To Shield the Queen

J
ohn Wilton was a small man, knotted and wiry, with short, dusty brown hair which stuck up in spikes. He had a snub nose and discoloured teeth. I can’t remember what colour his eyes were and I never knew his age. Men like John seem to be born in middle life, and there they stay. He had started out as a groom employed by my husband’s family and become, eventually, my husband Gerald’s manservant. Now, when Gerald was gone, he would gladly have become mine, except that I couldn’t afford him.

He believed in hard work and honesty and sometimes carried the latter too far. John would speak his mind when he felt it necessary, regardless of risk, regardless of the other person’s social standing. He was as plain and trustworthy as a loaf of good brown bread. In that April of 1560, when Queen Elizabeth had been on the throne for less than eighteen months, the sect we now call the Puritans had barely begun to emerge and I doubt if John had ever heard of them, but in a later age, he might well have joined them.

Some people would have thought me ungrateful! I was there, after all, to enter the service of her majesty Queen Elizabeth, and Richmond Palace was one of the newest and most beautiful royal residences, a place of ample light and airy grace, with turrets and fountains and generous windows and singing weathervanes which made a melodious sound when the wind blew. It was a privilege to be allowed into it and it was rather more than a privilege to be doing so as one of the young queen’s Ladies of the Presence Chamber. God knows, I had parted from others who meant more to me than John. I had watched my husband die of the smallpox and been forced, too, to say goodbye to our daughter Meg, and leave her behind in the care of her nurse Bridget. What was a mere manservant compared to husband and child?

However, John was my last link with them; with my too-short married life and the small, loving child who was Gerald’s gift to me. Now I must lose even him and no amount of palaces or pinnacles or even the most charismatic of princes could make up for that. But there it was. However great the honour of becoming a Lady of the Presence Chamber, a stipend of thirty pounds a year would barely keep Meg and her nurse. I couldn’t find the wherewithal to pay John too.

At the last moment, when the porter had shouldered my luggage and was already disappearing through the arch of the west gatehouse, and the page was waiting with rather obvious patience for me to follow him, tears came into my eyes and I had to blink hard to control them.

John noticed. He swept off his cap, which made his hair stand up like the spines of a hedgehog. “I hope to get work not far from Bridget and the little one,” he said. “I’ll remember your messages, mistress, never fear, and I’ll keep an eye on them for you. And if you ever need me, Mistress Blanchard, just you send word and I’ll be there as fast as I can, on any nag I can get hold of.”

“Thank you,” I said shakily. “If I do need you, be sure that I shall call. Goodbye, John, and a safe ride home.”

As he mounted his horse again, panic almost overtook me. At the age of twenty-six, I was virtually alone in the world, left to fend for myself in this place which was so beautiful and luxurious, and was also utterly unfamiliar and full of unknown demands, not to mention perils. The perils were not precisely unknown (I had learned about those from my mother) but they were no less alarming on that account.

However, I must not begin my service to the queen by giving way and making a fool of myself. Somehow I kept my countenance. As John clattered away from the gate with the two hired horses which had brought us and my personal belongings from Sussex, I didn’t watch him go. Instead, I braced myself; not to forget my sore heart, which wasn’t possible, but to ignore it, and to be alert and attentive as a queen’s lady-in-waiting must be if she is to please her mistress.

• • •

I was quite used to fine houses. I had been brought up in a manor house, and with Gerald I had been part of the entourage of Sir Thomas Gresham, financier, whose way of life, divided between London and Antwerp, verged on the princely. Richmond, though, belonged to another order of dwellings altogether. I had expected to emerge into a courtyard, but I found myself instead being led along a sanded path through a formal flower garden, bordered with lavender. Few of the flowers were in bloom yet, but under the shelter of a wall, I saw patches of forget-me-nots and violets; and a bed patterned with the rich yellow and velvety purple of heart’s-ease.

I made a conscious effort to take an interest in my surroundings. The garden was bounded by long two-storey buildings, guards’ quarters by the look of them, and beyond those to the right, there must be an orchard; blossom-laden boughs were just visible above their roofs. To the left, where the River Thames flowed, the sky was empty and luminous. I couldn’t see the river but I could hear the shouts of boatmen. The slim turrets of the palace proper were still far away ahead. It was no wonder that I had had to wait so long for my escort to appear. It was several minutes before we passed through another arch and came at last into the courtyard, where some saddled horses were awaiting their riders. Faintly, from a window on an upper floor, I could hear music.

There were people everywhere, strolling or standing in clusters to talk, or hurrying about on presumably urgent errands, or, in one case, in a rage. As we passed through a long gallery with a flat carved ceiling and some spectacular hangings depicting scenes from Roman history, we had to flatten ourselves against the assassination of Julius Caesar to make way for a young woman, dressed expensively in green and gold brocade with a great cone-shaped farthingale and wearing, in addition, an expression sour enough to turn wine to vinegar on the instant, as she swept past us in the opposite direction with another young woman just behind her, frantically apologising about something and scurrying to keep up.

The page glanced back at them and let out a small, derisive snort. It was demeaning to question a page but when I was myself, not weighed down by sorrow, I was inclined to be inquisitive, a trait which Gerald had virtually encouraged, since finding things out was part of his business. Besides, I was still concerned with taking an interest and I could not too soon begin to learn about the court. So I ignored protocol and asked the page who the angry young woman was.

“Lady Catherine Grey,” said the page. “I don’t know the name of the other.”

He said no more. But even if the Gresham household in Antwerp hadn’t quite prepared me for the royal court of Queen Elizabeth, it had been a place where famous names were spoken and the political scenery surveyed. I had heard of Lady Catherine Grey.

The page, finding his way apparently by witchcraft, brought us at length to a room where a number of ladies were seated, stitching and gossiping. The room was tapestried but well lit through many large windows, and rosemary strewn on the floor filled the air with sweetness. Mingled with this was the characteristic smell of fabric, of silk and linen and fine wool. It came from the hangings and the numerous workboxes and also, I realised, from the brocaded and embroidered dresses of the ladies. I was instantly conscious of my plain dress, dark for mourning and without a farthingale because one can’t ride a horse in one. I had better dresses with me, but none was really new and fashions were changing all the time.

The page led me up to one of the ladies. She glanced round enquiringly, needle suspended over an embroidery frame. He bowed, gracefully. “Lady Katherine, I bring you Mistress Ursula Blanchard.”

Catherine was a common name, though people varied the spelling. We had thought of calling Meg by it but decided against it just because there were so many Catherines about. This one was older and more dignified than Lady Catherine Grey, refined of feature, her skin pale and clear. She was in a dress of dove grey, with blue embroidery which picked up the colour of her calm blue eyes. I curtsied to her and she smiled.

“Of course. You are expected. Thank you, Will.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“I’m sure you must be tired. We will go presently and look at your room. I am Katherine Knollys, cousin to her majesty on the maternal side. I am one of her principal ladies. Mistress Ashley is in overall charge of all the ladies but she is indisposed today, so I instructed that you should be brought to me instead. I intend visiting her this afternoon, however, and as I shall have to pass close to our quarters, I’ll take you with me and show you myself where you will be sleeping. Later, I will present you to her majesty. She is closeted with some of her council members at the moment.”

“And with Robin Dudley,” remarked another lady, young, with a fragile build but very bright grey eyes.

“Very likely, Jane,” said Lady Katherine repressively. “He is the Master of Horse, after all. I believe the queen wishes him to purchase some new riding horses. Jane, this is Mistress Ursula Blanchard, who has come to join us. Ursula, this is Lady Jane Seymour, niece to the queen of that name, the mother of poor King Edward who died so young.”

I inclined my head to Lady Jane. For all her sparkling eyes, she didn’t look much stronger than her cousin Edward, who hadn’t lived to see his sixteenth birthday. I often gave thanks to God for my own good health.

Also, these ladies were all daughters or wives of important men. Most of them had titles.

And in addition, I thought wryly, they were probably all legitimate.

I wondered how much Lady Katherine Knollys knew about me. She was introducing me simply as the widow of Gerald Blanchard, gentleman. In turn, I tried to absorb what I was told about the others, but there were too many of them and, although some bore names as famous as Seymour, I knew I wouldn’t remember more than one or two of them, not yet. I was indeed very tired, not only from the two-day ride from Sussex, but also from the strain of my farewells and my sadness. I was glad when, at length, Lady Katherine rose and took me off to my quarters.

“You feel dazed, I expect,” she said as she led me through another lengthy gallery. “I know a little of your story. Sir William Cecil told it to me and Mistress Ashley. You have certainly had a troubled life, but you will be too busy to brood, I promise. Do you dance gracefully?”

“Dance?” The change of subject took me by surprise. “Well—reasonably so, I think. But . . . ”

“You are in mourning, but that won’t be for ever,” said Lady Katherine briskly. “The queen likes to dance and also to watch her ladies do so. Later, we must see what you can do.”

“Does Lady Catherine Grey dance well?” I asked.

My inquisitiveness had surprised her. I might have to curb it if I wished to fit in at court. I said mildly that the page and I had met Lady Catherine Grey on the way through the palace. “I—noticed her,” I said. “She was so splendidly dressed. I asked who she was.”

Katherine Knollys laughed. “Oh, I see! Splendidly dressed! I daresay she was in a splendid temper as well, only you are too discreet to put it that way. Am I right?”

“Well, er . . . ”

“A foolish maid of honour mistook her for someone else and went through a doorway ahead of her. The queen will only allow her to be a Lady of the Presence Chamber and not of the Privy Chamber. It causes misunderstandings. Though it might help if Catherine were not in a perpetual sulk over it. Oh, I may as well be candid; you will soon hear all about it anyway. She is still a person of importance, of course. Lady Jane Seymour has lately become her close friend and will I hope be a steadying influence. Lady Jane is a dear girl, though perhaps a trifle too spirited. Here’s your room. Here at Richmond, you can have your own, though you will have to share at some of the other residences.”

The room into which she took me was in a corner of the building and it was a very odd shape, almost triangular, although it did have one very short fourth wall. It was panelled, with a leaded window overlooking the courtyard and it contained a small tester bed, a clothes press, a window seat with a storage chest beneath it, and a washstand. To my relief, I saw my panniers on the floor beside the bed.

“There’s a truckle bed underneath yours, for your maid,” said Lady Katherine. “Have you brought a maid or were you intending to hire one here in London?”