The Fallen Queen

Compassion lighting his face like a candle within a gourd, Father whispered, “Dearest girl,” and reached out a hand to stroke Jane’s hair, but our lady-mother slapped it away with her riding crop. Poor Father started and snatched back his smarting fingers, raising them to his mouth to suck away the blood welling from his knuckles.

Supremely cool, our lady-mother lifted one finely plucked Tudor red brow. “Will you marry Guildford Dudley?” she asked.

There was a moment of lengthy tension in which I could feel the war raging within Jane, but at last she surrendered, and with head hung low and shoulders sagging in sad defeat, did what was expected of her and answered, “Yes, my lady-mother.”

With a brisk nod and a smile of triumph upon her lips, our lady-mother reached out to clasp Jane’s shoulders and bent to brush her lips against each of my sister’s cheeks, then, sitting back, gestured with her riding crop for Jane to rise.

It was then that disaster struck. As Jane struggled sorely to her feet, the ribbons securing the cushions slipped. Jane stood there mortified, staring down at the plump little cushions of plum purple and cherry red puddled at her feet, and the pink and blue satin ribbons snaking out from beneath her skirts.

Our lady-mother’s whip shot out, to whisk Jane’s skirts up and reveal Kate’s “brilliant idea.”

With a nervous glance at our lady-mother, Father began to laugh and clap his hands, hoping against hope that his wife would see the humour of the situation rather than fly into a rage.

But our lady-mother was not amused. Two slaps, one to each of the cheeks she had just kissed, sent Jane toppling backward, barking her palms painfully against the floor when she tried to break her fall.

I tried to restrain her, but Kate broke away from me. “My lady-mother, no, please no, it was my idea!” Tearfully, she flung herself at our lady-mother’s feet, bruising her own tender knees, and grabbed our lady-mother’s hands and kissed and pressed them to her own tear-dampened cheeks, and said, “I most humbly crave your pardon, my lady-mother.”

“This was your idea?” Our lady-mother flicked her riding crop at the cushions and ribbons lying in a guilty heap upon the floor. When Kate, still kneeling, nodded, a bright smile spread across our lady-mother’s face and, beaming, she swept Kate up into her arms, nigh smothering her against her ample bosom. “My darling, you are almost as clever as you are beautiful! That kind of thinking will serve you far better at court than Plato ever will.” She sneered at Jane. “Come, my love.” She took Kate’s hand. “Walk with me to the stables and you may pet the spotted hunting hounds and feed a carrot to my horse. Come, Hal!” she called back over her shoulder to Father, and he snatched up his feathered cap, gloves, and riding crop and ran after her, obedient as a dog himself.

I stood there, longing to run to Jane, but cowardly not daring to move lest I somehow incur my lady-mother’s wrath. I stood there, staring after them, my heart beating as though it might at any moment burst through the wall of my chest. Please, Lord, don’t let our lady-mother turn round, I prayed. Let her forget about Jane.

But it was not to be. In the doorway, our lady-mother paused and looked back.

“Mrs. Ellen!” she called to Jane’s nurse, who through it all had stood back, an unobtrusive presence in her crow-black gown and hood, silently observing the scene. “Fetch some pins! You are to secure Lady Jane’s skirts above her knees and then remove her shoes and stockings.” Then she turned to Jane and directed sternly, “You are to crawl back and forth the entire length of this gallery on your bare hands and knees until we return from the hunt.” Then she was gone, spurs jingling, the feathers on her hat bouncing, without waiting for an answer, confident as a queen that her will would be obeyed.

As soon as she was gone, I rushed to Jane, but she sat up and held out her hand to stay me. “No! Stay back, stay away, Mary, or she’ll punish you too!”

All through the morning and long into the afternoon Kate and I sat, holding each other and sobbing, helplessly watching our sister, weeping all the harder when we saw the trails of blood that marked her slow progress up and down the Long Gallery as the day wore on. Kate pleaded for Jane to stop and rest a while, imploring Mrs. Ellen with tear-filled eyes to lie and say Jane had enacted her punishment exactly as described.

“My lady, I cannot, I dare not,” Mrs. Ellen said sadly as she gently unclenched Kate’s fists from the folds of her black skirt.

And Jane would not stop until, as the sky glowed orange through the windows, our lady-mother appeared in the doorway and spoke a single word: “Enough!” And Jane fell fainting, facedown, flat upon the floor.

If memory doesn’t deceive me, it was the next day that we were called again to the library and the portraits, gifts from our betrotheds, were unveiled before us.

For me there was a lush, sable-bearded likeness of Lord Wilton in all his former glory, a big, handsome, burly bear of a man, towering and overpowering in a suit of satin-slashed buff brocade and golden breastplate and feathered helm, armed with a sword and shield like a war god. For the life of me, I couldn’t rightly say whether I found him more frightening before or after his battle scars. He did not have the look of a kind or patient man, but the sort who would order his household with military precision. I only knew, in my heart, I didn’t want him; he was not the man for me. But I also knew it was my duty to obey and futile to resist; no one cared what I thought; like all nobly born girls, I truly had no say in the matter. And so I praised the portrait, calling it “a handsome picture,” and retreated into silence.

For Kate there was a miniature of Lord Herbert with a bail at the top of the round gold frame so that she might wear it upon a golden chain, jewelled necklace, or a rope of pearls. Lord Herbert had thoughtfully sent along a dozen of these as a betrothal gift so that no matter what gown she was wearing Kate would have something to suit and thus his likeness could always be with her until the day he took his place at her side, he gallantly explained in the accompanying letter. Kate squealed with delight. “How handsome he is!” she enthused again and again, dancing around the room as our lady-mother bent to examine the necklaces with the practised eye of a pawnbroker, alert for any flaws or duplicity.

Her inspection done, and apparently satisfied with both the quality and workmanship, our lady-mother laid down a rope of pearls and ruby beads and smiled at her favourite daughter’s girlish enthusiasm and pointed out that the miniature she was holding was ringed with diamonds. “Particularly fine diamonds, daughter; take note of them and measure any jewels that come after against them and you will always know exactly where you stand in your husband’s affections. There are ways of managing a man,” she added pointedly, “and the important thing is that you never wear anything that is not first-rate. Never settle for anything inferior, for once you do, he will never bring you the best again.”

Kate clasped the picture to her bosom and breathed, “But he is so handsome; I am certain I would love him even if they were glass instead of diamonds!”

“Then you are a fool,” our lady-mother stated simply, “a beautiful simpleton, nothing more, and you shall never amount to anything.”

Kate gave a wounded little cry, and her lips began to tremble as her eyes filled with tears and she stared, hurt and uncomprehending, at our lady-mother.

“Now, now”—our lady-mother pulled her close—“it is good to see you so excited and eager to love your husband; you need only temper your exuberance with a little wisdom, daughter, and all shall be well.”

“Yes, my lady-mother, yes, I promise, I will!” Kate vowed, all sunny smiles again. “I shall see to it that Lord Herbert gives me the best of everything, for I shall ensure that I am worth it by always giving my best to him!”

“That’s my clever girl!” our lady-mother beamed and patted her cheek. “There are brains behind that beauty after all!”

Lastly, for Jane there was a full-sized portrait of Guildford Dudley. Its ornate frame of carved gilded gillyflowers and the Dudleys’ heraldic bear and ragged staff was so heavy that it took two men to carry it in. When our lady-mother removed the gold-fringed yellow velvet that covered it, we all gasped and stepped back.

“My, my,” Father said, patting his heart as he looked the painted likeness of his soon to be son-in-law up and down.

Head to toe, the spoiled and decadent darling of the Dudleys was like a gilded idol; all that was missing was a pedestal for him to stand upon and a throng of adoring minions kneeling at his feet. Each perfectly arranged golden curl adorning his head shone as though it had been sculpted by a master goldsmith, his lips were arranged in a perfect, petulant, pink rosebud pout, and his green eyes were the exact colour of gooseberries; they made me shudder and think of snakes and pale emeralds all at the same time. His lavish yellow brocade vestments were woven thickly with golden threads in a pattern of gillyflowers accentuated with diamond brilliants and creamy gold pearls. His long, shapely limbs were encased in hose of vivid yellow silk, and he held one foot pointed just so that we could see the bouquet of golden gillyflowers embroidered over his ankle, and upon the toes of his yellow shoes, golden gillyflowers bloomed and twinkled with diamonds that made the ones that ringed Lord Herbert’s portrait look paltry and dull in comparison. Even the rings on his fingers and the heavy golden chain about his neck were bejewelled golden gillyflowers; clearly Guildford considered this his flower. The artist had even painted a mass of them, yellow of course, blooming about his feet. Before our astonished eyes, this radiant young man held out his arms, golden wrist frills gleaming, as if to say to the world, “Here I am—worship and adore me!”

“With all those diamonds sewn upon the yellow, he makes me think of sugared lemons!” Father observed. “Mmmm … sugaredlemons!” He shut his eyes and sighed. “So tart and yet … sosweet! It’s like … love in contradiction!”

“Precisely”—our lady-mother nodded—“if he were entirely sweet, it would be much too decadent, too soft, and perhaps even effete, but that tartness beneath the sugar denotes strength and thus masculinity, though if one is not careful it can elude the eye. You don’t know how fortunate you are, Jane; you are such a stubborn, ungrateful girl you can’t see it. You know, Jane, I actually envy you! Look at him. He is a sugarplum for the eye, like a gilded marzipan subtlety come to life!”

“Yes, indeed he is! Mmmm … marzipan … gildedmarzipan!” Father sighed rapturously, shutting his eyes again as his tongue savoured the words as if the syllables themselves were sweets. “Guildford is just like gilded marzipan! So rich, so decadently delicious, as divine as a gift of sweetmeats straight from Our Lord’s confectionary kitchen in Heaven served on golden plates by angels!”

Jane rolled her eyes and wondered sotto voce, “Where in the Bible does it say that the Lord has a confectionary kitchen in Heaven?”

“Ah well!” our lady-mother sighed. “One cannot have everything, and often carnality has to ride outside up beside the driver instead of inside the coach where the quality sits. Such are the cruel vagaries of life! But, no matter, I shall be this fine young man’s mother-in-law, and he shall reap the full benefit of my advice; that is the important thing! He will go far; I shall make it my business to see to it.”

“But I don’t want to marry a sugared lemon or a piece of gilded marzipan either,” Jane said softly.

I crept a little closer and reached up and squeezed her hand, and she gave me a grateful but oh so sad little smile.

“Mmmm … sugaredlemons!” Father sighed again as a ribbon of drool trickled down his chin.

Our lady-mother rolled her eyes and with her own handkerchief wiped it away. “Enough of that, Hal, we shall plan the menu for the wedding banquet later! Naturally it shall include both sugared lemons and gilded marzipan as a tribute to our beautiful new son-in-law.”

“Yes, dear.” Father nodded and agreed as he continued to stare, rapt and transfixed, at the portrait of Guildford Dudley. “My God, I never saw anything so beautiful in my life!” I heard him murmur after our lady-mother had gone and only my sisters and I remained, but they were too caught up in their own thoughts to take note of Father’s curious behaviour, and besides we were all so accustomed to hearing him sigh rapturously over sweets … I tried to tell myself it was nothing, and that it was lewd to link it with Guildford’s portrait, and yet … I couldn’t quite convince myself.

After that the bustle never seemed to cease. From the break of dawn until we laid our weary heads down upon our pillows at night we were all caught up in a feverish mad maelstrom of wedding plans that had grown from an elegant double to an ostentatious triple event with the Greys and the Dudleys, though they would ostensibly be united by marriage, each vying to outshine the other. The Earl of Northumberland, Father informed us, also had a daughter named Catherine, aged twelve like our own Kate, but “a shy, sallow lass, nowhere near as pretty,” he added, giving Kate’s cheek a pat and popping a candied violet in her mouth. He then went on to explain that since the wedding was to be held at Durham House, the Dudleys’ opulent London residence, Northumberland had decided to make it a triple affair and join their Catherine in wedlock with the young Lord Hastings.

Kate immediately began to fret, weeping and worrying that the Dudley girl’s gown would be grander than her own. But Father was quick to assure her that even if it cost him the last coin in his coffers it would not be so. And with a kiss and more sweets he sent her off to await the dressmaker’s arrival, her head full of all the dreams that money can make come true, spinning rich, extravagant fantasies of cloth-of-gold, swirling, fantastically patterned cream and gold brocade, pearls and lace, and emeralds green as envy. That was our Kate; the storms never lasted long.

While Jane did her best to ignore it all, immersing herself even deeper in her studies, Kate drove our poor tutor, Master Aylmer, to frustration, ignoring the assignments he set her and instead filling page after page of her copybook with graceful, flourishing renditions of the name that would soon be hers—Katherine, Lady Herbert, and someday, upon her father-in-law’s demise, Katherine, Countess ofPembroke; she even wrote it in the French style, Katherine, Comtesse de Pembroke, though as far as I knew she had no plans to cross the Channel and neither did Lord Herbert.

When Master Aylmer complained to Father, Kate pouted and said that since she was soon to be a married woman she didn’t see why she still had need of a tutor; Master Aylmer really wasn’t teaching her anything useful at all that pertained to court etiquette, housewifery, or, she added just to make him blush, amorous disport and what her husband would expect of her behind the bedcurtains, nor had he offered any sage advice pertaining to midwifery and child-rearing either. “And not all the Latin verbs in the world will save me when I am in the agonizing throes of childbirth.”

At these words, Father smiled indulgently, patted Kate’s bright curls, and said at least it was good practice of her penmanship, and turned to pacify Master Aylmer. “Be a good fellow and leave things be,” he cajoled, offering him a sweet from his ever present comfit box, which he had taken the precaution of stocking with sugared and honeyed nuts beforehand knowing that they were Master Aylmer’s favourite. “And I doubt very much that the future Lady Herbert will have much need for Greek or Latin,” he added, “just a pretty bit of French and perhaps a dollop of Italian and a smattering of Spanish for songs and poetry and such.” Whereupon he settled down beside Kate with his comfit box open between them on the table to admire the signatures that filled her copybook while I stood apart, watching my two sisters, swallowing down my tears, and keeping my fears to myself.

I could do nothing for Jane; she did not want my help, and I could do nothing without her willingness and cooperation, but she would not even meet me halfway or reach out a hand toward common sense. She would treat Guildford Dudley like an enemy until the day either she or he died, whichever came first, and by that time that is exactly what he would be—her enemy, when he might have been a fond, or even loving, husband with a little kindness and encouragement from Jane.

And Kate … Kate was so happy! And, truly, I didn’t want to spoil it. But I was so afraid for her. She had already persuaded herself that she was in love with the bridegroom she had yet to meet, a man whose face she had beheld only in a miniature portrait—and who knew how accurate that likeness was? It has been commonplace since the art of portraiture began for the painters to flatter their patrons. Though she had never heard his voice, she could already hear him whispering sweet nothings in her ear and reciting poems about her beauty and comparing their love to an immortal flame. Every night, until she drifted off to sleep, Kate would lie abed whispering the names that filled her copybook over and over again like pearls on a rosary—Katherine, Lady Herbert;