Brandy Purdy (18 page)

Soon the Great Hall was all but empty. Only a few servants and Jane remained. My eldest sister sat calmly at the deserted banquet table. I saw her nonchalantly pluck up a peacock tongue, pop it in her mouth, and wash it down with a sip of malmsey wine before she meandered off in the direction of the Duke of Northumberland’s library, showing not the least concern that her husband had been amongst those taken ill.

Since there was no longer anyone to play for, the musicians laid down their instruments, loosened the laces that held their silver-frilled collars tight, and gave their full attention to what was left of our feast. And I, knowing that both my sisters were well, was pleased to join them.

Some time later, a lady with her sleeves pinned and rolled up and an apron tied over her green and silver gown came softly up the stairs with a straw basket slung over her arm. She shyly inquired if we were well or, gesturing to her basket, if we had need of dosing. “I’ve celery tonic, mint and wormwood syrup, conserve of roses, quinces, ginger suckets, and sugared aniseeds, if you do; all good for calmin’ a tempest ragin’ in the belly.” She was a petite, round-hipped, buxom little woman, who spoke with a broad country accent, but she was
very
pretty, with a wealth of golden hair that she had unloosed from its pins, blue green eyes like the finest emerald mated in true love with a turquoise, and a timid, tentative smile I longed to see cast aside its shyness and show its full glory.

She had such a kind face and a gentle way about her, with no hauteur at all; I liked her instantly. She didn’t shy away from me in fear, avert her eyes, or look at me with pity or contempt or treat me any differently than she would any other little girl. In her eyes, I was normal, and I loved her for it, as strange as that may seem when I didn’t even know her.

Of course, I knew who she was. I had overheard some of the other women laughing and making cruel sport of her while they were helping Jane and Kate to dress. The Dudley girls had spoken of her with blistering disdain and a scorching contempt, and had piled pity upon their brother, sighing again and again, “Poor Robert!” Her name was Amy Robsart, and she was Lord Robert Dudley’s wife, the one he had married in hot lust at seventeen, but now, not quite three years later, no longer wanted, and loathed his youthful folly more than he had ever loved this sweet lady.

How sad, I thought, that her own husband, and the rest of his family, thought that she was too far beneath him to be welcome in their proud and illustrious company, when I, a mere child, could see that she was worth more than the lot of them put together. I wanted to tell her, “You deserve better,” but I didn’t dare risk such a presumption, though years later, when Amy lay dead, with a broken neck to match her broken heart, and her name was on everyone’s lips, providing a banquet for the gossips and scandalmongers, I would always remember that moment and regret that I had not taken her hand and spoken up boldly. She truly did deserve better. Not only did her own husband fail her, but her own body did too—when she died under those most mysterious circumstances she had been suffering from cancer of the breast.

The rebec player gave the Lady Amy a randy leer. “Aye, mistress, our bellies are fine, but I’d take a dose from you any time.” He smiled invitingly and made so bold as to ask, “May I trouble you for a quince from your basket, mistress?” which she gladly gave though it was clear he was not troubled by the bellyache.

Blushing a little, she started to turn away, but at the top of the stairs, she hesitated and added shyly that we were all most welcome to come down to the kitchen. “Now that all those taken sick have been settled, we’ve mincemeat tarts and gingerbread with hot cider to drink, and apples sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar roastin’ in the fire, and ’tis a right lively company, sittin’ ’round the hearth, singin’ and spinnin’ tales. And if you’d care to play for us, some country dances per’aps, if you know any, ’twould give us all much pleasure. And you can have all you wish of what’s left of the feast, to eat now or to take away with you—’tis only the salad that’s tainted. There’s not a one ill who didn’t eat of it, and it would be a right shame to see all the rest go to waste when there’s so much of it an’ not a thing wrong with it.”

“Shall we, lads?” the sackbut player asked. “What say you, little mistress?” He smiled down at me. We were all in agreement that we should go, and the lute player gallantly gave me a ride on his shoulders—“I shall be your litter, my little queen,” he teased—and soon we were down in the kitchen, where we were welcomed warmly as old friends and plied with all the gingerbread, cider, mincemeat tarts, and roasted apples we could eat. The Lady Amy took it in turns to partner each of the men with great gusto and grace in the vigorous and lively country dances, holding her skirts up high to show off her green stockings and her fast-moving feet flashing swiftly in their silver slippers. She never missed a step or stumbled at a high kick, and laughed as her partners spun her around dizzily and swung her high in the air, her hip-length hair flying out behind her like a banner of gold. For a time she seemed to forget her cares and I loved seeing her so high-spirited and light-hearted; many who never even knew her would say in years to come that she was a wan, wretched, and miserable woman, and though illness and heartbreak may have made her so, I can say with complete certainty that she wasn’t naturally, nor always, that way. Whatever happened to her happened because of the deadly combination of Robert Dudley and cancer.

When she was not dancing, Lady Amy took me to sit on her lap, saying, if I would allow her the liberty and be so kind as to indulge her, she wanted to “pretend for a spell that you’re my own little girl.” I readily assented and together we listened intently to the storytellers, relishing each word, laughing, gasping, shuddering, and wiping away tears by turns, though as darkness fell, they turned more to tales of terror, ghosts, and beasties that made us shiver despite our nearness to the fire.

My parents and nurse, preoccupied with their own ails, had forgotten all about me, and I stayed up later than I ever had in my life. The first butter gold glow of dawn was already lighting the sky when the musicians took their leave, and the Lady Amy, marveling that she had been so remiss and not sent me to bed hours ago, scooped me up in her arms, balancing me against her broad hip, and carried me up to one of the guest rooms.

“But I don’t want to go to sleep!” I protested as she stripped me down to my shift. And as the tears began to trickle down my face, she sat and stroked my hair and asked me why.

“Surely you are tired, poppet, I know I’m all done in. Look”—she lifted her foot—“I’ve danced a hole clean through my slipper!”

“Because when I lie quiet and still waiting for sleep I will not be able to help but think how much I shall miss my sisters,” I said. “I’ve lost them both in the same day, and now they’re both going away, to new homes, and I shall be all alone at Bradgate; Father and my lady-mother are so often away at court, and when they are home they are always hunting or hosting parties and have time for no one but their guests.”

“Aye, I see”—the Lady Amy nodded—“and I know just what you mean about the thoughts that come to trouble one in the quiet stillness before sleep. What beastly little imps those thoughts are!” Then she brightened. “But I’m certain your sisters will be havin’ you to visit soon. I’m sure they’ll be vyin’ for the pleasure of your company, and you’ll find yourself feelin’ you’ve no fixed home at all, you’ll spend so much time on the road goin’ from one to the other. While the young brides are settlin’ into married life, if you get too lonely, you’re welcome to come and bide a while with me at Stanfield Hall or Syderstone Manor; I still live with my parents as my husband has yet to settle on a proper establishment for us. He’s so particular about these things, Robert is, and everything must be just so or not at all.” She heaved a little sigh and shook her head, and I sensed sadness and frustration hovering in the air about her, but she quickly shook it off and smiled at me. “But you would be most welcome to visit anytime you like. I could take you out to see the sheep, we’ve three thousand of them, and the orchards; Syderstone has the best apples in England, I always say you’ve never tasted an apple if you’ve never sunk your teeth into a Syderstone apple. If you’d care to come durin’ the harvest, we have the
grandest
party, with dancin’ and music and a big bonfire and bobbin’ for apples, and every one of the dishes laid on the table has apples in it in some form or fashion—from the meats to the sweets. Our cider is the
best
in the whole of England, and I challenge anyone to prove me wrong!”

“I would like that very much,” I said, and thanked her for her kindness, secretly praying that my parents would allow me to go, and she sat beside me, softly singing a charming little song about a shepherd and his flock, until I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of fleecy white sheep, rosy red apples, and clanking cups brimming with golden cider.

 

Early the next morning, blinking and yawning in the watery yellow sun, my sisters and their husbands descended the stairs to board the barges that would take them away to begin married life. They were no longer little girls, but wives now, with their hair pinned up in nets of gold beneath their round velvet caps. It was such a sudden and startling transformation, as though they had crossed a threshold as little girls with free-flowing tresses and entered a new room as elegant young matrons with their hair primly pinned up. Now they must go away from me, from childhood and all that was dear and familiar, and learn how to please their husbands, order their households, command their servants like queens overseeing their own little realms, and endeavor to always be on pleasant terms with their in-laws.

Strangely, neither marriage had yet been consummated, the Duke of Northumberland and our parents having agreed on it for reasons I did not understand. Both couples were under strict orders and would be watched to make sure they obeyed, not to commit the ultimate intimacy until they received permission directly from Northumberland. Kate was twelve, almost thirteen, and she had been bleeding every month for almost a year, and thus was considered a woman, so her age was surely not the reason for this prohibition. Why it must be so with Jane and Guildford, at fifteen and sixteen, I could not fathom; many women were wedded and bedded and carrying their first child by the time they turned sixteen.

Kate looked radiantly happy, her face and eyes glowing, as she danced down the stairs in her gold-embroidered apricot velvet with peach and white plumes swaying gracefully atop her round velvet hat, and the magnificent set of fire opals she had chosen when Father brought the jeweler to her and said she might choose anything she wished from amongst his wares. When I saw her I almost wept—how I missed the sight of her coppery curls bouncing and bobbing as though with a life of their own. It seemed unnatural to see them pinned tight with diamond-tipped pins and confined inside the glittering prison of a golden net beneath her hat. As soon as she caught sight of her husband, waiting for her downstairs, she gave a cry of delight and ran to throw her arms around him.

But Jane moved as though her shoes were soled in lead, her gold-fringed and embroidered moss green velvet skirts dragging behind her like a dead weight. She looked as angry as the fierce and ornate fire-belching, ruby-eyed, emerald, sapphire, amethyst, and jade scaled golden dragon brooch her new mother-in-law had given her just before she came downstairs, kissing her once on each cheek before pinning it to Jane’s hat, just below the puff of white ostrich plumes that made that hideous bejeweled dragon look as though clouds of steam were billowing from its pointed ears. Beneath her hat’s round brim, Jane’s face was pale as chalk, her freckles standing out stark as smallpox, and there were dark circles around her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept at all.

Though his stomach had settled, and he had passed a peaceful night, Guildford, his face startlingly pale against the ornate gold-embroidered claret velvet of his traveling clothes, was still feeling weak and wobbly, and Father insisted on carrying him down the stairs and laying him gently in the barge and pressing into his hand a gilded pomander ball, scented with oranges and cloves, to mask the river’s vile reek. He tarried quite a time, causing our lady-mother to tap her booted toe impatiently, as he tucked a fur rug around Guildford, caressed his golden hair, plumped his pillows, petted Fluff, nestled in the crook of Guildford’s arm, and presented his “beautiful new son-in-law” with two comfit boxes—a silver one with icy green enamel filled with sugared aniseeds, mint lozenges, candied quinces, and crystallized ginger in case his stomach should trouble him again, and a gold one with sunny yellow enamel emblazoned with golden suns containing sugared lemon slices, “just because you like them, and because I like you, and these remind me of you, so I hope they will remind you of me and how much I . . . like you.” Father blushed and rambled as our lady-mother sighed and rolled her eyes, saying aside to Guildford’s mother that having such a husband was like having a little boy who never grew up.

“I’m so happy!” Guildford, suddenly all aglow, exclaimed, sitting up and hugging his knees and smiling. “I feel like singing!” He threw his arms wide, as if to embrace the sun above, and opened his mouth in readiness to let the first notes out.

“Oh no, Guildford, you
mustn’t
do
that!
” his older brother John exclaimed, quickly throwing himself forward to clap a hand over Guildford’s mouth. “All that puking last night will have left your throat frightfully raw.”

“If you force it, you will only make it worse,” his brother Ambrose cautioned severely.

“Quite right,” his father, the all powerful John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, agreed, so suave and smiling, gracious and benign that any who didn’t know him and his reputation would never have guessed that here was the most ruthless and ambitious man in England, a man who would stop at nothing to get what he desired. “You might damage your voice,” he continued. “Don’t you agree, Maestro Cocozza, that Guildford should
not
sing?” He turned to Guildford’s Italian music master, waiting to board another, rather crowded barge with Guildford’s valet, hairdresser, the secretary who wrote all his letters and also read aloud to him, the French and Italian tutors Guildford considered vital to his singing aspirations, laundress, page boys, musicians, sewing women, the man who looked after his pets, the French pastry cook Father had given the young couple as a wedding present, and, just for Jane, the prim, black-clad Mrs. Ellen, who had with Jane’s marriage risen from nurse to lady’s maid.