The Fallen Queen (18 page)

Guildford smiled brightly and said, “Oh I just look to my right, and there it is every time! The servants keep filling my cup, so I keep drinking it. It must be very good wine; after all, why would anyone give me anything but the best?”

Beaming, Father leaned forward and looked past Guildford to address Jane. “Smile and be merry, Jane, you’re the
luckiest
girl in the world! See what a clever, witty husband I have chosen for you?”

Jane just glowered. “I thought my lady-mother chose him for me.”

“Well …” The smile on Father’s face faltered, but only for a moment, and then he brightened. “But as her husband all her property is mine, and that includes her ideas, so, when you think about it that way, I did choose him.”

To which Jane just rolled her eyes and snorted and wished she could disappear.

I was still watching them, marvelling at Father’s perplexing behaviour, the way he kept feeding and reaching out to touch and caress Guildford so familiarly; such affection for a son-in-law seemed unwarranted and disturbing, indeed for even a naturally born son, or even a daughter, it would have been peculiar, there was a sensuality about it that made it appear so …
intimate
. I was thus preoccupied when Kate came bounding up the stairs, her gold and cream skirts hitched high so she wouldn’t tear or trip over them. A footman followed her, carrying a big golden platter heaped high with a thoughtfully chosen selection of roasted meats, cheese, and sweets just for me. Kate, in the midst of the glorious whirl of her own wedding, had not forgotten me and had actually taken time to prepare a plate with all my favourites.

“Mary, I am
so
happy!” she cried, throwing her arms about me and hugging me tight. “May you be just as happy on your own wedding day! I wouldn’t worry too much about Lord Wilton,” she added, seeing my woeful, doubtful expression. “You’ve years to wait before you come of age, and someone better, whom our parents deem just as advantageous a match, may come along. Now that I am a married lady and shall be going to court, you may rest assured, I shall look out for someone better for you. I want my little sister to be happy! I shall pray every day that love will find you, Mary, so you can know this marvellous and immeasurable joy! You deserve it! And God and Life cannot be so cruel as to deny you this bliss because of a caprice of Mother Nature!”

The musicians could not take their eyes off my Kate. She was as radiant as the sun, so jubilant and vivacious, she made everyone smile. Kate laughed and thanked them heartily for their good wishes and the wonderful music, and when she spied one of them, the youngest, a tabor player, hungrily ogling my plate, she inquired if they had yet eaten. Ashamed at his lapse in manners and too shy to answer, the boy reddened and hung his head, so the sackbut player spoke for him, explaining that it was customary for them to take their share of the leavings after the banquet was finished and the guests had left the hall.

“But all the best will be gone by then!” Kate protested. “No, you simply
must
have something now, I insist!” Before any could stop her, she was flying down the stairs again, skirts hitched high with her long train bouncing behind her, and the footman rushing after, only to return a few minutes later with four more footmen, all of them bearing flagons of wine and high-piled, golden platters, to provide us with a little feast all our own.

“I wish I could stay and dance and enjoy it with you,” she said regretfully, tarrying at the top of the stairs with a sad little smile, like one torn between two worlds, “but I must go back; they’re waiting for me …”

“I know,” I said, and squeezed her hand. “It’s all right, Kate. We understand. Go and be happy.”

“Mary …” She hesitated again. “I wish you would come downstairs. I don’t like to think of you apart and lonely like this. Please come down …”

“I am not lonely. I am with my sisters on their wedding day; every time you think of me, I will be right there with you. And when you dance, through you, I am dancing. And this really is better,” I assured her with a wave at the gallery. “I can see everything from up here; down there I would be lost in a swirl of skirts and see nothing but legs and buttocks. I would be bruised black and blue before the day is through from being jostled and bumped and trod on. Go on now”—I shooed her away—“your guests, and your husband, are waiting for you!”

With another hug and a kiss she was gone. I watched the sparkling train of her golden skirt skipping down the stairs after her, like a puppy’s happily wagging tail.

The musicians took it in turns to play while others of their number ate. To my delight, several danced with me, and so gallant and kind were they that I felt sure they truly enjoyed it. I kicked my heels high with gay abandon and whooped with joy when they swung me high. All of them praised Kate, and I saw that my sister had captured a dozen more hearts that day. The young tabor player in particular would never forget her, or her kindness, and many years later when I chanced to meet him at a court celebration, I would discover, though he was much too shy to ever publicly declare it, that he had written the popular song “Mistress Sunshine” as a tribute to her, the beautiful young bride in her golden gown who had come like a dancing sunbeam up the stairs to the gallery bearing treats for the troupe of musicians who played for her on her wedding day.

Then, like a sudden rainstorm come to ruin a perfect day, everything seemed to go wrong. I rushed to the rail to look down as sudden screams and the noise of retching filled the air. Down below me in the Great Hall people were running and staggering every which way in a blind panic, falling to their knees, grasping their bellies, and being violently sick. There was the thunderous rumble of footsteps upon the stairs as they ran for whatever private rooms and privies they could find, or fled the Great Hall to relieve themselves in the pleasure gardens behind the house, and yet more rushed out into the streets or to the river and stumbled into their waiting barges, presumably to make their way home or to the nearest apothecary, though it seemed more than likely to me that the swaying current of the river would make them sicker before they reached their destination.

I saw Father, looking none too well himself, wading through the panicked crowd, carrying a green-tinged Guildford Dudley, who had apparently fainted, and lay back limp as a rag doll in Father’s arms as he carried him tenderly upstairs. Guildford’s mother, clucking like a frantic mother hen over her favorite golden chick, followed anxiously behind, then darted ahead to open the door to Guildford’s bedchamber, herself green-faced and sweating profusely in her rust red satin gown, wringing her hands and crying for someone to fetch a doctor quickly.

High above in the musicians’ gallery, we were safe and at no risk of being jostled, trampled, and crushed by the herd of frightened, confused, and puking humanity.

“The fish?” the flutist guessed, lowering his instrument.

“
Something
was off.” The sackbut player shrugged, and all as one turned and looked warily at the table where the remains of our own little feast lay.

“It was the salad!” I piped up. “Everyone who is sick, I saw partake of the salad! Someone must have plucked some bad leaves, mistaking them for good and wholesome salad greens.”

“Aye”—the hautboy player nodded—“I’ve seen this before. ’Tis what you’d expect from a city wedding; ’twould
never
happen in the country. People there know which greens won’t gripe the belly and turn the bowels to stink water.”

“Praise be!” they all chorused as we all heaved a great, grateful sigh that the sickness had passed us by, and the musicians struck up a lively air hoping to calm the ailing masses below us. Kate had not brought us any of the salad; the crowd around it had been so dense, and she was in such a hurry to bring us our treats. I had seen her tarry a moment uncertainly beside it, judging how long the wait would be, then, with a wave beckoning the footmen to follow her, rush on up the stairs to us.

Where was Kate now? Had she or Lord Herbert been stricken? Vainly my eyes sought to pick her out, but somehow I missed her in the crush of the crowd. I was tempted to risk being trampled and go in search of her, but the rebec player reached out his hands and gently stayed me, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, informed me that he had seen her and her bridegroom taking full advantage of the confusion to slip away, “and neither of them seemed even a wee bit sick to me, little mistress,” he added with a wink. All the musicians laughed and nodded knowingly, many of them adding that the young Lord Herbert was a “most fortunate” and “a very lucky” man. The cittern player even went so far as to say he wished he could trade places with him for a night, but the lute player elbowed him sharply in the ribs and said he shouldn’t speak so in the presence of the lady’s sister, adding, “’Tis not meet for such young ears.”

Soon the Great Hall was all but empty. Only a few servants and Jane remained. My eldest sister sat calmly at the deserted banquet table. I saw her nonchalantly pluck up a peacock tongue, pop it in her mouth, and wash it down with a sip of malmsey wine before she meandered off in the direction of the Duke of Northumberland’s library, showing not the least concern that her husband had been amongst those taken ill.

Since there was no longer anyone to play for, the musicians laid down their instruments, loosened the laces that held their silver-frilled collars tight, and gave their full attention to what was left of our feast. And I, knowing that both my sisters were well, was pleased to join them.

Some time later, a lady with her sleeves pinned and rolled up and an apron tied over her green and silver gown came softly up the stairs with a straw basket slung over her arm. She shyly inquired if we were well or, gesturing to her basket, if we had need of dosing. “I’ve celery tonic, mint and wormwood syrup, conserve of roses, quinces, ginger suckets, and sugared aniseeds, if you do; all good for calmin’ a tempest ragin’ in the belly.” She was a petite, round-hipped, buxom little woman, who spoke with a broad country accent, but she was
very
pretty, with a wealth of golden hair that she had unloosed from its pins, blue green eyes like the finest emerald mated in true love with a turquoise, and a timid, tentative smile I longed to see cast aside its shyness and show its full glory.

She had such a kind face and a gentle way about her, with no hauteur at all; I liked her instantly. She didn’t shy away from me in fear, avert her eyes, or look at me with pity or contempt or treat me any differently than she would any other little girl. In her eyes, I was normal, and I loved her for it, as strange as that may seem when I didn’t even know her.

Of course, I knew who she was. I had overheard some of the other women laughing and making cruel sport of her while they were helping Jane and Kate to dress. The Dudley girls had spoken of her with blistering disdain and a scorching contempt, and had piled pity upon their brother, sighing again and again, “Poor Robert!” Her name was Amy Robsart, and she was Lord Robert Dudley’s wife, the one he had married in hot lust at seventeen, but now, not quite three years later, no longer wanted, and loathed his youthful folly more than he had ever loved this sweet lady.

How sad, I thought, that her own husband, and the rest of his family, thought that she was too far beneath him to be welcome in their proud and illustrious company, when I, a mere child, could see that she was worth more than the lot of them put together. I wanted to tell her, “You deserve better,” but I didn’t dare risk such a presumption, though years later, when Amy lay dead, with a broken neck to match her broken heart, and her name was on everyone’s lips, providing a banquet for the gossips and scandalmongers, I would always remember that moment and regret that I had not taken her hand and spoken up boldly. She truly did deserve better. Not only did her own husband fail her, but her own body did too—when she died under those most mysterious circumstances she had been suffering from cancer of the breast.

The rebec player gave the Lady Amy a randy leer. “Aye, mistress, our bellies are fine, but I’d take a dose from you any time.” He smiled invitingly and made so bold as to ask, “May I trouble you for a quince from your basket, mistress?” which she gladly gave though it was clear he was not troubled by the bellyache.

Blushing a little, she started to turn away, but at the top of the stairs, she hesitated and added shyly that we were all most welcome to come down to the kitchen. “Now that all those taken sick have been settled, we’ve mincemeat tarts and gingerbread with hot cider to drink, and apples sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar roastin’ in the fire, and ’tis a right lively company, sittin’ ’round the hearth, singin’ and spinnin’ tales. And if you’d care to play for us, some country dances per’aps, if you know any, ’twould give us all much pleasure. And you can have all you wish of what’s left of the feast, to eat now or to take away with you—’tis only the salad that’s tainted. There’s not a one ill who didn’t eat of it, and it would be a right shame to see all the rest go to waste when there’s so much of it an’ not a thing wrong with it.”

“Shall we, lads?” the sackbut player asked. “What say you, little mistress?” He smiled down at me. We were all in agreement that we should go, and the lute player gallantly gave me a ride on his shoulders—“I shall be your litter, my little queen,” he teased—and soon we were down in the kitchen, where we were welcomed warmly as old friends and plied with all the gingerbread, cider, mincemeat tarts, and roasted apples we could eat. The Lady Amy took it in turns to partner each of the men with great gusto and grace in the vigorous and lively country dances, holding her skirts up high to show off her green stockings and her fast-moving feet flashing swiftly in their silver slippers. She never missed a step or stumbled at a high kick, and laughed as her partners spun her around dizzily and swung her high in the air, her hip-length hair flying out behind her like a banner of gold. For a time she seemed to forget her cares and I loved seeing her so high-spirited and lighthearted; many who never even knew her would say in years to come that she was a wan, wretched, and miserable woman, and though illness and heartbreak may have made her so, I can say with complete certainty that she wasn’t naturally, nor always, that way. Whatever happened to her happened because of the deadly combination of Robert Dudley and cancer.