A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Oh, Harry, Harry!’ I whisper. ‘I seem as far from you as if I were on the moon.’ My puppies jump up on the bed and nuzzle at me as I sit weeping alone. They are a recent gift from my father, whose bitch whelped a few weeks ago: a pair of fluffy, leggy scamps named Arthur and Guinevere. My lord expressed the gruff wish, when he gave them to me, that they would help to distract me from my sorrow. It is a comfort to know that ladies are allowed to bring their lap-dogs to court. At least I will have someone there to love.

At last, the waiting time is over, and we arrive at Whitehall. Now all that remains is to say farewell to my parents before I depart for the Queen’s lodgings. As I kneel before them to receive their blessing, my father beams at me proudly and my mother’s smile is warm; all their hopes are now in me.

‘Rise, Lady Katherine.’ To my surprise, the Queen has a deep voice like a man’s. Daring to raise my eyes, I see before me a prematurely aged lady of small, spare stature in a heavy plum-coloured velvet dress with a cloth-of-gold kirtle and a wide stand-up collar lined with exquisite embroidery. Around her waist is a bejewelled girdle, and on her breast is a large cross set with gems. Her hands are loaded with rings, and her French hood is trimmed with pearls and goldsmith’s work. The whole effect is dazzling, yet it ca

Yet suddenly she smiles, extending her hand to be kissed, and my fears are allayed.

‘You are most welcome to Whitehall, little cousin,’ she says. ‘It is time you took your proper place here. Be assured I do not hold you responsible for events that are better left in the past. You are very young, and your sister too. I assure you, I intend her no harm, and she is being well cared for. You will see her again one day soon. I trust that my lady your mother is well?’

‘Very well, your Majesty. She is here at court. She sends her love and duty to your Majesty, and awaits your pleasure, and my lord my father too.’

The Queen inclines her head graciously. ‘I am sorry for the breaking of your marriage. It must have been hard for you.’

‘Very hard, your Majesty,’ I agree fervently; then, inspired by her kindness, I fall to my knees and raise my clenched hands in supplication. ‘Please, Madam, is there anything that can be done to mend it? Harry – Lord Herbert and I – we love each other, and our separation is painful to us both.’

The Queen frowns, then gently pulls me to my feet again. ‘Hush, child! I feel for you, indeed I do. But you must understand that my lord of Pembroke has his reasons for seeking an a

Even I, i

‘Do not look so crestfallen, little cousin,’ Mary counsels me. ‘You are young yet, and one day, God willing, you will be found a more suitable husband. In the meantime, you will be joining the other ladies in my Privy Chamber. I trust it pleases you to serve me there.’

‘It is an honour that pleases me more than I can say, your Majesty,’ I say humbly, not wanting her to think me in any way unmindful of her kindness.

As a member of the Queen’s Privy Chamber, elevated and favoured by her, I can hold my head up again and face the world. It is less than I asked for, but far more than I could have expected. Better still, my new status gives me cause to be in hope that, when Pembroke sees me high in favour, the chosen servant of the Queen, and in a position of honour, he will decide after all that I am a fit bride for his son.

I have not been at court two days before I hear from the other ladies how the Lady Elizabeth, the Queen’s young half-sister, is proving obstreperous in regard to religion. Susan Clarencieux, who is closer to her Majesty than most, tells me that our good mistress had been deeply touched when Elizabeth had ridden to offer her allegiance at the time of her accession – ‘although not until she heard for certain that the Queen would be victorious,’ remarks Clarencieux tartly – and had welcomed her warmly to court.

‘They hadn’t seen each other for years, and it had always saddened the Queen to know that Elizabeth had embraced the Protestant faith. So she told her that it would make her very happy if she would accompany her to Mass. And that’s when the little madam began to play up, turning up late, or pleading a headache or a stomach ache. She even got one of her ladies to rub her belly for her as she neared the chapel!’ Clarencieux laughs at the memory, but her smile quickly fades. ‘It grieves the Queen,’ she says, shaking her head. It is obvious that she loves her mistress dearly, but has little affection for the Lady Elizabeth.

‘In the end, she had no choice but to go to Mass,’ adds A

‘Oh, she dissembled cleverly!’ Clarencieux snorts. ‘She’s a minx that one, just like her mother, and look what happened to her. No wonder the Queen doubts her sincerity, and quite rightly too, if you ask me. She fears that, if she does not marry and bear a child, the throne will go to Elizabeth, and all her cherished hopes of restoring the faith will come to naught.’

‘But surely the Queen plans to wed?’ I ask. I have heard much gossip that the choice is now between Prince Philip of Spain and Lord Edward Courtenay, a descendant of the House of York, although no one seems very keen on the prospect of either as king.

‘Yes, Lady Katherine, but nothing is certain yet,’ Clarencieux tells me.

I rise to go – I have many errands to run, and the gardens are beckoning. They are beautiful, and I want to make the most of the last warm days of the year.

The privy garden, with its symmetrical beds of flowers and herbs, railed and decorated with figures of heraldic beasts on gaily striped poles, is a tranquil place, enclosed by the long gallery on the river side and the Queen’s apartments on the other. Here, members of the Privy Chamber are free to walk and enjoy the sweet-scented air, untroubled by the courtiers who throng the Great Gardens further north.

Today, there are only a few ladies seated on stone benches, conversing quietly, and a gardener unobtrusively dead-heading the late roses. I have with me my puppies, Arthur and Guinevere, who gambol at my feet, revelling in their freedom, for in the royal apartments they are expected to be as sedate as the ladies, and I have much trouble controlling and cleaning up after them.

It is in the privy garden, fragrant with those roses, that I encounter His Excellency, Monsieur Simon Renard, the Imperial ambassador. I am already aware that he is a highly important dignitary and one of the chief advisers to the Queen: naturally she favours him as the representative of her cousin, the Emperor; of course her inclination is towards Spain, of which the Emperor is also king, because her mother, Katherine of Aragon, whose memory she reveres and cherishes, was Spanish.

To my astonishment – it is a week of wonders – Renard sweeps a courtly bow, introduces himself, pays his addresses to me in an uncommonly friendly ma

‘Her Majesty speaks especially highly of you, Lady Katherine,’ he tells me as we stroll along the paths, admiring the blooms, the puppies trotting happily beside us. Renard’s strong, handsome features are infused with warmth and admiration, and it occurs to me that his wife – whom he tells me he has perforce had to leave behind in Brussels – is a very lucky lady; he speaks of her several times, confiding how much he misses her. Yet he is not averse to paying compliments to another. ‘Rumour does not lie as to your beauty,’ he says, raising my hand to his lips and kissing it chivalrously. ‘May I speak frankly, my lady?’