by Jane Feather
She began to pace the small space, thinking, trying to see a way through this, as the tears dried on her cheeks. Of course they could do anything to her. They could send her to the Tower to enjoy the ministrations of the queen’s torturer, Master Topcliffe. But she had not committed treason. Losing her virginity outside the marriage bed wasn’t treason, unless one was of royal blood. She had done nothing to deserve the rack.
And somehow she had to keep Will out of it. There was no point embroiling him in the scandal, no need for both of them to suffer disgrace. But could she keep his name out of it? Would she have the strength to withstand whatever pressure they brought to bear?
When she heard the key turning in the door, her heart began to beat wildly, fear and horror engulfed her anew. Lady Shrewsbury and Lady Pembroke came in, and with them three elderly women dressed in black, with white coifs. They could have been nuns, but of course they weren’t. There was no place for a nun in the Protestant queen’s court.
Rosamund found herself backing up to the wall, holding her hands in front of her as if she could ward them off.
“Don’t be stupid, Rosamund.” Lady Shrewsbury’s voice was less harsh now. “The midwives will examine you. If you fight them, it will hurt more.”
“I . . . I have my monthly courses.”
“That is fortunate,” one of the midwives said. “It will make the examination easier for you.”
Easier, but doubly degrading. Rosamund couldn’t believe this was going to happen to her, but she knew that it was.
Unless she confessed.
“There is no need for this,” she said in a low voice as the midwives grasped her arms. “I will confess. I am no longer virgin.”
Their hands dropped and they looked to Lady Shrewsbury, who stared at Rosamund in silence. It was Lady Pembroke who said, “Who has known you?”
“I cannot say, madam.”
“You will do so.” Lady Shrewsbury’s voice was frigid and confident. She nodded to the midwives. “We have no need of you now.”
The women left in a rustle of black robes and the two countesses regarded Rosamund with hard eyes. “You little fool,” Lady Shrewsbury said. “To throw away such an opportunity. Do you have any idea how many families solicit the queen for a position? You have ruined yourself, brought scandal upon your family, and for what?”
Rosamund had no answer. It all seemed absurd now, and for the first time she wished that that dreamlike coupling in the hayloft had merely been a dream. But she would not bring Will down with her. She stood silent and waited for what was to happen next.
“You will remain here.” The two ladies swept from the room, and the key turned in the lock, leaving Rosamund alone in the cell-like antechamber. She sat down on the long bench, resting her head against the wall, closing her eyes.
The candle burned low as the hours passed, but in the hot and airless room Rosamund thought that the quiet was the hardest to endure. She was so accustomed to a constant buzz of noise and bustle that she began to feel as if she were buried deep in some underground cavern. Her world had collapsed around her. She had thought she was in charge of her life, that she could direct its path. And now she saw with bleak certainty what a chimera that had been. She had listened to Agathe, to the seductive tidbits of advice about discretion, about how to manipulate the rules and protocols for one’s own pleasure, and the chevalier had shown her how easy it was to put those tidbits into practice. And she had so naively assumed that what those sophisticated, experienced courtiers could do, she could do too.
When eventually the key turned in the lock, the sound was startling in the silence. She jumped to her feet, bracing herself for what was to come.
Lady Shrewsbury stood in the doorway. “Come with me.”
Rosamund followed her out of the antechamber, blinking in the brilliant sunshine of what had to be midafternoon. She was desperately thirsty, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth, her throat so dry she didn’t think she could speak clearly. The countess opened the door to a sparsely furnished paneled chamber and gestured curtly that Rosamund should enter.
Sir Francis Walsingham and her brother were the only occupants of the chamber. They stood side by side in front of a long window that looked out over the river. Rosamund curtsied in silence, aware that Lady Shrewsbury had not followed her in. The door clicked shut.
“Who is the man?” Thomas demanded. His face was red with anger, his eyes hot. “You are an ungrateful wanton, Sister, a disgrace to the family. You will tell me now, who is the man?”
Rosamund swallowed painfully. “May I have a drink? My throat is parched.”
If Thomas heard her, he chose to ignore it. He glared at her. “Answer me.”
Rosamund shook her head helplessly. Thomas advanced on her and she backed away.
“Wait, Thomas.” The curt instruction stopped her brother in his tracks. “You may vent your own spleen later.” Sir Francis walked to a small table in the corner and poured wine from a flagon into a pewter cup. He brought it to Rosamund. “Drink this, and then you will talk.”
There was such confidence in the statement a graveyard chill ran up her spine. She didn’t fear Thomas so much. His temper when roused was fearsome, and his reactions would be primitive and punitive, but she had faced that before, and it was usually short-lived. But Sir Francis was a different matter altogether. She had no idea what he would do to her if she didn’t cooperate, but she knew full well what he could do.
She drank gratefully, draining the cup in a few swallows. When she had finished, he said, “Now answer me, Rosamund. Who was the man?”
“I cannot say.”
His expression didn’t change. “Don’t be a fool, or any more of a one than you already have been. The queen insists upon knowing the identity of the man who lay with you. And believe me, girl, you will tell her what she wishes to know.”
“Why?” Thomas exploded. “Just tell me why you would do something so stupid. You have thrown away the opportunity of a lifetime. Just tell me why.”
She shook her head. It was impossible to describe that night with Will in the hayloft, impossible to explain the overwhelming desire that had caught them up, swept them along on a tide of delight so wonderful it could not possibly have been wrong.
“Thomas, leave us.” Again a curt instruction that could not be gainsaid.
Her brother hesitated, looking at his sister with pent-up fury, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he shook his head. “God’s blood. When I get my hands on you—”
“Go, Thomas. Now.”
Thomas stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Sir Francis surveyed Rosamund in grim silence and with an air almost of repugnance. Then he walked back to the window, looking out, punching one hand into the palm of another, seemingly deep in thought.
Rosamund waited. At last he spoke, his voice cold and without expression. “Either my wife sorely neglected some part of your education in the rules of the court or you’re more stupid than I thought. Was it not explained to you that the queen is jealous of her gentlemen courtiers’ favors? She likes it not when there are understandings between them and her ladies without her blessing. She will not sanction marriages that she has not arranged herself, or at least believes that she has.” The emphasis was slight, but the meaning was clear. “Tell me, were you not aware of these facts?” He swung round to face her, his black eyes fixing her with a fierce glare.
Rosamund swallowed and finally managed to say, “I was aware of them, Sir Francis.”
“And you deliberately chose to flout them?” He shook his head in disgust. “I can’t think why I bothered with you. As a favor to me, the queen took you into her service and, as I understand it, has paid you particular attention.”
“That is the root of the trouble,” Rosamund burst out, unable to keep her humbly penitent silence a minute longer. “If she had not singled me out, the other women would not have made mischief.”
“That is no excuse. You gave them the ammunition and you
must now pay the piper.” He turned away again, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
Rosamund said nothing, there was nothing to say. If Sir Francis hadn’t wanted to use her skill with pen and paper in his own interests, he wouldn’t have made such a point of her aptitude to the queen, and she would not have paid such particular attention to her newest and lowliest maid of honor, and none of this would have happened. But she had not the courage to point that out.
After a moment he spoke again, his back still averted and his voice once more expressionless, the cold anger no longer apparent. “The queen, as I said, does not tolerate liaisons between her courtiers and her ladies. Now I ask you again, and think very carefully before you respond. Who is the man?”
Rosamund thought, playing his words back in her mind. Then she understood. “It was at Scadbury,” she said in a low voice. “Last summer. A troupe of minstrels and jongleurs. They came to the village. There was one . . . one in particular. I . . . we . . . it was just one time.” She fell silent.
Sir Francis turned to face her, his eyes raking her countenance. “Maybe you have not lost your wits after all, and fortunately for you I still have a use for them. Remain here, while I see what chestnuts I can pull out of this fire.” He left her alone once more with only her thoughts for company.
Chapter Twenty
SIR FRANCIS ENTERED the queen’s privy chamber without undue ceremony, knowing he was expected. Elizabeth was reading in her chair by the window overlooking the river where she got the best light. She folded the book over her finger as her secretary of state entered and bowed.
“So, did you get it out of her, Francis?”
“It would seem, madam, that unbeknownst either to myself or my lady wife the girl arrived at court unchaste. She lost her virginity to an itinerant player at Scadbury last summer. A sadly motherless girl with no female supervision in the first impulsive flush of womanhood.” He opened his hands in a What will you? gesture. “I can assure you that nothing untoward has happened in her time at court. A little harmless flirtation, perhaps, but nothing more than that.”
Elizabeth turned her head to look out at the river. She made no response for a moment, as she remembered her own youthful indiscretion with the admiral. Even at this great distance she could still relive that heady, belly-deep surge of excitement when Seymour had touched her, when he’d wake her in the dawn, tickling, slapping, playfully seeming always, but even as an untried girl of fourteen, she had known it was not at all playful. And she had not tried very hard to turn him away.
“You are certain nothing has occurred with any gentlemen of the court?”
“Believe me, madam, I would know it.”
“Yes, of course you would, Francis.” She knew her secretary’s methods. She turned her gaze away from the river, back to Walsingham. “So, what do you suggest be done with her? She cannot remain after such a deception. I insist upon absolute honesty and chastity in my ladies. She must be banished from court.”
“Yes, of course, madam.” Sir Francis bowed his acknowledgment of the justice of the edict. “But if I might venture to suggest a way in which her banishment might be turned to good use?”
Elizabeth smiled, but her tone had an acid edge to it. “You see an opportunity in everything, Francis.”
“I certainly make it my business to try, madam.”
“What have you in mind? Pour wine, will you? And for yourself if you wish it.” She waved towards a flagon on a sideboard against the far wall. “And then take a seat.”
Francis obliged, pouring the golden wine into the delicate crystal goblets, bringing one to his queen and taking his own to a low chair across from her. He sipped, then set the glass on the table beside him.
“I am suggesting that you send Rosamund to your cousin Mary. As a gesture of goodwill. Her entourage is sadly diminished and another lady would bring a breath of fresh air, fresh companionship, for them all.”
“My cousin would hardly trust a companion from my court,” the queen pointed out, frowning over her glass.
“This one she might, madam. Rosamund will have little difficulty convincing Scots Mary that she has been sent away from your court in disgrace, since it is only the truth. But she will offer the reason for her banishment that she was discovered practicing the Catholic religion in secret. I venture to think that Mary will find the prospect of a persecuted convert irresistible.”
Elizabeth regarded him with interest. “Perhaps so. But by no means certain.”
“I think she will if Rosamund makes it clear that serving Mary was her idea, that she is a sympathetic Catholic, forced to hide her true sentiments, desperate to find herself in like-minded religious company free to practice her religion in the manner of her convictions.”
“You think Rosamund capable of such a deception?” The queen’s interest sharpened. “She has an extraordinary memory and considerable talent at reproduction, I grant you, but she is so young, so naive, almost a simpleton. If she were not, she would not find herself in her present disgrace.”
“Madam, she is a Walsingham.” Francis took the scent of his wine again.
Elizabeth shook her head. “You are a rogue of the first water, Francis. You will force the girl to toe the family line, just like her brother.”
“Oh, I do not force Thomas, madam. The work suits him. And I think it likely that it will suit his sister. Her wits make up for what she lacks in experience.”
“You are confident of that?”
His curt nod was answer enough.
“And you will use her to gain information while she is part of my cousin’s retinue?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Then I have no objection. But she must depart the palace immediately. I do not wish to see her again.”
Francis rose and bowed. “It will be done, madam.” He backed to the door and let himself out.
Rosamund had finished the wine in the flagon, which on an empty belly made her feel a little muzzy. She knelt on the window seat, pressing her forehead against the diamond panes, gazing out at the river where the barges and skiffs plied their oars with such freedom. The chamber was stuffy and after a moment she opened the casement, leaning on her folded arms to look down into the garden just below. She could hear the murmur of voices as people strolled along the path beneath the window, and her attention was suddenly seized by the sight of Agathe and the chevalier walking arm in arm across the sweep of lawn beyond the path. They were heads together deep in a conversation that looked to be absorbing them completely. She thought Arnaud looked angry, and Agathe once or twice placed a hand on his arm as if to placate or soothe him. Once he unceremoniously pushed the hand away.
Rosamund, despite her own misery, was intrigued. What were they talking about? They continued walking towards the path below her open casement and she drew back a little, not wanting to be seen if they should look up. She had no wish to show herself in her present disgraced imprisonment to anyone she knew. They reached the path below her window and she heard Agathe’s voice for a moment quite clearly. “I do not think you can blame me, Arnaud. I did what you asked. I encouraged her, I taught her how to play, it is not my fault if she used the lessons on someone else.”
Rosamund leaned out farther but she couldn’t make out Arnaud’s response. It was in French and too swift for her to follow, but his tone was unmistakable. He was very angry. She withdrew into the chamber, momentarily diverted from her own troubles, but not for many minutes. The key turned in the lock behind her and her heart began its erratic thumping again. She stood up, facing the door.
Sir Francis came in, followed by two men in the crimson livery of the queen’s personal guard. They stood at either side of the door.
“You will go with these men. They will escort you to your dorter, where you will pack your belongings. Your trunk will be collected later and taken to Seething Lane, where you will stay until you begin your journey.”
“My journey where?”
“That will be explain
ed to you when I deem it necessary.” He stood aside, gesturing that she should go with the guards.
Rosamund obeyed in silence, moving past him into the corridor. The guards fell in beside her and the long walk began. Rosamund felt the curious stares of those they passed. She was obviously under guard, even though neither of her escorts laid a hand upon her. She walked with her head high, eyes straight ahead, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. She heard the whispered buzz rising like swarming bees and knew that the story would be on everyone’s lips within half an hour, if it wasn’t already.
They turned a corner leading to the dorter and her step faltered. Will Creighton and two other courtiers were coming towards them along the corridor, laughing at something. The laughter died on Will’s face when he saw her, his eyes darting between her liveried escorts. The color drained from his cheeks and he took a step towards her, his hand outstretched.
Rosamund shook her head at him and moved one hand in an unmistakable gesture of rejection. Her eyes were fierce as they fixed upon him, trying to burn her silent message into his brain. He looked astounded, bewildered, then stepped back as she and her guards passed down the corridor.
It took all her willpower to keep from one last look over her shoulder as he walked away from her. Her way lay far from here now, far from the world that was still his. Their paths would probably never cross again. It was right, it was sensible and practical, to salvage something from this catastrophe. There was no reason to ruin Will’s chances for advancement, yet the thought of Will continuing his life as if nothing had happened while she faced whatever drear future they had planned for her filled her with a dark resentment that she despised, but could for the moment do nothing to alleviate.
She packed her belongings in the trunk under the watchful if bored eyes of her escort and looked around, making sure she had forgotten nothing. One thing she would not regret would be this wretched space with its lumpy, prickly, flea-ridden mattress, and its vile, vindictive inhabitants. May the evil eye fall on them all. On which silent curse, Rosamund shook the dust of Whitehall Palace from her feet and stalked past her guards.