Elizabeth I (122 page)

Lettice laughed. “I am not in her category,” she said. “She indulged herself with two kings, and had two husbands.”

“And what two kings!” cried the normally staid Catherine. “The young François, King of France, and the King of England!”

“Yes, and in short order,” admitted Lettice. “It earned her a vicious reputation. You know how the French are. No sooner do they bed you than they discard you and mock you.”

“And you know this personally?” I teased her. I—teasing Lettice! A miracle—a miracle wrought by Catherine.

“No. I stayed far away from the French. I was satisfied with the English.”

“And they were satisfied with you,” I said. “A good bargain.” I laughed. “In any case, you had three husbands. So you need not apologize for finishing behind her.”

“Was it a race?” she asked.

“Always,” I said. “We seek to outdistance our forebears.”

“Have you done so?” Oh, she was bold.

“Even to ask myself that question is to be unfilial,” I said. “But let me say that if my father, who never imagined I would come to the throne, or if I did, that I could manage even to hold it, could visit us now, I think he would be—surprised. And pleased.”

“He would be in awe!” said Catherine.

“I do not think my father would be in awe of his own child,” I said. “But I do wish I could see him, could show him what I have done in his footsteps.”

“He would be in awe,” insisted Catherine.

“We will never know,” I said. That was the sorrow of it—the final barrier of death. We can imagine, but we will never know.

“Did she leave you anything?” asked Lettice.

“No,” said Catherine. “By the time she died, she had little to bequeath to grandchildren. She was the wife of a poor man. True, she inherited the lands and manors in Essex from the Boleyns, but that is not anything to leave a child.”

“She left a few personal things to my mother,” said Lettice. “Gowns, letters, a necklace—as you well know!”

“Lettice, I am sorry about that,” I said. “I was unkind, and I apologize.”

“It is well enough,” she said. “I am happy still to keep it.”

“What if I demanded it now?”

She looked me in the eye. “I would say, ‘He who will not when he may, when he wants, he shall have nay.' You are fond of country sayings, are you not?”

“And now you turn them on me,” I said. “As well you should. A gift can be offered only once. And as I told you, I have a similar necklace. I brought it,” I admitted. It had seemed fitting, since I would be in the place where it originated.

“So did I,” she said.

“We must wear them together,” I said. I reached out and touched her arm. “I would like that.”

Leicester, Essex, my father, all the men dividing us seemed ghosts, ever present but impotent.

Catherine looked from side to side. “We are the three patterns of womanhood,” she said. “One of us has had three husbands and been widowed three times. Another is unmarried, and a pure virgin. And I have been wife to the same man for forty years next spring. What other variation can there be?”

“I think that is all,” said Lettice. “Both of you are happy, and so you can recommend the path you have followed. But to be widowed three times—no. If being catnip to men leads to this, I would not wish the trait to be passed on. Alas, my daughter Penelope has inherited it in full. It seems undiminished as it passes down the generations.”

Catherine stood up. “I need to rest,” she said. “We can meet again at dinner.”

Her abruptness puzzled me. She did not seem unwell. Perhaps she wanted to leave Lettice and me alone. She made her way along the graveled garden paths toward the house.

Lettice echoed my thoughts. “She wants us to be alone.”

“Perhaps. She does not seem ill, but—”

Lettice leaned forward. I looked at her face. Older, but still lovely. Well, that is the way of nature. It ebbs slowly. “You are a beautiful woman, Lettice,” I said. “The most beautiful in our family.”

“Much good has it ever done me!” she said.

“I would argue it has done you much good,” I answered.

“As you like,” she said.

“It is better to be beautiful than to be ugly,” I said. “There should be a Scripture verse about that, but never mind,” I said. “We all know it is true.”

“You envy me,” she stated.

“I envy your face,” I said.

“Well, it is fading now,” she said.

“But only after it awarded you prizes,” I said.

“Oh, Elizabeth!” she said. “That was so long ago. All of it. I had my face; you had your office. I would rather have been a queen than to have bewitched men, or been the mother of lost sons.”

Yes. So would I. I had had the better lot.

That evening Sir Charles and his household invited us to a formal supper. In the dining hall we took our places at the table, glowing with candles down its length. Sir Charles had set up a thronelike chair for me at the head.

Across the table and a bit farther down, Lettice was wearing her
B
necklace, as was I. Jeromina, Charles's wife, commented on them, saying that she felt the Boleyns were with us tonight.

“My wife sees ghosts,” said Sir Charles. “She is prone to a fiery imagination. Pay her no mind. But I often feel their presence.”

“Tomorrow, good Sir Charles, you must show us some of these remainders.”

“You are surrounded by them now,” he said. He pointed to the walls, festooned with antlers and hunting trophies. They cast long shadows in the candlelight, reaching toward the ceiling like winter branches.

Lost hunts, forgotten triumphs. My father had loved hunting. But it was not game he had hunted here at Hever. He had pursued my mother, sending passionate letters—secret, he presumed. My mother had kept them; someone had stolen them and sold them to the Vatican.

After supper we returned to our rooms, escorted down the dark corridors by lanterns.

W
hen I awoke, I was surprised to see Catherine already sitting and sewing in the early-morning light. She paused several times to rub her forehead, as if she were feeling for something under the skin. As soon as she saw me looking, she rose and came to my bedside.

“Did you not sleep well, Catherine?” I asked. “Did the ghosts disturb you?”

She smiled. “No.” She rubbed her forehead again. “Just a pain here, behind my eyes.”

“Then you are foolish to try sewing,” I said. “Such close work is known to give headaches.”

“I'll set it aside, then,” she said. “I've never liked embroidery, mainly because I am not good at it.”

“It has nothing to do with your character,” I assured her. “After all, the Scots queen was a superb needlewoman.”

In the room next door, we could hear Lettice stirring.

After breakfast, leading us like children, with his youngest in tow as well, Sir Charles showed us the older portions of the castle.

“Not as pretty,” he said. “But the Boleyn children and grandchildren loved to play in the old rooms, so I was told. The old kitchen, next to the dining hall, had a deep well. The cooks had to order a stout, thick cover for it because Anne, Mary, and George liked to hang over the edge and let down toy buckets, and they were afraid one of them would fall in.”

He led us out through the courtyard and toward the great gate with its portcullis. “Now, this was their favorite,” he said. “This old keep has three floors, and up top there's two chambers. Come!” He led us up a spiral stone staircase, onto a landing, and then up some narrow steps to the battlements. As we emerged, we could see far across the fields and hills. Indeed, to be here atop the keep was to feel invincible.

Now I could discern the layout of the gardens and orchard below. Thick hedges, wooden palisades, and brick walls enclosed grounds of varying sizes. They spread much farther out than I had realized.

Outside again, Sir Charles told us about the grounds, mentioning that there was a walled and neglected garden on the far side of the orchard. “I do have to tell you, although this makes it sound more exciting than it probably is, that for the longest time we could not find the key to that door. Princess Anne of Cleves had never gone into it, and one of her servants told my father that a stipulation of the King's royal bequest of the castle was that she not visit or meddle with the garden. She was happy enough to obey. Eventually we located the key, in a crevice beneath the windowsill in Anne's room. The stricture forbidding entrance to the garden had long expired, along with the King and with Anne, so we felt free to go into it. There was not much there after forty years. All overgrown. We closed it up and left it. Jeromina had ambitions to replant it, but—” He shrugged.

“Eleven children diverted her attention,” said Lettice.

“You might say that,” he said.

“Get the key, Sir Charles, if you will. We would like to see it,” I said. I felt strongly there was something inside that I should see.

“If you wish,” he said, sighing.
Foolish old woman,
he was doubtless thinking. Perhaps so, but a determined one.

We trudged down the paved paths and past the neatly laid-out geometric gardens open to the sun. The four orchards—of pear, apple, plum, and medlar—empty of their fruit now, rustled as we passed, as if they wondered what we sought. Down where they ended, an ivy-grown wall came into view. It was high enough that we could not see over it but low enough that trees inside were visible.

“Oh dear. The ivy has covered the door.” Sir Charles plunged his hands in and felt under the leaves. “Ah ...” He groped along the bricks underneath until he felt wood. “Here it is.” He tugged at the tendrils, tearing them off the door where they clung fast. Eventually a faded and warped door revealed itself. It was quite low.

“I think the garden may initially have been built for children, with everything scaled to their size,” he said. He fumbled with the key, straining to get it to turn. Finally it did, with a groan and a shower of rust falling from the keyhole. He pushed; the door shuddered but refused to move. He put his shoulder against it and shoved. It creaked open a few inches, an oyster reluctant to open.

“Harder!” I said, putting my hands on the door with him and pushing with all my strength. Slowly it gave ground, its angle of opening growing wider as it cleared a flagstone at its threshold.

Finally it stood open, revealing a tangle of bushes and trees inside, a carpet of fallen leaves, and old pink brick walls, their tops moss-covered, surrounding it all. Shafts of yellow sunlight fell like filmy curtains through the twining tree branches overhead. It was a hushed and sacred place.

“I almost believe I see the Ceryneian hind of Artemis here,” whispered Catherine. “Behind that thicket.”

“It is a trick of the golden sunlight,” said Lettice. “It gilds our imaginations as well as the branches.”

“I will leave you,” Sir Charles said. “Perhaps you would like privacy here. Oh, let me point out that there is a stone bench over against that wall—hidden now behind creepers. The plot is even more overgrown than when I first saw it.”

He left quickly.

“Do you sense that he wanted to get away from this place?” asked Catherine.

“Or from us,” said Lettice.

“Or both,” I said. “No matter. Now that he has brought us here, it is better to be alone.” I walked around, being careful of the uneven ground. A few paving stones peeked out of the fallen leaves, but they were tilted and upended from years of frosts and thaws. Soon I could make out the outlines of old flower beds, bordered by bricks. Strangled by vines, a few old roses drooped, straggly and pale, a scattering of late petals on the ground around them.