The Fallen Queen (19 page)

When she was not dancing, Lady Amy took me to sit on her lap, saying, if I would allow her the liberty and be so kind as to indulge her, she wanted to “pretend for a spell that you’re my own little girl.” I readily assented and together we listened intently to the storytellers, relishing each word, laughing, gasping, shuddering, and wiping away tears by turns, though as darkness fell, they turned more to tales of terror, ghosts, and beasties that made us shiver despite our nearness to the fire.

My parents and nurse, preoccupied with their own ails, had forgotten all about me, and I stayed up later than I ever had in my life. The first butter gold glow of dawn was already lighting the sky when the musicians took their leave, and the Lady Amy, marvelling that she had been so remiss and not sent me to bed hours ago, scooped me up in her arms, balancing me against her broad hip, and carried me up to one of the guest rooms.

“But I don’t want to go to sleep!” I protested as she stripped me down to my shift. And as the tears began to trickle down my face, she sat and stroked my hair and asked me why.

“Surely you are tired, poppet, I know I’m all done in. Look”—she lifted her foot—“I’ve danced a hole clean through my slipper!”

“Because when I lie quiet and still waiting for sleep I will not be able to help but think how much I shall miss my sisters,” I said. “I’ve lost them both in the same day, and now they’re both going away, to new homes, and I shall be all alone at Bradgate; Father and my lady-mother are so often away at court, and when they are home they are always hunting or hosting parties and have time for no one but their guests.”

“Aye, I see”—the Lady Amy nodded—“and I know just what you mean about the thoughts that come to trouble one in the quiet stillness before sleep. What beastly little imps those thoughts are!” Then she brightened. “But I’m certain your sisters will be havin’ you to visit soon. I’m sure they’ll be vyin’ for the pleasure of your company, and you’ll find yourself feelin’ you’ve no fixed home at all, you’ll spend so much time on the road goin’ from one to the other. While the young brides are settlin’ into married life, if you get too lonely, you’re welcome to come and bide a while with me at Stanfield Hall or Syderstone Manor; I still live with my parents as my husband has yet to settle on a proper establishment for us. He’s so particular about these things, Robert is, and everything must be just so or not at all.” She heaved a little sigh and shook her head, and I sensed sadness and frustration hovering in the air about her, but she quickly shook it off and smiled at me. “But you would be most welcome to visit anytime you like. I could take you out to see the sheep, we’ve got three thousand of them, and the orchards; Syderstone has the best apples in England, I always say you’ve never tasted an apple if you’ve never sunk your teeth into a Syderstone apple. If you’d care to come durin’ the harvest, we have the
grandest
party, with dancin’ and music and a big bonfire and bobbin’ for apples, and every one of the dishes laid on the table has apples in it in some form or fashion—from the meats to the sweets. Our cider is the
best
in the whole of England, and I challenge anyone to prove me wrong!”

“I would like that very much,” I said, and thanked her for her kindness, secretly praying that my parents would allow me to go, and she sat beside me, softly singing a charming little song about a shepherd and his flock, until I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of fleecy white sheep, rosy red apples, and clanking cups brimming with golden cider.

Early the next morning, blinking and yawning in the watery yellow sun, my sisters and their husbands descended the stairs to board the barges that would take them away to begin married life. They were no longer little girls, but wives now, with their hair pinned up in nets of gold beneath their round velvet caps. It was such a sudden and startling transformation, as though they had crossed a threshold as little girls with free-flowing tresses and entered a new room as elegant young matrons with their hair primly pinned up. Now they must go away from me, from childhood and all that was dear and familiar, and learn how to please their husbands, order their households, command their servants like queens overseeing their own little realms, and endeavour to always be on pleasant terms with their in-laws.

Strangely, neither marriage had yet been consummated, the Duke of Northumberland and our parents having agreed on it for reasons I did not understand. Both couples were under strict orders and would be watched to make sure they obeyed, not to commit the ultimate intimacy until they received permission directly from Northumberland. Kate was twelve, almost thirteen, and she had been bleeding every month for almost a year, and thus was considered a woman, so her age was surely not the reason for this prohibition. Why it must be so with Jane and Guildford, at fifteen and sixteen, I could not fathom; many women were wedded and bedded and carrying their first child by the time they turned sixteen.

Kate looked radiantly happy, her face and eyes glowing, as she danced down the stairs in her gold-embroidered apricot velvet with peach and white plumes swaying gracefully atop her round velvet hat, and the magnificent set of fire opals she had chosen when Father brought the jeweller to her and said she might choose anything she wished from amongst his wares. When I saw her I almost wept—how I missed the sight of her coppery curls bouncing and bobbing as though with a life of their own. It seemed unnatural to see them pinned tight with diamond-tipped pins and confined inside the glittering prison of a golden net beneath her hat. As soon as she caught sight of her husband, waiting for her downstairs, she gave a cry of delight and ran to throw her arms around him.

But Jane moved as though her shoes were soled in lead, her gold-fringed and embroidered moss green velvet skirts dragging behind her like a dead weight. She looked as angry as the fierce and ornate fire-belching, ruby-eyed, emerald, sapphire, amethyst, and jade scaled golden dragon brooch her new mother-in-law had given her just before she came downstairs, kissing her once on each cheek before pinning it to Jane’s hat, just below the puff of white ostrich plumes that made that hideous bejewelled dragon look as though clouds of steam were billowing from its pointed ears. Beneath her hat’s round brim, Jane’s face was pale as chalk, her freckles standing out stark as smallpox, and there were dark circles around her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept at all.

Though his stomach had settled, and he had passed a peaceful night, Guildford, his face startlingly pale against the ornate gold-embroidered claret velvet of his travelling clothes, was still feeling weak and wobbly, and Father insisted on carrying him down the stairs and laying him gently in the barge and pressing into his hand a gilded pomander ball, scented with oranges and cloves, to mask the river’s vile reek. He tarried quite a time, causing our lady-mother to tap her booted toe impatiently, as he tucked a fur rug around Guildford, caressed his golden hair, plumped his pillows, petted Fluff, nestled in the crook of Guildford’s arm, and presented his “beautiful new son-in-law” with two comfit boxes—a silver one with icy green enamel filled with sugared aniseeds, mint lozenges, candied quinces, and crystallized ginger in case his stomach should trouble him again, and a gold one with sunny yellow enamel emblazoned with golden suns containing sugared lemon slices, “just because you like them, and because I like you, and these remind me of you, so I hope they will remind you of me and how much I … like you.” Father blushed and rambled as our lady-mother sighed and rolled her eyes, saying aside to Guildford’s mother that having such a husband was like having a little boy who never grew up.

“I’m so happy!” Guildford, suddenly all aglow, exclaimed, sitting up and hugging his knees and smiling. “I feel like singing!” He threw his arms wide, as if to embrace the sun above, and opened his mouth in readiness to let the first notes out.

“Oh no, Guildford, you
mustn’t
do
that!
” his older brother John exclaimed, quickly throwing himself forward to clap a hand over Guildford’s mouth. “All that puking last night will have left your throat frightfully raw.”

“If you force it, you will only make it worse,” his brother Ambrose cautioned severely.

“Quite right,” his father, the all powerful John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, agreed, so suave and smiling, gracious and benign that any who didn’t know him and his reputation would never have guessed that here was the most ruthless and ambitious man in England, a man who would stop at nothing to get what he desired. “You might damage your voice,” he continued. “Don’t you agree, Maestro Cocozza, that Guildford should
not
sing?” He turned to Guildford’s Italian music master, waiting to board another, rather crowded barge with Guildford’s valet, hairdresser, the secretary who wrote all his letters and also read aloud to him, the French and Italian tutors Guildford considered vital to his singing aspirations, laundress, page boys, musicians, sewing women, the man who looked after his pets, the French pastry cook Father had given the young couple as a wedding present, and, just for Jane, the prim, black-clad Mrs. Ellen, who had with Jane’s marriage risen from nurse to lady’s maid.

With much flourishing of his hands and a spew of rapid Italian, the music master agreed, in the most emphatic terms, that Guildford should most definitely
not
sing.

I tugged Lady Amy’s skirt to get her attention, and when she bent down I asked, “Does he not sing well?”

“Well …” Her smile faltered. “His talent doesn’t quite match his enthusiasm. Which is a right shame since he loves singin’ so, but, to put it as kindly as I can,” she whispered, lowering her voice even more to make sure Guildford wouldn’t hear, “when he hits the high notes he sounds just like a cat yowlin’ in heat, he does, poor lad!”

“When he was fifteen, Guildford ran away from home and tried to join a theatrical company,” the Duchess of Northumberland with a fond and indulgent smile, confided to our lady-mother, who was standing beside her, tapping her leather-booted toe and looking impatient and bored, “but the manager brought him straight home, and right back into my loving arms. He said that Guildford was not made for the stage. Even he could see how delicate and sensitive my darling is, just like a hothouse rose that would wilt and perish without his mother’s love.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what the man meant, Mother,” Ambrose Dudley opined.

“Nonsense!” the Duchess cried. “What else could he mean?”

“Well, I took it to mean that Guildford can’t sing to save his life much less to earn his bread and board,” Amy’s husband, Robert, the fifth surviving Dudley son, whispered back to her, and Ambrose and John nodded their heads in emphatic agreement.

“For shame!” the Duchess scolded her brood of black-haired boys. “I’m ashamed of you all! You should be
proud
of your brother’s talent and accomplishments, not jealous!”

“Come now, Mother, you know we all love Gillyflower!” Robert retorted, using the family’s pet name for their gilt-haired darling. “’Twas just a jest! You wouldn’t want Guildford to think too highly of himself and get a reputation for being conceited, would you?”

“My Gilded Lily conceited?
Never!
” the Duchess scoffed.

I found it rather touching that though they all, with the possible exception of the deluded Duchess, deplored Guildford’s singing and strove vigilantly to keep him from embarrassing himself, none of them wanted to hurt his feelings by letting him know.

Guildford frowned uncertainly and reached up to stroke his throat. “Well, if you
really
think it unwise …” And since everyone was so quick to assure him that they did indeed think it “
most
unwise,” he lay back against his pillows again. “Perhaps I should rest my throat for a few days. It does feel a trifle red …”

“I think that’s a
wonderful
idea, dear!” his mother exclaimed, and all his brothers and sisters were quick to agree and praise him for his self-discipline and good sense.

“I shall have the apothecary prepare a soothing syrup and send it on to you,” his sister, the recently married Lady Mary Sidney, promised.

“One that tastes good,” Guildford stipulated. “If it doesn’t taste good, I won’t drink it!”

“I shall insist upon it,” she promised.

“Threaten him with hanging,” Guildford advised, “if it tastes the least bit vile or bitter, then he will be
sure
to make it
very
sweet.”

“When he knows who it is for, I am sure he will make it just as sweet as you are!” Father breathed like a love-bedazzled maid.

“Of course he will.” Guildford smiled and nodded confidently as he sank back against the velvet cushions, drawing the purring Fluff close against his chest and stroking his silky white fur. “If my beauty doesn’t inspire him, fear of hanging certainly will.”

“Oh what a wit you are!” Father breathed rapturously. “You have such a way with words!”

“They just spring up in my head like roses in full bloom, and I say them so that the world can enjoy them too.” Guildford beamed. “It would be selfish to keep my thoughts entirely to myself.”

“Beautiful
and
generous too!” Father sighed, and I could see that he was perilously close to swooning into the Thames. “I’m sure you sing as beautifully as a nightingale,” Father said gallantly, “and I hope to hear you soon.”

Then our lady-mother, who had had quite enough of this absurd spectacle, took command. “Hal, come stand over here beside me before you fall into the river! Now into the barge, Jane,” she directed, pointing the way with her riding crop.

With a mutinous scowl and a marked ill-grace, Jane climbed into the barge and dropped down heavily beside Guildford and sat there with her back straight and her eyes staring forward. Even when Guildford reached out and playfully ran his fingers up and down her spine, she didn’t relax or relent, only stiffened her spine even more.

As the oarsmen dipped their oars and began to row away, and we all waved and called out cheerful goodbyes, Godspeeds, and good wishes, it gladdened my heart to see my stubborn sister relent and lean back against the cushions. Her hand went up to fuss with her hat. I suspected a pin was poking her and thought nothing more about it until she slowly, making a grand gesture of it, extended her arm straight out over the side of the barge and, following a lengthy pause, dropped the spray of white feathers, with the hideous dragon brooch her mother-in-law had just given her acting as an anchor, right into the dirty, reeking waters of the Thames.