Watch the Lady (15 page)

“Who's that making such a bleeding racket?” came a voice beyond the door, which then opened to reveal the kitchens. A man stood before her whom she supposed to be the cook or the butcher; he wore an apron covered in blood and brandished a knife. “My lady, please excuse me.” He swiped the cap from his head and the others in the kitchen all turned from their stations and, realizing who she was, did likewise.

A big-bosomed woman stepped forward. “You do not look well, my lady; are you sickening for something?”

Penelope couldn't find her voice but she shook her head.

“Then you must have seen the ghost. There is one that wanders the top corridor. That is why we keep this door locked, not that a door provides much of a barrier to a ghost. Was it the ghost you saw, my lady?”

Penelope made a small cough and at last found she was able to stumble out a reply. “It was, I think. A ghost, yes.”

“Come, my lady.” The woman held out a hand, which Penelope took. “Heavens, you are cold as death. Come and sit by the hearth; I will mix you a posset and send for your maid. Here.” She clicked her fingers at one of the lads who stared gormlessly at the mistress of the house, in her nightclothes, sitting there on a stool by the kitchen hearth like a lost infant. “Go and fetch the maid of the chamber, the French one.” Then, turning back to Penelope, she said, “Let me take those things off you. I can't imagine how you came to be wandering the top corridor with a pile of laundry, when there are more servants in this place than there are rats in London.”

Only then did Penelope remember she was still clutching the guilty bundle. “Oh no,” she said, holding it close to her body.

Seeming to understand that something was amiss, the woman said, “Come with me to the laundry; it is warm and clean in there and you will be away from all the foul kitchen smells.”

Penelope allowed herself to be led across a small cobbled yard and into an outhouse. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the acrid tang of lye. There was a vast bubbling vat hanging over the fire and above it, on a rack that had been winched high up to the ceiling, hung rows of linens that wafted and billowed in the rising heat. She collapsed onto a bench and let the bundle fall to the floor, the boy's clothes spilling out onto the flags.

The woman picked them up, folding, not really looking, certainly not surprised by the boy's garments, only inspecting them for dirt, throwing the bloodied shirt into a basket of other linens with the crumpled sheet and placing the ruff, which had been crushed beyond recognition, on a stand. The rest she put to one side then sat next to Penelope, heaving out a sigh.

“I have known Lord Rich since he was an infant. Indeed, I wet-nursed him when I was still a girl. So I probably know him better than even his mother. I know all about his little foibles.”

“His foibles . . .” echoed Penelope.

“The lads! With some men it is just the way. They have that preference.”

“But . . .” The tears came then, in great sobs, and the woman enfolded her in her arms, holding her head against the soft pillow of her breast. She had heard of it, of course, but could not even allow herself to say the word, not even silently, for even the thought of it seemed so very profane.

“It is more common than you think, my little lady. And the ways of the flesh cannot always be explained.”

“But he is a God-fearing man, a Puritan,” was all she could think to say.

“Perhaps that is why.” There was a strange logic to the woman's reasoning. “Now, I want you to know that I am here for you. You just call for me—Mistress Shilling—if ever you get yourself in a muddle. And remember, your husband is a good enough man at heart, just plagued by his own personal demons. And soon, I feel sure of it, you will be childing and all will be well. Nothing will matter when you have your own infant in your arms.”

Her tears dried up. Mistress Shilling handed her a square of linen to wipe her face and blow her nose, then found a crisp coif, which she slipped over her head.

“There. Good as new.”

•  •  •

It wasn't until the afternoon that Rich summoned her, after she came back from riding out. She had taken comfort in Dulcet's familiar gait as they galloped across the heath, with Alfred calling out for her to take care as she spurred the horse on. She imagined the wind, whistling about her, was blowing away all traces of the morning's events. It caught in her cape, causing it to fly out behind her like wings, and her ears filled with the thunder of hooves. Dulcet came to a halt eventually, at the edge of a wood where they spooked a small herd of deer that took cover amongst the trees. Dulcet dropped her head to tear at a tussock of grass and a young stag took a step forward to stand proud and immobile, save for the slight heave of breath moving through his flanks. He regarded Penelope with a pair of dewy eyes that showed nothing of his fear. She was reminded, instantly, of the hart she had once shot, regret welling with the memory of killing something so full of life, and predictably her thoughts returned to Sidney.

She couldn't help but think of what might have been if she'd had the courage to go to him that night, if she had given
him
her maidenhead—what then? But, as she made her way through the house to Rich's rooms, a new thought insinuated itself into her mind: that perhaps the situation with her husband could be turned to her advantage.

Something got hold of her with inexplicable force: a refusal to become a victim to circumstance. If she were to be the one to play power games at court on behalf of the Devereuxs, then what better time to start learning how to turn disadvantage on its head. She saw with clarity then that power could be gained, not necessarily by brute strength, nor by political sophistication, but by holding others' secrets. She thought of that young stag and its fearless gaze, sensing a change taking hold in her as if steel was threading itself through her veins.

She knocked at Rich's study; he opened the door himself, looking pale, quite distraught, and was rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm them, though the chamber was stuffy. They sat and eventually he spoke. “Can you forgive me?”

She reached out for one of his hands, prising it from its partner. “Forgiveness is something between you and God, but if you mean ‘Do I understand?' then I do . . .” She paused and looked at him but he couldn't meet her eye. “Though many wouldn't.”

“My shame would be yours by proxy were people to discover my . . . my . . .”

“Your transgressions?”

He looked at her then, with a nod.

“We do not know each other very well yet,” she continued. “And something you will learn about me in time is that I care not for people's opinions.” This was something she realized about herself only as she was saying it. She had seen her mother ostracized and condemned, diminished by shame. She, Penelope, would not be the casualty of others' judgments. “The Devereuxs are not so easily uprooted.”

“I beg that you remain silent on this matter,” he pleaded, clutching the edge of her sleeve, seeming debased. There was nothing left of the vile bully of her wedding night. She was filled with a new sense of puissance, as if she had grown out of girlhood in the space of a few hours.

“There is no need to beg. It is simply a question of striking a bargain.” She stood and began to pace, as she had seen Leicester do on many an occasion, surprised by herself, finding she was enjoying holding the upper hand, feeling she might get used to it.

“A bargain? I don't know what you mean by that.” He stopped, wiping a hand slowly over his mouth. “Do you mean there are conditions for your silence?”

“Exactly that,” she replied, only then beginning to list in her mind what her conditions would be.

“You cannot ask me to give up my Puritan faith, it is all I have that gives me hope—the slenderest possibility for redemption.”

“Your faith is your business but I will practice mine as I wish. In this house I will respect your strictures on certain pastimes but within my own chambers I shall do as I wish.”

“Yes, as you wish.”

“You will give me the freedom to live under my mother's roof, if I so desire it, and you have my word that I will spend enough time under yours to fulfill the obligations of our marriage. I shall be faithful until I have given you a pair of sons. Then I will be free to live as I choose, with discretion, of course.” She felt she had the wind behind her as she paced; his eyes followed her. “Our children will be raised here but under the auspices of nursery staff of my choosing, and none of them Puritans.”

“But . . .” he began.

“I do not think you are really in a position to barter. Do you?”

He slumped back.

“And as for the business of last night—the outfit.”

He hid his face in cupped palms. “Please, no.”

“If that is what is necessary to get me with child, then so be it.” She was thinking of Mistress Shilling's pragmatism. It was not such a great hardship to play pretend in the dark, and if it was a sin, it was his sin not hers.

He looked up, his face awash with relief. She had forgotten how striking he could look when he was not twisted with anger. “You would do that, for me?”

“Not for you, no; for me—so that I can bear children. I too have made vows before God. And the rest—your proclivities—I want to know nothing of it. Is that clear?”

“Clear. You want to know nothing of it,” he repeated. “That is the price for your silence?”

“Yes. It is not so much to ask, I think, for me to keep the secret of your sodomy.” He flinched.

She felt further empowered in speaking the word she had not even dared think of only hours before, understanding in that moment that words held a power all of their own. And she felt a little pity for him, gripped by his urges, quite eaten away by them, deciding then and there that she would never allow herself to be subject to her own animal instincts, understanding too how the Queen managed her power so effectively by at least giving the appearance of curbing her base desires.

“You will not tell even your nearest?”

“Do you mean my mother, my sister, my brother? Well.” She made the pretense of being unsure, to watch him squirm a little more. “I think it best they are kept in the dark too.”

“I thank the Lord that he has sent me such an understanding wife.”

He looked cowed and desperate and grateful, and even squeezed a little sympathy from her, but her prevailing feeling towards him was of indifference, and she would not allow for her newly discovered authority to be tainted by sentiment.

Essex appeared over the crest of the hill in silhouette, with the afternoon sun low at his back. Penelope felt her heart jolt at the thought of being reunited with her brother, whom she hadn't seen since her wedding the better part of a year ago. She was traveling with her mother and Jeanne in the carriage, for she had missed her courses that month and Lettice had advised her not to ride at such an early stage. “Particularly with a first pregnancy,” she had said. “My first grandson.” None of them considered the possibility of the infant not being male. Penelope wondered often about the theatrical complications of the baby's conception, to what extent it mired her in sin, and had woken from a nightmare the previous night, in which she had birthed a monster.

Despite the ballast of cushions and bolsters, she had been jolted and jostled for the entire journey; the motion and the cloying summer heat had induced waves of nausea, making her think she would have been far better off astride Dulcet, who was reliable as the days of the week. She had said nothing yet to Rich of the invisible ministrations of her body, somehow hadn't wanted to share her secret joy with him, wanted to keep it close for a while longer. She was developing a talent for keeping secrets. She imagined the bud of her boy growing inside her—the first step to her freedom.

“Is that Robin?” said her mother, grabbing Penelope's hand. She too must have been feeling the excitement of a reunion.

“Of course. I would know his shape anywhere. Isn't he on Dancer?”

“I believe he is.”

They watched as Wat, who was riding alongside the carriage, girded his horse into a gallop to join Essex. The brothers leaned out of their saddles to get their arms about each other, holding their embrace.

“Is that not a heart-warming sight?” said Lettice. “My two boys—time and distance has not broken their bond—and I have a third in the nursery.”

“How is the Noble Imp?” asked Penelope.

“Robust as ever. I should like to give Leicester another, though. One is never enough.”

“And you cannot?”

“I am nearly forty—it becomes less likely.” She paused, pursing her lips. “And if the Queen refuses to let my husband leave her side for more than five minutes, it will
never
happen.”

The bitterness of her mother's tone made an adequate response impossible, so Penelope looked out at her brothers once more. They had turned and were riding back towards the carriage, which had begun to make the slow climb up from the valley. Though Penelope hadn't been to Chartley for some years, each bump and bend of this route was etched into her mind, remembered from childhood rides. They were close enough to sniff the Chartley air. Soon they would be over the hill and past the great oak, from where there was a view of the moated house, the sun making its golden stone brilliant against the lush green of the surrounding hills, like a coin dropped in a bed of grass. She could see it in her mind's eye, and the ruins of the castle beside it, surrounded by ancient fortified walls, where they had played as children. She and Dorothy used to climb the scuffed steps up to the turret, pretending to be in distress—chased by a dragon or a shape-shifting demon—and Essex, so small then, would scale the walls, a stick serving as a sword, and save them from that imagined malign force.