The Lady of Misrule (26 page)

‘Negotiations,' chipped in Mrs Partridge, ‘to limit his influence.'

‘But what about when she dies?' Seemingly oblivious to everyone else's instinctive recoil, Jane rewrapped what remained of her roll to keep it warm. ‘Is her husband simply going to pack up his trunk and go back to Spain? Leave England to the Protestant half-sister? “Thanks for having me and it was nice while it lasted”?'

Mr Partridge looked helplessly to his wife.

But Mrs Partridge rose to it: ‘What else can she do, though?' she anguished, ‘because she has to marry, doesn't she. She has to. She needs an heir. But when she marries, she becomes a wife, and a wife—' She despaired, because we knew the rest, it didn't need saying:
A wife is subordinate to her husband.

And not any old husband: this particular husband just happened to be the heir to the Holy Roman Empire. I recalled the
day I'd come to the Tower, the thousands of Londoners dancing in the streets. Had no one foreseen this? What on earth had we been thinking would happen?

Mr Partridge gloved his wife's ringless hand with his own in a gesture of comfort but also restraint. ‘I don't think we can talk about this here.' He was addressing not only Jane but the room as a whole, including Goose. ‘There's a lot of work going on in the background; the best brains in England are engaged on the problem and I doubt we can throw any better light on it.'

Goose hadn't been so measured; for her, best brains didn't come into it. The Spaniards would soon be here, she'd told us while banging her broom around our room as if to drive them off. ‘And along with that prince,' she'd said, ‘come thousands of others,' starting, she said, with his staff and their own servants, but then there'd be wives and children swarming off the ships, and, she claimed, every Spaniard had several wives each, which had Jane rouse herself sufficiently to counter that we didn't know that. Goose roared, ‘But what
do
we know about them? Except they think they know it all. But all they know is what their Pope-worshipping priests tell them.' And then she'd called them ignorant and bloodthirsty, and said England would end up like everywhere else in the world, beneath their boots. ‘And let me tell you this,' she finished, ‘they veil their women,' her parting words being, ‘No one will ever put a veil on me.'

To the closing door, Jane murmured, ‘How about a gag?'

Looking for the smallest smile, though, even of the most
rueful kind, I was hoping for too much. What I got instead was ‘She didn't mention how Spaniards don't just burn people for being Protestant, but for not being good enough Catholics.' She raised her eyebrows. ‘So, you'll want to be careful, with your on-off Mass attendance.' And now she did smile, but unpleasantly. ‘Because they'll sniff
you
out.'

Every day when I returned the lunch tray to the kitchen, I took my cloak and braved outdoors for a breath of fresh air; and so fresh was it that I never needed much more than a breath. Head down, I'd scurry around the inner bailey; should anyone have looked, all they'd have seen was a hooded cloak, while for me the view seldom stretched beyond the toes of my boots.

But one of those lifeless mid-December days, I glanced up and there on the wall behind the Partridges' house was a lone figure, shrouded in a cloak and facing away in the direction of the city. Guildford was supposed to be confined to his room but that was definitely a Guildford-dawdle up there, Guildford-dejection against that leaden sky, and despite everything I nearly laughed aloud to see it.

When he turned, he seemed as struck by the sight of me as I had been by him, and then the very slightest inclination of his head spoke loud and clear,
Look.
Duly following the direction of that nod, I saw at a distance a guard; Guildford was being supervised, if laxly. No sign of William but a guard instead, and I, too, stood there stealthily still to confirm that I understood we couldn't be seen to have spotted each other.
Then he began strolling, with a well feigned casualness; it was quite a performance, enacted for the guard, of going nowhere in particular. He meandered to the end of that section of walkway, up to one of the intermittent, low partition walls, over which, with incomparable languor, he leaned.

He could've clambered over it, had he wished, and I watched the guard consider the possibility but reject it because there was no way it could be done without clamour, and, anyway, where would it take him? To a further staircase, which only went down, as did they all, into the inner bailey. Should Guildford try it, he'd simply be back where he'd started.

I understood what I was being shown. If I were to crouch on the far side of that partition wall, in the lee of it, I'd be hidden at quite a remove from the guard, but Guildford and I would be close enough to be able to talk.

I didn't give it a second thought, not least because there wasn't time, and when I emerged from the top of the staircase into the doorway there he was, across that expanse of stone and behind that wall, waiting for me with a wan smile. He'd had a haircut and the sight of the newly exposed, pallid skin snatched at my heart, or perhaps it was just the cutting itself, something having been done to him when I'd not known.

He raised one hand minimally and lowered it,
Get down
, and yes, of course, I needed to stay unspotted by that guard, had to keep below that interrogative line of sight. Giving him a look – he'd have expected nothing less – I squatted, gathering what I could of my cloak and gown off the filthy flagstones into my lap, then began the shuffle towards the
wall, fearful for the state of my clothing and trusting him to avert his gaze, not merely to keep me covered but to preserve my dignity.

Reaching the wall, I huddled back against it, facing the way I'd come. He'd have to talk over my head and I'd have to talk to the doorway; we'd be disembodied voices, carefully low. But, still, we'd be talking. I'd never been so happy to crouch on a wet, cold floor. It was as if there'd never been anything difficult between us, as if I'd never got up and walked away from him when he'd needed me and he'd never shouted at me in front of everyone on the riverside steps.

He murmured, ‘I've not been well,' because he knew I'd be wondering. ‘Nothing bad, but they say I need some air.' Then, ‘How's my wife?' because he had to ask. After all, that was what we did, that was what we were there for, both of us, in our different ways: to look after his wife, whether she liked it or not.

I had to think, before I decided, ‘Garnering her strength, planning her strategy.' An optimistic view, but the one I'd favour until I knew otherwise.

‘And you?'

Well, that was harder to answer. I'd been getting through the days; the days had kept on coming and I'd been getting through them. How was I? I just
was.
‘Not bad. But you?' Because he'd said he'd been ill. Nothing too bad, he'd said, but still.

No reply.

‘Guildford?'

‘Yes, fine, just …'

‘Just what?'

‘Thinking all the time about what we're going to do – where we're going to go – when we get out of here.'

He and Jane: how they would live their married life. I said nothing because there was nothing I could say to that; I was no part of that, and anyway I had problems of my own.

High above us, the birds seemed to be skating across the sky as if it were sheet ice.

He said, ‘I'm thinking we'll have to go abroad,' and, ‘I can speak to some people for you, if you like, to see what—'

‘No,' and I only just remembered to add, ‘thank you.' My life was nothing like his and Jane's. A word in an ear, a helping hand, a leg-up: none of those figured in my future. I didn't live in that kind of world. That wasn't how it was ever going to be, for me.

‘Oh, well, then,' he was offended, ‘back into your old life, for you.'

But he knew nothing of my life, never had and never would. Once he and I left the Tower, our paths would never cross. It hurt to be hunkered on the balls of my feet, and I shifted, hedging cramp.

‘Back to your Suffolk people,' and he sounded as if he were the one being left behind. ‘Nice Catholic girl that you are.'

I hadn't come up here for one of his scenes. ‘Stop it, Guildford.'

‘And life'll go on for you as it always has. You'll get married to some nice Catholic boy—'

‘Stop it, Guildford,'
I'm warning you.

‘–and have nice Catholic children. He's probably waiting for you even now, isn't he, whoever he is.'

‘Guildford …' I twisted to look up at him, to look him in the eye, but he wouldn't have it, staring away over my head so that all I got was a view of his nostrils and some icy, spitting rain on my upturned face.

He said, ‘You'll have done them proud, your people. You've more than done your bit, haven't you, by being here. I imagine they'll welcome you back with some fanfare.'

‘I can't go back,' I said and, in the instant it was voiced, I knew it to be true, and what a relief it was. ‘I won't be going back.'

Back to a house that so often had Harry in it. Harry, who was quite possibly so stupid as to expect us to resume where we'd left off. Coming to the Tower, I'd been walking away from Harry: I saw it now. That was what I'd done when I'd raised my hand at the Fitzalans': I'd got myself clear of Harry. Why had I ever believed him when he'd said my eleventh day was safe? But I hadn't, had I. Why, then, had I let him go ahead? I hadn't. I'd tried to stop him but he'd gone ahead regardless.

Guildford did now glance down at me, if pointedly and infuriatingly expressionless. ‘Well, no, come to think of it, because why would you go back? Because you're quite a prize, now, aren't you, after this? You can have your pick of nice Catholic boys.'

‘Guildford,' I seethed, ‘you know nothing about me.'

‘To be fair,' he shot back, ‘you don't tell me much.'

‘Why would I?' and for a whisper, it came perilously close to a wail. ‘You're going off and I'll never see you again.'

He hissed, ‘You know I have to do that. You know I do.'

We were going round in circles. I was sick of it, and so tired, and gave up, sinking back against the wall and drawing myself in. It was horrible up there; my mother's favoured threat was ‘You'll feel the flat of my hand,' and what I was being subjected to, up there on that wall, was the flat of the wind's hand.

‘What I'm saying,' he spoke with exaggerated patience, ‘is that you should come with us.'

What on earth did that mean?

Suddenly frantic, he said, ‘Elizabeth, please come with me,' the words catching in his throat, which had my own tighten.

But how could I? What did he mean? ‘How
can
I? I
can't,
can I.'

‘Well, in that case,' he was stung, ‘you'll just have to go back, won't you.'

‘
No
.' He wasn't going to send me back on my way like that. ‘
Listen'
because he should know, ‘I had an affair, back home.'
You do not know me. You like to think you do but you don't.
Had it been an affair? No, worse than that and, worse still, with my father's best friend, and of course there was even worse but he didn't need to know that, about what had happened as a result and how I'd nearly bled to death one night in the presence of his wife. He wasn't going to know any of that. My heart was intent on flushing me out but I was refusing to go
along with it, folding my arms to hold firm, a lump in my throat and my nails in my palms. All he needed to know was the truth of me as far as I understood it, which was that I was not some nice Suffolk girl on my way back into some nice Suffolk life.

I was sure he'd sloped off, leaving me crouching there, but then came ‘He was married?' His tone, cool: the word ‘affair', I supposed, having led him to that conclusion.

‘No, not really,' and at least there was the relief of being able to say that.

He was quick to deride it, though, sighing exasperatedly.

Did he think I was an idiot? ‘No,
really
not really. Separated. Years ago. She's –' how to explain? ‘– off with someone else.' That was the long and the short of it. That would do.

From a distance came ‘Lord Guildford.'
Its time
: the guard.

‘But, still,' said Guildford, ‘you can't marry him.' Stating the obvious, but, I felt, with a notable lack of generosity.

And anyway he'd misunderstood: ‘I don't want to.'

‘But you did.' Not letting me off the hook.

‘No—' but I faltered, could merely reiterate, ‘No.' Perhaps yes, if I was absolutely honest, I'd thought of it once or twice but only because I'd had no other prospects and, anyway, show me the girl who could do what I'd done in that clock cupboard and not occasionally wonder if something more respectable might come of it. But also I hadn't, and that too was just as true. A likely story, I knew – that I had and I
hadn't – but it struck me as the truth of it. I just couldn't explain it any better.

‘But you loved him,' and this came with a startling lack of selfconsciousness, the word ‘loved'. As if love – that kind of love – were for Guildford unquestionably real.

‘No,' and I knew that as the truth, now, even if in a way I wished it were otherwise because then at least what I'd done in the clock cupboard would have been more understandable. ‘I think I thought I did, sometimes, but I didn't.'

‘There's a difference?' Amused, almost, was how he sounded, and not really questioning me so much as picking me up on a point. And he had one, I could see it; he did definitely have a point. I could see what he meant:
I think I thought I did
–

I could see that it was funny, if you stopped to think about it.