Assassin (6 page)

“You were beautiful this evening, Lady Grace. You outshone them all,” she said.

Now I know it isn’t true because no one with mousy hair can outshine Sarah Copper-locks Bartelmy, but it was nice of her to say it, so I kissed her back.

She went out, carrying my kirtle and French stays for brushing and hanging up in a closet.

I took off the pearl necklace my Lord Robert had given me and placed it beside my bed, then changed into my ordinary smock that I wear to bed and used the close-stool.

Fran had poured out some fresh rose-water so I could wash my face and I used my new toothcloth for my teeth and fennel-water to rinse out the almond-and-salt paste.

So here I am. There is a fire in the grate and it’s not cold, so I have put my dressing gown on to sit in my favourite corner and write everything down.

Perhaps as I am writing all this in my daybooke, my mother will peek down from heaven and read it, too, so it’s as if I am writing to her. I know she would have enjoyed me dancing at the feast. I wonder what she would have thought of my suitors? I think she would have approved of my choice. I know she wouldn’t have liked Sir Gerald and I’m sure she would have understood about Sir Charles being too old.

I am finding it hard to keep my eyes open now. I must retire to bed.

I had intended to sleep, but now cannot. I am all unsettled and must write this down, too.

When I pulled back the bedcovers I saw a small package on the pillow. At first I wondered which gentleman had placed it there, but then I remembered the Queen’s words as I left her chamber. I picked it up and held it to the candle—then had to put it down again quickly as I recognized the writing on the front. It was my mother’s writing, dated 14 February 1568, the night she died.

Sometimes I wish that when it happened, on that night a year ago, instead of being where I really was, tucked up fast asleep in a truckle bed in my mother’s chamber, I was an angel. Then, God willing, I could have saved her.

I shall tell the story properly, as if I were a storyteller at the fair. Then perhaps I’ll get through it.
I’ve heard that making a tale of a terrible matter may tame it, so the memory no longer rises up and fights away sleep.

My mother, Lady Margaret Cavendish, was a Gentlewoman of the Bedchamber and one of the Queen’s closest friends. On 13 February 1568, after kissing me goodnight, she was sitting down to a quiet supper with the Queen, when a man came from Mr. Secretary Cecil to say there was an urgent dispatch from Scotland. The Queen told me she kissed my mother, said she would be back in ten minutes, and suggested my mother try a little wine to help her megrim headache. Then she went to hear the news from Scotland.

And my mother poured herself some wine and drank it….

When I think about it, this is where I imagine being an angel. I fly into the room just as my mother takes up her goblet and I shout, “My lady, do not drink the wine!” And as I would have been a very impressive sight, what with the wings and halo and all, my mother drops the goblet on the rush matting, and then one of the Queen’s canary birds—the vicious one that pecks your hair—flies down and drinks it and falls over and dies and so she knows that the wine is poisoned. And then the Queen
comes back and they call the guards and test the wine and the doctor finds it contains a deadly poison called darkwort. Then everyone bolts the doors and quarters the Court and so they catch the evil Frenchman sent by the Guises to kill the Queen….

But that’s not what happened. My mother drank the Queen’s wine and took terribly sick.

The first I knew was when Mrs. Champernowne came and woke me up and wrapped her own furry dressing gown round me. I was too sleepy to walk straight, so she gave me a piggyback—I can hardly believe she did it, when she’s so sharp and cross, but she did. And then she brought me into the Queen’s own bedchamber.

I could see the Queen was putting pen and ink away and she had tear tracks all down her cheeks. There was incense burning in a little dish, but you could still smell a nasty, dusty, bitter scent in the air. Mrs. Champernowne was crying, too, and I started as well, though I was still too sleepy to know why. Then I looked at the Queen’s bed, and saw my mother lying there with her stays open. She had been bled, for her arm was bandaged. And I woke up properly.

My mother’s eyes were shut, and her face looked
like candle wax. There was a kind of yellow froth at the corners of her mouth.

I rushed to her. “Is it plague?” I whispered.

“No, Grace,” the Queen replied gravely. “If only it were, for she might recover. I think she has taken poison meant for me. The doctor has gone to look at the vomitus.”

The door opened and my uncle, Dr. Cavendish, hurried in, wrapped in a fur-lined gown. He came to the other side of the Queen’s bed, took my mother’s pulses again, felt her brow, and opened her mouth and eyes.

I concentrated on holding her limp hand. I knew she was going to die and leave me. Did you know that when your heart breaks, it really feels like that? I thought I had a big crack all down the middle of my chest, it hurt so much.

Uncle Cavendish shook his head at last. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said heavily. “It is poison. From the yellow staining on the mat in the Withdrawing Chamber where she dropped the goblet, I am afraid it is darkwort.” His face was quite grey because he had always liked my mother a lot.

“I have a piece of unicorn’s horn in my cabinet,” said the Queen, “and a bezoar stone.”

“ Alas, Your Majesty, not even they will help against essence of darkwort. It will not be long now…”

“I have called the Chaplain,” the Queen told him.

They were speaking quietly but I heard them. I cried and put my arms round my mother as if I could hold her back. “Don’t go,” I whispered. “Stay with me, Mama. Please, stay…”

But she was too deep asleep to hear me.

I felt Uncle Cavendish standing behind me. “She has no pain,” he said to me. “She can’t feel anything now.”

He might be a doctor, but I know that when I took my mother’s hand to kiss it, I
know
I felt her grip my fingers to say goodbye. Then I kissed her face.

The Queen came and kneeled next to me and wrapped her arms round me and didn’t mind when all my tears made her velvet bodice damp. She rocked me a little, silently, and I felt her crying, too.

My mother died at a little past midnight, St. Valentine’s Day, 14 February 1568, the worst day of my whole life. I was only a babe when my father died serving the Queen in France, so I didn’t really know about it. But my mother dying … I can’t describe how terrible it was because I don’t know enough
long words, and anyway, I’m not a poet. It made a huge hole in the world.

Everyone has been kind to me over this last year, especially the Queen. She comforted me whenever I was really sad and promised me she would never send me away to be brought up by a stranger. Lord Worthy volunteered to be my guardian and administer my estates until I could marry and have a husband to do it for me. My Uncle Cavendish couldn’t do it because he was ill, or so they told me. I think he is just drunk most of the time. He was always very fond of my mother and I don’t think he has ever recovered from not being able to help her.

Oh yes, they found the poisoner. He was working for the dastardly Guises, who are always plotting the Queen’s downfall. He tried to escape from the Queen’s pursuivants and they killed him in the fight. The Queen was furious, though I don’t think an execution would have made me feel any better.

By drinking Her Majesty’s wine with the poison in it, my mother saved the Queen’s life—and England from a terrible civil war like they have in France. That’s why she is buried in Whitehall Chapel.

And now I shall take the courage to open the package.

Alas, I have made a blot in my daybooke—I’m afraid the package made me cry. As I opened it, a small leather purse fell onto the pillows. I left it there while I read my mother’s letter. Half of it is in my mother’s writing, with the letters getting bigger and more wobbly. Then it changes to the Queen’s handwriting, which is sweeping and beautiful. There are two blots from tears at the end. That must be why Her Majesty was putting pen and ink away when Mrs. Champernowne brought me in that night. I will keep the letter here always, tucked in my daybooke.

I opened the leather purse. Inside were the earrings. They are beautiful pearl ones, with a setting of garnets and diamonds, like a pair the Queen often wears, only not so big.

Taking my candle, I went and looked in Lady Sarah’s glass and put the hooks in my ears. As I stared at myself, and watched the garnets and diamonds glistening in the candlelight, I was reminded of my mother wearing them, and laughing.

Oh no, another teardrop blot. Time for bed.

It is still very dark outside. Something woke me up. I am in bed, wearing my mother’s earrings for comfort. Her letter is under my pillow. It is only paper but it makes her feel closer, almost as if she’s in the room with me like she used to be when we shared a chamber near the Queen’s own. I hope I don’t get ink on the sheets.