Kate nodded, and slowly walked toward the fireplace. “She is with the Spanish ambassador right now, of course,” she said, thinking of how Lady Catherine had just been in conversation with the ambassador’s secretary.
Lady Catherine laughed, an echo of her usual distinctive silvery giggle that had often sounded in the privy chamber. She jumped up to tug another stool closer to the fire, disturbing the dog at her feet. “Everyone is always so very busy this time of year. I never really noticed it before. It’s so difficult to find a quiet spot like this one.”
Kate carefully lowered herself onto the stool, watching Lady Catherine as she settled back onto her seat. She still smiled, but her sky blue eyes were shadowed. “Do you not enjoy the Yuletide, Lady Catherine?”
“Oh, aye. It’s usually one of my favorite times of the year! When I was a girl, at our house at Bradgate, my parents would have the loveliest parties. Dancing all night, with games for all the children, sleigh rides, fireworks. My sister Jane always berated us for having such elaborate celebrations, I fear. She was always buried in her books, and wanted only to think of churchly doings. But I loved the parties, too. My mother was always so elegant, the house so bright and full of noise and warmth. . . .” A flash of pain suddenly creased her brow, and she shook her head. “We were all so merry then, my parents and my sisters, our whole household. Now there is only Mary and me, and my poor stepfather, who is sunk into grief. How is that possible?”
Kate thought of her own father, of how they had always been their own small family, and yet there had been so much loss for them both. Though not as much as Lady Catherine had endured. “There is your cousin the queen, Lady Catherine.”
“Ah, yes. The queen.” Her smile turned brittle, and she shook her head again, as if driving away the past—or the painful present. A lock of golden hair fell from beneath the gilded edge of her black headdress, and she tucked it back. “I know you must know something of what I feel, Mistress Haywood. I hear it so often in your music, such emotion, so very many things we poor humans can’t say in mere words.”
Lady Catherine had surprised Kate yet again. “If I could not write such things in music, pour them out in the notes, I think my heart would burst. It would be much too full,” she said honestly.
Lady Catherine nodded eagerly. “My sister Jane, she was immensely clever. She could express herself in her writing, using words as I never could. But I fear my heart is not as wise and cool as hers was. As cool as the queen can be. Sometimes I feel I will start screaming with it all, and never be able to stop. A song can help me hold it all in. But now . . .”
Kate swallowed hard. Lady Catherine, who had always seemed so impetuous, so very conscious of her high rank and all it entailed, had captured so many of her own feelings about music. “You must miss your mother now, Lady Catherine.”
“I do, so very, very much. No one understood me as she did. The worst of it is, I know I shall never have another friend as my mother was to me.” Lady Catherine’s eyes shimmered brightly, and she blinked the tears back. “Tell me, Mistress Haywood, do you perchance have a sweetheart?”
And there was that surprise again. Kate had certainly not expected such a question. “I fear I am too busy for such things.”
“As are we all.” Lady Catherine’s smile turned teasing, her tears dashed away. “And yet I think you must have felt a passion, for I do hear it in your songs.”
“Nay, not as yet, my lady. But all music must speak of romance, as in poems.” Kate felt her cheeks turn warm, as she thought of Anthony Elias, her friend from Hatfield days who was studying to be an attorney, and his calm, serious green eyes, and Rob and his laughter, and once again felt caught between the two men in her life. “I only imagine it all.”
“Then you must find yourself a real love! It is quite unlike anything else. It is what life must be for, I think. What we are all made for.” She suddenly turned away, as if she realized she had said too much. Her back stiffened, and the royal Tudor expression Lady Catherine so often shared with the queen returned.
“The queen has asked me to compose a masque to welcome a Scots delegation to court,” Kate said quickly. She could see why so many people flocked around Lady Catherine; her attention was dangerously charming. Plus Elizabeth had asked her to keep an eye on her cousin. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to assist me, Lady Catherine? It is a large task at the last moment, I fear, but perhaps it could be a small distraction for you.”
The sunny smile returned. “Oh, yes! I would enjoy that very much. I have some poetry of my own written, only small fragments, but perhaps they would be of some use?”
“Cat?” someone called from the doorway. “There you are! We have been looking everywhere for you. You promised to play primero with us.”
Kate glanced over to see that it was Lady Jane Seymour, Lady Catherine’s best friend and Lord Hertford’s sister. She looked rather like him, with her sharply carved features and pale brown hair, but Lady Jane had grown thinner in the last few winter months than her robust brother, her fine gowns too large. She studied them with her dark blue eyes, also like her brother’s.
“I shall be there in only a moment, Juno, dear,” Lady Catherine called back. “Shall we practice the masque tomorrow, then, Mistress Haywood? Do you need help casting the parts?”
“That would be most welcome. Thank you, Lady Catherine.”
Lady Catherine nodded, and hurried off to join her friend, her little dog leaping in her wake. Kate turned back to the fire, completely bemused. What game was Lady Catherine playing at court? Did she covet her cousin’s throne—or quite the opposite?
And why was she so cozy with the Spanish? Kate couldn’t help but think that once the Scots arrived, the whole balance at court would be quite overturned yet again, and all the pieces on the chessboard would move. But where would they all end up?
CHAPTER FOUR
“Mistress Haywood? This letter has just arrived for you.”
The page boy knocked at Kate’s door just as she was preparing to return to the queen’s chamber after the night’s supper. Elizabeth liked to hear soothing music as she made ready to retire, but Kate’s own small room, tucked up at the highest level of the palace, was so far from the royal apartments that it was a journey to get there. She felt fortunate to even have her own room, when so many courtiers had to share or even find lodgings away from court, but more than once she had become rather lost.
Even though she was late, she opened the door eagerly. A letter! Who could it be from? She thought of how she had remembered Rob and Anthony while talking to Lady Catherine, how that lady’s words of romance and passion had brought them both too vividly to mind, but she pushed them both away now. There was no time for such silly thoughts!
But she was still very curious.
The boy in the queen’s green-and-white livery handed her a thickly folded missive, and she saw at once it was no love poem—but no less welcome. The shaky handwriting, the tiny lute-shaped seal pressed into the red wax, was her father’s.
Kate broke the seal as she brought her candle closer, eagerly scanning the message. It had been too many weeks since she last heard from her father. As Matthew Haywood grew older and his eyesight faltered and his gout worsened, he used much of his energy on his compositions, sending Kate quick word of how he fared by the returning messengers who took him the queen’s own gifts of fresh meat and sweet wines. Kate knew he was most content in his cozy cottage, with a friendly widow who lived nearby to keep him some company and his work to keep him busy, yet she missed him.
Especially after seeing Lady Catherine’s sorrow for her lost mother.
My dearest daughter, she read,
You must be so very busy at court this time of year—how I remember Yuletide in my younger days! The dancing and feasting and the glorious music. I hope to show you some of the work I have finished soon, and hear your thoughts on it. Mayhap the que
en can use it at her Christmas in the coming years.
Winters of the past have been much on my mind of late, and with a very good reason. Perhaps you remember my friend Master Gerald Finsley? Or perhaps you do not, for you were very tiny when he served with us at the court of Queen Catherine Parr, of blessed memory. His sister Allison was your godmother, and most fond of you, though sadly she has now left this world. Gerald has arrived most unexpectedly to visit me, and we have spent many an evening by my fire talking of those days. I confess, I have also boasted a wee bit about your work now, at the court of another fine and learned queen, and Gerald remembers you most fondly. He has listened to my tales of you with great interest.
Gerald Finsley. Kate closed her eyes and tried to remember. Aye, she did recall him, and his sister. Allison Finsley had been so pretty and patient when Kate was barely out of leading strings, teaching the little girl to play her first notes on the virginals, and Kate felt a great pang of sadness to hear of her passing. Her memories of Gerald were more hazy—a tall, handsome, stern-looking man who played for Queen Catherine Parr in her chapel.
The Finsleys had been two of a small circle of musicians she remembered surrounding her father when she was small, along with a husband and wife, the Parks, who were famous for their sweet duets. After King Henry died and they all left the royal court, her father went with the Dowager Queen to her dower house at Chelsea, and the Finsleys joined them for a time. The others scattered to new positions.
A burst of laughter from the corridor outside her chamber pulled her back from the hazy memories of the past to the present moment—a moment when she realized she needed to hurry to the queen’s chamber. She quickly folded the letter and tucked it into the embroidered purse of her kirtle to finish later. She wrapped a warm knitted shawl over her satin evening bodice, and felt the weight of Rob Cartman’s lute pendant tucked away on its chain. As Kate hurried into the royal bedchamber, most of Elizabeth’s ladies were leaving, among them Lady Catherine Grey and Lady Jane Seymour, the two of them whispering together. Lady Catherine gave Kate a small nod as she passed.
The queen herself sat at the virginals, her long, pale fingers skimming over the keys. She was dressed to retire, in a tawny brocade robe trimmed with sable, her red-gold hair loose over her shoulders, but she showed no signs of being tired at the late hour. Unlike everyone else at court, the queen never seemed to grow weary, despite her days of privy council meetings and hunting, meetings with ambassadors and hearing petitions. She would still be dancing while everyone else was drooping where they stood.
Elizabeth did seem pensive that night, though, playing a soft, sad song while her chamber was nearly empty. Only Mistress Ashley was still there, mending by the fire.
“You’re late, Kate,” Elizabeth said, not looking up from the keys.
Kate dropped a hasty curtsy. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I just received a letter from my father, and was distracted.”
“From Matthew?” The queen glanced up, a small smile breaking through her reverie. “How does he fare? I hope he is not ill.”
“Not at all. He says an old friend has arrived to stay with him. Perhaps you remember him from Queen Catherine Parr’s household? Master Gerald Finsley?”
“Master Finsley.” Elizabeth frowned in thought. “Aye, I do recall him. A most solemn man, almost puritanical, yet he had a surprisingly deft touch with a madrigal lyric. Did he not have a sister, too, who waited on my stepmother?”
“Mistress Allison Finsley, my godmother, though my father says she is now gone. You remember more of Master Finsley than I do, Your Grace, though I do recall the black clothes.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Somber clothing can hide much, as I learned when my brother was king and praised me for my plain dress. You were very small then, Kate. But those were lovely days indeed, when my stepmother came to my father’s court and transformed our lives. She acted as a mother to me in truth, which was something I had never known until then. She was a kind and sensible lady, and I learned much from her when she served as my father’s regent for a time. Music was always an important part of the day with her.”
Kate moved closer, thinking of her childhood days, when she had hidden behind her father as he played for the queen. She, too, had learned much then, listening to the ladies talk of their books. Watching their courtly manners. “I do well remember Queen Catherine, though. She was so pretty, with such lovely clothes, and I had never heard a lady speak in such a learned way as she did before.”
“Indeed she did. Perhaps you will recall more of life at her home in Chelsea, after my father died?” Elizabeth said, her tone revealing a small strain under the light words.
Kate hesitated. She had indeed grown a bit older by then, and remembered the house where Queen Catherine had retreated after she was widowed—and where she quickly remarried a few months later. It had been a pretty house, elegant redbrick and white stone, with beautiful gardens. “I was not there long. My father sent me to the country before Queen Catherine moved to Sudeley.” Before the downward spiral of Catherine’s life with Thomas Seymour.
“That was wise of him. You did grow up very fair, Kate, and my stepmother’s husband had a keen eye for a pretty young face, as I am sure you have heard.” Elizabeth’s fingers crashed down on the keys, sending out a discordant note, and she stared out the window with a defiant frown.
“I remember Lord Thomas a bit,” Kate said carefully. “He was very large, and very well dressed, I think. I think of him always laughing.”
Elizabeth smiled. “A man of much wit and little judgment, I do fear. Though I was a girl of little judgment then, too. I learned it quickly, but I would have been better served to have followed more of my stepmother’s example. She was wise and serene—until love felled her, as it does so many.”
The queen stared out the window into the black night, dotted only with the light flurries of snow falling to the garden below, and Kate wondered what she really saw there. Sunny days at Chelsea? A man who was long dead—and who had almost taken Elizabeth with him when he was beheaded for treason? Or Queen Catherine, a beautiful, intelligent woman killed in childbed of the dreaded fever? The lost little baby daughter of Queen Catherine?
“But, aye,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “Life at court was grand for a time with my stepmother, especially at Yuletide. It was the first time I remember being at court with my brother and sister for the holidays, like a true family. And there was dancing and mummeries, just as I intend to have this year. Perhaps your father and Master Finsley would care to visit our court now, and see how our holidays compare?”
Kate almost clapped her hands in excitement at the thought of seeing her father again. To sit by the fire with him, to look over their music, to play duets on their lutes—to have him see her now, with such a fine place she was building for herself. “I am sure they would be most honored, Your Grace.”
“If it would not tire Matthew too much, of course,” Elizabeth said. “We are meant to be celebrating the festive season as they did in olden times, aye? I should love to remember what it felt like when I was a girl, and they can share their memories of Queen Catherine and my father. In fact—did your father not have other friends who played for my stepmother then? I remember them always together.”
“Yes. There was Master Finsley and his sister, who was my godmother. And the Parks.”
“Aye, I do remember them. We shall find them, and bring them all to court!” Elizabeth’s earlier sadness over the thought of Thomas Seymour seemed to be drowned out in fresh eagerness. “Yes, indeed. I want music everywhere this Christmas, and no more dark memories. What think you, Kate?”
Kate laughed, swept up in the queen’s excitement. “I should dearly love to see my father again, Your Grace. And you know I like there to be music everywhere, all the time!”
Elizabeth gave her an indulgent smile. “How fortunate you are, Kate, to have a father you are so eager to see
. I always prayed for a summons to court when my own father was alive, but it frightened me to tears at the same time. I shall write to Matthew, and all of our old friends, this very night. But for now, come here and play this song for me. I want to learn it to play for the Bishop de Quadra, and cannot quite decipher this section . . .”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Oh, cupids, Kate! There must be cupids.”
Kate laughed at Violet’s eager words. They were working on the queen’s new masque for the Scottish visitors, and the scribbled pages of all their ideas were scattered across the table in the great gallery. “Flying cupids, Vi?”
“Of course. I am sure someone could devise a way for them to ride on the clouds above the gods and goddesses. Tiny children in white draperies and golden curls. Singing as they float across the heavens . . .”
“As delightful as that would be, I can’t think which of the courtiers would loan us their babes to use as flying cupids.” Or of any who had their children at court at all. Elizabeth wanted all her nobles to have their full attention on their business—which was her. There was no room in the crowded, noisy palace for children underfoot. Even favorites like the queen’s cousin, Lady Catherine Carey, had to leave her many babies in the country.
The thought of families made Kate remember her father’s letter, and the past when she herself had lived as a child of the court. It had all been so wondrously colorful and exciting then, but she had known nothing of the dark currents that always swirled beneath the merriment.
Violet laid her hand gently over the small swell of her belly beneath the dark green silk of her surcoat. “You are quite right, of course, Kate. Perhaps some painted cupids, then?”
“I’m sure that can be done, if the scene painters in the Office of the Revels won’t scream too loudly about having yet more work pushed on them for the Yule season.” Kate scribbled a note to herself to visit Sir Thomas Benger, the new Master of the Revels, in person to ask about the new scenery and which costumes to borrow. He did seem much easier to charm into helping when confronted with a rueful, beseeching smile than with a note.
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