Traitor's Kiss

by Pauline Francis

  My lips twitched at this astonishing sight. I laughed. When the woman heard me, she gasped and sank into a deep curtsy, straining her once white apron across her plump body.

  “Are you Maggie?” I asked.

  She nodded, mumbling incoherent words. The kitchen maids giggled. Then Maggie laughed with us and her cheeks crinkled like an old vase. One of the girls ripped the cloth from Maggie’s lip and it was streaked with black hairs, like flies caught in cream.

  “Welcome, My Lady, Princess Elizabeth. I’m Margaret Payne, cook and confectioner.” She winced as she spoke. “And these are two of my kitchen maids, Mary and Bess, named for you and your sister. Lord Seymour’s brought us from his house in Gloucestershire, for he can’t live without my sugared plums.”

  “Otherwise, he’d have to make do with stewed plums,” Mary said. She giggled again, although I did not know why.

  “What is wrong with your face, Maggie?” I asked.

  “It’s egg whites, Your Grace,” she replied. “They lighten the skin better than morning dew. And there’s nothing better than sugar paste for smoothing the upper lip.”

  Only then did I notice her swarthy skin, and dark hairs sprouting from her chin.

  “I forgot, thank you for the sugar rose.”

  She blushed. “I hear that it weren’t to your liking. Lord Seymour says I must try harder this morning.”

  “I don’t want you to make any more,” I said. My face flushed. “They are rotting my teeth.”

  Her face set, as if her egg mask had dried hard. “I take my orders from Lord Seymour,” she said. “That’s what he wants, so that’s what he’ll get.”

  She picked up a small kitchen knife and began to cut out the rose petals from the sugar paste. She curled their edges with the tip of a spoon. She stuck them together with water, one on top of the other.

  Thomas Seymour was a clever man. He knew how much I craved sugar. But I would not let him deprive me of it. I reached across Maggie, snatched up the rose and crammed it into my mouth. Then I went to walk in the garden, leaving Maggie astonished and her maids giggling again.

  My stepfather caught up with me under the roses. He sniffed as he bowed and kissed my hand. “Your perfume reminds me of the good old days when your father could joust and hunt and ride and rule England with an iron fist,” he said. “When he was married to your mother…”

  Yes, as cunning as a fox, and with a beard as bushy as a fox’s tail. He would have enticed me with more titbits; but I pushed him away and went inside, calling for Kat to come and dress me.

  I would not tell her yet. Lady Catherine loved him. And even if I swore Kat to secrecy, I could not trust her. Her tongue always loosened after wine.

  A strange stupor slowed me over the following weeks.

  Lessons that had once stimulated me dragged as I waited for the days to end. Master Grindal, my tutor, did not scold me. “Young girls need to daydream,” he said.

  As soon as darkness came and Kat had blown out the candle, I had what I wanted most: my mother. I craved her perfume like a man craves wine before sleep.

  Every night, I opened the perfume box. Every night, I permitted myself just enough cream on my skin to remember my mother again. With my child’s eyes, I saw my mother in so many ways now… She wears scarlet and orange and yellow – fiery colours for a fiery woman. She smiles and sulks. She sings to me like a nightingale. She dances with me in her arms, like a butterfly blown by the breeze.

  Sometimes we are together in the garden at Hatfield Palace. I recognize the fountain. A grey dog yaps at her heels and she shows me how to pet him, but he snarls at me, nips my fingers with his little teeth. I dislike him because his panting breath stinks of the dark earth where he has scratched.

  She picks up a peacock’s feather from the gravel and tickles my neck. I giggle and snatch it from her, tickling under her chin. She arches her neck, laughing, and the emeralds sag. I drop the feather and scream, thinking that I have cut her skin, for there is a splash of crimson on her neck. My mother slaps my fingers as I touch it. Then she takes off my little satin shoes to dangle my bare feet in the cool water of the fountain and says, “Hush, ma petite rose, ne pleure pas…don’t cry, it’s only a little strawberry mark,” and I calm again, although I wonder why she wears a strawberry on her neck.

  And every night, I thanked Francis for bringing me the box – and Alys for keeping her promise to my mother. Would my boast to Robert Dudley remain an idle one? How could I find Francis? Like Robert, I had never been away from any of my palaces alone, at night or by day.

  Kat never spoke of the perfume that lingered on me. Instead, she brought me new perfumes to try, some floral, some fruity as if to mask the one that she had not chosen. Apple was her favourite. Sometimes she was so heavy-handed that wasps flew at my neck when I walked in the garden.

  My mother lightened my heart. She took me back to innocent times. I saw the best in everybody about me.

  I sparkled.

  My skin brightened too. I asked for egg whites to be sent up from the kitchen every morning. I might have smelled like my mother, but I did not have to look like her. It is the only part of her that I dislike. I have inherited her sallow skin.

  When you love somebody, there must be no secrets between you. So enthralled had I been by remembering my mother that I forgot that this alone would not tell me the truth about her.

  Oh, the glimpses of my mother enchanted me, but they told me only what happened when we were together. They did not tell me what was happening in her dangerous world. In my heart, I wanted to believe that she was innocent. But doubts often overwhelmed me. I blamed too many years of gossip. Was the splash of strawberry red on her neck the mark of a witch? Was the dog her witch’s familiar? As she played with me, was she already committing adultery?

  I had to know.

  I cursed myself for mocking Francis. He must have disguised himself to seek me out, I thought. He was well-spoken, of good breeding with his straight back and limbs. He was not used to such toil on the river – that was why his hands were ruined. Why had his servant not bathed them with comfrey? Why had he not bathed his sores with camomile?

  How could I speak to Francis now?

  One thought consoled me. He will come back. Did I not command it on my birthday? People always do what I ask. I am a princess.

  Then I let my thoughts run away with me, glorious thoughts of when I would meet Alys for the first time. Francis will take me to a beautiful country house where his mother and I will nibble sugared rose petals and marzipan fruits and sip honeyed milk and talk only of my mother.

  What will it be like to talk to somebody who knew her? I asked myself. What will it be like to hear the truth from her lips?

  Chapter Six

  The rose heads had rotted and hardened into scarlet rose hips. The lavender had faded and its seed heads sagged under the weight of ceaseless autumn rain. On the first fine dawn, Kat and I resumed our morning rides along the river path, away from Chelsea, towards fields full of sodden stubble.

  It was a bright October day, clouds scudding, wind releasing red-gold leaves and swirling them across the Thames. We took the river path, skirting Chelsea Woods, until the sky darkened again and heavy rain forced us back the way we had come. Then a storm engulfed us.

  Close to Chelsea Palace, we found the path blocked by a fallen oak and slippery with filthy water from the swollen Thames. I would have urged my horse to jump it, but Kat said we must return home through the woods.

  We rode in single file, for the track was narrow. Impatient, I went ahead, anxious to be out of the damp gloom. A sharp gust of wind took off my riding hat and my hair coiled in the wet air. Branches bent and cracked as the storm deepened, letting through flashes of lightning, scattering sheltering deer. It would have been good hunting.

  But I was the hunted.

  A man ran from the trees, a gnarled-faced man in an old cloak. I thought nothing of it as he ran towards me. I am used to it. It is the part of bein
g a princess that I like best, for I like to be recognized – even though I know that one day it might be somebody who bears me a grudge, somebody who might want to harm me. Lights glimmered in the trees and I thought there must be woodmen or charcoal burners sitting out the storm and one of them had come to offer his assistance.

  “We heard the Boleyn bastard was riding today,” the man called.

  Too late, I recognized the smell that I knew from my sister Mary – the cloying scent of incense that is forbidden by the new faith. Too late, I saw the crucifix around his neck. I whipped the man away from me, but he risked death by clinging to my reins and staring deep into my eyes. “Look at your devil eyes,” he hissed. “Just like the witch she was. Like mother, like daughter.” At last, he let go.

  My heart thudded in fearful rhythm to his vile words as I galloped across the waterlogged meadow, scattering poppy heads and calves, until we came to the back entrance of the palace. Thomas Seymour was there, ordering his servants and groomsmen.

  “It seems that Lady Catherine’s added another parrot to her menagerie,” Kat said.

  I smiled in spite of my distress, for my stepfather was wearing scarlet and green velvet and yellow hose to match the feather in his cap. “An old parrot,” I added. “He’s almost forty, yet he struts like a young man.”

  Within seconds, Thomas Seymour was holding me around the waist and lifting me down as you would a child. “Ah, the wild women of the woods,” he roared, laughing.

  I was close to tears. “Not as wild as the men,” I shouted. “Did you know there are Catholics living in the woods? They’ve made an altar in the trees and hung candles from the branches. How can you let them worship so close to your house? It’s against the law.”

  “They were probably celebrating morning Mass when you rode by,” he said. “They cause us no trouble. It’s the sight of you that has inflamed them.” He wiped mud from my cheek. “You would do that to any man, Bess. Your father gave up the old faith to marry your mother and they have never forgiven her.” He could see that I was close to tears, but he did not spare me. “And they might never forgive you.”

  “One of them called me vile names,” I said. “Words hurt. They enter your mind like maggots make their way into decaying flesh…”

  Behind me, Kat tut-tutted at my choice of words. “Don’t exaggerate,” she said. “You’re overtired.” Her creased skin softened and flushed like a young girl’s as she asked my stepfather where he was going.

  “To Devon, Mistress Ashley, to inspect the King’s navy. Look after Bess well, for I’ll not be back before November.”

  I breathed deeply for the first time since my birthday. Tomorrow, I thought, and the day after…and the weeks after that… I can lie late in my bed.

  We celebrated Jane’s tenth birthday. Then my brother’s, born a few days after her. Church bells pealed for him at dawn, waking Kat into a quarrelsome humour.

  Lady Catherine was in fine spirits as we ate breakfast. “My three little autumn leaves,” she said, laughing.

  “Let’s hope we don’t fall like them,” I said.

  At noon, we journeyed to Whitehall Palace for Edward’s celebrations. I loved my little brother, even though his mother had taken the place of mine. But it was not the same now that he was the King. Before, we had played games. Now I could not turn my back on him when I left his presence chamber, but I had to walk backwards towards the door, which is very difficult to do. And it seemed unfair that he should sit on the throne first just because he was the prince. I sighed. Perhaps it was for the best. No Queen would be allowed to rule alone. She would be forced to take a husband to help her.

  I was more nervous than usual as Kat helped me into the royal barge. I had not forgotten the man in the woods. Although it would be treason to call out such things in public and few would dare, I chose a waterside seat in the barge, away from the crowds, sinking into cushions that were soft and deep. Kat took the bank side, next to Lady Catherine. Jane sat opposite, with her nurse, Mistress Ellen.

  The Thames was as smooth as glass, unlike the day I had first seen Francis. I had looked for him ever since, walking by the river although I hated its stench. But he never came back.

  I sighed and Kat patted my hand.

  The banks were bright with bunches of flowers and wheat and garlands of autumn leaves – in celebration of the greatest harvest of all, a living prince. At Chelsea Village, there were crowds on the riverbanks, some dangling their feet in the water. People had left their apple-picking to see us. I bowed my head until a woman called out, “God bless you, Princess Elizabeth.”

  “They love you,” Kat said. “Who could not?” And there was a tear on her cheek.

  “You would make a fine Queen, Bess,” my stepmother said. My heart swelled with love for her. I owed her everything. It was she who had persuaded my father to recognize Mary and me as his legitimate heirs. But in that love was guilt for wanting to know the truth about my mother.

  I leaned past Kat and waved back.

  “What was it like to be the Queen of England?” Jane asked.

  “Oh…exciting….exhausting…and dangerous,” Lady Catherine said. “A Queen must have the weak and feeble body of a woman, while being strong enough to bear sons – that is what the King wants – but she must have the mind of a man. A Queen must never draw attention to herself. There is a line that must not be crossed. The problem is this: it is an invisible line. You have to find out where it is. I once crossed it, and it almost cost me my head.”

  Jane gasped. “You?” she said, astonished. “But you are the most… What did you do?”

  “I was said to be too extreme in my religious views.”

  “Were you?” Jane’s eyes bulged.

  “Perhaps,” she replied. “But I do not think that my views were the problem. It was the fact that I was seen to be more outspoken than my husband. The Bishop of Winchester told Henry that he had found banned religious books in my library. Your father signed my arrest…” She shivered. “I would have been taken to the Tower. By chance, I heard about it.”

  Mistress Ellen was aghast. “So what did you do then, madam?”

  “I took to my bed and pretended to be ill…very ill…and wept and begged Henry to forgive me. And he did. I still don’t know why. He had mellowed with age, I suppose. But you can see how much men rule our lives.”

  “Bess becomes ill when she’s in trouble,” Kat said. “But she doesn’t pretend. She swells up like a pig’s bladder. If she fell into this river, she’d float.”

  Jane suddenly laughed and could not stop until she hiccoughed. But her whole body trembled.

  We settled into silence, smiling at the chatter of Mistress Ellen and Kat as they recalled their girlhoods in Devon, the old faith, the old ways and the old days of perpetual sun.

  Two miles downriver, we passed the turreted and gilded towers of Whitehall Palace. This was the palace my father had built for my mother and my longing for her rushed at me like the water beneath us. We did not stop there yet, for we were first to pick up Robert Dudley and his brother, Guildford. Further into London, we passed Edward Seymour’s new house, still half-built. Garlands of cream and green ivy dangled from the wooden scaffold right to the rooftop. Then we came to Durham House, the London residence of the Dudley family.

  Guildford Dudley was a year or two older than Jane, sulky-mouthed and flabby-skinned. He and Robert sat at the prow of the barge, beyond the canopy. Robert turned to shout, “Jane, I thought that if the King didn’t marry you, Guildford might.”

  Jane pressed her lips tight. “I shall never marry.”

  “Then he might do for you, Bess?”

  “I think not. You know that I don’t want to marry either. Look what happened to my mother.”

  Robert laughed, uneasy. “Brother, we’re in the presence of two unwise virgins.”

  Jane blushed. Kat tut-tutted. Mistress Ellen called, “Watch your words, sir, or I’ll wash your mouth out with water.”

  “Not t
his water, I hope, madam,” he shouted back, “for I’d not live long enough to annoy you again.”

  As we approached the water steps of Whitehall Palace, the oarsmen slowed and turned abruptly, cursing as they almost collided with a small rowing boat.

  Jane screamed.

  We all looked down, permitting us a sight that I shall never forget, the sight of a corpse being hauled into the boat – the corpse of a young woman, belly big with child, her head flung back so that she seemed to gaze up at us with horror-struck eyes. I followed the arch of her swollen body. Torrents of muddy water gushed from her mouth.

  Mistress Ellen put her hand over Jane’s eyes and Kat’s hands were raised to mine, but I pushed them away. Lady Catherine made the sign of the cross. We all did.

  I knew the boat. I knew the boy in it. I knew the strange woollen hat.

  He was Francis.

  “Charon,” I mumbled.

  Guildford spoke at last. “Who’s he?” he asked. His voice still lisped like a child’s.

  “He’s the ferryman in hell,” Jane explained, still crying. “He rows the souls of the dead across the rivers of the underworld to the Elysian Fields…well…to paradise. That’s why the Ancient Greeks placed a golden coin in the mouths of their dead. Otherwise, the ferryman wouldn’t take them.”

  Dreadful thoughts raced through my mind. I had believed Francis to be a gentleman in disguise, but no gentleman would do this death work. The hands that had touched my mother’s perfume box were tainted with death. Yet, in the midst of the horror, I was relieved. Francis was real. I had not dreamed him any more than I had dreamed the perfume box. Now I knew where to find him.

  But how would I ever be able to speak to him?

  Robert Dudley leaned over the barge rail, shaking his fist, cursing, “Do your death work somewhere else!” he shouted. “It’s the King’s birthday today.”