She glanced up at me as she did so. “I’ve seen many a face I have in my time, and I feel I know you from somewhere.”
“Where were you before the court?” I asked.
“I was a governess to Lord Eastbourne,” she said. “I’ve always been in charge of babes, I have. Highborn and lowborn, it did not matter, I loved them. But I’m tired of that work, I am. Lost too many along the way.”
“There,” I said, pointing to another of her stitches. “That one would look better as a satin stitch. Pull the needle up to the left.”
“Why, you’re right,” she said, smiling. She looked down at my own cloth, a panel of crescents and rolling hills, a picture of a land I knew long ago. “Why, yours is beautiful. Gorgeous. The last time I seen stitching that beautiful was when my good Queen Katherine Parr stitched her nursery things for the baby.”
“Ahh,” I said, quietly, my stomach lurching. “Katherine Parr. Was she a good lady, Queen Katherine Parr?” I asked.
“Yes, pious, sweet, good-natured,” Mrs. Eglionby said. “The most noble of them all. She had everything, but what she wanted most was a little babe. Poor little Mary. Nothing went right for the child. A queen’s daughter, no less. Perfect in every way she was when she was born. A full crop of red hair she had.” She laughed. “And a half-moon mark above her ear! Oh, but the poor queen died she did, of the fever.”
“And the child, what became of the child?” I asked casually, as my stomach continued to flutter. I looked up at Dorothy, who nodded at me from across the room.
“Stolen she was,” she whispered, looking around. “Although I was sworn to secrecy by the duchess. The duchess never cared for little Mary. And when the child got sick and disappeared, the duchess never even looked for her. Why would she, now? She’d been relieved of a very costly burden. She just let it be known about that the child had died.”
“But who took the child?” I asked.
“We all knew,” she stated flatly, then lowered her voice again in a whisper. “For the three of them were simply gone.” I leaned in to hear better. “But I knew for sure, and kept my mouth buttoned up. On the night she disappeared, it was dark as hell, it was. Strangely hot, too, for it was the end of summer, very near the child’s second birthday. I was at the window opening the shutters and I happened to see the maid Grace leaving with her milch beast, and carrying two little bundles. And that harpy swag-bellied fool seemed to be helping her get away. I couldn’t see very well since it be a moonless night, so I’ll never know for sure if Grace carried the babes with her or not. It was simply too dark.”
“Why did you not sound the alarm the next day when the queen’s child was gone?”
“I figured it was better this way, you see,” she said. “For I had overheard, just two nights before, the dwarf talking with the duchess about making a sleeping potion that would make the little girl rest forever and put us all out of our misery.” She pulled another stitch up. “It was the dwarf’s idea, but the duchess didn’t say aye or nay, and I knew this did not bode well for the child. Oh my,” she proclaimed, holding her hand over her mouth. “I always did have a loose tongue. I’ve gone too far, haven’t I?”
“Oh no,” I said, my voice lowered to a whisper as well. “I’ll never tell a soul. And what would it matter? No one wanted the child and the fortune was already lost, wasn’t it? And what happened to Jane the fool?”
“Who?” she asked, looking at me strangely.
“The dwarf. Swag-bellied you say. Was she with child?”
“I thought so, I did,” she said. “There were rumors she met a groom somewhere in the woods. And not long after Grace and the queen’s child disappeared, Jane the fool, aye, that was her name, indeed it was, disappeared too on a dark, windless night. And it was said she’d turned herself into a wolf, for the most ghastly howls were heard in the woods that night.”
“Perhaps she was birthing her babe,” I suggested quietly.
“Aye, perhaps she was. And her babe runs with the wolves now.”
A century or so ago, near Winchcombe, a small child drowned in Old Simon’s duck pond. It’s not the ghost of the child who lingers there now, but its mother waiting for it to come home. “The lingering,” they call it, the feeling that something is there but cannot be seen. I did not appear in the queen’s company for two days, and strangely she did not call for me, but I knew, aye, I did, that something waited between us. I took her gown to Lady Sidney’s rooms, and I stitched and stitched away as it was pinned around one of the forms, finally determined to finish it. Lady Mary Sidney helped with some of the stitches.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” I told her one afternoon. The heat was searing, so her curtained windows had been propped open, letting a curious light into the room.
She looked up at me, the light bestowing a special beauty upon her poxed face. “I know,” she said. “And I’m happy for you. For your escape. But the queen will not let you go; you will have to sneak away in the night. You do know this.”
“I can’t do that to her,” I said.
“It’s beautiful,” came a quiet voice from the doorway. It was the queen. Lady Sidney nodded, then retreated to her rooms.
“It’s my gift to you.”
“A parting gift,” she said as she walked around the form, running her hand across the peach fabric. She stared at it a good long time, stroking the great lion, whose ruby eyes glimmered on the stomacher. She touched the delicate orchids entwined with curling vines, the exotic beasts from faraway lands stitched in Venice gold, a sea monster in green silk swimming along the hem. Puckered all over the gown were hundreds of luminous pearls set within truelove knots. I waited with indrawn breath to see if she would notice my final touch. But if she did, she didn’t comment on it. “Magnificent,” she finally said, her eyes still on the dress. “You’ve given me everything. Almost everything.”
I did not answer her. I couldn’t. “Come with me,” she said quietly. She led me down the staircase and along a short hall guarded by two yeomen. They bowed and opened the door. I followed her. Jewels, boxes and boxes of jewels, everywhere. The Jewel House. Blanche Parry had told me of it once.
“Some of this is yours,” she said, throwing her arms in the air. “Some of your things went to relatives; some were seized by the Crown when your death was reported. I cannot give it all back to you intact. But you can take whatever I have. It is yours. I do not care.”
Rubies, diamonds, emeralds. I put my hand inside an ebony coffer and let my fingers pass through the gems. They felt like river pebbles.
“But I do not want any of this,” I said. “I don’t!” Tears ran down my cheeks. I turned back to her. Her face was unreadable.
“So you shall choose love. A man’s love,” she said. “Over your own stepsister.”
“When did you know, really?”
“The very first time I laid eyes on you,” she said. “It was like seeing a ghost, for we were told you had died when you were two. I wasn’t completely sure for quite a long time. I would have loved you regardless. You are the daughter I’ll never have.” I stepped forward to embrace her, but she must have read what was deep in my eyes. She stepped away from me. “Go now, then. If you’ve made up your mind, go to him.”
“I very much doubt he will have me,” I said.
“I think perhaps he will.” She smiled.
“No,” I said. “And I can’t bear to lose him again. What would you do, Your Majesty, if you were in my shoes?”
“I’d give the world to be in your shoes,” she said. “To choose love. Real love.” She had turned from me, her voice royal and commanding. “We can have no further contact. If I were to give you anything, if we continued to speak, they’d for sure know there was a connection. I can’t recognize you for who you really are and have that particular scandal stirred up again. I nearly lost everything for tarrying with your father. They’d only assume you were my daughter, anyway. There were rumors, so many rumors. I’m sorry, but we will never see each oth
er again.”
A sob caught in my throat as I started to take off my ring. “No,” she said quietly. “Keep it. It has only sad memories for me, but will have good ones for you.” I stepped toward her again. She held up her hand. She looked at me one more time, then walked from the room.
When I made it back to my chamber, my court gowns and things had already been taken away. On the bed was a gold coin, enough for a journey into the country. I quickly got down on my knees and searched my hiding place. God’s me, but my things were still there—the nursery items, and the necklace. And something else—hidden underneath it all—a journal. I flipped through the pages quickly. In Grace’s own hand. A note fell out. Barely legible, Anna had scribbled, I thought I’d lose you. I opened to the first page of the journal and began to read.
The Good and Rightful Remembrance of Grace Bab in the Year of Our Lord…
CHAPTER 30
I knew where the chapel at Sudeley was, indeed I did, even though I’d never been inside. Tucked behind the castle, with a turret and spikes and stained-glass windows that glowed at night like jewels, it was a miniature version of the big castle. Many a time I’d spent at Belas Knap wondering what it would be like to live there.
I’d come here first after walking all the way from Gloucester, one bag in hand. I couldn’t go straightaway to Nutmeg Farm. Not yet. Grace always did say that despite my high spirit, a scared little girl resided in me. And I knew now, beyond a doubt, who I was. My mother lay in there somewhere. I stood at the entrance to the chapel, my heart racing. I pushed open the heavy wooden door and crept in.
I slowly made my way up the center aisle. Wooden pews lined the chapel. The altar was elaborately carved, and behind it a magnificent alabaster wall lit with candles eerily cast a glint of white gloom about the room. I peered around, looking for any sign of a tomb. But I saw none. I made my way to the alabaster wall, gingerly running my hands over the smooth marble. She was here somewhere in this chapel, but where?
I took one of the lit tapers and knelt before the alabaster, shining the light into the dark shadows. Behind me, I heard the chapel door creak open. I looked back over my shoulder. A small, stooped man, with a long white beard that nearly touched his belly, was walking up the aisle.
“And who be you?” he asked. “One of the Winchcombe rats come to plague me?”
I sat still, for I had long heard tales of this man who scared away miscreants in the night. I slowly stood. “I’m not a rat, sir. I’m a lass. And I’ve come looking for my mother.”
“Your mother be not here,” he said. “Go home now before I fetch my—”
“My mother, sir,” I interrupted him. “She died after giving birth to me. Here at Sudeley.”
He was silent a good full minute before walking to me. He came within a foot of me, and I had to hold my breath, so foul-smelling and goatish he was. He turned his head this way and that, giving me a good study. He settled on my eyes. Then nodded his head.
He shuffled to the candles. “And how old are you, lass?” he asked as he slowly started to extinguish them one by one with a long silver snuffer.
“Nearly seventeen,” I answered. “This August.”
“August thirtieth,” he said.
I blinked. “You know of my mother? Queen Katherine Parr?” I asked him.
He moved to another set of candles. “Of course I knew of her. I came shortly after her death. I’ve looked for her myself the best I could without digging all the stone up. She’s waiting. She’ll show herself to us someday when she be ready.” The old man extinguished more candles, leaving but two. Then he tottered back out the chapel without saying a word.
I felt the lingering, a hush of air like a ghost’s whisper circling me. Aye, she was here. I could feel her. I knelt back down and ran my hand across the alabaster in the far left corner, till I felt a place of warmth. I laid down on top of it, hugging my knees, letting the heat run through my body like a long embrace. I lay there for a long time feeling at peace, like I could sleep forever, and when I opened my eyes I saw an elegant figure in crimson float down the aisle and through the wooden doors.
One of Christian’s lambs, loose from his enclosure, followed me up the path to Cowslip Cottage, his bell sweetly tinkling. Did I imagine that he frowned at me? What would his master do? When I reached the door, I found I could not go in, my heart beat so. Instead I sat under one of the pear trees watching birds go by, butterflies swim in the wind, insects circle the sky. It was late afternoon, the sun sinking like a great gold coin. When I was young, Agnes would cook an early dinner for Uncle Godfrey and Christian when they came in from the orchard. But everything was different. I had no idea what they’d be doing now.
Finally the door of Cowslip Cottage opened. I sat up. God’s me, but it was Bartolome. He was heading somewhere, but he stopped when he saw me under the tree.
“It is you,” he said shyly, with little expression.
“Yes, it is me,” I told him. “Is Christian at home?” I asked, a tingling rushing up my spine as I spoke his name.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell him I’m here waiting for him under the tree?” I asked.
He grinned wide, turned, and ran inside. An eternity later, the door opened again. I stood and brushed off my dress. But when I looked up shyly, it was only Bartolome running back to me.
“Well, what did he say?” I asked, my heart falling down to my feet. I leaned back into the tree.
“Nothing at first. Old Nan told him to stay where he was, that you should come to him, with all you’ve put him through, and so he just be sitting there. And then Uncle Godfrey said, ‘Go,’ and still he be sitting there, his face white as linen, and Nan Love had to fetch him some ale and he drank the whole cup down in one gulp.” Bartolome laughed.
God’s death, he didn’t want me. Of course he didn’t want me. I looked up at the pear tree, my eyes filling with tears. I was too late. I leaned down to kiss Bartolome and pick up my bag to go, but just as I did the cottage door opened. It was Christian. Christian standing tall, proud, unsmiling in the doorway.
I started to walk to him, and then to run, and finally he began to walk toward me till we met in front of Agnes’s old herb garden. I threw my arms around him, tears running down my face.
“I love you, Christian,” I said, my face buried in his chest. “I just didn’t know how much.” He still hadn’t said anything. He lifted my chin and ran his thumb over my face, his eyes full of something I couldn’t identify.
Then he picked me up, and carried me across the field, away from the cottage. I nuzzled my face on his shoulder, taking in the deep aroma of wool and sandalwood. I didn’t care where we were going. I was with him and he hadn’t turned me away.
But soon he was carrying me through the village. And soon a gaggle of boys was following us, then others, emerging from their cottages, even the old creatures.
“Christian,” I said, my face aflame in embarrassment. “What are you doing? Put me down! Christian, say something!”
But still he did not speak. We passed the town green, and Winchcombe Abbey, and the churchyard. And the next thing I knew I was in the duck pond dripping wet, from head to toe. And Christian was already walking away as I made my way out of the pond, water pouring from my dress, my hair loose now and soaking wet.
I ran after him, my shoes sloshing and squeaking as Frances and Piper Pea and Alice Ogilvey laughed. It was a long way back. But he walked all the way to Cowslip Cottage, never acknowledging my calls and pleading.
“Christian!” I called once more as he walked up Cowslip Hill.
And finally he stopped. “Am I good enough for you now, Kat?”
“You were always good enough for me. Yes, Christian,” I said. “I love you. I love you.” He leaned down, his lips hovering just above mine until finally I moved forward. His lips were warm and soft. I thought my heart would burst.
“Well, you have the rest of your life to show me,” he said, turning back toward the cottage. �
��Come,” he said quietly.
We walked hand in hand up Cowslip Hill over the centurion, the setting sun sending fiery streaks of golden red across our beautiful valley, the last one God made.
EPILOGUE
I saw the queen again many, many years later. She came on progress to Sudeley Castle in the year of our lord 1592. Although Christian bade me not to go, as he was much worried for me, I did go with the other villagers. Our son Miles, born like a God’s miracle twenty years into our marriage, came along with me, excited of the day. Bartolome had long left, living the life of an adventurer like his father. Uncle Godfrey had passed and was buried next to Agnes. I tended the graves, all of them—Grace’s, Agnes’s and Anna’s. I had buried Grace’s journal and my necklace back with her, for such secrets belonged under the earth.
We stood with a throng of people lining Sudeley Lane. I was near the back, only hoping to get but a small glimpse of her, the queen—my sister. “Is it true like Papa says, you knew the queen long ago, Mama?” Miles asked. He pushed himself through the crowd, dragging me along with him.
“Yes, I knew her,” I said. “And it was indeed long ago.”
And then suddenly there she was, high atop a white horse in her procession, her bearing as regal as ever, although there was many a line upon her face. She was wearing it, the gown I’d spent so many months stitching. Even from here, I could see my wolf, its emerald stare boring straight through me.
The queen and I locked eyes, both of us frozen in the moment, her face not changing, unreadable. And then she slowly nodded her head. I returned her acknowledgment; her procession moved on. She never looked back.
The House of Tudor
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There are various accounts of what happened to Queen Katherine Parr’s coffin, and who eventually discovered her. It is generally agreed that she was forgotten for more than two hundred years, until her coffin started to rise to the surface in the decaying chapel at Sudeley. One story has it that a Mr. John Lucas dug up the slender steel coffin and found the former queen completely intact—moist, her face beautiful as though she had just died. Two years later when her coffin was found amidst some rabbit holes by yet more curiosity seekers, her face had turned to bone.
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