Cate of the Lost Colony Page 9

  I regarded Emme with astonishment. I wished I could be as practical and sure of myself. She was a sturdy bark navigating the rough waters of the queen’s court, while I was a shallow wherry, always in danger of capsizing.

  That summer the queen was peevish, prone to outbursts and harsh accusations. Walsingham scurried through the halls, his beadlike eyes darting back and forth, and Robert Dudley was often in the queen’s privy chamber. When an ashen-faced Earl of Shrewsbury was called in, we knew the furtive business concerned the Scottish queen. Then Shrewsbury’s former page, one Anthony Babington, was arrested for plotting to assassinate Elizabeth and put Mary on her throne. After being hanged, Babington—still alive—was disemboweled, then quartered and beheaded. Balladeers sang the news of the gruesome death, which made me sick to think about. The damning piece of evidence against Mary was a letter written in her hand, approving the plot. The wily queen smuggled out her correspondence in a box hidden in a cask of beer, but the wilier Walsingham discovered it.

  I ran to the chest where my own letters were hidden. They were still there, resting beside a pair of too-small shoes atop a hornbook from my childhood. Usually I placed the bundle beneath the hornbook. And the knot in the handkerchief seemed looser. Had I tied it carelessly? I undid the knot, thumbed through the letters, and assured myself nothing was missing. I folded the handkerchief and placed it in the toe of a shoe. I tied a ribbon around the letters and hid them inside my mattress. I determined to burn them at the earliest opportunity, for the Babington affair had frightened me.

  The Scottish queen stood trial for her treason, which upset my royal mistress so much one would have thought she, not Mary, was to be judged. She could not eat. I set a platter of stew before her, but she pushed it away so violently it spilled all over my skirt before hitting the floor, where the dogs fell upon it.

  “She sought every opportunity to betray me. She must die,” Elizabeth said to the dogs. “But she is my cousin, my own flesh and blood!” She slammed her palms onto the table and stood up, shouting for Lord Burghley, her secretary of state.

  I stood in the shadows, holding my breath, while the queen argued with Burghley.

  “Mary is an anointed queen. If I consent to her execution, I am guilty of regicide. What will stop my own people from granting me that same death?” she said, her voice shrill.

  The dogs crept to my feet, cringing there.

  “She must die,” Burghley insisted. “As long as she lives to give hope to papists and other disgruntled subjects, your life will be in danger.”

  But Elizabeth would not consent, and the matter remained unresolved.

  That fall, Sir Walter and I used such caution in our courtship that our letters were few and brief, carried by his valet or another of his trusted servants. One or two came by way of Emme, though I forbade her to take any risk for my sake. Meanwhile I lived in anticipation of Accession Day, the November holiday when all the realm celebrated the anniversary of the queen’s coronation. I knew I would see Sir Walter at the jousting and feasting. For days on end bells pealed, fireworks exploded, and the glow of bonfires lit the sky. In the streets hawkers sang ballads and psalms celebrating the queen’s deliverance from the evil conspirators.

  Awaiting the start of the tournament, I stood in the tilt gallery at Whitehall with Elizabeth and all her ladies. The gallery overlooked the tiltyard, on the far side of which stood a colorful pavilion hung with banners. Spectators filled the galleries surrounding the yard. I watched as the knights arrived—some in glittering chariots and artful disguises—to greet the queen before riding to the tiltyard. I tried to guess which one was Ralegh. My gaze was drawn to a knight in burnished armor engraved with twining leaves. He carried a bow and arrow in one hand and a leafy branch in the other. When he removed his helm with a flourish, I saw that it was Sir Walter.

  A cry of delight escaped me but no one marked it. Everyone’s attention was on the splendid figure climbing the stairs to greet the queen on Ralegh’s behalf. He wore loose leggings of chamois and a tooled silver gorget around his neck. Above his ankles were matching silver greaves. His wide brown chest was bare, showing the raised markings on his skin. Streaks of red paint decorated his cheeks and his long hair was plaited with feathers. It was Manteo! I could not take my eyes off him, not even to gaze on Sir Walter below.

  “The Savage Knight greets you, O great English weroance,” he said, then began to recite:

  “From the New World he hails,

  Virginia she is named,

  And in her forests, rivers, and dales,

  Your virtue is proclaimed.”

  He mispronounced a word or two but not a single lady laughed. He ended with a plea to let him—that is, Ralegh—go to Virginia and “with the touch of my own hand, bring under your sway all that wild land.”

  Our applause sputtered like fire doused with water, for Elizabeth was not smiling.

  “The messenger pleases me,” she said. “But tell your master I like not his message.”

  She held out her hand for Manteo to kiss. I watched in fascination as he took her small white hand in his tawny one and brought it to his lips.

  Manteo then retreated down the stairs to join Sir Walter, who spurred his horse, scattering gravel as he galloped toward the tiltyard. Entering the lists, he unhorsed his first opponent, who clattered to the ground and lay there trapped in his armor. Ralegh struck the shield of his second opponent so hard his lance shivered and cracked, and he raised the broken shaft toward the gallery. Was it a salute or a show of defiance? I glanced at the queen, who smiled as if the triumph were hers.

  When the tournament ended, we hurried to dress Elizabeth for the banquet. Her damask gown was set with pearls and rubies, and she wore a matching headdress and a ruff made of Belgian lace. She glowed from the jewels and from the admiration of her knights. Concerns of state seemed far from her mind. At the feast I drank a little wine and danced with Emme and Frances while hoping to catch Sir Walter’s eye. I laughed myself to tears at the antics of Dick Tarleton, who pranced around on a hobbyhorse, mocking the tournament. I sipped more wine and its heat rushed to my face, making me bold. While dancers performed a masque, I glanced around the audience until I saw Sir Walter. He looked in an ill humor, frowning with his arms crossed over his chest. When he met my gaze he raised his eyebrows and pointed to the dancers. But I wanted to watch him, not the masque.

  When the musicians had played their final notes, I made my way through the crowd until I was standing beside him. My arm brushed against his sleeve. His fingers grazed the back of my hand, then my palm. The touch was light but the shiver of desire went deep.

  “Why do you look so unhappy?” I asked in a low voice.

  “You saw how Her Majesty rebuked me at the tournament. She will not support another voyage to Virginia because the last one failed.”

  I had heard Ralph Lane’s men were more interested in fighting and destroying villages than in building a colony, and they had killed an Indian leader.

  “That was your own fault, Sir Walter,” I scolded him. “For there was no man’s wife or mother or sister among your colonists to restrain their bad natures.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, turning to face me.

  “A colony peopled by soldiers and adventurers with no stake in their common welfare is a colony that must fail. A man with a wife and a family will be more inclined to live peaceably with the Indians than to provoke a war with them.”

  Now Sir Walter had drawn me aside. “Go on, Cat. Tell me more,” he said.

  “Has it occurred to you that you must have women as well as men for your colony to thrive? Why, how else will you multiply the queen’s subjects?” I felt myself blush. But I was excited, too, as the idea unfolded inside me. “Perhaps, Sir Walter, if the queen saw you intended to settle Virginia with families who would make a livelihood there, she might change her mind.” I saw his face brighten. “And if you were to insist on going there yourself, rather than sending a lieutenant to gove
rn, she would see you are serious about its success.” My voice had risen, and heads turned in our direction.

  The queen had also noticed us. She lifted her cup.

  “Too much wine? Time for a sip of water instead?” she said, looking from me to Ralegh.

  For a moment I was confused, my wits clouded by the wine. I saw Frances sneering and Anne with her hand over her mouth. Finally I realized the queen was rebuking me. And claiming Ralegh for herself.

  Lightly as a dancer, Sir Walter stepped to her side. “I shall pour it out myself and slake Your Majesty’s thirst,” he said.

  Now Emme was beside me, tugging me down onto a stool.

  “Didn’t I tell you to be more discreet?” she whispered. “Why, the whole court saw how he looked at you!”

  But I did not care. The idea I described to Ralegh was blossoming further, and with it my hopes. He would persuade the queen to let him go to Virginia. I would flee the court and, disguising myself if necessary, board his ship. At sea I would reveal myself, Sir Walter would declare his love, and we would be married. He would govern the Indians wisely, and I would be the first Englishwoman to live in that paradise, the New World, united with my heart’s desire.

  It was a lovely dream.

  Chapter 14

  Fortune’s Wheel Turns

  My hopes of escaping to a new life sustained me throughout the difficult months of winter. The queen was always in an ill humor from her many ailments. Chief among them was an abscess on her gums from a rotting tooth, which she refused to have pulled because it would leave a gap in her smile. The tooth prevented her from eating and she was peevish with hunger and pain. Also, her breath smelled foul, so it was unpleasant to be near her. Not a day went by when she did not revile one of us. I even saw Frances leaving her chamber in tears.

  Only one person, Dick Tarleton, dared to jest in her presence. I had brought the queen a drink of mint and parsley to sweeten her mouth and there he was, strumming his lute.

  “My royal mistress suffers a great abscess on her body politic. She will not be well until the Scottish queen is lanced and bleeds,” he said.

  I held my breath, expecting a tirade, but she only waved him away.

  “Begone, fool,” she said wearily. “I would be alone now.”

  So he plied his wit among the ladies as we sat doing needlework and listening to Lady Mary read from a book of sonnets.

  “Pish! Poetry is lies,” he said when she paused to turn the page. “And who is more fond of poetry than lovers? Believe no man who swears he loves, and believe no man who rhymes his love. Therefore, believe no man.”

  Frances smiled. Anne, beside her, looked forlorn.

  “By your logic, Dick, we should not believe you,” I said. “Unless you are no man.”

  “Better to be no man than woe-man,” he said, winking.

  “It is a woman’s woe to be in love with a lying man,” said Emme.

  “My lover was no liar,” protested Anne. “And my woe is to be separated from him.”

  “All lovers are liars; they love to lie in secret,” said Tarleton. “Yet beware of hiding love. I know a lady who hid her love so well that when she went looking for it she could not remember where she put it.” He grimaced. “Someone found it and stole it away.”

  I started, pricking myself with my needle. Were the fool’s jesting words meant for me? I thought of Sir Walter’s hidden letters. I had not burned them after all. Once I had tried, crouching before the hearth at midnight with the bundle in my hands. But I could not destroy those scented pages with their words of love, the verses crafted solely for my eyes.

  As soon as Dick Tarleton skipped out and the ladies were gossiping again, I slipped away to the dormitory. Reaching into my mattress, I felt for the bundle of letters. Only dry rushes scratched my fingers. I groped further, checking every corner. Nothing. I pulled the rushes out and scattered them all over the floor in desperation. No letters. Had I put them back in my chest? I threw it open and rummaged to the very bottom, but the familiar bundle was missing. I reached into the old shoe, where I had stuffed the handkerchief. It was empty. I threw it aside. There was no mistaking the terrible truth: the evidence of my secret love had been stolen.

  “Who has done this to me?” I wailed into my hands. Then I recalled the day I had found the contents of my chest disturbed. The correspondence from Sir Walter that had never reached me. How careless I had been! All along, someone had been watching me, intercepting Ralegh’s letters, and waiting for an opportunity to steal the rest from me. Was it Anne, avenging my role in Graham’s banishment? Was it Frances, spying for someone or just being spiteful? What would the thief do with the letters? Try to betray or blackmail me? I wished I had overcome my vain desires and burned the letters months ago.

  I put the stuffing back in my mattress, cleaned up the dormitory, and pondered my choices. To accuse anyone would lead only to denial; even to ask questions would raise suspicions about me. It was better to pretend nothing was amiss and watch my companions closely. But in the days that followed, no one confronted me with the letters. Neither Frances nor Anne behaved as if she were guilty. Nor did the queen treat me any differently, and I concluded she did not know of the letters. I considered warning Sir Walter, but I was afraid even to put ink to paper, lest the letter be intercepted.

  After a week I could stand the suspense no longer, so I told Emme about the theft. As she listened, her eyes grew wide with innocent dismay. At least I knew that she could never have taken the letters.

  “Remember, they are written in Ralegh’s hand. When they come to light—that is, if they do—you must deny you returned any of his favors,” she advised. “Let him explain himself.”

  A terrible thought occurred to me. “Emme, what if someone has seized the letters I wrote to him?”

  “If he is wise, he will have burned them.”

  “And I was a fool and did not!” I lamented. “Though I meant to.”

  But Emme only pursed her lips and shook her head.

  When weeks had passed without incident, Emme asked if I had burned the letters after all.

  I thought back to the night I had sat before the fire with the letters in my hand. “Perhaps I did and was too tired to remember it,” I mused. “For they did cost me many a sleepless night.”

  But still I was doubtful and tense, as if on tenterhooks. Fortunately the queen was too occupied with matters of state to notice a distracted maid. Her Privy Council was pressing her to decide the fate of the Scottish queen. Every day brought new rumors that Mary had escaped from prison or the Spaniards had invaded England. I thought Elizabeth would break down with the strain. One night she screamed in her sleep and we all rushed to her chamber in fear, only to discover that she was having a nightmare about her cousin.

  I had a nightmare, too, in which pages of the missing letters and poems fluttered around me. I tried to catch them and hide them under my skirt while the faces of Frances, Anne, Lady Veronica, Dick Tarleton, and even Emme leered at me and Sir Walter danced with the queen. I awoke with tears on my cheeks, feeling alone and despairing. At least the Scottish queen, though betrayed by a letter, had loyal friends about her.

  Indeed I pitied the poor Queen Mary. Elizabeth finally signed the warrant for her death, and on the eighth day of February she was beheaded in Northamptonshire. I noted the date because it was my birthday, which should have been a joyful occasion. But the celebrations that broke out all over London, with bursting fireworks and burning effigies, only filled me with grief for the dead queen. Yes, she had conspired against England’s sovereign queen. But I, too, might take such desperate measures in order to free myself from prison. How had Mary borne it for twenty years?

  I had served the queen now for almost four years, and what had I to show for it? A nickname. Some nice clothing, daily food, and a bed to sleep in. Yet I hardly felt secure. Constant worry attended me. I had seen my mistress shift her favors like a weathercock whirled around by contrary winds. I had few friends and
the court was a stewpot of envy, backbiting, and deceit. Now someone near me held a dangerous secret—a bundle of poems and an embroidered handkerchief—that could ruin me and Sir Walter. His downfall would be the result of my own carelessness.

  After Queen Mary’s death there was no rejoicing in Elizabeth’s chambers. Her eyes were puffy with weeping and lack of sleep. One morning while we were dressing her, she tore off her ruff and threw it at me.

  “Take this damned frill from my neck. It torments me!”

  I had starched the thing to a perfect stiffness, but the narrow sticks sewn into the ruff had poked her, leaving red marks on her neck.

  “And take this gown off me. I will wear black for my cousin.”

  Emme and Frances hurried off to the wardrobe while Lady Veronica and I undressed the queen. She stood shivering in her smock.

  “I shall have to answer to God for this,” she whispered to her reflection in the glass.

  “Hers was the sin. Your Majesty is just,” murmured Veronica.

  “My councilors tricked me,” Elizabeth continued, giving no sign that she had heard Veronica. “The warrant was delivered without my knowledge. Walsingham always wanted her dead. It was his doing.”

  I was stunned. Had Walsingham defied Elizabeth and murdered the Scottish queen? How could he have dared to do so?

  Elizabeth started. “Say nothing to anyone,” she said sharply. “Forget those words, which came from my grief.” She turned from her glass and looked closely at Veronica, then at me. “I may trust my own ladies, may I not? You will never lie to me?” Her tone was more pleading than commanding.

  As she stood there without her wig or her makeup, I saw her simply as a woman like any of us, but older, with bad teeth and graying hair.

  “You know I am true,” Veronica assured her.

  The words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “Nor will I deceive Your Majesty, for I love you.” And I bent down to retrieve her cast-off garments.