Just Flesh and Blood

by Caro, Jane;

  ‘Unus, duo, tres, quattuor, quinque, sex, septem, octo … octo …’

  I do not know how old I was as I stood in the centre of my father’s great audience chamber repeating my numbers in Latin, but I could not have been much more than four years old. My new stepmother, who turned out to be kind enough, was all but unknown to me then. She sat beside my father on the royal dais, but she was not looking at me. Her eyes never left the king. She gazed at his face, the quicker to anticipate his mercurial changes of mood, perhaps, but also because it flattered him. I suppose my mother’s terrible fate must never have been far from her mind.

  My father’s new queen was fair and round faced, with pale hair scraped back tightly under an elaborate headdress. I knew her name was Queen Jane but I only recall addressing her as ‘Your Majesty’.

  I hesitated in my recitation because I sensed my father was bored. He sat slumped on his throne. His hands were fiddling with a tassel on his shirt and I could see he was only listening to me on sufferance. Despite my infancy, I was aware he did not like to see me anymore – not since my mother had been replaced by the lady who now sat next to him. I don’t know if I understood Queen Anne was dead at that time, or if I knew of the manner in which she met her end, but I knew she had vanished and that with her disappearance, my status and importance had also collapsed. I felt the change as a chill, as if a cloud had covered the sun. As my father glared at me resentfully, the chill became an icy blast.

  I knew my numbers well enough, but I began to feel afraid and my voice began to falter. Then I heard a cough and saw that just to the left of the royal dais my governess Kat had managed to work her way to the front of the gathered throng. She smiled at me and nodded. I could see her mouthing the words I was to say, the words she had taught me. She was willing me to succeed. Her love radiating across the room chased away my father’s displeasure. I stopped looking at him and concentrated on Kat’s face until I felt safe again.

  ‘… octo, novem, decem.’ I took a breath and, encouraged by Kat, I began to count in Greek. ‘Ena, dio, tria, tessera, pente, eksi, efta, okto, enia, deka.’ This time I did not hesitate. By the time I had counted to ten in French, Spanish and Italian, my father’s face had changed from thunderously bored to pleased and proud.

  ‘Well done! I see you have inherited your father’s skill with languages.’

  ‘I have excellent teachers, my lord.’

  ‘And modest withal! I know not from where you received that trait, my girl.’

  The court laughed and applauded my father’s witticism and – although I did not understand its full meaning – I felt a thrill at having been the trigger for such a response. Such a pleasant feeling, but it lasted only a moment before my father was turning away from me and towards something else.

  That is the most common memory I have of my father. I was always just catching his attention, for a brief but intense moment or two, as he made his way towards something or someone else that mattered so much more.

  Kat scurried to my side and led me away.

  ‘Was my father pleased with me, Kat?’

  ‘Indeed he was, my lady. Pleased and proud.’

  ‘Were you pleased with me?’

  ‘Nothing you could ever do or not do would displease me. I love you no matter what.’

  ‘But were you pleased with me?’ I did not want to be fobbed off with generalities. I was hungry for praise.

  ‘Of course! You are the cleverest child I have ever seen.’ She picked me up and hugged me hard and I buried my face in her velvet gown. I put my thumb in my mouth and sighed happily. As long as Kat was with me, I was safe.

  This is a feeling that followed me into adulthood and onto the throne. Kat Ashley was my nurse, my governess, and, eventually, my chief gentlewoman of the bedchamber. After she died, I never felt quite as safe again. Indeed, if I think of heaven now, I see Kat’s face smiling and nodding at me, just as it did all those years ago in my father’s audience chamber. Except this time the throne she stands behind is God’s.

  If your father is a king it is hard to separate him from God when you are a child, perhaps even when you are a grown woman. When I pray to God, I must confess – and this is blasphemy – that it is often the image of my father that I see. Is this how each of us must stand before our Holy Father when the time comes (a time which is now so very near to me)? Must we stand as naked and defenceless as an infant, with all our excuses and disguises stripped from us? Must we recite the story of our lives before the great judge, cringing in shame, desperate for his love and mercy? I did all that I could to win my father’s love and mercy but to no avail. I hope I will be more fortunate with God. I hope that Kat is there to plead for me in heaven, as she did so often on earth.

  I loved Blanche Parry almost as much as I loved Kat Ashley. When Kat died, Blanche took her place as my chief gentlewoman. She served me loyally and well. Unlike Kat, and almost alone among my ladies, Blanche never married; she saved her devotion entirely for me. She served me until she died despite threatening frequently to leave. When she felt hurt or tired or slighted she would sulk and tell me how much she looked forward to the day she could retire to her family estate. But that day never came. Despite the occasional flash of temper and cross word, she never left my side.

  As I near the end of my life, despite the flibbertigibbets who annoyed me by marrying, it is the love and loyalty of women I value. The friendship and support they gave me was quieter than that of men. Their love asked for little in return. There is a myth among men that women cannot be real friends; that we spend our days in bitter competition to win one of them. And so it is with some women. Indeed, it is possible that my mother was one such – not that it did her much good. However, among the women I loved and who loved me in return, I never found other friendships that endured so long or gave me so much. There were men whose loyalty came close to theirs: Robin, of course, William Cecil, and a few others, but they expected favours in return and public acknowledgement – which I gave them freely and with gratitude. It was the women closest to me who were content to serve me entirely for my own sake. And, yes, there were rivalries and jealousies and squabbles but so there was among the men of my court too, much as they liked to think themselves above such trivialities. Blanche, the longest serving of any, was prone to jealousy particularly as she grew older, but it was her love of me that made her so, not her love of preferments.

  A few years before she died, Blanche began to lose her sight. She did not go blind completely, but could only see that which was directly in front of her. (I am glad that despite my frequent headaches and all the long hours I spent peering over official papers, I have kept my ability to see. I can still read with the help of my pince nez. My ability to hear is a different matter – or so I am told by some of my courtiers.)

  ‘Dearest Blanche, take my arm and let me lead you to the window.’

  ‘Oh no, Your Grace, it is not seemly for you to give me aid.’

  But I was frightened for my friend. I had seen how often a tumble and a broken bone could lead to permanent disability and even death in the old, and Blanche suffered with the humped back and frail bones so common to old women. I leapt to her side and took her arm despite her protests. ‘There is no one here but you and me, and I fear that you may stumble and hurt yourself.’

  ‘I get about very well with the aid of my stick.’ With that she tapped the floorboards sharply.

  ‘You do indeed, but it gives me pleasure to have you lean on my arm. Will you not allow me that small service at least?’

  ‘If Your Grace commands I must, of course, obey.’

  She did not like to accept help – something I understand much better now than I did then. Blanche Parry valued her independence. She was proud that she was able to support herself without the help of any man. She had thriftily amassed a tidy sum, thanks to the financial rewards I gave her in recognition of her long, loyal and l
oving service.

  Grudgingly she took my proffered arm and walked to the open window. An intoxicating scent perfumed the air. Sweet briar bloomed in profusion on the trellis outside.

  ‘Can you smell the sweet briar? It is gorgeous this year.’

  ‘Aye, and see them too. I am not so blind as to have to rely on my sense of smell to know there are flowers nearby.’ She spoke crossly and I knew that her dignity was still injured.

  ‘I did not mean to offend you. It is simply that the fragrance is so heady.’

  She allowed herself to be mollified. ‘They smell sweet enough, I grant you.’

  I plucked a pink flower stem and gave it to her. She took it and curtsied.

  ‘At least I have never had to rely on any man to help me.’ She held the bloom up to her nose.

  ‘A proud boast for us both. Take a deep breath, Blanche, as you say, your eyes may not be as sharp as once they were, but your nose is as acute as ever.’

  ‘Aye, and with some of the young people who now surround you, I have often had cause to regret that. They do not seem to bathe as frequently as they should.’

  As Blanche grew older she became more critical of the young. It is a common failing, I think, among those of us who live long enough to get old. We envy those in their prime and yet pity them at the same time. Their heedlessness annoys us and we recognise the folly of their assumption that the youth they possess now will remain theirs forever. We recognise it because it was our belief once. I remember thinking when I was but a girl that the old had always been old. I was therefore somewhat bewildered when one of their number reminisced about their youth and childhood. If anyone started a sentence to me with ‘When I was a girl (or boy)’, I listened politely as I had been taught to do, but never really heard a word they said. I suspect many of the young in this chamber regard me the same way now.

  Blanche took much pride in her financial independence. She used some of her wealth to build a tomb for herself in the church of her girlhood in Bacton on the Norfolk coast. She told me proudly that the sculpture she had commissioned for her monument depicted her kneeling at my feet. ‘My epitaph is a simple one, Your Grace.’

  ‘This is a morbid conversation! I command you to live many years yet.’

  ‘I intend to live for as long as God allows and not a day longer, but it does no harm to prepare for the inevitable in advance.’

  ‘What is your epitaph, Blanche? It seems you are determined to tell me.’

  She smiled triumphantly. She stood as if she were about to recite before some long forgotten teacher, clasping her hands in front of her and looking up to the heavens. She spoke in a booming, formal voice. ‘With maiden queen a maid did end my life.’

  I was deeply touched. She was wedded to her queen.

  But not all my female attendants pleased me as much as Kat Ashley and Blanche Parry. One who led me a merry dance was the daughter of my first ambassador to France, Nicholas Throckmorton. I had known the girl since she was in swaddling and she had always been a vivacious little thing. She was also my namesake. Bess Throckmorton came into my service in her twenties and I found her sense of fun invigorating. I indulged her rather more than I should have, even tolerating a little impudence now and then. I like women and men with some spirit. It wearies me to be surrounded constantly by those who only ever say ‘yes, Your Grace’ or ‘if it pleases Your Majesty’. I am suspicious of such courtiers. I do not know what their motives are. I prefer those who allow me glimpses of the real person underneath and so I encourage their sense of independence. Sometimes I have lived to regret it, as I did with Essex.

  ‘You are pulling a strange face, Mistress Throckmorton, as if something displeases you.’

  ‘It is nothing, Your Grace.’

  ‘If it is nothing, Bess, why pull such a face?’

  ‘I have never been a good mistress of my face. You must forgive it. It has a mind of its own, despite my best intentions.’

  ‘I like your face and I also like to know the thoughts that are behind its expressions.’

  ‘As I say, it is nothing.’

  ‘Fie, girl, it cannot be nothing! Perhaps your belly pains you – I have told you that you are altogether too greedy at table. You eat your food too quickly and failing to chew properly gives you wind. It is either that, or you do not approve of the cap Mistress Parry has just put upon my head.’

  Mistress Throckmorton had very decided opinions about clothes and I saw immediately from her guilty expression that I had guessed right. She did not like my new cap.

  ‘Ah hah! It is my cap that gives you pain, not the contents of your belly!’

  ‘Oh, Your Grace, I am sorry. I tell myself a thousand times to keep my opinions to myself, but I fail more often than I succeed.’

  But I could see that she was not sorry, because she smiled at me in such a way that said as clearly as any words that while she knew she was not technically entitled to have opinions about anything I did, she remained convinced her response to my new cap was the correct one.

  I reached up and removed the offending object from my head. ‘What is it about the poor thing that offends you so much?’

  ‘It is the colour. I do not think it is the most flattering for your eyes.’

  I looked closely at the confection. It was in a bright shade of green with feathers dyed purple. I had thought it rather fetching when my milliner first brought it to me.

  ‘Do you think it an unsuitable colour for a woman of my advanced years, perhaps?’ I felt rather offended by her poor opinion of my choice of headdress.

  ‘Not at all. I just think this one would show your features to better advantage.’ With that she produced a headdress of tawny brown with trimmings in a bright shade of russet. Without asking, she placed it where the offending item had sat only moments before.

  My irritation died when I saw the effect of this cap on my pale skin and dark eyes in the mirror. Suddenly, I looked brighter and younger. ‘Hmmm!’

  I was not about to give her the satisfaction of telling her she was right, but I was also pleased that she had not allowed me to go out into the court in a cap that did not suit me. ‘I will wear what you recommend, Mistress Throckmorton. It doesn’t matter to me what fripperies I wear. I have more important things to think about.’

  From that time on I allowed Bess Throckmorton to choose my ensembles. Indeed, I allowed her to advise me about which of my gowns I should keep and which should be discarded. Blanche, who had helped me select my clothes previously, felt slighted and began once more to threaten retirement in Bacton.

  ‘You must not leave me just yet, Blanche, for I do not know how I would manage without you.’

  ‘That Bess Throckmorton can look after you well enough.’

  ‘Not at all. She can only help me with my outward coverings. It is only you who can soothe my heart and soul.’

  This pleased her but, just to be sure, I gave her first pick of the gowns that were being discarded and this pleased her most of all.

  I wonder, when I get to heaven, if virtuous Blanche will be wearing one of the gowns I gave her. I know that she, like Jane Grey, will have gone straight to God’s side. She never sinned in her life.

  But, and this is a recurring thought, I find I am wondering what people wear in heaven. The smartest gown they wore in life? Or the clothes they died in? What will my spirit be clothed in? Will it be what I am wearing now?

  I looked down at my soiled and crumpled gown. Such a prospect did not fill me with delight. But if they eventually put me in my bed in my nightclothes, is that what I will be wearing to ascend to heaven (or, God forbid, descend to hell)? Or do you stand before God in the clothes you were buried in? And then I wished heartily that I had not become so estranged from Bess Throckmorton. She would have made sure I was seen in what suited me wherever I was going.

  Once again, I was staring at a weepi
ng girl who had flung herself at my feet in a puddle of silk brocade – and, once again, I remained unmoved. I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair, drumming along with the rhythm of her sobs. I wanted this unpleasant interview to be over. We had already said too many harsh things to one another. The weeping girl had just told me that I did not understand what it was to be young and in love, and I had told her to hold her impudent tongue.

  ‘Do you think I have never been in love? Do you think you are the only girl who has ever wept over a man? You know nothing of me and my life.’

  It was then that she prostrated herself across the floor.

  Who did she think she was talking to? I suppose she thought she was talking to that strange, inhuman creature – an anointed queen – rather than a real flesh- and-blood woman who happened to wear a crown. Of course I understood what it was to be in love. I also understood how hard it is to resist being carried away by your emotions. I had seen more misery than this silly girl had any conception of. I also understood – better than anyone – that however desperate you might feel at the time, life goes on and it is possible to live and be happy without the man you desire. When this young woman declared so dramatically that she could not live without the man she loved and had secretly married, I snorted. Unfortunately for her, I was now impervious to such theatrics. Indeed, they were having exactly the opposite effect to the one she intended.

  ‘And you have had his child?’

  The girl nodded mutely between sobs, without lifting her head.

  ‘But the child died – as so many do – and that is why you returned to my service, claiming you had recovered from your “illness”, as you called it, and acted like nothing had occurred?’