The Fallen Queen (54 page)

When I heard that he was dead, I lost my mind. The hair began to fall from my head, like the tears from my eyes, until I hacked it off. Bald and naked, keening out my grief, I drew pictures on the white plastered walls, with my own blood and feces when they saw what mischief I was about and took away my ink. Over and over again, I drew my Thomas sprouting wings and flying free. I wished him Godspeed and told him he was well rid of me, for loving me had brought him nothing but misfortune.

I felt blasted, bitter, and blighted, the ache inside me was at once bloody red and raw, dry as if scorched by desert suns, and wet as though drowned in a salty ocean that burned my nose, throat, and eyes. Pain filled my lungs like water, and the weight dragged me down into darkness so deep I feared I would never see the light again. I had lost the one person who truly saw and loved
me.
I was his Mary, not one of Mother Nature’s mistakes, to toss a penny and shout, “Dance, dwarf, dance; make me laugh!” He never saw me that way. He loved
me,
the
real me!

In this way five years of my life slipped past. “The years go by,” as Kate said. “You cannot get them back.” I fell—but there was no one there to catch me, and I shattered. I was supposed to be the strong one, practical and pragmatic. I was the one who had kept pushing Kate in the same circumstances to fight, to not give in to the darkness that would swallow up her soul if she let it. But I didn’t fight it, I was weak; I failed to practise what I preached, and there was no one to push and bolster me. Madness and melancholy took me as their whore and did whatever they wanted to with me. Even now when I think about it, I still disgust, and disappoint, myself.

In 1573, when Elizabeth finally set me free, I made a pilgrimage to Kent, and in the grey gold light of dawn, I planted raspberries and rosemary, for remorse and remembrance, on my beloved’s grave and watered them with my tears. I sat with him, my hand atop the soil that covered him like a brown velvet blanket, and imagined him holding my hand as we watched the sun rise together, though in truth he should have crushed it with anger for what I did to him. Had I not been as rash and foolish as I once chided Kate for being, I would not have brought destruction crashing down like the jawbone of an ass upon his head. I lay on his grave, as I used to lie with my head upon his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat, but that heart had been stilled forever while mine went on beating knowing that I was responsible for the stopping of his. Then I slunk away, too cowardly to face his children, fearing that they would hate and blame me, even though I well deserved it.

I returned to London and took lodgings in the cheapest inn I could find. I hadn’t a friend in the world and did not know what would become of me. I had little money, and as small as a child myself, I knew I would not present a very imposing figure as a nursery governess.

My stepfather, Adrian Stokes, came to my rescue. He insisted on settling a sum of money on me and offered me a home at Bradgate: “For it
is
your home, Mary, and always will be.” When I refused, wanting something new in reckless defiance of my strained circumstances, he helped me find and buy my little house in St. Botolph’s-Without-Aldgate. He even planted with his own hands a little garden of raspberries and rosemary for me, yet when I was not looking he added purple hyacinths for forgiveness. “Because you
must
forgive yourself, Mary. Thomas Keyes married you because he loved you, and if he had the chance, he would do it all the same again. Don’t dishonour your marriage by regretting it, Mary, he never did, nor would I if …” He left the words unspoken and hung his head, as a crimson blush spread across his lean and handsome face, still boyish even at forty with a few skeins of silver snaking through his black hair. He had dared to almost say the words that should never be spoken, yet they hung in the air between us, like a spectre, the ghost of a dream that could never be more than a dream.

I was astonished. How could he want
me?
A handsome man who could have his pick of women, like flowers from a garden. But I couldn’t let myself even consider, I couldn’t let myself desire or even dream, I knew that part of me that longed for love and its carnal expression had to die forever lest it lead another to disaster.

I let him kiss me, just once—I promised myself—just one first and last sweet kiss in the little garden he had made for me, knowing it really would be my last.

With a shaky hand. I caressed his cheek as I breathed out a long, trembling sigh. Then I sent him away, because I had to, for his sake, and my own.

“I will ever love and protect you, Mary,” he said as he closed the garden gate behind him, just as my heart closed the door upon love. But I was weak. Even though in my heart it was still Thomas I pined for, that long ago stifled and denied attraction was still there. I kicked that closing door back open again. “Adrian—wait! Come back!” I cried. And he did. He swept me up into his arms and held me close against his heart and kissed me as I thought I would never be kissed again.

Sometimes there are no second chances, but sometimes there are.

As we knelt together on my bed, pausing to kiss the flesh as we bared it, he told me he had always loved me, even when he knew he shouldn’t on account of my high and his humble birth. When he had finally, after our string of misfortunes and I had been forsaken by Lord Wilton, worked up the courage to ask my lady-mother for my hand, she flew into a terrifying riding-crop-swinging, screaming rage, “madder than any woman I ever saw.” “’Twas rather bewildering,” he confessed. “I still can’t make sense of it all—one moment I was asking for you, and the next I was standing before the priest with her with my ear bleeding and feeling like nails were being driven into my arm the way she held it, and between the two there was a red and raging storm that left me sorely battered and my soul feeling all tired out and wrung dry.”

“Aye”—I nodded as I kissed his throat—“I understand full well—such was my lady-mother.”

But I was older and wiser now; I didn’t let him ruin his life because of me. I chose to be a mistress rather than a wife. As I was his stepdaughter none ever suspected. Why ever would they? How could it ever be anything but innocent? In fairy tales the handsome prince never woos, weds, or beds a troll or goblin. I made him marry, and I even helped him choose a bride, a sweet, sensible widow with several children. Her name was Anne Carew, and if she ever knew of the delightful afternoons, and occasional nights, he spent in my bed, she was too well-bred to mention it and never gave a sign. She had the security of marriage; I had someone who was both a lover and a friend to keep the sharp teeth of loneliness from biting too deep. Sometimes one must compromise and bargain to get the best out of life.

To my surprise, Elizabeth summoned me to Hampton Court to attend the New Year’s celebrations. Though it taxed my meagre funds considerably, I knew I could not arrive without a suitable offering for my sovereign. I bought her a set of four dozen gold floral buttons, each one studded with a pearl at its centre, and a pair of sweet-scented buff-coloured leather gloves sewn with seed pearls and gold embroidery in a floral pattern.

I put on the finest gown I had, my gold-lace-garnished, black velvet wedding gown and my black-and-yellow-striped “bumblebee” kirtle. Though it was a few years out of fashion, I didn’t care; it meant more to me to be once again my Thomas’ “bumblebee bride.” Beneath it, I wore once again my red silk petticoat embroidered with three golden butterflies for three sisters, two dead, one living, and around my solid, tree trunk waist the girdle of fine goldsmith’s work, pearls, and red orange jacinth stones Adrian had given me as a New Year’s gift. I felt the little mother-of-pearl bottle hanging between my breasts, cool against my hot skin, and lifted it to inhale the spicy-sweet cinnamon rose of Kate’s perfume, and any fear I felt melted from me; I knew, in spirit, my love was with me, as were my sisters.
Nothing is ever truly lost,
I told myself as I straightened the mound of gaudy pearl-impaled sable red curls atop my head,
certainly not true love, like that betwixt sisters,
or that which I gave to and received from my Thomas.
As I left my little house, to climb into the coach Adrian had so thoughtfully provided, I felt my sisters walking alongside me, their hands reaching out to hold mine, and the protective presence of my Thomas hovering, like a great oak, mighty and sheltering, high above me. I walked in love and knew I would never walk alone.

Now past her child-bearing years, her face an inscrutable white-marble mask beneath the flaming red of her pearl-encrusted wig, Elizabeth, “The Virgin Queen,” sat on her throne resplendent in a gown of olive green and yellow satin embroidered with olive branches and wheat stalks to symbolize peace and plenty, the two things she wanted most for her beloved people.

Everyone turned and stared in stunned silence when they saw bold black-and-yellow-clad me standing in the wide doorway of the presence chamber.

The chamberlain banged his staff upon the marbled floor and announced—“Lady Mary Grey!”

But I shook my head, and instead of approaching the Queen, I went to him and tugged sharply at the hem of his doublet to get his attention.

“Mrs. Thomas Keyes!”
I insisted in a voice clear and steady that carried throughout the cavernous chamber.

Across that great, wide room that intimidated so many, an amused and approving gleam lit Elizabeth’s dark eyes, and she gave an imperceptible nod as a smile twitched at her taut bloodred rouged lips. But it was enough. I could tell that she approved of me. My audacity had not offended the Queen’s Majesty, though in truth I wouldn’t have cared if it had.

She gave a quick nod to the chamberlain, and the staff pounded the floor again as his voice rang out, announcing—“Mrs. Thomas Keyes!”

Proudly, with head held high, like a little queen, I approached the dais and made my curtsy to my cousin, the Queen.

L
ady Mary Grey died alone in her little house in St. Botolph’s-Without-Aldgate in April 1578, her constitution fatally weakened by the plague that had visited London that winter. The “mystic ruby,” crystallized, legend claimed, from a drop of blood at the base of a unicorn’s horn, believed to protect the wearer from plague, that Thomas Keyes had given her, was still on her finger. She was thirty-four years old. Her small, child-sized coffin was entombed with her mother in Westminster Abbey. No plaque or monument marks her grave.

Kate’s “Sweet Ned,” Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, went on to marry twice more—first to Lady Frances Howard, his mistress of many years, and after her death in 1598, a wealthy wine merchant’s widow, Frances Prannell.

In 1608, the validity of his marriage to Lady Katherine Grey was at long last proven when the red-bearded priest, now old, stoop-backed, and grey, and sworn off strong drink, emerged from the obscurity of a sleepy little country parish. Though forty years had passed since her death, Katherine’s body was exhumed and laid to her second rest beneath a beautiful white marble effigy with all honours due her as the rightful Countess of Hertford in Salisbury Cathedral, where Ned would come to sleep beside her when he died in 1621 at the age of 83, having outlived both their sons.

Kate’s “sweet little boys” grew to manhood, dabbling in romance and royal intrigue. Thomas died with the new century in 1600; his elder brother, Edward, Viscount Beauchamp, outlived him by a dozen years, dying in 1612.

For those interested in a factual account of the lives of the Grey sisters, I recommend
The Sisters Who Would Be Queen
by Leanda de Lisle.

Reading Group questions

1. Discuss the personalities of the three sisters—Jane, Kate, and Mary. Which do you like best and why?
   
2. The Grey sisters have a little ritual in which they stand before the mirror and identify themselves as “the brilliant one,” “the beautiful one,” and “the beastly little one,” making fun of the way other people see them. Discuss the outside world’s perceptions of the three sisters and how they see themselves. Discuss their relationship with each other. If they weren’t united by blood and family ties, would these three girls have been friends?
   
3. Because of Jane’s confession to Roger Ascham, history remembers her mother, Frances Grey, the Duchess of Suffolk, as a ruthless, ambitious, child-beating monster. The modern concept of child abuse was nonexistent in Tudor times, and what we would today consider harsh punishments were not uncommon. What do you think about this? Was Frances Grey typical and merely a product of the time she lived in or did she cross the line?
   
4. Discuss the girls’ father, Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk. In this book, he’s depicted as a weak-willed man of many vices and addictions—gambling, sweets, and Guildford Dudley. Compared to his wife, is he the good, fun parent? Discuss his influence on his daughters. Is it good or bad? Would their lives, or the course of the story, have been different if he had been a stronger or wiser man? Discuss his relationship with Guildford Dudley. Do you believe the two were lovers in the full physical sense or was it just an innocent infatuation that was really all talk and no substance?
   
5. In this novel, Lady Jane Grey deplores anything that even hints of sex and romance, urging those who are weak, or might be tempted, to fight against lust and “despise the flesh.” Why is she so vehemently opposed to what others consider a natural part of life? Does she really, as some suspect, secretly desire her handsome young husband but fight against a desire she loathes discovering inside herself, or does she really hate him? And is Guildford really as stupid and conceited as people think?
   
6. Do you agree with Mary Grey that her eldest sister, Jane, chose and embraced the role of martyr and victim? If so, why do you think Jane did this? If you disagree, why do you think Mary thought this? And how do you see Jane?
   
7. Mary says that “all for love” should have been Kate’s motto. Is this true? If so, is it a good or a bad thing? Love definitely played a starring role in Katherine Grey’s life and death. Do you agree or disagree with the choices she made? Discuss her relationships with the various men in her life—her father, her two husbands, her father-in-law, and the minor dalliances and flirtations. How did they affect, mould, and shape her? Why does she risk her life to save her father’s head from London Bridge? Did she really love her first husband, or was she, as Mary thought, simply in love with love? Should she have married Ned Seymour? Is his love for her sincere or does her royal blood play a role in his decision to secretly marry her? Does it stand the test of time even when they are separated?
   
8. Discuss Frances Grey’s marriage to Adrian Stokes. Why does she
   really
   marry him? Throughout history, and even in the modern day, men routinely date and marry women considerably younger than themselves, but an older woman with a much younger man still invites comment, sometimes even jokes and laughter. What do you think of this? In this novel, her surviving daughters are clearly appalled by her actions, and Frances herself realizes that she is likely to become a laughingstock at court. Do you think this is justified?
   
9. After she becomes friends with Lady Jane Seymour, Kate begins to neglect and ignore Mary. They no longer share a room and drift apart until they are more like casual acquaintances than sisters. Why do you think this happened? How would you have reacted if you were in Mary’s shoes? Kate seems to dance in and out of Mary’s life at her own convenience, as it suits her, when she wants new clothes, and, after Lady Jane dies, when she has no one else to turn to. Even when Kate is in prison and makes Mary her confidante, it is still all about Kate, and she never asks about Mary. Do you think Kate uses or takes advantage of Mary? How does this make you feel about Kate?
   
10. Why does Kate give up? Why does she stop fighting? Why does she burn Mr. Roke-Green’s letter to Queen Elizabeth before he has a chance to send it? She died at only twenty-eight after losing a long battle with depression. Could this have been avoided? Could she have won this battle? What, if anything, could Kate have done to ensure a happier or longer life for herself?
    
11. Why does Mary, the practical and pragmatic one who should have known better, follow in Kate’s footsteps when she knows the danger that comes with marrying secretly, without the Queen’s consent? Discuss her relationship with Thomas Keyes. Why do they fall in love? And is it really love? During her sister’s imprisonment, Mary was constantly pushing Kate to fight and not give in to her depression, to find a way to go on with her life, yet, as Mary freely admits, when she is in the same position, she does not practise what she preached and actually goes mad for a time. How does this make you feel about Mary? Does it make her more human, or a more or less sympathetic character? What do you think of our little narrator? Discuss what life must have been like for someone who was physically different or challenged in Tudor England. Did the difficulties and disappointments she faced make Mary a stronger or wiser person?
    
12. Discuss Mary’s life after she is released from prison. Even though she still mourns her husband and has already made the decision to shut love out of her life, she spontaneously begins a secret affair with her stepfather, Adrian Stokes. Why does she do this? Is it a good or bad decision? And, why, when she is received back at court, does she insist on calling herself “Mrs. Thomas Keyes”? Is this an act of pride, insolence, and defiance, or her way of honouring the memory of the man she truly loved?