hours. Suffered the terrible uncertainty of that damp cell, then walked from the dread fortress—but not to Tower Green and the block. Elizabeth had been placed under house arrest at the manor of Woodstock. I imagined the reunion the women shared when Elizabeth was no longer a friendless princess, but rather, queen.
Markham’s eyes narrowed as if she had traced my thoughts. “You are a cunning little snip.” I was not sure whether she meant it as compliment or criticism. “Have you studied the lot of us before you arrived here? Perhaps Lettice is wise to be wary of you.”
“I have not studied you at all. I visited the Tower as a child, and asked many questions about the princess. Sir John Bridges and my father indulged my curiosity.”
Markham’s eyes darkened. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing at court.”
The flame-haired Lettice flounced over to me. “You will find that out for yourself, Mistress, for all of Whitehall will be turning its scrutiny upon you.”
“May I present Lady Lettice Knollys?” Markham said, an edge to her voice. “She is quite a great lady here. And not just in beauty. She is the queen’s own cousin. Granddaughter of Mary Boleyn, Queen Anne’s sister.”
It was no secret that Mary Boleyn’s eldest daughter, Catherine Knollys, was King Henry’s child. So royal blood flowed in Lettice’s veins—unless you believed the Boleyn women were something more sinister. There were many who would claim the proud Lettice was niece not only to a beheaded queen, but to a witch. Lettice made a token curtsey; she looked like a more finely drawn copy of portraits I had seen of the queen herself.
“My mother was still near a child herself when Queen Anne was executed,” Lettice boasted. “She stayed with Queen Anne in the Tower and walked with her, even to the scaffold. And when Elizabeth was a neglected princess my mother was her most loyal friend. It broke Elizabeth’s heart when my mother chose to flee England for the continent, rather than live under Catholic rule.”
Many prominent Protestants had left thus during Mary Tudor’s troubled rule. But they had flocked back home when the Catholic queen died.
“There is much Tudor blood in this room.” Lettice shook me from my thoughts. “Lady Mary Grey’s sister, Jane, thought herself royal enough to steal the crown.”
I scanned the women, searching for the one who had grown up in the nursery with the ill-fated nine days’ queen. I glimpsed a brown-haired lady with great, soft eyes and a sweet yet lively smile. Lettice followed the direction of my gaze.
“You mistake Lady Sidney for Mary Grey?” she snickered. “The sister of the famous Sir Phillip, bred from one of the handsomest lines in England for that bad animal? Perhaps Lady Sidney could hoist Lady Mary onto a table so our new guest can see her.”
At that moment, the dwarf who had glared so sourly stalked within a hand’s breadth of me. Craning her head back so far back that her French hood seemed like to tumble off, she crimped her lips together.
I swallowed hard. “You are Lady Mary Grey?”
“I am.” Her eyes dared me to doubt her. I know she read my thoughts. I had been certain she was a court fool, her task to amuse the ladies with her capering and her jests. But the blood of both Lancaster and York flowed in her torturously shaped body. She was Plantagenet as well as Tudor. Royal as well as disfigured.
I was groping for words to soothe her when the Mother of the Maids of Honor charged up to me with such force of character I had to lock my knees to keep from taking an involuntary step back. “I am Lady Betty,” she said, “and it is my responsibility to see you presentable when the queen summons you. It will be no small task from the look of you. Hot water, at once,” she barked at a servant. “Nigh on to boiling. And soap and rags to scrub her.”
Moll scoured me scarlet with scented soaps and rinsed the dust from my hair to make me ready to take the
Markham’s eyes narrowed as if she had traced my thoughts. “You are a cunning little snip.” I was not sure whether she meant it as compliment or criticism. “Have you studied the lot of us before you arrived here? Perhaps Lettice is wise to be wary of you.”
“I have not studied you at all. I visited the Tower as a child, and asked many questions about the princess. Sir John Bridges and my father indulged my curiosity.”
Markham’s eyes darkened. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing at court.”
The flame-haired Lettice flounced over to me. “You will find that out for yourself, Mistress, for all of Whitehall will be turning its scrutiny upon you.”
“May I present Lady Lettice Knollys?” Markham said, an edge to her voice. “She is quite a great lady here. And not just in beauty. She is the queen’s own cousin. Granddaughter of Mary Boleyn, Queen Anne’s sister.”
It was no secret that Mary Boleyn’s eldest daughter, Catherine Knollys, was King Henry’s child. So royal blood flowed in Lettice’s veins—unless you believed the Boleyn women were something more sinister. There were many who would claim the proud Lettice was niece not only to a beheaded queen, but to a witch. Lettice made a token curtsey; she looked like a more finely drawn copy of portraits I had seen of the queen herself.
“My mother was still near a child herself when Queen Anne was executed,” Lettice boasted. “She stayed with Queen Anne in the Tower and walked with her, even to the scaffold. And when Elizabeth was a neglected princess my mother was her most loyal friend. It broke Elizabeth’s heart when my mother chose to flee England for the continent, rather than live under Catholic rule.”
Many prominent Protestants had left thus during Mary Tudor’s troubled rule. But they had flocked back home when the Catholic queen died.
“There is much Tudor blood in this room.” Lettice shook me from my thoughts. “Lady Mary Grey’s sister, Jane, thought herself royal enough to steal the crown.”
I scanned the women, searching for the one who had grown up in the nursery with the ill-fated nine days’ queen. I glimpsed a brown-haired lady with great, soft eyes and a sweet yet lively smile. Lettice followed the direction of my gaze.
“You mistake Lady Sidney for Mary Grey?” she snickered. “The sister of the famous Sir Phillip, bred from one of the handsomest lines in England for that bad animal? Perhaps Lady Sidney could hoist Lady Mary onto a table so our new guest can see her.”
At that moment, the dwarf who had glared so sourly stalked within a hand’s breadth of me. Craning her head back so far back that her French hood seemed like to tumble off, she crimped her lips together.
I swallowed hard. “You are Lady Mary Grey?”
“I am.” Her eyes dared me to doubt her. I know she read my thoughts. I had been certain she was a court fool, her task to amuse the ladies with her capering and her jests. But the blood of both Lancaster and York flowed in her torturously shaped body. She was Plantagenet as well as Tudor. Royal as well as disfigured.
I was groping for words to soothe her when the Mother of the Maids of Honor charged up to me with such force of character I had to lock my knees to keep from taking an involuntary step back. “I am Lady Betty,” she said, “and it is my responsibility to see you presentable when the queen summons you. It will be no small task from the look of you. Hot water, at once,” she barked at a servant. “Nigh on to boiling. And soap and rags to scrub her.”
Moll scoured me scarlet with scented soaps and rinsed the dust from my hair to make me ready to take the
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