A Court Affair (63 page)

Dreams beckon to me, enticing and inviting me to sail away from it all to find something better. My eyelids grow heavy, and I let myself drowse.

Yesterday was the Queen’s birthday. I see her in a pink gown dancing a smouldering volta with Robert. As the music pulses and thrums like blood within veins, he lifts her high, and her full skirts bunch up to show off her red stockings. I used to wear red stockings too. As he holds her high, lust hangs hot and heavy in the air, mingling with Elizabeth’s rose perfume; sweat glazes their flushed faces; and her red hair slips its pins, falling down to tickle his face; and as he lowers her, oh, so slowly, her body presses and slides sensuously against his. Their desire for each other is so blatant, it is as though they are making love on the dance floor for all to see. And then the scene changes. I am on the beach with Robert; he brandishes a stick at a blue green crab that nips at our bare toes. But then the crab starts to grow until it is
enormous,
bigger than both of us. Robert drops the stick and runs, but I stand there, petrified, staring after him as he flees without a single thought of me. I feel a sharp pinch in my left breast and turn to see it spouting blood. In a fury, I launch myself at the crab, mockingly prancing on its many spindly little legs that seem too delicate to support the giant creature, and snapping its big fiendish claws in the air like a Spanish dancer’s castanets, pummelling its hard shell with my angry fists, kicking and screaming at it, futilely pounding my fists upon the great pinching claw that closes around my waist with a pain that makes me feel as if I am about to snap in half.
“Let go of me!”
I scream as I feel my bones break. “This is
my
life; it’s
mine,
give it back! I don’t want to die!” Suddenly the claw opens, and I fall, breathless and shaken, to lie, huddled and gasping, on the wet sand. In the distance before me I see my father standing in an apple orchard, ringed in hazy gold and rosy mist and light, and the sweet scent of apple blossoms fills the air, and I breathe it in deeply and feel stronger for it. He smiles broadly, all wiry grey curls and apple cheeks, his eyes filled with love, just the way he used to be, as he stands in a shower of apple blossoms and beckons to me, “Come home, lass,
come home
!”

Suddenly my eyes snap open, and I am wide awake, alert and on guard, with such a tense, wary feeling, as though danger infuses the shadows that are crowding in on me as the sun sets. Someone is watching me! I feel the cold prickle of fear, like icy fingers, up and down my spine, and the relentless, unwavering pain. I want to run as fast and as far as I can, to outdistance it and leave it gasping and panting in the distance, to stop and laugh and wave back at it and go on my merry way, free at last from this most irksome and unwelcome companion. From the corner of my eye I spy a movement. Was it a sound I heard that awoke me? A footstep? A rustle of garments? A scrape of metal as of a dagger being unsheathed? Or am I being silly, letting my imagination and fear get the better of me again? Was it merely Custard or Onyx after a mouse? Frozen by fear, I am almost too afraid to turn my head and look, but I
have
to, even though the motion of my head moving makes me dizzy and I feel that strange sensation of there being a delay between my mind telling my body what to do and my head complying. I gasp and whimper as a pain, like a sharp crick in my neck, makes me instantly regret the movement.

There
is
a man, a dark man standing in the shadows! I see him! His nose like a knife in profile! Sir Richard Verney! He takes a step towards me.
Robert has sent him to Cumnor to kill me!
Poison has failed, so now he will use a knife or his bare hands!

I ignore the pain, even as it explodes like fireworks within me, filling and burning every part of me, as though my heart were dry tinder lit by the falling sparks, blinding me with a dizzying burst of coloured stars obscuring my sight, as the instinct to preserve life impels me to bolt from my bed and run, just run, heedless of direction, as fast as I can, to escape Death at the hands of Richard Verney. I fly, as though I had wings on my heels, out my door, and down the Long Gallery to the stairs. I feel fur brush my ankle, and I stumble as an outraged
Meow!
reaches my ears. But I cannot stop, I keep going, I glance back over my shoulder so swiftly, I cannot tell if he is coming in pursuit of me, though I know that he is, I
feel
it, though I cannot see through the dense dazzle of coloured sparks that crowds out my vision, making me feel as if I am staring down a long, dark tunnel, straining to see what is at the end, but if there is even a pinprick of light there, I cannot see it. As I turn my head, I hear a
pop!
At the same time as I feel it, a pain in the side of my neck, like that which comes from forcing it to turn suddenly and hard whilst there is a terrible, aching crick in it, that makes me gasp and my hand fly up, even as I try to glance back over my shoulder.

I keep running, and in my haste and horror, I forget the awkward twist in the stairs where they turn, curving down towards the landing. I have not left my room in so long, I remember it too late, and then a scream—
my scream!
—pierces the quiet of Cumnor, and I plunge down, headfirst, almost like a child turning cartwheels in a daisy-strewn meadow, down into black-velvet darkness. The edge of one of the stone steps gashes open the back of my head; I feel the skin split. As my head strikes the floor, I hear a sickening snap, like a foot coming down on a dry branch, and I see, through the crowded haze of the dancing, drifting rainbow of specks and sparks, my rumpled skirts and my feet resting on the stairs, higher than my head, and realise to my horror that I cannot move them. I try and try, but I cannot move my legs, my feet, my fingers—or
anything
!
I cannot move!
Not even a tremor, not even a twitch! And past my feet, I see my blood glittering dark in the frail, flickering candlelight, staining the steps where my head struck; it oozes and drips down, moving like slow baby snakes, newborn and going out to explore the world, and I think my blood, which can still move, has more life left in it than I do. It is getting harder to breathe, another fireworks display bursts inside my heart, and the darkness is crowding out the sparks that dance before my eyes, driving them away, and they go, docile as a flock of sheep following their shepherd. And I feel a warm wetness beneath my head, being soaked up by the golden sponge of my hair, and a stinging, a burning, in my scalp, but I cannot reach up to touch, to feel it!

Am I awake or dreaming? I do not know! Oh, God,
help me
! Oh,
please,
God,
please
let this be just another bad dream! It
has
to be! It
has
to be! I
must
be dreaming! The Queen is on the stairs, when I know perfectly well that she is at court and cannot truly be here at Cumnor, so it
must
be a dream, it
must
! But I see her, plain as day, standing there upon the landing, her white gown glowing bright as a sun-struck cloud, radiant, near blinding white, spangled with rubies, as if her dress were weeping tears of blood, and her hair, piled high and curled and bedecked with pearls, and her lips as red as violence-spilled blood against the stark marble white pallor of her smooth, cold, hard, emotionless face. Her eyes are canny and shrewd, dark and knowing. She is at once the most beautiful and the most terrifying woman I have ever seen. She shakes her fist, rattling the pair of ivory dice she holds within, and hurls them down the stairs straight at me. They land upon my lap, just below the point of my embroidered bodice. I cannot see the dots, but I don’t need to; her voice tells me what I already know, plain and matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion: “The winner takes all.” A map—of England, I think—unfurls upon the landing beneath her, and a jewelled sceptre and a weighty orb of gold appear suddenly in her elegant white hands, and a gold and jewelled crown shines brilliantly upon her head. Then she is gone—or is it my sight that has gone?—all is darkness, the most stultifying, terrifying, breath-stealing blackness with no hint of light at all! The breath catches in my throat, as though a pair of strong, cruel, murderous hands were pressing, squeezing, hard and tight. I gasp and choke, but I cannot get my breath out!
I cannot breathe!
It is
all
slipping away from me. I cannot hold on to anything, not even my breath!

But then the veil of darkness lifts, as if it had lain over my face and been of a sudden snatched away in one quick whisk. And I see the phantom grey friar standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at me; though my eyes still cannot pierce the darkness inside his hood, I feel his gaze upon me.

And I realise something suddenly, as abrupt and startling as a sudden slap in the face coming unexpectedly out of the dark. Maybe I have not lost after all?

My death will
not
roll out a velvet carpet leading up the aisle of Westminster Abbey to a crown and a royal bride for Robert. That dream is as dead as I soon will be! My death, just like my life, will keep Robert and Elizabeth apart forever. Each time they kiss, it will be over my tombstone. My death is
my
victory,
not
theirs! That was what she meant when she said, “The winner takes all.” Elizabeth is a survivor; she will outlive the scandal of my death, though my blood might stain her hem a little, but Robert won’t; she will keep her crown, but Robert will lose all hope of his; and my blood will stain him forever, and he will
never
be washed clean of it. He won and lost what he wanted all in the same moment. He wanted my death to set him free, but the world will judge my death too opportune; there has been too much talk of poison and intent to kill; Elizabeth will
never
marry him now. Robert isn’t worth risking her kingdom for; she will not suffer a bloodstained consort to sit on the throne beside her and try to snatch the sceptre from her hand.

The grey friar slowly starts to descend the stairs, coming towards me; then he is standing beside me, looming over me. The hands he formerly held clasped at his waist, entwined with his rosary, rise up. He lowers his hood, and, at last, I see his face, bathed in golden radiance. It is the kindest, most beautiful, compassionate face I have ever seen! He smiles as he kneels down and gathers me tenderly into his arms. As he lifts me up, I feel
all
the pain, the fear, the aching loneliness, the wearying weight of worry, anger, resentment, despair, tiredness, and sorrow fall away from me; it is as though I am rising, but all that stays behind, stuck down below me on the ground where it cannot touch me. I wrap my arms around his neck—I can move again! He smiles at me. And in his arms I am at peace. I feel so warm, safe, and wanted, and, most of all,
loved,
truly
loved,
more than I have ever been before. I could not have had a more easeful death.

Windsor Castle, London
September 9–20, 1560

I
was having the most peculiar dream when a hand, rough with urgency, reached out and shook me from the land of dreams, where anything is possible.

I raised my rumpled, sleep-befuddled head from the pillow, brushed back my hair, and blinked in surprise at the sight of Cecil standing beside my bed in his mulberry velvet dressing gown, slippers, and tasselled cap, a candlestick clutched tightly in his hand, which trembled so mightily, it caused the flame to waver and dip, casting an eerily flickering shadow upon the wall. Kat, who must have let him in, stood a few steps behind him, her once matronly plump and ample form now seemingly swamped, lost in the folds of her voluminous white nightgown, her long grey braid protruding fuzzily from beneath her white ruffled cap. She let out a little cry and—too late—clapped a blue-veined hand over her mouth to stifle it, when Cecil, with a solemn frown, announced that Amy Dudley was dead. She had died yesterday, though the news had not yet spread far; one of his informants had only just brought him word of it, wakened him from a sound sleep, and he had come at once to me. But, he continued gravely, he fully expected the news to reach London and be the talk of every tavern by nightfall, and we must be prepared to weather the storm of scandal like sailors at sea besieged by a mighty gale; we must hold on, and hold fast, and brave the wind and waves and not be swept overboard, nor let the ship of state capsize or be deluged and dragged down.

Astonished, I sat up in bed and hugged my knees. I had known that she was
very
ill, beyond the power of any but God to save, but I had not expected her to die so soon, so suddenly. And after we had decided to use the rumours in our favour, against Robert, to break his accursed ambition and douse the fire that burned so hot within him to be King. Only two days ago—
two days!
—I had told the Spanish Ambassador that she was dead, or nearly so, and now she was. What terrible, terrible timing! I clapped a hand to my brow and shook my head. I could scarcely believe this was happening!

“How did it happen? The cancer?” I asked softly. “Did she suffer greatly at the end?”

“Madame”—Cecil looked at me sadly—“it was
not
a natural death.” I gasped, and my mouth fell open wide. “And suffer, I fear, she did,” he continued, “though I pray I am mistaken and that the end came quickly. She was found dead at the foot of the stairs, with her neck broken, the hood on her head still in place and her skirts but little disarrayed, not immodestly as one would expect after falling head over heels down a staircase. That morning she had sent away all who would go—even her maid, Mrs Pirto, practically the entire household—to attend the fair at Abingdon, leaving her quite alone; they discovered her late Sunday afternoon upon their return. Mrs Pirto was about to mount the stairs to bring her lady a gingerbread baby and some hair ribbons she had bought for her when …” Cecil paused sadly. “… when the tragic discovery was made.”

“Oh, no, Cecil, no, not like that!” I cried. Suddenly, I stopped, the wheels of my mind turning in a loathsome direction, and I flung my legs over the side of the bed and reached out and caught hold of his sleeve.
“Look at me!”
I ordered. “
Look at me,
Cecil, and
swear
to me that you had
no
part in this! I
know
you dislike Lord Robert …”