I say that I don’t want the throne, but I cannot prevent a flare of ambition when I return to Whitehall to find myself an honored member of the court, as I should always have been. The queen’s principal advisor, William Cecil, has won the argument about supporting the Scots Protestants, and is back in his place, pressing for an English army to go to Scotland, urging the rights of the Protestants—well aware that I am the Protestant heir. He always bows and exchanges a brief word of greeting with me, as if I am of interest to him now, as if he thinks that the time might come when he is my advisor, and Elizabeth is gone.
I am the favorite of the whole palace. I am a beloved royal princess, no longer a despised visitor. I am not a neglected poor relation but the recognized heir to the kingdom. I have the strange sensation of being in a place that I know well and yet everything is different. There is a new reality behind the costumed smiles, as if it is Act Two of a masque and the actors have changed their faces behind their shields and the same people must now be taken as completely different.
My cousin Margaret Douglas has offended the queen deeply. A servant of her husband, Matthew Stuart, has been caught reminding the French ambassador that Margaret is next of kin to our cousin Mary Queen of France and Scotland, and her husband, as Earl of Lennox, is heir to the throne of Scotland. This is obviously true, but anyone could have warned her that such a message would be reported at once, and Elizabeth would be frightened and furious. Margaret should have played on her main strength of being extremely plain, and old, and then perhaps Elizabeth would have forgiven her royal blood. Anyway, the court is hugely amused that William Cecil is ordered to rifle through old documents, stored away in the muniments room, to prove that Margaret Douglas, the daughter of Henry VIII’s sister, Queen of Scotland, is, in fact, illegitimate, and so neither she nor her pretty son Henry Stuart can have any claim to the throne of England. As though her reputation could be worse than Elizabeth’s, whose mother was beheaded for adultery with five named men!
I thank God that nobody can question my paternity. I descend in a straight and legitimate line from King Henry’s favorite sister, Queen Mary, married to his best friend, Charles Brandon, through my mother, the unimpeachably virtuous and bad-tempered Frances Brandon, and now that I am in favor again, my resemblance to my beautiful royal grandmother is suddenly apparent. Many people remark to each other that I am as pretty as the Tudor princess, and admire my fair York coloring.
Robert Dudley, who is in and out of the privy chamber, and openly admitted to the royal bedroom, declared as the queen’s most trusted friend, is courteous to me as a kinsman. Our families overlap so often—he was the brother-in-law of my sister Jane, and so a brother-in-law to me—he is the most favored suitor to my cousin the queen, and is now happy to remember our kinship. Suddenly, I have friends, where before I was living among strangers. I could almost think myself widely liked and generally admired. I start to say “my cousin the queen” just as my mother did, and Mary laughs at me behind her little hand.
But my triumphant return to court, my discovery of so many new friends, even the favor of the queen, does not compensate me for the loss of Ned. The young man who claimed me freely, of his own will, as his lover, who sought the blessing of his mother and the permission of mine, now walks past me as if he does not see me, and when we are accidentally face-to-face, he bows to me as if we are nothing more than polite acquaintances.
The first time that his cool gaze goes over me and beyond, I think that I will faint with unhappiness. It is only Mary at my elbow, her head not reaching my shoulder, who keeps me upright. She pinches my arm so hard that she leaves a bruise and she mutters at me: “Head up! Chin up!”
I glance at her, completely bewildered, and she beams up at me and adds: “Heels down! Hold tight,” like our father when he was teaching us to ride, and that recalls me to myself. I walk with my hand on her shoulder and I can barely make my feet take one step after another. We go to chapel together, she supporting me as if I am sick, and when I kneel behind the queen, I bow my head and ask God to release me from this pain.
I am so bitterly unhappy to think that Ned has given me up to avoid the displeasure of a queen who would never sacrifice her own pleasures. Elizabeth allows herself joy in her lover, but I may not even speak to the man that I love. I watch her as she beckons Robert Dudley to lift her down from her horse, or dance with her in the evening, when she walks with her head practically resting on his shoulder, and summons him to her privy chamber where they are left alone together, and I find I hate her for her selfishness, for thinking only of her own pleasure and never thinking of me. I blame her bitterly that I am parted from the man I love, and I will die a lonely spinster, while she indulges herself in a shameful adulterous public love affair.
Now, she publicly swears that she will marry the Habsburg Archduke Ferdinand as soon as he comes to England—she promises that she will make a Spanish alliance to keep England safe—but it is obvious to everyone that she is lying, and that any husband of hers would be cuckolded before his ship had even docked at Greenwich.
The Spanish have learned this now. The new ambassador is offended, his household sulky. William Cecil is quite distracted, trying to maintain our friendship with the great power of Spain to balance the great threat from France. The Spanish ambassador, Álvaro de la Quadra, finds himself beside me as we walk by the river towards a lighted arbor where we are going to listen to some poetry one evening, and he mentions that the archduke has heard of my beauty and would far rather marry me than go through the long-drawn-out and discredited process of courting Elizabeth. One day I might be a great Queen of England with the archduke at my side and Spanish power behind me. In the meantime I could be a treasured archduchess with an envied place at the English court, the center of papist ambitions.
“Oh, I couldn’t say,” I whisper. I am horrified that he should dare to say this so clearly to me. Thank God no one is in hearing and no one has seen us but one of William Cecil’s men, who happens to pass by. “Your Excellency, you do me too much honor. I cannot hear such things without the permission of my cousin the queen.”
“No need to mention it to her,” he replies swiftly. “I spoke to you in confidence, so you understand what might be. If you wished it.”
“Really, I don’t wish for anything,” I assure him.
It’s true. I don’t wish for the throne anymore. I want to be a wife, not a furiously bad-tempered spinster queen. I want a husband, and none but Ned. I could not bear the touch of another man’s hand. If I live until I am ancient, if I live until I am as old as fifty, I will never want anyone but him. We pass each other in the gallery, at dinner, on the way to chapel, in miserable silence. I know that he loves me still. I see him look across at me when he is at chapel and I have my face covered in my hands so he cannot see me peeping through my fingers at him. He looks as if he is ill with longing, and I am not allowed to comfort him.
“I swear to you, he loves you as much as ever,” Janey says mournfully. “He’s pining away, Katherine. But my mother has forbidden him to speak to you and warned him of the queen’s displeasure if she knew. I can’t bear it that you’re not together. I tell him that he has a worse illness than I do. And his cure is just here! You are the cure for his illness.”
“If only your mother would speak to Elizabeth!” I say.
Janey shakes her head. “She doesn’t dare. She told me that the Privy Council has told Elizabeth that she must find a safe husband for you at once. With English troops mustered to fight against the French in Scotland they are terrified that you will come out against her, or even leave the country. They are frightened that the Spanish will take you. They want you safely buried in marriage to a low-born Englishman who will keep you home and diminish your claim.”
“I wouldn’t go to Spain!” I say desperately. “Why would I? Where would I go? The only man in the world that I would marry is here. I have no interest in the archduke or anyone else! And why should I marry a low-born Englishman? Why should I be insulted?”
I am horrified by Janey’s gossip that they want to marry me to some nonentity and forget about me, but I feel even more afraid when I am told that the Scots lords have proposed that I should be married to my cousin the Earl of Arran, one of Elizabeth’s castoff flirts with a claim in Scotland, so that England can offer a rival Protestant queen to the rebellious Scots, and they can mass behind Arran and me, and defeat the French. They will marry me to Arran and make me Queen of Scots.
“What am I to do?” I say to Janey. “Are they all mad? Will they never stop trying to marry me to one dreadful man after another? Did she acknowledge me as princess just to sell me in an alliance? You must tell Ned that someone is going to kidnap me, if he does not save me.”
Ned does not rescue me; he cannot. His mother has forbidden it, and she is not a woman to be disobeyed. He does no more than look longingly at me, and walk away. Robert Dudley does nothing for me. He thinks only of himself and of Elizabeth. He is at her side every day in these dangerous times, and I think if she could not cling to him, she would lose her wits. Of course, it is William Cecil, who knows all about everything, who speaks to me. He bows very low as he comes out of the Privy Council meeting, and offers me his arm to walk along the gallery to the queen’s rooms. I flutter my fingers a little as if I would be released, but he keeps a warm gentle grip on my hand, and so we enter together, and I see from the determined upturn of Elizabeth’s painted lips that the two of them have agreed that I must be kept close, and they have choreographed a little dance for me to perform.
“Oh! Cousin Katherine,” she says, turning away from Robert Dudley as if she is more interested in me than in him. “Dear Cousin.”
My curtsey is as shallow as I dare to make it. “Cousin Elizabeth, Your Majesty,” I say, since we seem to be closely related today.
“Come and sit with me,” she says, indicating the stool beside her chair. “I have hardly seen you all day.”
There have been many days when she has managed to endure my absence, and never before have I been invited to sit with her.
I glance to one side where Ned is watching this mumming, and his expression freezes and he looks down to the ground, as if he dare not even smile at me. He is so afraid of Elizabeth’s displeasure, and I am like a mouse under the paw of a fat ginger cat.
“What a darling little dog!” Elizabeth exclaims.
I look down at Jo, who presses against my feet as if she is afraid that I will follow court protocol and offer her to the queen, who looks at her with no warmth in her face.
“I love Katherine like a daughter,” the queen says to the air over my head. Even she, great liar that she is, lacks the bravado to meet my eyes. Everyone takes in this surprising announcement with blank faces. I see the bright interested stare of the Spanish ambassador. “She is like a daughter to me,” she repeats loudly. Then, as the meaning of her words dawns on her, she softens her voice to speak to me: “You must miss your mother very much,” she says.
I bow my head. “I do, Your Majesty,” I confirm dutifully. “She was most devoted to me and to my little sister, Mary.”
“Oh, yes, Mary,” says the queen absently. Mary steps forward from the maids at the mention of her name and the queen nods towards her as she curtseys. Clearly, Mary is not to be bathed in affection, only me.
Elizabeth leans forward. “You must always tell me if you feel lonely or unhappy,” she says quietly. “I know what it is to be a girl without a mother. I know what it is to be friendless at a great court.”
I would play my part in this masque better if I knew what on earth I am supposed to do. The queen puts her heavily ringed hand on my shoulder; her fingers are cold. I wonder who is supposed to benefit from this performance. Certainly, not I.
“I am not friendless at court, if I have your favor,” I say tentatively, looking up into her expressionless face.
She presses her hand on my shoulder. “You do. You are very dear to me. After all, you are my closest kin.”
That’s it then! She has named me as her closest kin. I am her heir. I am next to the throne. She has done it, and she cannot take it back. I glance up and see William Cecil is watching me. He has heard this. Indeed, he will have written the script and plotted every move.
“And may I come to you with a request?” I gaze into her beady black eyes. There is not a flicker of true tenderness: she is making a deal with me as if we were fishwives on the quay weighing a salted cod.
“Ask me!” she says with her false smile. “Ask me anything, and see what I will do for a loyal and loving cousin!”
“I will,” I promise her, I promise myself, and I promise Ned in my heart.
Robert Dudley kisses my hand with a hidden smile, as one favorite to another. William Cecil walks with me in the gallery and tells me how the war is progressing in Scotland, as if I need to know. I realize that he is teaching me the statecraft that he has studied under four reigns. He wants me to know that I must play my part as the Protestant heir to a Protestant queen. It is important that I understand that the throne is advised by the lords, that the lords share the thoughts of the parliament. I must understand that Elizabeth’s place on the throne is unsteady—half the country is yet to be convinced by our religion, the great European powers are natural enemies to us, and the Pope calls for a holy war against us. As her heir I will attract temptation, conspiracies, promises. I must report to him. I must never endanger Elizabeth. I must play my part in making a Protestant succession in a Protestant country.
People curtsey low as I walk by, and Mary and I are allocated more ladies to wait on us. Suddenly, I need someone to carry my gloves. Mary moves out of the informal camaraderie of the maids’ rooms, and together we live in grander rooms with our own ladies-in-waiting, and we make a small court within the court, the two of us served as princesses. I dress Mr. Nozzle in a livery of Tudor green, and Jo and Ribbon have plaited collars of green silk. Ribbon wears a little bell of hammered silver and sleeps on a cushion of green velvet.
I go everywhere in the center of a hushed storm of deferential curiosity. The wardrobe supplies me with wonderful gowns of velvets and cloth of gold. My rise to prominence brings so many questions, but there is no one whom I can safely consult. Can it be that Elizabeth has decided to wait for Robert Dudley to be free to marry, and is naming me as her heir to buy herself time? His wife may die of some illness, or old age, and Elizabeth might marry him at last. Or since she is Supreme Governor of the Church, will she use her power to declare her lover’s marriage annulled, and marry him herself? Nobody can complain of her behavior if she has given England a legitimate Protestant heir—me.
And if so, would it not be wise to let me marry the man of my choice, an English nobleman, close to the throne, loyally reformist? Do Ned and I suddenly represent an irresistible boon to Elizabeth: royal family, Protestant convictions, and surely fertile? If I were to put a legitimate Tudor boy in the royal cradle, does that free Elizabeth to please herself? Will she end all debate by adopting my baby and giving England that rarity: a healthy Tudor boy? Do I dare to ask for Ned as the favor that she has promised me? Do I dare to summon Ned to my new rooms and speak to him in front of everyone?
Elizabeth continues to single me out for her affections. I sit at the head of the ladies’ table at dinner, while Mary is raised on a cushion at the other end. Only I am to carry the queen’s fan in the evening, only I hold her gloves as we walk together to the stables. I have a new horse; when we go hawking, I have a falcon on my fist. I play cards with her, and at chapel I kneel behind her to pray. Undoubtedly, I am being groomed to inherit. The Spanish ambassador steps back from our secret conversations, but his bow is very deferential. Robert Dudley gives me his hidden seductive smile. Ned meets my eyes across the presence chamber and I know that he wants me. Surely, if I can ask my cousin the queen for any favor, I can tell her that I want to marry a loyal English nobleman and we can both serve her for life?
Janey says: “I have a surprise for you. Come to my room.”
It is an hour before dinner and the other ladies of the bedchamber are with the queen, watching the maids lace her gown, each standing with an item: her golden hood, her jewel box, her fan. Each of them is waiting her turn to step forward in the ritual of dressing the goddess so that she can go to her dinner and flirt with any man who has the good luck to catch her volatile fancy tonight. Every third night it is my turn to serve her, every fourth night my little sister, Mary, stands holding the jewels. Now and then Janey is well enough to offer the golden hood, but tonight we are both free.
Like little girls playing truant from a despised stepmother, we slip past the maids’ chamber and Janey opens the door to her bedroom; we go in . . . and there is Ned.
I stop on the threshold; I know I gape at him as if I cannot believe that it is him, waiting for me, as if he has stepped out of my dreams.
“Ned?” I say wonderingly.
He crosses the room in one stride and takes me into his arms. “My love,” he says. “My love, forgive me. I could not be without you for another moment.”
I don’t hesitate, I don’t pause for pride or anger, my arms are around his neck, pulling his head down, his mouth to mine, we fumble and then we kiss. The taste of him, the familiar scent of him, makes me tremble. I want to cry and laugh at once. “Ned,” is all I can say.
The kiss goes on forever. I hear, in the back of my mind, the quiet click of the door as Janey goes out and closes it behind her. It occurs to me that really I should be coldly furious with Ned and make him beg my pardon, but my hold on him tightens. I cannot bear to release him, I don’t think I can ever bear to let him go. I cannot think, I have no thoughts, all I know is desire.
When he slackens his grip just a little, I am dizzy and I let myself go deliciously limp in his arms. I feel I have spent so long trying to be strong and trying to be brave and now I can lean on the man that I love. He helps me to the window seat. I want to lie along it, to feel his weight come down on me and his thigh press against me; but we sit side by side, his arm around my waist as if I am so precious to him that he cannot bear to let me go.
“You came back to me” is all I say. Then: “You have come back to me? This is not just . . . You have come back to me?”
“Of course,” he says. “You are the love of my life, my only love.”
“I couldn’t bear seeing you every day and not touching . . .”
“Nor I! I used to watch you in chapel.”
“I know you did,” I interrupt. “I used to peep at you and see you were looking at me. I hoped so much . . . I prayed . . .”
“Prayed for what?”
“Prayed for this.”
He takes my hand and presses it to his lips. “You have this. You have me. We shall never be parted again.”
“Your mother . . .”
“I shall explain it to her. She shall not stop me.”
“But the queen . . .”
“We shall marry,” he says decisively. I feel my heart leap just to see the firmness of his mouth. I want him to kiss me again.
“I will ask her . . .”
“She favors you, she’s made that clear to everyone. And it’s not just her, it’s not just her whim. Cecil has advised her that she has to keep you close. That’s why she’s being so kindly. She is terrified that you will be married by the Scots or by the Spanish, and taken away.”
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Don’t let them part us.”
“Never. So we won’t ask anyone, for fear that they refuse. We will marry and tell her when it is done. We’ll tell them all when it is done, and then what can she or anyone do?”
“She can be furious,” I point out. The court has grown wary of Tudor rage. Where Queen Mary would sink into despair, Elizabeth will scream and throw things. The only man who can soothe her then is Robert Dudley. The only man who can advise her is William Cecil. She shouts down everyone else.
Ned, my lover, my husband-to-be, shrugs his shoulders as if she does not frighten him. “She will be furious but it will blow over. We have seen her furious with Kat Ashley; we have seen her rage at Cecil until he left court. But he came back, and she did as he advised. It will be the same for us. She will rage, we will leave, she will forgive us and restore us to our places within a month. Besides, it is in her interest that we are married so that you are safe. Cecil will advise her of that. Dudley will tell her to smile on lovers.”
“I want to be safe.” I nestle a little closer. “I want to be safe with you. Oh, Ned, I have dreamed of this.”
“I have dreamed of you, too,” he whispers. “I have written a poem to you.”
“You have?”
He feels in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I carry it with me,” he says. “I wrote it when you were in your mourning black and I used to see you, with your hair so golden and your skin so creamy pale. You were like a portrait, like a marble statue wrapped in velvet, and I thought that I would never touch you again. I thought we were like Troilus and Criseyde, parted like them.”
“Read it!” I whisper. Really, this is as good as a Romance.
“She stood in black said Troilus he,
That with her look hath wounded me.
She stood in black say I also
That with her eye, hath bred my woe.”
I give a shuddering breath of delight. “May I have it?” Nobody has ever written a poem to me before; nobody ever wrote one for Jane for all that she was such a great scholar and a queen. People wrote sermons for Jane but this is a real thing, a poem, a love poem from a man. Better than that: a love poem from a poet, a famous poet. A sermon simply doesn’t compare. He presses it into my hand and I hold it to my heart.