The Fallen Queen (53 page)

“A syllabub! We shall have a syllabub! A sweet, sweet syllabub!” my Kate impulsively cried, echoing her long ago girlhood self.

I can see her now, in the black gown I had made with the row of buckram stiffened bows on the bodice, its skirt trailing listlessly, like a wilted black tail, behind her in the snow, and her hair, now faded to peaches and cream, either streaming free in a mass of wilted ringlets or braided into a coronet perched high atop her head, a coiffure made in mockery of the Crown she never coveted but had nonetheless cast such a giant shadow over her life. She sent Mr. Roke-Green’s three little girls scurrying off to fetch sugar, cinnamon, wine, honey, and a long-handled spoon, while she fetched a three-legged milking stool and a pail from the barn and sat down to milk the cow.

But when it was ready, everything changed suddenly, and she could not partake of it, not even one sip. She just suddenly seemed to lose interest.

“I thought I wanted it,” she said apologetically, and walked away, black skirt trailing through the snow. She took to her bed again and sank deep down, back into the black mud of melancholy, and this time nothing and no one could pull her back out. All the fight had gone out of her; she simply gave up. A part of her died that day.

She was still abed, in the same black gown, a few weeks later, staring at the rose-patterned spice-orange damask canopy above her head, refusing all sustenance, complaining that everything tasted burnt and bitter, as though her mouth were full of ashes, when the Wentworths died, one after the other. A trifling cough and fever of the kind common in winter had proved deadly for the elderly couple, and it had flooded their lungs and drowned out their lives.

Mr. Roke-Green decided to write to the Queen, to ask her permission to marry Kate. Since her union with Ned had been adjudged a “pretend marriage” this should prove no barrier, he reasoned, and, by taking a husband of lower birth, as her own mother and grandmother had done before her, she would be proving, once and for all, that she lacked any royal pretensions. For good measure, he promised that he would assure the Queen that Kate was willing to make a public renunciation as well as a written declaration, barring herself and any children born of her body from the succession permanently and forever. Kate stood beside his desk and watched him eagerly sign and seal the letter. Then, without a word, she took it from his hand and held it unwaveringly into the candle’s bright flame and watched it burn until its scorching tongue lapped her fingertips. After that she walked away, without a word of explanation. Why did she do it? She never told me. But it is my belief that Kate chose to destroy her own happiness rather than give Elizabeth another chance to. Or mayhap she did it for her boys? Every mother wants the best for her children, and perhaps she did not think she had the right to deny them any hope of England’s throne? Or maybe it was simply that she still loved Ned and could not envision herself with any husband but him? I do not know.

Shortly afterward, she was removed to what would be her final prison, Cockfield Hall in Yoxford, a bleak, grey, ramshackle manor in Suffolk, surrounded by a cluster of dilapidated cottages and a church falling fast into ruin.

Too weak to walk, Kate was carried upstairs to her bed by Sir Owen Hopton, her new gaoler. She never left it. Though when she was first laid down, she raised her head and laughed when she saw that the walls were hung with a series of tapestries depicting the tale of the prodigal son. She pointed feebly to the one showing him being welcomed home, back into his father’s loving embrace. “Would that were me, being forgiven by Elizabeth!” She sighed. “But I know now I shall never lie in my husband’s arms again or hold and play with my sweet little boys. They are growing up now—seven and six, Sir Owen! My how the time flies! The years go by without me, and I cannot get them back!”

She fell to weeping piteously into her pillows.

At midnight on January 26, 1568, I awoke, or thought I did, to the touch of a hand, a gentle caress, upon my cheek. I found Kate sitting beside me, smiling down at me, pale as a white rose lightly blushed with pink. She was wearing the black gown with the ladder of bows on the bodice, the last I had made for her, and her peaches and cream hair was a mass of shining ringlets that seemed to have captured the sun in their curls. The storms of anguished torment that had filled her blue grey eyes had all blown out, leaving only peace and tranquillity behind. She was glowing, radiant, and I knew instinctively that the last faint ember of her life had finally burned out; there was nothing left in this world that she could hope to have that would make her shine so.

“Live for love, Mary,
all for love!
” she said to me with urgent, loving tenderness—the Kate I had known and loved restored to me for one brief, shining instant.

She pointed out my window, and I saw a star fall, like a diamond dropped down into dark water, and when I looked back, she was gone. “Going toward God, as fast as I can!” a faint voice whispered with a hopeful smile I heard but couldn’t see, then silence, sad but sacred silence that told me that my Kate was at long last at peace.

I sat in the darkness, hugging my knees, and wept for my sister, then I got up and did what I knew she would want me to do.

I threw a dark cloak over my shift, and, without even bothering to put on my slippers, I went to my Thomas’s rooms above the water gate.

Fearlessly, I let my cloak fall, and wriggled out of my shift. Naked as a babe, unashamed, for the first time in my life, of my squat, gnarled, thick goblin’s body, I crawled into his bed and kissed him awake and told him yes, I would marry him, and felt his arms close about me and his lips upon mine.

When the messenger finally came, he didn’t have to tell me she was gone; Kate had already told me herself. All he could give me were the details, how Kate had entrusted three rings to Sir Owen Hopton, asking him to see them safely delivered to her husband—her sky blue diamond betrothal ring, the five-banded gold puzzle ring he had put on her finger the day they were wed, and, lastly, a silver skull, an ornately wrought death’s head set with sapphire eyes, its band engraved inside with the words
While I
Lived, Yours
. Then, seemingly content, she folded her arms across her breast, shut her eyes, and prayed, “O Lord, for Thy many mercies, blot out of Thy book my many sins.”

Alarmed, Sir Owen sent a maid running to the nearby church, to ask that the bells be rung, calling all to pray for the departing soul of one, though not acknowledged, they considered a princess.

“Yes, good Sir Owen”—Kate smiled without opening her eyes—“let it be so.”

Sensing Death’s approach, Kate sat up, for the first time in many days, “jubilant and radiant as I had never seen her before,” Sir Owen reported. She rejoiced to see her fingernails turning blue. “Look you, here He comes!” she cried eagerly, excitedly holding out her hand for those about her—the maids, doctor, priest, and Sir Owen and his wife—to see. “For all the world like a girl happily displaying her betrothal ring to her dearest friends,” Sir Owen would say after. Then she flung wide her arms, “like a woman welcoming her lover,” and cried out,
“Welcome, Death!”
and fell back, eyes closed, lips parted as if in ecstasy, like a woman surrendering to the most passionate embrace.

So died the broken spirit that was once my sunshine girl, my lovely, lively Kate. She was only twenty-eight.

I didn’t go to Yoxford to see her buried; I wanted to remember her as I saw her last, beautiful and radiant, and blissfully at peace. But I sent a gown of soft orange silk, to complement her sorrow-bleached hair, since I couldn’t bear the thought of Kate being buried in black, and a wreath of gilded laurel leaves for her hair, to show all who looked upon her that she had won her battle with life.

21

W
e were married by candlelight in his quarters at Whitehall on July 16 by a silver-haired priest, with Thomas’s eldest son and his wife as our witnesses. A pair of pipers played for us, and the feast that followed was fine but small, with the table laid with fruits, cheeses, meats, and a golden cake baked full of red currants and raisins. It was a brief repast. We were impatient to be alone together. When I appeared in my black and yellow gown, he called me his “bumblebee bride.” That night was the first and only time, since I was a child, that I dared dance before others. Then everyone was gone and we were all alone. I unlaced his leather doublet and he opened my gown. He said my breasts were like little pears and kissed and nibbled them as I laughed and cried at this most exquisite pleasure.

The first time we made love I lost myself. Me—that was the first thing to go, even before my virginity. I forgot all about my stunted, little misshapen lump of a body, my crooked spine, and the face and figure that made people recoil and call me “goblin,” “gargoyle,” “changeling,” and “Satan’s imp.” As his lips devoured me and his hands caressed me, gently probing my secret depths where no one, not even myself, had ever dared explore, I felt no shame; I experienced only pleasure. It was as though I was climbing out of myself, going higher and higher, to the top of the world’s tallest mountain, and then, with a breathless gasp of wonder, I jumped, I fell and floated down, in lovely terror, only I did not crash and impale myself on the jagged rocks below, for my Thomas caught me and held me close and kissed me. Soon I was ready to scale the heights again.

A month of love was all we had, a four-week feast of passion before we had to pay the penalty for that pleasure and the ring of gold that my Thomas had put upon my tiny finger. We were abed, after midnight, by candlelight, when the door crashed down and the guards came pouring in. A full dozen of them surrounded our bed, gaping at our nakedness, eyes bulging wide with astonishment at the odd and indecent sight spread before them.

In the golden flattery of the candlelight, and the shadows cast by the dark red curtain of my hair, I must have looked like a child, instead of a woman—a
passionate
woman—my legs stretched like a wishbone about to break as I straddled my husband. His cock must have loomed large, like the most threatening battering ram, poised and ready to assault an innocent child.

“For shame!” one of the guards cried as he reached out and plucked me off my Thomas, and out of, what he must have thought, was harm’s way. He bundled me in a cloak, as if I were his own little girl, and carried me out, even as I shamelessly bawled and cried and reached out over his shoulder for my Thomas, my lover, my husband.

Like Philistines surrounding Samson, they fell upon my Mr. Keyes, and bound him in chains. I never saw him alive again. They took him to the Tower and stuffed and crammed his giant’s body into the tiniest cell, crushing his bones and causing his joints to cramp and swell. The gaoler was cruel and sometimes denied him food, causing my tenderhearted Thomas, who loved all creatures great and small, to have to resort to killing with his bare hands the birds that sometimes perched upon his windowsill. He ate them raw since he had no means to cook them. When his children found out and went to plead before Sir William Cecil, begging him to remedy and ease their father’s plight, the gaoler retaliated by feeding my love rotten meat that had been dropped into the poison used to treat the mange that afflicted his dogs. When they finally let him out of that “noisome and narrow cell,” it was too late; he was broken and crippled beyond repair and soon died. My only consolation was that he was allowed to go home to his cottage in Kent, the one we had dreamed of retiring to, to die surrounded by his many children and grandchildren, with birds singing and the roses he loved blooming outside his window.

As for myself, Elizabeth sent me under house arrest to Chequers, the sumptuous country house of Sir William Hawtrey, the high sheriff of Buckinghamshire. It was a sprawling estate, adorned with stately elms and several pleasure gardens, each of which had been given a name evocative of its particular theme. I had a fine view of the ones called “Silver Spring” and “Velvet Lawn” from my window, but I didn’t care.

Our married life was passed in separate prisons, with no hope of a reunion. Still my heart dreamed of the two of us and that little cottage in Kent he had told me about, even though my head knew better.
Annul me, divorce me, I don’t care, only let my love go free!
I said, it was cruel to keep him so confined. I had been a fool to think Elizabeth would discount me as a danger because I was a dwarf—royal blood was royal blood.