To Kill A Queen

by Valerie Wilding

  At supper this evening, Sir Anthony was the main topic of all our talk.

  19th December 1583

  There is to be an execution tomorrow, but I have a nasty running cold and Mother will not let me go.

  “You cannot walk all that way,” she said.

  “Then let old Tom saddle my pony for me,” I begged.

  “Are you mad?” Mother demanded. “On horseback! In such a great crowd!”

  She is right about the crowds. There will be thousands attending the execution. The prisoner, Edward Arden, is accused of conspiring to murder the Queen. How many more are there like him and Throckmorton? It frightens me that even a queen is not safe.

  I started to speak, but Mother interrupted me. “I hope you do not think to argue, Kitty.”

  Of course not. I would not dream of it. But I am disappointed to miss the execution. Never mind. There is another prisoner, John Somerville, who was arrested for shouting against Protestants and the Queen as he ran through the streets. He was thrown in the Tower before he knew what was happening, and will soon be executed. I’ll be better by then.

  20th December 1583

  Kathryn brought me one of Uncle William’s horrible concoctions. “It will ease your cold,” she said.

  I examined the potion. There were things floating in it. “My cold is better, I thank you.”

  Kathryn looked down her beaky nose. “Then what is that green crust on your upper lip?” she demanded.

  Mother said quietly, “Drink the potion, Kitty.”

  “Yes, Madam,” I replied. “I’ll take it upstairs and sip it slowly.”

  Kathryn barred my way. “That is precisely what my father said you would do.”

  Mother sighed. “Drink it here, Kitty,” she said, “then Kathryn can be on her way. I am sure she has much to occupy her at home.”

  “Indeed I do,” said Kathryn as I downed the potion in three swallows. It was revolting. I made a great show of trying not to be sick, and was very satisfied to see Kathryn jump aside, just in case. I cannot bear her. She likes to show me up at every opportunity.

  There was a loud bang on the door. Sal and Edmund burst into the room.

  “Welcome!” I cried. “Have—”

  Kathryn interrupted. “Brother, your visit is fortunate. You may accompany me home.”

  “Can Edmund not stay?” asked Mother.

  “Indeed not, Aunt,” said Kathryn. “He must study. He needs much knowledge if he is ever to be apprenticed to our father.”

  Edmund made a face behind her back. Then he said, “I’d like to show Kitty a puppy I saw playing along the road. May I, Aunt?”

  “A gentle stroll will not harm her, if she wraps herself warmly,” said Mother. “It will give me a chance to ask Kathryn’s advice about a difficult colour in our new embroidery. She is such a good needlewoman.”

  Kathryn looked smug, but I didn’t care. I grabbed my cloak, and we were gone.

  There was no puppy at all – it was a ruse to get me out! I was disappointed that Edmund did not have news of the execution, but he was not allowed to go. He did, though, have some interesting news from the Tower. John Somerville, the madman who shouted against the Queen, was taken to Newgate prison yesterday and was found this morning, strangled in his cell!

  “Who did it?” I asked.

  “The Tower is full of men who are loyal to the Queen, silly,” he said. “Any one might have done it, but I doubt if there will be much attempt to discover the murderer. You know what will happen next?”

  “What?”

  “Somerville’s head will be chopped off and taken to the gatehouse on London Bridge. It will be boiled, then covered in tar to stop it rotting.”

  “Ugh!” Having been forced to try boiled pig’s head at last year’s Christmas feast, I could think of nothing nastier. But that is the purpose of putting traitors’ heads on spikes on the bridge – so all who enter the city can see the penalty for treason and be disgusted. And afraid.

  We had just decided to follow a drunken beggar to see what would befall him as he reached the river when Kathryn appeared.

  “Ed-mund!” she warbled. “What are you doing? And Kitty, stop behaving like a street urchin. Go inside and keep warm. I’ll be back tomorrow with another dose.”

  When she turned her back, I stuck out my tongue and waggled my fingers like donkey ears. Edmund saw and spluttered, earning a sharp look from his sister.

  It is a pity Somerville was murdered. Now there will be no execution. Not that I wish to watch a man die, but an execution is such a good reason for an outing.

  24th December 1583

  I have been bad-tempered today, for we are fasting in preparation for Christmas Day. Mother allowed us only bread and some very tired apples. I feel full of lumps and cannot wait for the feast after church tomorrow.

  11th January 1584

  Sir Anthony Babington has visited our house three times in as many weeks. He entertains Joseph with other friends in his lodgings or in taverns at least twice a week. Joseph says he can afford to be generous.

  “Is your friend rich?” asked Harry over dinner.

  “He is,” said Joseph, “though it is none of your business.” He turned to Mother. “Sir Anthony has a thousand a year.”

  Mother smiled. “A good sum! He is fortunate. No wonder he lost interest in his studies. George! Elbow off the table.”

  Beeba grabbed George’s knife and I took it from her before she sliced her fingers off, then sat her on my lap.

  “Anthony Babington is from Derbyshire, is he not?” asked Mother.

  How does she know?

  “His family home is there,” agreed Joseph. “Poor man, his father died when he was ten.”

  Oh, stop, I wanted to say. Couldn’t we talk about anything else? Joseph has been to the theatre, and I want to hear about it. I was so excited when he said the theatres are open again. The Queen has formed a company and they are to play every day except Sundays. Wonderful news!

  But no. They wanted to talk about Babington.

  “Anthony served as a page in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s household,” Joseph announced as the maids cleared away.

  “Oh?” said Mother sharply. “Kitty, let us work on our embroidery while Joseph amuses us.”

  He will amuse me as much as watching Pawpaw’s legs twitch in his sleep, I thought. And the embroidery is the bane of my life – a wall-hanging of unicorns and fair ladies and about a million flowers, and we stitch it together. Mother says I am so slow that it should be finished by the time I marry, so I may have it. I do not want it.

  I closed my mind to Anthony Babington, and invented a story in my head about a great nobleman whose life I saved. He presented me at court, and rewarded me with ponies and a basket of snow-white kittens. I was just about to become the Queen’s closest, most trusted friend when I was startled by a loud banging at the door.

  Sal hurried in. “’Twas the court messenger, My Lady,” she puffed. “Sir Francis Walsingham is coming!”

  Mother leapt up, shooting scissors and needles all over me. “Kitty! Bestir yourself!”

  I groaned. Sir Francis is so dreary.

  12th January 1584

  Thankfully, Sir Francis did not stay long, otherwise I would have spent hours in my bedchamber, with just candles for company.

  He and Mother (and Father, of course) are friends, but his visits are not like those of others. Often, as last night, we must keep out of the way while they talk. I have no idea what they speak about. Our walls are too thick. Normally, if you polish a doorknob for long enough, you’re sure to hear something interesting, sooner or later, but not from Sir Francis. His voice is low, and you only ever hear odd words, like “majesty” and “privy council” and “Catholic” and “insurrection”, whatever that is. It sounds deadly dull to me.

  20th January 1584
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br />   Richard visited today – the first time since Christmas! He is no more handsome than his twin, but his court clothes are so fine that poor Joseph seems but a pale copy. We drank sweet spiced wine, which made me hiccup, while he told us the court news. It was dull stuff. I want to know things like does Her Majesty sleep in a golden bed (he does not know), and is she like a fairy queen (he snorts).

  Mother is interested in court affairs, so the rest of us sat stupefied, the wine and fire making us hotter and sleepier, while Richard rambled on. One thing intrigued me, about the Spanish ambassador, Mendoza, who plotted with Throckmorton to put Mary Stuart on the throne. They didn’t execute him. Instead they expelled him from England. He left yesterday, and good riddance, I say. Richard said Spain will simply send him somewhere else, where he’ll carry on plotting.

  “Throckmorton will not be as lucky,” Richard continued. “His guilt is clear. And it was treason.”

  I shivered. The punishment for treason is death. And execution can be quick and merciful, or slow and agonizing.

  25th January 1584

  Mother rode off to visit friends, with old Tom attending her. She said I might spend the day with Edmund, if Aunt Frances didn’t mind. She never minds anything! The only minding in that household is done by her pompous daughter. Sure enough, as soon as I arrived, Kathryn was on at me – pick, pickety, pick.

  “How unladylike!” she snapped, when I belched by mistake. “Hold this.” She passed me the huge cloud of greasy sheep’s wool she was preparing for spinning. (Spinning! Oh, it turns my brain to fluff.)

  “Where is Edmund?” I asked.

  Kathryn looped up a strand of frizzy ginger hair that had dared to come loose. “In his chamber, at his Latin books,” she said. “So you may as well help me. When we have finished, I’ll show you the cover I am making for my prayer book.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I said, and I hope God will forgive me for the lie.

  I don’t know if He’ll forgive me for what happened next, for what did I see? Edmund, outside, making faces at me through the window! Come outside, his lips said. Suddenly he ducked down. I turned to see Aunt Frances, looking at the very spot where he’d been.

  “Er, Kathryn,” she said, “could you spare Kitty to run back home to borrow a . . . er . . . to borrow your aunt’s, er. . .”

  “Red kerchief!” I said quickly. “She said you like it.”

  Aunt Frances smiled. “The red kerchief.”

  Kathryn sniffed. “I suppose I can manage.”

  “I’m sure you can,” I said. “You spin so . . . so. . . ”

  “Deftly,” Aunt Frances said helpfully. She saw me out. “Have fun,” she whispered. I love Aunt Frances.

  Edmund and I were attracted by shouting from the north side of the Tower, at the Royal Mint, where they make our coins. We ran to see what was happening.

  Two workers were quarrelling. One swore that the other had deliberately dropped a hammer on his foot, and he’d nearly fallen in the ash pit. Even from outside the mint I learned some words I’ve never heard before! Edmund clapped his hands over my ears. I chased him back across the green, but the Raven Master stopped us and accused us of frightening his birds. Hah! It would take a lot more than me to frighten those great ugly black creatures. When Beeba was tiny, Mother wouldn’t allow her within the Tower walls in case a raven mistook her bright dark eyes for something tasty.

  Oh, I adore wandering round with Edmund. The smallest things are fun.

  8th February 1584

  Richard sneaked in quietly today, to surprise us. He caught me with my diary. “Are you writing about your string of lovers, Kitty?” he asked. “May I see?”

  I ran to my bedchamber and hid my diary behind a loose wall panel. I’ve made a vow. My diary will never, ever leave my room. Here it is safe.

  18th February 1584

  Joseph brought two friends home today, and Mother invited them to supper. One was Sir Anthony Babington, and the other was his friend, Chidiock Tichborne.

  Mother asked Sir Anthony about his time in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s household.

  He laughed. “Sheffield Castle was strange. The Earl lived in one part with his family, and in another, separate section, was a special prisoner.”

  “Oh?” said Mother. “Who was that?”

  Sir Anthony put down his bread. “None other than Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots,” he said, with an air of importance.

  “Indeed?” said Mother.

  “She had her own servants,” said Sir Anthony, “but occasionally I would wait upon her with messages from the Earl and so forth.”

  Mother asked, “And what did you think of the lady?”

  Sir Anthony smiled. “She is beautiful and kind. She thinks of others constantly and puts up with conditions unsuited to a queen.”

  “Without grumbling?” I asked.

  “Well . . . she does grumble,” said Sir Anthony. “To be truthful, she is an expert grumbler!”

  We laughed.

  “She complains constantly!” he continued. “But don’t blame her. Her life has been difficult. Her future is bleak.”

  He proceeded to go on and on about Mary Stuart, so much so that I began to wonder if he was not half in love with her.

  As for Master Tichborne, he said little and seemed ill at ease, but I did not dislike him.

  13th March 1584

  I have had nothing special to write about for an age, but today Father came home! He cannot stay long, but it will be lovely to sit and hear him talk – not that he tells us much. It’s all, “We rode here, we rode there, the weather was fine or foul”. If I ask what he did, he says, “My duty, little Kitty, and that is all you need to know.”

  14th March 1584

  Father is tired this morning. He and Mother lay long abed. I hope his work does not bring him into danger. I accidentally overheard him telling Mother of threats from France and Spain. Could this be to do with Mary Stuart and her secret supporters? Is that where Father has been?

  Eventually I grew cold sitting on the floor beside their door, and went downstairs. There I found Edmund who had come to invite me to an archery contest! Kathryn was going to the shoemakers so, if we were careful, we would have a whole day without her.

  I sent Edmund to ask Father, and he shouted through the door: “Uncle! May I take Kitty to the archery contest at Smith Field?”

  “Good morrow, nephew!” Father called. “You may take her if you swear to look after her as if she were your sister!”

  “I swear, sir!” He made a face. Kathryn needs little looking after. It would be a brave thief who tried to rob her!

  We followed the river until we were level with St Paul’s Church. It’s not the quickest way, but it is lively with street sellers, beggars, sailors and children playing. Then we walked north to Smith Field. The streets were crowded with people heading the same way. We began to run, afraid we wouldn’t be able to see for thousands of spectators.

  And there were thousands. And we could hardly see. But it didn’t matter. Shooting arrows is shooting arrows the world over. I’ve seen it before. We contented ourselves with watching whatever was going on around us. Edmund bought some hot codlings, but the apples must have been old when they were baked. Instead of bursting from their skins, they were shrivelled, and woolly inside.

  “One day I’ll win a prize here, Kitty,” Edmund boasted.

  “Against the rest of London?” I dodged a very wobbly stilt walker. “Don’t forget, every man can shoot, even Harry, and George must start to learn this year, by law, for he’s almost seven now.”

  Edmund laughed. “The Queen need have no fear for her safety if George is protecting her! Come, Kitty, let’s see what sport we can find in the streets.”

  As we wandered home we shared a hot meat pie Edmund bought from a little round woman whose tray was so laden, it was a wonder she coul
d walk.

  What he said about the Queen’s safety made me think of Mary Stuart. “Edmund,” I said, “do you think we should fear the Scottish queen?”

  He laughed scornfully. “Most certainly. Although it’s not the woman herself we should fear, but her supporters and their many plots.”

  “Many?”

  “Oh yes. Time and again prisoners are brought to the Tower, suspected of treason. Mary Stuart’s name is often on their lips when they confess. I know, because Father attends those who have been racked.”

  I shuddered. Uncle William is gloomy enough as it is. To think of him in a dark, damp, stone cell with blood on his hands makes my skin crawl.

  15th April 1584

  It’s been such fun having Father home. My other uncles and their wives and children have been to stay, one family for ten days, and the other for nearly two weeks! I’m glad our house is large enough for all these people. Edmund’s house has barely enough room for his family.

  Mother and Father have entertained most evenings, and I have often been allowed to stay up playing cards with the grown-ups. I have spent whole days playing with the little ones and telling them stories.

  The best thing has been having new clothes made! Father brought Mother several rolls of embroidered silks, and a length of deep butter-yellow satin for me. We spent hours choosing ribands and trimmings. My yellow gown will be the grandest I have ever owned. I’ll need new shoes, too. None I have are suitable. Or, as Mother puts it, none are fit to be seen.

  Edmund came today to join us in saying farewell to Father, who is off on his travels again. Kathryn would not venture out in the fine drizzle, but she sent a leaving gift for Father – a kerchief she has embroidered. It has orange roses on it!

  Old Tom had a hard job holding the horses. They tossed their heads and danced, eager to be away. Father was less eager. He held Mother close, and I saw her shoulders shake. Then he clasped the boys’ hands, and Edmund’s, and finally kissed me and Beeba. I cried. I think my tears upset Father, because he turned away. I was most satisfied when he pulled out Kathryn’s kerchief and blew his nose upon it.