by G Lawrence
“It will be done, my lady,” Cecil said. “I also thought we should put the Countess of Lennox in the Tower. Her husband and son have defied your command to return, therefore they are traitors. You have just cause to formally imprison her on that count, and it would remove one who could be used by Mary or Darnley as a spy in your court.”
I grinned. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, Cecil,” I purred. “Have the Countess taken to the Tower, and have her son, Charles, removed from her and taken for questioning.” I stretched my arms up, thinking that there was at least one event to bring me happiness in all this mess. Charles was only eight, so I doubted there was much he could tell my men, but separating him from Margaret would impress the gravity of her situation upon her. “How many times will that be that Margaret has been an inmate of the Tower, Cecil? My father imprisoned her when she dared to think of marrying men he did not approve of, and I have sent her there a few times myself. She should take up residence there and have done with it.”
“I will reissue demands for Darnley and Lennox to return,” said Cecil. “And inform them that the Countess is to be arrested for their defiance.”
“It will not stop them, Cecil,” I said. “Darnley cares for no one but himself, Lennox is blinded by the prospect of the crown and Mary is too far into this now. She thinks that by defying me she is being strong and bold. She will learn, eventually, that this union will only make her weaker.”
“If she becomes pregnant, Majesty, she will be in a stronger position than you,” Cecil pointed out.
“But she will always have that dunce beside her, Cecil. He will counter any advantage she wins.”
Margaret was taken to the Tower of London that June and put into the Lieutenant’s Lodgings with a small body of servants. Facing Tower Green, the apartments I chose for Margaret were intended to make her well aware of how close she was brushing to Death. On the green before her chambers many other royal women had met their end; my mother included.
Although she was a prisoner, Margaret’s apartments were well-furnished and stuffed full of glorious cloth and tapestry. She had access to a small garden for exercise and her table was stocked well with fine foods. Mary sent me messages, asking that I release Margaret. I sent Mary letters commanding her to return Darnley and Lennox to England. We, each of us, ignored the demands of the other. Maitland, aware that he was not about to get my permission for the marriage left for Scotland.
At the end of July, Mary made Darnley the Duke of Albany. One week later she married him. I could hardly believe how swift she was moving. Heralds arrived in Edinburgh to announce that Darnley was to be named King of Scotland, something he had apparently insisted on, despite such an event normally requiring the support of Parliament. Mary’s Council were divided and Darnley was hardly helping his supporters, for lately he had been heard to say he cared more for English Catholics than for Scots Protestants, which lost him much goodwill. But Mary was resolute that he should have the title. Perhaps suffering under the old, tired strain of marriage; that a wife, no matter her title, must be subject to her husband, my cousin pushed for Darnley to be made King.
Mary and her new husband celebrated, but there was, even then, a hollow, ominous feel to the festivities. Few were willing to wait upon Darnley, and some of Mary’s lords refused to attend the wedding or celebrations which followed.
Already there were lords in Scotland preparing to rebel against my cousin. Although we knew it not at the time, Mary was in a great deal more peril from this marriage than we in England were.
Chapter Sixty
Durham House
London
Summer 1565
“Cousin,” I said warmly as I approached Katherine Knollys. “My heart is made whole again to see you.” Katherine curtseyed and then rose to take my outstretched hands.
“I am so grateful that you sent Doctor Huick, Majesty,” she said. “He was marvellous. It is because of him that I am here to see the wedding of my son.”
“The occasion could not be whole without you, Katherine,” I said. I looked on her pink cheeks and merry face with satisfaction. I had stolen her from the greedy hands of Death. Henry Knollys, Katherine’s eldest son, was to be wed this day to Margaret Cave, one of my maids of honour. We were at Durham House, on the Strand in London and almost the whole court had managed to get themselves invited. The groom was wandering with his men in the gardens, laughing and jesting, and Margaret was having the final touches made to her best gown of red silk. There was talk and song on the air; merriment flowing through every passageway and corridor. It was a good day.
I smiled at my Knollys cousin. I had always had more affection for Katherine than any of my other cousins, with the possible exception of Lady Strange. Perhaps it was because Katherine was related to me through my mother’s blood and therefore presented no threat to my throne. There was, of course, a possibility that she held more royal blood than was publicly admitted, for her mother, Mary Carey nee Boleyn, and my father had once been lovers. Although my father had never acknowledged either of Mary Carey’s children, there was a possibility that both Katherine and her brother Henry were his. This would make them my cousins and my half-brother and sister. Henry Carey certainly resembled my father. But even if this were true, it did not matter for the succession. Unlike her sister, Mary Carey had never been married to my father; illegitimate blood could not rise to the throne.
“Tell me your plans for the day,” I said, leading her into the house. “Will the couple be put to bed here?”
Katherine nodded. “They will spend the wedding night and a few days here, together,” she said and then smiled with an indulgent look on her face. “My son is eager to finally become a husband. He and Margaret love each other dearly.”
“Margaret has been almost unable to contain her excitement,” I said. “She has skipped about her duties in my chamber of late.”
“I thought the girl might fly from one of the windows yesterday,” said Kat from behind us. “She was so excited I believe I saw wings sprouting from her shoulder blades.”
I chuckled. “Love gives us wings to fly to happiness.”
I glanced at Robin as I said this. Standing some way off, talking to the groom, he cut a fine figure in blue silk and silver trimmings. His tunic was tight across his chest. His hose were dark black silk, hugging his fine legs. My heart called out; it tried to make me remember that yearning, wanting, nagging need to make him mine. I turned my gaze away. I no longer listened to my heart when it spoke of Robin. At least… I tried not to.
The wedding was a brief ceremony in the chapel at Durham. The bride was in her best red dress, and the groom matched her in a russet doublet. They were a handsome young couple. Standing before the light of God, she promised to obey him, to be bonny and buxom in bed, and to protect and care for him. As was ever the way, he promised the same, but did not have to swear to be ever-ready to receive her in bed, nor to obey her. I wondered, at times, about the service of marriage; that women should have to swear to give up their independence and freedom of choice where men do not. Had God really intended this? Or were these words made only by men, by the Church, to fashion the world as they wanted it? If I ever married, I would have to swear to obey another. How could I keep such a promise? How could I ever promise to obey a man, when the care of this country was granted to me and to me alone, by God? I liked not the notion of such obedience. It was not in my nature. I also did not welcome the idea that ever after the ceremony of marriage I should be expected to give my body to my husband whenever he desired. Surely, God gave us free will, and granted it to both men and women? The ceremony of marriage, to my mind, removed a woman’s right to free will. But if I minded this, all others about me did not. Perhaps to them, the words of the service were but words. I knew plenty of women who did not keep to their oath to obey, just as I knew plenty of men who did not keep to their vows to be faithful… Words… They seem so powerful, yet they only have power if we believe they do.
Th
at night we danced in the great hall, and feasted. The young couple sat happy, and flushed as they stared into each other’s eyes. Henry fed Margaret with titbits from his plate and she filled his cup with wine. I noted, however, that she had her servants mix plenty of boiled water into his goblet. Clever girl, I thought admiringly, she does not want a wine-soaked husband in her virgin’s bed.
We feasted on delicate courses of egg and saffron broth, buttered nettles and beer and cheese soup. Fresh, green sallats of spinach with currents and pottage of lamb with dried plums tempted the taste-buds. Then came roasted conies, peahens, capon and lamb so tender it dissolved upon the tongue. There was baked venison with frumenty, roasted hog and gammon with egg, and capon layered with blackened-roasted lemon slices. Thick lamb stew glittering with fresh Alexander leaves bubbled on the tables. Lobster tart, lamb pie, pig trotters in jelly and baked flounder with white wine sauce were dished out from shared platters. Pike in rosemary, roasted conger eel, fresh salmon and fried whiting disappeared into eager mouths. Golden baked pies of mutton, beef, cheese and egg oozed out sweet fillings of dates, raisins, pepper and salt when sliced open. Roasted hare, mutton steaks, ale stew, and lampreys in broth puffed savoury scents into the warm air. Beef olive pie, stuffed with finely diced leaves of violets, strawberries, spinach, and sorrel was cut open to reveal tumbling, steaming hot prunes and dates. Chicken pie with ginger, grapes, and berries was handed out in hearty slices as egg and kidney pancakes with sweet-sour fruits were served. Meatballs in white sauce glistened in silver bowls as roasted crane, quail, heron and woodcock enticed already full bellies to further gluttony. Artichokes boiled in sweet broth sat beside rice of Genoa, rich with almond milk. Spears of bright green asparagus and cold spiced vegetables slathered in honey sauce just about managed to slide in between the many other dishes.
We held a private banquet of sweets later, in another chamber, as the rest of the court tried to resume dancing. Many were far too full to attempt such a feat. In the side chamber, I laughed with the young couple as we supped on walnut comfits, sugar paste shaped into love hearts and marchpane knots. There was almond gingerbread, rosewater marzipan, delicate apple pies and almond butter laced with bright pink pomegranate seeds. Pies and pastries stuffed with summer fruits, or imported bitter-sweet oranges and lemons tingled on the tongue. We nibbled on eggs poached in rosewater and sugar, mottled so their skins looked like the moon, then devoured little biscuits flavoured with caraway seed, dipped in spiced honey custard.
That night I led the party of ladies who were to put Margaret to bed. I instructed Robin, who was leading the men, to ensure the groom was not far behind. Margaret had controlled her new husband’s consumption of wine, and he was not too intoxicated. I understood she was hoping for a caring lover to take her maidenhead, rather than a drunken ass cavorting in her bed. I hardly wanted all her good work ruined if the groom was enticed into carousing with his men.
“I will deliver him as soon as possible, Majesty,” Robin said with a naughty grin. “Henry Knollys is more eager for his wife than for wine, in any case.”
“Remind him that I will be in the room when he arrives,” I said, eyeballing Robin with a steely gaze. “That should keep him sober.”
Robin laughed and went on his way to locate the groom as I took Margaret and my ladies upstairs. In the upstairs chamber, experienced matrons explained Margaret’s duties to her. They made the whole experience sound so painful and distressing that I pitied the girl, although they did add that there was great pleasure to be found, if the husband had the patience to take his time.
Happy to see Henry Knollys arrive at least mostly sober on the shoulders of his men, we ladies kissed Margaret and vacated the chamber. We made our way back to the great hall, to continue to dance and drink as the young couple made their marriage legal. I danced with Thomas Heneage and then with Robin when he came down. Pink cheeked and happy, I took a break to drink some ale and refresh my senses.
“I wish I could see such a day come for you, my lady,” said a voice at my side. Half-expecting it to be Robin, and yet knowing it could not be since the voice was female, I turned and shook my head at Kat.
“Today was a fine day, and a good night,” I agreed. “But I would rather be a watcher, than a participant.” I laced my arm through hers. “And after all the ghastly detail I heard in that bedchamber, I am surprised any maid has the courage to go ahead with the deed!”
Kat chuckled. “It is true the first time is not the greatest experience for a woman,” she said and pulled a rueful face. “Although John did not seem to notice anything amiss when we were put to bed together…”
I laughed. “Was your John a beast, then? Should I have him put in the Tower for hurting my Kat?”
“He was… eager, Majesty. But I assure you he has made up for it a thousand times and more in all the years we have been together.” My already pink cheeks flushed scarlet and Kat laughed at me. “You are far too mature, Majesty, to have colour flood into those cheeks upon mention of what goes on in a bed of marriage.”
“One is easily embarrassed by events one knows nothing of,” I said. “Come, we will move on to other topics. For if you speak anymore of your John in such a way I shall never be able to talk to him again.”
Kat giggled like a girl, and we made our way through the crowds. Arm in arm, surrounded by happy faces, we stopped to talk and chat. The hall was filled with the scent of sweat, wine, spice and sugar. Ale flowed long and deep into the night. I danced galliards and voltas and pranced about the chamber with a light step. I was bright, happy and free and went to my bed that night with a mind seeped in joy.
Chapter Sixty-One
Richmond Palace
Summer 1565
After the fuss of the wedding had ended, Kat fell ill again.
The headaches were growing worse and no infusions or potion of poppy juice or willow bark could abate them. She grew tired and clumsy. I sent her to her bed often, but she always returned within a day, refusing to give up her duties.
One day, when she was dressing me, Kat was holding out a ribbon ready to tie it to my gown. Blanche later told me that Kat had seemed confused; she could not get the ribbon to go where she wanted. I did not see Kat as she fumbled. I just seemed to sense something. It was as though, for a moment, I could feel the hand of Fate reaching out to Kat. It was as if a strand of the future looped back and touched the present, warning me of what was about to happen. Feeling this eerie sense, I shivered and turned around. Kat’s eyes were unfocused. Her hand trembled as she tried to fasten the ribbon to my sleeve. Her mouth dropped open slowly, as though an invisible person whispered shocking gossip in her ear. Her warm brown eyes fluttered, cresting backwards so I could see only the whites of her eyes. She tried to say something, but the word caught in her throat. The ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered slowly to the floor. Kat’s knees buckled. She moaned, as though in terrible pain.
“Kat!” I cried, scrambling to catch her.
I failed. I caught the sleeve of her gown. The fabric ripped, and I was left holding her sleeve as Kat’s legs gave way. She fell. Blanche caught Kat’s head but a moment before it slammed against the wooden, rush-covered floor. I dived to Kat’s side. Her body started twitching and convulsing. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Blanche held her, trying not to hold too firm lest she hurt her friend. Kat’s limbs moved as though lightning bolts were pulsing through her. Her hands and feet thumped and flopped against the carpet, echoing the thunderous beat of my heart. I stared at her in horror. I could not move.
Kat jerked as though demons were pulling and poking her. Spittle fell from her open mouth. Her tongue lolled from between her lips. Sounds came from her throat as if she was being throttled by unseen hands. Blanche’s eyes, which stared up at me in dreadful fear, chilled my blood.
“Send for my doctors!” I screamed at Lady Cobham, who, pale-faced and terrified, raced off to find them. She pushed past maids of honour and ladies who stood gathered helplessly
about us, staring down on the Chief Lady of the Bedchamber in disbelief and horror. I sat at Kat’s side, trying to hold her hand as she flinched and shuddered and moaned. I gazed at Blanche over Kat’s body. We did not need to say anything; we both knew how afraid the other was.
The fit ended before the doctors got to us. They arrived, flush-faced and gasping from running clear across court, and ushered the other woman back and away. Kat was still, her face pale and drawn. She was unconscious, but she was breathing. The doctors helped us to move her to my bed where she slept as they fussed about her, touching her head and hands, exchanging useless stories with one another on similar cases. I stood next to the bed, unable to think, unable to do anything to help. My hands fluttered at my sides. I began to pace, restlessly, uselessly.
The doctors were troubled by the thinness of her body as we undressed her. I had not noticed Kat had lost weight. She had hidden it from me. Kat had plumped her gowns out with thick petticoats and pieces of cloth, just as my sister had done to conceal her fragile health. Kat had obviously been unwell for some time, and had masked the truth from those about her.
“I did not know either,” muttered Blanche, her eyes swum with tears as she stared at the thick petticoats and undergarments in her hands. “She never said a word.”