Traitor's Kiss

by Pauline Francis

  He peers at the crest and then backs away as if the falcon’s claws will tear at his skin. “Did you accept it as a bribe?” he asks. But the words are hollow, as if he has said them in his head too many times.

  “No.” My voice is tight. “It was a gift from my mother,” I say. “Have you forgotten that all her belongings were banned or burned or buried? This is all I have of her. It is the sort of gift a mother gives to a daughter, is it not – perfume?” I push up the lid and he recoils. “My mother was a sacrifice. The first perfumes came from the fragrant leaves thrown into the fire to hide the stench of burning sacrificial flesh…per fuma…from the smoke. She was sacrificed so that my father could marry again to have a son.”

  In the warmth of the fire, the lingering perfume scents the air as if she has entered the schoolroom: her hair brushes my face, her lips kiss mine, and she lifts my hair and nibbles the nape of my neck.

  A beautiful rose, cut too soon, but still here to protect me. When this trial is over, when Tyrwhitt has left me in peace, I shall bloom in her place.

  “It is no magic potion, sir, unless you want to believe it.”

  Tyrwhitt’s eyes droop. He remembers my mother too for he knew her well when he was my father’s servant. The potion has worked its magic, for his face softens. He forgets where he is, as I do. He is back in my father’s court when my parents dazzled and were enchanted with each other, when he wanted a son so much that disenchantment came. “There are so many people who are afraid to remember her,” he whispers. “Yet who could forget her?”

  He does not take the box.

  In the corner of the window, an icicle is melting. Its water trickles down the pane. Tyrwhitt gets up and wipes the glass with his cuff. A ray of cruel sun shows how exhausted he is.

  If he does not want the box, what does he want?

  Has he finished his dirty work here? Will he order his servants to pack? Will he order his horses to be made ready for the long journey to London? Will he and his wife disappear into the chilling darkness?

  I slump into a chair with exhaustion. The sword has lain close to my neck these past weeks.

  Tyrwhitt opens the window and he lets in the scents of early spring: crocuses and primroses and violets. He says, “Elizabeth,” and I do not reply, thinking that he is calling for his wife. Chill air creeps into the stifling schoolroom and I lift my hair so that it can cool my neck.

  Why is he still here? What does he want from me? Have I crowed too soon? I shall not turn round. I shall not speak.

  He must have walked on tiptoe or taken off his shoes, for I do not hear him until his sour breath is whistling in my ear: “Elizabeth, have you ever been to Bedlam?”

  This is the question that could seal my fate. I cannot breathe. I feel as if Thomas Seymour’s lips are still suffocating me.

  How do I answer it?

  I shift in my chair. Pain darts through my body.

  This February day is sinking early into night. Snow dusts the garden, lights the fountain.

  I must gather the last of my wits. It is the play-acting that has distracted me these last weeks. Creating the illusion is the challenge and I have enjoyed the effect on my one-man audience, as illusionists and magic men must do. But I have forgotten my lines.

  Tyrwhitt waits.

  Maggie Payne told Thomas Seymour that I had gone out alone last May Eve. He – or Maggie – would not hesitate to tell Tyrwhitt, if asked – or tortured to tell.

  I struggle to remember my lines. I stand and move to the window for air.

  “Your friend Robert Dudley has been seen lurking outside Bedlam’s gates,” he says.

  It is the prompt that I need. “Why shouldn’t he? You can pay to enter Bedlam for entertainment. They say that it’s better value than the playhouse.” A deep shudder of distaste runs through his body. “Not everybody in Bedlam is mad, sir. Women are often taken there by husbands who want to keep them silent, by fathers because their daughters will not marry the men they have chosen. It is a place for badly-behaved women.”

  He smiles. The colour comes back to his cheeks. “Have you ever been there?”

  I give him something to keep him quiet. “Yes. Last May Eve.”

  Tyrwhitt blinks rapidly. Then he laughs. “I do not believe you. Mistress Ashley has never spoken of it. And the river was full of barges that night. Nobody has come forward.”

  I was right. He does not know. “Surely you remember that it was my mother’s custom to visit the lost souls of Bedlam? Her brother was Governor of that hell on earth. Since she was taken to the Tower on May Day, it is the time I always think of her… Sometimes I go then, to visit in her name, to take may blossom. It fell onto her hair as she walked to the scaffold. Yes…I took may blossom to scatter on the floor, for you cannot imagine the stench of the place…sir.”

  He gulps. “Did you come back with your head full of fanciful thoughts?”

  My heart quickens. What does he know? Was Maggie lurking in the shadows of the pastry room, her face flushed from her own a-Maying, or with jealousy because my stepfather was kissing me?

  “There are no fanciful thoughts in Bedlam – only misery and degradation,” I say. “I came home thinking of my mother.”

  “Yet less than three weeks later, you left Chelsea Palace under a black cloud.”

  “No, the sun shone all the way here.” I smile. “I was tired of Chelsea Palace. Summer stinks there.” I turn away from him.

  “But why did you not go to Gloucestershire with Lady Catherine for the birth of her child, as Lady Jane did.”

  “I was exhausted. I needed the quiet of this palace.”

  He is behind me again, at the window. All these weeks, I have waited for the sword to fall and now I hear its swish through the air towards my quivering neck and I prepare myself for the blow.

  Is it eight weeks since I went back to Bedlam? The horror of it still claws at my heart. The wounds are as fresh as if I were there. Francis was right. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Has Tyrwhitt seen what I saw there? Is it etched in his memory, as it is in mine? Does he hope that the horror of it will make me babble?

  I see his chain catch the candlelight, reflected in the window, for it has long been dusk and the servant has not yet come to close the curtains. A few snowflakes flurry from the sleet against the windowpanes and some stick like flakes of wood ash. I watch them settle, see my pinched face staring back at me.

  Is this how you look when you have been to hell so many times that you cannot find your way back? Is this what Virgil meant?

  Has Tyrwhitt seen the secret Bedlam holds? He can still trap me into treason if he has.

  Tyrwhitt clears his throat. It has become an irritating habit. “There is a boy…” he begins “…a stranger, who has the look of your father, God rest his soul…who rows up and down the Thames…”

  My voice trembles with uncertainty. “London is full of such boys,” I say.

  “…plucking corpses from the river to earn his living.”

  “Somebody has to do it, sir.”

  “He has disappeared. He might be a danger to the King’s person. He might be here to plot or cause harm…Seymour has asked about him.” He drums on the window. Like me, he has worn a mask for many weeks. Unlike me, he lets his slowly slip to reveal a face that is consumed by anger, and frustration that a young girl can outwit him. “Your stepfather has let you down. He has let his King and country down. Now you have the chance to save yourself, to speak out against him.”

  “And if I do, you might turn the evidence against me,” I reply.

  Ask me about Francis! Ask me, I want to shout. Let the sword fall. Now.

  Gripping the edge of the table, he spits out his question with the fury of wind and rain gusting together. “Do you know this boy?”

  The cold blade lies across my neck. He thinks that he has me, for he sees my neck quiver. He thinks he will have a confession after all. Not to kissing Tom Seymour or agreeing to marry him; but for plot
ting against the King. Or some other charge that I do not know about, that I must deny as my mother did.

  Can Tyrwhitt still outwit me? Has he already taken Francis to the Tower, to tug out the truth with his fingernails?

  I rest my cheek against the cold glass of the window. Only my stiff bodice holds me upright. Tyrwhitt is next to me. But he dare not touch me. I am a princess. Instead, he places his face as close as he can, his nose almost touching mine. Close-up, his beard reeks of stale food, although his breath is still sweet. Hair sprouts from his nostrils. His lips contort with anger, and there is a boil beneath his nose – if he shouts any louder, it will explode its pus into my face.

  Tyrwhitt raises his hand, as if to prod me into replying. He could still subdue me. He only has to take me to the Tower and I would break if I saw the place where my mother died.

  He lowers his hand and prods me with his voice instead. “Do you know him?” Tyrwhitt is pressing his hands together because they itch to shake me, I am sure of it. He stands before me, legs planted apart like my father’s when he grew fat. “God’s Blood, give me patience!” he says. “Yes or no?”

  Answer yes and I shall be pulled into a plot that I have not plotted. Like mother, like daughter. Answer no and I condemn my brother to remain in Bedlam. Answer no and I shall be safe. Who will believe what a man in Bedlam says?

  Life is an illusion. If I don’t believe that, I’ll be lost.

  I know one thing – I do not want to stretch out my pretty neck for the sword as my mother did. I want to be the Queen of England.

  I cannot speak. My lips are too cold. I imagine Robert’s kisses warming them and my voice comes from far-off, as if I am still wreathed in the fog of Bedlam. “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I never lie, sir.”

  “Your mother lied,” Tyrwhitt says.

  “Why would she lie to God?”

  “Her friend Smeaton did,” Tyrwhitt sneers.

  “His mind was broken.”

  “Perhaps yours is broken, madam. Perhaps you should be in Bedlam?” His face takes on a look of piety. “Think, madam, of your conscience. How will you answer to God on the Day of Judgement?”

  “I put my trust in man, not in God,” I say.

  “Then I ask you for the last time. Yes or no?”

  Bedlam…a boy. They are like words whispered in the wind. One gust and they’re gone. Tyrwhitt knows nothing more. If he did, he would not ask.

  My breath comes in little gusts…Francis, my brother, who has nobody to protect him, or care for him now. I want to bathe his sores with camomile. But I must not. I have drunk the poisoned water of hell and my heart turns to stone.

  My temples throb with the din of rattling chains. But Bedlam must be endured if I am to survive, even if it shackles me like a chain. In a gasp, I call out, “NO.”

  The melting icicle at the window cracks. Tyrwhitt has snapped it, as a neck snaps under the sword. He rests it against his flaming cheeks until it starts to melt and he throws it down. “On this occasion, I can find you guilty only of the folly of youth,” he pronounces. “But if there is ever another occasion, you may not be so lucky…” He returns to the table and closes the lid of the box, before crossing to me and folding my fingers over it. His hands are as cold as death. “I do not want it, Your Grace. As you say, it is the sort of gift a mother gives to her daughter.”

  And he lets it be – as I must let it be.

  He leaves by the garden door. He pauses as he always does, as if there might be more. “You have a fine mind, Your Grace,” he says, bowing. “Use it well.”

  “I already have,” I reply.

  The door creaks. Then it slams behind him.

  At last I am alone in my schoolroom. I stand at the window to watch him go and I see my mother darting in and out of the hedges playing hide-and-seek with me, dangling my bare feet in the water to calm me, her soft lips against my cheek, her heavenly smile… Then I see Francis in Bedlam, waiting for me, and the shame of my betrayal weighs me down.

  I cannot think about him now. I shall not think about him.

  Tomorrow, I shall have roses planted all the way to the fountain and when I walk there – a strange occupation for a young girl whose feet long to dance – early in the morning and drink in their heavenly perfume, I shall hear my mother rustle in the early morning shadows and remember those who have protected me – Alys and Francis and Robert Dudley.

  Tomorrow, I shall take off these fine clothes and put on sombre ones that speak of piety and innocence, until the mud that clings to me returns to the bottom of the river. And when it has settled, I shall wear the colours of the moon: white, cream and silver – and pearls to cool my Tudor hair.

  I have always lived with lies. Now I must live with my own. I shall be careful whom I trust. I shall love in private. Not in public. I was born in the Chamber of Virgins and a wise virgin I shall remain.

  And if…when…I am Queen, I shall bloom for my mother, a perfect rose cut too soon.

  Exhausted, I sink to my knees. It is safe to do so. With Tyrwhitt gone, I fear no swordsman stealing up behind me to take off my head. Today, I shall not be condemned as my mother was.

  I am safe – for now.

  Author’s Note

  The interrogation of the young Elizabeth at Hatfield Palace during the winter of 1549 is well documented. The Thomas Seymour scandal was a dangerous rite of passage for the young Elizabeth, and brought comparison with her ill-fated mother, Anne Boleyn. Many historians believe that Elizabeth’s decision never to marry was because of the horrific death of her mother.

  I wanted to add another dimension to this scandal. What was it like for Elizabeth to grow up in the shadow of her mother – the first Queen of England ever to be executed? How far would Elizabeth go to prove her innocence, in her desire to remain unblemished so that she would be worthy of the throne of England? I decided to use the fictional characters of Francis and his mother – and the perfume box – to explore the development of Elizabeth’s character more deeply.

  All the other characters in this story are real.

  I have exploited Elizabeth’s documented character to the full. She did have a keen sense of smell like her father. She did hate bad odours and being closed in. She did love the sugar that rotted her teeth. She did love Robert Dudley, whom she nicknamed “Eyes”. And she did suffer ill health through much of her adolescence because of the stress of the Thomas Seymour scandal.

  The portraits described all exist, but may not have hung together as I suggest. I have taken a liberty with Elizabeth’s portrait only. The dress in the portrait that I describe was made of pink damask. I chose white to remind readers that Queen Elizabeth always wore white and silver for her portraits to maintain her image as the Virgin Queen.

  Within five years of this scandal – with the exception of Elizabeth, her servants, Mary, Robert Dudley and Mistress Ellen – all the other real people were dead: Thomas Seymour was executed for treason in March, 1549. His brother Edward was executed for treason in 1551. Lady Jane Grey, her husband Guildford Dudley, and his father John Dudley, were executed for treason by Queen Mary in 1554. Archbishop Thomas Cranmer was burned at the stake by Queen Mary in 1556.

  Elizabeth was safe until her sister Mary became Queen in 1554 and sent her – with Robert Dudley – to the Tower for a suspected Protestant plot. She narrowly escaped execution, becoming Queen of England upon Mary’s death in 1558 at the age of twenty-five. Elizabeth ruled for forty-four years. She never married. Robert Dudley, Kat Ashley and Blanche Parry remained faithful servants until their natural deaths. Elizabeth never forgave Robert Tyrwhitt, and when she became Queen, she banished him from court for the rest of his life.

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank my family for their constant interest and support – especially my husband – also Megan Larkin and Anne Finnis for their comments on the manuscript.

  A special thanks to Sam Whisker, chef and patissière, who made me a sugar rose a
s I watched her – and let me glimpse the pleasures and pitfalls of a world I know nothing about.

  Bibliography

  Ackroyd, Peter, London: The Biography, Chatto & Windus, 2000

  Arnold, Catherine, Bedlam, Pocket Books, 2009

  Borman, Tracy, Elizabeth’s Women, Jonathan Cape, 2009

  Falkus, C. (Ed.), The Private Lives of the Tudor Monarchs, Folio Society, 1974

  Fraser, Antonia, The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Mandarin, 1993

  Picard, Liza, Elizabeth’s London, Phoenix, 2004

  Plowden, Alison, Lady Jane Grey: Nine Days Queen, Sutton, 2003

  Plowden, Alison, The Young Elizabeth, Sutton Publishing, 1999

  Porter, Linda, Mary Tudor, Piatkus, 2009

  Mumby, F. & Rait, R. The Girlhood of Queen Elizabeth: A Narrative in Contemporary Letters, Constable & Co., 1909

  Richardson, Ruth, Mistress Blanche, Logaston Press, 2007

  Ridley, Jasper, The Tudor Age, Robinson, 2002

  Salgado, Gamini, The Elizabethan Underworld,

  Rowman & Littlefield, 1977

  Sim, Alison, Pleasures & Pastimes in Tudor England, History Press, 2009

  Sitwell, Edith, Fanfare for Elizabeth, Macmillan, 1962

  Starkey, David, Elizabeth, Vintage, 2001

  Weir, Alison, Children of England: The Heirs of King Henry VIII, Pimlico, 1997

  Weir, Alison, The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn, Jonathan Cape, 2009

  About the Author

  Pauline Francis has worked as a school librarian and a French teacher, and spent time in Africa translating books before becoming a writer herself. She has written educational stories, such as Sam Stars at Shakespeare’s Globe, focusing on her favourite subject, the sixteenth century, and retold classics such as Oliver Twist. She has written for young people learning English as a foreign language. This is her third novel for Young Adults. Her first – Raven Queen – a tale of love and tragedy based on the life of Lady Jane Grey, is set several years after the events in Traitor’s Kiss.