Nor a year later, when the court reeled with scandal and my own heart grieved the loss of one I scarcely knew but remembered fondly, was Kate’s glowing happiness the least bit diminished. The Lady Amy, Robert Dudley’s wife, who was rumored to be ailing with a cancer of the breast, had been discovered dead, with her neck broken, at the foot of a staircase, yet the hood remained straight upon her head, and her skirts were not disarrayed as one might expect after such a fall. Many cried
“Murder!”
and pointed at Lord Robert, and the Queen’s reputation was also besmirched by the scandal. Gossip raged that they were lovers, and that Lord Robert, grown weary of waiting for God to take his unwanted wife home to Him, and fearing that Elizabeth might succumb to one of her many foreign suitors, had taken matters into his own hands and had Amy killed, thinking her demise would clear the way for their marriage and another coronation at Westminster Abbey from whence he would emerge crowned King Robert I of England.
But Elizabeth knew better—Robert Dudley wasn’t worth a kingdom. Even when Lord Robert was sent away to await the inquest’s verdict and the court was ordered to don mourning for Lady Dudley, Kate still smiled and sparkled and showed the world how beautiful she looked in black.
Eventually a day came, after Robert Dudley had been welcomed back at court, after the inquest had adjudged Amy’s death an accident, and we were allowed to doff our mourning and don colors again, when Kate came dancing into my room. Spinning in her long maroon velvet cloak, with pink roses blooming in her cheeks, and her eyes bright as stars, a blue ostrich plume billowing gracefully on her hat, to match the border of blue roses I had embroidered on the petticoat peeking from beneath the hem of the elegant apricot satin gown embroidered with maroon roses and vines I had made for her, she came to rest, kneeling beside my chair. I was hard at work on the petticoat she had begged of me, the one I would come to know only after it was finished as “Ned’s bouquet.” She put her arms around me and kissed my cheek, and I giggled and pulled away as the feather on her hat tickled me.
“It’s your own fault, you know,” she laughed. “You chose the feather and fashioned the hat, and most becoming it is too,” she added as she turned to admire herself in the looking glass. Then she told me that she
must
have a nightcap, “the most
beautiful
nightcap
ever
made, and I want
you
to make it for me, Mary,” embroidered all over with deep purple violets and trimmed with silver-veined lace, with a purple satin bow to tie “just so” beneath her chin. “I
must
have it and
soon,
” she insisted.
“All right,” I sighed indulgently. “You shall have it.” I gazed hard at my sister, then shook my head and sighed again. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were in love.”
“Just in love with life, Mary,” Kate said with a merry trill of laughter. “Just in love with life!” It wasn’t exactly a lie. I just didn’t know it then. But, to Kate, Ned Seymour was her life.
Before I could ask any more questions, she was gone; with a another quick kiss, and a song on her lips, she danced out my door again, glad-hearted, featherlight, and diamond bright.
I just smiled and shrugged it off, chuckled, and shook my head at Kate’s latest caprice. It made my heart glad to see her so happy and light of step, always smiling, with pink roses blooming in her cheeks again. Mayhap it was stupid or naïve of me, but I
never
thought it had aught to do with any man. Kate didn’t seem to favor any particular gentleman; she danced and flirted with many, and sometimes even let them kiss her—in quiet corners, forest glades during hunting parties, velvet-curtained alcoves, and moonlit gardens. Twice or thrice, that I knew of, she even let their fingers delve inside her bodice or rove daringly beneath her petticoats. Best of all, she had forgotten all about Berry; she could now pass him by without a glance. She was done moping and weeping for what she had lost and could never have again, and I hoped she now realized that he was never worth it. But I
never
saw her single Ned Seymour out or show any sign that he was special; she treated him with the politeness due the brother of her best friend and nothing more. I don’t even recall that I ever even saw them dance together or heard her mention his name. I saw them nod and smile in passing and exchange polite greetings and comments on the weather and Jane Seymour’s health, but that was all.
So I shrugged and went on with my sewing, foolishly surmising that flowered nightcaps were set to become the latest fancy, and soon other ladies would come knocking at my door with little velvet purses filled with coins or pretty trinkets and other gifts, prattling of ribbons, laces, and the flowers they favored. God help me, I never thought it was anything more! I should have laid down my sewing and gone out and boldly confronted Kate, grabbed her arm, stared her down, and gotten to the heart of the matter, but I, to my everlasting regret, didn’t. I sat and sewed and did nothing.
15
O
n a blustery December morning, two years after Elizabeth had come to the throne, when Kate was twenty and I was sixteen, the Queen would hunt anyway despite the cold, cold weather. Elizabeth defiantly declared the air “bracing” and that she was not afraid of its bite. I heard that Kate was ailing and had sent Henny to beg that she might forgo the pleasure of the hunt and remain abed. Since I was never a good choice to follow the hunt, being too likely to get in the way and be trampled, Elizabeth readily gave me leave to stay behind and tend my sister. “Lady Jane Seymour is ill too,” she tartly commented as I snipped a stray thread from the hem of her evergreen velvet riding habit, “though it would be more remarkable if she were well.”
As soon as I could, I made my curtsy to the Queen, thanking her again, and rushed to the room Kate and Jane Seymour shared, expecting to find them both coughing and feverish.
I burst in without knocking. A startled cry greeted me, and I whirled around to see Kate standing before the looking glass as Lady Jane finished lacing her into the gown of butter yellow satin bordered with rich golden braid and embroidered all over with hundreds of dainty royal purple violets with gold-veined green leaves, that I had only put the final stitches in the week before at Kate’s anxious urging. I had thought to have more time with it; after all such a gown was better suited to springtime, so surely in the deep of winter there was no need to hurry, but Kate had wept and stormed, stamped her feet, and pleaded with me to make haste, insisting that she must have it and soon. But when I asked her why, she shrugged it off as merely “a fancy to be clothed in spring when outside the world is all snow and ice.” She had come to my room to check its progress every day, sometimes twice or even thrice. Only when the last stitch had been put in did this fearful, frantic impatience fall from her like a dead rose petal.
“What are you doing here?” Kate rounded on me angrily.
“I—I heard that you were ill,” I stammered.
“Well, I’m not, but don’t you
dare
tell anyone! My cloak—quickly!” Her rude snappishness, so unlike Kate, told me that she was very nervous about something.
But Lady Jane seemed to understand, and as she draped the heavy, fur-trimmed, forest green velvet cloak around Kate she paused to give her shoulder a comforting pat.
“Kate . . .” I took a step forward and put out a hand to her, but she brushed me aside.
“
Go away, Mary!
I haven’t time for you now!”
I thought I caught a flash of purple and white as Kate snatched up her green velvet reticule and stuffed something inside. Then she was gone, out the door as though her life depended on it, leaving Lady Jane to flash me an apologetic smile as she quickly threw on a cloak of blue velvet edged with gray rabbit fur and hurried out after her, even though the rapid pace brought on a violent coughing fit.
I know I shouldn’t have, but I followed them. Even though it was very difficult, as they chose to brave the busy London streets instead of taking a barge, and I was much jostled and even knocked down twice, I refused to stop. Soon I found myself standing in Cannon Row, watching as my sister and her friend hurried up the steps of Hertford House, Ned Seymour’s fine redbrick London residence. As though he had been watching for them, Ned Seymour himself, in a brown velvet doublet richly worked with gold, opened the door and let them in. He came out onto the stoop and glanced swiftly left and right before he followed them inside and shut the door.
How curious,
I thought,
to see a nobleman open his own front door.
The Seymours were wealthy and had many servants. Why had Kate and Jane come out unchaperoned when both had ladies’ maids who might have accompanied them? Kate had always put great trust in Henny, who had been with her since birth, and was robust and strong-armed enough to make any man who might have dared accost the girls think twice. Something strange was happening, and I was determined to know what.
Boldly, I squared my shoulders and strode toward the door, only to nearly be knocked down by Lady Jane Seymour as she ran out in a swirl of blue velvet and gray fur. She caught me before I fell, and her face paled even more if that were possible, and the spots of red in her cheeks glowed even brighter. But she didn’t try to stop me.
“It’s not right to keep it from you. You’re her sister, and you should be there,” she murmured as she took her hand from my shoulder and hurried away, down the street, intent on some seemingly urgent errand.
I squared my shoulders and walked straight into Ned Seymour’s house, unhindered and unannounced, and followed their voices into the oak-paneled parlor. Kate’s green velvet cloak lay draped over the fireside settle, and they stood embracing before the hearth’s bright warmth. They broke apart, gasping guiltily, at the sight of me. Ned murmured something about seeing to the refreshments and hurried out, leaving Kate alone to face me.
“What are you doing, Kate?” I asked wearily, for I was suddenly very tired of deceptions, secrets, and games. I wanted only to have the truth full plain even if it killed me.
“We’re to be married, and you can’t stop us!” Kate said hotly with a defiant toss of her curls, which I noticed now were crowned with a wreath of gilded rosemary, purple velvet violets, periwinkles, heart’s ease pansies, and yellow gillyflowers: a bridal coronet, all fashioned from silk and velvet, to bring warm, bright, and beautiful spring into cold, wet, white, and gray winter.
Married!
I staggered back, as though the word were a dread disease I would avoid. Only if Kate had told me she had the plague, I would
never
have drawn back. I would have stepped forward and done anything and everything I could to save her.
Oh no, no, no, no!
All of a sudden I felt faint and reached up to clasp my head, to make sure it didn’t float away, it felt so dizzy, sick, and light. Now I understood. They were marrying in secret because it was the only way; Elizabeth would
never
give her consent to Kate, with her royal Tudor blood, marrying Ned Seymour, scion of a powerful family with Plantagenet blood, albeit a dilute strain, coursing through his veins. It was too dangerous and potent a combination to allow Elizabeth to sit easy on her throne, and heaven knew she already had cause to be vigilant and wary. As much as she was loved by her people, she was hated by many who had the power to finance a rebellion or pay an assassin.
And if Kate should conceive a son . . .
If Kate gave birth to a boy, all who opposed the petticoat rule of Elizabeth would know
exactly
where to turn; they would think an infant male was better than any full-grown woman, even one as shrewd and savvy as Elizabeth. Some might even be tempted to usurp the throne in that child’s name, even if Kate wanted no part of it. She and her son would become, like Jane, innocent pawns in the game powerful men played, men who would not scruple to take Elizabeth’s life, just so a Tudor crested instead of cloven betwixt the thighs, and untainted by talk of illegitimacy and debate about the validity of his parents’ marriage, could sit upon England’s throne.
“Kate, this is
madness!
Think what you are doing! You are defying the Queen! You know you cannot marry without her permission—neither of us can! Elizabeth is
not
Mary; she doesn’t love us! Elizabeth’s a tigress, fighting for her life and throne, kill or be killed, and she will
not
hesitate to kill you if she has to! She’ll
always
put herself and England first because, to herself and most of her subjects, she
is
England!”
“Stop it!”
Kate put her hands up to block her ears. “You’re only trying to scare me, but I won’t let you!
I won’t!
It will not come to that; I won’t let it!”
I crossed the room and took her hand, which I saw now wore a pale blue diamond, pointed at one end, like a great glimmering tear. “Kate,” I sighed, “I am not your enemy; do not treat me as such! Talk to me, as your sister, and your friend, as you used to. Confide in me!”
With a great, heaving sigh, Kate sank down onto the settle and hung her head. I came and stood before her, taking both her hands in mine.
“Kate, look at me,” I pleaded.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Mary. My heart has been troubling me sorely, but I did what I did only to protect you. If you didn’t know . . . no one could blame or hurt you.” She pulled one hand away from mine and caressed her yellow and purple skirt. “You made my wedding gown, even though you did not know that was what it was, with your love for me in every stitch, as in every garment you have ever made for me. It’s
so
beautiful! So how could I even think of shutting you out? On the happiest day of my life too!” She raised her head and gave me the full glory of her smile. “I love him, Mary! I have to follow my heart, even if it leads me into danger. We will keep our nuptials secret . . . for now, but later . . . someday . . . when the time is right, I will go on my knees before the Queen and confess all and do whatever I must to assure her I harbor no royal ambitions, I make no claim, now or ever, for myself or any children I may, God willing, bear. I will sign or say whatever I must to renounce it all, permanently, and Ned and I will go away, to live quietly in the country. All I want—for myself and for my family—is love and to be happy.”
It was a beautiful dream, but I couldn’t quite believe it could ever come true. I hated myself for doubting, but I couldn’t help it; to do otherwise would be willful blindness and self-deception. I hung my head, so that she would not see my tears.
“I don’t want to lose another sister, Kate. I don’t want to see you die a traitor’s death or rot your life away in prison. No man is worth such a sacrifice.”
She reached down and cupped my face between her soft hands and smiled at me. “That will
never
happen, Mary; God wouldn’t let it. What I do, I do for love—all for love. All will be well in time; you will see. You’re just scared and imagining the worst. But our union was meant to be, all signs point to it, and God
will
bless us.
I know!
And, even if it did—but it won’t!—you’re
wrong,
Mary! Ned is different from other men; he
is
worth
any
sacrifice Love demands of me. Sometimes the greatest loves come hand in hand with suffering and sorrow. If you would have music to dance to, you have to pay the players; ’tis only just and fair.” She shrugged and smiled brightly, as though this were a trivial matter like doling out coins to a troupe of musicians instead of
treason
.
I wished with all my heart that I could believe and share her auspicious euphoria, but I couldn’t keep the fear from clutching my heart like a hand of ice. It made me shiver and not even Kate’s warm smile could melt the fear away; I was afraid it would never leave me.
I took a step forward and reached up and gripped my sister’s shoulders and stared deep into her bright, joyful eyes that were blind and heedless to all danger. “Kate, for God’s sake, listen to me and see reason. If you do this fool thing, if you marry Ned Seymour you are committing treason—high treason! You can be burned or beheaded at the Queen’s pleasure or sent to rot in a prison cell!”
But Kate just smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Mary; everything’s going to be all right! But . . . just in case . . . you were
never
here, and if you say you were, I shall deny it and say you are lying to try to protect your sister’s honor.”
That she would say such a thing told me clouds of concern lurked behind that sunny smile. Kate wanted to believe everything would be all right, to think she could will into being the bright future she wanted so much, but doubt and worry would dog her steps like trainbearers she could never shake off or leave far behind her.
With a smile and a carefree laugh, she was up and dancing across the room as Ned came back in, smiling broadly over a great silver tray laden with heaping platters of sliced meats, a sampling of cheeses, fresh baked bread, festive piles of dried and candied fruits and nuts, sliced apples draped with melted cheese, glass bowls filled with sweet, syrupy berries stewed in wine, creamy custard, a compote of honeyed pears and another of peaches, candied violets arranged upon a pretty yellow plate to match Kate’s wedding dress, and at the heart of it all, a pretty pink cake made with raspberries crowned with candied pink cabbage roses. “A sweet repast for my sweet,” he said as he set it down on a table where goblets and bottles of wine were already arranged. Kate gave a delighted squeal and clasped her hands as she admired the cake, lamenting that Father was not here to enjoy it with us, he would have been so pleased. “He always loved raspberries and said pink was a heaven-sent color for confections!”
“I am glad you are here, my soon to be sister Mary.” Ned smiled as he knelt down to face me. It was very kind of him to do so; many enjoyed the lofty feeling of superiority they experienced when they towered high above and looked down on me. He had a very pleasant face, and a smile so charming and disarming, and there appeared to be genuine warmth in his hazel eyes. I had to stop myself from impulsively reaching out and brushing back the wing of sun-lightened brown hair that fell over his brow.
Looking at him, this great, smiling overgrown boy of twenty, I could almost believe he loved my sister as much as she loved him. But there was always
something,
I can’t put it into words; I only know that it was
always
there, niggling at the back of my mind, never letting me truly trust Ned Seymour. Possibly my soul was too sullied from all the ambitious machinations I had witnessed almost from the cradle, power plays, coups, conspiracies, and court intrigues; perhaps it made me overly conscious of the royal lines that would be united with their marriage and what this could mean for their, and their children’s, futures. Kate was, after all, the unacknowledged heir presumptive, and thus a splendid catch for any ambitious young man, and one with Plantagenet blood in his veins could make much of that if he were so inclined, and might even consider such a wife worth feigning love for. After all, many had pretended passion for far less. How many men since time began had declared their love just to woo a maiden into bed? Maybe it was because this “great love” had blossomed so suddenly? To my suspicious mind it just seemed too choreographed, too much like a romantic stage play; those sweet dreams we want to believe but know rarely do come true. Or perhaps it was just that I was too cynical to believe in love at first sight? Or maybe Kate was right—I was scared and imagining the worst. I just don’t know.