Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,73
of my daughters and daughters-in-law were singing, even the Countess of Warwick. Her scratchy little voice was not exactly melodious, but thanks largely to the kindnesses of the other ladies in my family and Jack, she had become a little more amiable lately, so I listened and forced myself not to wince when she hit a high note. Besides, I had a surprise planned. When the singing was done, I held out a book to Anne. “I obtained this the other day, Anne. I thought you might want to read it to us, as we have not heard it.”
Anne stared at the book. It was of her own authorship, a collection of verses she and two of her younger sisters had written to commemorate the death of the learned Marguerite of Navarre. It had been published in Paris two years before. “How did you get a copy of this?”
“Jack gave it to me. Will you read it? The French verses,” I added hastily. “I do not know Latin, and I would like to understand what is being read.”
Anne hesitated, but the vanity of authorship proved uppermost, as I had hoped, and she stood to read us her and her sisters’ production. I wondered at the beginning, when her voice faltered when reading of Marguerite’s death, whether I might have been opening a wound, but she quickly regained her composure and read with a feeling that touched me.
Begin to bear in your hand the honor of the victorious palm branch, both because you won and because you were strong.
By this time you are standing before the stronghold of the throne; now you are adoring the Might of God; you shout greetings to the One Alone who sits in the stronghold.
You are holding in your hand true offerings, a casket of real incense and simple prayers not without understanding.
Now a Divine One joined to the celestial choir, you will not fear thirst or hunger, cold or heat.
“That was beautiful,” said Mary before I could speak. “I wish I could do as well as you and your sisters, Anne, and I am older than you.”
Anne blushed and looked pleased. That night, for the first time since her marriage to our son, she let me give her a good-night kiss on her cheek as we made our way to our various bedchambers.
***
I fell asleep that night in the arms of my husband. Late, late that night, a scream awakened me from a pleasant dream. “What is it?” I said, blinking as John and I untangled ourselves to sit up and stare around. Then the first thought of a loyal courtier came to mind. “The king? Is the king ill?”
My door slammed open without a knock. “My lady—my lord—forgive me. The lord Ambrose’s lady is dreadfully ill.”
Throwing on just enough clothing to hide our nakedness, we rushed to Nan’s chamber, where Ambrose sat clutching his wife in his arms. She was shivering and covered with sweat. As we came in, she glanced at us vaguely, as if not quite understanding who we were. “She was fine earlier tonight. We even…” Ambrose’s voice trailed off. “Her illness came on just a short time ago.”
John’s physician pushed into the chamber and pried Nan out of Ambrose’s arms. After examining her, he told us what we had all suspected: our daughter-in-law most likely had the sweat. John promptly gave orders that the rest of the household be kept far away from Nan’s rooms, which was a simple matter, given the size of Otford.
For the rest of the night and day, we attended on Nan. To John’s fury, in our absence, one of Nan’s waiting women allowed her to rise to sit upon the close stool, which brought on a fainting fit, and, we thought, certain death. She quickly revived, however, and by midmorning seemed to be past the most serious part of her illness. But by noon, she was markedly worse. Finally, at six in the evening, she breathed her last in Ambrose’s arms.
Every now and then, I felt an ache for the old religion, for the practice of saying prayers for the dead. I felt it now as I saw this lovely young woman, who less than four-and-twenty hours ago had been strumming her lute and laughing at my sons’ jokes, lying motionless and cold on her bed. Superstition such prayers might have been, perhaps, but—
I touched Ambrose’s shaking shoulder. “Now a Divine One joined to the celestial choir, you will not fear thirst or hunger, cold