“Where is Lady Mary?” she asks as soon as she is off her horse, as if she loves me dearly and has missed me all day, and I step forward to take her beautifully embroidered leather riding gloves. Someone else takes her whip and she holds out her white hand to Robert Dudley, who leads her out of the sunlight into the cool dimness of Windsor Castle, where breakfast is served in the great hall and the Spanish ambassador is waiting to greet her.
I take the gloves to the royal wardrobe rooms, dust them with a little perfumed powder, and wrap them in silk, and then I return to the hall to take my seat at the table for the ladies-in-waiting. Elizabeth sits at the top table with the Spanish ambassador on one side and Robert Dudley on the other. I sit at the head of the table for the ladies; I am her cousin, I am the daughter of a princess of the blood. We all bow our heads for grace, which Elizabeth defiantly hears in Latin to show her scholarship more than her piety, and then the servants bring in the ewers and bowls for us to wash our hands. Then they bring in one great dish after another. Everyone is hungry from the morning in the saddle, and the great joints of meat and fresh-baked loaves are served to each table.
“Have you heard from your sister?” Bess St. Loe asks me quietly.
“I write, but she does not reply,” I say. “She is allowed to receive my letters, though my uncle has to read them first, but she does not reply.”
“What’s wrong with her—oh! not the plague?”
“No, thanks be to God, it has not reached Pirgo. My uncle tells me that she will not eat, and that she cannot stop crying.”
Aunt Bess’s expression is tender. “Oh, my dear.”
“Yes,” I say tightly. “When the queen took her child, I think that she broke Katherine’s heart.”
“But she will forgive her, and she will reunite them. She is gracious. And Katherine is the only heir of our faith. Elizabeth must turn to her.”
“I know,” I say. “I know that she will in time. But these are hard days for my sister while we wait. And it is cruel to her two little boys, who have never known anything but confinement. Would you speak to the queen?”
“Perhaps they, at least, could be released . . .” Bess starts, and then breaks off as the queen rises from the breakfast table and says that she will walk with the Spanish ambassador and Robert Dudley in the walled garden. Three ladies are to walk behind her, the rest of us are free for an hour or two. We rise and follow her out of the hall and curtsey as she goes through the garden door, Robert Dudley offering his hand on one side, álvaro de la Quadra on the other. Elizabeth is where she loves to be—at the center of attention with a man on either side. I think that if she were not a queen she would certainly be a whore. As they pass through, and the door is closed behind them by the guard, I slip away in the opposite direction, to the main gate. It is bolted shut against the plague, but there is a handsome guardsman on duty inside at the wicket gate. As I approach he bows and offers his hand to help me clamber through the narrow doorway.
Thomas stands on guard outside the bolted gate, arms folded over his broad chest, a huge man in the Tudor livery, the queen’s sergeant porter. I feel myself smile for the first time today at the mere sight of him.
“Lady Mary!” he says as I bob up at his elbow. He drops to one knee on the cobbles so that his face is on a level with mine, his brown eyes loving. “Are you free for long? Will you sit in the gatehouse?”
“I have an hour,” I say. “She’s walking in the garden.”
Thomas orders one of the guards to take his place and leads me to the gatehouse, where he watches me climb into his big chair beside his table. He pours me a glass of small ale from the pitcher in the little pantry, and takes a seat on a low stool close by, so that we are head-to-head.
“Any news of your sister?” he asks.
“Nothing new. I asked Robert Dudley if he would speak again to the queen and he says that it is no use, and it only angers her more.”
“You have to wait?”
“We have to wait,” I confirm.
“Then I suppose our business must wait, too,” he says gently.
I put my hand on his broad shoulder and finger the Tudor rose on his collar. “You know that I would marry you tomorrow if I could. But I cannot ask Elizabeth for anything now, not until she has pardoned Katherine. My sister’s freedom must come first.”
“Why would she mind?” he asks wonderingly. “Why does a great queen like her mind so much about your sister? Is it not a private matter of the heart? The Earl of Hertford carries an honorable name, why may your sister not live as his wife?”
I hesitate. Thomas has the simple views of an honest man. He stands at the gate every day and is responsible for the safety of a most contradictory queen. There are those who love Elizabeth and would die for her, who beg entry to her castles so that they can see her, as if she were a saint, so that they can go home and tell their children that they have seen the greatest woman in Christendom, laden with jewels in glorious majesty at her dinner. Then there are those who hate her so much for taking the country further and further away from the Church of Rome, they call her a heretic and would poison her, or knife her, or set a trap for her. Some visitors despise her for her promiscuity, some suspect her of adultery, and some even accuse her of using black arts, of being malformed, of hiding a bastard child, of being a man. Every man and woman of every shade of opinion passes under Thomas’s thoughtful gaze and yet he persists in thinking the best of them, trusts them as far as is safe, guides them homeward if he thinks they might be a danger, and believes that people are on the whole as good and kindly as himself.
“I don’t know why Elizabeth cannot tolerate Katherine’s marriage,” I say, measuring my words. “I know that she fears that if Katherine is named as her successor, then everyone will desert her and Katherine will plot against her, just as Margaret Douglas, another of our cousins, does. But more than that, it’s not just Katherine—Elizabeth doesn’t like anyone marrying; she doesn’t like attention on anyone but herself. None of us ladies-in-waiting expect permission to marry. She won’t even allow us to talk about it. Everyone at court has to be in love with her.”
Thomas chuckles tolerantly. “Well, she’s the queen,” he concedes. “I suppose she can have her court as she likes it. Shall I come in this evening when I have locked the gate?”
“I’ll meet you in the garden,” I promise him.
He takes my little hand in his huge paw and kisses it gently. “I am so honored,” he says quietly. “I think of you all day, you know, and I look for you coming in and out of my gate. I love to see you riding by, so high on your horse and so pretty in your gowns.”
I lay my cheek against his head as he bows over my hand. His hair is thick and curly and it smells of the open air. I think that in all of this dangerous uncertain world I have found the only man whom I can trust. I think that he does not know how precious this is to me.
“When did you first look for me?” I whisper.
He raises his head and smiles at my childishness, in wanting the story repeated. “I noticed you when you first came to court when you were not even ten years old, a tiny little girl. I remember seeing you on your big horse and fearing for you. And then I saw how you handled him and I knew that you were a little lady to be reckoned with.”
“You were the grandest man I had ever seen,” I tell him. “The queen’s sergeant porter, so handsome in your livery, and as tall as a tree, as broad as a trunk, like a great oak tree.”