A Dangerous Inheritance (24 page)

Not knowing is torture. Not being able to do anything to change the situation is even worse. If only I could be given some sign, some hint even, that he still loves me, I would abandon the rest and die content. What have I done to deserve this misery, except be born with royal blood in my veins?

I walk along the lime alley, nursing my sorrow, and then I see, riding toward me, a messenger in the Tudor livery. He salutes me and rides on. Suddenly I feel the stirrings of excitement. What can his arrival mean?

I am summoned to court, appointed to the exalted office of Lady of the Privy Chamber to the Queen! I cannot believe my good fortune, for—next to the privileged post of Lady of the Bedchamber—it is the highest court office that can be bestowed upon a woman. And there is more, for Her Majesty has been not just merciful, but bountiful too, and generously forgiving, and has sent to say that she will also receive my parents back at court. We are to present ourselves there as soon as is convenient, and are also commanded to attend her coronation, which is set for October.

The news is cause for a great celebration, and I recall joyfully what my mother said to me that night I returned to Sheen. If I am seen to be in royal favor, Pembroke may think again about annulling my marriage to Harry.

My mother, much restored in spirits, displays her usual energy and ambition in preparing me for my debut at court. The dress I am to wear for the coronation is scarlet velvet, by the Queen’s command and gift, so I am swathed in yards of the stuff, stuck with pins, and prodded and tugged about by the dressmaker. When the gown is finished, the effect is stunning, and I marvel at the tight, pointed square-necked bodice, the rich folds of the skirt with its long court train, the gold-embroidered chemise and neck ruff, the brilliant cloth-of-gold oversleeves, and the rich matching kirtle. There are ten other new gowns also, of forest green, white, tawny, scarlet, yellow, mustard, black and
silver, nut brown, pink, and cream, their velvets and damasks sewn with the requisite number of pearls, or embellished with embroideries and black-work, and all are in the latest fashion, and very flattering. I pray that Harry will see me in them!

To match them, there are kirtles, sleeves, petticoats, French hoods, cauls, snoods, shoes of soft leather, jeweled girdles, and an assortment of precious pendants, brooches, and rings. Small wonder my father grumbles about the exorbitant cost of kitting me out for court, but my mother insists I go there royally attired, as befits my rank.

Amid all the bustle, I stifle pangs of guilt over Jane, who should be coming to court with me but languishes still in the Tower. Not, I think sadly, that she would think much of these fine clothes. But if she could be restored to us, my happiness would be complete. I still pray for that daily.

For the first time in months, though, my heart is lighter. I will repay the Queen’s kindness by serving her to the utmost of my ability; I will set myself to earn her favor; and then—newly confident in my gorgeous attire—I swear I will win back my bridegroom and my sister!

I depart for the court tomorrow. Today I must pack those personal possessions that I wish to take with me. My mother says I will be assigned a small chamber of my own off the maidens’ dorter, where the Queen’s female attendants sleep—those who are under the supervision of the Mother of the Maids, although as a Lady of the Privy Chamber, I will not come under her jurisdiction. Yet my bedchamber is certain to be small, so I must take only essential items. Into the ironbound wooden traveling chests go my beribboned lute, some books, a manuscript of poems, my sewing basket and embroidery, a vial of rosewater, my toilet set, brushes, and silver mirror. I am just about to stow away the casket in which I keep my jewels and letters when I remember that it contains the Herbert pendant and the bundle of papers that were probably written by Katherine Plantagenet—whose portrait I was not, of course, allowed to bring with me from Baynard’s Castle. I have not dreamed about her since I left that house.

I take out the pendant and the ribbon-wrapped bundle and stare at them, engulfed in a great wave of pain. They are cruel reminders of
that other life that I have lost, and I can hardly bear to look at them. The last time I did that, Harry was with me. Suddenly, my interest in Katherine Plantagenet and the mystery surrounding those illegible papers seems tainted by the ruthlessness and brutality of Pembroke. They are too poignant a reminder of that time, and I thrust them to the bottom of the casket, beneath all the other papers and jewels. I know I will not be able to look at them again for a long time.

“Oh, Harry, Harry!” I whisper. “I seem as far from you as if I were on the moon.” My puppies jump up on the bed and nuzzle at me as I sit weeping alone. They are a recent gift from my father, whose bitch whelped a few weeks ago: a pair of fluffy, leggy scamps named Arthur and Guinevere. My lord expressed the gruff wish, when he gave them to me, that they would help to distract me from my sorrow. It is a comfort to know that ladies are allowed to bring their lapdogs to court. At least I will have someone there to love.

At last the waiting time is over, and we arrive at Whitehall. Now all that remains is to say farewell to my parents before I depart for the Queen’s lodgings. As I kneel before them to receive their blessing, my father beams at me proudly and my mother’s smile is warm; all their hopes are now in me.

“Rise, Lady Katherine.” To my surprise, the Queen has a deep voice like a man’s. Daring to raise my eyes, I see before me a prematurely aged lady of small, spare stature in a heavy plum-colored velvet dress with a cloth-of-gold kirtle and a wide stand-up collar lined with exquisite embroidery. Around her waist is a bejeweled girdle, and on her breast is a large cross set with gems. Her hands are loaded with rings, and her French hood is trimmed with pearls and goldsmith’s work. The whole effect is dazzling, yet it cannot mask the sad fact that the wearer has no claim to youth or beauty, with her heavy brow, watchful eyes, snub nose, pinched lips, and determined jaw. All this I see in an instant, and in that moment I begin to feel sorry for the Queen, for all the sadness of her life is reflected in her features.

Yet suddenly she smiles, extending her hand to be kissed, and my fears are allayed.

“You are most welcome to Whitehall, little cousin,” she says. “It is
time you took your proper place here. Be assured I do not hold you responsible for events that are better left in the past. You are very young, and your sister too. I assure you, I intend her no harm, and she is being well cared for. You will see her again one day soon. I trust that my lady your mother is well?”

“Very well, Your Majesty. She is here at court. She sends her love and duty to Your Majesty, and awaits your pleasure, and my lord my father too.”

The Queen inclines her head graciously. “I am sorry for the breaking of your marriage. It must have been hard for you.”

“Very hard, Your Majesty,” I agree fervently; then, inspired by her kindness, I fall to my knees and raise my clenched hands in supplication. “Please, madam, is there anything that can be done to mend it? Harry—Lord Herbert and I—we love each other, and our separation is painful to us both.”

The Queen frowns, then gently pulls me to my feet again. “Hush, child! I feel for you, indeed I do. But you must understand that my lord of Pembroke has his reasons for seeking an annulment, and that this is a private matter in which I cannot intervene. I am very sorry.”

Even I, innocent as I am of the world, know that the Queen could command Pembroke in this matter if she were so inclined; but clearly she is not. She too considers me an unfit, nay, a dangerous bride for his son, for I am a Protestant with royal blood and a sister in the Tower. My hopes wilt and die.

“Do not look so crestfallen, little cousin,” Mary counsels me. “You are young yet, and one day, God willing, you will be found a more suitable husband. In the meantime, you will be joining the other ladies in my Privy Chamber. I trust it pleases you to serve me there.”

“It is an honor that pleases me more than I can say, Your Majesty,” I say humbly, not wanting her to think me in any way unmindful of her kindness.

As a member of the Queen’s privy chamber, elevated and favored by her, I can hold my head up again and face the world. It is less than I asked for, but far more than I could have expected. Better still, my new status gives me cause to hope that when Pembroke sees me high in
favor, the chosen servant of the Queen, and in a position of honor, he will decide after all that I am a fit bride for his son.

I have not been at court two days before I hear from the other ladies how the Lady Elizabeth, the Queen’s young half sister, is proving obstreperous in regard to religion. Susan Clarencieux, who is closer to Her Majesty than most, tells me that our good mistress was deeply touched when Elizabeth had ridden to offer her allegiance at the time of her accession—“although not until she heard for certain that the Queen would be victorious,” remarks Clarencieux tartly—and had welcomed her warmly to court.

“They hadn’t seen each other for years, and it always saddened the Queen to know that Elizabeth had embraced the Protestant faith. So she told her that it would make her very happy if she would accompany her to Mass. And that’s when the little madam began to play up, turning up late, or pleading a headache or a stomachache. She even got one of her ladies to rub her belly for her as she neared the chapel!” Clarencieux laughs at the memory, but her smile quickly fades. “It grieves the Queen,” she says, shaking her head. It is obvious that she loves her mistress dearly, but has little affection for the Lady Elizabeth.

“In the end she had no choice but to go to Mass,” adds Anne Wotton, “and Her Majesty was overjoyed. But then the Lady Elizabeth absented herself again, and the Queen was forced to summon her and demand an explanation.”

“Oh, she dissembled cleverly!” Clarencieux snorts. “She’s a minx, that one, just like her mother, and look what happened to
her
. No wonder the Queen doubts her sincerity, and quite rightly too, if you ask me. She fears that if she does not marry and bear a child, the throne will go to Elizabeth, and all her cherished hopes of restoring the faith will come to naught.”

“But surely the Queen plans to wed?” I ask. I have heard much gossip that the choice is now between Prince Philip of Spain and Lord Edward Courtenay, a descendant of the House of York, although no one seems very keen on the prospect of either as King.

“Yes, Lady Katherine, but nothing is certain yet,” Clarencieux tells me.

I rise to go—I have many errands to run, and the gardens are beckoning.
They are beautiful, and I want to make the most of the last warm days of the year.

The privy garden, with its symmetrical beds of flowers and herbs, railed and decorated with figures of heraldic beasts on gaily striped poles, is a tranquil place, enclosed by the long gallery on the river side and the Queen’s apartments on the other. Here, members of the Privy Chamber are free to walk and enjoy the sweet-scented air, untroubled by the courtiers who throng the Great Gardens farther north.

Today there are only a few ladies seated on stone benches, conversing quietly, and a gardener unobtrusively deadheading the late roses. I have with me my puppies, Arthur and Guinevere, who gambol at my feet, reveling in their freedom, for in the royal apartments they are expected to be as sedate as the ladies, and I have much trouble controlling and cleaning up after them.

It is in the privy garden, fragrant with those roses, that I encounter His Excellency, Monsieur Simon Renard, the Imperial ambassador. I am already aware that he is a highly important dignitary and one of the chief advisers to the Queen: naturally she favors him as the representative of her cousin, the Emperor; of course her inclination is toward Spain, of which the Emperor is also King, because her mother, Katherine of Aragon, whose memory she reveres and cherishes, was Spanish.

To my astonishment—it is a week of wonders—Renard sweeps a courtly bow, introduces himself, pays his addresses to me in an uncommonly friendly manner, and offers me his arm, indicating that he would walk with me.

“Her Majesty speaks especially highly of you, Lady Katherine,” he tells me as we stroll along the paths, admiring the blooms, the puppies trotting happily beside us. Renard’s strong, handsome features are infused with warmth and admiration, and it occurs to me that his wife—whom he tells me he has perforce had to leave behind in Brussels—is a very lucky lady; he speaks of her several times, confiding how much he misses her. Yet he is not averse to paying compliments to another. “Rumor does not lie as to your beauty,” he says, raising my hand to his lips and kissing it chivalrously. “May I speak frankly, my lady?”

Rumors of my beauty? People are talking about me? I suppose, as Jane’s sister, I must be an object of interest at court. But I am taken unawares by this. It makes me realize that I am an innocent among wolves here.

The ambassador does not miss my recoil. “Fear not, Lady Katherine, Her Majesty has asked me to approach you,” he murmurs, “which is why we must be private, by your leave.” And he steers me away from the chattering ladies, whistling for the pups to follow us.

“I am told that Her Majesty’s father, King Henry, conducted much of his confidential state business in his gardens, where he could be certain that no one was able to eavesdrop,” Renard says, leading me to a stone seat at the end of a path. “Naturally, the Queen will marry,” he goes on, “yet all prudent monarchs must decide who should succeed them in the event of their dying childless. Her Majesty, as you know, is no longer young, and childbirth may not be easy for her. We all of course pray that she bears Prince Philip many fine sons.”

I am startled to hear him speaking of the proposed marriage as a foregone conclusion, for according to court gossip, it is by no means settled.

“Amen to that,” I say dutifully.

“But who is next in line if Her Majesty—God forfend!—dies without leaving an heir of her body?” Renard asks. “It is the Lady Elizabeth—yet Her Majesty would be loath to leave her crown and royal estate to such a one, for she knows Elizabeth to be a heretic through and through. Nor is she trueborn, for her mother was punished as a public strumpet, and her paternity is not beyond question.” Inwardly, I doubt this, for anyone who has seen portraits of the Lady Elizabeth and her father, King Harry, might easily see that she is his own daughter. Yet I have heard the Queen openly questioning it, and so it has become the fashion to do so—although behind hands and closed doors.