The Stolen One (19 page)

A distinguished-looking man with heavily embroidered livery barked orders to the workmen. “Who is that?” I asked.

“John Fortescue, Keeper of the Queen’s Wardrobe, an entitlement he has for life, unfortunately,” Nicholas said caustically as he led me to the other end of the great room. There were bolts and bolts of rich fabrics—velvets, damasks, silks, taffetas, and satins in every color imaginable! My eyes greedily took in the treasures as men delivered new rolls on their shoulders, red-faced and huffing. “Straight from the wharf,” Nicholas explained. “Ribbons from Cologne, guards from Burgundy, silk
from Persia, taffeta from Spain, gold threads from Venice. We import the best in the world.” In a corner two clerks weighed laces and spangles, beads and large pearls, and recorded them in books. They would be locked in chests and presses until they were needed.

Nicholas nodded his head in the direction of an old man who stood at a tall angled desk, bent over a large parchment. “My father,” he whispered, something unreadable in his eyes. “Old before his time.” Mr. Pigeon dipped his pen in ink and continued to write. “It takes a lot out of someone. The Warrants. Everything must be recorded and recorded correctly and accounted for,” Nicholas said somberly. “One begins to hate the smell of the ink.” His father never even looked up from his work.

We continued on to a room where the great robes were stored—rows and rows of them lined up—scarlet coronation robes, mourning robes, robes for Parliament, and robes for the Most Noble Order of the Garter, a fig-brown mantle worn over a crimson kirtle. There were grand leather cases with gilt decoration for some of the older pieces, Nicholas explained. I ran my hand over an ermine-lined robe.

“King Henry the Eighth’s,” Nicholas said, his smile
returning. “He wore it for his investiture.” Another liveried man walked past, frowning at Nicholas for the way we tarried. “Come”—Nicholas nodded to me—“the best is ahead.”

“And who was that?” I asked him as he hurried me away.

“Ralph Hope, yeoman of the Robes. Cruel man, he is. Wishes to work my father to his death, and then me afterward.” I looked over my shoulder and began to wonder just how many men were above Nicholas in the rank of the Wardrobe and just why Nicholas did not have the livery they had. I opened my mouth to ask, but he pulled me forward to yet another series of rooms—the menders. Why, there were more than two score, all of them sewing away at different pieces of livery and various garments, big and small. One man worked on a petticoat that I was sure was one Dorothy owned, perhaps torn in the rosebushes?

Next Nicholas showed me the queen’s artificers—cappers, hosiers, shoemakers, skinners, locksmiths, and then the queen’s tailors. Nicholas made me peek from around a corner at the tailors, for Walter Fyshe, the main tailor, was very brisk and mindful of strangers who might poison his cloth. He stood before a long wooden
table littered with parchment paper for patterns, pins, chalk, a pressing iron, and thimbles. He held shears and was very carefully cutting into a long length of emerald velvet. And just beyond him, two men sat cross-legged on the floor sewing. Above them hung wooden rods from which various garments were draped. Nicholas pulled me on when Walter Fyshe looked up from his work.

At long last—the embroiderers. My stomach fluttered, then dropped as I peered into the room. Men, all of them men, I was disappointed to see, even though I knew that would be the case. They worked in rows, sitting before large frames where the fabric had been pulled taut. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but once again, Nicholas pulled me along. The embroiderers never even acknowledged us as we passed through. “You’re as dangerous in here,” he teased me when we were back in a dark hall. He kissed me quickly on the lips. “That is for what I’ve shown you, Kat. And after, when you have seen it all, you shall give me more.”

“Nicholas,” I said as I leaned away from him. “Why do you not have the livery your father and the other distinguished men have?”

His smile faded. “You know how to lower a man, do
you not? I’ve worked my entire life for it, and I shall get it. And someday soon, too. Come,” he said, pulling my arm once again. He opened another door. “The Queen’s Wardrobe.”

I held my breath and clutched his arm. Several clerks sitting at desks near the doorway looked up from their work. Stretching to the back of the room were elegant trunks with embossed leather bandings, stacked, some open with gloves and cloaks hanging out. In the back hung gowns, hundreds of them, in the French, Italian, and Flemish styles, in every fabric imaginable. I stood frozen a moment, not believing what I was seeing, not believing I was here. Then I ran down one of the aisles, skimming my hand through the luxurious fabrics, while Nicholas laughed behind me. I walked more leisurely up another aisle, stopping now and then to pull out a gown and study its cut, or the embroidery, or the richness of the fabric. Nicholas followed, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Oh Nicholas, I could not have a better gift.” I laughed as I spun around to him. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“This isn’t all, Katherine,” he said, crooking his finger. I followed him to an antechamber. A low fire cast
an amber glow around the small space. Draped across a chair was the most magnificent gown, bejeweled, tufted, and ruched in an iridescent peach and tawny silk. The stomacher was embroidered with butterflies, lilies, strawberries, and eglantine. I did have to admit to myself that her embroiderers were indeed talented, although I imagined that what I worked on late at night would put all the dresses to shame. Nearby lay a ruff, sleeves, a forepart, and gloves. Even her jewelry had been laid out, and her prayerbook still attached to the “eye” fob. I bit my lip and turned to him.

“You are to pose for a portrait,” he explained. “As the queen herself. She doesn’t have time for such things. They take hours upon hours, and as you know she doesn’t have much patience. She actually only sits for but a few of her portraits. So her ladies take turns. The queen’s face is painted in later with a pattern.”

“Nay, you are jesting with me,” I said, holding the gown up to my chest, smiling perhaps the biggest smile of my entire life.

“Indeed I’m not. The queen herself asked for you. Says you resemble her the most anyway. Dorothy, the cow, is not very happy. It would have been her turn.”

Later, when I was dressed, I sat before the painter,
holding my chin up regally, a scepter in one hand, the other across my waist. I had dreamed of a day like this—dressed so nobly like a queen. Bejeweled and resplendent, wearing the finest things in the world. But as I sat, my heart began to sink. I had rather be in the other rooms, standing behind Walter Fyshe, looking over his shoulder as he cut, or with the embroiderers, asking of new stitches they had learned, and from where they got their fine needles. And then a vision passed before me, Anna and I working at home in Blackchurch Cottage, the door thrown open for fresh air. I could feel it as though it were real, the smell of honeysuckle floating in, sparrows calling in the distance. But the moment was spoiled when I glanced in the long mirror placed against a far wall. I saw a mere girl, buried in false finery staring back at me, and beyond her, a more curious sight—Nicholas and a young maid, a servant girl, locked in an embrace.

T
here’s always a price to pay when one is given something costly,” Grace used to say at Christmas when there were no gifts for Anna and me at Blackchurch Cottage, just a goodly meal of shepherd’s pie and a warm fire provided for us by Uncle Godfrey.

Dorothy’s maid Beatrice finished my hair as I stared at my reflection. My hand fingered the necklace, freed from its hiding place, hanging at my neck. Its weight was heavy and mighty under my fingers. I wondered if this was the only reason Jane the fool, sick with death, had come to Blackchurch Cottage. And why Grace had let her die rather than give it to her.

Dorothy appeared behind me, her hands on my
shoulders. “My, my, you are gorgeous! Why, it’s the gown you tried on when we played at the store!”

“It’s from the queen, a gift for Christmas,” I said, running my hands down the deep crimson fabric. It was of a Flemish design, cut low, my breast almost tipping over the bodice. It had been left for me on my bed. I’d found it when I came home from the Wardrobe, my feet and back aching.

“And the necklace?” Dorothy asked, one eye raised up.

“Lord Ludmore,” I lied.

“So poor Nicholas.” She laughed. “He’s lost you for good.”

“Yes. I guess you could say that. I saw him kissing a maid. So much for his undying love for me.”

Dorothy let out a long, hearty laugh. “Why, that is nothing new. Men like to have their crumpet and eat it too. You are simply to turn your head and abide it. It’s the way of things, I’m afraid.”

“And if your John has his crumpet, what shall you do?” I asked her.

“Kill the whoreson with my own hands, I would.” She laughed. “Really. Let Nicholas have his dalliances. If you were to have a man who didn’t partake as such, there’d be no one left to choose from, ’cept the old men who we
might have to have anyway. But maybe perchance, your Lord Ludmore is such a man,” she said, and I smirked to myself, thinking of his bastards. “When a man gives one such a gift,” she said, lightly touching the necklace with her fingertips, “and a woman receives it, she knows there is a price. Rafael has won you for good.”

“No,” I insisted. “Nothing is settled.”

“I think I feel sorry for Nicholas,” she said, taking my arm. “Poor thing, there are no ladies left for him to court. We’ve all discovered his ways.”

The feast of Twelfth Night was a favorite of the queen’s, and no expense was spared. The tables, still strewn with evergreen and holly, were laden with roast beef, goose, and stuffed turkeys, and even roasted swans and peacocks, their feathers gilded with gold leaf. Sweet melons and apricots, plum porridge, and minced pies were served as courtiers sang carols accompanied by the low sound of pipes and drums. Later there was to be a play.

I sipped mulled wine, its warmth tickling my mouth, as I watched the queen. She was feeding Lord Dudley an apricot, giggling and laughing loudly.

“You truly love her, don’t you?” Rafael asked, appearing by my side. I turned to him and his eyes were immediately
drawn to the necklace, a look of puzzlement crossing his face.

“And what if I do?” I said. He was looking at the queen, his eyes, for a moment, sharp as daggers.

“What do you know of love, Heartbreaker? You are but a child,” he said, finally meeting my eyes, his own eyes soft now.

“You know there are brides younger than I.” I took another sip of my wine.

“I shall never marry.” He looked away again.

“Ha. Then why come back to court?”

“Hmmmm.” He ran his finger along my arm. I hissed and pushed his hand away.

“Well, I shan’t marry either,” I proclaimed.

“We’re a lot alike, Katherine,” he said, and I realized he had never said my full name before.

“Except for our feelings for the queen,” I replied, glancing around in time to see Dorothy slap her John Abington and run from the room. A nearby maid watched her go, with the look of one trying to hold back a smile. And then just beyond them I spotted George the sweeper with such a sorrowful look of longing on his face that shivers went up my back.

“Actually, my sweet, love and hate are the same.”

“What do you know of love, Lord Ludmore?” I said just as a lady walked by, a look of longing aimed at Rafael. “Ahh,” I said. “Let me guess. She’s missing a rose.”

Rafael’s face darkened and I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He stood. “They are starting to dance and I shall go find a partner, a suitable partner who doesn’t talk.”

He bowed and walked off through the dancers and soon I saw him happily spinning the rosebush girl around.

Suddenly Dorothy appeared, her eyes rimmed with red. “Come,” she said, leaning down and helping herself to my wine. “Let us dance and forget our men.” She pulled me by both my arms, laughing, into the crowd.

“What’s happened between you two?” I asked, my voice low.

“He’s long wanted me to ask the queen if we can marry,” she said over her shoulder. We joined a group of dancers. We were each spun around by a courtier, coming face to face again a moment later. “As though I would, and ruin my chances at court,” she continued. “My father would kill me.” She was spun away from me in another direction. I was whirled around again, just as
she said, “And now he threatens to tarry with that fat-rumped slut. But I’ll show him tonight, I will.”

And just then I was spun around again and suddenly I faced the queen, who smiled at me genuinely, until her eyes alit on my necklace. She froze, grabbed my arm, her nails sinking into my skin like daggers, and pulled me out of the dance and away. The music stopped.

We walked through the room, quickly, our arms linked together, our hands clasped in a death grip. If she hadn’t held me, I thought I should fall as the room had begun to turn. “Smile,” she whispered through clenched teeth as we swept past the astonished courtiers. I managed a stiff smile. Tears stung my eyes. The music began again.

A moment later we were under a stairwell, her face half obscured in the dark.

“Where did you get that necklace?” she hissed, her fingers gripping my arm painfully again.

“Do you know it? Is it yours?” My heart raced in my chest.

“You do not ask a queen questions!” she roared. “Where did you get it?”

“It was my mother’s!” Aye, it was hers. I knew it with all my being.

She stood back and looked at me, her head cocked like
a cat examining a cornered mouse. “I wasn’t sure,” she said. And then, “I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t. I looked, but I couldn’t find you.”

My stomach sank down to my toes. “I saw a portrait, Your Majesty. Of Queen Katherine Parr. She was wearing this necklace. Can she be my mother? Can she? I do not resemble her in any way.”

“But you’re the spitting image of your father,” she said, cupping my chin and turning my head side to side. “You have his eyes. His allure. God’s death, but he was my first love. One never forgets that kind of love. But he could not be trusted. He betrayed everyone. Even you. He died for his own mistakes and left you alone.”

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe any of this,” I said, suddenly wishing I was back home, back at my real home, Blackchurch Cottage.
Christian
. A sob rose in my throat.

She reached down and pulled up her fob, this one elaborately jeweled with a half-moon crescent on it. She opened it, and there was a small portrait. She held it up for me to see. It was of a strikingly handsome man, thin faced, emerald eyes—sea-green eyes. It was like I was staring in a mirror.

“I called him “Moon,” for he was the moon and stars
to me, and for other more private reasons,” she said as I held the portrait even closer.
You have a mark, a perfect half-moon
, Ava had said to me. It didn’t prove anything. I dropped the fob. Nothing proved anything. “But he was quite the disappointment, I must say,” the queen continued. “And our tryst parted me from the only mother I ever had.”

“Did he betray you, Your Majesty?”

She looked away. “I was young, naïve.”

“You were just fourteen.”

“I knew what I was doing,” she said. “I just didn’t forsee the consequences that would ripple through the rest of my life.”

Are you my mother, Your Majesty?

“What does it all matter, my Spirit?” she said, looking at me clearly. “You are my daughter
now
. And you will never leave me; I will hold you to me forever. You can spend the rest of your days on my gown. I don’t have a care for it, only you.” She smiled.

I tried to smile back at her.

She pulled me close, hugging me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, and I swore to myself I could smell juniper. Even if it be ever so faint, it was there. I knew it.

Later, back in my room, I found myself sobbing, for what I knew not. Finally I wiped away my tears, pulled out the queen’s gown, and examined my work. It was very fine, fit for the most royal, and it was indeed superior to anything in all the Queen’s Wardrobe. I knew it was. But something wasn’t quite right; something was missing. I ran my hand over the area where Anna had drawn the wolf beneath its tree. Yes, something was needed there.

There was a soft knock at my door. “Dorothy?” I called.

“No, ma’am, it’s me, Maisy,” a voice with much urgency whispered.

I ran to the door and opened it. “Lady Ludmore has sent for you,” she said, her face pained and scared. “She’s sick…and Bartolome, too.” She burst into tears. “They’re in a very bad state, very bad I tell you. I fear very much for their lives. Can you come?”

I grabbed a cloak, a bag of herbs, and followed Maisy down the dark hall.

An eternity later, we arrived at the Ludmore home. It was dark. Maisy opened the door and I followed her in. Immediately I was struck with the smell of death, vile sickness, and vomit.

Maisy lit a candle. She walked to the stairs and pointed. “Where is Ava, the kitchen girls, the grooms?” I whispered.

“Some fled. Others downed with the sickness. It came of a sudden.” She peered up the stairs. “It’s mighty powerful, I tell you. Unstoppable.”

“What kind of sickness?” I asked her.

“The pox, ma’am. I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I was so afraid. So afraid you wouldn’t come. We couldn’t get anyone to help us, not even the doctor or the herb woman from Downs Street. I remembered you had a talent with potions.”

I took the candle from her and went up the stairs, my feet heavy, so heavy as I walked down the dark hall. I pushed open Lady Ludmore’s door. The room was lit by several tapering candles, guttering away—“Prepare the winding sheets” Grace would have said. A low fire cast an amber glow around the room. There were two figures in the bed. I walked closer. It was Lady Ludmore and Bartolome, blistered and pustuled, their faces barely recognizable. Oh, God’s me! I took a deep breath.

“Where’s Lord Ludmore?” I asked.

“Down the hall,” Maisy answered. “When he came home from the feast, he was already in a fever. It’s those
that get it last that go down the hardest, I’m afraid.”

I listened for Lady Ludmore’s breath. It was there but faint, like small wavelets over a dry river. Bartolome’s breath was more even and full.

“Can you help them?” asked Maisy behind me.

“I don’t know,” I said. I opened my bag and took out clary wort and galyntyne. “We can only make them comfortable. Perhaps Bartolome has a chance. Boil this with honey and goat’s milk, white pepper, and cloves. I have but a little bit. If we had time I’d get more. But pray me, there’s no time.”

Maisy started to cry. “Oh, stop that blubbering, girl; I’m not dead yet,” Lady Ludmore suddenly said. Maisy startled, and crossed herself. She took the herbs from me and ran from the room.

“Lady Ludmore,” I said, taking her hand.

“So I shall die, shall I?” she asked me. “Perhaps you shouldn’t come near, child.”

“Nothing in life is certain.” I looked away.

“Except death. Don’t lie to me, girl.” She coughed. “Should I be praying for my soul?”

I looked straight at her. “Yes.”

“Thank God I won’t be joining Luddy,” she said with a laugh that quickly turned into a violent cough.
“He’s down in hell for what he did to my boy.”

I dipped a cloth in the basin near the bed and put it on her brow. “No,” she said. “Tend to Bartolome. Give him everything. All of it. You must save him at any cost.” Oh, God’s me, she didn’t know Rafael was sick, too.

Maisy came back with my potion in a steaming pot just as I placed a cloth over Bartolome’s face. He didn’t stir. Still, though, his breathing was even, and I was glad of it. I dipped a second cloth into the pot and started to rub the mixture over his body.

“She’s gone,” Maisy said suddenly, falling to her knees. I looked up. Lady Ludmore’s eyes, still and fixed, rested on Bartolome.