Assassin

by Lady Grace Cavendish

  I took my flower water out of Lord Robert’s hand because he was scowling at Sir Gerald, and turning pink at being called a boy. I was very glad I hadn’t chosen the dagger now; who wants to be married to a bully?

  Then the crowd parted, and there stood the Queen. Those who knew Her Majesty well could see that, inside, she was furious. “If you need wine to drown your sorrows, Sir Gerald, I am sure that the winner of Lady Grace’s heart will be magnanimous enough to offer his own,” she said lightly.

  Lord Robert went a darker red and his fingers clenched on the goblet in his hand.

  Lord Worthy hurried forward and took Sir Gerald’s arm. “No need, no need,” he said comfortably. “Come, nephew, I think you’ve had enough already.”

  “If Sir Gerald is in need of wine, then wine he must have,” declared the Queen, in the tone that nobody likes to hear. “Perhaps you won’t accept it from your victor, Sir Gerald …,” she added, as she glided across the floor and held out her hand for Lord Robert’s cup.

  I stood on Lord Robert’s toe and he bowed jerkily and handed his goblet to the Queen.

  “But surely you will accept it from me,” she finished.

  As she glided back I realized Her Majesty was being very clever, smoothing over the quarrel, perhaps preventing a duel. She handed Lord Robert’s cup of wine to Sir Gerald and of course he had to bow to her and then he really did have to drink it.

  “From so fair and merciful a hand, what can I do but accept?” he asked, and drank it all down in one go. Then he made to bow again, lost his balance, and fell flat on his nose!

  I laughed and the Queen laughed, and so did everybody else, especially Lord Robert. Only Lord Worthy was still upset. He rushed over, pulled Sir Gerald to his feet, and hissed something in his ear.

  Sir Gerald bowed again, this time less unsteadily. “Your Majesty, by your leave, I think I had best get to bed,” he mumbled.

  “Yes,” said the Queen pointedly. “I think that would be wise, Sir Gerald. The oblivion of the wine cup is no real cure for a broken heart, but at least there can be the oblivion of sleep, and all shall be forgotten in the morning.”

  I thought she was being very nice to him; she is normally much sharper with anyone who drinks enough to fall over. Though I was very surprised that Sir Gerald was upset enough at my rejecting him to get so drunk.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.

  Lord Worthy went with him to the door, but the Queen summoned him back. “Come, my old friend, my Lord Worthy,” she called. “As long as my lord the Earl of Leicester is away, I need a partner. Come dance with me.”

  He could hardly refuse, but he didn’t look very happy about it as he took the Queen’s hand, bowed, kissed it, and then led off with her in the French Farandol.

  After all that, I was feeling so hot in my rose-velvet gown that I decided if I didn’t cool off, I’d melt. So I slipped my pattens on and went out of the Banqueting House into the Privy Garden, where it was quite cool and dank. I passed several bushes rather full of people, two by two, and one with a young gentleman flat on his back singing to the stars. I walked quickly on past the maze, to the part that gives onto the kitchens and the buttery.

  Ellie was there with someone I recognized as Pip, Sir Gerald’s manservant, who was flapping his hands about.

  “I only wanted to brush it out,” he was saying. “Just shake it and brush it and perhaps dust it with rose-leaf powder before hanging it, so it would be fit for the Court another day. But he was in a rage, you know, quite beside himself….”

  Ellie tutted and popped into one of the store sheds to emerge with a bucket. “Where did you say he was sick?”

  “On the edge of the mat,” Pip told her. “I’m sorry, I would do it myself, but…”

  “Not to worry.” Ellie made a wry face. “I’m used to it after feasts.”

  She caught sight of me and grinned, rolling her eyes. Her sleeves were rolled up and she had her apron on.

  “… so I’m sure the canions will be crumpled and his ruff bent. And when he wakes up tomorrow and finds I haven’t undressed him, I’ll be the one to get the blame, you know. It’ll all be my fault and I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t kick me out then and there and…”

  Poor Pip was wringing his hands. I’m more pleased than ever that I turned down Sir Gerald’s pretty knife—you can tell a lot from the way someone treats their servants and it’s not a good sign that Pip is so scared of Sir Gerald.

  “He’s in one of my Lord Worthy’s chambers, isn’t he?” asked Ellie. “Why don’t I knock on the door, go in, and do the floor, and if that doesn’t wake him, you’ll know it’s safe enough to go in yourself and put everything away before you go to bed?”

  Pip looked pathetically grateful. “Would you do that? Be careful, he can be violent when he’s drunk and angry,” he warned.

  “Oh, fie!” sniffed Ellie. “If I can’t dodge a kick when the kicker’s blind drunk, I deserve a bruise on my bum. Don’t you worry, Pip, I’ll see to it.” She gave me a wink and hurried past to the Grace-and-Favour Chambers, lugging the bucket of lye and a floorcloth.

  I turned and went back to the Banqueting House, where the light from the banks of candles was shining out through the painted canvas, throwing silhouettes of Venus and Adonis onto the grass. So I stood and looked for a while, although I was getting chilly.

  Somebody came near and turned to bow to me, then took my hand. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Robert,” came the reply.

  I smiled and relaxed and let him hold my hand. In the darkness I could only see the shape of him.

  “When may I k-kiss your lips, my Lady Grace?”

  Another long speech! Perhaps it was easier for him to talk when no one could see.

  “When we’re properly handfasted next month,” I said primly.

  He kissed my hand instead and I let him. It was very romantic and proper. “A long t-time away. W-will you d-dance again, Lady Grace?”

  “With you, my lord?” I said. “Of course.”

  I let him lead me back to the dancing and we joined the line for another Farandol, which I thought was quite brave of Lord Robert, considering how often I had trod on his toes during the Volta.

  We danced several more dances together. Sir Charles came up, still looking miserable, and offered to shake Lord Robert’s hand, which I thought was quite good of him. He stared at me all the time, though, which worried me. Then I saw Pip, Sir Gerald’s man, come back into the hall and speak to Lord Worthy—who was holding the Queen’s fan for her while she watched Sir Christopher Hatton, one of the Queen’s favourites, demonstrate a new measure in the Volta. Lord Worthy spoke sharply to him, glancing over at Lord Robert and me once or twice. From the hand gestures, it looked as if Pip was explaining how Sir Gerald had been sick and gone to bed, and Lord Worthy looked a little less worried then.

  At last the Queen decided that she had danced enough—and so, naturally, had all her Maids of Honour and Ladies-in-Waiting. We formed up in a line, a little less neat-looking than it had been on our arrival, and processed out, while the musicians played and the men started gathering together and talking about taking a boat down to Paris Garden.

  When I went to help the Queen undress she waved me away. “No, my dear, take Fran to your chamber and get yourself to bed. You must be exhausted.”

  I suddenly noticed how sore my feet were and how my legs ached and how my stomach felt strange from being squashed together by my tight new stays, so I kneeled and kissed her hand.

  “Was this St. Valentine’s Feast to your liking, my dear?” She smiled at me.

  “Oh yes, Your Majesty. I’ve had a wonderful time,” I told her. And it was true—once I’d got the business of the gifts out of the way.

  As I took my leave, the Queen added, “Grace, you will find something waiting on your pillow, my dear.”

  I curtsied again, wondering what it was, and made my way with Fran to my chamber.

  Fran unlaced and unhooked
me very quickly, and the rose-velvet kirtle and bodice came off. Then the petticoat and farthingale and bumroll and the other petticoat, and then, at last, Fran unlaced the stays and I said, “Oooff!”

  It’s pleasing to wear stays and know how small your waist is, but it’s even better to take them off and let everything sag. And then, of course, your innards start working again, so you really need to be alone, and Fran knew it, so she smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  “You were beautiful this evening, Lady Grace. You outshone them all,” she said.

  Now I know it isn’t true because no one with mousy hair can outshine Sarah Copper-locks Bartelmy, but it was nice of her to say it, so I kissed her back.

  She went out, carrying my kirtle and French stays for brushing and hanging up in a closet.

  I took off the pearl necklace my Lord Robert had given me and placed it beside my bed, then changed into my ordinary smock that I wear to bed and used the close-stool.

  Fran had poured out some fresh rose-water so I could wash my face and I used my new toothcloth for my teeth and fennel-water to rinse out the almond-and-salt paste.

  So here I am. There is a fire in the grate and it’s not cold, so I have put my dressing gown on to sit in my favourite corner and write everything down.

  Perhaps as I am writing all this in my daybooke, my mother will peek down from heaven and read it, too, so it’s as if I am writing to her. I know she would have enjoyed me dancing at the feast. I wonder what she would have thought of my suitors? I think she would have approved of my choice. I know she wouldn’t have liked Sir Gerald and I’m sure she would have understood about Sir Charles being too old.

  I am finding it hard to keep my eyes open now. I must retire to bed.

  I had intended to sleep, but now cannot. I am all unsettled and must write this down, too.

  When I pulled back the bedcovers I saw a small package on the pillow. At first I wondered which gentleman had placed it there, but then I remembered the Queen’s words as I left her chamber. I picked it up and held it to the candle—then had to put it down again quickly as I recognized the writing on the front. It was my mother’s writing, dated 14 February 1568, the night she died.

  Sometimes I wish that when it happened, on that night a year ago, instead of being where I really was, tucked up fast asleep in a truckle bed in my mother’s chamber, I was an angel. Then, God willing, I could have saved her.

  I shall tell the story properly, as if I were a storyteller at the fair. Then perhaps I’ll get through it. I’ve heard that making a tale of a terrible matter may tame it, so the memory no longer rises up and fights away sleep.

  My mother, Lady Margaret Cavendish, was a Gentlewoman of the Bedchamber and one of the Queen’s closest friends. On 13 February 1568, after kissing me goodnight, she was sitting down to a quiet supper with the Queen, when a man came from Mr. Secretary Cecil to say there was an urgent dispatch from Scotland. The Queen told me she kissed my mother, said she would be back in ten minutes, and suggested my mother try a little wine to help her megrim headache. Then she went to hear the news from Scotland.

  And my mother poured herself some wine and drank it….

  When I think about it, this is where I imagine being an angel. I fly into the room just as my mother takes up her goblet and I shout, “My lady, do not drink the wine!” And as I would have been a very impressive sight, what with the wings and halo and all, my mother drops the goblet on the rush matting, and then one of the Queen’s canary birds—the vicious one that pecks your hair—flies down and drinks it and falls over and dies and so she knows that the wine is poisoned. And then the Queen comes back and they call the guards and test the wine and the doctor finds it contains a deadly poison called darkwort. Then everyone bolts the doors and quarters the Court and so they catch the evil Frenchman sent by the Guises to kill the Queen….

  But that’s not what happened. My mother drank the Queen’s wine and took terribly sick.

  The first I knew was when Mrs. Champernowne came and woke me up and wrapped her own furry dressing gown round me. I was too sleepy to walk straight, so she gave me a piggyback—I can hardly believe she did it, when she’s so sharp and cross, but she did. And then she brought me into the Queen’s own bedchamber.

  I could see the Queen was putting pen and ink away and she had tear tracks all down her cheeks. There was incense burning in a little dish, but you could still smell a nasty, dusty, bitter scent in the air. Mrs. Champernowne was crying, too, and I started as well, though I was still too sleepy to know why. Then I looked at the Queen’s bed, and saw my mother lying there with her stays open. She had been bled, for her arm was bandaged. And I woke up properly.

  My mother’s eyes were shut, and her face looked like candle wax. There was a kind of yellow froth at the corners of her mouth.

  I rushed to her. “Is it plague?” I whispered.

  “No, Grace,” the Queen replied gravely. “If only it were, for she might recover. I think she has taken poison meant for me. The doctor has gone to look at the vomitus.”

  The door opened and my uncle, Dr. Cavendish, hurried in, wrapped in a fur-lined gown. He came to the other side of the Queen’s bed, took my mother’s pulses again, felt her brow, and opened her mouth and eyes.

  I concentrated on holding her limp hand. I knew she was going to die and leave me. Did you know that when your heart breaks, it really feels like that? I thought I had a big crack all down the middle of my chest, it hurt so much.

  Uncle Cavendish shook his head at last. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said heavily. “It is poison. From the yellow staining on the mat in the Withdrawing Chamber where she dropped the goblet, I am afraid it is darkwort.” His face was quite grey because he had always liked my mother a lot.

  “I have a piece of unicorn’s horn in my cabinet,” said the Queen, “and a bezoar stone.”

  “ Alas, Your Majesty, not even they will help against essence of darkwort. It will not be long now…”

  “I have called the Chaplain,” the Queen told him.

  They were speaking quietly but I heard them. I cried and put my arms round my mother as if I could hold her back. “Don’t go,” I whispered. “Stay with me, Mama. Please, stay…”

  But she was too deep asleep to hear me.

  I felt Uncle Cavendish standing behind me. “She has no pain,” he said to me. “She can’t feel anything now.”

  He might be a doctor, but I know that when I took my mother’s hand to kiss it, I know I felt her grip my fingers to say goodbye. Then I kissed her face.

  The Queen came and kneeled next to me and wrapped her arms round me and didn’t mind when all my tears made her velvet bodice damp. She rocked me a little, silently, and I felt her crying, too.

  My mother died at a little past midnight, St. Valentine’s Day, 14 February 1568, the worst day of my whole life. I was only a babe when my father died serving the Queen in France, so I didn’t really know about it. But my mother dying … I can’t describe how terrible it was because I don’t know enough long words, and anyway, I’m not a poet. It made a huge hole in the world.

  Everyone has been kind to me over this last year, especially the Queen. She comforted me whenever I was really sad and promised me she would never send me away to be brought up by a stranger. Lord Worthy volunteered to be my guardian and administer my estates until I could marry and have a husband to do it for me. My Uncle Cavendish couldn’t do it because he was ill, or so they told me. I think he is just drunk most of the time. He was always very fond of my mother and I don’t think he has ever recovered from not being able to help her.

  Oh yes, they found the poisoner. He was working for the dastardly Guises, who are always plotting the Queen’s downfall. He tried to escape from the Queen’s pursuivants and they killed him in the fight. The Queen was furious, though I don’t think an execution would have made me feel any better.

  By drinking Her Majesty’s wine with the poison in it, my mother saved the Queen’s life—and England fr
om a terrible civil war like they have in France. That’s why she is buried in Whitehall Chapel.

  And now I shall take the courage to open the package.

  Alas, I have made a blot in my daybooke—I’m afraid the package made me cry. As I opened it, a small leather purse fell onto the pillows. I left it there while I read my mother’s letter. Half of it is in my mother’s writing, with the letters getting bigger and more wobbly. Then it changes to the Queen’s handwriting, which is sweeping and beautiful. There are two blots from tears at the end. That must be why Her Majesty was putting pen and ink away when Mrs. Champernowne brought me in that night. I will keep the letter here always, tucked in my daybooke.

  My darling Grace,

  I am dying. My heart breaks that I shall not see you grow to womanhood, nor find you a fine man to take care of you and your estates.

  As you approach thirteen years, you must be found a husband soon. The Court, for all the Queen’s kindness, is no place for a young maid. Her Majesty agrees and will take on the role of finding you a suitable match, so you may be handfasted and marry at sixteen.

  Rest assured that the Queen will do all that I would have done for you. You shall now have my pearl ring that came from your father, and all my gowns and horses. At your betrothal my pearl earrings shall come to you.

  You are the best of daughters, my love, and I had rather anything than leave you so soon, but none of us may gainsay God’s call. I pray that you will be happy and virtuous and always as beloved as you are of me.

  Farewell, my heart’s delight, and at Judgement Day be sure we shall meet again.

  Until then my love is with you always.

  Your mother,

  Margaret, Lady Cavendish

  I opened the leather purse. Inside were the earrings. They are beautiful pearl ones, with a setting of garnets and diamonds, like a pair the Queen often wears, only not so big.

  Taking my candle, I went and looked in Lady Sarah’s glass and put the hooks in my ears. As I stared at myself, and watched the garnets and diamonds glistening in the candlelight, I was reminded of my mother wearing them, and laughing.