“Oh, but you’re wrong, lovely Kate. I’ve known Bess as girl, princess and queen. She always forgives me. She would even forgive me”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“murder.”
Kate recoiled. Was this a confession that he had killed his wife? A warning? Though he denied doing the deed, he could have ordered it done for love of Elizabeth. Kate stepped back from him, since she doubted that she, or the queen, would ever know the truth. Feeling stifled, Kate pulled her mask off to give air to her face. Sometimes she felt as if she had always been in hiding. No one knew who she was in her heart. Only Edward had ever known, and she couldn’t remember him without pain.
Robert smiled down at her, as secure as any man who practiced his seductive masculine art with such apparent ease and success. He murmured, “Thank you, my lady, for your care of my head,” and then spoke for all to hear: “But now I would introduce the Lady Jane Seymour, recently come to court. The heir of one queen and the niece of another should have much in common.”
Kate could have cheerfully throttled Dudley with his own wired ruff, but as usual he escaped before he was in serious danger. His timing was impeccable; she hoped it was always so, for he was a fascinating man. Who could deny it?
Jane sank low, acknowledging the introduction. “I’ve longed for this meeting, Lady Grey. Indeed, since I first heard of you from my brother.”
Kate reached out to the limit of her strength, for dimly she had known that someday she would meet a Seymour at court. “And I to know you, Lady Seymour,” Kate said, having learned this polite lying court language even before she was schooled in prayer.
“I would serve Her Majesty as you do,” Jane said, her voice plaintive.
“There are no present vacancies among the queen’s ladies, Lady Seymour.”
Jane looked downcast. “That is what the Lady Saintloe tells me, but I would appreciate a tiny word from you in Her Majesty’s ear. I do not expect to be a lady of the bedchamber; the presence chamber would do, or a place among the maids of honor who walk out with the queen in her private gardens of a morning. For one little word, you would have more than my gratitude, dear Katherine. And call me Jane, for I know we shall be great and good friends, since we would have been sisters, if my brother Edward had had his dearest wish. You remember him, of course.”
Kate did not have to remember; his memory was always with her, a breathing thing.
“He was much in love with your miniature as a lad after you married Lord Pembroke. He wore it for years, even as he departed for Italy and the wars.”
Kate’s heart skipped under her shift. “Oh, surely not,” she said, making her voice light, as if she had never thought of him since that day.
“Indeed so, Katherine, and I saw that he wears it still when he returned from the Italian wars.”
Edward has returned!
Lady Jane prattled on, but Kate was slow to process her words.
“I do assure you, Lady Katherine, I have warned him that you are no longer a young maid, but grown in beauty celebrated by every man at court. I cautioned him that if you are named heir, as I hear you will be, princes and kings will court you.”
“You flatter me, Lady Seymour.” But before Kate could coldly turn away from any further such talk, there was a stir at the doors; a trumpet sounded, followed by drums that stopped the stately French pavanne in progress.
“My brother Edward, Earl of Hertford,” Lady Jane said with a satisfied smile.
Kate turned her gaze to the splendidly dressed, tall young lord with blond curls falling from under his velvet cap. He was followed by a large entourage, crossing the marble floor in long strides to kneel before the queen.
“Is he much changed?” Jane asked, her eyes steady on Kate’s face.
Kate did not answer. How could she? All her senses were at once engaged, holding back the memory of that last wrenching good-bye on her wedding day, yet missing nothing of the moment. The man she saw before her contained the shade of the boy she’d once known and lost, though he was now a man grown in all his parts, strong and strikingly fine-featured.
All the dancers parted as he approached the throne. As any noble newly come to court, he roused stir and murmur about the great hall, perhaps more so since he was the son of the beheaded Duke of Somerset. And there by the throne stood Robert Dudley, son of the Duke of Northumberland, who had engineered Somerset’s execution. But sons could not bear grudges for past political affairs, or half the court would not speak to the other half.
As the nephew of Queen Jane Seymour, who’d replaced the queen’s mother, he had the dancers’ complete attention. How would the queen greet him?
“Did I not tell you, Lady Katherine?” Jane said, tugging Kate’s sleeve insistently. “Is he not wonderful?”
“Yes.” It was the only word Kate thought could possibly slip past the lump in her throat.
“My lord earl,” the queen said from behind her fan, motioning him to rise. “Though you disrupt our masque, we welcome all our peers to our palace of Whitehall.”
Kate, who knew the queen in her many moods, did not hear pleasure at this vain interruption, though curiosity was there.
“Your Grace,” Edward Seymour replied, his hand on his heart, “it has always been my dearest wish to be near and to serve you. I came with all speed on my return from the Italian wars and count the trip nothing if I may kiss your hand and remain always near to you.”
Looking well pleased at such expression of courtly love, the queen gave the earl her hand, on which he pressed a lingering kiss. Elizabeth lowered her fan. “We have heard of your bravery before the French in the northern Italian cities, my lord. England needs all her warriors.”
A servant approached the earl and handed him a box. He opened it slowly. “Most gracious queen, I have brought a poor Christmas gift, and though it is past Twelfth Night, it holds no less a subject’s love. I humbly beg you with all my heart to accept it.”
Kate could see that the silver-embossed ebony box held the largest black pearl she’d ever seen. It was a rare teardrop shape, the size of a robin’s egg, nested on white velvet. The gift was magnificent and costly, Kate thought, but not as valuable to the heart as the gift of a freed caged bird.
Many courtiers pressed closer to see, then turned to tell others what they’d glimpsed.
The queen bent forward, extremely pleased. “Hertford, we thank you and will grant your wish to be near to us and find you good occupation in our service . . . to begin at once with this pavanne.” Elizabeth glanced in triumph toward Dudley as she carelessly dropped his fan to the floor.
“Your Majesty, I am deeply honored.”
Kate watched as Dudley lounged near the throne, observing the queen and her handsome new courtier, his face impassive in a vain effort to foil the gossips. It was a skill she’d learned early, too.
All the court stood to one side as the Earl of Hertford led the queen in the slow processional, lightly touching her fingers with his, showing nothing if not grace and a well-turned leg, both of which Kate could see Edward also now had in great measure. This was the man full-grown whom her father had turned away as a stripling to give her to Pembroke, who had been no man at all.
Kate did not want to relive those days. It had taken her years of painful nights to forget Edward, an effort that had never been fully successful, since he always returned in her dreams.
From Elizabeth’s delighted expression, the queen had taken good account of the earl, too, for she loved dancing and handsome men in equal measure, as did the masked ladies round the room, each closely watching him for any casual glance in their direction. Indeed, as Kate did, despite every desire not to do so.
“My lady Katherine,” Jane said, “the ladies think him handsome, do they not? And he is the best brother. You must meet Edward at once. Surely he will want you for a partner next, for you are prettiest of all and dance quite as well as the queen.” Jane leaned closer and whispered from behind her fan, “And I know that Edward has never forgo
tten that you were almost betrothed to him.”
Kate’s reply was heavier than she meant it to be, weighed down with memory. “Lady Jane, my father the duke promised me to Lord Pembroke, and the dowry was settled before your brother asked for me. We were very young and thought we could overcome all obstacles.” God’s bones! She must not be a pawn both to old memories and to the queen’s jealous nature this night. But Kate couldn’t make her feet follow that thought to the safety of the cluster of ladies of the bedchamber. Instead, her eyes followed Edward’s every practiced move on the dance floor, her face like any mooning milkmaid’s gaze before a handsome man. Dudley had a rival, indeed, and not just for the queen, but for many of his conquered court ladies, judging from the clear invitations cast in Hertford’s direction. Kate tried hard to show better restraint and no concern as the dance ended and Edward approached as she had feared . . . and hoped.
Though the height was there, gone were the rounded features of the boy of sixteen. He was now almost too fine-featured for a man, though he had a short, curling light beard with flecks of youthful blond threading through it, and a horseman’s sturdy body beneath, wide shoulders enhanced by a tight quilted satin doublet, and long legs showing their strength under striped hose. He bowed over her hand and his warm lips imprinted on her skin, rousing remembrance, while his soft mustache prickled in a most pleasant way.
For something to say, she said the usual: “Why have we not seen you at court before, my lord?”
“My lady, I waited until I might claim what I once wanted for my own.”
She was trapped in his gaze and lowered hers to escape. Jesu! Another threat? Had he any idea how dangerous such talk was, coming from the nephew of Henry VIII’s third queen to the next in line for the throne? More dangerous now than when he defied only her father. His brash answer needed a clear response. Before she could gather one, he frowned and looked to his sister.
“Fie and for shame, sister,” he rebuked Jane. “You wrote that the lady Katherine had most pleasant eyes, and here I see two priceless jewels. You said her face was very pretty, and now I find her not as you wrote, but grown in beauty, with curving cheeks and delicate pointed chin.” He bowed to Jane to remove any sense of reproof. “I think that it is her very heart she wears for her face.”
Without asking, Edward clasped Kate’s hand, and she realized her rapt attention and silence had invited this familiarity. She must reverse it.
She retrieved her hand. “Pardon, my lord, but I am taken with an aching head and will withdraw.”
“A sudden aching head is the worst misery for a lady.” He bowed, as she saw a smile pull his mouth awry. “I am obliged to escort you to your rooms.”
Kate felt her heart being squeezed and realized she was holding her breath. “My lord earl, the queen would not allow it.”
He smiled easily. “Then it would seem that, aching head or no, we must dance or give everyone cause for gossip. I will have great care of you, I promise.”
She felt swept from shore into a swift stream tumbling toward a wild, rolling ocean as he led her into the madly popular gavotte recently come from France. The dancing master had only just begun to teach it, so many courtiers left the floor to watch. Kate and Edward formed into a small circle with two other couples, skipping forward and backward, exchanging kisses as they came together. Kate turned her face just in time to miss Edward’s kiss, but at the next circling he caught the corner of her lips with his.
Kate felt warmth seep from under her bodice and mount to her face. “My lord, you have been long from court in warmer climes and must learn to have a care”—she shook her head, stepping about the circle until they came together again—“or you will ruin us both.”
He grinned, showing good teeth against a face tanned from Italian summers. “Am I mistaken, or do they not call this the kissing dance?”
“Yes, my lord, but you—”
He looked down at her, serious now. “I remember, my lady, when kissing was not an annoyance to you. But you are older now and perhaps you are tired of kissing.”
“You are mistaken, my lord Hertford,” she said, not trying to conceal her anger.
He pursed his lips and made a soft kissing sound.
Were all men like Dudley, reckless and heedless of this queen, who would have every man adore her alone? He needed a stronger warning.
“My lord Hertford, you must have a care for the queen’s—”
“You used to call me Ned and come flying to me, though your father forbade it.”
Kate turned her eyes from his face so that she could speak hard words. “Nine years have passed, my lord earl, and you must forget childish imprudence, as I have.”
“Have you? Well, lady, I have not. I see only you, have seen only you all these years.”
His voice, so much deeper than she remembered, though as caressing, frightened her. How many dangers could she face down in one day? It seemed the world, past and present, was arrayed against her.
“My lady Katherine, what I need in great measure is your instruction. Of all the queen’s ladies, you are the one I most longed to see . . . again. Reports that you were yet a maid without a husband—and of your loyalty to the queen, your strong godly faith and growing beauty—have reached Hertfordshire and well beyond.” His voice was low, for her alone, his eyes steady on her face as if he would memorize its every change. “And I am in no way disappointed, when I feared I might be after such a time. We were cheated of love once, but never again, I vow it, Kate.”
“My lord,” Kate replied, “you have too many desires for this palace . . . and one too many memories. We were never betrothed, so do not claim it.”
“Then do you count love as nothing? If so, meet me in the garden by the sundial at midnight, where my memory can be made right—and you can tutor me in proper thinking and court ritual.”
“Edward, you seem to have grown into a natural talent for this court. But you are in every way as bold as the boy you were when you ignored my betrothal.”
“And did you not ignore it, too?”
Her face flamed with embarrassment and confusion, though she kept longing at bay. “Lords may conduct themselves as you do in Italy and Hertfordshire, but not in Elizabeth’s court. The queen watches me with a motherly eye fiercer than my father’s.”
“Then I must bring Italy and Hertfordshire to Whitehall at once.”
He was laughing at her as she circled again, seeing they were left alone on the dance floor, the entire court staring at them. “Even if I thought it wise, my lord, which I do not, I have no wish to meet you later—”
“Do you not?”
He bent and put his lips near without touching hers, pretending to a great distress. “Then some poor gardener will find a frozen statue in the morning, looking the very portrait of me.”
She pressed her lips hard to keep from smiling or agreeing. She was not sure which, then or later. The dance ended and he led her to his sister. Bowing, he strode away, looking back over his shoulder at Kate, probably to see if her gaze followed him. Damn the devil! she thought, using one of the queen’s favorite curses. Of course she was looking at him.
But she would not meet him. It would be folly. Madness! She would not go through that heartache again. Anything more than casual acquaintance was impossible and, she suspected, more dangerous than it ever had been all those long years ago.
Kate, as mistress of the robes, carried the queen’s gown, stomacher, stiff lace ruff, silk stockings and satin-covered cork shoes to the wardrobe chamber. She then placed Hertford’s black pearl into its velvet cushion and then into the queen’s large jewel box, with her brooches, necklaces and a diamond thumb ring. She locked the box with the key about her neck until she could return all to the guarded jewel room on the morrow. When she stepped back to the bedchamber, the room had been freshly sprinkled with rose petals to cover any creeping odors of a royal residence housing more than a thousand people and not enough jakes and closestools. Her Majesty had been b
athed from a bowl of fresh rose water and had donned her embroidered fine linen night shift.
The tall case clock struck midnight, and Kate waited to be dismissed to her room. There were only prayers to do and then . . . No, she would not go to the Earl of Hertford. She knew folly when she met it. Such heartache could not be endured twice in one life. And surely a yeoman guard would see her and report to the queen. Unless he had a sufficient bribe.
Prayers. They were next. All the ladies would kneel at the queen’s bedside, while Her Majesty leaned against her pillows and led them from her own prayer book. Then Kate would be free to go. To her chamber. Not to the garden.
Yet, the queen did not prepare for prayer. She announced to her ladies’ surprised faces, “You are dismissed. I will need you no more this night.”
Her ladies sank low and, each lighting her way with a candle, moved toward the outer chamber.
“Lady Katherine will remain. You have urgent need of prayer this night.”
Kate’s hand closed on her candle, almost snapping it in two. She bowed her head and waited until the door was firmly shut. She could imagine the pleasure on Lady Saintloe’s face at the queen’s fuming tone.
Elizabeth began to pace about, her slippered feet stomping the floor, releasing a cloud of scent from scattered herbs.
Finally, she whirled to face Kate, tiny bits of lavender and rose petal clinging to the lace bordering the queen’s shift. Tall for a woman, she took a wide stance, one hand on her hip, looking much like her father in the Holbein picture. “Am I betrayed by my own? Have I not shown you great favor, cousin?” The queen assumed the harsh tone that had made the Spanish ambassador cower.
Kate kept her eyes modestly lowered. “Yes, Your Majesty, and I have tried to serve you well. In what duty have I grieved you?”
“Humble words, indeed, for a lady of the blood royal who flaunts herself before every man at the masque. You will create a scandal to send even the French court into sniggering at my realm.”
“Your Majesty—”
Jeane Westin Page 4