The Animal Stars Collection

by Jackie French

  My Queen looked at him shrewdly. ‘What is Tutbury like?’

  ‘A trifle…shabby, Madam.’

  ‘So,’ said my Queen. She was silent for a moment. Then she added, ‘My Lord, we have had our differences. But I do know that you have done your best by me. Indeed, I do truly regard you as my friend.’

  ‘An honour indeed, Your Majesty.’

  ‘But now,’ said my Queen softly, ‘things will change.’

  Tutbury was cold. As cold as Sir Amyas Paulet, who was now in charge of us, and just as smelly as him, too.

  We lived in the old hunting lodge next to the castle ramparts. The sun never reached us over the earth mound; everything stank of mildew, the swamps around us and the privies that were never emptied. Dogs appreciate smells more than humans, but not such stale, foul ones. I could hardly smell my own bottom in the confusion.

  It was so different from our warm, sunny rooms at Sheffield.

  The only good thing about Tutbury was the mice. There were hundreds of them living behind the rotting hangings on the walls. Even that wasn’t much of an advantage, however, as I was getting too fat now to chase mice, except the ones that dared come near my Queen.

  Here there was only rush matting on the floor, not carpet. Even my paws were icy, and my Queen cried with the cold. The wind sneaked through the gaps in the walls as though trying to bite us with cold teeth.

  My Queen demanded two great wagonloads of feathers to make our mattresses and quilts warmer and softer. For days our rooms were filled with tiny floating feathers as the new stuffing seeped out of their linings. They were fun to try to catch. But even with the extra feathers my Queen was cold. And Sir Amyas was even worse than the chill.

  Sir Amyas smelt of old cheese, which is a good smell for a cheese, but not right for a man. I hated him. He made my Queen cry every time he pulled down the canopy from her chair and bed, the red and gold canopy that showed she was a queen.

  Every time he ripped it down Jane ran to put it back up as soon as he was gone.

  ‘Sir Amyas is more fit to be a gaoler of criminals than a queen,’ said Jane.

  My Queen shivered. ‘He is a Calvinist, and believes in burning good Catholics like me.’ She shuddered. ‘I believe that if Elizabeth dies before I do Sir Amyas will murder me rather than see a Catholic rule England.’

  ‘Surely even Sir Amyas wouldn’t go that far, Madam,’ said Jane. But it didn’t sound like she really believed it.

  ‘You will see,’ said my Queen softly. ‘I will be lucky to escape Sir Amyas’s care alive.’

  My Queen wasn’t allowed to send any letters now, except official ones through the French embassy in London. None of our servants was allowed to walk outside, or talk to the castle servants. No laundresses could visit us, or farmers bring us good things to eat, in case they smuggled letters too. None of the Queen’s people could even speak to Paulet’s servants unless he was there listening.

  Even the spaniels weren’t allowed to have a morning walk.

  We had not been at Tutbury long when Mistress Curle came running to my Queen one morning. My Queen spent much of her day in bed now. The cold made her legs too swollen for her to walk.

  ‘Madam…’ Mistress Curle began. Tears streaked her cheeks and she sobbed like the wind in the chimney. She was so upset she even forgot to curtsey, till Jane coughed to remind her.

  ‘Mistress Curle, what is it?’

  ‘The birds, Madam…your lovely birds.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They are dead, Madam! They must have frozen in the night! Madam, I am so sorry…I tried to keep their cages warm, indeed I did. There was a fire in their room, and I covered the cages with blankets too. But the wind last night was so cold…’

  My Queen clenched her swollen fingers. ‘Cold as my cousin’s heart. No, do not cry. It is not your fault. It is the fault of this place, this horrible place. It is the fault of Sir Amyas whose hatred would freeze a pond in summer, of Elizabeth who wants me dead as my birds, of Philip and Henri, who have more important things to do than remember a Catholic queen. How long must I wait? How long till my son sends me word?’

  ‘Soon, Madam. I’m sure he will write to you soon!’ cried Jane.

  My Queen was sobbing, even though she had told Mistress Curle to stop. I climbed up onto the bed and licked her face and let her hold me close. I had never liked the way my Queen talked to her birds and let them eat out of her hand. They were just birds, after all, not dogs like me! But I had enjoyed walking with her to their room. And I hated her to be unhappy.

  Our days dragged on. There had been little change in our lives before. Now, with my Queen in bed and neither letters to write nor letters smuggled in for her to read, it was as quiet as Nanny’s larder after the leftovers were locked away.

  My Queen’s fingers were too swollen for embroidery. But her women sewed, on their stools in her bedroom, and Master Bourgoine played the lute for her.

  But there were long lonely nights, while her people were asleep, when my Queen would wake in pain. I was her companion then, while Jane slept across the room. Night after night my Queen would whisper to me, and I would lick her face to tell her that even if I didn’t know the words, I understood.

  ‘How can they understand in the world outside,’ she whispered one night, ‘that doing nothing is the hardest thing? To lie here, forgotten by the world. To spend my days watching my women sew instead of making laws. To see the same faces, dear as they are, day after day, instead of courtiers, ambassadors from all the nations…

  ‘Even when I was a child I only had to think of a game and everyone would play it. I remember we played Housewives once, the four Marys and me. They were my best friends, and all of us called Mary…We made quince marmalade in a special kitchen built in the palace just for us. The King said it was the best he’d ever eaten. Oh Folly, so many happy memories, and all so far away!…Will I never have happiness again?

  ‘How will my end come?’ she asked at last, as dawn’s light showed through the curtains. ‘Either I must escape or I will die here. But how? Sir Amyas can’t poison me; my kitchen staff are too loyal. An assassin’s blade at midnight? My cousin could pretend she knew nothing of it, that no blood stained her hands.’

  ‘Woof,’ I said softly.

  My Queen smiled in the dim light. ‘No assassin could sneak past you, could he, my dear friend? No, Elizabeth must find some other way to rid herself of the woman who should have her throne. And perhaps…oh, surely, Folly, my son will agree to share the throne with me. Oh please, let it be soon…’

  ‘Madam?’ Jane sat up sleepily. ‘Oh Madam, have you slept at all?’

  ‘A little,’ said my Queen, as Jane ran to put more wood on the coals that glowed in the fireplace, doing their best to bring a little warmth to the ice we breathed.

  It seemed like that winter would never end. Master Bourgoine put hot mouse skins on my Queen’s swollen toes. They helped the pain, but not much. They tasted good, though.

  At times I dreamt I was running in the sunlight with butterflies to chase. But when I woke I knew I would rather be with my Queen than hunting a horde of badgers (whatever badgers were).

  My Queen’s aunt, who lived with us, died that winter too. She was old, but my Queen said it was Tutbury that killed her. My Queen’s face grew paler and her eyes more shadowed. She sent Mary Seton away to France. Seton had been her oldest friend, the last of the four Marys. Seton cried when my Queen told her she had to go, so she at least might have some of her life away from prison. My Queen cried too that night, when all her people were asleep, except for me.

  ‘How can I bear it, Folly?’ she whispered. ‘Tutbury will kill us all. Cold winds and colder hearts…Little by little my life grows emptier of all I love.’

  At least I was there to warm her hands, to lick the tears that fell.

  My Queen needed me more than ever now.

  And then one afternoon, when Jane called Fléance and Douceur to go downstairs, Fléance did no
t get up.

  Jane called again. Douceur walked over and sniffed his friend, then he sat on his haunches and began to howl.

  ‘Hooowwl!’ he cried. The sound went on and on.

  I whimpered, and put my head onto my paws. My Queen swung her swollen legs out of her bed and knelt stiffly beside him. She put her hand on Fléance’s chest. ‘Oh, my dear friend,’ she whispered.

  ‘I will take him, Madam,’ said Master Curle softly.

  My Queen stroked Fléance and straightened his long ears. ‘We have both been prisoners, you and I,’ she said quietly. ‘Now you are free. Sleep well, my friend.’

  She bent and kissed him. ‘Let him have a proper grave,’ she said to Master Curle. ‘He was a good and faithful servant. And if Sir Amyas objects, tell him it is by my orders.’

  ‘Sir Amyas objects to everything, Madam,’ said Master Curle.

  My Queen raised her chin. ‘Let Sir Amyas beware,’ she said curtly. ‘I shall be Queen of Scotland again. Surely my son will sign the papers soon…’

  But the weeks went by. And still there was no word from Scotland.

  It was strange without Fléance. I remembered how he and Douceur had shown me where to sleep, to do my business. They had never been jealous of my time with our Queen. And if I missed him, I thought, it must be so much harder for Douceur.

  It was. Day after day, Douceur refused to eat. Finally he grew so weak that Master Melville had him carried up to our rooms in his basket. He lay before the fire, watching the door as though waiting for Fléance to come bounding in. Every time a servant entered he looked up, then sighed and put his head back down again.

  My Queen tried to feed him sugar and milk with a spoon. But Douceur wouldn’t eat, even when the food came from her. And then one morning when I slipped off my Queen’s bed to pad out to the privy chamber, he was cold in his basket.

  I glanced up. Jane was still sleeping, and my Mistress too. So I sat with him till Jane woke up. Douceur didn’t deserve to lie there all alone.

  Jane stared at me, lying with my head on my paws on the hearth, instead of my Queen’s soft bed. She looked at Douceur’s body, then back at me. Her expression softened. For the first time she bent and stroked my head before adding wood to the fire, to warm the room before my Queen awoke.

  My Queen wept as Douceur was carried down the stairs. ‘Order more spaniels,’ urged Master Bourgoine.

  But she shook her head. ‘This is no life to bring a puppy to,’ she said. ‘A puppy needs happiness and play. Not a prison, where we die one by one…’

  ‘Woof,’ I said, to tell her that no matter what, there was no place I’d rather be than here. She lifted me and hugged me, then Master Bourgoine helped her to her bed.

  Now we were alone, my Queen and I. Her people were there, it was true. But I was the only dog she had.

  ‘A letter, Madam! A letter!’

  I looked up as Master Curle came in. Jane had given me a bath in a big wooden tub by the fire, and was rubbing me dry while my Queen watched.

  I didn’t like baths. They were wet, and besides, it was an indignity, being held there in the water. And Jane always rubbed too hard.

  But it was nearly over. And to tell the truth, a bath always made me feel bouncy afterwards. I looked at Master Curle’s feet, hoping his shoes had a ribbon I could tug. I rarely chewed ribbons these days. But after-bath times were different.

  ‘Sir Amyas’s men brought it,’ added Master Curle.

  Yes, there was a ribbon! A satin one on each shoe; Master Curle was very fond of ribbons.

  I was about to pounce when my Queen’s words stopped me.

  ‘From whom?’ Her voice shook. I decided to forget the ribbons and go to her instead.

  ‘Madam, it is an official copy of a letter to Queen Elizabeth. From your son.’

  ‘My son!’

  I tapped her silk skirt with my paw. She bent stiffly and picked me up.

  ‘Oh Madam, at last!’ cried Jane.

  ‘A letter to Elizabeth? Not to me?’

  ‘Do you wish me to read it to you, Madam?’

  Her voice trembled. ‘No. I will read it privily.’

  Her women bent to their embroidery, pretending that they weren’t watching out of the corners of their eyes as my Queen looked at the paper. Finally she put it down, and stared out of the window.

  No one spoke, but you could hear their questions in the air.

  My Queen tried to keep her voice steady. ‘My son says that while he will recognise me as Scotland’s Queen Mother, he prefers to rule alone. Elizabeth…’ Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath. ‘Elizabeth has granted him four thousand pounds a year. It’s a lot for the ruler of a small, poor country…And France and Spain have recognised him as the Scottish King as well.’ She put the letter down. ‘They have betrayed me…’

  ‘Madam! To abandon his own mother for four thousand pounds a year. Your own son!’

  ‘Silence, Jane!’ It was the first time I had ever heard my Queen speak sharply to one of her people. ‘My son is a king and will not be criticised!’

  ‘I…I’m sorry, Madam.’

  My Queen rested her hands on my fur, as though to keep them steady. ‘It is no matter. I…I have had plans that didn’t work before. When the Duke of Norfolk wanted me as his wife, the two of us to rule a Catholic England. When Philip promised to send his army to set me free…’ She lifted me into her arms and stood up. ‘No, there will…there will be other plans. Other times. One day, surely, I will be free.’

  My Queen put me down, and walked to her priedieu. She knelt and began to pray. One by one her people joined her.

  I lay alone by the fire, with my head on my paws. This was the one place where I could not follow her.

  CHAPTER 16

  Things Change for My Queen and Me

  Chartley Hall, 24 December 1585 to 17 July 1586

  At last on Christmas Eve we were moved again: away from dismal Tutbury, to Chartley Hall. Unfortunately, Sir Amyas came with us. He was still our gaoler.

  Chartley had a moat around it and a castle just next door. Snow lay thick on the hills around and ravens called from the bare trees. But at least our walls here were made of bricks, not rotting wood.

  There were glass windows to keep the wind from biting us, and good fires of apple wood to make the rooms smell sweet. And even if my Queen no longer had her royal hangings, the Earl of Shrewsbury had sent her favourite chair.

  But it was not a happy Christmas. Our cooks were still finding their way in the kitchens. There was food enough, but no boar’s head (which I loved, especially the soft meat from the cheeks) or even venison or goose—just mutton boiled and mutton baked and mutton fat, which made it hard to do my business afterwards. A basket full of half-frozen straw in a privy chamber in winter is not a place to linger when you are trying to move your bowels, not when you have short legs like I do, and most of you is low to the ground.

  My Queen often sobbed with pain these days, despite our new warm rooms. She had big sores on her legs that had to be bandaged afresh every day, and aches in her hips and back and feet.

  Master Bourgoine coated the sores with honey and fresh bull’s blood, and gave her tablets of powdered crab’s eyes and unicorn horn coated in gold. But they only helped a little.

  When Jane and Mistress Curle took off her wig at night, handfuls of her own hair came off too. They powdered her scalp with burnt dove dung to make it grow again.

  ‘We have been forgotten,’ she said to me one night, when I felt her move and found her awake and restless in our bed. ‘My people in Scotland have forgotten me. My family in France has forgotten me. Elizabeth keeps me shut off from the world. My son has sold me for a smile from England…’

  I licked the tears from her face. She always cried softly, so as not to wake her ladies sleeping nearby.

  But at last our rooms began to look like a queen’s again. The gold plates were unpacked, and my Queen’s thin glass goblets with their pictures of strange beasts and f
lowers. But my Queen still sobbed in the night, and her face grew thin with pain.

  Then the spring flowers dappled the last of the snow. And suddenly a new wind flew across our lives. It smelled of summer hay—and hope.

  17 July 1586

  We had just finished dinner. Monsewer still ruled the kitchens. We’d had mutton (of course) with lemon and currants; but now the coachloads of luxuries from France were coming again, so there was ox tongue with dates, pickled cockscombs and rabbit with redcurrants, chicken with almonds and rosewater, cheese tart, eggs in mustard sauce and spinach pie.

  I was burping slightly from all that spinach pie (and wishing I had some grass to chew so I could relieve myself of some of the burps) when Master Curle left the table where my Queen’s people ate and came to ours.

  He bowed. ‘Your Majesty, could I suggest a walk? Along the corridor perhaps?’

  My Queen stared at him. She hardly walked at all now, and never by herself. Her legs gave her too much pain. But then she nodded. ‘Why, Master Curle, a walk would be most welcome. If you would lend me your shoulder, perhaps?’

  ‘An honour, Your Majesty,’ said Master Curle.

  I hopped down from her lap. A walk!

  I hoped that once my Queen started walking she’d take me for a real walk, right down the corridor and back. But as soon as they were away from the small court of attendants and the listening servants, my Queen whispered, ‘Well, Master Curle? What is it?’

  The man’s face shone. He slipped his hand under his cloak and brought out a thin package wrapped in leather and tied with ribbon. He handed it to her.

  ‘Letters…’ My Queen looked at the package as though she had never seen letters before.

  ‘The village brewer brought them! He is a casual Catholic, Madam. He will bring your secret letters every week when he brings the beer. I can hide your letters in the cellars, when I fetch the wine. He will conceal them in the beer barrels.’

  ‘Letters.’ My Queen closed her eyes for a moment. ‘If you knew how I have dreamt, Master Curle, of finding a way to talk to the world again. To my sympathisers here in England, to my cousins back in France…’