Brandy Purdy

by The Queen's Rivals

  “It’s my body, Mary, and if I was with child, I think I would know it! Surely I, a twice-married woman of twenty, know more about these matters than you—a virgin of sixteen—do!”

  Lady Jane Seymour was too busy dying to intervene. I was tempted to go and try to talk to her, in the hope that she could accomplish what I could not, but I hadn’t the heart to trouble a soul I knew to be in the act of departing. On her deathbed, she clasped both Kate and Ned by the hand and told them to “be kind to each other and never forget how much you love each other.” They each solemnly bowed their heads, kissed her fever-hot hands, and promised faithfully so the young woman who had brought them together and engineered their marriage could die in peace, believing that she had in her brief life, like a guardian angel or a good fairy, done the two people she loved most a great service and ensured their lifelong happiness.

  So Ned sailed away with Thomas Cecil in May, still grieving for his sister, leaving Kate alone, carrying a child she still denied, to fend for herself at the Virgin Queen’s court, while he enjoyed a lush, lusty spring in luxurious, lascivious Paris and spent a wild, sultry summer in sunbaked Italy. Everywhere the two of them went they drank to excess, lost vast sums at the gambling tables, hunted, danced, and whored, and spent money as if it were water. I heard Master Secretary Cecil complain that he had known men to live an entire year abroad on what the two of them spent in a single month.

  Before he left, Ned did at least one sensible thing; he gave Kate a deed in which he acknowledged her as his wife and bequeathed her lands with an income of £1,000 per annum, thus providing her with some financial security, and even more importantly, legally binding, written proof that they were married. If only Kate hadn’t promptly misplaced it! Then none could have said they were merely pretending after the fact, to try to save her honor and prevent their children from being branded bastards. The date on that deed, drawn up and signed before Ned’s departure, would have proved it was a truth, not a lie that came after Kate was found to be with child. Poor Kate, thinking only of love, not money, never realized the true import of that document, how it might have made all the difference in the world.

  In a fit of tears and foot-stamping pique, Kate stopped letting me make her dresses, saying she could not abide my comments about her widening waist and “milk-swollen teats” and sought the services of another dressmaker instead, crying out before she slammed the door that she would not let me so much as sew up a hem for her if her life depended on it. But soon she was back, crying in my arms, now that Jane Seymour was gone, and there was no one else she could turn to. She had heard that Ned had sent baubles—some pretty enameled bracelets—to some other ladies of the court, but nothing for her. Though Ned would later claim that he had sent the bracelets to Kat Ashley, the Queen’s childhood governess and now the Mother of the Maids, charged with overseeing the welfare of all the unmarried girls who lived and served at court. He had done this, Ned said, so that Her Majesty might have first choice, then Mistress Ashley was to bring the rest to Kate and, after she had made her selection, let her, his “well-beloved wife,” distribute them amongst the other ladies, but “the old gray Kat was now in her dotage and had obviously muddled it.”

  It was a neat excuse, tidy and pat, almost believable, especially knowing dear old Kat and how befuddled her mind was growing. But I didn’t believe it. Though she refused to admit it, Kate clearly had her doubts. And where were all the letters he had promised? He had vowed to write every day so it would be as though she were right there experiencing all the wonders of foreign travel right alongside him. Thomas Cecil, young, drunken rakehell that he was, obviously found time to write; the badly spelled wine-blotched letters he sent back to his rowdy companions at court were filled with amusing anecdotes of Ned dragging the drunken lad out of a fancy Parisian brothel after he had made a complete ass of himself by delivering an off-key serenade and proposal on bended knee to a probably poxy doxy, and tales of bawdy, balmy nights spent cavorting and frolicking nude with beautiful, buxom Italian peasant girls in olive groves by moonlight.

  One letter passed with great amusement around the court detailed a night when Thomas and Ned and their female companions had all spontaneously stripped off their clothes and leapt naked into a wooden vat to stomp the grapes with their bare feet, dancing upon them as the musicians played, then fell to making love, changing partners, then changing partners again. When they emerged from the vat, they were stained purple all over and had to take many baths and even resort to pumice stones and vinegar scrubs before they were clean enough to be presentable. Everyone at court had a good laugh over it, except Master Secretary Cecil and Kate, who each in their own way found these reports most distressing, only Kate must bear her pain in private.

  Again I held my sister as she wept then tried in vain to convince herself that it didn’t mean anything, Ned was a young man, after all, and young men were apt to do this sort of thing. She pointed the finger of blame at Thomas Cecil; he was clearly a bad influence and her “Poor Ned” had found it impossible to curtail him. Thomas might even have discovered the truth about their marriage and used this knowledge to blackmail Ned into doing as he willed. “My poor darling!” Kate cried, horrified by the thought of this cruel coercion, imagining her “Sweet Ned” making love to another woman in a vat of grapes to keep their secret safe.

  Privately, I was convinced she was grasping at straws, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her so. I knew Thomas Cecil; he had once traded his best horse to a peddler lurking outside a tavern for a jar of cream guaranteed to make his cock “as big and hard as a battering ram,” and another time, while visiting a London fair, he had given his fine Spanish leather boots in exchange for a recipe to turn his father’s dairy cows’ milk to wine. He had actually interrupted a Council meeting by running in barefoot brandishing the recipe, bursting with excitement to tell his father how he had just made his fortune. The idea of such a man blackmailing anyone into doing his bidding was absurd beyond words.

  Soon there came a day when Kate could deny the truth no longer. She fainted while following the hunt. Only the quick intervention of the Queen’s Master of the Horse, and some said lover, Robert Dudley, kept Kate from being trampled by the horses’ hooves. She was carried in a sweaty swoon by litter back to the palace while the Queen, who could “not abide these weak and frail, fainting females,” went on with the hunt.

  I had stayed behind to do some sewing and I heard about Kate’s fall from a pair of gossipy maids who had come in with fresh sheets to make up the Queen’s bed.

  I found Kate in her room, her crimson velvet riding habit and feathered hat cast aside, crouching, half kneeling, half lying on the floor, in her shift and red stockings, holding her belly and retching into the chamber pot. I ran to gather back her hair and found it soaking wet and reeking of sweat, and her skin was burning, oily and a-shimmer with it. I said not a word and stood patiently by until she was finished, then I gently helped her up. When she stood, I reached out and boldly laid my palm upon her belly. I felt life stir within it. Kate lowered her eyes to look at me, and I raised mine to meet hers. There was no use denying it anymore.

  “Don’t say it,” Kate pleaded, soft and tremulously. “Please, Mary, don’t say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

  “Come here.” I opened my arms to her, and with a great sob, she dropped to her knees and came to me.

  “Mary, what shall I do? I am so frightened! Ned hasn’t answered my letters, though I dare not tell him. What am I to do? The Queen will think me wanton, when she finds out . . .”

  “Then we shall have to ensure that she does not find out,” I said decisively. “We will have to withdraw from court when your time is near, and the child shall have to be farmed out with a wet nurse; none must know it is yours. Later, we can discreetly arrange its adoption by a respectable couple, nice people,” I assured Kate, seeing her stricken expression, “who truly want a baby.”

  “No!” Kate cried, leaping away from me as though I had s
uddenly grown horns and a forked tail. “No! No! No! I will not give up my baby!”

  “Would you rather give up your head?” I asked plainly.

  “Oh!” Kate sighed, sitting on the floor, leaning back upon her palms. “What a mess I have made of it all!”

  I agreed but chose not to rub salt in her wounds by saying so. Instead, I held out my hand, to help her rise, and said simply, “Come, we needn’t think of these things right now. There is much to be done, and we must get started. We must conceal the truth as long as we can.”

  I brought out Kate’s darkest dresses and set to work letting out the seams. I made Kate stand still and took her measurements, this time with neither of us commenting on the changes in her figure. I worked in silence. When I brought out the increasingly fashionable farthingale, I silently thanked God and the Spanish for this bird-cagelike undergarment, belling out around Kate’s hips and limbs; it would help us hide the truth even longer. I would buy canvas and cane, or whalebone, if it could be had, and create a new one in which the stiff circular bands, which gradually widened as they descended to the hem, grew subtly wider earlier in their descent. That coupled with the dark colors she would be wearing, and lacing her stays tight as I dared, would make Kate’s waist seem smaller above her fuller skirts. And—another stroke of luck—the Queen, being very vain of her beautiful, long-fingered white hands, greatly favored fans, great, graceful spreads of ostrich plumes, black or white, or dyed delicate or vivid hues. I instructed Kate to make a habit of holding her fan open, down low, near about her waist.

  As a special gift, I bought a length of beautiful coal black velvet, lined it with charcoal gray satin, and made Kate a long, full, flowing, sleeveless surcoat to which I then added a narrow edging of white miniver. I stitched a row of beautiful braided silk charcoal gray frogs down the front so that she might wear it open or closed as she pleased. She would later don it for the miniature Lavinia Teerlinc would paint of the young mother holding one son and expecting another that would later become one of my greatest treasures. As a peace offering, to put the past months of stormy scenes and secrecy behind us, I embroidered a new petticoat for her with a border of pomegranates, both whole and halved, replete with pearl seeds, and bunches of pretty purple violets tied with yellow ribbons to recall the colors of her wedding gown. When Kate saw it she hugged me and wept, she was so very grateful and pleased, and promised never to ever keep anything from me again.

  We had to be careful and clever and watch every step. Any slip could send us skidding straight into the arms of disaster. There were a few close calls. One night, Kate, unthinkingly, sat down at a banquet and greedily devoured an entire gilded platter heaped high with gingered carrots. She was about to raise the empty platter to her lips and lick it clean, so ravenous was she for the gingery glaze, when I caught her. Another night she danced with a young gallant she had once allowed some intimate familiarity with her person. When he sought a repetition and groped her breasts he drew back, startled, insisting that they had grown larger. I feared all was lost for us. But Kate feigned indignation. She pouted and said he had either remembered wrong or confused her with another lady, and if that were the case, she could not have meant that much to him after all. With a playful slap of her fan to his arm, coupled with a carefree smile, she danced away.

  ’Twas then I decided that Kate must give up dancing. Even though she complained and cried, I was adamant. I knew that it would not be easy, for Kate loved dancing, and she was so lively, graceful, and light of step that she was one of the court’s favorite dancing partners, and always a favorite with the Master of the Revels for prime roles in the masques. But the more vigorous dances might hurt her child or even bring on her labor prematurely—I had heard of such things happening—and in the intimacy of the dance her partner’s hands might discover her precious secret. At last, I agreed to compromise and let Kate continue to dance the more sedate, slower measures, devoid of lifts and leaps, where couples walked instead of skipped and pranced, and naught but their hands touched, lest her total abstinence from the dance be remarked. But when it came to the more lively measures, I held firm, and Kate began to suffer a series of misfortunes—badly sprained ankles, toothaches, sudden headaches, a sole come off her shoe, and I had even been known to surreptitiously bump someone from behind so that their wine or a plate of food spilled on Kate’s gown so that she must quit the Great Hall and go change.

  As though things were not complicated enough, just when we thought that part of our lives was well behind us, the duplicitous Earl of Pembroke and his whey-faced son came back, sniffing like hounds around Kate’s petticoats, bearing gifts, and voicing hopes of a reconciliation, a remarriage, now that Kate was no longer in disgrace, and many thought, if the Queen died without issue, she would become England’s next queen. All sly Pembroke wanted was the Crown for Berry, but, to our shared dismay, we might have to make use of this pair of weasels after all.

  Though Kate waited “with an anxious heart” for Ned’s return, her letters to him went unanswered. With tales of his frolics with French ladies and dalliances with buxom Italian peasant girls reaching our ears, and no word to allay Kate’s fears, how could we not wonder if he had forgotten her? What if Ned, knowing full well that they could not reveal their marriage without braving the Queen’s wrath, had decided it was not worth the trouble and just to pretend it had never happened at all? With Lady Jane dead, the deed lost, and the priest, Father Never-Known-Name, long gone, there was no one but me who could say it had happened at all. But as Kate’s sister, and naturally loyal to her, and knowing my sister shamed and facing ruin, how much validity would my words truly carry? Ned might very well choose to save himself, but Kate, though she was not the first, and would not be the last, young woman at court to find herself with her belly full but a husband lacking, would be ruined. She would be forced to leave court and any hopes of another marriage would be dashed forever; she would be branded a light skirt, all her flirtatious ways recalled, and no respectable man would ever have her.

  No, it could not be, I decided. Ned must look to himself, as I was certain he would anyway, but I must act fast to save my sister from certain ruin, even if it meant she must reunite with those who had hurt her so badly before. She could, if she would, use them to her own ends now.

  Naturally Kate balked, not wanting to forsake her “Sweet Ned,” or commit what she knew to be bigamy and adultery in her heart, but I was always more practical and pragmatic, and held firm to the only course I could see likely to have a fortuitous outcome.

  “They hurt you once, now they can save you, so use them the way they used you!” I said. “What choice do you really have? You know better than to trust Elizabeth to be merciful! You are younger and fairer, and many men smile upon and favor you, and your legitimacy is undisputed; our parents were well and truly married long before you were born. If you are found out, you are handing Elizabeth the perfect excuse to get rid of you. Here are your options, Kate: At best, she, and all the world, will see you as a wanton with a full belly and no golden band on her hand and banish you to live out your life in the country. At worst, if she discovers you are indeed married, without royal consent, and to Ned Seymour, thus uniting your Tudor blood with his Plantagenet, you are both—you my sister and your ‘Sweet Ned’—facing the Tower or even death—to be burned or beheaded at the Queen’s pleasure. Or”—I paused pointedly—“you can do as I suggest, seduce Berry, let him have his way with you, and discover you are with child and quickly, confess to the Queen and secure her permission, marry him again, and we will find a midwife who harkens to the voice of gold rather than her conscience to assist us and arrange an ‘accident’ to fool Berry and his father into thinking that your labor has come on prematurely. Men are notoriously and blissfully ignorant of women’s matters, and would rather not know the details. You can wrap Berry around your little finger and banish any doubts he might have if he has wit enough to have any, which I very much doubt.”

  Kate grasped her
head and paced before me. “I don’t know, Mary. I . . . you must give me time, I must think . . .”

  I rushed and stood straight before her, boldly blocking her path, and when she tried to turn away from me, I grabbed her skirt and made her stay and look at me. “You haven’t time, Kate! If you are going to do this, you must do it now; before you are showing too much for even a fool like Berry to be deceived. Any woman of experience, even one who has grown up accustomed to seeing her mother or older sisters and cousins breeding, could see the secret you carry if she saw you unclothed, but Berry, you can fool! A weak constitution and a timid, fastidious nature have kept him from being as active in carnal pursuits as most young men his age, and he has no mother or sisters, so I’m willing to wager that he will find you only pleasingly plump. You’re older now than when he knew you, you were only fourteen when you parted, so ’tis natural your body would have grown fuller and rounder. So what will it be, Kate—Elizabeth’s fury leading to exile and ruination; trust that Ned will do the honorable thing and come back like a knight in shining armor on a white horse and rescue you just so you can brave the Queen’s wrath together and rot in prison or die for your treasonous presumption; or marry Berry again and, as Father used to say, make marzipan out of the almonds that are given you? It’s now or never, Kate! Make your choice!”

  “Marzipan,” Kate whispered through tremulous lips. “I shall endeavor to make marzipan out of the almonds.” She nodded, and breathed deep and shakily. “Will you help me, Mary? Tell me what to do?” In that moment all traces of the worldly and sophisticated woman of twenty vanished. My sister stood before me, shaking and weeping, as scared and helpless as a little girl.

  “You know I will,” I answered.

  I bade Kate lie down and rest with a cold compress over her tear-swollen eyes while I set the scene. I sent Hetty, heedless of her grumbling, for candles, at least a dozen, all white and sweet scented, I stipulated. Their soft golden glow would be flattering and deceptive and work for us, like a faithful friend, to help hide Kate’s condition and the fact that she had been weeping. I gave orders for the fire to be lit, with apple logs to give a pleasing scent, and for the copper tub to be brought and filled with water just as hot as Kate could stand. Then I drew Kate to my desk and had her pen a note, which I dictated as I arranged and lit the candles, bidding Berry come to her “now, my beloved, for I cannot bear to spend even one more hour without you.” While Kate’s devoted Henny, with a bewildered expression, but knowing better than to presume to ask questions, went to deliver it, I found Berry’s miniature at the bottom of Kate’s jewelry coffer and laid it on the table beside her bed, as though she had been gazing upon it often and thinking of him. Then I helped Kate undress, gathered her curls up loosely so they would easily fall down, got her into the tub, and tossed in handfuls of dried red rose petals, lavender, and chamomile.