by V L Perry
I couldn’t bring myself back into the chamber just yet. Sometimes too many lights or colors made me fall into one of the fits I dreaded. Wine had the same effect. “I don’t care for dancing,” I said. Holbein muttered something low in German and bowed to me before moving off.
“Are you a somber Lutheran, then, that you do not dance?” he asked.
“Luther has said that anyone who does not regard music as a marvelous creation of God does not deserve to be called a human being, and should be permitted to hear nothing but the braying of asses and the grunting of hogs,” I replied.
He laughed. “So you know of his work! I thought here in England this was forbidden. But Luther approves only of the heavenly dance, not one of the flesh. Perhaps we should be like Turks; their religion forbids dance and strong drink. Even paintings of birds and vines are forbidden by the most pious of them as graven images.”
He must have seen me shudder, for he stopped abruptly. “You look pale, lady. And yet you do not cross yourself?”
“I fear the Turk, Master Kratzer, as any woman might.”
“Do you fear them as foreigners, or as Infidels? They are mere mortals, as we are; they even have superior knowledge of metalworking, navigation, mathematics, instrument-making and the healing arts. Did you know even the king keeps a Moor, bin Rahmat, as one of his physicians?”
His tone was meant to be reassuring, but I was not one of his pupils. Damn the man; when would he go back in? “You need not lecture me, Master Kratzer. I know full well what the Infidels are, what they are capable of. And I have heard enough about Luther in the Austrian court to last me a lifetime.” He would have known anyway, from the gown.
“You were there a long time?”
“For six years,” I said. “Until the Siege.”
“Ah,” he said softly. “Then you speak hochdeutsch?” The word brushed my ear like a raven’s wing, soft and dark; it loosened something I’d tried to keep locked within me. The smell of gunpowder, the pounding scream of horses and rumble of carts fleeing a burning city.
I drew a deep breath, kept my voice steady. “A little,” I answered in German. “I had a friend who helped teach me.”
He seemed to sense I did not wish to speak of it. “The world is changing,” he sighed. “There are signs all around, on the earth and in the heavens. Did you note the red moon two months ago? Some say it warns of coming war, or God’s wrath at mankind’s heresy; such a thing always portends disaster.”
I went back inside.
The dance had shifted to a lively cinq pas, with the Lady and her brother in the center of the company. Tom Seymour was paired with Mary Howard, who simpered foolishly. Or cleverly, perhaps; it was hard to tell. To my astonishment, Jane swept about the floor with her servant-lad, throwing back her head and laughing as he lifted her in a lavolta. The candlelight caught the pearls on her hood, and for a moment she was faerie-like.
Without permission, I crept up the cold stairs to the maids’ chamber. Undressing myself was a bit easier than dressing; undoing is always easier. I loosened my hair with stiff fingers, changed to my linen bedgown and lay down, shivering under the coverlet.
In the first azure streaks of predawn, I woke to Jane settling in beside me. “Shove over,” she said.
The party had just broken up, for the last of maids were rustling about and whispering—though Mary Howard was not among them. To dull the knife-edge of that thought, I asked her: “Who was the young fellow, the servant? Do you know him?”
For a moment she did not answer. I thought she might be feigning sleep, but then she said, “One of Cromwell’s household. Someone to dance with, is all. Better than sitting alone.”
I pondered that answer, the way he had looked at me when I tried to take her from his side. “Did you know him before?” I asked, but her breathing had already settled into the deep rhythm of sleep—or seemed to. There would be no point in pressing her further, anyway.
OCTOBER 1537
The Queen’s time has come.
Her labor began three nights ago, and she shows no sign of bringing forth. There are already rumors: that she cannot come through this alive, that she begs them to take her life to spare the babe’s. Such nonsense is proof of how little they know her.
If it’s a girl, the naming will be a problem. It helps at such times to think of small problems. Many names now carry unpleasant reminders; there are uncountable Katherines about the country and the court, many of them grown up now and naming babes of their own. Not so many Annes, though. Frances Brandon, the kings’ niece, has just had a daughter called Jane. A plain name for a plain milk-and-water babe, destined to call no attention to the child it is bestowed upon. I wonder how many Janes the coming years will see.
Meg would have named a girl-baby Anne, and to hell with flattering the new queen. Meg was with her friend and queen until the end, sharing the dark days of prison, walking out with her to Tower Green that May morning. And she had sense enough to leave court after her purpose for being here was gone. Now Meg is seven months dead, buried in haste after giving birth to a boy who scarcely lived long enough to be christened Cromwell. Loyalty has no reward in this world. Needless to say, her husband chose the name.
There is an epidemic of pregnancy in the royal circle; two births in the last week have gone well, which is a good omen. Right now Anne Stanhope, Countess of Hertford, screams her heart out from elsewhere in Hampton Court Palace. Lady Rochford works spells to cast the queen’s childbirth pains upon Edward Seymour’s wife instead. If that lady cries like one damned, it must be terrible indeed. From here it sounds like the faint buzzing of an insect; our pain is always small to others.
In the midst of all the bustle and mess of childbirth, it is possible to make a tiny cut which will let out the mother’s lifeblood onto the sheets. Sometimes midwives do it, rather than let a woman die raving after days of pain, but only when there’s no hope of saving her. I have heard of such things but could never do them.
Cromwell says the entire realm, Catholic and Protestant, is at last united in welcoming this child. If that were true, I wonder if there would be this constant watch over her. Even the blankets and warming-pans are searched for weapons, poison. The guard at the door was most rude when I told him I came of my own accord, and insisted he needed orders from the king to admit me. Her sister Elizabeth came to see what the fuss was about, and overruled him; he had to relent, though he still grumbled, unaccustomed to the rules of this female world. Here the Head Lady of the Privy Chamber has authority over a yeoman guard, whether he likes it or not.
Our attentions never slack, not even in the still dark hours between Vigils and Matins, when even the monks are asleep. She has not enough strength to thrash, but turns and moans in her sleep, her face pallid and sweaty as a warm cheese. Yet her hand is cool, and oddly dry. There are flea bites on her arms. Her chest hitches and falls unevenly; her normally-small breasts are swollen and heavy, the blue veins standing out like ink on linen. Elizabeth’s own pregnancy is halfway advanced, and the sight before her cannot be encouraging. She sits at the other side of her sister’s bed, rubbing her forehead in exhaustion.
I imagine that women form friendships much as soldiers do--one moment sharing a common bond, laughing or eating or sewing, the next watching each other bleed and die. Of course, they also compete for the same spoils.
The windows are nailed shut, the curtains drawn against the dangerous air. It smells like a byre in here; the dried rose petals and incense do not cover up the other smells as they should.
Still holding her hand, I lean toward her ear. The doctors say that those who lie in the twilight of unconsciousness can still hear and remember.
“Jane,” I whisper—the name I’m not allowed to use anymore. She may hear it and remember herself, like magic word that breaks a spell. What can I say to her? I rack my brain for a story about a queen, one with a happy ending. There aren’t many.
Here is the only one I can think to tell her:
&
nbsp; Once there was a princess who was very beautiful. She had a kind heart, read philosophy and poetry, and was very clever and wise. Not exactly like you, and not exactly like me; rather like the best of both of us combined into one. She was the vizier’s daughter, and lived in the sultan’s palace.
Years before, the sultan had discovered his wife’s betrayal, and had her executed. Each evening since then, the sultan had married a different virgin; when the sun rose the next day, he sent her to be beheaded and chose a new virgin to be his bride that night. But don’t be afraid; such things happen only in heathen tales.
This went on for three thousand nights, and the kingdom began to be depleted of women. The vizier’s daughter offered herself to the sultan, though her father and brothers pleaded and protested against it. It was like her to do such a thing, risk her own life thinking she could change him. Though maybe this was not what happened, and the story has changed so many times that the truth has become lost.
At any rate, when she was brought before the sultan, she begged one last favor: to see her beloved sister one last time, and to tell her a story. This, of course, was part of her clever plan—for the story lasted until dawn, and so captivated the sultan that he could not send her to her death, but commanded her to continue the story the following night.
For a thousand and one nights, she told stories, each more exciting and wonderful than the last, until the vizier’s daughter had given the sultan three sons—yes, she had sons, and they were beautiful and strong, and she bore them with no pain. But they were not her salvation; it was the stories that saved her life. After hearing so many tales of nobility and justice, the sultan saw the error of his ways and became the wisest, most morally upright man in the land. He married the vizier’s daughter and made her his queen, and side by side they ruled long and well. It’s true, Jane. The tales themselves are real, or at least people tell them as if they are.
But they did not tell how the vizier’s daughter thought up the stories, or what her life was like during those thousand and one nights, or the long days that accompanied them--whether she was kept in prison or in a perfumed and cushioned harem, whether he still demanded his stories on the nights she lay groaning in childbed. Maybe she’d not slept at all the first few days, searching her mind for stories that were worth her life. Perhaps when she finally collapsed and slept, she’d discovered the secret: whatever danced through her mind during the hot mornings and hazy afternoons, she wove into words at night, and wrapped them round herself for protection. So, in that sense, you could say that her dreams came true in the end.
Just as yours will, Jane. Sleep, and dream of the little son you will hold in your arms. Dream of the kind husband who heeds the advice of his gentle queen, and of the loyal sister who stands by you through danger. May you stay safe in your dreams, and may you live happily ever after there, at least.
1532
Christmas came and went, and the Lady spent it at Hever with her family. The rest of her household, those of us who did not have nearby husbands and families to return to, passed it quietly enough at Greenwich. There were card games and lute-playing and carols, though nothing like the elaborate masques of past years, Jane said.
On Christmas Day I saw the king as he sat at the table on the dais in the great hall, so far away that he appeared only a spot of green and gold, his red hair and beard completing the Yule colors. The closest I got to him was when each of us curtseyed to him in turn as we left the hall. Even such brief encounters were as exhilarating as a summer storm, leaving you shaken and reliving them again and again in privacy.
“She doesn’t want us close to him,” Jane said later. “And she always finds ways to group us together, away from him, whenever he visits her. How many chances have you ever had to address him directly? No, and you won’t; she’ll see to that.”
Ridiculous, of course; this was the woman he had chosen over Queen Katharine and for whom he’d risked the Emperor’s wrath, the Pope’s displeasure, war with Spain. She was bold and brilliant, and had the king’s undying love; what had she to fear from us? But once Jane pointed it out, I couldn’t help noticing that she did keep us apart at our own table whenever he came for dicing or poetry. She did not invite the maids along on the royal hunts. And most of the women she chose to serve them at their private suppers, or attend her at the high table, were either old or firmly, absolutely, irrevocably married.
Once the household had settled back into its normal routine, the Lady summoned me to her closet at Greenwich.
Some strange things had passed since the New Year: the queen of hearts had gone missing from one of the card decks, and Meg had found it later nailed to the underside of a chair. Jane told me that, not long before I arrived, Mistress Gainsford had found a drawing stuck into one of the books in the Lady’s closet: a richly-gowned woman with her head off, the initials AB encircling her jetting neck-stump. The Lady had brushed these off as jests. But since then, she preferred to keep us all together as much as possible; private summonses were rare.
I found her seated alone at her inlaid writing table. On it sat the exquisitely worked silver letter-casket she loved so much; she made sure it transferred to every new residence with her, and was always displayed. Its chased design threw your reflection back at you in a thousand tiny, distorted pieces.
She looked up when I curtseyed, came straight to the point: “I hear the astronomer paid you much attention at the Advent banquet.”
Was I to be dismissed so soon? My uncle would despair. My mother would be grimly righteous. But why now? I tried to think of what anyone could have told her. I could hardly kneel to beg her forgiveness without knowing what I stood accused of, though that was not what kept me from doing it.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” I finally said. “I swear to you that nothing improper ever passed between us.” There was nothing else to say. I stood waiting to hear the words that would ruin my future. I would not weep and plead like Eliza Browne, for I did not deserve her treatment.
“I’m sure it did not,” she said pleasantly. “Only discussion, I expect. Pray, what did you discuss?”
I had to think; it was weeks ago. “The stars, my lady.” Not a lie; he’d mentioned something about the stars, and the moon. Hadn’t he? And it struck me for the first time that it had been cloudy that night.
“Yes, Kratzer has a schoolmasterish streak in him. Do you think he will discuss the stars with you again, sometime soon?”
I must have looked as foolish as I felt, for she said reassuringly, “I wanted to ask your help with something.” She went to a shelf on which a stack of books lay; her long fingers touched one lightly but she did not pick it up. It was meant to be a casual gesture, to put us both at ease. See, we are but two women talking along, away from prying eyes. Instead I felt my chest tightening.
She withdrew from between two volumes a piece of parchment. “I am writing to Her Highness Marguerite of Navarre just now, and I wish to include passages of this letter from the French ambassador. Just copy out this part while I read it out, won’t you?”
There was a silence. Through the ice-glazed windows came the distant shouts from the king’s party, out hawking.
“My lady--” I faltered. “I cannot.”
“You signed your oath; I have it here.”
For a moment I thought she was scolding me, but then I understood. “I can read, my name, my lady, and I can write my name. But I have no schooling in writing.” In Austria the Archduchess had sent scribes once a month to take down the letters we dictated to our families. Mistresses such as Marguerite de Navarre, who had insisted that her young maids write their own letters in halting French, were rare indeed.
She considered this, then smiled. “Well. We will have to do something about that, won’t we?” She paced back and forth across the chamber, the brilliant snowlight from the window playing on her grey satin bodice. The letter-casket captured her tiny pacing form. “Kratzer gives private lessons to pupils in his quarters. I can arrange for hi
m to tutor you in writing. Perhaps other subjects, if you show inclination. Well?” she asked, seeing me look troubled.
“Forgive me, madam,” I said. “But I have no means for lessons.” I hated to speak of money, hated to lay my situation so nakedly before her, but the truth was there. And what of my duties here? My uncle had wanted me at court for a reason, and it was not to keep company with elderly German craftsmen.
“He will do it if I ask it of him. I helped bring his painter friend here, and he will not forget that. Besides,” she looked archly at me, “I am sure he will not object.”
She had known the truth, then, or guessed it. But everything must needs be a little game. Why single me out? Was this a privilege she accorded to some of her ladies she thought worthy? She often brought artists and poets to court, and paid for the education of her wards; perhaps she wanted a circle of well-educated ladies, as Marguerite of Navarre had. She must want something in return.
I looked at the stack of books, the letters lying like jewels on her writing-desk, and I knew what I wanted. And so I heard myself agree.
Soon she would appoint a day and time for my first visit, and let me know by way of a signal. “You need not mention it to the others. They’ll talk as they please anyway, so what matter?” And of course, she would want reports of my progress from time to time.
“Try to look a bit chastened just now, as if you’ve been scolded,” she added before dismissing me. “And as to your duties…” here she gave a light laugh. “I excuse you on those days.”
So it was that, one dark February afternoon a few weeks later, I set off to the lodgings of the lesser courtiers on the second floor, clenching in one hand the folded piece of parchment the Lady had given me. I hoped it was sanded well enough that my sweat wouldn’t ruin it. She had not sealed it. The markings on it were strange to me anyway: shapes and symbols in her boxy, elegant handwriting. A cipher.