At last Ned has written to me—at last. Perhaps he has written from the coast and he has returned to England already and is riding north to find me. I am so glad to see his letter that I quite forget my resentment that it comes so late. It does not matter. Nothing matters. If he will come to me now, we can confess; I can break my betrothal to Henry Herbert and we can tell the queen, and all will be well. As little Mary says, so wise for her years: a home and a husband, what more do I want?
But then I see it is not Ned’s handwriting, nor his seal. As soon as I have it in my hand my hopes plummet. I leave the busy stable yard, where the grooms are taking the horses from the court and turning them out into rich meadows, and step into the garden, where the trees make a cool shade over a stone bench and I can sit and rest my aching back and read my letter.
It is from Henry Herbert. It is quite dreadful.
Having hitherto led a virtuous life, I will not now begin with loss of honor to lead the rest of my life with a whore that almost every man talks of . . .
I nearly drop the page. I think I am going to faint; I am breathless with horror. I read it again. He calls me a whore; he says that every man talks of me. I can feel my heart pounding and the baby in my belly has gone still, as if he too is frozen with horror at the insult to his mother.
“Ned,” I whisper miserably. I cannot believe that he should stay away and let this terrible thing happen to me. I cannot believe that our love affair should end up in this disaster: a baby in my belly and Henry Herbert—Henry Herbert of all people!—accusing me of being a whore.
You sought to entrap me with some poisoned bait under the color of sugared friendship yet (I thank God) I am so clear that I am not to be further touched than with a few tokens that were by cunning slight got out of my hands both to cover your abomination and his likewise.
He knows I am with child. He does not name Ned, but there will be others quick enough to ruin Ned’s good name with mine. I have to return Herbert’s gifts and beg him to keep silent. Clearly, he is furious with me for trying to entrap him, and I cannot in all honesty say that he is wrong and I am innocent. I can’t blame him for his outrage. I would have married him and used his name to hide my terrible shame. And, of course, in my heart I always knew that it would not have worked. I might have given birth before I got to the altar. I would have had to tell him the very moment that we were married and then he would have been as furious with me as he is now.
But then I would have been his wife and my baby would have had his name, and I would have won myself a refuge, even if it were temporary. But anyway, what else could I do? I thought that if I could just be a wife when I gave birth then that would be enough for me. My baby would have a name, I would have a husband. Now I will be openly shamed on the birth of my baby and named as a whore by a young man that I tried to marry and cuckold in the very same moment.
I drop my head into my hands and I cry into the page of his cruel letter. I really don’t know what I am going to do. I really have no idea what I should do now, and at this very moment, the baby gives a turn and sits heavily inside me, pressing on my belly so that I have to hurry to the garderobe at once to piss again. I think: my God, this is misery. I think: this is the worst misery that I could imagine, and it is happening to me. I was so very happy as Ned’s wife and Janey’s friend, as the queen’s heir and the saint’s sister, and now I am thrown down so very low. Very low. So low that I can’t quite see how I will ever rise again.
It is not difficult to persuade the ladies of Elizabeth’s chamber that I am not well. The strain in my face robs me of my girlish prettiness, and I cannot sleep at night, for the baby kicks and presses against me as soon as I lie down. I have dark shadows under my eyes and my beautiful creamy skin is spoiled with a rash of spots. Anyone would think me sick with a flux. I am swollen as if I had a dropsy and I am constantly aching in my back and in my groin. And every day, in attendance on the queen, I have to stand and stand while she sits and walks and dances. I have to curtsey with a straight back, I have to smile. I think that this is like a long torture, as bad as any instrument in the Tower, and that it would be better for me to confess and face my sentence than go on every day with these lies in my mouth and this constant pain. If they were racking me, it could hardly be worse.
The progress moves onward, from beautiful house to welcoming host, Elizabeth as merry as a pig in clover, with Robert Dudley at her side all day, dancing with her all evening and sleeping in an adjoining room at night. They are like young lovers, flirting and laughing, gambling and riding together. They are as happy together as Ned and I were—before she sent him away and condemned me to loneliness and shame.
I write to one of the maids left behind at Westminster and ask her to go to my chest in the treasure room, take out my jewel box, and send me everything that Henry Herbert gave me. I must get his stupid portrait back to him, and the locket with a lock of his hair. I have spent his money so I cannot refund him.
PIRGO PALACE, ESSEX,
SUMMER 1561
I hear nothing from my maid, and I am afraid that she has not had my letter, or she cannot find my things, or there is some muddle. Before I write again to tell her to hurry up and do as she is bid, the court arrives at my uncle John Grey’s new house at Pirgo. He is touchingly proud of his house, a royal mansion, given to him by the queen. He believes that such a mark of favor to him must surely spill over to me. He gives me prominent roles in the entertainments for the queen; he wants me to lead the dances. He cannot understand why I shrink from her attention.
“And you’re losing your looks,” he complains. “What’s the matter with you, girl? You’ve got fat. You can’t overeat until you are named as royal heir and declared by parliament. The queen has no patience for gluttons. We all want a pretty heir who looks like a fertile girl. But you look exhausted.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say shortly.
For a moment I wonder if I can tell him that I am deep in a sin far worse than gluttony, but I look at his hard-chiseled face and I dare not tell him that yet another Grey niece has put herself on the wrong side of the throne.
“What’s that you’ve got under your cape?” he demands suddenly.
“My cat, called Ribbon,” I say.
He does not smile at the pretty white cat. “Ridiculous,” he says. “Don’t let my hounds see it; they’ll tear it apart.”
“Letter for Lady Katherine,” his groom of the servery says, and hands me a letter with the Pembroke crest. “Messenger waiting for a reply.”
“Oh, really?” my uncle cheers up in a moment. “Henry Herbert writing to you, is he? His father spoke to me a little while ago. Said that they might think of renewing your betrothal. Open it up, girl.”
“I would rather read it later,” I say. My mouth is very dry.
He laughs. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he says, and turns to the groom and speaks of the arrangements for the queen’s dinner while I break the seal and spread out the one page.
Without delay I require you, madam, to send me, by this bearer, those letters and tokens with my picture that I sent you or else, to be plain with you, I will make you as well known to all the world as your whoredom is now, I thank God, known to me and spied by many scores more.
I think I may be sick. I read the words and reread them. He knows I am on progress—does he imagine I carry his portrait with me everywhere? Poor fool: I suppose he does. How vain he is, I think wildly. How stupid. How glad I am that we’re not going to marry, and then I think: oh God, if we’re not going to marry, if he’s going to name me as a whore, what am I going to do?
“All well?” my uncle inquires. “You don’t look too happy? A lover’s tiff?”
“It’s all well,” I say, stammering on the lie.