Lady Knollys approached the queen in the Privy Chamber. They spoke softly, and yet all could still hear.
“Sir Francis has asked if I may accompany him to Lord Scrope’s to carry out your instructions, Majesty,” she said. It was clear by the pleading look on her face and the tone of voice she used that she wished to accompany her husband. All understood why her husband desired the happy company of his wife while carrying out such an unwelcome duty.
“I value your companionship above all women, Katherine,” the queen said gently. “I cannot do without your comfort and presence just now.”
Lady Knollys bowed her head in acceptance, but her eyes, already deeply shadowed, showed her pain. I wondered if her husband or her children resented the many years she attended the queen to their benign neglect. Lady Devereux, whom I’d seen flirting with Lord Robert, bore little love for the queen and the queen for her. I, who understood the competition between sisters over the love of a mother, considered whether their ill feelings may have long centered around the division of Lady Knollys’s time and affections, and not first Lord Robert.
The queen patted Lady Knollys’s hand fondly and rewarded her soon thereafter with the fees from a license for selling worsted cloth reverted to the crown after its owner had displeased the queen. I wondered if Sir Francis was warmed by these fees during his long, lonely journey to and stay at Carlisle Castle. That decision made it hard for me to serve the queen with anything approaching enthusiasm for several days, though I’m certain I hid it well.
Some months later, Lord Robert approached the queen in her Presence Chamber to speak to her of what had been discovered regarding the Queen of Scots.
“Come, Robin.” The queen beckoned him to her side. He drew near her, near enough to kiss, which he did not, but also near enough to share breath, and I thought that, perhaps, they did.
“They have found letters between Mary and Bothwell declaring their love, describing their physical intimacy, and slandering Lord Darnley, all dated from before Darnley’s death,” Dudley said after moving back and sitting beside her.
“Why have we not heard of this, Robin?” the queen marveled. “We instructed Norfolk to learn what he will and report back to us.”
Robert shrugged. “I’ve heard it said that Norfolk is particularly keen to keep this quiet, thus protecting Mary’s reputation from those who might otherwise be abhorred by her shameful conduct.”
At this, the queen sat up. I took the goblet from her hand; she handed it to me without acknowledging my presence. There was only one reason that Norfolk, who was rumored to be secretly practicing Catholicism while acting outwardly Protestant, had to protect Mary. He was plotting on her behalf.
“We will have the next meeting of the council here, at Westminster,” she declared. “And then Cecil will attend as well. We will not condemn a crowned queen based on hearsay.”
We women looked at one another, all thinking, perhaps, of Elizabeth’s mother, Queen Anne Boleyn, convicted and beheaded on whispers and a lone, pitiful, racked confession.
“I shall look upon this evidence myself,” she finished. Within weeks, she did, as did many of her courtiers, all of whom were shocked by the unsavory contents. To those gathered the queen sadly pronounced, “The letters contained many matters that cannot be repeated before honest ears, and may be easily drawn to be clear proof against the queen.”
She looked tired. In light of the findings, there was no way to receive Mary at court, but the queen did send clothing and finances and promised to underwrite her household expenses, which was no mean amount. It didn’t please her vanity, either, when her own courtiers seemed taken with the much younger Mary’s beauty and charm. After returning from a visit to Carlisle, one of Elizabeth’s courtiers told Cecil, when he was unaware that we ladies were nearby, “Mary has an alluring grace, a pretty Scottish accent, and a searching wit, clouded with mildness. Fame might move some to relieve her of her miseries,” he finished, “and glory might stir others to risk much for her sake.”
William told me that Norfolk had asked to take some of William’s birds on a hawking expedition he was undertaking with Maitland, who had once been secretary to Mary, Queen of Scots, but was now an emissary on behalf of the new Scottish government.
“Do you doubt Maitland?” I asked.
“I doubt him not at all,” William replied. “I am certain he is in the employ of the Scots queen and arranging with Norfolk for marriage between them, and then from there to rule England. Norfolk has already pressed the Privy Council to agree that Mary will be freed if she is safely married to an English lord. I’m certain he has just such a lord in mind.”
We talked for some time and then I grew weary. “Good night, William,” I softly said, preparing to leave for my own chamber. I’d felt increasingly odd kissing him knowing that he was still married, even though his “wife” had not spoken to him for decades and had left him for another man, and so I didn’t. He respected that but I know it pained him. He continued to treat me with the utmost respect and affection, and we spent time together at court, hawking, dancing, and studying Italian, but we’d grown distant. I sorrowed that, but I could not give my heart to a man I knew was not mine.
“Good night, Helena,” he replied.
We were in ginnungugap, the Nordic place of void and in-between. I finally determined that, should another suitor appear while William’s wife still lived, I was free to consider him. I had acted charitably and in good faith, but I couldn’t allow feelings for a married man to grow, nor set aside my own life forever.
SIX
Year of Our Lord 1569
The Palace of Whitehall
Just after the new year, Lady Knollys, who had been unwell, grew fainter and more ill. She was confined to her bed and the queen visited her daily, often more than once. The queen was sore vexed and could scarce think of anything else but Lady Knollys and her illness. As I was serving her I noticed that her hands, of which she was inordinately proud, were red from wringing.
“Your Grace, may I apply a salve upon your hands, and some gloves, for your comfort?” I asked.
The queen silently nodded. I rubbed them with a lightly herbed ointment and slipped a pair of the gloves she was known for over her hands. The next day, she called me aside. “We thank you, Lady von Snakenborg, as our hands are less tender and raw.”
“I shall salve them each evening, madam,” I said.
Within days, Lady Knollys died. Her Majesty could not be consoled for a week or more; her eyes were red-rimmed and every conversation turned to good Lady Knollys. Sir Francis was recalled. When I saw him, I was shocked. He’d aged more than ten years and his gaunt face was stone struck with grief. Blanche Parry asked me to assemble into trunks Lady Knollys’s belongings, and to care for Her Majesty’s birds, which had been Lady Knollys’s responsibility. I readily agreed.