Traitor's Kiss

by Pauline Francis

A stench of mingled sweat and perfume caught the back of my throat. I wanted to retch. To a steady roll of the drum, the executioner raised his sword. At once, the mood changed from starry-eyed enchantment to barbarism, as softened lips bayed for blood. “Off with his head! Off with his head!” they shrieked.

  Repelled, I wanted to look away. But I had to watch. The sword fell. Its blade thudded against the boy’s neck, clouding his head with spurting blood, which splattered onto Jane. As it dispersed, I saw the gaping neck wound, ragged and bleeding.

  This gruesome sight, and the stench of real blood that I recognized from the hunt, left me reeling. I had been spared the sight of my mother’s death, but some in this hall must have witnessed it. Alys would have seen it. Jane was clutching her neck, gaping like a dead fish.

  The severed head had appeared on the table at the feet of the headless corpse, its eyes rolling, its lips moving – and John the Baptist’s beard swinging from side to side.

  “I didn’t know that Boleyn sprouted a beard in the Tower,” a man shouted. “Perhaps she’s not dead. Perhaps she paid a man to take her place.”

  Robert reached for my hand. I looked at them all: Tom Seymour doubled with laughter; Jane aghast at the blood on her neck; Anne Seymour sparkling at the success of her chosen entertainment. Even her husband was smiling.

  Many feelings touched my tormented heart: anger, despair, humiliation. Powerful men had sent my mother to her death. Now powerful men mocked her memory.

  Was this going to happen for the rest of my life, her memory reviled? No, I had listened in silence too long. I would not live like this any longer, my mother a shameful secret.

  The real world pulled me back from my girlish dreams. I made my way to the dais, avoiding standing too close to the bloodied neck behind me. But curiosity got the better of me. A glance told me that the blood came from a circle of thick paste set around a hole in the table where the boy had hung his head. This paste had been impregnated with animal’s blood. I ripped away the cloth to reveal his head below, and, further along, a second boy – his twin – poking his head through another hole.

  “Spoilsport! Spoilsport!” The shouts deafened me.

  “Get out of my sight before I roast you on the spit outside,” I shouted. The boys dragged their bloodied heads from the holes and ran behind the curtain, giggling with fright.

  Anne Seymour, upstaged, called me down, but I ignored her.

  Only then did silence fall.

  This is how it must have been for my mother on the scaffold, I thought. She gave a few well-chosen words in praise of my father before she went to her eternal silence. Did her heart almost stop beating, as mine seemed to now?

  “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, life is an illusion,” I began. My voice shook. “We all see what we want to see, whether it is real or not. How I wish that my mother’s death had been a trick. How I wish that she could have come alive like this piglet boy. She lies not far from here in an old arrow chest, because they forgot to order a coffin for her.” I strengthened my voice. “I could not help her in her hour of need. I was only a baby. But I am a woman now…” A whistle cut the air and stopped abruptly. “…and one day I might be your Queen. So I command you not to speak of her in my presence, unless you have something good to say about her, because I shall never forget those who mock her tonight. If you do not know what to give up for Lent, then let it be mockery.” I stopped, my heartbeat booming in my ears. Anne Seymour’s newly-hung emeralds gleamed at me and gave me the courage to carry on. “One day soon, I shall learn the truth about her and so shall you.”

  I finished, proud that I had defended my mother in public, proud that I had made my promise for all to hear. There was no lightning, no thunderbolt as I left the dais, only a rush of blood to my head. Some hissed. Some cheered. But all stood aside to let me pass. Some of the women curtsied. Some of the men bowed and doffed their caps. Thomas Seymour did neither. He stood, mouth gaping. It was the first time I had seen him lost for words.

  Only Anne Seymour whispered as I passed, “We know the truth about your mother and you would do well to accept it quietly.”

  Promises made in public have even greater power than those made in private.

  The truth, I thought. Now I am bound for Bedlam soon. There is no turning back.

  Under the starlit sky, I removed the perfume box from my bodice, inhaling the faint fragrance that still lingered there, for I had used up all the cream. I knelt. It was the first time I had done so outside the safety of my bedchamber – except in church. I never kneel in public, for I remember how my mother died. I would never give any swordsman the chance to steal up behind me and take off my head. “No more mockery, mother,” I whispered. “Pray that Francis speaks the truth. Pray that Alys can tell me the truth.”

  Jane was the only one who came to comfort me, but she startled me badly, creeping up behind me. “He didn’t really lose his head,” she whispered. She rubbed her neck again and again. “Ellie says this is only bull’s blood.”

  “You little fool!” I snapped. “Of course I know it isn’t real. Don’t you understand? They rubbed my face in the dirt of my past, in public, like you rub a puppy’s nose in its own filth so that it will never foul in the same place again.”

  Her mouth trembled. “I would not dare make such a speech,” she said. “My mother would beat me for it.”

  “Thank God that you have a mother,” I shouted. “Better a cruel mother than a dead one.”

  Her thin shoulders heaved. She ran inside. I did not see her again that night. She left early with Mistress Ellen and Lady Catherine.

  It was late when our barge returned for us. Guests still ate and drank, grasping the last moments before their fast. The sky was as black as ink, and extra lanterns had been lit on the barge. Thomas Seymour went to look for Kat, but he came back alone and told the oarsmen to start rowing. We left the water steps so quickly that I had no time to get out.

  I shrank back into the shadows of the cushions and my furs. To be seen alone in a barge with a man – even my stepfather – would cause gossip.

  In the bedchamber, I could run away or call for Kat. But in a barge, there was no escape, except into the murky Thames.

  Seymour, silly with drink, shadowed me. When I moved away, he moved towards me. When I sat opposite him, he came to join me. “A performance as good as Salomé’s,” he said. He kissed my hand, eyes brimming with open admiration, and placed his hand on my knee, beneath my furs. I pushed it away, repelled by him.

  “I heard you scoff at my mother’s death,” I cried. “Did you know that your brother had chosen to insult her memory tonight?”

  “Of course I didn’t, Be— Elizabeth. I’m not so cruel – and neither is Edward. This illusion is the latest fashion in London, and Anne Seymour always seeks to be fashionable.” His mouth was too close. “You’re as beautiful as Salomé and you dance like her. So was your mother. I was a young man when she came to court. She bewitched with her black eyes…”

  “Don’t use that word.”

  “Oh Bess, she entranced, enthralled, enchanted, just as you did tonight.”

  I was not listening. I was thinking: on this royal barge of satin and silk was a man of great power, the Lord High Admiral of England, who protected everything except my reputation. Out there, in a boat that reeked of death was my half-brother, who had no power, whose mother was in Bedlam because of me.

  Revulsion ran through me. “Remember your wife, sir, for she bears your child.”

  “Her lips aren’t so inviting.” He leaned over me, letting his beard brush my cheeks.

  Would he never be finished with such talk? Would he always think I was like my mother? Full of pride that I had dared to defend her, I stood on tiptoe to reach him and, by the silly smile on his face, he thought I was trying to kiss him.

  I tugged his beard and his eyes watered with pain. He cursed me. I cursed him. Then he lifted me off my feet, forcing me to let go. He dangled me in the air like a doll and
I thought he would drop me into the Thames. Below, the icy water creaked against the sides of the barge and I thought of the girl in the death-boat, swollen with muddy water.

  At last, my stepfather took pity on me, for my teeth clattered with cold. He threw me onto the cushions. Then he stood at the barge rail, cursing the oarsmen for their slowness, cursing all the way back to Chelsea.

  Afraid, I cried into my gloves until the velvet was sodden. To calm myself, I watched the riverbanks flash by. Every candle had long been extinguished in the little cottages. Leafless trees showed solitary walkers scurrying for the safety of their homes.

  Such winter weeks had been the last weeks of my mother’s life, although she had not known it. From the stillbirth of the son that would have saved her, till May Day, when she was taken to the Tower, she saw my father’s affections change towards her. She could do nothing. She was a prisoner of vile gossip long before she was taken to be questioned.

  I pondered. My mother went to the Tower on May Day, in full daylight for all to see her. Yet May Eve is a night of mystery and mischief, a night when anything can happen if you believe it can. It is a night for madness.

  It was the night I would go to Bedlam.

  I snuggled deep into my sable furs and thanked God that I had made up my mind. At last, I dared hope. If Francis had told me the truth, I might speak to somebody who had loved my mother. I might unburden myself of the thoughts and doubts that had obsessed me for so long.

  Servants were waiting at the water steps with flaming torches that would guide us back to Chelsea Palace.

  “I’ll wait for Kat,” I said.

  Seymour scowled. “Don’t wait too long. People will talk.”

  I stood in the warmth of the fire braziers, watching their flickering glow on the water, warming my cheeks. On these steps, I had first seen Francis. On these steps my mother had come back to haunt me. Soon I would lay her ghost to rest.

  Kat came in on the Dudley’s barge. She was snoring as it moored. As soon as she saw me, she grumbled at me, her voice thick with sleep. “You shouldn’t have been alone with him.”

  “He tricked me, Kat,” I said. “But I won’t let him trick me again – ever.”

  We set off for the house, arm in arm. Above us, rose stalks entwined, their thorns sparkling in the frost like tiny swords.

  Yes, it was decided. I would go on May Eve, when anything can happen. And pray to God that I would hear the truth.

  Chapter Eleven

  How can you sleep when you know you have to go to hell?

  Night after night, I watched the river, whipped to waves by March gales and flattened by damp mists.

  I wished the days away.

  The first blossom – hawthorn, bright against its black branches – set my heart racing. Then nature moved with the speed of the spring tides. Every day, leaves thickened on the trees, buds swelled, bees sucked.

  I commanded time to stop. But it rolled on, as relentless as the river.

  On May Eve, the kitchens gave off the scent of pies and puddings and sweet pastries. Maggie scolded the maids Mary and Bess for sitting on the kitchen steps, weaving marsh marigolds into a garland for the kitchen door. Tonight, they would bring back may blossom to garland the doors and gates.

  I was ready. Over the past few days, whenever Kat had gone to gossip with Mistress Ellen, I had picked lavender for my pomander. I had placed my black velvet shoes and cloak under my bed. I did not fear Kat knowing what I would do. She hated May Eve for the noisy merrymaking that kept her from her sleep and she had already prepared her poppy-flower cordial.

  But the path to truth is fraught with danger. I feared Bedlam as much as I had feared hell when I was a child, peeping into my father’s kitchen.

  What if the devil swallowed me and did not spit me out? Who would know? Who would rescue me?

  Robert Dudley was the only person who knew about Francis. I would trust him with my deadliest of secrets.

  Picnics were Lady Catherine’s greatest pleasure. On the afternoon of May Eve, all that could be carried was brought from the house to the rose arbour: tables, benches, cushions, all set upon a richly patterned carpet. The arbour formed our walls, the rosebuds our ceiling. The parrot cages were hung from the wooden posts. Excited by the new scents, they fluffed out their bright feathers and snapped the air for insects who had dared to enter their cages. Sometimes they stretched out their beaks to peck the rose petals, and I could not bear it.

  We all dreamed in the warming sun – my stepmother of the son she might bear; Jane of God, no doubt; and Kat and Mistress Ellen of their past a-Mayings before they became too noisy.

  I dreamed of my new self. Would I look any different in the morning? As my eyes shone with the truth, would people whisper, “What a beautiful young woman our Princess Elizabeth is. She has left childhood behind.”

  But first, to hell – and back.

  I invited Robert Dudley to walk with me down to the river.

  Kat straightened my headdress, smoothed my dress as if I were a bride. It was no more than tomfoolery, we knew that, because a royal marriage is decided by men of the Privy Council. But this was done with merriment, in honour of May. “In Spring, a young woman’s fancy turns to love,” she said.

  “A rosebud is too young for love,” Mistress Ellen said.

  “Will you beg him to go a-Maying with you tonight?” Jane asked.

  “Princesses don’t go a-Maying.” I gave a laugh, halfway between despair and terror.

  They looked from one to the other, as if the sun had already boiled my brain.

  “I’ve told you again and again, don’t laugh like that,” Kat warned. “You sound just like your mother.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  Robert and I walked under the roses. I felt my mother’s presence in the unfolding rosebuds. Tonight, I would meet somebody who had loved her, and I would ask all the questions that had lain in my mind all my life, ever since I could remember. And, God willing, I would hear the truth.

  Kat followed at a distance, giggling like a girl when Robert took my arm. Neither of us had mentioned Francis again, but his presence was unseen between us. I could smell him.

  “Robert?”

  He stopped, recognizing the begging tone in my voice. “If it’s about that boy again, Bess, the answer’s still NO.”

  I stood on tiptoe to smell the roses. “I’m not asking today, Robert. I’m telling. It’s something Kat doesn’t know and she mustn’t know – ever. Sometimes she lets the truth spill after a glass of wine. I spoke to Francis…the boy in the boat…at Twelfth Night.”

  His face darkened. “You’ve spoken to that creature? Oh, Bess, why?”

  “You know why. I’m going to see his mother tonight.”

  “She’ll cut off a lock of your hair and mix it with bat’s droppings or rat’s p—” He kicked a wooden post, making a parrot cage swing. The other parrots set up an ear-splitting squawk. “It smacks of witchery and worse.”

  “You’re the only person I really trust, Robert. Do you remember, on my birthday, you promised to be my eyes? Well, look for me tomorrow at the joust. If I’m not there, will you come and find me?”

  “Let me come with you.”

  I shook my head. “No. It would be too dangerous to be seen together. And I don’t trust Thomas Seymour. He knows that we’re close in our affections. He might use it against you one day.”

  “Then don’t involve me at all,” he said.

  “I must, Robert, for I’m going to the worst place on earth.”

  Robert cursed. “Where?” he asked.

  Kat came closer.

  I whispered “Bedlam”, as Francis had done. Robert drew out his sword and hacked at the rose heads. He was close to tears. “Let me rid you of Francis,” he said.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But Alys isn’t mad, Robert. She isn’t… Although if this is a plot to be rid of me… Well, it will be too late to find me anyway. I’ll probably be at the bot
tom of the Thames.”

  “He’s dangerous, Bess. You’ll never be safe as long as he’s here. That’s what men like him do. They go for the weakest—”

  “I’m not weak.”

  “You’re a woman. He tells you a pitiful tale and you believe him. He’s used you. Let me protect you. That’s what men are for.” As we reached the river, he pleaded with me again. “How can I stop you, Bess?”

  “You can’t.”

  “You’re a fool to go,” he said.

  “And I’d be a fool not to,” I replied.

  But my words sounded hollow as I stood by the sunlit river with Robert. I wished that I did not have to go to Bedlam. I wished that I could forget the past.

  Robert bowed and kissed my hand. Then he leaned over to kiss me. I waited, my skin tingling. But then Kat was between us, pushing us apart.

  Strange, I thought. She had not truly protected me from Thomas Seymour.

  With a short bow to Kat, Robert went straight to his barge. “I’ve lost my taste for picnics,” he said.

  “What have you said to ruffle his feathers?” Kat asked.

  “Nothing – except the truth. And now he hates me for it.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Kat said. “Hate and love are opposite sides of the same coin, that’s all. It just depends which way it falls. Hate today. Love tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. If I had known what was to happen before dawn, I would have never left my bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  I came face-to-face with Maggie in the kitchen, although it was long past dusk. Smooth-cheeked and smooth-lipped, she stumbled with her swift curtsy in her eagerness to meet her sweetheart.

  “Maggie, wrap some rose petals for me,” I said. There was disapproval on her face as she took in my black velvet cloak and hidden hair. “May not a princess go a-Maying?” I asked.

  “Yes, but not alone, Your Grace.”

  “Mistress Ashley dislikes May Eve.”

  “Folks’ll talk. They’ll say ’tis only witches that go out alone in the dead o’ night.” It was an innocent remark or a well-intentioned warning as it turned out, but with nerves already taut, I slapped her. Her cheek, so carefully whitened, flushed. She took a spoonful of salt and twisted it into a piece of muslin. “Best sprinkle this as you go then,” she said, “lest the devil comes for you.”