Betrayal Read online

  ASSASSIN

  BETRAYAL

  To the real Jim Woolley—he knows who he is

  MOST PRIVY AND SECRETE

  DAYBOOKE THE SECOND

  OF MY LADY GRACE CAVENDISH

  AT THE MAIDS OF HONOUR, THEIR CHAMBER,

  PALACE OF PLACENTIA

  GREENWICH

  ALL MISCREANTS AND ILL-THINKERS,

  KEEP OUT!

  THE FOURTH DAY OF MAY,

  IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1569

  the other is quite filled up. Today was very dull, sitting about winding wool for the Mistress of the Maids, Mrs. Champernowne. At least there is something happening tomorrow—we accompany the Queen to the docks at Tilbury. Very exciting! That is why I am scribbling away and getting ink on my smock, for I cannot sleep at all. Lady Sarah can’t sleep, either. She is writing a letter to her parents bemoaning how poorly she is clad and how all her raiment is utterly out of fashion.

  At least the Queen sent me to walk the dogs this afternoon. She has often given me that task since my mother, the Queen’s best friend, died a year ago, God rest her soul, leaving me in Her Majesty’s care. I think she knows how much I enjoy playing with the dogs and spending time in the gardens, which I do, for that is where I find I am most reminded of my dear mother.

  I changed into my horrible old hunting kirtle and then ran on tiptoes downstairs and along the painted passage to the door to the Privy Garden, where Mary Shelton was waiting with the dogs.

  Now, I may like Mary Shelton better than I did—she has been very kind to me since my mother’s passing. But I didn’t want her getting nosy about what I do in the gardens—for I have a secret—so I invited her out with me. We raced up and down, with the dogs yapping away, and fairly soon she was red as an apple and puffing for breath.

  “Oh Lord,” she said, “I must go in and sit down.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, putting my hand on her arm. “We could kick the ball for them again—”

  “No, I need a rest,” she insisted, fanning herself with her hand.

  “Well, I’ll run the dogs down to the Orchard,” I told her. “I’ll see you later.”

  Mary went inside, mopping her face. I can be quite cunning when necessary—not for nothing has the Queen appointed me her own Lady Pursuivant (for the pursuit and apprehension of all miscreants who trouble the Queen’s peace at Court)!

  I did run the dogs—throwing a stick for Henri, who is the chief of them despite being the smallest—and they all yelped madly. Then, when I was sure Mary couldn’t see me, I slipped through the little gate into the Herb Garden. We have just moved to the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich, which is one of the Queen’s most favourite residences. The palace gardens give right onto the river, and you can see the ducks and the swans and sometimes the pages and young henchmen fishing for salmon.

  My friends Masou the tumbler and Ellie the laundrymaid have made a hidden place to sit inside the big yew hedge that surrounds the Herb Garden. And that’s where I found Masou, who was sitting looking worried, but there was no sign of Ellie at all.

  “She said she might be late,” Masou explained. “The Deputy Laundress has her running about like a hunted rabbit.”

  Mrs. Twiste at the Whitehall laundry is a kind lady, but Mrs. Fadget, her deputy at Greenwich, is a nasty hag who loves to order poor Ellie about when we are at Placentia.

  I settled down and watched Masou, who was idly tossing red and green leather balls up and about his head. A bit of wood from the ground joined them, then a stone. It’s amazing what Masou can do—turning somersaults in midair, juggling, and balancing. He’s getting very big-headed because Mr. Somers—who’s in charge of the tumblers—says he’s so good. So I don’t ever tell him, but I still like to watch.

  We heard her cough first, then poor Ellie came dragging herself into the little hide and collapsed onto the ground next to me. She was coughing violently and her cheeks were flushed. I put my hand to her head as my mother used to do and it was all hot and dry.

  “Ellie, you have a fever,” I said.

  “It’s just that cold I had last week gone to my neck,” she replied. Her throat sounded as if she had been eating sandpaper. “And that Mrs. Fadget”—she turned her head and spat—“I hate her. She had me up till past midnight wringing out sheets, and then up again at dawn to grate the soap. Then I was putting shirts on the hedge and I missed dinner. …”

  I felt terrible. I usually bring Ellie something to eat and I’d forgotten. She saw me patting my pockets.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I ain’t hungry a bit.”

  Masou and I looked at each other, feeling very worried now. Ellie! Not hungry? This was bad.

  “You should be in bed, Ellie!” I told her. “You should be drinking horrible willow-bark tinctures and sniffing the smoke of henbane of Peru.”

  Ellie laughed. “Tell Mrs. Fadget,” she said. “What’s ’appening tomorrow? The Queen’s watermen were moaning down at the buttery about how early they’ve got to get up.”

  “The Queen’s going to Tilbury,” I explained. “And we’re going with her to see the Royal Dockyards.”

  “Oh. And will you put it in your daybooke?” Ellie asked curiously.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  “Wish I could do that. Write, I mean,” Ellie went on wistfully.

  “Well, you can read,” I pointed out.

  “Only my name. But all the things I see—and the stories I hear in the laundry,” she croaked. “I wish I could write them down.”

  “You could tell me and I could write them in my tongue,” suggested Masou helpfully.

  “No good to me, I can’t read that, neither,” Ellie said, and sighed. “I wish I could read them ballad sheets. Or I could save up all my pennies and maybe, one day, even buy a book and read it!”

  My chest felt all tight and heavy. Ellie’s voice sounded so sad, as if actually buying a book was a mountain she could never hope to climb—and the Queen gives them to me! I put my arm round Ellie. “I wish I could have you as my tiring woman instead of sharing Olwen or Fran with the other girls, but the Queen keeps forgetting.”

  “What I really want is a good sleep,” muttered Ellie, and coughed and wrapped her thin arms around herself. Masou took his jerkin off and bundled it up for a pillow to her head. She lay down with a sigh and Masou very softly sang her one of his funny wailing little songs.

  Poor Ellie, it is so unfair—she has to keep working even when she’s ill, while I have the Queen’s own physician to tend me if I so much as sniffle! And I hardly ever get ill anyway. Mind, I don’t have to forage around for food, or work till midnight on cold, wet sheets—I’m sure that has something to do with it.

  I left them there and came back to the Privy Garden, where I found Mary Shelton wandering about looking all upset.

  “Where did you go?” she demanded. “I was looking for you in the Orchard but you weren’t there.”

  “Yes I was,” I said quickly. “I was up a tree.”

  “Oh,” she replied, and stopped looking so nosy—Mary doesn’t like climbing trees. “Well, the Queen wants you.”

  When I reached the Queen, I found that she wanted me to help brush her hair this evening—which I like doing despite having to be so careful of the tangles in her curls. She snaps and swears if you pull even slightly and her hair is naturally quite frizzy, so it knots. She is talking about having the whole lot cut off and wearing a wig instead!

  I’d better get to bed now. Writing this has made me sleepy—and we’ve got an early start tomorrow.

  THE FIFTH DAY OF MAY,

  IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1569

  Now I have but a few moments to write a little—there! A first blot, too. I can’t help it, the sun is not yet up and my candle i
s small.

  We have all arisen early to accompany Her Majesty on her visit to Tilbury—where King Henry’s old naval yards are. Her Majesty has been entreated to visit the yards by Mr. John Hawkins, a most notable seafarer and merchant to the New World, whose passion for all things naval seems to know no bounds! He is making suit for the office of Secretary to the Admiralty as he has great plans for the Navy. The Queen finds him charming and has agreed to hear him. And he has assured her that we shall have no need to be afeared of bawdy sailors during our visit. Fie!

  I am not sure where Tilbury is, but we are travelling there by boat, which is exciting, except I will be wearing my third-best gown—the russet woollen one with the velvet trimmings—and pray it is not splashed too much.

  Lady Sarah’s tiring woman, Olwen, has almost finished squeezing Lady Sarah into her white Court damask. We have been told to wear our third-best clothes, but Lady Sarah is insisting on her best kirtle.

  Mary Shelton has just whispered to me, “Somebody hopes for a handsome sailor.”

  Lady Sarah heard us giggling and has just told us to shut up. She is still moaning about having to rise so early. Hell’s teeth! She is applying more of that foul-smelling ointment to the spot on her chin—Clown’s All-Heal and woodlice mashed together, I think. I wish I had a stopper for my nose.

  Time to end—Olwen is coming over to help me with my stays.

  What a day this has been! So exciting and unusual. I shall carry on where I left off:

  Once Olwen had laced me into my stays, I pulled on my outdoor boots and struggled to get my kirtle straight over my bumroll—I didn’t bother with a farthingale because I thought I might have a chance to explore a ship or something, and anyway, the kirtle’s a bit short for me and it shows less if I don’t wear a farthingale. Olwen then tackled my hair, which, as she is first to say, is hardly my best feature, being rather fine and mousy. She decided to hide as much of it as she could under a sweet green velvet hat with a feather.

  I then rushed into the passageway, where Mrs. Champernowne was standing tapping her foot and sighing, as we were all late.

  Lady Sarah emerged resplendent in her gown, and Mrs. Champernowne tutted.

  “Did you not hear my message, Lady Sarah?” she asked. “We will be taking the Queen’s galley down to Tilbury and the damask is sure to be splashed by the water, look you, and be all spoiled and spotted and spattered.”

  Lady Sarah only tossed her head and said, “I am in need of new apparel. This English-cut bodice is last year’s fashion, so of no great moment.”

  It’s all French cut and doublet-style this year—but I don’t call a year particularly old for a whole kirtle and bodice. And I know for a fact that Lady Sarah has five kirtles and any number of stomachers and sleeves and false fronts and petticoats. In fact, most of the mess in our bedchamber consists of Lady Sarah’s clothes. Who needs five kirtles? I know the Queen has hundreds but she’s the Queen. The Wardrobe is a Department of State, after all!

  We’d already eaten breakfast in our chambers, so Mrs. Champernowne led us down the stairs and along the Painted Passage, all holding candles and yawning fit to burst.

  The Queen was just leaving her Withdrawing Chamber, with the Chamberers still pinning her bodice. She had chosen brocade-trimmed black wool, so everyone who was wearing silk or velvet looked worried, and serve them right: silk or velvet shows water splashes even more than good wool, and any fool should know better than to out-dress the Queen.

  We passed through the palace and into the garden. Torches were burning all the way down the watersteps to where the Queen’s galley was waiting. The harbingers and trumpeters were already in rowing boats and wherries, while the Gentlemen of the Guard, in their red velvet, were climbing into gigs. It was funny to watch them cursing each other: they were having trouble fitting their long halberds into the narrow boats that were to carry them.

  The Queen’s galley is very handsome—all silver-gilt and red paint—and rowed by the Queen’s Boatmen, ten of them, who wear red and black livery and a badge. Some of the other Maids of Honour were nudging each other and pointing out the good-looking ones.

  We all had to climb in before the Queen. It wasn’t easy getting into a boat that wobbled underneath me, especially when I couldn’t see my feet for my petticoats and I couldn’t really bend in the middle because of my stays. The Chief Boatman steadied each of us with his arm, and at last we were all sitting down, two by two, along the middle of the boat.

  As usual, the Queen had asked one of her favourite gentlemen, Mr. Christopher Hatton, to accompany her. He helped Her Majesty to board, and once the Queen was settled on the cushions under her canopy, the oarsmen pushed off and started to row.

  The sun was just coming up and turning the river silver-grey and gold. Every bit of the Thames was full of boats, and wherries with red lateen sails, and gigs, and Thames ferryboats—and little private craft, all overloaded with people. The courtiers still on the watersteps were politely fighting over the few remaining craft, and the boatmen were asking shocking amounts to take them.

  I loved it. There was quite a strong wind so I had to hold onto my hat, but it was so exciting to be skimming the water and rocking a bit as the oarsmen bent to the stroke. I always love going by boat. I wanted to trail my fingers in the water, feel how cold it was, but I couldn’t reach past the gilded carving on the side, and Mrs. Champernowne was glaring at me something horrid. A swan flapped its wings and honked at her, probably because it didn’t like the look on her face, either.

  Lady Jane Coningsby and Lady Sarah ignored each other pointedly for the whole journey. Lady Jane has only lately come to Court. Another Maid of Honour, Katharine Broke, went home in disgrace after a scandal with the Duke of Norfolk’s nephew, and so Lady Jane arrived to make the number of Maids of Honour up to six again. It’s as good as a play to watch her with Lady Sarah because the two of them hate each other so. Lady Sarah has beautiful red hair—like the Queen’s, but less inclined to frizz—whereas Lady Jane has wonderful blond curls “foaming down her back,” as one of the dafter Court gentlemen wrote in a poem. Lady Sarah has more womanly curves than Lady Jane, but Lady Jane is taller and more elegant. The worst of it is that they always like exactly the same gentlemen!

  When we reached Tilbury there was a strong smell of paint. Most of the houses had been newly whitewashed in honour of the Queen’s visit—rather badly, as they all had splatters on their shutters. A crowd had gathered at the side of the muddy road, and litters were ready and waiting next to the Gentlemen of the Guard, who were all lined up.

  As we climbed laboriously out of the galley and up the steps, Lady Sarah nearly tripped on a bit of rope.

  “Do try and watch where you’re going, Lady Sarah,” sniffed Lady Jane.

  Oh, how pink Lady Sarah’s cheeks went! And her “rosebud lips” tightened into a thin line.

  Then, as Lady Jane was herself being helped ashore, a wave from a nearby boat, overloaded with courtiers, made the galley dip suddenly. She would have fallen in the water if the Queen’s Oarsman had not caught her!

  “Dear, dear,” said Lady Sarah loudly from the quay. “Somebody had a bit too much beer at breakfast.”

  “I bet you sixpence that Jane slaps Sarah first,” whispered Mary Shelton at my elbow, her eyes shining.

  I thought about this. Lady Sarah has fiery red hair and a temper to match. “Done!” I declared. “Sixpence on it.” We shook hands.

  The Queen often rides side-saddle in processions, but today she had ordered a litter with a canopy over it to shade her from the sun or keep the rain off her (far more likely!). I was praying we wouldn’t have to ride and, thank goodness, there were litters for us as well. We climbed in, arguing over who should sit in front. But while the rest of us were quarrelling, Lady Sarah had pushed her way to the front of one litter, and Lady Jane established herself at the front of the other, looking very elegant and aloof. Grumbling, the rest of us crammed in behind, then the littermen hoisted us up, and
off we went.

  As is usual when the Queen goes anywhere, it was quite a procession. The harbingers and trumpeters led the way with the Royal Standard, blasting away on their trumpets, banging drums and shouting, “The Queen! The Queen! Make way for the Queen’s Majesty!” It wasn’t really necessary, because the people looked as if they had been camping out all night to see the Queen, but it did serve to wake a couple who were still asleep, wrapped in blankets, as we went past.

  After the trumpeters marched half the Gentlemen of the Guard in their red velvet, carrying their halberds and looking miserable because their smart red hose was getting badly splashed with mud. Then came the Queen in her litter, then more Gentlemen of the Guard, then us, then the courtiers, and, at the very back, boys and dogs running along, shouting and barking.

  Everybody was waving and cheering, and the Queen was smiling and waving back and blowing kisses. It’s wonderful to watch her whenever she processes anywhere. She lights up and seems somehow bigger and more Queenly—and she never minds how muddy the road is or how smelly the people might be (though she might complain about it afterwards).

  A little girl ran out with a posy of flowers for her. But as Mr. Hatton reached out to take it from her, the Queen stopped him and gave an order for the procession to stop. Mr. Hatton then dismounted and lifted the little girl up for the Queen herself to take flowers from her sticky, outstretched paw. The Queen then gave the little girl a kiss. All the people roared at that. The Queen pinned the posy to her bodice with a flourish.

  I watched Mr. Hatton put the little girl back down on the ground. She curtsied and then, with a shining face, rushed back to tell her mamma and grandmamma all about it.

  Her Majesty then smiled and waved and bowed as the procession moved on.