Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,141

of Jane and Harry from her lips. “How old is the lady Katherine?”

“She is almost fourteen, Your Majesty.”

“She is an attractive girl, as I recall?”

“Very much so, Your Majesty.”

“She plays and dances well?”

“My daughter dances better than she plays, but no one has ever found fault with either, Your Majesty.”

“She is biddable?”

This was not my Kate’s strong point. “She is willful, Your Majesty, but her nature is good.”

The queen considered. “We should like to have her serve as one of our maids,” she said finally. “We will soon be making our entry into London with the king, and from thence we will go to Hampton Court. Can you have her ready by September? Our mother of the maids will inform you what is necessary in the way of clothing.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You and your younger daughter, of course, are welcome at our court any time you wish to come.”

Dismissed by the queen, I made the short trip to my house at Sheen, lost in thought. For Jane’s sake, and Harry’s, should I have refused the queen’s invitation to Kate? Even if I had dared to decline—and Mary had given me no chance to do so—I could not justify such an action. Kate and Jane had never been close, and I knew Kate’s mourning for her sister had been more dutiful than deep. As for Harry, he had been a kind father to all three of our girls, but his deepest attachment had always been to Jane. Kate’s main grief, it had to be admitted, had been for the death of her own prospects. Now she would be at court, with young men and their matchmaking parents to remark upon her beauty and to watch her dance and play…

So at the beginning of September, I watched my second daughter get on a barge—sent for her by the queen—bound for Hampton Court. Even her monkey was making the journey. Queen Mary had given the royal permission for it to accompany Kate to court. She had made it a jaunty red cap and matching doublet especially for the occasion. “Don’t let that creature pester the bargemen,” I called in farewell as it showed great interest in an oar.

Kate, who normally took great offense at the term “that creature,” simply laughed. Her coffers had been packed for days.

Beside me, my youngest daughter pouted as the barge began to pull away. “Kate won’t be able to see me wave good-bye!” she complained. Her lip began to wobble. “Father would have put me on his shoulders.”

“May I, Your Grace?”

I nodded, and Adrian, who had been standing with the rest of the household to see Kate off, lifted petite Mary high into the air. She waved happily until Kate’s barge pulled out of sight. Then Adrian carefully set my daughter back on her feet.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was so kind.”

Adrian shrugged. “Kind? After all, I am Lady Mary’s stepfather,” he said into my ear.

45

Jane Dudley

October 1554 to December 1554

Since the Spanish entourage had arrived in England (“an invasion,” the malcontents liked to call it), I had acquired a new friend at court: María Enríquez de Toledo y Guzmán, Duchess of Alba. Fortunately, I was allowed to call her Maria.

I had sought out the duchess for purely selfish reasons, as yet another contact to be cultivated to free my sons. I was granted an audience so quickly, I felt almost ashamed as we each settled on a stool.

“There are few of us Spanish ladies here,” the duchess informed me after we had discussed King Arthur’s Round Table, which the Spanish had enjoyed seeing at Winchester, for a while. (You must not think this conversation went so smoothly as I report it. I was speaking my barely adequate French, the duchess was speaking Spanish, and a member of her household, who knew both languages and a little English, was gamely interpreting for us.) “The English ladies do not like us. They avoid us. We get homesick here.”

“We English can be unkind to foreigners,” I admitted. “But we are all not like that.”

“No, I see you are not. But you must pardon me. I did not understand who your husband is, my lady.”

Even in English, much less fractured French, I was at a loss to explain. Everyone in England knew perfectly well who John was, or who they thought he was: a traitor who had manipulated the poor little king into changing his will and paid the price. The interpreter came to my rescue. He bent and whispered something in