Watch the Lady (10 page)

“But Sis, remember this:
you
come first.” He stood straight, separating his legs like a guard and his mouth twisted into a snarl. “If he ever wrongs you, I shall revenge you personally.” His boyishness seemed to have leaked away. “I said as much to him, told him my allegiance depended on his good care of you.”

She felt a welling of love for her brother and a sense that she was part of something strong and meaningful, something that couldn't be broken. Stepping forward, she kissed him softly on the cheek and, holding out a hand for Dorothy to take, said, “The Devereuxs are tighter than the petals of a new bud and will never be prised apart.'

“My beautiful sisters,” said Essex. “How lucky I am.”

“I wish Wat were here too, though. The four of us have not been all together since Father died,” said Dorothy, turning Penelope's thoughts to her youngest brother.

“He is coming with Mother,” said Essex.

“So we
shall
be all together,” said Dorothy gleefully.

“But I will be dragged away for my wedding night. How will I bear it?”

“Drink lots of wine and you will be so light-headed you will hardly know anything,” said Dorothy, which made them all laugh, but Penelope's heart remained heavy.

•  •  •

She had done as her sister suggested and by the time she found herself alone with her new husband she was so drunk and exhausted she could hardly stand without having to hold on to something. There had been toasts at the wedding supper, cups raised for England, for the Queen, for the newlyweds, for the boys they would produce. It went on and on, and for each toast Penelope downed an entire cupful of Rich's imported French wine. Then instead of dancing there had been prayers of thanks.

“I can see that you are going to need a firm hand,” Rich had said, opening the door to the bedchamber. He had her by the fingers, holding so tight that her ring dug painfully into her.

“You are hurting me,” she said.

“I'll hurt you properly if you are not careful.”

“What do you mean?” Penelope was trying to make sense of his mood through the swirl in her head.

“You humiliated me in public, at our wedding no less, before both our families. You are my wife now and you will never humiliate me again. Is that understood?” He gripped his fist more tightly about her fingers until she feared he might break them, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of even so much as a wince.

“I see,” she responded, reliving the ceremony through the fog of wine.

As she arrived, she had stumbled on her gown and knocked her elbow so hard on the font that it brought tears to her eyes. They were all there, wearing that solemn, wistful look people wear at weddings, watching as she walked slowly in her dress that was stiff as a coffin, barely able to move her head for fear her ruff would decapitate her. Her breath caught in her throat on seeing the group of Sidneys, Philip with them. She felt suddenly faint and feared to lose her footing once more, having to grip tightly to Jeanne for support. But then she saw she was mistaken, it was not Philip, but his younger brother, Robert. She told herself that she was glad of his absence, that she couldn't have borne to have him there, but truly she was bereft. She forced herself to remember his treatment of her, how he had led her on, how he had failed her, but she couldn't find a way to hate him.

Rich watched her approach impassively, a slight sneer fixed into the set of his mouth as if there was something about her he found distasteful; but perhaps he was feeling belittled by the occasion, faced by his wife-to-be and her ranks of illustrious relations, all their veins gushing with blue blood. Did he think they all believed him beneath them (which, in truth, most did)? She arrived at his side, attempting a smile, but her mouth was too dry to make it convincing. He swallowed, in apprehension, she thought, and she felt a gush of sympathy for him, but not enough to make her feel better.

The chaplain began the service. She stood, then knelt, then stood again, like a puppet, not listening. She felt as if she was at her own funeral and had a vision of all eternity spent with the stern young man at her side. A tremor of panic passed through her as if she had woken to discover herself trapped alive in a tomb.

“Wilt thou have this man . . .”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I cannot.” She stepped away, back towards her mother, but then saw her stony expression and Leicester's, dark with rage, and beside him the Huntingdons, the earl openmouthed in horror, the countess clasping the sides of her head with her hands. Her siblings, all three, were round-eyed. The guests seated farther back had begun to shuffle and whisper, as they understood what was happening. She dropped on her knees before Leicester and her mother.

“I beg you, do not make me . . .” She found courage swelling in her and she got to her feet, announcing, “I exercise my right to refuse. I have that right, surely?” She looked out at the ranks of relatives; their faces were screwed up with disapproval, or shock, or anger, she couldn't tell which.

“Am I to understand that you refuse this man's hand?” It was the chaplain speaking. He couldn't seem to hide the edge of impatience from his tone, as if she were a tiresome child who had wasted his afternoon.

“I do refuse.”

It was Leicester who stood and guided her firmly back to Rich's side, growling in her ear, “For God's sake, girl, behave. I don't know what makes you think you have a choice.”

She didn't dare look at Rich beside her. She was reminded of the young bullocks being herded to the knackers, oblivious until they smelled the fear in the air, which set their eyes a-swivel; much as they shifted and shook their heads they couldn't avoid their fate and neither could she, for where could she have gone? Her family would not have wanted her; she would have been cast out of court.

“I am ready now,” she said to the chaplain. “I just needed a moment's reflection. Marriage is not to be taken lightly.”

He looked at her with a slight nod. She felt the relatives relax at her back. He cleared his throat before repeating the vows.

When she opened her mouth to speak no voice came out and then when it came it was only a whisper, but the chaplain was satisfied. She had frozen over like a winter pond, where life lurks beneath but it cannot be reached. She felt the ring scrape over her knuckle. It felt heavy, so heavy she feared she might never be able to lift her arm again. Only then did she look at Rich, her husband. His was not the face of a contented bridegroom. No, he looked like a man gravely wronged, his cheeks red with suppressed rage.

“Not ‘I see'!” barked Rich now, pushing her over the threshold of the bedchamber. “That is no way to speak to your husband. This spirit of yours will have to be curbed.” He had a hand up to her throat and his face close up to hers. “ ‘I am deeply sorry, my lord.' Say it!”

She was tempted to spit in his face but feared if she did he might strike her.

“Say it!” he repeated.

She formed an exaggerated smile. “I am deeply sorry, my lord,” she said, as if she was a player impressing the irony of a scene on an audience to tease a laugh out of them.

He shoved her onto the bed, still gripping her throat. “You think you are better than me, your family, all that noble blood, but you are mine now, your noble blood is mine and you will be obedient. I can hardly bear to look at you. Think you are the jewel of the Queen's maids? The beauty of the bunch? Well, you disgust me.”

“If I am disgusting, then you have made me so,” she replied, looking straight at him, refusing to be cowed, the drink emboldening her. “You can have my body, but you will never have me.”

“
Your body
 . . .” He spat that out with a look of revulsion. “You are a daughter of Eve!” He unlaced himself with one hand while holding her wrists tight—too tight—with the other. She felt her bones might break but she would never have acknowledged that pain with a cry, nor given him the satisfaction of begging him to stop. Eyes squeezed shut, he muttered out a psalm beneath his breath. “Praise ye the Lord. Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord, that delighteth greatly in his commandments. His seed shall be mighty upon earth: the generation of the righteous shall be blessed . . .” And without opening his eyes he lifted the stiff skirts of her wedding dress.

She stared at the bed hangings, a bower of embroidered flowers and birds, trying to imagine she was there in that stitched garden amongst the silken vegetation, basking in the warmth of an appliquéd sun. But however hard she tried to escape into her imagination, she remained in that bedchamber, in her new Smithfield town house, with her new husband, the thought repeating itself like a fugue in her head:
for all eternity
, and waiting for the pain.

“It might hurt a little,” her mother had warned her. “And do not be alarmed by the size of his member, for that is how it is supposed to be. Just allow him to do what he must.” Penelope had long wondered what she meant by “what he must” and, lying there with her new husband poking about her nether regions and grunting like a hog, she was unsure what
she
was expected to do, glad to be giddy with wine and glad, too, that Rich had finally loosened his grip on her bruised wrists.

He took her hand and pressed it onto his thing. It was not as she had imagined; it had the waxy feel of an uncooked cut of meat. He gripped, frotting back and forth right up by her privy parts. In her mind she replaced Rich with Sidney, scrunching her eyes tight shut and using the full force of her imagination to conjure up that other man with his cut-grass smell and pale-as-water eyes. He was whispering in her ear. A hot thrill began to rise up through her but a part of her wondered if it was not a grave sin to think of another on your wedding night. Her mother had not counseled her on such a thing. The feeling abated. Rich was murmuring that psalm again, repeating it over and over, and she tried to put her mind to God but Sidney would not leave her head. Then, with a sudden groan, Rich rolled away from her, sat up, laced himself back into his clothes, and left without a word.

She had not seen Rich the following morning until the horses had been made ready for her departure. She waited on the threshold of the Smithfield house, her head thick from the previous evening's excesses, wondering if she should send Jeanne to find him. But then he appeared.

“You look tired,” he said, as if it was an accusation.

“I slept like a baby, thank you,” she lied.

“Go and curry favor on my part with the Queen.” He offered a hand to help her into the waiting carriage. Once she was out of sight of the groom he held her by the wrist, holding and twisting until her skin burned and still he would not let go. Then he surprised her by kissing her full on the lips. She had to use every bit of her self-control to not wipe the kiss away.

“Are you going to Leighs?” She wanted to think of him far away and when he nodded she couldn't help but imagine some kind of accident.

Once the carriage pulled away she swapped her bracelet, a wedding gift from Leicester, thick with emeralds, to her other wrist to hide the welt. As she sank back into the deeply upholstered seat she wondered if such luxury might go some way to make amends, doubting it.

•  •  •

“I want to know everything,” said Martha, who had come to greet her in the base court at Whitehall. The place was milling with guards and Penelope wondered why.

“There is not much to tell,” she replied as they walked together towards the privy chamber.

“But your wedding?”

“I'd rather forget about it.” Martha couldn't disguise her disappointment. “Sorry, it's just . . .” Penelope wasn't quite sure how to articulate what she had felt about it all, and how could Martha possibly understand the turmoil in her head, when she knew nothing of Rich, nor of her feelings for Sidney? It was only Jeanne she had felt able to confide in—sweet, loyal Jeanne, who could always be trusted with a secret.

Martha offered a sympathetic smile. “You will never believe what has happened here since you left. There is a Catholic plot afoot, sponsored by the Pope, to assassinate the Queen and all her advisors.” Her eyes flashed with excitement rather than fear, as she whispered breathlessly. “Fifty armed men at the ready to snatch her away.”

Penelope felt herself shrivel inside, remembering the horrors of the massacre in Paris. Jeanne had told her so little of that night, when thousands were murdered at Catholic hands, but what she
had
said buried itself deep in Penelope's mind—the shrieks of terror, the stench of blood, the river thick with corpses: an image of hell. “Here in England?” she said without thinking.

“Yes, here. They want to put Mary of Scotland on the throne in her stead. We are all told we must not walk in the gardens for it is too dangerous.”

“Mary of Scotland?” said Penelope. She had occasionally thought of that Scottish Queen who had festered under house arrest with the Shrewsburys for thirteen years, while her young son, James, sat on her throne. She was another who was not to be mentioned in earshot of the Queen, but the maids talked of her often, as if she were from a myth and not a real woman at all.

“The guard has been doubled. Did you not notice?”

“I did question why there were so many at the gates.”

“Wait until you see inside. They are lined all the way down the long gallery.”

It had been no exaggeration and when they arrived at the privy chamber there were a dozen halberdiers guarding the door.

Martha cupped her hand over her mouth and leaned in towards Penelope. “A Catholic priest, Campion, has been arrested for treason. Found in a priest hole . . . he is in the Tower now, being questioned.”