“One that Janey knew.”
He nods. “And you have letters from Seymour. Did he give you money? Did he give you deeds to land?”
“I have a letter of betrothal and his will names me as his wife and his heir,” I say proudly.
Robert nods.
“I have a poem,” I say.
He puts his hand over his forehead and rubs his eyes, as if he is trying not to laugh. “Never mind that. Now listen, Katherine. I cannot send you into hiding. That would make things worse for you and very bad for me. I will tell the queen what you have told me and you will have to face her. She will be very angry. You should not have married without her permission—as an heir to the throne your husband is of tremendous importance to the safety of the realm. But it’s done, and thank God, you could have done a lot worse. He’s not a Spanish spy or a papist, he’s got no claim in Scotland. He’s of a good family—a reformer, thank God, and well liked—and you are with child, and if you have a boy, then it eases some of the pressure on her.”
“She could marry who she liked, if she had a Protestant English boy heir,” I observe.
Dudley’s dark eyes flash at me. “So she could,” he agrees. “But it is not for you to observe. Don’t try to be clever. It is very evident that you’re not that. So you are going to go to your room and, in the morning, wash your face and dress and do your hair and wait for me to send for you. I am going to wake the queen early, and tell her what you have told me.”
I am about to say that he cannot wake the queen, that no one can enter her bedroom in the morning until she orders it. But then I remember the interconnecting door and I see that Robert Dudley can come and go as he pleases.
“Will you tell her that I am very, very sorry?” I say quietly. “Ned and I fell in love. I love him still. I will never love anyone but him. I did not do it to offend her. I thought of nothing but how much I love him.”
“I’ll do my best to explain,” Robert says shortly. “But I can tell you now, she’ll never understand. Go now.”
All morning I wait in my room for the summons to Elizabeth. I am sick with fear. I have been sick in the morning for months from the baby; now I am sick with fear of the queen. I wonder if I am ever going to feel well again, if I am ever going to be happy again. I think of my poor sister and how she waited to hear from this queen’s sister whether she was to live or die, and I think that it is odd, and cruel, and incomprehensible that Jane should have died for her faith and that I should be scared to death for love, and that we will never be able to talk about this. I will give birth to her nephew, and he will never know her.
At midday one of the ladies, Peggy, puts her head round the door and says: “She’s asking for you. We’re going on the river. You picked a bad day to take off!”
“She wants me?” I am out of my chair and on my feet in a moment, ignoring the swimming sensation in my head.
“She just wants to know where you are. I said you had overslept. But you’d better show your face.”
I take a glance at myself in my little beaten-silver looking glass. The gentle tones of the reflection show me a beauty: creamy skin, golden hair, dark eyes.
“Come on,” says Peggy disagreeably. “They’re getting into the boats now.”
“She wants me to come out on the river?”
“Didn’t I just say?”
I hurry behind her and the two of us go to the quayside. I cannot believe that Elizabeth is going to interrogate me while sailing on the river. I thought she would send for me the moment that Robert Dudley spoke to her. I cannot understand what is happening. Elizabeth has been in a bad mood since her arrival in Ipswich. The town is passionately in favor of the reformed religion, and Elizabeth has a hankering for the old ways of the Church. The ministers here have wives, and Elizabeth longs for a celibate clergy dressed in the richest of robes. She is such a silly mix of reform and papistry; she is not serious about her faith like Jane. They have promised her a water masque of boats, to take her mind off her complaints, and we all have to take our places on one of the great trading ships, to dine and watch the display that has been prepared for Elizabeth’s amusement.
Robert Dudley is at her side and he meets my anxious inquiring look with an expression of complete blankness. Clearly, I am to seek no help from him. Elizabeth inclines her head to my curtsey but does not summon me to her side. She is neither angry nor sympathetic, she is like she always is—frosty. It is as if nothing has been said about my condition. For a moment I think that he cannot have told her anything, that his nerve failed him at the last moment. A little quieting gesture of his hand behind her throne warns me to say nothing and do nothing, and I curtsey again and step back.
The ship is anchored and the outgoing tide makes it pull against the hawser and rock and twist. It’s a horrible movement, both side to side and up and down at the same time. It’s far worse than rowing in a barge. I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat and my mouth is filled with brine.
“We will dine,” says Elizabeth as if she can read my white face and knows that I am afraid that I will not make it through the day without vomiting. “Ah,” she says. “Oysters!”
The famous Colchester oysters are offered to the queen and she slides her eyes to Robert Dudley and says: “Is it true that they inspire lust in the unwary?”
“Not only in the unwary,” he replies, and the two of them laugh together.
“Perhaps virgins like Lady Katherine and I should not taste them?” she says. The server, taking the hint, immediately proffers Elizabeth’s great platter of oysters to me. With her dark gaze on me, I have to take one.
“It depends if you like the taste,” Robert explains. “I, myself, can’t get enough of it.”
She laughs and slaps his hand away from another shell, but she is watching me. I cannot refuse to eat a gift from the queen’s platter, and I raise the shell to my mouth. The smell of seaweed and the sight of the gluey shell is going to be too much for me. I know I am never going to be able to eat it. I know I am going to disgrace myself before the court. I can taste the salt of hot bile in my mouth, I can feel my stomach churn and heave.
“Bon appétit!” the queen says to me, her sharp eyes on my green face.
“And to you, Your Majesty,” I say, and I open my mouth and pour it down and swallow it down. I close my mouth like a trap and I hold it.
The queen laughs so hard that she has to cling to Robert’s hands. “Your face!” she exclaims. “Have another!” she begs me. “Have more.”
I cannot speak to Robert Dudley privately till the evening after chapel. I manage to get beside him as we take our places in the great hall. “Did you tell her?” I demand.
“I told her; but she won’t speak of it till we are back in London,” he says. He glances forward to the top table, where the queen’s bronze head turns back to look for him. “Excuse me.”
“Is she not angry? Will she forgive me?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “She says that she won’t speak of it till London. What d’you think?”
I don’t know what to think, except that every day of the progress must bring me nearer to my confinement and the only person who has an opinion on the matter—Robert Dudley (of all the midwives a young woman might choose)—thinks that it must be September. Thank God we will be back in London by September and the queen will tell me then what I am to do. Nothing could be worse than this daily ordeal of travel, these miserable nights of amusement, and this terror of discovery every day.
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,
SUMMER 1561