The Queen's Bastard Page 8

  “Is he beautiful, Kat?” she whispered.

  Kat squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, and tears welled up in the older women’s eyes. This was the moment she had planned so diligently and dreaded so terribly. For a moment she thought she could not go through with it, had not the strength. How dare she perpetrate such a foul deed on the sweet woman who trusted her so completely? But now Agnes had stepped out from behind the screen with a tiny bundle in her arms and was moving toward the bed, a grim look on her wrinkled face. Too late, thought Kat. Too late now.

  Elizabeth saw the midwife’s expression and turned to Kat, her eyes suddenly wide with alarm.

  “I’m sorry as I can be, Yer Majesty, but the boy was born dead.”

  “No, he was not! I heard him cry out as he was born!”

  “Naa, ’twas yer own screamin’ ye heard.”

  “Kat, you heard him! Did you not hear him?”

  Kat fought to keep her face from breaking apart with the agony of the lie. She shook her head slowly, but did not trust herself to speak.

  “Let me have him!” Elizabeth demanded of the midwife, still not believing.

  Agnes placed the bundle in the Queen’s arms.

  Slowly Elizabeth pulled back the linen to reveal the tiny face, the sweet wrinkled face so still and peaceful. She touched the velvet cheek with the tip of her finger. It was warm. Elizabeth began to weep helpless, bitter tears.

  “Take the child, Agnes,” Kat managed to say, but Elizabeth slapped the midwife’s hands away.

  “No! No, I want to hold him. I must hold him till his father … Oh, where is Robin, where is my love … ?”

  Kat had never seen such copious tears from Elizabeth, not at the death of her father, of her beloved brother Edward, of the only woman she’d called mother, Catharine Parr. It was breaking Kat’s heart to see Elizabeth so distraught, and she prayed to God for strength to see her plan through. It was, she told herself over and over again in a solemn litany, “for her own good, for her own good, for her own good …”

  ***

  Through the darkened hallways and backstairs of Fulham House hurried William Cecil, holding close to his body the bloody bundle which he could hear mewling faintly beneath the muslin wrapping. Moments before, standing outside the Queen’s chamber, trembling with trepidation at this mad act in which he had been persuaded to play a part by Kat Ashley, he had heard the knock from inside and opened the door. Agnes Hodgeson had thrust the bundle at him unceremoniously and turned back to her table behind the tall screen. He’d seen her lift the body of a dead newborn from her second satchel and place it in the basin of hot water to warm its cold skin. Looking up to find Cecil staring, the midwife had riven him with an expression of disapproval bordering on disgust before closing the door in his face.

  Blessedly the wind had begun to lessen, but the rain continued a deluge. Cecil splashed through the base court past the barns, stables, slaughterhouse, and smithy, and found standing under the moat tower a lone woman, coarsely dressed, boots muddied to her ankles. As he approached he could see the once pretty but prematurely aged face, the unutterably sad eyes. She would be the mother of the dead babe, the woman whose still-birth Agnes had awaited to give signal to Kat, and, for the next weeks, wet nurse to the child he held in his arms. William Cecil handed the country-woman the Queen’s bastard, and without a word she turned and disappeared into the stormy night.

  Robin lay full length beside Elizabeth, cradling her in his arms. As dawn broke sweet and clear after the dreadful storm, they had finally allowed Kat Ashley to wrest their son’s body from their embraces. Elizabeth and Dudley had each had in their lives many losses, innumerable tragedies. Their families had been decimated by violent, sometimes meaningless death. And yet today, despite their long experience with grieving and the common understanding that childbirth as often ended badly as well, they were beyond consolation.

  As the candles Elizabeth had demanded be lit round her bed flickered, they had spoken little, cried not at all. Just carefully laid the child between them and unwrapped the muslin sheeting to reveal his tiny body. As they caressed the silken hair on his head, held the delicate limbs in their hands, examined the tiny buds of fingers and toes, they knew this was not the way men and women mourned the loss of their children. Death amongst newborns and infants was too common, too expected. Parents inured themselves to it. Even if the child lived, mothers and fathers often withheld any affection at all until the babe had reached the age of one or two.

  But their son, Arthur, as he grew and thrived in Elizabeth’s womb, had been no ordinary child. He had been a dream come into flesh. A promise brought to life. A bridge between a man and a woman. A torch to illuminate the future of England. And now he lay dead and cold in his shroud.

  “They are saying,”said Robin finally as the sun’s first rays slanted in across the bedchamber floor, “that it was the most fearsome storm England has ever known. That the world was at an end, and the days of doom had come. Floodwaters carried away houses. The winds tore down ancient trees. Townsfolk gathered for protection in the village church until a bolt of lightning struck its steeple, which broke apart and collapsed the roof. Some people died.”

  “My people,” murmured Elizabeth. She had, despite herself, been drawn into Robin’s telling. “My subjects died in this storm.” And then, remembering the lifeless body that had lain between them, she looked up into Robin Dudley’s eyes. “For some the apocalypse has already arrived.”

  “Elizabeth …” Robin cupped his hand round her pale face. “’Tis not the end. We can have another.”

  “No, my love. That was the child with which destiny gifted us and which it saw fit to withdraw.”

  “Then I defy destiny!” he cried, pulling Elizabeth into a crushing embrace, burying his head in the soft damp hair at her neck. She felt his body heave once, then again and again, and knew that he was weeping. Weeping for the sweet impossible dream which they had together lost and which could never, despite their most fervent prayers or diligent efforts or royal commandments, ever again be found.

  Elizabeth laid her head on Robin’s and wept with him.

  Ten

  “Well, my good Secretary, I see from your dispatches that my cousin Mary has finally returned from France to that bleak arse of the world she calls home.”

  Ever despairing of Elizabeth’s vulgar tongue, William Cecil frowned as he observed the Queen, still in her nightclothes, riffling through state papers at the silver-topped table in her bedchamber. He was concerned for Elizabeth’s health, which had worsened since her lying-in two months before. She was thin as a rake, her skin so pale and delicate as to be almost transparent, and her obvious attempts to seize control of her wayward emotions had failed miserably. Even her normally unflagging affection for Robin Dudley had receded noticeably.

  “She has, Your Majesty,” replied Cecil mildly. “Mary’s arrival in Edinburgh was celebrated with great rejoicing by her Scottish subjects, both Catholic and Protestant, though I have serious doubts that the lairds of the great clans be sincere in their welcome.”

  “Indeed,” said Elizabeth. “Those men are the true rulers of Scotland, and not their queen, for ’tis the clan leaders to whom the low ruffians of that country give their allegiance. ’Tis strange to me how each particular family’s ambitions and fortunes obscure all else, even the Protestantism they fought for and won. It may be Scotland’s greatest weakness.”

  Cecil never failed to be impressed by Elizabeth’s grasp of each and every detail of her government. She read on.

  “I see that Mary hears Mass in her private chapel, since she may not do so in public. And yet her people still complain of it.”

  “They do,” he agreed, “though Mary, while ardently Catholic herself, does appear to be agreeable and accommodating with respect to her countrymen’s religious beliefs.”

  “Has she a choice if she wants to keep her crown?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Your Majesty will be pleased to know Mary has had a visit
from our good friend John Knox.”

  Elizabeth laughed aloud at Cecil’s sardonic jest, and the councillor was graced by the first smile from his Queen in many weeks. Her eyes shone with wicked glee.

  “Do tell me, Cecil, what said our anti-Papist fanatic to our most Catholic cousin?”

  “He was very bold, Madame. I am told he braced himself as if he were meeting the devil incarnate and not a young girl of eighteen.”

  “One of his ‘monstrous regiment’ of women monarchs he so despises. What was it he wrote to describe us?” Elizabeth searched her memory and in a moment extracted the quote from Knox’s tome as handily as a cherry picker might pluck a ripe fruit from the tree. “‘Weak, frail, impatient, feeble and foolish creatures who rule, contrary to God and repugnant to nature.’” Elizabeth chuckled. “And now one of them is sitting on the throne of his own country.”

  “Apparently Knox agreed to tolerate her for the time being, as long as the realm was not laid low by her femininity, and would allow her to rule, provided she did not ‘defile her hands by dipping them in the blood of the saints.’ He then proclaimed her subjects’ right to rise up against any unworthy ruler who opposed God’s word.”

  “Good Lord! And what was her reply to this outpouring of venom?”

  “I am told she shed some tears, but that on the whole of the matter she disported herself proudly and with quick wit. Your cousin is crafty, Your Majesty, and ’tis my opinion that you must never ever underestimate her.”

  The bedchamber door opened and Kat Ashley entered carrying the Queen’s fresh linen. She pottered quietly as Elizabeth and Cecil continued his morning’s audience, but when she observed a natural pause in their dealings she moved to Elizabeth’s side and made a small curtsy.

  “Yes, Kat, what is it?”

  “I am begging your leave, Madame,” said the waiting lady quietly.

  “Begging my leave? For what?” Elizabeth seemed quite as mystified as she was annoyed.

  “My aunt in Suffolk is very ill and I feel it my duty to see to her. She is very aged and has no one, Majesty.”

  Elizabeth stifled a great sigh. “How long must I be without you?” she asked, keeping her voice calm even as she felt panic envelop her. Kat, even more than Mary Sidney or Robin Dudley, had been her main solace in the weeks since the tragedy at Fulham House.

  “A month, perhaps more, depending upon the roads. The rains have begun early.”

  Elizabeth looked directly into Kat’s eyes. The sparkle of youth had long gone, but this was the first time the Queen had noticed a rheumy dullness there. She prayed to God that Kat herself was not ailing.

  “You have my leave, but only with the promise that —”

  “I will return as quickly as I am able, Your Majesty. You may be sure I will.”

  “Must you leave immediately?”

  Kat nodded.

  “Go, then. Tell Mary Sidney to attend me closely in your absence.”

  “I shall, Your Majesty, though we both know she needs no telling.”

  Fighting sudden tears, Elizabeth turned back to the state papers. She did not, therefore, notice the conspiratorial look that passed fleetingly between William Cecil and Kat Ashley before she backed out the door.

  “May the Lord forgive me for what I’ve done,” said Kat to herself as she stared forlornly out the window of the coach that rumbled down the road toward the east coast of Suffolk. Her guilt was increased as much by the plushness of the carriage Elizabeth had especially provided as by the lusty cries of the infant nestled in the arms of the wet nurse, Ellen, sitting opposite Kat.

  “He’s a sweet lad, he is, and the hungriest child I ever knew,” said Ellen. “I swear I have scarce enough milk for him.”

  Kat could hardly bear to look at him or even say his name silently. Arthur — Arthur Dudley. He had his mother’s and father’s reddish hair and his mother’s fair complexion. The newborn’s blue eyes had quickly turned the deepest brown, almost black in some lights, and his cheeks were pink and chubby, a tribute to this lowborn woman who had suckled him so diligently in the place of her own dead child.

  Too, there was the sinister gift from Arthur’s grandmother Anne Boleyn. Kat refused to think on it. The child would soon be gone out of their lives.

  “I cannot help myself, milady,” said Ellen suddenly. “I’ve grown powerful fond of the little tyke, I have.” The wet nurse looked up and Kat saw tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. “I shall be hard pressed to give him up.” She fondled his red curls. “Sweet boy,” she cooed.

  “Now, Ellen, you’ll go home and have your husband give you another child. You’ll forget this one soon enough,” said Kat, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Kat reminded herself that Ellen, though she knew only that the babe’s mother was a highborn lady, had been paid almost as handsomely as Agnes Hodgeson for her sacrifice and silence.

  She watched the babe now suckling contentedly at Ellen’s breast, the woman not daring to look down at him, as though she were putting distance between them even as they were linked in that most intimate of embraces.

  Kat Ashley thought of what lay ahead up the road — who lay ahead — and her heart began to ache anew. Was there no end to the pain that this innocent child’s birth had caused them all — caused her? She was bound in one hour to face the man she had once loved and lost, Robert Southern.

  Oh, how long ago that had been. She’d been just a girl — Katherine Champernoune, fifteen years old — when that gentle soul, that smiling, open-faced lad had stolen her heart. Unheedful of their families, Robert and Kat had courted, lovestruck and blind. It had come like a thunderbolt from a blue sky, therefore, when John Ashley, the man her parents had chosen for her to marry, appeared hat in hand in her father’s house. Kat, not yet strong enough to resist, and Robert, with nothing to recommend him in fortune or family, had bowed to the will of their parents and tradition. But not without tears. Many tears. And a vow that had been their only defiance — that they should in any case, and in secret if need be, remain good friends for life.

  For her part Kat had been fortunate. Her marriage to John Ashley had been a happy one. He was a mild-mannered man, and after several years together she had confided the painful ending of her ill-fated courtship with Robert Southern. Knowing Kat’s character well, knowing she would never betray him, John Ashley gave her leave to write occasionally to the man Kat called her “everlasting friend.”

  Robert had not been so lucky in the ways of the heart. Third son of a yeoman farmer, he had inherited almost nothing, and his apprenticeship to a cattleman afforded him no money with which to get a wife. He had, however, an uncanny skill at husbandry, claiming with a poke of fun at himself that he was more comfortable with animals than with men — or women.

  Robert Southern’s fortunes had overnight changed when his master had died a widower and childless, leaving his farm and cattle to his, by now, beloved apprentice. Robert had worked and prospered largely, never losing his humble ways, always praising God for delivering him some property of his own. Just six years ago Kat had received a letter from Robert announcing that he, so long a bachelor, had taken a wife, Maud. Now there were three children.

  Robert Southern, thought Kat as they rumbled toward their destination, was the only person in the world outside of her kin and her loved ones at Court that she fully trusted.

  Driving an open wagon far ruder than the conveyance in which Kat Ashley traveled was Robert Southern. Back straight as a rod, he wore the same grim expression as his old friend now riding to meet him at the Drury crossroads. He would not meet the eye of Betsy, the young woman sitting next to him. She was just a wench, a “slut” his wife would call her, a poor unmarried girl who’d gotten with child and mercifully lost the babe in childbed. She was, thought Robert ruefully, not so different from his milk cows, for that was soon to be her purpose — to wet-nurse this child Kat was bringing into his life.

  “Good Christ, what have I gotten myself into?” he asked himse
lf, flicking the reins to hurry his team along to his destination. He had sworn loyal friendship to Katherine Champernoune Ashley more than thirty-five years before, but he’d never in his wildest dreams expected to be asked a favor such as this. A favor that, he knew as surely as the day was long, would wreak havoc in his own house.

  In Kat’s defense, he reasoned, she could not have known the recent circumstances that had befallen him. And he had never troubled Kat with the truth about Maud. He had only said, in his occasional letters to the woman who had become the Queen’s first lady, that his wife was beautiful, that his farm was flourishing, and that his children thrived. How could Kat know of their misfortune — the recent outbreak of cattle fever and the death of more than a third of his herd? Above all, how could she know of the rift that divided him from Maud? Sometimes their differences seemed like an ever widening chasm, the kind that in a nightmare opens before you, altogether impossible to leap across. ’Twas ironic, he thought morosely, for the rift was made of the simplest stuff — her ambition, his lack of it.

  Seven years before, finally prosperous enough to call himself a yeo-man and afford a wife, Robert, with the help of a matchmaker — for he had no family for the purpose — had scoured the parish for a proper girl. Several with decent dowries had been offered, but one spring Sunday after church, as the younger men scrimmaged rough and tumble at football outside the churchyard, gentlemen, yeomen, poorer countrymen, and all their wives chatting in the sunshine, pretty, dark-haired, brown-eyed Maud Copely had caught Robert’s eye. He had been smitten, and despite urgent pleas from the matchmaker, who wailed that the girl had no dowry and would be “marrying up,” Robert Southern could never thereafter be unsmote.

  Maud had wed the prosperous dairyman gladly. He was old, surely, but not decrepit. And, as Robert later learned, she had plans, many plans. When they took the vows he had barely known her, never realized what he was getting in the bright, perhaps overtalkative, but charming bundle of energy. Maud, he found, had been to grammar school. Could read. Was even clever with numbers.