Traitor's Kiss (3 page)

“I learned that before I came to the river, sir. Stay away from my bedchamber,” I said. “If it happens again, I'll tell Kat, or Lady Catherine.”

“And who will they believe?” he asked.

Kat arrived having had difficulty keeping up with him, for she was small and her stride short. Her headdress was lopsided, revealing wisps of grey hair. Thomas Seymour turned on her, angry with guilt. “Mistress Ashley, why do you let the King's sister walk alone?”

She curtsied, scarlet with humiliation. “In Hertfordshire—” she began.

“This is
not
Hertfordshire, madam,” he cut in. “Let her run wild there if you wish, but Chelsea Village is close enough to London to feel the evil shadows that walk its streets in search of innocence. It is your job to protect her and if you cannot, there are plenty who will.” He turned to glance at the riverbank again. “Look at them,” he said. “They're not human.”

“I have come to no harm,” I protested. “These people are not villains. They have little enough to live on. Let them take what they can. I might be Queen of England one day and it is the common people who will labour for me, fight for me and pray for me. Never forget them, my father used to say, and they will eat from the palm of your hand.”

“And while you are feeding them, another will stab you in the back,” Seymour said. He strode off without us.

Kat sighed. “Look at you – covered in mud. What will people think? You've made a fool of yourself – and me.”

I did not care. I hugged the little box inside my night robe and my mother's crest calmed my racing heart.

A princess can never be alone. She is undressed, washed and dressed by maidservants. She can have no secrets. Kat called for hot water. Then she pulled my night robe over my head, catching my hair in the buttons, still smarting from Thomas Seymour's criticism.

The silver box tumbled with my clothes. As soon as Kat saw the falcon crest, she shrank back as if the devil himself squatted on the floor.

“Where did you get it?” she cried. “No…don't tell me. I don't want to know. Just get rid of it…or I'll do it for you…” She went to pick up the box, but I took it before she could.

“No, you can't have it!” I cried. I was two years old again and clinging to my favourite toy.

She washed my face and arms as if she would flay me alive. “You're too young to have seen people of the old faith buying holy water and scraps of cloth from Christ's shroud, and fingernails and teeth. Such relics have too much power.” She drenched me with rosewater and wanted to use a strong perfume – the one the ladies at court wear. But I refused. Theirs was a heavy musky fragrance that made my eyes water. “That little box will bring trouble down on all our heads. Have you forgotten that everything to do with your mother is banned? Get rid of it, child, or one day…” She fastened me into my clean underskirt in silence.

My anger matched hers. “Don't you dare begrudge me this, Kat,” I shouted. “You don't know what it's like to live without a mother, with only a succession of stepmothers to pity me or keep me from my father.”

“You have Lady Catherine now. She doesn't pity you…” Her eyes flashed, jealous.

“…and she's the only one to ever treat me like a daughter and I love her. But this is my
mother
's box.” I clutched it close to me as she pulled on my dress. “Don't fret, Kat. That's all it is – a box. I'm not bringing my mother back from the dead.”

“Aren't you?” she asked.

Chapter Three

“Where have you been, Bess?” Jane whined. “I've been waiting for hours.” She wrinkled her little nose. “You
smell
,” she said.

Lady Jane Grey is my cousin. She had been living at Chelsea Palace since the summer, until Thomas Seymour could arrange a good marriage for her, probably to my brother, the King. She was as small as a child of seven, although she was almost ten. I would have disregarded her when she arrived, but for the bruises on her arm. It was well-known that her parents beat her. I pitied her, and she mistook my pity for kindness. She followed me everywhere, like a duckling follows its mother. Soon her hair was twisted like mine. Soon she wore pearls to flatter its golden-red. She walked like me. She talked like me.

Jealousy stabbed me as it always did when I saw her: because her nose was small; because she still had a mother; because she was clever, and because she was now a rival for Lady Catherine's affections and attentions.

I did not reply. I could not bear the sound of her chatter. That is why some people think that I am as changeable as the autumn wind. I
am
, but not by temperament. I have had to adapt myself to four stepmothers: Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard and Lady Catherine. Only Lady Catherine has accepted me for what I am. Only with her was I truly beginning to be myself.

Jane waited no longer for a reply. “I was thinking while I was waiting for you, Bess,” she went on. “Is it not strange that the three royal children are all motherless?” She giggled, nervous, because I did not reply. I was too angry. “But surely you'd rather have no mother at all than one who is a witch?”

“
What
did you say?”

“Mary said that your mother bewitched your father.”

Mary is my half-sister, my father's first and only child from his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. She was brought up in the Catholic faith and still clings to it like a drowning sailor clings to a shipwreck.

“Oh,
did
she?” I said. “Of course, I forgot. Mary and your mother are close friends.”

“They disagree about God so they don't talk about Him.”

“So they slander my mother instead. Well, I've heard it all before, cousin. You can say nothing to upset me.”

“Mary said that your mother poisoned hers. When the physicians cut open her poor dead body, they found black poison clutching her heart…”

I slapped her hard. Her thin cheek flared with the imprint of my fingers. “Take care, Jane. I'm the King's sister and second in succession to the throne. You're only his cousin, so I'll be Queen of England before you if anything happens to him, or to Mary. And if I am… I'll…” I chopped the side of my hand across her thin neck.

She ducked away.

“STOP squabbling. I can hear you from the staircase.” Lady Catherine had come into the parlour. Her voice was scolding but already full of forgiveness at our noisy behaviour, for these days she brimmed with love for Thomas Seymour, as she never had for my father. “
Ira furor brevis est
.”

“Anger is…” Jane began.

“…a brief madness,” I finished.

“Yes, remember that – it takes away reason,” Lady Catherine said. “Jane, we do
not
gossip in this palace. Elizabeth, we do
not
use physical punishment in this palace.” Then she laughed and made us kiss her. “I've always dreamed of such a family, for such squabbles are the stuff of life. They show there is strong affection.”

As I kissed Lady Catherine's sweet-smelling cheek and murmured my apology, I suddenly ached for my own mother. “Why is everything different today?” I asked. “Why is everybody talking about my mother, when I have scarcely heard her name spoken these last years?”

She stroked my face. “Perhaps you notice it more because this is the day when
you
think of her more. But nothing can bring her back, Bess.”

“I am fourteen years old, madam, and I still do not know what she did wrong. I used to let the maids pet me so that I could listen to their gossip. I wished I hadn't. If I were to believe them, her face was smothered with warts and moles and she had an extra nipple where the devil came to suck… But I did not expect to hear her cursed
here
, by my own cousin.”

“I am sorry for what I said,” Jane replied.

“And so am I,” I said, ashamed. “I know that I have much to learn about people, for I have only lived with nurses and maids dedicated to keeping me in a state of happiness. Yet not one of them realized how unhappy I was.”

“Let us pray to God that He can wipe out the bad memories for you,” Lady Catherine said. “Jane, give Bess your gift.”

Jane handed me a small parcel wrapped in green velvet. I unfolded the cloth, which released a vile fragrance, like the smell of a fox or a cat. It came from a pair of dark green velvet gloves.

“Lady Catherine helped me to choose them,” Jane said. “Perfumed gloves are the latest fashion in France.”

“Think, Elizabeth,” my stepmother said. “Perfume reminds us of people more than anything else. When you are an old lady like me, these gloves will remind you of the day we celebrated your birthday together. Put them on.”

They fitted my elegant hands to perfection. And so I started my fifteenth year reeking like an animal.

My stepmother was wearing the brooch that my father had given her on their wedding day: three pearl teardrops gleamed against the bodice of her scarlet damask dress.

I asked, “Is your husband not jealous when you wear my father's brooch?”

“No. He insists that I wear it, especially when his brother, Edward, comes to dine, as he will tonight. Tom wants everybody to remember that I was once the Queen of England. It makes him feel powerful. Tom is not a happy man these days, Bess, as you know. His brother has all the power as the young King's Protector, and he is jealous. This brooch says, ‘Look! I have the former Queen of England as my wife, and the King's sister as my stepdaughter.'”

“So you are his trophy?”

“Yes, but I do not mind, Bess. I love him.”

And I blushed with shame as I remembered my stepfather's beard brushing my neck. If he loved her as much as she loved him, he should not have come to my bedchamber.

Lady Catherine's gift to me was a book that she had written. It was called
Lamentation of a Sinner
. I inhaled the scent of its green leather and ink, fresh from the printing press, as I skimmed its pages. “
A wife must always obey her husband, whatever he chooses to do
,” I read aloud. “Must she obey him even if he chooses to murder her?” I asked.

“Your mother was tried according to the laws of our land,” Lady Catherine said.

“Then the laws must be changed,” I cried. I was on the brink of tears. “You were married to him, madam. Did he never speak about her?
Did
she bewitch my father and betray him?”

“I do not know, Bess. It was forbidden to mention her.”

“If nobody will tell me, I know somebody who can,” I cried.

I ran to my chamber, sat on the window seat and let the tears come. Then I took out the silver box from my writing desk and traced the falcon. I am an impatient person, yet I did not open it.

What if there was poison inside? I had been angry with Jane for repeating the gossip – that Mary thought my mother had poisoned Catherine of Aragon – but it was not the first time I had heard it. And my father's death had set Mary and me against each other. He had passed a law just before he died stating that Mary could only succeed Edward if she agreed to keep the new faith. If she did not, I would succeed in her place.

I pushed the evil thought away. Mary and I were still close, in spite of her hatred of my mother. She always said that I could not be blamed for her sins.

I was still crying when Kat came in. She glared at the box in my hand. “Bess, your father loved you and you loved him. Isn't that enough for you?”

“No, it isn't. You've been with me since I was four years old and you alone know that I was nine years old before I spoke to him in private. He couldn't bear to look at me all those years because I reminded him of
her
. Then suddenly he was taken with my wit and intelligence. As long as I didn't mention my mother, he was pleased to see me.”

Kat put her arms around me and shed a few tears at my distress. “Oh, Bess, if only
I
had known her. I could have spared you this misery.” I did not respond and she drew away. “Have I not been like a mother to you? Ah – you've got Lady Catherine now. You don't want me.”

“I'll always want you, Kat.”

She stroked my hair. “But your stepmother is right for once,” she said. “You shouldn't let your mother haunt you from the grave. Let me take the box, Bess. Let me get rid of it.”

I refused. Angry, she ripped a jet bead from the bodice of her dress. “You may as well worship this,” she said. “If you believe something has power, then it
will
. It's called superstition.”

Kat threw the bead onto the floor. Then she went downstairs for breakfast. She could not persuade me to go with her. The thought of food sickened me. A man's beard brushing my neck, a stranger speaking about my mother… Who would not be disturbed by such events?

No, I did not dine that morning. Already I had too much to digest.