by Jeane Westin
Sybil giggled and lowered her eyes, blushing.
He walked with Sybil a few steps until she was utterly captivated. “My lady Katherine,” he said to Kate, bending to her so close she should have stepped away, “let us sit here in this bower and talk the while you get to know your bird.”
Kate’s eyes pleaded with Sybil to permit it. For months, she had spoken to no one except dull old courtiers and her schoolmaster. Not even her betrothed had cared for more than the usual formalities of greeting and leavetaking, though she had been glad of his inattention and happier still when he was most often closeted with her father, scheming for some new advantage in the court of a dying boy king.
Sybil continued to giggle at Lord Seymour’s show of courtliness and she almost danced behind the bower bench.
“Does your chaffinch have a name?” Kate asked, curious, looking close at the russet-breasted bird with the gray head.
“It is not my chaffinch, my lady. It is your bird now. Do you want to know her name?” He looked down at Kate, his gaze conveying seriousness and something more thrilling, though she had no name for it. “I think the bird’s name should be Kate, and so it will be to me.”
She was embarrassed, but also delighted. They sat on the bench for shade under an overarching great lime tree. He sat beside her, Sybil standing behind them, making sure there was ample space between them. He held the birdcage on his lap, stroking one side of the bird’s downy breast through the bent twig bars. Tentatively, Kate leaned to stroke the other side as the chaffinch sat very still, its eyes closed. Her fingers brushed Ned’s and he captured them. She raised her gaze to his and held her breath, knowing she should pull away but unwilling to leave his warmth. As they ceased stroking, the bird chirped an objection, breaking their connection.
Other birds began to rustle and twitter in the hedge, and the chaffinch picked up her yellow beak and sang a greeting.
Pity stirred inside Kate. “Poor bird. It wants to be free.”
“You have kept your kind heart, Kate, even in this cruel court, as I knew you would.”
“I know how she suffers in her cage.”
“Then we must rescue her, sweet Kate,” he said, and she didn’t know if he spoke of the bird or of her, perhaps both.
He opened the cage door and, when the bird did not move, he took it out gently and threw it into the air toward the hedge. It circled the bench once and flew into the yew branches, where it received a dozen greetings.
Kate looked at Edward and saw in his face a tenderness that she had never known before.
“There,” he said, his light brown eyes a little sad, though he smiled at her. “One Kate is free.”
“Thank you, Ned,” she said, using his boy’s name, her heart too choked for more. He knew her heart. . . . Somehow he knew.
She leaned toward him, and Sybil, vigilant again, moved in to separate them, tut-tutting. “Christian names, indeed, now that you are both near grown? Decorum, please you, I beg.”
They were quiet for a time, and Sybil walked a few steps away to pick some lilies at the water’s edge.
Ned began to speak softly. “My father wanted me to marry your sister, Jane, before he lost his head these two years past. But it was you I wanted even then.”
Kate tightened her hand on the empty birdcage and decided on a polite response, since a betrothed girl had no right to another, truer one. “The Duke of Somerset . . . your father . . . I’m sorry, Ned.” His father had tried to kidnap the boy king to gain full power, and his rival, John Dudley, had taken his place as Lord Protector. Ambition had killed him. Ned must know that, too. She could not look at him until a happier thought came. “But you are now Earl of Hertford.”
“Aye, the king has restored that title to me, remembering our youth together.” He looked at her, his eyes pleading. “As I have always remembered you, Kate, most beautiful and most sad.”
She lowered her eyes, her heart pulsing in her ears.
“Meet me, Kate, here after supper,” he whispered. “There is so much I would tell you. From the moment I saw you in the presence today, I knew what would fill my empty heart.”
She stood quickly, alarmed, but he held her hand tight. “I will wait for you, no matter how long.”
Not knowing how she would escape her watchers, just knowing that she would, she’d whispered, “Yes.”
“Yes!” And now, coming from her waking trance, she said the word aloud, and all the ladies who had gathered outside Elizabeth’s bedchamber looked a question at her. She could give them no answer.
Since the queen denied her ladies male company lest they commit marriage, Kate could see that many of them were openly content that Elizabeth would sup this day without Robert Dudley. Her Majesty called them all her daughters and claimed that denying them the temptation of men was part of her motherly care. But Kate was skeptical of such a fine reason. She thought it more likely that Elizabeth, knowing passion too well, denied weaker women what she could resist herself. Before she had more such disloyal, heated thoughts, Kate joined the strict ritual of preparing the queen’s table, thankful for the cooling distraction of work.
Two gentlemen ushers entered bearing a white cloth rolled on a rod, knelt three times and carefully unrolled the cloth upon the table, then retreated and knelt once again. Two more gentlemen came with a tall silver saltcellar, a silver galleon at full sail on its pedestal, several gilt plates and bread, placing all upon the table and kneeling in their turn.
Kate approached the table with the same ceremony, always the same, and rubbed the clean plates with the salt and bread to clean them further, then retreated with her face toward the table, kneeling as if the queen herself were seated there. She knew that Mistress Ashley was always on watch to make certain royal ritual was observed in all its fine details.
The hall doors opened again and in came twenty-four yeomen of the guard by twos, dressed in scarlet with golden Tudor roses on their backs, each carrying a dish for the table. To prove it wasn’t poisoned, each yeoman took a bite of the dish he’d brought. The queen had French, Spanish and Scottish enemies as well as some northern Catholic nobles who would not weep at her death, though it brought ruin to the realm. Even some Protestants thought she had not gone far enough to change the new church ritual laid down by her father. Elizabeth had enemies in plenty, Kate knew. Every ruler did.
The trumpets and kettledrums sounded in the hall outside. The doors to the queen’s privy chamber were opened and Kate carried in the first meat dish. All the dishes would eventually be taken into the queen’s privy chamber so that she could choose the food she wanted. The rest made a cold dinner for her ladies and grooms, then for her private kitchen servants below and, finally, for the poor who were always at the gates, waiting for their humbles.
Kate knelt and raised the dish for the queen’s inspection, while a groom poured her watered wine.
Elizabeth sat carefully regal, in part due to her natural height and dignity, but as much the fault of her close-tied farthingale. Even at prayer, Her Majesty did not truly rest, since it was her duty to pray vigorously for England. Only at her virginals or lute, singing for herself in a clear musical voice, was she at her ease.
By custom, as an unmarried maid, Elizabeth wore her red-gold Tudor hair draped down one shoulder. This supper hour her usually pale complexion was replaced with higher color. Her cheeks glistened damp from recent tears, her dark blue, almost violet eyes shot through with black sparks, now brimming large beneath their fair, almost invisible eyebrows and lashes. Kate tried not to stare and rouse her cousin to anger, which could be easier to use against a forward lady than a handsome favorite.
Kate fought to keep all her thoughts to herself, even the ones caused by Elizabeth’s melancholy, since the queen’s eyes saw everywhere and understood everything. She was quick to any mood, laughing easily and raging in frustration on a moment’s turn. Kate expected the latter treatment today.
“Choose my gown and jewels well for tonight’s masque,
cousin,” the queen commanded. “I will carry the ivory-handled feather fan my lord Dudley gave me, the one bearing his emblem of double ragged staff and bear.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Kate replied, holding the dish higher for inspection, her arms beginning to ache.
Her Majesty waved the dish away, wrinkling her nose. Kate couldn’t help but feel some small satisfaction. A lark pie covered in honey was her favorite, and there was usually little left after she finished serving.
Kate backed away from the queen and past Saintloe, near the door, who whispered, “When you are queen you will have your fill of lark pie; is that not so, Lady Katherine?”
Passing through the door, Kate frowned. “All the lark pie I wish I will have now!” she said, not bothering with a smile to take the sting out of her retort. There was too much inward amusement in that lady.
And why shouldn’t she be angered? Must she always be reminded of her birth? If the queen followed her threat never to marry, half the court expected Kate would be named heir presumptive. Her grandmother was daughter to Henry VII, sister to Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII, who had placed Jane’s and Kate’s names next after Elizabeth in his will. Although the queen was not yet thirty years, plague, the sweat and small pocks carried off many younger. And Elizabeth had various faints and nervous headaches. Many feared that it was not likely the queen would make old bones. Kate determined to pray harder for the queen’s long life, lest Katherine Grey be ensnared by men’s dreams of power. Nothing could tempt her to sit on the throne that had destroyed her sister and father.
Later, in the antechamber, Saintloe spoke again in confiding tones. “My pardon, Lady Katherine, if I speak on too delicate a subject. Because of your youth, I wish to caution you for your protection. I remember well the tragic fate of your older sister, Lady Jane Grey—who wished to be queen. Wasn’t she but sixteen when she went to the block?”
Kate made her voice as frosty as the wintry Whitehall gardens. “My lady, since you have reached the age of thirty and five, I will grant that your memory has faded. It is known by all that my sister never wanted the throne and died a martyr to her Protestant faith and my parents’ aims.”
“A pretty speech, my lady. I hope it will serve you when you need it.”
“And why would the truth not serve? I do not wish to be queen and so have nothing to fear.”
Saintloe looked even more calculating. “As Elizabeth learned when she was a princess, plots form around anyone with a claim to the throne. Whether they wish it or not, their name is attached to every scheme. It would be suicide for Her Majesty to name an heir, for her and for you. Do not wish it. You could never lie easy in your bed.”
Kate lifted her chin higher, unable to keep a calm tone. “In that case, my lady, I have no worry. Never speak of the throne to me again.” She walked to the table, stuck her forefinger into the lark pie and licked it thoroughly.
“Ah, well, you have the Tudor temper; perhaps that will serve you.” Lady Saintloe, laughing softly, moved to take another dish to Her Majesty, leaving Kate still angry, but satisfied that she had allowed no disrespect from that she-cat who waited to pounce from around every corner.
Costumed as the god Mercury, with wings on his gilt boots and flakes of pure gold scattered in his small pointed beard and on the backs of his hands, Robert Dudley approached Kate at the masque. She was standing with the other white-satin-clad ladies of the bedchamber gathered near the throne where Elizabeth sat in sumptuous marigold silk, covered in rubies, her head haloed with a high golden ruff of at least sixty pleats. She tapped her foot to the music, obviously longing to dance. Dudley bowed and reached for Kate’s hand as the opening chords of a lavolte announced the wildly popular dance, which was so difficult that Kate had practiced many afternoons with the dancing master. The queen wanted all her ladies to dance well. But not better than herself.
Kate shrank back. “My lord,” she said, a bit breathless from a recent galliard, “I cannot accept. You lead out the queen in this dance.”
“I seek easier company tonight,” he replied softly. He stepped into the remaining space between them, coming very close.
“You seek to cause the queen envy and make me a part of it. The lavolte is always hers. I have no wish to—”
“Tonight the dance is yours, sweet Kate.” He grinned, and she was close enough to see if humor filled his eyes. There was none. Not for the first time, she realized that what could be seen was nothing to compare with what couldn’t. She pulled away, knowing she would not want to see Robert’s emotions escape and involve her, as they surely would. And she could not bear to see his pain. It was too familiar. How could the queen, who loved him, hurt him so?
Torches flared to light the walls and the white plaster cherubs smiling from the ceiling of the great hall. Servants renewed spent candles until the bright, flickering lights caught in the folds of whirling silk and satin to flash out at every dancer’s turn and leap. Jewels dazzled from wigs and pearls gleamed at throats turned pure cream in their reflection.
Kate wore a modest amethyst hanging at the curve of her breasts above a kirtle sewn with very small seed pearls, careful to outdo Her Majesty in no way. She would never jeopardize her place at this court, while, by showing her loyalty, she had a small chance of erasing the taint of usurper from her poor sister, Jane.
Dudley grasped her hand so hard she flinched. Everyone was watching, including Elizabeth. That was his game.
There was nothing for Kate to do. Perhaps it was enough that the queen had seen her refuse Dudley. Was hesitance ever enough for Elizabeth? It had to be. Kate repeated that thought, hoping to invest it with some truth, as Dudley, not to be denied in any scheme to reach Elizabeth’s heart, gaily pulled her firmly forward.
The lutes, pipes and viol de gamba struck the quick notes of the lavolte, and Kate stepped onto the floor with Robert, turning to face him, frowning.
They moved once to either side, clapping loudly, their heads held proud. He placed one gilt-covered hand on her side and the other on her back. She put a hand on his near shoulder, poised for the difficult turn and spring into the air. She came down into two fast steps, not yet daring to glance toward the queen sitting on her throne. There was no need. Kate knew she would see through the queen’s unconcern to jealous anger. Giving in to Dudley’s scheme was a mistake. Next time, she’d fall to the floor in a faint, and all the vinegar cloths in the palace would not revive her.
Although breathing rapidly after successive leaps as the dance brought her and Dudley near the throne, Kate needed to be heard to rebuke Robert, hoping to steady her voice. “My lord, have I no friends on this earth? You need give the queen, my cousin, no more reason to be angry with me. My birth and all the talk of succession are quite enough.”
He grinned and replied, intending to be heard as well: “If you were queen you would marry me, wouldn’t you, Kate?”
She recoiled from him, because even his teasing manner held great danger. “I beg you, Robert, watch your tongue, especially when you mean not a word.”
Not completely the fool, he lowered his voice. “Why should I not say what the whole court, even the queen’s council, talks of—that you will succeed as queen?”
Kate caught at her breath, as if it were her last one. “Robert, we should never again dance together. It only reminds everyone, especially the queen, that your brother and my sister were beheaded by Queen Mary for taking the throne.”
“And my father later. And myself in the Tower for years waiting daily for the headsman,” Dudley replied, his compelling eyes staring hard from behind his mask, though they just as quickly softened. “Ah, Kate, these are new days. Bess is not so quick with the ax as was her brother, Edward, and sister, Mary.”
“I would not have my neck put to that test.”
Dudley threw back his head and laughed so long and loud that everyone stared.
“I’ve said nothing to so amuse you.”
“But Bess doesn’t know that.”
> “You are a fool and will have a fool’s end. I will not allow you to take me down with you! Why won’t anyone believe that I do not want the throne?”
Robert dismissed her words with a wave of his gilded hand. “Kate, fair Kate. Who can deny their birth, and who under heaven knows what fate has written in their stars?” He held her up high, delaying the next leap, so that no one could possibly ignore Dudley raising Lady Grey above every head. He slowly let her slide down his body, his mouth to her ear. “But, dear Kate, I do truly love her, you know, always have and always will, to my death . . . and beyond.”
Kate was anxious and fuming. “You love her so much you make this spectacle!”
“Yes, and a hundred more if need be. I know what brings her running to me.”
His eyes shone with what looked suspiciously like tears, and she could not berate him more. “Robert, I beg you, do not use me this way, or you lose a friend.”
His voice caught in his throat, as if he could not catch an easy breath. “I will use Jesu himself to gain Elizabeth.”
She could not help feeling sympathy. “I have heard desperate love never hides its face, not even behind a mask.”
“Remember those words when it is your time to hide again, as you did from young Edward Seymour. I remember the near scandal.”
“That was long ago. I love no one now. And no one loves me.”
“Good!” he said loudly, his face close to hers, laughing again as if he’d heard a great jest.
The dance finished, Robert Dudley bowed, kissed her hand and led her to a group of ladies standing opposite the queen’s maids of honor.
“Have you met Lady Jane Seymour, namesake of the late queen who bore a son for Henry when the Boleyn could not?” he asked, playing his dangerous game again as he stopped in front of a rather plain-faced young woman.
“Sweet Jesu, Robert! Again you fool with your head. It is forbidden to mention the name of the queen’s mother. Elizabeth will not forgive that.”
