The Lady of Misrule (6 page)

Everyone except the King, or not for a while, not until that woman had sat beside him for a couple of years, growing thinner and sharper, carping and meddling and feuding and disparaging until eventually even he couldn't fail to see her commoner's bones showing through. But a king never makes a mistake, so the fault must've been hers. She must have been a liar, a beguiler – perhaps even, you could say, if you didn't say it too loudly, a witch. A king never makes a mistake but
he'll always right a wrong. He can raise someone up but much quicker cut a person down, and soon that so-called Queen was even less than the commoner she'd once been, she was a traitor and her bones not even a body but a heap, and only buried anywhere at all because bones have to be hidden or they'd be dug up by dogs.

But the shut-away daughter had lived on – if only just, in those various faraway houses in Essex and Suffolk and Norfolk, keeping to her four walls, to her chapels, confessing to her priests and consulting her physicians. For years she'd lived the quiet life, reconciled to her lot: elder half-sister to little half-brother. But then the half-brother had died and after a quarter-century that half-sister was on her way back into the very heart of the kingdom. In a few days' time, she could well be standing where I was, I thought, and perhaps she'd ask for the doors that Mrs Partridge had just locked behind us to be reopened, and then she'd walk where we'd just walked. Perhaps she'd go where we hadn't, up into the building itself, into the rooms that, twenty years ago, had housed a woman who'd been so completely sure she'd got it made.

Mary Tudor was the first ever queen coming to the Tower not at the invitation or on the order of any king. She
was
the King, if a female one. The invitation she had accepted was that of her subjects. The day Jane was declared Queen, the Lady Mary had written to everyone in England and the letter had been copied then and there, and the copy copied and so on, down row upon row of trestle tables in the hall at her Framlingham house, those copies passed hand over hand to
the ready riders for dispatching anywhere and everywhere. Within two days England was blanketed with what she'd had to say. Which was, basically,
Remember me?
That was all, more or less; that was all it took:
Remember me, the old King's eldest daughter? Well, here I am, if you'll have me.

I'd been leaving the Fitzalans' house for the Tower, for my Jane-minding duties, when news had come of Queen Mary's imminent declaration at the Eleanor Cross. The Fitzalans' excitable fourteen-year-old son, Henry, little Lord Maltravers, had taken to the streets to see what was what, and he returned just as my mother and I were heading down the garden to their barge. ‘You should see it, out there,' he called after us, and then suggested we do exactly that: forgo the Fitzalan landing-stage in favour of somewhere slightly downstream, just a few streets away, where we could take a wherry and he'd see us personally to the Tower. It was safe, he assured us, perfectly safe: there was nothing in the air, that morning, he said, but good will.

‘London's in love,' was, I remembered, how he'd put it. Smitten, he'd meant, by the dowdy lady who had, against the odds, just become its queen.

My mother claimed a headache but I was curious and keen to stretch my legs after two long days in the saddle. Even keener, if truth be told, to delay venturing on to the water, which was to be a new experience for me. Surprisingly, I didn't have to argue too hard: my mother agreed I could go with Henry as long as we promised to stick close to our Fitzalan minders.

Our own goodbyes didn't detain us, so there I was, minutes later, leaving the gatehouse in the company of the funny little Fitzalan heir, although, as I teetered on the threshold, there seemed to be no place in that packed lane for a single extra footfall. Somehow I managed it, took the first step and pitched myself in. Once inside the crowd, I discovered it to be built of shoulderblades. United, too, those shoulders: everyone hugging everyone else as if they were long-lost friends, but me in the midst of them knowing no one, not a soul. My heart drummed a warning but I kept calm: it had been a mistake to think I'd be up to this, but no harm done, easily remedied, all I had to do was reverse that single step of mine back up into the gatehouse. I turned but, behind me, my minder misunderstood and pressed what he intended as a helping hand into the small of my back, and dodging it took me a couple of steps further adrift.
Get me back
, I should've said to him
, please,
but my mouth had shut itself against the viscous stench: the lane reeked like a ditch, like skin and bone dumped, although actually the source was broad grins and armpits opening up for all that hugging.

Dancing, too, even in that dense crowd; a rhythm being beaten on something and a handful of people barging into bystanders, of which I was about to become one. On tiptoe, I glimpsed the feather of Henry's cap: no chance of me catching him up, saddle-sore as I was and sweltering and swollen inside my boots. Boots which then blundered into a body down on the ground, battering at a clutch of child-ribs, bringing my heart to a screeching halt; but no, I saw, looking down,
thank God, no body: a child, yes, but busy, unbothered, filching coins from the cobbles. Coins: that was what they were, then, those splashes of glare: handfuls of coins chucked into the air. But something else was in the sky, too, and rushing our way: black smoke, a great roiling of it. ‘Bonfire,' the minder blared into my ear. He could prod all he liked but I was going back. Glancing round, though, I found the gatehouse had gone from view: my tiny steps, with which I'd been keeping my ground, had in fact been taking me deeper into the city. We were too close to the fire, its shocking incandescence, and I saw that whatever was at the heart of it was keeling over, rigid, as if agonised. But that was when Henry Fitzalan's hand took mine, and how he'd made his way back through the crowd to me I simply couldn't imagine: but there it was, his hand in mine and his smile over a stranger's shoulder, and from then on we were on the move, we were unstoppable and I was tripping over my own boots, my breath no longer hampering me but blowing me along the streets. Little Lord Maltravers threaded us expertly between elbows and then, when we turned a corner, there it was, above our heads and higher than the rooftops: a gilded tower topped with a cross. And then came the roar – Mary Tudor proclaimed Queen – and my bones were singing with it and me too, yes, even me: I was yelling, because you couldn't not, you just couldn't not.

We'd been at the Partridges' for a week when the invitation came, via Mrs Partridge: the boy husband wished his wife to
join him for a stroll. They were free to meet, we'd been told on our first evening, as long as they remained in public – the herb garden in front of the house was Mrs Partridge's suggestion – and under proper supervision, which, to judge from Mr Partridge's glance in my direction, was down to me. Jane's only response to this message from Mrs Partridge was a nod. No clue as to how she felt at the prospect, although a week in her company had taught me not to expect any. She'd made no mention of that husband of hers all week, but why would she? I wondered if he might be easier, on this occasion: calmer, perhaps, than he'd been at their parting; it was possible, I supposed, that under less fraught circumstances he'd manage to show himself in a better light.

So, I'd be playing gooseberry: I'd have to stand alongside the pair of them in that herb patch – although of course I could stand at a distance, or at as much distance as a herb patch could offer. Actually, I didn't care where I'd be standing as long as I was out of that room. A week in the Tower, and playing gooseberry was something to do, a herb garden somewhere to go.

That afternoon, on the strike of three, as arranged, we closed the Partridges' front door behind us and there they were, Guildford Dudley and his attendant on the far side of various herbaceous tufts. Guildford was testing something – animal, vegetable, mineral? – with the toe of his boot, but left off as soon as he saw us. The white and gold of a week ago had been replaced by a tawny silk which inevitably did a little less for him, but still, he was a vision next to the pallid,
sunken-eyed attendant. Jane should take a look at that attendant, I thought, and perhaps she'd realise she didn't have such a raw deal after all. I was quite possibly a world of fun, compared.

I loitered by the door, absenting myself as best I could, resolving not to eavesdrop nor meet anyone's eye and definitely not that of my counterpart; I couldn't envisage any cause for solidarity with him, and if his turning his back was anything to go by, he felt similarly. Jane was barely past the bee-fizzy lavender before Guildford – making no effort to lower his voice – demanded to know how she was being treated. I didn't have to be watching to know she'd shrugged the question off. The detail of her reply escaped me, but the tone was unmistakable: non-committal, if not rather positive. Undeterred, her husband launched into noisy complaint: ‘Because
I'm
getting all manner of shit.'

A notable lack of response from his wife – just a frown, I glimpsed, a dutiful expression of concern but her heart not in it nor anywhere near.

Leaning back on to the wall of the Partridges' house, I gave myself up to a warming by sun-struck brick. Being at ground level offered no obvious advantage over my usual view of the green so I closed my eyes and was entertained instead by the play of sunshine on the inside of my eyelids. Perhaps, I thought, I should've called Twig along for company; then again, he might have expected a walk; it would've been mean to lure him on false pretences.

‘It's pathetic,' I heard Guildford protesting, ‘it's just a
chance to throw rotten eggs at a king and queen, and it's too much for them to resist; they just can't stop themselves.'

That did grab Jane's attention. ‘Rotten eggs?' I imagined her frown of concern deepening into one of incomprehension.

Which he gave short shrift. ‘You know what I mean.'

I wouldn't bet on it.

‘Our being stuck in here,' he seethed, ‘is the biggest fucking excitement they've had in years.'

‘Who?' Jane asked, and her interest was audibly genuine. ‘Who's doing this—'
throwing of rotten eggs
, as it were.

He was predictably hazy on the details: ‘Oh—' and I imagined the dismissive flap of a fine-boned hand,
just
everyone.
‘Every last one of the bastards. Even the bloke who brings in my breakfast.'

Not having the benefit of the Partridges' kitchen close at hand, he was buying meals in from the Tiger Inn, the Partridges had told us, for himself and his attendant.

‘Lording it over me, all of them. You can see it,' he insisted, ‘you can see it in their eyes.'

My own eyes half opened, to see him strutting up and down a row of sage. ‘I mean, is it too much to expect them to think for themselves?' Then, vehemently:
‘Little people
.'

At which point, as if summoned, Goose banged through the Partridges' door, flinging me an acknowledgement as she did so (‘Lady Lily-Loola,' on this occasion) then stalking off across the bailey. Was Goose a ‘little person'? The day before, I'd asked her where she came from and with a glorious
laugh she'd said, ‘A long way away, but not far enough.'

‘And you know what? You know what?' Guildford's petulance knew no bounds. ‘Why not just have done with it? They want to string me up, do they? Well –' he flung his arms wide ‘– here I am.'

Don't tempt me.

Jane's response was merely ‘We've been treated well.'
We
: she and I, it seemed, were a we.

‘Oh, well, yeah,' was his gloomy rejoinder, arms slapped back to his sides, ‘but they'll be easier on you because you're a girl.'

Or tougher on you because you're a prick.

She changed the subject: Any news of your father?'

‘On his way.' Guildford didn't elaborate, snapped off a sprig of rosemary to lob it over his shoulder.

Being brought in, more accurately: his father wouldn't be dropping by of his own accord for the pleasure of some flower-gathering.

‘My brothers, too. Tomorrow, probably.'

Then came fulsome nose-blowing from the attendant, for which Guildford made a point of pausing, head cocked as if ascertaining some fine detail and resuming only when any more discharge would have been life-threatening: ‘But she can't hold him to blame.'

The attendant coughed, perhaps from physical necessity but possibly in surprise.

Jane closed her eyes, emphatically: this, by the look of it, was old ground.
She
, the soon-to-be-crowned Queen, and
blame
, for having advanced the claim of a pretender.

‘She can't.' Guildford circled her, stepping over a patch of chives but not quite clearing it, which drew a disconcerted glance from the attendant, as if we were responsible, too, for the welfare of the herbs. ‘I mean, how can she blame him? What else could he have done?'

Jane must've signalled impatience or scepticism because then he was remonstrating, ‘No, no, this needs to be said,' and even taking her by the shoulders, from which she recoiled into a fold of arms.

I'd given up the pretence of not watching. I was just keeping an eye, I told myself. Someone had to, and Guildford's attendant was more interested in the contents of his handkerchief.

‘Because how convenient for everyone to forget what the King wanted.'

Jane started a small pacing of her own, to shake him off.

‘You,' he said. ‘He wanted you. Not her.'

Keep your voice down. This helps no one.

He aimed a kick at whatever it was that had been suffering his attention when we arrived.

‘The King's dying wish was that you succeed him. Has everyone forgotten that?'

I wondered what was going through Jane's mind. People said the boy-King had been her soulmate, but people said all sorts of things – whatever best served their purpose – and lately more than ever. It was hard to imagine her being anyone's soulmate. She gave nothing of herself. Well, not to
me, but then again, why would she? Nor to her husband, although if what I'd seen of him so far was typical, that was hardly surprising.