Spark

by Catherine Friend

  Huh. If this was Blanche’s box, then it was mine now. The hinge protested but opened. The first thing that popped out was a folded piece of paper. Beneath that glittered drop earrings made of paste, along with a likely fake pearl necklace.

  I opened the paper and gasped.

  Dearest Jamie,

  I will continue to leave messages for you until one day it will no longer be necessary. I have come back to my body to find that you have nearly destroyed all that I have built. You have affected my plans in quite an unacceptable manner.

  Blanche’s handwriting was narrow but firm.

  My gowns fit more loosely, so I am clearly wasting away. My generous body is proof I am prosperous, that I can afford to eat well, so do not change this. Yes, I realize I eat at the Queen’s merciful table, but I earn every morsel. I leave you this note only to tell you that I have nearly figured out a way to remain where you and I both know I prefer to live. When this has happened, you may emaciate the body you inhabit to your heart’s content. I will no longer require it, so you may consider it, and the life that it bears, yours to keep.

  Your rival of the most unusual sort,

  Blanche

  The bitch. She knew she was pregnant. I stalked through the apartments until I found a fireplace burning, wadded up the letter, and tossed it into the fire. As I watched it burn, I realized I had never felt so turned upside down in my entire life. No matter which body I inhabited, I was alone.

  That night I managed to find Harriet and suggest a bath in the pond. After sunset, we met at the edge of the park, and Vincent led us down the dark trail.

  At the pond, I flung off my dress, no longer self-conscious, and we were soon both floating on our backs. My breasts and toes rose above the water, as did a small swelling of belly. I’d never been pregnant before, and I found myself horrified and excited at the same time. I’d always thought Chris and I might one day have a child together, but she was lukewarm on the topic.

  An owl hooted nearby, but otherwise the forest was silent except for the occasional rattling of leaves. I inhaled the smells of moist earth, feeling relaxed and safe in my forest cocoon. Because I ached for someone to know me as me, not as Blanche, it was time to tell Harriet the truth.

  “This is nice,” Harriet said.

  Tell her, my brain screamed. Tell her! “Harriet, is it wrong to be content?”

  She frowned as she dipped her head back in the water. “I do not understand.”

  “Everyone is to be driven by ambition. As a maiden, I am supposed to marry the wealthiest man I can find. I am supposed to be the best dancer, aside from Her Majesty. I am supposed to have the straightest stitches, the most graceful walk, the whitest skin, all aside from Her Majesty. Yet I often don’t feel driven in this way.”

  “I understand what you are asking. It is a question I have struggled with all my life. In my village, women are expected to be as busy and successful as men, not like it is here, in the palace, where you are expected to do as little as possible.”

  “That seems to be my greatest skill,” I said, drawing a warm smile from Harriet.

  “In my village we are taught to always desire more than we have, to raise more sheep, bake more bread, to have the cleanest home. While I understand that striving to be better pushes people to move beyond their skills, I also understand that it sets us up to be forever discontent.” She squeezed my hand. “I cannot imagine a world in which you deserve to be discontent, my dear Blanche.”

  “You would not think less of me should I choose to be content, rather than the best or the fastest or the richest?”

  Harriet’s brown eyes shone with a brightness more often seen in lighter-colored eyes. If I could only capture that sparkle in a painting. “I would think less of you only if you walked down someone else’s path instead of your own.”

  My eyes stung. Why couldn’t Chris say this to me? It was exactly what I needed to hear.

  Because of that, doubt crept back into my heart. Maybe Chris was right, and all this around me was entirely the product of my imagination. Perhaps Jamie, the real me, had retreated to some corner of my brain to indulge in this fantasy while “Blanche,” my other half, controlled my body and my behavior. Chris would insist I’d created Harriet to say what I needed to hear.

  Tell her. “Harriet, there is something I must tell you.”

  Harriet’s face was open, receptive to anything I might wish to share. But what if she, like Chris, would think me mentally whacked out of shape? My throat tightened at the thought.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  Harriet drew back, eyes wide and her skin flushed from her swim. “What?”

  “I am with child.”

  “But…but how?”

  “Do you not know of the act that brings a child into the world?”

  Now her face went blotchy with embarrassment. “Bloody hell. Of course I do.”

  Her flash of irritation suggested Harriet had more fire in her than I’d thought. “Well, apparently, I engaged in that act.”

  “Apparently?”

  “I’m not certain what I should do.”

  Harriet pursed her lips, then straightened. “You are not alone. We will puzzle this out until we have a solution and a plan. Every problem needs a plan.”

  We talked so long that Vincent gave up and snored beside the pond, and my fingers and toes turned into prunes.

  Despite putting our two heads together, we didn’t come up with a plan.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The next day, I managed to avoid Cecil and his minions, but doing so involved wandering through the outbuildings of the palace, hanging out with Jacob in the guardhouse, and hiding behind a black gilded screen in the library.

  That night, Elizabeth and her ladies played cards late, while I claimed a headache so I could just sit quietly and watch. Were I not so freaked out by the evening’s plans for murder, I would have enjoyed the time. Candlelight at night always softened the chamber’s rough edges like a blurred watercolor and seemed to repel the frightening and strange world outside. Within Elizabeth’s circle, I felt safe and secure. True, the other women didn’t seem to like me much, but I had detected some softening in their attitudes. Vincent and I played a gentle game of tug on my lap with a rag, but soon he tired and curled up like a cat.

  Elizabeth was by turns raucous and tender as she played. She always insisted that her ladies not let her win, so the contests were real and tense. Elizabeth, to her credit, always laughed heartily when she lost. I didn’t remember history recording her as such a good sport. But of course, few of the people who wrote down the events of the day were actually in the room. Most scribes were foreign diplomats writing back to their sovereigns about the latest gossip. They were councilors who wrote letters and diaries. Within the Queen’s intimate quarters, I’d never witnessed any writing, other than the Queen herself jotting notes to Cecil or Dudley.

  It had to be almost midnight. Then a clock chimed from a nearby room. Twelve chimes. I tried to still the tremors running through me. Use what I know, Ray had counseled. I knew too much, that was the problem. The way forward felt lined with broken glass; any misstep could send history spiraling off in the wrong direction. Was I supposed to stop Winston? Was I supposed to let it play out, hoping that the men were unsuccessful? Three men against Dudley placed the odds in their favor, even thought Dudley was skilled with both knife and sword.

  Use what I know. Like a zombie, I stood and forced my feet to move toward the open door. I left the room without notice and headed for the back stairway, where the dank air was cold against my skin. I lifted a wall candle from its hook, and in its feeble light I took one step down, then another.

  Then I stopped. I saw with hyper clarity, in the nearly black stairwell, what I must do. The pain of it doubled me over so quickly I refluxed, then gagged at the acid burning my throat. God’s bones, I would use what I knew.

  I continued down the stairs, hurrying now. The candle sputtered and smoked in protest.
At the first small landing, I could hear his footsteps so I stepped carefully, drawn to the sound like iron to a magnet. At the second landing, the light of our candles merged. “My Lady Blanche.” We stopped, and Dudley flashed me a roguish grin. “Now I do not need a candle to see, for the glow of your beauty enables me to walk through the darkest cave.”

  I snorted, my candle trembling. “Robert Dudley,” I said softly. “You are so full of shit.”

  He laughed in delight. Then I moved my skirts aside with one hand and let him pass. As he continued upward, I took a shuddering breath. That was the easy part.

  I reached the base of the stairs, feeling the breeze from an open door. My candle fought for its life as two dark shapes entered the hallway. I stood in front of the stairs, blocking their way.

  “What in God’s name are you doing down here?” Winston hissed. I jerked free of his angry grasp.

  “We only have a few minutes, so listen carefully,” I snapped. “I let Dudley pass up to the Queen’s chamber. William will not find him on the stairs.”

  “You stupid cunt,” Charles growled. “You have ruined everything.”

  I ignored him. “Killing Dudley is not the answer to your problem. You want him powerless, no? You want him banished from the court? You think that with Dudley dead, England is safe? Not so. With Dudley dead, Elizabeth will lose heart. She will lose hope. She will accept the next proposal she receives, even should it come from King Philip of France himself. You will have led England directly into the hands of her enemies.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Winston said. “We have been over this a hundred times. The only way to keep Elizabeth from marrying Dudley is to kill him.”

  “What if I told you of a way that would both humiliate Dudley and place the Crown of England forever beyond his reach?”

  Jaws working in fury, eyes glancing up to the stairs in hopes that Dudley would appear, both men were only seconds from pushing their way past me.

  My lips were so dry I could barely spit out my next words. “Don’t kill Dudley. Kill his wife.”

  The men gasped. “What?” Winston snapped.

  “If Amy dies a questionable death, Dudley will be so tainted that Elizabeth dare not think of marrying him. Her subjects would never accept a king who has come under the shadow of murder.”

  The men looked at each other. “Why did you not suggest this in our last meeting? Why wait until now?”

  “Because I did not think of it until just two minutes ago. But this will be the best way to accomplish your goals, and at much less risk to you.” I hesitated, feeling sick to my stomach, trying to recall the details surrounding Amy Dudley’s death. “There is a fair in Abingdon soon, September eighth if I remember. Amy will be at Cumnor Place, and will likely send all her servants to the fair. This would be an excellent time to, say, push her down a flight of stairs.”

  Winston’s eyes widened. “Murder an innocent woman?”

  “Her bones are brittle. The fall will likely kill her. And it will ruin Dudley. The entire kingdom will believe he had his wife murdered in order to pursue his ambitions with the Queen. He will never be welcome in court again.” That last sentence wasn’t true, but my goal was to stop Dudley’s murder tonight, not tell the truth.

  Winston looked up the stairs at the sound of a sword scabbard scraping the wall. William appeared around the corner, clumping down the stairs and out of breath. “What the hell happened? Dudley is already in the Queen’s chambers.”

  Winston held up a hand. “I will explain as we leave.” His dark eyes were ominous above my dying candle. “We will follow your plan. But should it fail, you will not live to see September ninth.”

  The men’s capes flared as they whirled and ran out the door like cartoon evildoers escaping into the night. My candle flared once, then collapsed into a steaming puddle of wax. As I felt my way back upstairs by touching the moist walls, I could hear Elizabeth and Dudley laughing. The man Elizabeth loved would never know how close he had come to death. I passed the room and found my way to my own bedchamber. I was alone, so I untied as much of my dress as I could, then collapsed on the bed and pulled the covers over me. Amy Dudley was going to die. That was part of history. That I had just arranged for it to happen made me feel unclean.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The next morning, I still felt sick to my stomach. I’d saved Dudley’s life, plotted Amy’s death, and now had Cecil to face. When Rosemary helped me dress, I asked her to not lace me so tightly. It couldn’t be good for the baby.

  After Lady Clinton and I had dressed Elizabeth in a gown of nut brown brocade with sleeves slashed with pink and a headpiece covered in pink beads and small shells, I lightly touched Elizabeth on the wrist. She stopped, stunned. No one touched the Queen. She did all the touching. I waited until Lady Clinton had left, then I collapsed at the Queen’s feet, my skirts billowing out like Marilyn standing over the city grate. I looked up into Elizabeth’s concerned face and realized how much I respected this woman. She would help me.

  “Please, Your Majesty, there is no one I can turn to but you. I know you are petitioned every day for Your Majesty’s grace and wisdom, but now I find myself one of these helpless beings who falls at your feet.”

  Her hand rested lightly on my head, spreading warmth down my neck and across my shoulders. God, I was hungry for touch of any kind. Elizabeth lowered herself gracefully into her chair. “Pray tell us what has brought you to this state.”

  “Lord Cecil is your Spirit, Robert Dudley your Eyes, and you have named me your Spark. Well, this spark is about to be dimmed too greatly to ever be relit.” I swallowed hard. “Ma’am, Lord Cecil suspects me of something almost too horrid to even speak out loud, but I must. My lord suspects me of plotting against you.” Something other than fear of Cecil crept up my throat and made it hard to talk. It was the very idea that I would do anything to harm this woman. I had already prostrated myself before her. I would not cry as well, so I rose up onto my knees and straightened my dress around me. Both of us could see that my hands shook. “He says I’ve plotted with three men to harm you, and that if I do not reveal the names of the men, and the nature of the plot, he will use the Tower to extract the information.”

  A hot tear slid down my cheek, cooling before I could wipe it away.

  Elizabeth stood and graciously helped me to my feet. “My dear Spark, Cecil is our advisor, not our ruler. And if we say you are free from the taint of treason, he will have no choice but to respect that.”

  I bit off a strangled sob, partly in relief, partly out of love for this woman. Then I took Elizabeth’s hand, pressed it against my heart, and placed my hand over hers. When the young queen’s eyes widened, I struggled to breathe through my emotions. “I know you do not require oaths of your ladies, but I say this to you now: I have never, and will never, harm you or your realm. I will be your faithful and loving servant for as long as I draw breath. I will accept no advice but yours. I will live for no voice but yours.” I released her hand and stepped back, only then meeting her eyes. They glistened as mine did.

  “We are…” Elizabeth’s voice struggled, thick and tight. “We are deeply moved by this, Blanche Nottingham, and will accept your pledge without reservation.” Then she smiled shyly and touched my chest. “We know your heart, and we know it is good.”

  * * *

  When Elizabeth gave a summer party, she spared no expense even though her royal coffers ran low her entire reign. Out on one of the broad lawns between the courtiers’ apartments and the forest, she had men build a banqueting house of birch boughs and ivy. Stiff canvas painted blue with white clouds formed the roof. Underneath the canvas, rows of tables groaned under pitchers of drinks and platters of sweets and fruits. The most impressive was a menagerie made entirely of spun sugar—camels, lions, frogs, mermaids, and unicorns. The banqueting house’s open sides allowed the hot air to circulate, but there was still barely a breeze.

  It was a beautiful day for a party, and I seemed to have ac
climated to wearing all these layers of clothing. Women sat on stools and benches, while the men strolled among them. I sat off by myself, knowing that if Elizabeth needed me she would let me know. Meanwhile I held the collar I was supposed to be mending, only pretending to stitch by moving the needle up and down through the fabric. The saturated air settled over the party as if it, too, was exhausted.

  Harriet’s job was to keep the dessert trays full, so she’d disappear now and then, returning with another full tray. After the third tray, I wandered close, pretending to study the choices. “How was the tart?” I asked.

  “What tart?”

  “The one still on your face.”

  Gasping, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. We didn’t look at each other, but both chuckled softly. Ladies and servants didn’t share jokes together.

  “Do you like tarts?” Harriet asked.

  “I do.”

  She picked up another empty tray with a devilish grin. “That’s good, because I am one.”

  Now I did laugh out loud. I might have been stuck in the pregnant body of a bitch named Blanche in 1560, but at least I had Harriet to add spark to my days. The look Harriet tossed over her shoulder as she left reminded me so much of my friend Mary that, for a second, Harriet seemed a contemporary, a twenty-first century tease.

  “Lady Blanche.”

  I jumped at the male voice behind me.

  “Might I have the honor of your company as I stroll around the edge of the garden?” It was Lord Winston again, my definition of a waking nightmare.

  “Get stuffed,” I said. He was the reason I was walking around pregnant.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Winston dug his fingers into my elbow so deeply I gasped as he pulled me away from the party. He had shed his cape, so I could see that dark stains rimmed the undersides of his billowing sleeves. The vest he wore sparkled with silver threads woven through the green.