A Dangerous Inheritance

The Lady Elizabeth is in the Tower. It is a great scandal. The talk is that she was secretly involved in Wyatt’s rebellion, and will shortly be accused of treason and sent to the block, going the way of her mother. That rouses me a little, but I am in no mood to gloat over an enemy brought low: I can only feel for her. Yet the investigation drags on and on, and still the Council does not proceed against Elizabeth. Next we hear, she has left the Tower and been moved under house arrest to Woodstock, where the Queen – who has no love for her sister these days – means to keep her out of mischief.

Gradually, as I reaccustom myself to the routine of her Majesty’s daily round and my duties, I begin to take pleasure in small things once more. My dogs, for example – they have been my one comfort through all this. And there are others. Sometimes, when there are festivities at court, we are allowed to leave off our regulation black or tawny gowns and borrow finery from her Majesty’s own wardrobe. It is while trying on a selection of elegant beaded or beribboned dresses with some giggling maids-of-honour that I learn to smile again, and begin once more to enjoy the camaraderie that exists in the Privy Chamber and the maidens’ dorter: the merriment, the music, the sweetmeats and the endless games of cards and dice.

In July, feeling in slightly better spirits, I am present with my mother and sister in Winchester Cathedral when Queen Mary marries Philip of Spain amidst magnificent celebrations. I watch her Majesty vow herself, enraptured, to the fair but cold-eyed Prince, and observe them together at the great feast in Wolvesey Palace that follows. She looks ecstatic, he reserved and correct, and plainly disdainful of English customs. I notice his eye alight with interest on statuesque Magdalen Dacre, one of her Majesty’s ladies, and then flicker away again, with fleeting distaste, to his royal wife. I feel sorry for my mistress, for she has expected so much from this marriage. But she sits there in her purple cloth-of-gold gown, a look of bliss on her face, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.

I see Harry among the laughing, jesting guests, and want to weep because he does not seem to notice me. I’ve heard he has been appointed to serve the new King. He is on his way up, I think bitterly, unhampered by an unsuitable marriage. I could even feel envy for Queen Mary, but when I look at that stiff young man who is now her husband, I wonder how he will deal with his ageing wife’s i

My true restoration to life and happiness is down to Lady Jane Seymour, the Duchess of Somerset’s daughter. Jane and her sister Margaret are both maids-of-honour to Queen Mary, and I first met them when I joined the Queen’s household. The elder, Margaret, is haughty like her mother, and I could never take to her; but Jane is a fair, ethereal-looking and merry maiden of thirteen, a year younger than me. After ten minutes in her company, I felt I had known her all my life. She is gentle and warm with me, and enfolds my poor lost soul in kindness. Before long, I realise I have made a true friend.

Soon, I find myself spending most of my free time with Jane Seymour. She is one of only two unmarried daughters left in her family, and disgruntled because of it. She fears she will never escape her mother’s clutches, for she is delicate in frame and in health, and deemed too frail for the duties of matrimony. And yet matrimony is all that she thinks of.

‘Ah, but I do dream that one day some great lord will ask for me and persuade my mother to give her consent,’ she sighs, as we kneel in our nightgowns, gossiping on her bed. ‘In truth, I long to bed with a man!’ And she collapses into giggles. I am touched that she deems me worthy of her trust and friendship, and glad to have someone to confide in, although there are some things of which it is painful to speak.

‘It is my constant desire to be reunited with my husband,’ I confess haltingly.

‘I’m sure the Queen will permit it, in time,’ says Jane, her smile kind. ‘Cheer up, do! We shall be very merry now that we are gossips, my good Kate!’ Then her face falls. ‘Forgive me – I did not think. In my pleasure at having you here in the Privy Chamber, I had forgotten that you have so much to be sad about. How very insensitive of me. Do say you forgive me.’

She is irrepressible, like a puppy, and seems mature for her years, for she has been well educated and has even had her Latin poetry published in Paris – I am much impressed by that. Intrepid Jane must always be the leader, always the one who makes the suggestions. ‘We shall go riding today!’ she tells me, or ‘We shall practise our dance steps – I will teach you how to do a very stately pavane!’ And I, by dint of having been a younger sister always in the shadow of an elder, and not much minding what I do, am content to follow, sadly wishing myself with another Jane in another time. Alas, it can never be, and sometimes the sense of loss is unbearable.

‘Do not overtire yourself, Lady Jane,’ my mother often admonishes. ‘The Duchess would not wish it.’ But Jane ignores her. She is a strong character and very wilful. ‘I am perfectly well,’ she mutters under her breath, but then she will pant heavily as we climb the endless palace stairs, or sink onto a bench after racing through the gardens. I know not what is wrong with her, and do not like to ask. Apparently she has always been delicate, right from birth. ‘I was not expected to live,’ she told me once, ‘but look at me now!’ And she twirled before me, her wide skirts flaring out from her too-thin waist. Then she began coughing. ‘I’m all right, really I am,’ she choked.

As the weeks pass, and the dark days of tragedy recede into the distance, and I learn that life goes on and that the human spirit can still find much to enjoy in it, I come to value Jane’s friendship. At last there is someone who understands me, for the Seymours too have known tragedy.

Jane is a true daughter of her House. She and her family burn to restore the Seymour family to greatness, and all have big ambitions. Jane speaks often of her eldest brother, Lord Edward, who was once betrothed to my sister Jane. She sounds as ambitious for him as she is for herself. She longs to see their father’s titles and honours restored to him.

‘It is a pity our families were not allied by marriage,’ she says. ‘I would have rejoiced to have you as a sister.’

‘But we are more than sisters,’ I tell her. ‘You are my heart’s friend, and it shall ever be so!’

I receive astonishing news. My mother has remarried, at the advanced age of thirty-eight. Many think it quite shocking that she has condescended to wed her Master of Horse, Mr Stokes, but I suspect he has long been her lover. It has caused a stir, of course, for he is far below her in rank.

But I’ve always liked Mr Stokes. Although he’s not wealthy, and has debatable dress sense, he’s amiable and loyal, and he has ever been kind to me and my sisters, so for these reasons alone I have no objection to the marriage. At least my mother now has someone to comfort her and distract her mind from her terrible losses. (Would that I had the same!) And the Queen, bless her, has received them both at court, confounding the gossips and those who audibly whispered ‘Traitor!’ whenever my mother showed her face. In time, the scandal will die down, as all scandals do, and I think Mr Stokes will prove himself an admirable stepfather.

I am promoted! I am advanced to be Lady of the Bedchamber, and my sister Mary also. That ranks us both among her Majesty’s closest and most trusted attendants. I am with her when she triumphantly a