"For all her Tudor fire," Jane said later when we were alone and it was safe for her to weep and show her grief, "Elizabeth's heart is cold as ice!" And when she heard that after he died and his corpse was undressed a letter to Elizabeth was discovered hidden in the sole of his velvet slipper, Jane wept, inconsolable; his last words on this earth, hastily writ in his final hour, had been addressed to Elizabeth, not her. He had sent nothing to Jane, the one he claimed was his true love, not one token, not even a single word.

But Jane had to soldier along bravely, pretending nothing was wrong, hiding her head, and her sorrow, in her books, letting time pa.s.s and her heart heal, forcing herself to forget that love for a mortal man had ever dared trespa.s.s on that sacred ground where there was room for only G.o.d and learning.

Another year pa.s.sed, then another, followed swiftly by two more, lulling me into contentment and complacency, the false belief that life would always go on in this lovely, lazy, humdrum way at Bradgate with occasional visits to the city. Our parents divided their time between London and the court and hosting wild and libidinous hunting parties at Bradgate that sometimes lasted for weeks at a time and were known for the excessive drunkenness, debauchery, and gambling that our parents and their guests-neighbors from the surrounding countryside and n.o.bles down from London-freely indulged in. There were always dancing girls clad only in high leather riding boots who spun and twirled and slashed the air with whips, and the serving wenches and lads wore headdresses of wood carved to emulate antlers strapped to their heads and were hunted, pursued, and preyed upon by the drunken and l.u.s.ty guests who even sometimes chased them out into the surrounding forest to drag them to the ground and couple with them like wild beasts.

The parties at Bradgate were so salacious they were even deemed scandalous by London standards, and many notables eagerly vied and angled to procure an invitation. At one such party our lady-mother and the other female guests climbed up to stand upon the table and raised their skirts high to show their legs, even above their garters, so that some important gentleman from London could present a solid gold apple to the lady he judged to have the loveliest limbs. And at another party, where everyone was terribly drunk, they decided not to risk the contents of their purses and instead used their clothes and gems as stakes. By dawn when I peeked out, both our lady-mother and father, as well as many of their guests, were stark naked, and many were nearly so. There was hardly a lady present with her gown still on or a man who had not lost his breeches.

I was always kept out of sight and away from these goings-on, but standing on my toes high above in the musicians' gallery, I often peeked down into the Great Hall, curious to see what was going on. But Kate and Jane were often ordered to don their best and descend the stairs to entertain the guests with a musical recital, early in the evening of course, before the drunken lewdness was in full sway. Jane was a true prodigy and played the virginals, lute, harp, and cittern with great skill, but Katherine's playing was more pa.s.sionate and that, coupled with her vivacious beauty and smiling countenance, won her much applause and kisses and caresses from our parents and their guests. After she finished, Father would always call her over to sit upon his lap and feed her sweetmeats and dainty cakes and pat her coppery curls, our lady-mother would lavish her with praise, and some of their guests were so charmed by her they would pluck a gem from their lavishly appareled person and present it to her. While Jane's air of pious disapproval, with which she regarded our parents' guests as she sat in morose and sulky silence after she finished playing, waiting to be dismissed, so she could rush back upstairs to shed her hated finery and return to her beloved books, earned her only angry words, slaps, and pinches.

There were occasional murmurs of marriage plans for Jane and the Lord Protector's eldest son and namesake, Edward Seymour the younger, the Earl of Hertford, whom everyone called Ned. He was a likeable lad of fifteen, soft-spoken and rather reserved, but handsome beyond words, tall, slender, and hazel-eyed, with gleaming waves of golden brown hair, and a somewhat shy, but oh so charming smile. And when he truly smiled, broad and wide, with laughter in his eyes, he could light up a room. He came to visit us once, bearing letters from his father, and stayed overnight. Jane exhibited a rude disinterest. She donned her dullest gowns, addressed as few words as possible to him, speaking mostly in mumbled monosyllables, and pointedly settled herself in the window seat with her nose buried in her Greek Testament, curled on her side so that her back was turned to him, and refused to budge. And on the sly she downed a purge, so that when our lady-mother stormed in that evening in all her finery to drag Jane down to supper, she found the room stinking and Jane with her shift bunched up about her waist crouched over her chamber pot with a volume of Cicero balanced on her bare thighs.

The next morning as Ned was descending the stairs to take his leave, he was waylaid by Kate, wringing her hands in a teary-eyed, trembling lipped tizzy. She seemed to come out of nowhere, springing from the shadows, her shimmering copper ringlets glowing like embers, a vibrant vision in a satin gown the exact same heavenly vibrant blue as a robin's egg.

Ned was thunderstruck, dazzled by her beauty, and all he could do was stand and stare as Kate grabbed hold of his arm and implored, "Please, sir, can you sing? Please say you can!" She was already dragging him after her, even before his lips could form an answer.

Her beloved cat, Marzipan, was birthing a litter of kittens and enduring a h.e.l.lish long labor that Kate was convinced she could help make easier by singing. She had been up since before dawn singing herself hoa.r.s.e. Now her voice needed a rest. She simply could not sing another note and needed to find someone who could, and my own voice she rightly deemed too shrill and reedy to soothe poor Marzipan. "Mary, I love you dearly, but I think your voice will only add to poor Marzipan's woes," she said, tempering her blunt honesty with a kiss and hug before we each set off in search of someone blessed with a more melodious voice. Thus, Kate found her Ned; it was as if Fate pushed them together and struck the tinder that would ignite the first spark of love-if it ever truly was love, cynical me has to say-in both their hearts. And Ned spent the next two hours kneeling beside Marzipan's basket while Kate sucked mint lozenges to ease her aching throat and strummed a lute as Ned sang his heart out until the seventh and last kitten was birthed and Kate was all smiles again, hugging an armful of squirming, mewling kittens to her breast and lavishing kisses, praise, and loving pats upon dear Marzipan. She lingered long enough to kiss Ned's cheek and thank him yet again before she hastened to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of milk for Marzipan.

"That was the day I fell in love," both Kate and Ned would always say each time they fondly recalled their first meeting. But both were n.o.bly born children, well-schooled in their duty, and they knew all too well that their hearts would not dictate who they married; their parents would make that decision. And Kate knew that Ned was supposed to be Jane's suitor, and Jane was her sister and as such had a prior claim upon Kate's heart. At eleven, almost twelve, with her head full of tales of chivalry and doomed love, like her favorite story of Guinevere and Lancelot, Kate saw exquisite beauty and true n.o.bility of the heart and soul in making such a sacrifice for her sister's sake. She had yet to learn that life isn't like stories, and the things that sound beautiful and grand on the golden tongues of minstrels are in truth often full of pain that stabs deep into the heart and is bitter as gall.

But the dim and distant possibility that Ned might someday marry Jane was little more than a faint and gentle ripple upon the placid pond of our existence. He came and went, then his father, the Lord Protector, was disgraced, his head and fortune lost, and John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, stood in his stead, holding King Edward's weak, frail hand as it wielded the scepter of power, and not another word was said of Ned Seymour; he was now a person of no importance.

Then came the February day, in 1553, when our lives would change forever.

We were outdoors, frolicking in the snow that Kate said made rosy-bricked Bradgate look like a great mound of strawberries covered with cream, bundled against the cold in thick wool gowns and layers of petticoats, fur-lined velvet coats, boots, and gloves, with woolen scarves tied tight around our heads to keep our ears warm, as we three girls were from babes ever p.r.o.ne to ear pains. We had even persuaded Jane to forsake her beloved books and join us. A milk cow had gotten loose, and upon seeing it, Kate had instantly conceived the notion that we should have a treat.

"A syllabub! We shall have a syllabub! A sweet, sweet syllabub!" Her voice sang out like an angel's sweetest proclamation through a frosty cloud of breath as she danced in delight, her boots raising lively billows of powdery snow.

She sent me scurrying to the barn to fetch a pail. Jane, fifteen and more sullen than ever if that were possible, was left to mind the cow, under strictest orders not to let it stray from her sight or to let anyone take it away. And Kate ran quickly to the kitchen to charm the cook with her winning smile and wheedle a cup each of sugar, cinnamon, and honey, a long-handled spoon, and a bottle of wine.

Cook always used to tell us there was no need to add cinnamon and honey; wine and sugar alone were enough to make a tasty syllabub, but Kate always insisted it must be "sweeter than sweet" and "as sweet as can be," and she loved cinnamon best of all spices, so it must be a part of our special syllabub. And in the end, Cook threw up her hands and let her have her way.

Kate and cinnamon, to this day I cannot think of one without the other-she loved everything about it, its taste, color, and smell; she always delighted to suck on cinnamon sticks and candies, and when she was older, she even had it blended into her rose perfume to create a special aroma that was all Kate's own. Though other ladies tried to copy it, they could never get it quite right.

When Cook said she could not give the wine without our father or lady-mother's consent, Kate's blue gray eyes filled with tears and her pink lips pouted and quivered. Cook was no match against Kate's tears, and she quickly relented, with hands upon her broad hips, declaring that "neither G.o.d nor the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Suffolk can hold me accountable for what happens when my back is turned!" and pointedly turned away, giving her full attention to the pastry crust she was making, as Kate crept into the cellar to pilfer a bottle of our father's favorite red Gascony wine, the kind that is spicy and sweet all at the same time.

Kate concealed the bottle inside her coat as she pa.s.sed back through the kitchen, smiling sweet and brazen, pausing only long enough to kiss the cook's cheek and whisper a promise that when she returned the cups and spoon she would bring her back some of our syllabub.

Everyone loved Kate, and no one could resist her; she was so saucy and vivacious, with a heart tender and loving as could be. She had a smile that made you feel like roses were growing around your feet, beautiful, sweet-smelling roses without the nasty thorns, just like my rosy, pink-cheeked, and smiling sister. She was thirteen then, glowing, and growing more beautiful every day, ripening into womanhood with rounded hips and pert little b.r.e.a.s.t.s of which she was very proud and longed to feel a lover's hand reach around to cup as he kissed the nape of her neck. Unlike Jane, who shrank from such "sordid speculations," and far preferred her ancient Greek, Latin, and Hebrew texts instead, Kate was avid for more fleshly knowledge, to learn all she could about carnal matters, and the "good and merry sport that happens between a man and his wife behind the bedcurtains at night." She was eager to be wedded and bedded and prayed that our parents wouldn't tarry too long over finding her a husband.

When Kate appeared at the kitchen door, I left the pail with Jane and the cow and ran to help relieve her of her sweet burden-the three full, br.i.m.m.i.n.g tin cups, wine bottle, and wooden spoon made a clumsy and precarious armful. Kate handed the rest to Jane and approached the cow. She rubbed her gloved hands together to warm them for the cow, she explained, for she would not like someone's icy fingers on her teats and didn't imagine the cow would either. Then, furrowing her brow in concentration-she had never milked a cow before-she gave the cow a pat, said, "Please pardon the presumption, My Lady Brown Eyes," squatted down, and began to gently pull at its cold pink teats, squirting the milk straight into the ice-cold pail I had brought from the barn. When the pail was full, we poured in the cinnamon, sugar, honey, and wine and took turns stirring vigorously, whipping it into a rich, creamy froth that we scooped into the now empty cups.

We sat back, sipping our syllabub, sprawled in a s...o...b..nk, as if it were a warm feather bed and not wet and cold, giggling and waving our arms and legs, making angels with flowing skirts and fluttering wings, laughing as the wine warmed us within, imagining the sugar, cinnamon, and wine blazing a zesty, spicy-sweet trail through our veins, racing to see which would be first to reach our heads and make us giddy. Jane started to expound on something she had read in a tedious medical tome, but neither Kate nor I was listening and she soon drifted back into glum silence again.

Suddenly Kate flung her cup aside and leapt up, pulling me and a most reluctant Jane after her, and we began to dance.

I was eight then, and my joints not yet so badly afflicted that I could not dance a joyful jig. Though in my bed that night I might ache and cry and beg Hetty, my nurse, to heat stones in the fire, then wrap and tuck them in against my back and hips or 'neath my knees, I was not thinking about that then; time enough for that when the pain held me in its grip, impossible to ignore, when all I wanted to do was sleep. I kicked up my heels, raising clouds of snow, like dainty, dwarfish blizzards, and gave myself wholeheartedly to the dance, laughing at the wet slap-flap my skirts made when I kicked my little legs as high as I could. With my sisters, I could dance, free and easy, giddy and gay, as I would never dare do before others.

When I was a little girl and first discovered the delight of twirling round and round, skipping, prancing, kicking, and leaping, I thought there could be nothing better than to be a dancing girl, but when my lady-mother overheard me prattling this dream to my nurse one evening, she seized me roughly by the arm, her fingernails biting hard enough to draw blood, and dragged me out into the gallery overlooking the Great Hall. There she swung me up, with a roughness that made the burly men who carted and carried sacks of grain seem tender, to stand upon a bench, and pointed down to where a troupe of dwarves clad in rainbow motley and tinkling bells capered and danced before my parents' guests seated around the banqueting table, rocking and howling with laughter and tossing coins, crusts of bread, fruit, and sweetmeats at them.

"Look!" she commanded. "Never forget, children like you are often put out to die, exposed to the elements if the wolves don't get them first! If you were not my daughter, with royal Tudor blood flowing through your veins, if you had been let to live, that would be you down there, puffing out your cheeks and boggling your eyes, cavorting and playing the fool for pennies and crusts from a n.o.bleman's table! Never forget that, daughter! Only my blood saves you from being a fool in motley, no better than a performing monkey, and worse because you're no dumb animal and have the wit to understand what is said of you and feel the hurt of it!"

I understood at once. After that, though I never lost my joy in dancing, it became my secret. I never dared let any but my sisters and, many years later, the husband I thought I never would have, see me dance. When the dressmaker came the next day and unfurled her lengths of vivid, jewel-hued silks, I remembered the rainbow patchwork of the fool's motley the dancing dwarves had worn and burst into tears, fearing that my lady-mother had changed her mind and, as a punishment for my deformity and the shame it brought my family, had decided to clothe me thus and send me away to join their troupe. How I screamed and bawled in my terror, so incoherent with fear that I could not make its cause clearly understood. And though Kate and Jane were quick to comfort and shush me, before our lady-mother came storming in, and Hetty made excuses for me-"For the life of me, I do not know what has gotten into the child! She is usually so quiet and sweet. I am with her every day and night and I can a.s.sure you . . ."-I ever afterward, though my heart craved and cried out for bright colors, chose to clothe myself in darker, more somber, and subdued shades, the better to blend into the shadows and hide, lest I ever be mistaken by my bright, festive attire for a jester, some n.o.bleman or lady's pet fool, instead of the Duke of Suffolk's youngest daughter, and someone hurl a penny at my feet and command, "Dance, dwarf, dance!"

Perhaps that was why I loved dressmaking so, especially for my beautiful Kate, and Jane when she let me. With Kate I could let my fancy fly free and unfettered and deck her peaches and cream and red gold, stormy-blue-eyed beauty with all the bright colors I longed to wear but didn't dare. For Kate I could st.i.tch gold and green together, like the diamond-shaped panes in a window, and trim it with a double layer of green silk and gold tinsel fringe, to create the kind of gown I, with my dwarf's body, didn't dare wear. No one would ever mistake my beautiful Kate for a fool; they would only applaud her dazzling beauty. Kate was my living doll and I loved to dress her. And when she wore the dresses I made, I, vicariously, went out with her, and in those moments I was in the world and of the world, beautiful and brilliant, zesty as a pepper pot but sweet as cream, not hiding shy and nervous in the shadows. In those ruffles and frills, embroideries, cunningly cut bodices, and gracefully draped skirts, I was, through my glorious Kate, the center of attention, adored and admired.

When Jane pulled back, refusing to dance with us and complaining of the cold, Kate gaily insisted it was spring, glorious spring, the merry month of May, and began singing a rollicking May Day tune full of true love and new flowers, blue skies and bird song, kicking up her heels, as high as she could, seemingly light as air, even in her heavy boots and snow-sodden hems. That was my lively, lovely Kate; she brought sunshine to even the grayest winter day. When I looked at her I could well imagine her in a billowing white gown, with a wreath of May flowers and silk ribbon streamers on her unbound hair, dancing on the warm green gra.s.s in her bare feet. I laughed and sang along with her while Jane frowned and shook her head and p.r.o.nounced decisively, "too much wine in the syllabub!" But Kate just threw back her head and laughed as she spun round and round before, at the end of her song, she flung wide her limbs and fell, flopping back in the snow again, and I tumbled down beside her, reaching out to pull Jane down so that we lay like three May flowers blooming in a row, and finally even Jane had to smile. And then she began to laugh along with us.

"Good-bye, Miss Glum and Serious!" Kate crowed and turned to plant a smacking kiss on our sister's laughter-flushed cheek.

It was thus we lay, wet, red-faced, and giggling uncontrollably in the snow, feeling high as the sky from the syllabub, when Mrs. Ellen came out to tell us that our father required our presence in the library; we must come in at once and change out of our wet clothes and make ourselves presentable for him "like proper young ladies, a duke's daughters, which is what you are, not silly peasant girls frolicking in the snow." As she walked away, I was tempted to hurl a s...o...b..ll at her back, but Jane already had her arm raised, a ball of snow cupped in her gloved hand, poised to let it fly when Kate and I sprang on her and wrestled her back down into the snow. Sometimes Jane made it devilishly hard to like her with her constant frowns and moody and preachy Protestant airs, but she was our sister, and we always loved her and did not want to see her bring another punishment upon herself. No one ever knew what our lady-mother might do in her efforts to discipline and mold and shape Jane into her idea of a perfect young lady. It was easy for her to frighten Kate and me into good behavior-our lady-mother was more fearsome than any ogre or witch out of a fairy story-but with Jane it was a different story.

For a time, our lady-mother had been keen on devising punishments to fit the crime-when Jane turned up her nose at eating a certain dish, our lady-mother would insist that she be served no other fare, and for each meal have that same exact plate set before her even after what was upon it had grown quite putrid. Another time, when Jane was a tiny girl about to have her first proper gown, a grown lady's habiliments in miniature, replete with stays, layered petticoats, jeweled headdress, embroidered kirtle, and flowing sleeves with full, fur cuffs, and Jane had shown her willful side and rebelled against the gold and pearl embellished white velvet, clinging steadfast to her familiar old blue frock, our lady-mother made her go stark naked for a week, attending her lessons and sitting at the table thus, and even sewing in the parlor, and dancing in the Great Hall, while our lady-mother coolly explained to their guests why Jane was being punished in this manner, and slapping, pinching, yanking, and sharply rebuking Jane whenever she wept and tried to hide or cover herself, refusing even when she groveled at her feet and begged to be allowed to put on the new dress to cover her shameful nakedness. By the time the punishment was finished, Jane hated the white and gold dress even more, but she consented to wear it, and when she dribbled gravy on the bodice, she wept in terror at what our lady-mother would do to her.

Their quarrels over clothes lay dormant for a few years until Jane caught the fever of the Reformed Religion; only then would she dare rea.s.sert her disdain for ornate garb again, and by that time our lady-mother, sensing that Jane was incorrigible, and that thinking up suitable punishments for her was more trouble than it was worth, had long since contented herself with beatings and blows and fortnight long repasts of only salt fish, water, and boiled mutton bones that Jane licked and sucked ravenously as her belly grumbled and ached.

Though I did not know it at the time, that summons to the library would change our lives forever. Nothing would ever be the same again. Yet I felt not even a twinge of fear or foreboding then; instead I was smiling, swishing my midnight blue velvet skirts and humming a lively air, as I watched Kate skip lightheartedly ahead of us with a song on her lips to first keep her promise to Cook and give her the pail, still half filled with our wonderful, delicious syllabub, for her and the rest of the kitchen servants to share, before skipping upstairs to change into her green velvet gown and sunny yellow, quilted, pearl-dotted satin petticoat and matching under-sleeves, the ones with the wide frills of golden point lace at the wrists that she was always fidgeting with, saying that she could not bear to have them cut off, they were so beautiful, but Lord how they made her wrists itch, like the Devil's own seamstress had made them just to torment her.

When we entered the library, Father laid down his quill and rose up from behind his desk. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, big-bellied man, handsome and rosy-cheeked with warm brown eyes, a luxuriant bushy auburn beard, and wild, ruddy hair that seemed ever wont to spring up in a riot of nervous panic, as though unsure of which way to run, it went every which way. That day he was dressed in the sedately elegant deep orange and brown velvet garments edged with golden braid that our lady-mother had chosen for him. With hands on hips, she often declared, "If Hal Grey were left to his own devices in matters of dress, he would come out of his room every morning looking like a sunlit rainbow, dazzling and gaudy enough to blind every beholder, and be mistaken by all for a fool in motley!"

At the sight of us he smiled and opened his arms wide. "My little girls!" he said fondly in a voice that conveyed, even though we were all girls, and none of us the son he longed for, he was nonetheless proud of us.

We cast a quick and wary glance around to ascertain our lady-mother was not present. She wasn't-that meant Father would be fun! And we ran into his arms and hugged him tight; even Jane forgot her solemn dignity and hurled herself into his arms. Kate settled herself on his lap, and he tousled and kissed her bright curls and took from the secret "sweet drawer" in his desk a special treat he had been saving to share with us. When he was last in London he had visited his favorite sweetshop and purchased a box of the most wonderful marzipan; the box was lined in blue silk, and each dainty, brightly colored piece was an exquisite replica of a creature from the sea-there were seash.e.l.ls, all manner of fishes, blue and green crabs, and bright red lobsters, oysters that opened to reveal candy pearls, sharks, dolphins, and whales, billowy branches of coral, undulating sea serpents, and even bare-breasted mermaids combing their flowing tresses or playing harps, and l.u.s.ty, leering, blue-bearded mermen clutching tridents.

"Don't tell your lady-mother," he said with a slightly sad smile, his words only half jesting. "She thinks I overindulge in sweets, though I tell her that one can never have too much of a good thing. She says one day I'll get as big as old King Henry was and then she'll divorce me and find herself a lean, l.u.s.ty lad to replace me." He lowered his voice to a whisper and confided, "I think she has her eye on our Master of the Horse, young Master Stokes."

"No one could ever replace you, Father!" Kate cried as she flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "And certainly not Master Stokes! He's only twenty-just five years older than Jane! Our lady-mother would never be so foolish!"

"Never!" Jane and I chorused, squeezing Kate so tight she squealed as we pressed to embrace Father and kiss the red-bristled sun-bronzed cheeks that bulged with marzipan.

He swallowed hard and smiled. "Now then, on to serious matters . . ."

And suddenly I felt the icy touch of fear upon my back, p.r.i.c.kly as frozen needles. In that instant I just knew that he was about to speak the words that would set in motion actions that would shatter my world.

"My three little girls are about to leave me." Father shook his head and sighed dolefully. "How time flies! You're not little girls anymore; you're young women-young women about to become wives."

"Married?" Jane gasped and tottered back, tripping over her hems and stumbling hard against the desk. She leaned there looking white as a ghost, tugging hard at the high collar of her funereal black velvet gown as though it were a noose strangling her. And I was sorely afraid that she might faint.

"Married! I'm to be married!" Kate jumped up with a jubilant squeal, spinning around, hugging her clasped hands tight against her excitedly beating heart. "When? Will it be soon? Oh, Father, can I have a golden gown and golden slippers and a cake, a great big cinnamon spice cake, as tall as I am? No! Taller! And covered with gilded marzipan and inside filled with chunks of apples, walnuts, and golden and black raisins, and lots of cinnamon, lots and lots of cinnamon! And minstrels to play at my wedding clad from head to toe in silver since I shall be all in gold!"

"Aye, my love, my beautiful Katey, aye!" Father sat back in his chair and roared with laughter even as tears filled his eyes. "And, yes, it will be soon, in a month's time you'll be married and have left maidenhood behind. But as important as the cake and your dress and slippers and the minstrels are, don't you want to know whom you're going to marry?"

"Oh yes!" Kate stopped her giddy prancing and turned expectantly to Father. "Of course I do! Is he young and handsome? Do I know him? What's his name? Is his hair dark or fair? Does he have blue eyes or brown, gray or green? Shall we have a house in London and one in the country as well? Will he take me to court? Will we have our own barge? Shall I go to court to serve the Queen when Cousin Edward marries? Will he buy me jewels and gowns and puppies and kittens and pet monkeys and songbirds in gilded cages? Oh, Father, I do so long to have a pair of monkeys! I shall dress them in little suits and gowns just like babies! And parrots, talking parrots-I can teach them new words and feed them berries from my hand! And will my husband and I have lots of babies? I want a nursery full of babies! I want to be a little woman round and stout as a barrel with a baby always in my arms, filling out my belly, and a bunch of them tugging at my skirts calling me 'mother'! I want our home to be filled with joy and laughter!"

Father laughed heartily. "So many questions! You're curious as a cat, my Kate! Stop a moment and still your eager tongue, my lovely love, and let me answer! No, you've never met him. His name is Henry, Lord Herbert, he is the Earl of Pembroke's son, and a handsome, fair-haired youth not quite two years older than yourself, and I believe his eyes are blue. You'll like him. I'm as sure of it as I am that this marzipan is delicious!" He waved a hand at the nigh empty box on his desk. "As for the rest, all in good time, my pretty Kate, all in good time! Stop chomping at the bit, raring to be off, my fine filly; slow down and enjoy your life, without racing through it at breakneck speed. If you go too fast, it will all pa.s.s by you in a blur and you'll miss it all."

Nervously, I tugged at Father's sleeve to get his attention. "Me too?" I asked timidly. "I am to be married? Someone wants to marry me?"

"Aye, my little love." Father swooped me up to sit upon his lap. "Though being as you are only eight, you shall have to bide at home and content yourself with being betrothed a while, but, aye, my little Mary, you are to be a bride just like your sisters! And Time has a sneaky habit of flying by, and all too soon the dressmakers will be marching up the stairs to unfurl their banners of silk before you and make you a fine wedding gown of any cut and color you choose!"

"Who?" I asked in a dazed and breathless whisper. The man I was to marry was of far greater importance to me than any new gown, though honesty compels me to admit that a rich deep plum velvet and silver-flowered lavender damask trimmed with silver fox fur billowed briefly through my mind, and my inner eye caught a teasing, tantalizing glimpse of the fine wine sparkle of garnets and deep purple amethysts set in silver. "Who would want to marry me?"

"I've chosen someone very special for you, my little love." Father chucked my chin and kissed the tip of my nose. "Now he is a wee bit older than you are, five-and-forty, and a kinsman of mine. Mayhap you've heard tell of him, for he's a war hero, one of our greatest-my cousin William Grey, Lord Wilton."

Kate gave such a frightful shriek that I nearly toppled off Father's lap, and Jane momentarily forgot her own staggering surprise as horror, then pity, filled her eyes as she stared at me. Then both my sisters were there, crying and clinging tight to me, as though they could not bear to let me go. But all I could do was nod, my disappointment and hurt went too deep for tears, and there are times in a dwarf's tormented life when one feels all cried dry of tears.

The whole of England knew the story of Lord Wilton, and little boys fought to play him in their war games, their vying for this prized part often leaving them with bloodied lips and blackened eyes. He had been hideously wounded, his face grotesquely mutilated at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh. A Scottish pike had smashed through the front of his helm, shattering several teeth as it stove in his mouth, and pierced through his tongue, knocking out even more teeth in its violent progress, and penetrated the roof of his mouth. At some point, his nose had also been broken and smashed in in a grotesque and b.l.o.o.d.y parody of one of those darling little dogs with the pushed-in noses that Kate adored so. To make matters worse, his helm had been quite destroyed by enemy blows, and the metal intended to protect his face had instead turned against him, biting deep, like jagged steel teeth, lacerating his flesh, and leaving behind ugly, jagged scars zigzagging like a violent lightning storm all over his face. The enemy pike had also cost him an eye. Some said he was merely blinded and wore a black leather patch to cover the hideous gray-clouded eyeball, though others claimed the eye was white and sightless as an egg, while others said that it concealed an empty hollow, that the Scottish warrior who took it had boasted he had plucked it out of its socket like an olive, though some rather ghoulishly insisted that he popped it in his mouth and swallowed it whole, and yet others insisted he had chewed it with great vigor and glee.

Regardless of which of these tales was the true one, Lord Wilton left the battlefield that day with a face that frightened children and now went about veiled like a lady in public lest his ears be a.s.saulted by cries of "Dear G.o.d, what is that hideous thing?" and "Monster!" and the terrified wails of children, the screams of women, and the thud of their bodies falling down in a faint. I felt sorry for him; I, "Crouchback Mary," the "little gargoyle," the "goblin child," and "mashed-up little toad," could well understand his pain and torment. It must have been especially hard for him since he had once been accounted amongst the handsomest of men, whilst I had been born ugly and misshapen and had known no other form or face.

But empathy was not enough to make me want to marry him. Oh what a pair we would make! I could picture myself leading my half-blind and veiled husband around by the hand, my crooked spine straining and aching at the awful effort. People would think we were a couple of freaks loose from the fair or some n.o.bleman's collection of Mother Nature's mistakes. Those who enjoyed such spectacles might even come up to us and offer us pennies to peer beneath my husband's veil or toss down their coins and cry, "Dance, dwarf, dance!"

"Nay, pet, look not so downhearted! You're frowning as if the world were about to end without your ever having tasted of all its pleasures! Smile!" Father cried, setting me down and with the tips of his fingers pushing the corners of my mouth up to form a smile that instantly disappeared the moment he removed them. "Lord Wilton is a wonderful man and a great hero! A husband you can be proud of! I myself have told him all about you, and he cannot wait to make you his bride. How impatient he is for his little Mary to grow up! He wants to be informed the moment you shed your first woman's blood! He longs for an understanding and intelligent young wife, a quiet, sensible girl whose head and heart will not be turned by a handsome face, one who is content to bide at home and sit by the fire and read to and converse with him, someone he can tell his stories to and relive his former glories with, someone like you, my little love, not some flighty little minx he is likely to find one day rolling in the straw with the stable boy between her knees! And, mind you, just because his face is ruined, doesn't mean that William is lacking in amorous skill, quite the contrary, but that is not a subject fit for your tender years. Suffice it to say that upon your wedding night you shall experience a heavenly rapture, and not of the spiritual kind, but a warm, quivering, panting, pulsing, throbbing ecstasy of the flesh! William has the tongue and fingers to rival the greatest musician in England; he plays a woman's body like an instrument! But forget I said that until you are old enough to remember! It's not a fit subject for a little maid like you to contemplate."

"But, Father!" Kate wailed. "He is so ugly! And old! I have seen him riding through London in his litter, his face covered by a thick veil, with a shawl about his shoulders, just like a hunched and shriveled-up old woman calling out to his bearers in a whining voice that they are going too fast, or too slow, or to watch out for that pig or that little girl or not to step in the street muck, and to turn here and turn there as though he laid the streets of London himself and knows them better than any!"

"Katherine!" Father barked sharply. "I am appalled and ashamed of you! Don't you realize, girl, that you are talking about a great war hero? The man who led the first charge against the enemy at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh, mind you! I'll thank you to show some respect for your future brother-in-law! Everyone with a drop of English blood in them should go down on their knees and thank William Grey for sacrificing his looks, and his vanity, for their sake. And before he was injured, he had much to be vain of. He was as bold and brazen as a strutting c.o.c.kerel! If you girls were boys, the stories I could tell you," he added with a wink. Then, hurtling over the obstacles that stood in the way of a good story, he went on as though our s.e.x posed no barrier. "Why, when he was lying there with his face hanging from his skull in shreds and tatters all st.i.tched up with crude thread and swathed in b.l.o.o.d.y rags, not knowing whether he was going to live or die, he called for a mirror though he was told it was best not to look, but look he did, he was that brave, then he defiantly flung the mirror away, and to prove himself still a man he called for women and more women and to keep them coming until he said, 'No more!' He wore out a dozen wh.o.r.es, by some counts as many as sixteen or thirty-everyone who tells the tale gives a different number-but I am sure, knowing my cousin William, that it was at least a dozen wenches. But upon one point everyone agrees-those doxies staggered out of his tent nigh swooning with their knees trembling, complaining that they ached in their privy parts like just deflowered virgins; some of them even clamped rags over their cunnies to staunch the bleeding, saying his battering ram was that big and gave them such a powerful banging, and these were all seasoned camp followers, mind you, wh.o.r.es who had left maidenhood long behind them!" He guiltily clapped a hand over his mouth as though his own words surprised him. "But I shouldn't have told you that. You're just little girls, so forget every word! Your lady-mother would take a horsewhip to my b.u.t.tocks if she knew I had been filling your heads with bawdy stories; the Good Lord above knows that she loves any excuse to do that! Let that be a lesson to you girls. Never marry a woman who lives in riding boots, for like as not she will wear them in bed as well, and the whip will never be far from her hand. Frances even wore them 'neath her bridal gown; I heard her golden spurs jingling as she walked up the aisle to take her place beside me. For the life of me, I could not figure out what that noise was, and when I bent to lift the hem of her skirt to see, she slapped my new feathered hat clean off my head right there at the altar in plain sight of everyone, and as I put the ring on her finger, I had a red and throbbing ear, the wedding guests sat there in the pews t.i.ttering as they watched it swell. But forget I told you that too!" he added hastily. "Your lady-mother wouldn't like it! Have some more candy, girls!"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the box and offered it around to us. "Here's something more suitable for your ears and years that will help you understand, especially you, little Mary, what a grand match this courageous man is! Why, if I were a woman I would leap at the chance to wed Lord Wilton! But don't tell him I said that; William deplores anything he even thinks hints at sodomy, so he would not take my words as the sincere compliment I meant them to be, for I hold him in the highest esteem! But forget I said that too, the bit about sodomy I mean-you girls shouldn't even know that word or what it means! You don't, do you? Please say you don't and spare my hide your mother's riding crop!"

He gave a great sigh of relief and mopped the sweat from his brow with his velvet sleeve when we all nodded obediently. Then he proceeded to climb up onto the long polished table that spanned nearly the entire length of the library and, enthusiastic as a little boy, began a vigorous one-man reenactment of "the wounding of Lord Wilton at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh," spiritedly wielding pantomime pikes and swords and playing all the various roles, the enemy Scots and the brave Englishmen, falling back, gurgling blood, clasping his throat, and gasping for air as my affianced husband was stricken, then rolling over on his side to quickly inform us how John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland himself, or "the Earl of Warwick as he was then," had himself thrust his fingers down Lord Wilton's throat and brought up a handful of broken teeth to clear his airway so he could breathe, "thus saving his life."

Then the wounded warrior valiantly mounted his horse again-Father swung his leg over a pretend steed and began to mime a brisk canter, neighing as his boots went clip-clop over the varnished table-explaining in an aside how, with Northumberland at his side, Lord Wilton had ridden hard through the swarming bodies of armored Englishmen and kilted Scots, wielding clanging swords, swinging spiked maces, and thrusting and clashing pikes. "When suddenly Lord Wilton began to droop, overcome by the heat, dust, buzzing flies, pain, and loss of blood, and seemed poised to faint. 'Twas then that Northumberland grabbed a firkin of ale, tilted the swooning man's head back, and poured it over his head, and as much as he could down his throat, to revive him, thus saving his life yet again. And our brave kinsman finished the charge, a hero, though a trifle drunken with his face a torn and b.l.o.o.d.y ruin, he was a hero nonetheless, and for it by the Crown rewarded with a knighthood and the governorship of Berwick, and he was also made warden of the east marches and general of several of the northern!"

Our lady-mother walked in just as Father was reenacting the shower of ale, having first called to Kate to bring him the flagon from his desk. She stood, arms folded across her ample b.r.e.a.s.t.s, tapping the toe of her boot upon the polished oaken floor, and watched with us as, standing on the table, Father threw his head back and raised the flagon up high and poured a shower of ale down his throat and all over his chest, so caught up in the drama he was reenacting that he displayed a reckless disregard for his elegant new clothes.

"Hal, whatever are you doing?" our lady-mother demanded. "Get down off that table, you're making a perfect spectacle of yourself!"

"Well, at least he is doing it perfectly," Jane murmured tartly, making a not so veiled reference to our lady-mother's insistence on perfection.

Without even glancing at Jane, our lady-mother raised her hand and with the back of it dealt Jane's face a slap. "Sarcasm is not a becoming quality in a young lady, Jane, especially not a young lady about to be married. Or hasn't your father told you about that yet?"

Father dropped the flagon, and it fell onto the table with a loud clatter as he quickly clambered down, explaining that he had just been telling us the happy news.

"This required your standing on the table my mother left me, scratching it with your boots, pouring ale all over yourself, and ruining your new doublet?" she asked, arching one finely plucked brow in disbelief.

"I-I was just showing the girls how Lord Wilton was wounded at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh," Father sheepishly explained as a blush flamed like a wildfire across his cheeks above his bushy auburn beard.

Poor Father! Mother always made him act like a mouse cornered by a cat. In her presence, he was forever fidgeting, stammering, and gnawing his nails, and tugging and twisting his hair, as a sweat broke out on his brow. Even when she was not there he was always starting at unexpected sounds and darting swift, nervous, and guilty glances around even when he was not partaking of the contents of his "sweet drawer."

"What in heaven's name for?" our lady-mother asked.

"I . . . I . . . The girls were . . . well I . . ." Father stammered, his eyes suddenly intent upon his toes. "It's quite understandable, my dear . . . you know he . . . he is not . . . pleasant . . . to look upon . . . and I-I wanted Mary to understand and . . . be proud that a war hero wants to marry her!"

Our lady-mother rolled her eyes. "Don't lie to her! Her mirror doesn't lie to her, and men's eyes won't either, only your foolish heart and tongue! You think you're being kind, but you're not. He's marrying her because I say she'll have him, and he's the only suitable man of rank and means willing to have her, and far better him for a husband than having the little gargoyle remain a spinster under our roof for the rest of her life since we can't very well send her to a nunnery since England is now Protestant instead of Papist, and she's too high born to be a fool in a great household. That would only shame and disgrace us! Her face will not make her fortune, like Kate's will," she added, her voice softening, growing tender, as she spoke my sister's name and turned to caress the bright curls and bend to press a kiss onto her cheek.

Her words stung me like a slap, and I could not bear the way she stamped all the fun out of Father, chastised him, and made him behave like a naughty schoolboy. And, I confess, it hurt me to witness the affection she showered on Kate, so I timorously piped out a question, never thinking that it might hurt Jane. "F-Father, who is Jane to marry? You did not say before."

Father flashed a grateful smile at me. Anything to divert our lady-mother. He too feared her sharp tongue that was like a metal-barbed whip, always criticizing and chastising us.

"Guildford Dudley," he answered promptly and proudly as though the boy whose name he had just p.r.o.nounced was some great prize that he had won for his firstborn daughter. "The Earl of Northumberland's youngest son of marriageable age, and the only one of his brood with golden hair. All the others are dark," he added. "He is his mother's favorite and was christened with her maiden name-Guildford. It's rather different, don't you think?" he babbled on. "I mean when so many boys are named Henry, Edward, Robert, William, John, and Thomas, it stands out as wonderfully unique, don't you think?"

"Guildford Dudley!" We three sisters raised an incredulous chorus and clung together for comfort. I saw loathing and contempt in Jane's eyes, while Kate's and mine mirrored the pity we each felt for our scholarly sister to be wedded and bedded by such a conceited fool, a gilt-haired youth who made the proud peac.o.c.ks that strutted across the royal gardens look dowdy and meek as sparrows in comparison. Jane was fluent in Latin, Greek, and French, and was currently studying Hebrew to enhance her understanding of the Scriptures; she devoured the works of Cicero, Ovid, Plutarch, Livy, Juvenal, Demosthenes, Justin the Martyr, Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, and the New Testament written in Greek as other girls her age did chivalric romances and the rollicking, ribald tales of Boccaccio and Chaucer; she had even recently acquired a Latin translation of the Jewish Talmud. And now she was betrothed to a boy who thought books were merely decorative. Poor Jane!

Everyone knew that Guildford Dudley was vainer than any girl. His own family called him their gilded lily and their golden gillyflower and catered to his every whim, shamelessly pampering and indulging their petulant and decadent darling in every way imaginable. And he was such a fool, though he himself, and his adoring mother, who put him on a pedestal like a gilt idol, thought his brains as brilliant as his beauty. Everyone knew that all the Dudleys' servants were dark-haired, to make Guildford's own golden head shine all the brighter; Guildford, who washed his hair twice a week with a mixture of lemon juice and chamomile, was known to throw fierce tantrums if any boy with fair hair dared to stand within twenty paces of him. He was the only boy I ever knew who slept with his head in curl rags every night and insisted his hairdresser, standing ready to attend him, be the first person he saw when he opened his eyes each morning. That was Guildford Dudley-Jane's betrothed. Oh my poor, poor sister!

"I Will Not." One moment Jane was speaking, enunciating each word with hard, ironclad clarity, the next her skull was striking the floor and her feet flying up as our lady-mother felled her with one swift blow from her fist.

"You will," our lady-mother said with icy calmness.

Jane raised her throbbing head from the floor and locked eyes with our lady-mother. "I will not," she repeated. "I will not marry Guildford Dudley."

There was an ominous quietness, wrapping us all like a shroud. We all knew what was about to happen; it had happened so many times before it would have been accounted a miracle if it hadn't. Jane would be taken upstairs to the Long Gallery outside our rooms, where we had always gathered by the fire and played on cold or rainy days. She would be stripped to her shift and made to wait, kneeling like a penitent, before a hard wooden bench. Then we would hear the determined tread of our lady-mother's leather-booted footsteps, the jingle-jangle of her spurs, and the slap of her riding crop against her palm as she approached. A few words would be exchanged, though to no profit, as Jane would not apologize for whatever offense she had committed. Then our lady-mother would point her whip at the bench and Jane would lift off her shift and position herself over it with her bare back and b.u.t.tocks fully exposed to the merciless cascade of blows that were about to descend. She would bite her lips until they bled and silent tears would drip down onto the floor as she choked back her sobs and refused to cry out. She would not give our lady-mother the satisfaction of hearing her plead for mercy.

"To the Long Gallery," our lady-mother said, and briskly strode out without a backward glance.

"Oh, Jane!" we cried, huddling close around our sister, as if our love alone could protect her, but she brushed away our arms and walked stoically out after our lady-mother with her head held high and proud, just like a Christian martyr about to be thrown to the lions. There were times when I thought Jane actually relished the role, the sympathy her suffering stirred, and how it made her brilliance shine all the brighter, like a perfect diamond in a dull setting.

Father returned to munching his marzipan with a nervous vengeance, crying out once when he accidentally bit his own finger, and Kate and I stood helplessly holding hands staring worriedly after Jane, wincing inwardly at each imagined lash of the whip upon her vulnerable flesh.

In one day we had gone from being three little girls, a trio of sisters playing in the snow, growing drunk and giddy on syllabub, to three maids about to be married.

Later, when Jane lay upon her stomach, Kate and I knelt on the bed beside her, frowning over the blood-crusted slashes and livid red welts blooming like a riot of red roses all over her back, bottom, and thighs already crisscrossed with several silvery white scars from previous beatings. We cleansed them gently with a cloth dipped in a mixture of yarrow and comfrey followed by a comforting balm of lavender, which Kate also dabbed onto Jane's temples after she kissed them.

Finally I asked, "Why did you resist? You knew what would happen if you did, that you would be beaten, and in the end it would change nothing, nothing at all except you would be lying here like this." I brandished an angry hand over her wounded back, b.u.t.tocks, and thighs. "None of us has the right to choose whom we will marry. We can only accept and try to make the best of it."

Jane didn't answer me. She lay there silent as a stone. Perhaps she was mulling it over in her mind, searching for an answer, or mayhap she was contemplating a day when the sorrowful tale of how Lady Jane Grey was beaten into submission and forced to marry a fool would be spread far and wide amongst Europe's most distinguished scholars. The laments that would be expressed when it became known that their bright star, the Reformed Faith's brightest candle, had been forced to douse her light and put away her books and accept a woman's lot of marriage and, eventually, motherhood. "What a waste that such a mind should be trapped in a woman's body!" they would say.

Though I never dared broach the subject with Jane, and perhaps my thinking is colored by what came after, I often suspected that though she despised the stories of the Catholic saints, and the suffering that made them martyrs, she secretly used them as her own personal embroidery pattern, envisioning a similar fate for herself. She never bit her tongue and humbly bowed her head and suffered in silence like most chastised and punished children did, nor did she ever school herself to adopt meek ways and avoid further beatings; instead she seemed to provoke and invite them. There were so many times when Jane could have saved herself, but she didn't. And afterward she always found a way-a sympathetic ear with a gossipy tongue-to tell the world. Jane felt her story must be told; she craved sympathy the way a drunkard does wine and praise as a glutton dreams of devouring a royal banquet.

"And at least Guildford Dudley is handsome, even if he is a fool," Kate added, "so it might not be so bad. Perhaps he will be kind? And failing that, he is always good for a laugh." She giggled. "I once saw him in a shop in London; he bought a gray velvet cloak lined in pale blue silk and fringed and embroidered with silver flowers-it was a very beautiful cloak-because he had just the cat to wear it with. See, Jane?" She prodded her gently when the ghost of a smile twitched at Jane's lips. "You will always have a husband who will make you smile! And it could be far worse; poor Mary is stuck with Lord Wilton, and he has a face that gives little children nightmares." Kate made a sour face and shuddered.

All of a sudden I began to shake and shiver, and then the tears came, uncontrollably, though I did not wish to appear babyish before my sisters, especially after I had just been scolding Jane for resisting what could not be changed, but I could not help it.

"Mary, what is it?" Kate turned to me. "I am sorry for what I said about Lord Wilton, truly I am. I did not mean to make you cry. Oh please don't cry, or I will cry too!" And even as she spoke, tears began to trickle down my sister's lovely face.

"It's not that!" I blurted. "It's just . . . you are both going to leave me! In only a few weeks . . . I shall lose you both!"

"Oh, Mary!" Kate threw her arms about me, and Jane levered up her sore body and crawled over to put her arms around my waist and lay her head in my lap.

"Don't cry!" Kate pleaded. "I promise I shall have you visit me often, mayhap you can even come to live with me. I shall use my every charm to persuade Lord Herbert to allow it."

"And you shall visit me too," Jane promised, "as often as you can. Just think, soon you will be grumbling about all the time you spend on the road going from Kate's house to mine."

"R-really?" I blubbered hopefully.

"Really!" my sisters promised and hugged me tighter.

"We are sisters," Kate said, "and we shall never truly be parted, not even by time and distance."