Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (231 page)

I glanced toward the closed door. “There is no serving him,” I said. “Only the Tower guards can serve him and I pray that they do it well.”

My father shook his head. “I remember him coming here that day, a man you would think who would command half the world, and now…”

“She won’t execute him,” I said. “She will be merciful to all now that the duke himself is dead.”

My father nodded. “Dangerous times,” he said. “Mr. Dee remarked the other day that dangerous times are a crucible for change.”

“You have seen him?”

My father nodded. “He came to see if I had the last pages of a manuscript in his possession, or if I could find another copy for him. It is a most troubling loss. He bought the book and it is a prescription for an alchemical process, but the last three pages are missing.”

I smiled. “Was it a recipe for gold? And somehow incomplete?”

My father smiled back. It was a family joke that we could live like Spanish grandees on the proceeds of the alchemist books that promised to deliver the recipe for the philosopher’s stone: the instructions to change base metal into gold, the elixir of eternal life. My father had dozens of books on the subject and when I was young I had begged him to show me them, so that we might create the stone and become rich. But he had showed me a dazzling collection of mysteries, pictures and poems and spells and prayers, and in the end, no man any the wiser or the richer. Many men, brilliant men, had bought book after book trying to translate the riddles that were traditionally used to hide the secret of alchemy, and none of them had ever come back to us to say that they had found the secret and now would live forever.

“If any man ever finds it, and can make gold, it will be John Dee,” my father said. “He is a most profound student and thinker.”

“I know that,” I said, thinking of the afternoons when I had sat on his high stool and read passage after passage of Greek or Latin while he translated as swiftly as I spoke, surrounded by the tools of his craft. “But do you think he can see into the future?”

“Hannah, this man can see around corners! He has created a machine that can see over buildings or around them. He can predict the course of the stars, he can measure and predict the movements of the tides, he is creating a map of the country that a man can use to navigate the whole coastline.”

“Yes, I have seen that,” I concurred, thinking that I last saw it on the desk of the queen’s enemies. “He should have a care who uses his work.”

“His work is pure study,” my father said firmly. “He cannot be blamed for the use that men make of his inventions. This is a great man, the death of his patron means nothing. He will be remembered long after the duke and all of his family are forgotten.”

“Not Lord Robert,” I stipulated.

“Even him,” my father asserted. “I tell you, child, I have never met a man who could read and understand words, tables, mechanical diagrams, even codes, more quickly than this John Dee. Oh! And I nearly forgot. He has ordered some books to be delivered to Lord Robert in the Tower.”

“Has he?” I said, my attention suddenly sharpened. “Shall I take them to Lord Robert for him?”

“As soon as they arrive,” my father said gently. “And, Hannah, if you see Lord Robert…”

“Yes?”

“Querida,
you must ask him to release you from your service to him and bid him farewell. He is a traitor sentenced to death. It is time that you said farewell.”

I would have argued but my father raised his hand. “I command it, daughter,” he insisted. “We live in this country as toads beneath the ploughshare. We cannot increase the risk to our lives. You have to bid him farewell. He is a named traitor. We cannot be associated with him.”

I bowed my head.

“Daniel wishes it too.”

My head came up at that. “Why, whatever would he know about it?”

My father smiled. “He is not an ignorant boy, Hannah.”

“He is not at court. He does not know the way of that world.”

“He is going to be a very great physician,” my father said gently. “Many nights he comes here and reads the books on herbs and medicines. He is studying the Greek texts on health and illness. You should not think that just because he is not a Spaniard, he is ignorant.”

“But he can know nothing of the skills of the Moorish doctors,” I said. “And you yourself told me that they were the wisest in the world. That they had learned all the Greeks had to teach and gone further.”

“Yes,” my father conceded. “But he is a thoughtful young man, and a hard worker, and he has a gift for study. He comes here twice a week to read. And he always asks for you.”

“Does he?”

My father nodded. “He calls you his princess,” he said.

I was so surprised for a moment that I could not speak. “His princess?”

“Yes,” my father said, smiling at my incomprehension. “He speaks like a young man in love. He comes to see me and he asks me, “How is my Princess?”—and he means you, Hannah.”

*  *  *

The coronation of my mistress, Lady Mary, was set for the first day of October and the whole court, the whole city of London, and the whole country had spent much of the summer preparing for the celebration which would bring Henry’s daughter to his throne at last. There were faces missing from the crowds that lined the London streets. Devoted Protestants, mistrusting the queen’s sincere promise of tolerance, had already frightened themselves into exile, and fled overseas. They found a friendly reception in France; the traditional enemy of England was arming against England again. There were faces missing from the queen’s council; the queen’s father would have wondered where some of his favorites were now. Some were ashamed of their past treatment of her, some Protestants would not serve her, and some had the grace to stay home in their converted abbeys. But the rest of the court, city and country turned out in their thousands to greet the new queen, the queen whose rights they had defended against other, Protestant claimants, the Catholic queen whose enthusiastic faith they knew, and that, nonetheless, they preferred to all others.

It was a fairy-tale coronation, the first I had ever seen. It was a spectacle like something out of one of my father’s storybooks. A princess in a golden chariot, wearing blue velvet trimmed with white ermine, riding through the streets of her city, which were hung with tapestries, past fountains running with wine so that the very air was heady with the warm scent of it, past crowds who screamed with delight at the sight of their princess, their virgin queen, and pausing by groups of children who sang hymns in praise of the woman who had fought to be queen and was bringing the old religion back home again.

In the second carriage was the Protestant princess, but the cheers for her were nothing compared to the roar that greeted the diminutive queen every time her chariot rounded a corner. With Princess Elizabeth rode Henry’s neglected queen, Anne of Cleves, fatter than ever, with a ready smile for the crowd, the knowing gleam, I thought, of one survivor to another. And behind that chariot came forty-six ladies of the court and country, on foot and dressed in their best, and flagging a little by the time we had processed from Whitehall to the Tower.

Behind them, in the procession of officers of the court, came all the minor gentry and officials, me amongst them. Ever since I had come to England I had known myself to be a stranger, a refugee from a terror that I had to pretend I did not fear. But when I walked in the queen’s coronation procession with Will Somers, the witty fool, beside me, and my yellow cap on my head and my fool’s bell on a stick in my hand, I had a sense of coming into my own. I was the queen’s fool, my destiny had led me to be there with her from the first moment of her betrayal, through her flight and to her courageous proclamation. She had earned her throne and I had earned my place at her side.

I did not care that I was named as a fool. I was the holy fool, known to have the Sight, known to have predicted this day when the queen would come to her own. Some even crossed themselves as I went by, acknowledging the power that was vested in me. So I marched with my head up and I did not fear that all those eyes upon me would see my olive skin and my dark hair and name me for a Spaniard or worse. I thought myself an Englishwoman that day, and a loyal Englishwoman at that, with a proven love for my queen and for my adopted country; and I was glad to be one.

We slept that night in the Tower and the next day Lady Mary was crowned Queen of England, with her sister Elizabeth carrying her train, and the first to kneel to her and to swear allegiance. I could hardly see the two of them, I was crammed at the back of the Abbey, peering around a gentleman of the court, and in any case, my sight was blinded with tears at the knowledge that my Lady Mary had come to her throne, her sister beside her, and her lifelong battle for recognition and justice was over at last. God (whatever His name might be) had finally blessed her; she had won.

*  *  *

However united the queen and her sister had appeared when Elizabeth had kneeled before her, the Lady Elizabeth continued to carry her brother’s prayer book on a little chain at her waist, was never seen except in the soberest of gowns, and rarely appeared at Mass. She could not have shown the world more plainly that she was the Protestant alternative to the queen to whom she had just sworn lifelong loyalty. As ever, with Elizabeth, there was nothing that the queen could specifically criticize, it was the very air of her: the way she always set herself slightly apart, the way she always seemed to carry herself as if she, regretfully, could not wholly agree.

After several days of this the queen sent a brisk message to Elizabeth that she was expected to attend Mass, with the rest of the court, in the morning. A reply came as we were preparing to leave the queen’s presence chamber. The queen, putting out her hand for her missal, turned her head to see one of Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting standing in the doorway with a message from Lady Elizabeth.

“She begs to be excused today, and says she is not well.”

“Why, what is the matter with her?” the queen asked a little sharply. “She was well enough yesterday.”

“She is sick in her stomach, she is in much pain,” the lady replied. “Her lady in waiting, Mrs. Ashley, says she is not well enough to go to Mass.”

“Tell Lady Elizabeth that I expect her at my chapel this morning, without fail,” the Lady Mary said calmly as she turned back to her lady in waiting and took her missal; but I saw her hands shaking as she turned the pages to find the place.

We were on the threshold of the Lady Mary’s apartments, the guard just about to fling open the door so that we could walk along the gallery filled with well-wishers, spectators and petitioners, when one of Elizabeth’s other ladies slipped in through a side door.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, poised with a message.

The queen did not even turn her head. “Tell Lady Elizabeth that I expect to see her at Mass,” she said and nodded to the guard. He flung open the door and we heard the little gasp of awe that greeted the queen wherever she went. The people dropped into curtseys and bows and she went through them, her cheeks blazing with two spots of red which meant that she was angry, and the hand which held her coral rosary beads trembling.

Lady Elizabeth came late into Mass, we heard her sigh as she crept through the crowded gallery, almost doubled-up with discomfort. There was a mutter of concern for the young girl, crippled with pain. She slipped into the pew behind the queen and we heard her loud whisper to one of her ladies: “Martha, if I faint, can you hold me up?”

The queen’s attention was on the priest who celebrated the Mass with his back to her, his entire attention focused on the bread and wine before him. To Mary, as to the priest, it was the only moment of the day that had any true significance; all the rest was worldly show. Of course, the rest of us sinners could hardly wait for the worldly show to recommence.

Lady Elizabeth left the church in the queen’s train, holding her belly and groaning. She could hardly walk, her face was as deathly white as if she had powdered it with rice powder. The queen stalked ahead, her expression grim. When she reached her apartments she ordered the doors shut on the public gallery to close out the murmurs of concern at Lady Elizabeth’s pallor and her enfeebled progress and the cruelty of the queen insisting on such an invalid attending Mass when she was so very ill.

“That poor girl should be abed,” one woman said clearly to the closing door.

“Indeed,” the queen said to herself.

It was as dark as midnight, though it was still only six in the evening, the mist peeling like a black shroud off the corpse of the cold river. The smell in my nostrils was the scent of despair from the massive wet weeping walls of the Tower of London, surely the most gloomy palace that any monarch ever built. I presented myself to the postern gate and the guard held up a flaming torch to see my white face.

“A young lad,” he concluded.

“I’ve got books to deliver to Lord Robert,” I said.

He withdrew the torch and the darkness flooded over me, then the creak of the hinges warned me that he was opening the gate outward and I stepped back to let the big wet timbers swing open, and then I stepped forward to go in.

“Let me see them,” he said.

I proffered the books readily enough. They were works of theology defending the Papist point of view, licensed by the Vatican and authorized by the queen’s own council.

“Go through,” the guard said.

I walked on the slippery cobblestones to the guardhouse, and from there along a causeway, the rank mud shining in the moonlight on either side, and then up a flight of wooden steps to the high doorway in the fortress wall of the white tower. If there was an attack or a rescue attempt, the soldiers inside could just kick the outside steps away, and they were unreachable. No one could get my lord out.

Another soldier was waiting in the doorway. He led me inside and then rapped at an inner door and swung it open to admit me.

At last I saw him, my Lord Robert, leaning over his papers, a candle at his elbow, the golden light shining on his dark head, on his pale skin, and then the slow-dawning radiance of his smile.

“Mistress Boy! Oh! My Mistress Boy!”

I dropped to one knee. “My lord!” was all I could say before I burst into tears.

He laughed, pulled me to my feet, put his arm around my shoulders, wiped my face, all in one dizzying caress. “Come now, child, come now. What’s wrong?”

“It’s you!” I gulped. “You being here. And you look so…” I could not bear to say “pale,” “ill,” “tired,” “defeated,” but all those words were true. “Imprisoned,” I found at last. “And your lovely clothes! And…and what’s going to happen now?”

He laughed as if none of it mattered, and led me over to the fire, seated himself on a chair and pulled up a stool so that I was facing him, like a favorite nephew. Timidly, I reached forward and put my hands on his knees. I wanted to touch him to be sure that he was real. I had dreamed of him so often, and now he was here before me; unchanged but for the deep lines scored on his face by defeat and disappointment.

“Lord Robert…” I whispered.

He met my gaze. “Yes, little one,” he said softly. “It was a great gamble and we lost, and the price we will pay is a heavy one. But you’re not a child; you know that it’s not an easy world. I will pay the price when I have to.”

“Will they…?” I could not bear to ask him if it was his own death that he was facing with this indomitable smile.

“Oh, I should think so,” he said cheerfully. “Very soon. I would, if I were the queen. Now tell me the news. We don’t have much time.”

I pulled my stool a little closer, marshaling my thoughts. I did not want to tell him the news, which was all bad, I wanted to look into his drawn face, and touch his hand. I wanted to tell him that I had longed to see him, and that I had written him letter after letter in the code which I knew he would have lost, and sent them all into the flames of the fire.

“Come on,” he said eagerly. “Tell me everything.”

“The queen is considering if she should marry, you’ll know that, I suppose,” I said, low-voiced. “And she has been ill. They have proposed one man after another. The best choice is Philip of Spain. The Spanish ambassador tells her that it will be a good marriage but she is afraid. She knows she cannot rule alone but she is afraid of a man ruling over her.”

“But she will go ahead?”

“She might withdraw. I can’t tell. She is half sick with fear at the thought of it. She is afraid of having a man in her bed, and afraid for her throne without one.”

“And Lady Elizabeth?”

I glanced at the thick wooden door and dropped my low voice to an even quieter murmur. “She and the queen cannot agree these days,” I said. “They started very warmly, Lady Mary wanted Elizabeth at her side all the time, acknowledged her as her heir; but they cannot live happily together now. Lady Elizabeth is no longer the little girl of the queen’s teaching, and in debate she is her master. She is as quick-witted as an alchemist. The queen hates argument about sacred things and Lady Elizabeth has ready arguments for everything and accepts nothing. She looks at everything with hard eyes…” I broke off.

“Hard eyes?” he queried. “She has beautiful eyes.”

“I mean she looks hard at things,” I explained. “She has no faith, she never closes her eyes in awe. She is not like my lady, you never see her amazed at the raising of the Host. She wants to know everything as a fact, she trusts nothing.”

Lord Robert nodded at the accuracy of the description. “Aye. She was always one to take nothing on trust.”

“The queen forced her to Mass and Lady Elizabeth went with her hand on her belly, sighing for pain. Then, when the queen pressed her again, she said that she had converted. The queen wanted the truth from her. She asked her to tell the secrets of her heart: if she believed in the Holy Sacrament or no.”

“The secrets of Elizabeth’s heart!” he exclaimed, laughing. “What can the queen be thinking of? Elizabeth allows no one near the secrets of her heart. Even when she was a child in the nursery she would barely whisper them to herself.”

“Well, she said she would give out in public that she is convinced of the merits of the old religion,” I said. “But she doesn’t do so. And she goes to Mass only when she has to. And everyone says…”

“What do they say, my little spy?”

“That she is sending out letters to true Protestants, that she has a network of supporters. That the French will pay for an uprising against the queen. And that, at the very least, she only has to wait until the queen dies and then the throne is all hers anyway, and she can throw off all disguise and be a Protestant queen as she is now a Protestant princess.”

“Oho.” He paused, taking all this in. “And the queen believes all this slander?”

I looked up at him, hoping that he would understand. “She thought that Elizabeth would be a sister to her,” I said. “She went with her into London at the very moment of her greatest triumph. She took Elizabeth at her side then, and again at the day of her coronation. What more could she do to show that she loved her and trusted her and saw her as the next heir? And since then, every day, she hears that Elizabeth has done this, or said that, and she sees Elizabeth avoiding Mass, and pretending that she will go, and sliding in her conscience forward and back as she wishes. And Elizabeth…” I broke off.

“Elizabeth what?”

“She was there at the coronation, she was placed second only to the queen at the queen’s own request. She rode in a chariot behind the queen’s,” I said in a fierce whisper. “She carried her train at the coronation, she was first to kneel before the new queen and put her hands in hers and swear to be a true and faithful subject. She swore fidelity before God. How can she now plot against her?”

He sat back in his chair and observed my heat with interest. “Is the queen angry with Elizabeth?”

I shook my head. “No. It’s worse than anger. She is disappointed in her. She is lonely, Lord Robert. She wanted her little sister at her side. She singled her out for love and respect. She can hardly believe now that Elizabeth does not love her; to find that Elizabeth would plot against her is very painful. And she is assured that she is plotting. Someone comes with a new story every day.”

“Do they bring any evidence?”

“Enough to have her arrested a dozen times over, I think. There are too many rumors for her to be as innocent as she looks.”

“And still the queen does nothing against her?”

“She wants to bring peace,” I said. “She won’t act against Elizabeth unless she has to. She says that she won’t execute Lady Jane, or your brother…” I did not say “or you” but we were both thinking of the sentence of death hanging over him. “She wants to bring peace to this country.”

“Well, amen to that,” Lord Robert said. “And will Elizabeth stay at court for Christmas?”

“She has asked to leave. She says she is ill again and needs the peace of the country.”

“And is she ill?”

I shrugged. “Who can say? She was very bloated and ill-looking when I saw her the other day. But nobody ever really sees her. She keeps to her rooms. She comes out only when she has to. No one speaks to her, the women are unkind to her. Everyone says there is nothing wrong with her but envy.”

He shook his head at the petty spite of women. “All this and the poor girl has to carry a rosary and a missal and go to Mass!”

“She’s not a poor girl,” I said, stung. “She is poorly treated by the ladies of the queen’s court, but she can blame herself for that. It is only when there are people to see that she speaks very softly and walks with her head drooping. And as for Mass, everyone has to go, all the time. They sing a Mass in the queen’s chapel seven times a day. Everyone goes at least twice a day.”

He half smiled at the rapid turn of the court to piety. “And Lady Jane? Is she truly not to die for her treason?”

“The queen will never kill her own cousin, a young woman,” I assured him. “She’s to live here for a while as a prisoner in the Tower, and then be released, when the country is quiet.”

He made a little grimace. “A great risk for the queen. If I were her advisor I would tell her to make an end of it, to make an end of all of us.”

“She knows it was not Lady Jane’s choice. It would be cruel of the queen to punish Lady Jane; and she is never cruel.”

“And the girl was only sixteen,” he said, half to himself. He rose to his feet, hardly aware of me. “I should have stopped it,” he said. “I should have kept Jane safely out of it, whatever plots my father made…”

He looked out of the window at the dark courtyard below where his own father had been executed, begging for mercy, offering evidence against Jane, against his sons, anyone, if he could be spared. When he had knelt before the block, the blindfold over his eyes had slipped down and he had pulled it up and then groped about on his hands and knees, pleading with the headsman to wait until he was ready. It was a miserable end; but not as miserable as the death he had given to the young king in his charge, who had been innocent of everything.

“I was a fool,” Robert said bitterly. “Blinded by my own ambition. I am surprised you did not foresee it, child, I would have thought the heavens would have been rocking with laughter over the Dudley hubris. I wish to God you had warned me in time.”

I stood, my back to the fire. “I wish I had done,” I said sadly. “I would have done anything to save you from being here.”

“And shall I stay here till I rot?” he asked quietly. “Can you foresee that for me? Some nights I hear the rats skitter on the floor and I think, this is all I will ever hear, this square of blue sky through the window will be all I ever see. She will not behead me, but she will cut off my youth.”

In silence, I shook my head. “I listen and listen, and once I asked her directly. She said that she wanted no blood spilt that could be spared. She won’t execute you and she must let you go free when Lady Jane goes free.”

“I wouldn’t if I were her,” he said quietly. “If I were her, I would rid myself of Elizabeth, of Jane, of my brother and of me; and name Mary Stuart as the next heir, French or not. One clean cut. That’s the only way to get this country back into the Papist church and keep it there, and soon she will realize it. She has to wipe us out, this generation of Protestant plotters. If she does not she will have to cut off one head after another and watch others rise.”

I crossed the room and stood behind him. Timidly I put my hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked at me as if he had forgotten my presence. “And you?” he asked gently. “Safe in royal service now?”

“I am never safe,” I said in a low voice. “You know why. I never can be safe. I never can feel safe. I love the queen and no one questions who I am or where I have come from. I am known as her fool, as if I had been with her all my life. I should feel safe, but I always feel as if I am creeping across thin ice.”

He nodded. “I’ll take your secret with me to the scaffold if I go that way,” he promised. “You have nothing to fear from me, child. And I have told no one who you were or where you came from.”

I nodded. When I looked up he was watching me, his dark eyes warm. “You’ve grown, Mistress Boy,” he remarked. “Soon be a woman. I shall be sorry not to see it.”

I had nothing to say. I stood dumbly before him. He smiled as if he knew only too well the churn of my emotions. “Ah, little fool. I should have left you in your father’s shop that day, and not drawn you into this.”

“My father told me to bid you farewell.”

“Aye, he is right. You can leave me now. I will release you from your promise to love me. You are no longer my vassal. I let you go.”

It was little more than a joke to him. He knew as well as I did that you cannot release a girl from her promise to love a man. She either gets herself free or she is bound for life.