
his
flower. The artist had even painted a mass of them, yellow of course, blooming about his feet. Before our astonished eyes, this radiant young man held out his arms, golden wrist frills gleaming, as if to say to the world, “Here I am—worship and adore me!”