“I wouldn’t go to Spain!” I say desperately. “Why would I? Where would I go? The only man in the world that I would marry is here. I have no interest in the archduke or anyone else! And why should I marry a low-born Englishman? Why should I be insulted?”
I am horrified by Janey’s gossip that they want to marry me to some nonentity and forget about me, but I feel even more afraid when I am told that the Scots lords have proposed that I should be married to my cousin the Earl of Arran, one of Elizabeth’s castoff flirts with a claim in Scotland, so that England can offer a rival Protestant queen to the rebellious Scots, and they can mass behind Arran and me, and defeat the French. They will marry me to Arran and make me Queen of Scots.
“What am I to do?” I say to Janey. “Are they all mad? Will they never stop trying to marry me to one dreadful man after another? Did she acknowledge me as princess just to sell me in an alliance? You must tell Ned that someone is going to kidnap me, if he does not save me.”
Ned does not rescue me; he cannot. His mother has forbidden it, and she is not a woman to be disobeyed. He does no more than look longingly at me, and walk away. Robert Dudley does nothing for me. He thinks only of himself and of Elizabeth. He is at her side every day in these dangerous times, and I think if she could not cling to him, she would lose her wits. Of course, it is William Cecil, who knows all about everything, who speaks to me. He bows very low as he comes out of the Privy Council meeting, and offers me his arm to walk along the gallery to the queen’s rooms. I flutter my fingers a little as if I would be released, but he keeps a warm gentle grip on my hand, and so we enter together, and I see from the determined upturn of Elizabeth’s painted lips that the two of them have agreed that I must be kept close, and they have choreographed a little dance for me to perform.
“Oh! Cousin Katherine,” she says, turning away from Robert Dudley as if she is more interested in me than in him. “Dear Cousin.”
My curtsey is as shallow as I dare to make it. “Cousin Elizabeth, Your Majesty,” I say, since we seem to be closely related today.
“Come and sit with me,” she says, indicating the stool beside her chair. “I have hardly seen you all day.”
There have been many days when she has managed to endure my absence, and never before have I been invited to sit with her.
I glance to one side where Ned is watching this mumming, and his expression freezes and he looks down to the ground, as if he dare not even smile at me. He is so afraid of Elizabeth’s displeasure, and I am like a mouse under the paw of a fat ginger cat.
“What a darling little dog!” Elizabeth exclaims.
I look down at Jo, who presses against my feet as if she is afraid that I will follow court protocol and offer her to the queen, who looks at her with no warmth in her face.
“I love Katherine like a daughter,” the queen says to the air over my head. Even she, great liar that she is, lacks the bravado to meet my eyes. Everyone takes in this surprising announcement with blank faces. I see the bright interested stare of the Spanish ambassador. “She is like a daughter to me,” she repeats loudly. Then, as the meaning of her words dawns on her, she softens her voice to speak to me: “You must miss your mother very much,” she says.
I bow my head. “I do, Your Majesty,” I confirm dutifully. “She was most devoted to me and to my little sister, Mary.”
“Oh, yes, Mary,” says the queen absently. Mary steps forward from the maids at the mention of her name and the queen nods towards her as she curtseys. Clearly, Mary is not to be bathed in affection, only me.
Elizabeth leans forward. “You must always tell me if you feel lonely or unhappy,” she says quietly. “I know what it is to be a girl without a mother. I know what it is to be friendless at a great court.”
I would play my part in this masque better if I knew what on earth I am supposed to do. The queen puts her heavily ringed hand on my shoulder; her fingers are cold. I wonder who is supposed to benefit from this performance. Certainly, not I.
“I am not friendless at court, if I have your favor,” I say tentatively, looking up into her expressionless face.
She presses her hand on my shoulder. “You do. You are very dear to me. After all, you are my closest kin.”
That’s it then! She has named me as her closest kin. I am her heir. I am next to the throne. She has done it, and she cannot take it back. I glance up and see William Cecil is watching me. He has heard this. Indeed, he will have written the script and plotted every move.
“And may I come to you with a request?” I gaze into her beady black eyes. There is not a flicker of true tenderness: she is making a deal with me as if we were fishwives on the quay weighing a salted cod.
“Ask me!” she says with her false smile. “Ask me anything, and see what I will do for a loyal and loving cousin!”
“I will,” I promise her, I promise myself, and I promise Ned in my heart.
Robert Dudley kisses my hand with a hidden smile, as one favorite to another. William Cecil walks with me in the gallery and tells me how the war is progressing in Scotland, as if I need to know. I realize that he is teaching me the statecraft that he has studied under four reigns. He wants me to know that I must play my part as the Protestant heir to a Protestant queen. It is important that I understand that the throne is advised by the lords, that the lords share the thoughts of the parliament. I must understand that Elizabeth’s place on the throne is unsteady—half the country is yet to be convinced by our religion, the great European powers are natural enemies to us, and the Pope calls for a holy war against us. As her heir I will attract temptation, conspiracies, promises. I must report to him. I must never endanger Elizabeth. I must play my part in making a Protestant succession in a Protestant country.
People curtsey low as I walk by, and Mary and I are allocated more ladies to wait on us. Suddenly, I need someone to carry my gloves. Mary moves out of the informal camaraderie of the maids’ rooms, and together we live in grander rooms with our own ladies-in-waiting, and we make a small court within the court, the two of us served as princesses. I dress Mr. Nozzle in a livery of Tudor green, and Jo and Ribbon have plaited collars of green silk. Ribbon wears a little bell of hammered silver and sleeps on a cushion of green velvet.
I go everywhere in the center of a hushed storm of deferential curiosity. The wardrobe supplies me with wonderful gowns of velvets and cloth of gold. My rise to prominence brings so many questions, but there is no one whom I can safely consult. Can it be that Elizabeth has decided to wait for Robert Dudley to be free to marry, and is naming me as her heir to buy herself time? His wife may die of some illness, or old age, and Elizabeth might marry him at last. Or since she is Supreme Governor of the Church, will she use her power to declare her lover’s marriage annulled, and marry him herself? Nobody can complain of her behavior if she has given England a legitimate Protestant heir—me.
And if so, would it not be wise to let me marry the man of my choice, an English nobleman, close to the throne, loyally reformist? Do Ned and I suddenly represent an irresistible boon to Elizabeth: royal family, Protestant convictions, and surely fertile? If I were to put a legitimate Tudor boy in the royal cradle, does that free Elizabeth to please herself? Will she end all debate by adopting my baby and giving England that rarity: a healthy Tudor boy? Do I dare to ask for Ned as the favor that she has promised me? Do I dare to summon Ned to my new rooms and speak to him in front of everyone?
Elizabeth continues to single me out for her affections. I sit at the head of the ladies’ table at dinner, while Mary is raised on a cushion at the other end. Only I am to carry the queen’s fan in the evening, only I hold her gloves as we walk together to the stables. I have a new horse; when we go hawking, I have a falcon on my fist. I play cards with her, and at chapel I kneel behind her to pray. Undoubtedly, I am being groomed to inherit. The Spanish ambassador steps back from our secret conversations, but his bow is very deferential. Robert Dudley gives me his hidden seductive smile. Ned meets my eyes acr
oss the presence chamber and I know that he wants me. Surely, if I can ask my cousin the queen for any favor, I can tell her that I want to marry a loyal English nobleman and we can both serve her for life?
Janey says: “I have a surprise for you. Come to my room.”
It is an hour before dinner and the other ladies of the bedchamber are with the queen, watching the maids lace her gown, each standing with an item: her golden hood, her jewel box, her fan. Each of them is waiting her turn to step forward in the ritual of dressing the goddess so that she can go to her dinner and flirt with any man who has the good luck to catch her volatile fancy tonight. Every third night it is my turn to serve her, every fourth night my little sister, Mary, stands holding the jewels. Now and then Janey is well enough to offer the golden hood, but tonight we are both free.
Like little girls playing truant from a despised stepmother, we slip past the maids’ chamber and Janey opens the door to her bedroom; we go in . . . and there is Ned.
I stop on the threshold; I know I gape at him as if I cannot believe that it is him, waiting for me, as if he has stepped out of my dreams.
“Ned?” I say wonderingly.
He crosses the room in one stride and takes me into his arms. “My love,” he says. “My love, forgive me. I could not be without you for another moment.”
I don’t hesitate, I don’t pause for pride or anger, my arms are around his neck, pulling his head down, his mouth to mine, we fumble and then we kiss. The taste of him, the familiar scent of him, makes me tremble. I want to cry and laugh at once. “Ned,” is all I can say.
The kiss goes on forever. I hear, in the back of my mind, the quiet click of the door as Janey goes out and closes it behind her. It occurs to me that really I should be coldly furious with Ned and make him beg my pardon, but my hold on him tightens. I cannot bear to release him, I don’t think I can ever bear to let him go. I cannot think, I have no thoughts, all I know is desire.
When he slackens his grip just a little, I am dizzy and I let myself go deliciously limp in his arms. I feel I have spent so long trying to be strong and trying to be brave and now I can lean on the man that I love. He helps me to the window seat. I want to lie along it, to feel his weight come down on me and his thigh press against me; but we sit side by side, his arm around my waist as if I am so precious to him that he cannot bear to let me go.
“You came back to me” is all I say. Then: “You have come back to me? This is not just . . . You have come back to me?”
“Of course,” he says. “You are the love of my life, my only love.”
“I couldn’t bear seeing you every day and not touching . . .”
“Nor I! I used to watch you in chapel.”
“I know you did,” I interrupt. “I used to peep at you and see you were looking at me. I hoped so much . . . I prayed . . .”
“Prayed for what?”
“Prayed for this.”
He takes my hand and presses it to his lips. “You have this. You have me. We shall never be parted again.”
“Your mother . . .”
“I shall explain it to her. She shall not stop me.”
“But the queen . . .”
“We shall marry,” he says decisively. I feel my heart leap just to see the firmness of his mouth. I want him to kiss me again.
“I will ask her . . .”
“She favors you, she’s made that clear to everyone. And it’s not just her, it’s not just her whim. Cecil has advised her that she has to keep you close. That’s why she’s being so kindly. She is terrified that you will be married by the Scots or by the Spanish, and taken away.”
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Don’t let them part us.”
“Never. So we won’t ask anyone, for fear that they refuse. We will marry and tell her when it is done. We’ll tell them all when it is done, and then what can she or anyone do?”
“She can be furious,” I point out. The court has grown wary of Tudor rage. Where Queen Mary would sink into despair, Elizabeth will scream and throw things. The only man who can soothe her then is Robert Dudley. The only man who can advise her is William Cecil. She shouts down everyone else.
Ned, my lover, my husband-to-be, shrugs his shoulders as if she does not frighten him. “She will be furious but it will blow over. We have seen her furious with Kat Ashley; we have seen her rage at Cecil until he left court. But he came back, and she did as he advised. It will be the same for us. She will rage, we will leave, she will forgive us and restore us to our places within a month. Besides, it is in her interest that we are married so that you are safe. Cecil will advise her of that. Dudley will tell her to smile on lovers.”
“I want to be safe.” I nestle a little closer. “I want to be safe with you. Oh, Ned, I have dreamed of this.”
“I have dreamed of you, too,” he whispers. “I have written a poem to you.”
“You have?”
He feels in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I carry it with me,” he says. “I wrote it when you were in your mourning black and I used to see you, with your hair so golden and your skin so creamy pale. You were like a portrait, like a marble statue wrapped in velvet, and I thought that I would never touch you again. I thought we were like Troilus and Criseyde, parted like them.”
“Read it!” I whisper. Really, this is as good as a Romance.
“She stood in black said Troilus he,
That with her look hath wounded me.
She stood in black say I also
That with her eye, hath bred my woe.”
I give a shuddering breath of delight. “May I have it?” Nobody has ever written a poem to me before; nobody ever wrote one for Jane for all that she was such a great scholar and a queen. People wrote sermons for Jane but this is a real thing, a poem, a love poem from a man. Better than that: a love poem from a poet, a famous poet. A sermon simply doesn’t compare. He presses it into my hand and I hold it to my heart.
GREENWICH PALACE,
SUMMER 1560
This is living, I think feverishly. This is what it is to be young and beautiful and alive, and not absorbed by some miserable creed that makes you learn to die and not delight in life. This is what I hoped when I came out of the Tower and left my sister behind, to be beheaded and buried in pieces in the chapel. This is how I believed my life should be and now it is: vivid and passionate and far more wonderful than I ever dreamed.
Ned and I still go past each other in silence, with our eyes averted, but he winks at me in chapel and he holds me deliciously close when he lifts me down from my horse. Now, when the movement of the dance brings us together, his hand is warm and he presses my fingers. When the dance takes us face-to-face, he comes so close that I can feel his warm breath at my ear, his hand at my waist is confident, drawing me against him. We are secret lovers as we were once secretly estranged, and when I turn away and pretend not to see him I want to giggle. I quite forget that I used to want to cry.
The court is at play in the summer weather and nothing seems to matter at all. It is as if all the stern rules of courtly behavior are suspended, all the grim restrictions of belief are lifted. There is no “learn you to die” anymore, there is no death. There is no fear of the future, nor who will be heir, nor will the queen conceive, or will there be war. There is nothing but sunny weather and pretty clothes and beautiful days. All of the dour misery of Queen Mary’s court is swept away like old strewing herbs, all the fearful suspicion of King Edward’s years is gone. All the men who plotted and planned and schemed against the throne and against each other are dead, and we their children are sworn to live for the joy of living. We have learned to live.
William Cecil has gone to Edinburgh to make peace between the Scots lords and their French-born regent. Elizabeth’s reluctant army has done enough to win us peace, and Elizabeth is reckless without Cecil’s supervision, as if she thinks that if he is not watching, no one can see her. She and Robert Dudley live openly as lovers. He comes to her room as if he were her husband, he la
ughs at her, he takes her in his arms, he is obeyed as if he were king consort.
Every day we ride out, the hounds running before us. Robert Dudley brings his mistress a string of horses, each one more spirited and beautiful than the last, and the two of them ride neck and neck as if they were invulnerable. Every day they outrun the court and then disappear into the woods, only emerging when it is time to dine in the beautiful tents that the servants have put up in the clearing, and the tables are laid and the wine and water poured. Openly, they ride off together; shamelessly they return, their faces bright with unspoken joy. Everyone else rides behind the hounds for a little while and then takes their horses to the river and lets them drink, or dismounts to idle in the shadows, or goes away to somewhere quiet and hidden to kiss and whisper.
The sun is hot but the clearing is shaded by the fresh green leaves of the oak and beech trees, and the birds sing incessantly, as if they are a choir in harmony with the musicians who are hidden in the branches. The smell of woodsmoke and roasted meat mingles with the lush scent of crushed grass and herbs where the servants have spread carpets and rugs and cushions, so that we can sprawl at our leisure, and drink wine and tell stories and poems. Sometimes we sing together, old country songs, and sometimes Ned reads his poetry, but never “She stood in black,” which is for me, and is mine alone.
We are a court of young, beautiful people. The older wiser ones have no patience with all-day picnics when we do not get home until dusk, riding side by side, whispering promises. They are full of warnings about the careful work that William Cecil is doing in Edinburgh, and how it will all come to nothing if Elizabeth does not give England an heir to inherit the peace. But Elizabeth’s relief at the end of war with Scotland makes her giddy with joy. She is triumphant; she thinks winning the war makes her invulnerable. She is indiscreet; she thinks that the world is well lost for love. Even when the Privy Council warns that they have to slit the tongues of men and women up and down the country to stop them saying that she is Robert Dudley’s whore, she still leans from her bedroom window in the morning, half naked, and calls to Robert Dudley to come to her at once.
The Last Tudor Page 18