To Kill A Queen

by Valerie Wilding

  For my dear friend, Ragnhild Scamell

  Always there (except when it thunders)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Dedication

  London, England, 1583

  16th November 1583

  Later

  17th November 1583

  21st November 1583

  24th November 1583

  4th December 1583

  19th December 1583

  20th December 1583

  24th December 1583

  11th January 1584

  12th January 1584

  20th January 1584

  25th January 1584

  8th February 1584

  18th February 1584

  13th March 1584

  14th March 1584

  15th April 1584

  23rd April 1584

  27th April 1584

  28th April 1584

  26th May 1584

  27th May 1584

  4th June 1584

  Later

  5th June 1584

  7th June 1584

  19th June 1584

  24th June 1584

  2nd July 1584

  8th July 1584

  11th July 1584

  15th July 1584

  16th July 1584

  17th July 1584

  19th July 1584

  20th July 1584

  21st July 1584

  24th July 1584

  3rd September 1584

  4th September 1584

  16th September 1584

  29th September 1584

  1st October 1584

  2nd October 1584

  18th October 1584

  29th October 1584

  30th November 1584

  1st December 1584

  19th December 1584

  23rd December 1584

  7th January 1585

  Later

  9th January 1585

  11th January 1585

  15th January 1585

  18th January 1585

  21st January 1585

  23rd January 1585

  30th January 1585

  2nd February 1585

  3rd February 1585

  15th February 1585

  23rd February 1585

  24th February 1585

  Later

  28th April 1585

  14th May 1585

  4th June 1585

  18th June 1585

  21st June 1585

  23rd June 1585

  25th June 1585

  11th July 1585

  2nd August 1585

  18th August 1585

  Later

  23rd August 1585

  1st September 1585

  6th September 1585

  8th September 1585

  26th September 1585

  27th September 1585

  Later

  28th September 1585

  10th October 1585

  16th October 1585

  19th October 1585

  Later

  Much later

  14th November 1585

  27th November 1585

  19th December 1585

  23rd December 1585

  3rd January 1586

  7th January 1586

  11th January 1586

  14th January 1586

  28th January 1586

  6th February 1586

  11th February 1586

  18th February 1586

  21st February 1586

  Later

  28th February 1586

  1st March 1586

  2nd March 1586

  Later

  3rd March 1586

  4th March 1586

  12th March 1586

  2nd May 1586

  14th May 1586

  Later

  18th May 1586

  10th June 1586

  16th June 1586

  27th June 1586

  1st July 1586

  4th July 1586

  Later

  5th July 1586

  6th July 1586

  13th July 1586

  16th July 1586

  Later

  31st July 1586

  Later

  1st August 1586

  3rd August 1586

  Later

  4th August 1586

  Afternoon

  Evening

  5th August 1586

  Later

  9th August 1586

  14th August 1586

  15th August 1586

  Dawn

  Later

  Very late

  17th August 1586

  26th August 1586

  7th September 1586

  15th September 1586

  19th September 1586

  Later

  20th September 1586

  Later

  21st September 1586

  5th October 1586

  26th October 1586

  27th October 1586

  28th October 1586

  Historical note

  Timeline

  Picture acknowledgments

  Photographs

  My Story – a series

  Copyright

  London, England, 1583

  16th November 1583

  My mother is trying to make me just like her.

  “Take this book,” she said. So I did. Then she suggested I keep a diary, as she does.

  “Only write in it when you wish to,” she told me. “Once every few weeks, if that’s all you care to do. Think how pleasant it will be for your father to read of your doings when he returns from his travels.”

  If Father knew of all my doings, I wouldn’t be allowed out until next century! I asked that if I keep a diary, could it not be private, like hers?

  She smiled. “Of course it can, Kitty,” she said. “You’re quite right. A diary ought to be private.”

  I should think so! Mother began her first diary when she was my age, and has often told me how she hid it from her parents. She says she would have been in terrible trouble if they had found it, because she was rather too honest with her thoughts.

  In a way, it will be nice to write down what I think. There is hardly a moment in this house when I can even hear my own thoughts!

  Later

  My brothers have done nothing but tease me about my diary, and I’ve made each of them swear never to open it. I shall tie a riband round it, with such a complicated knot that I will know if anyone dares touch it. The only one I trust is Joseph. He would never do anything to hurt anyone – especially me. He treats me like his pet, but in reality, he is mine – I try to take care of him.

  So I begin my diary. But with what? All I have done today is embroider three yellow petals which Mother says resemble egg stains.

  I know! I shall set down the state of our family. My father, Sir Nicholas Lumsden, is abroad, in the service of Queen Elizabeth. At least, we think he is abroad. His work is secret and he never talks about it. (So he says. But I know he talks to Mother when they are alone. She is interested in affairs of state, but that sort of thing bores me silly.)

  My mother, Lady Matilda, known as Tilly, still keeps her diary. Indeed she dare not stop, for it is almost by royal order! Once, long ago, Mother performed a service for Her Majesty, who was then Princess Elizabeth. Every year, on Mother’s birthday – which she shares with the Queen! – a beautifully soft, leather-bound book, marked with the royal arms, arrives from the royal court. It is a gift from the Queen, and there is always a note inside, written in HER MAJESTY’S OWN HAND, saying something like, “In remembrance of a kindness done to me by the Lady Matilda Lumsden when she was simply Tilly Middleton.” Mother says she is Lady Matilda by the Queen’s good grace, for she wa
s introduced to Father by important members of the royal household.

  My brother Richard is a secretary at court, but he comes home often. He is sharp and clever. His twin, my sweet Joseph, studies law at Lincoln’s Inn. I fear he will be studying for a long time, as he is not as quick as the others. What he lacks in wit he makes up for in gentleness, and I love him dearly. He lodges at Lincoln’s Inn, but sleeps here whenever he can. My third brother Harry goes to school, so I see him in the evenings. My little brother George is new out of dresses and into breeches. He is proud of himself and struts around taking giant men’s steps! My small sister Elizabeth has called herself Beeba since she first learned to talk – which she never stops doing!

  Then there is me, Catherine Anne Lumsden, aged twelve, and very happy, though I do get bored.

  17th November 1583

  Yesterday I forgot to mention my little dog, Pawpaw. A pawpaw is a fruit that Father once ate. It’s a fitting name for my dog because when he was a puppy, his little front paws were always digging. I would say to visitors, “Watch my dog’s trick.” Then I would put him down and say, “Dig!” He would have dug whether I’d spoken or not, but the visitors didn’t know that. Some would give me a coin to buy bones for Pawpaw. I get free bones from our kitchen. The coins bought me ribands to trim my gown!

  Pawpaw is good-natured, but he has a sharp bark and would crunch the ankles of anyone who threatened me.

  Today, after church, Mother asked me to take some linen to Aunt Frances. I adore her. She was Mother’s best friend when they were young, and when Frances married Mother’s brother, my Uncle William Middleton, they became sisters, too.

  The good thing about Uncle William is that he is the physician at the Tower of London, where I love to go. Something is always happening within its walls.

  I knocked on the door, and instead of it being opened by the Middletons’ maidservant Dolly, I was greeted (if you can call “Oh, ’tis you” a greeting) by my sour cousin Kathryn.

  “Goodness, Kitty,” she said, “look at your shoes. Did you jump in every puddle? How unladylike.”

  I did not reply, for bounding down the stairs was my cousin Edmund – my best friend in the world.

  “Kitty!” he cried. “I’m off to deliver a package for Father. Coming?”

  “I am sure Kitty has much to do at home,” said Kathryn. “She will not want to stride round the streets with you.”

  A soft voice said, “Oh, I think she will.”

  Aunt Frances! I truly believe she remembers what it was to be young, while her daughter, though only sixteen, seems ancient.

  Kathryn sniffed. “Then I will go, too.”

  But Aunt Frances said, “No, Kathryn, I need you here.”

  I handed over the linen and followed Edmund. We wandered through the streets, shivering in the sharp wind, but I would rather be out in the cold with Edmund than sewing crooked stitches by a roaring fire.

  When we had delivered the package, we ran down to the river and walked back to the Tower wharf. I never tire of the Thames, though I see it daily from my bedroom window.

  I looked up at the turrets of the White Tower. “What news of the latest prisoner?” I asked.

  “Tortured on the rack,” replied Edmund, “but he has not confessed. Yet.”

  I shuddered. Although I love the Tower of London, dark things happen there. The newest prisoner is Francis Throckmorton, accused of plotting to overthrow the Queen.

  I was about to ask more when I noticed a woman tottering from the direction of London Bridge.

  “She’s hurt,” Edmund said, as she sat down. “There’s blood on her skirt.”

  We went to help. The woman had been at a bear-baiting on the south bank, when the bear broke free. She had been hurt in the rush to escape.

  “But bear-baiting has been banned since that accident in January, when the seating collapsed,” I said.

  “’Tis still popular, so it goes on,” she said, getting up. “I thank you, young lady and gentleman. Good day. And take my advice – avoid the bear-baiting.”

  As if I had a choice! My mother has a strange concern for animals, and thinks bear-baiting cruel. And because of that accident, even the theatres are closed. I’ll never have a chance to see a play, either.

  I left Edmund at the Tower gates, but not before we had cornered Geoffrey, a Yeoman Warder, to ask about Throckmorton.

  “I can tell you nothing,” he said.

  Edmund tried our usual trick. “It matters not,” he said. “We know all about his crime – it involved two Frenchwomen, a Dutch spy and a spotted dog, did it not?”

  Geoffrey couldn’t resist correcting him. “No, young Edmund – he was caught writing to the Queen of Scots about a plot.”

  “A plot?”

  “He planned for those Frenchies to invade our country, to free her. Once she was on the throne instead of our beloved queen, the whole country would become Catholic again. But don’t worry – tomorrow he’ll be back on the rack, and he’ll talk, by God he will!”

  I am sure Geoffrey is right. A few minutes being stretched on the rack is said to cause great agony.

  21st November 1583

  I have never seen Mary Stuart, the Queen of Scots, and am never likely to, but I feel sorry for her and fear her, at the same time. She has had a strange life – Queen of the Scots at six days old, crowned at nine months. Sent to France at five, and didn’t the French love her! She married the heir to the French throne at fifteen and, by age sixteen, she was their queen, too. Her husband died two years later, and she returned to Scotland a young widow. But in the meantime, the country had become Protestant. After a rebellion, she fled from Scotland seeking Queen Elizabeth’s protection from her own people.

  While Mother and I got out warmer clothes – for it grows colder daily – I asked why Mary Stuart is imprisoned.

  “She is a staunch Catholic,” explained Mother. “Many people would like to see England return to that faith. They wish for Mary Stuart to be on the throne instead of good Queen Elizabeth. It is sensible to keep her out of sight and out of reach.”

  So Mary Stuart has been imprisoned in one great house after another ever since. A prisoner in England for fifteen years because she is a Catholic.

  My old tutor told me about this. (I was taught until my twelfth birthday last May, as Mother insisted that I should be educated in reading, writing, some Latin – not much, I fear – and history.) Once, the whole of England was Catholic. Then the Pope in Rome wouldn’t allow Henry VIII to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and marry Queen Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn. Henry was mad about Anne, so he broke away from the Catholic church and became head of the church of England. After his death, dreadful things happened in the name of God. His other daughter, Mary Tudor, remained Catholic, and when she became queen she actually burned those members of the English church, the Protestants, who refused to worship as Catholics.

  Our queen has always said that as long as Catholics attend church every Sunday, and do not attempt to hear the Mass privately, no harm will come to them. Of course, they must not try to turn the rest of us Catholic, either.

  “The Queen fears those Catholics who seek to put Mary Stuart on the English throne,” said Mother, banging dust from my old green woollen cloak. “They would have help from Catholic countries abroad. Kitty, cut this up and make it into a cloak and kirtle for Beeba.”

  Oh, lovely. More sewing. Ugh! I threw Mother’s fox-lined cape around my shoulders and moved from side to side, watching the heavy fabric swing. Pawpaw disappeared beneath its folds. “Being in prison for years is no way for a queen to live,” I said.

  Mother took a deep breath. I glanced at her in the looking glass. Her expression was cold. “While Mary lives,” she said, “the Queen must constantly fear assassination. That, Kitty, is no way to live.”

  I kept quiet. Though I am all but grown
up, Mother is not above boxing my ears. Mary Stuart is not worth a ringing head.

  24th November 1583

  It is as Geoffrey said. Francis Throckmorton has confessed. Edmund came today, with Kathryn trailing him like a pale shadow, and said the rack did its job well. They had barely fastened Throckmorton down when he began to talk. The thought of such agony was too much for him.

  There will be more prisoners in the Tower soon, for Throckmorton has named those who helped him. One is Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in London. I hope the Queen never trusted him.

  “So the French and the Spanish would have invaded?” I asked.

  Edmund nodded. “There would have been a huge force from both countries.”

  “A truly frightening thought,” I said. “Imagine waking up to French ships on the Thames and streets full of bloodthirsty Spaniards!”

  Kathryn squealed. “Kitty! A lady should not speak so.”

  But Mother clearly thought like me. “We must thank God for the clever men who discover such plots,” she said. “They have truly saved England by capturing Throckmorton.”

  4th December 1583

  Oh, I yearn for spring! Today was long, grey and dull, and all I had to occupy me was a dancing lesson, which I dislike. But everything brightened when Joseph came home, bringing an old friend.

  “Look who I met!” he cried. “Sir Anthony was a student when I began my studies.”

  The tall, handsome young man smiled. “I fear I was a failure at law!”

  Joseph laughed. “Not through lack of wits, Anthony! You never bothered to attend. You were too busy dining, drinking and gambling! And you still are.”

  As Mother rustled into the room, Sal, our housekeeper, brought wine to the fireside.

  “Let me introduce you,” said Joseph. “Madam, may I present Sir Anthony Babington. Anthony, my mother, Lady Matilda Lumsden.”

  Sir Anthony bowed, and said how delighted he was to have the pleasure and all that. Once Mother was seated, Joseph introduced me as “my beautiful sister, Kitty”. Blockhead! But I admit I liked it when Sir Anthony kissed my hand and said, “You are right, Joseph – your sister is a pretty Kitty!”

  Mother coughed, and talk became more general. Within five minutes, she had wormed out all the details of Sir Anthony’s past life. How does she do it? People tell her everything. She says listening is the art of conversation. I think speaking is. How can you have conversation without words?