The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

SEVEN

Year of Our Lord 1545

Westminster

Greenwich Palace

Southsea Castle, Dover

Windsor

The king, still drunk with French victory, was most generous with his New Year’s gifts. He gave the queen a heavy purse of gold, some fine gowns, and a diamond-encrusted clock, as she was overfond of timepieces. He added to her personal jewelry collection, not just that belonging to the crown, and on the second of January I assisted her sister, Lady Herbert, as she sorted through Kate’s stones, collars, and chains, storing them in appropriate silk-lined cabinets.

“Place the emeralds here.” Lady Herbert pointed to a small, lacquered casket and smiled. She had been in charge of Queen Catherine Howard’s jewels, too, before that queen stumbled toward the scaffold. I was inordinately proud because I was the maiden most often chosen to help with my lady’s jewels. Lady Margaret Neville had oft helped her in the past but she was unwell of late and took to her chambers more often than not. I knew Her Grace worried on Margaret’s behalf and yet she had duties from dawn till dusk most days, and His Majesty did not abide sickness well, not even his own, which had seemed to wax lately. Perhaps his winning efforts at war had been purchased at the cost of quickening his ill health.

Kate sat on a comfortable chair and read to us from the Lady Elizabeth’s gift to her for the New Year.

“Exquisitely and thoughtfully done. Brilliant. ’Tis a translation of Miroir de l’âme pécheresse, ‘The Glass of the Sinful Soul,’” Kate mused aloud.

At that, her sister looked up, discomfited.

“What, Anne?” Kate responded a bit sharply. “’Twas written by a princess. I write and transcribe, and the Lady Elizabeth enjoys writing and transcribing and is much skilled already. Surely nothing is amiss with that.” Kate seemed to weary at the unspoken rebuke.

“Miroir is beloved by reformers and written by a manifest reformer. I do not think the king, her father, would look upon this with favor.”

“Ah,” Her Grace said quietly. “But I look upon it with favor, and her mother, Queen Anne Boleyn, would as well. Who knows but that it may be her copy that Elizabeth translated from? Marguerite was an especial favorite of that queen. I rather admire Queen Anne and I know you do, too, as it was in her household that you first came to be a reformer and shared the like with me. I wish the Lady Elizabeth to know of her, especially as the Lady Elizabeth is growing both astute in and warming to matters of faith and practice.”

Lady Herbert busied herself with the jewels, and I did, too, hoping to dissuade my lady from any more talk about Anne Boleyn lest she follow Queen Anne’s narrow path.

Inside, though, I applauded Her Grace for ensuring that Elizabeth knew something of what her mother cared for too.

As spring wore on it became clear that Kate’s stepdaughter, the daughter of her heart, was ill unto death. The king gave the queen leave to attend more frequently to Margaret, whom she had moved next to her own quarters.

“Come now, dearest. I’ve had some custard prepared for you,” the queen said, sitting near Margaret in her receiving chamber. She looked up at one of her lady maids and had the tray with custards, potage, and other soft foods temptingly arrayed delivered to Lady Margaret Neville’s side.

“I shall eat a little,” Margaret declared, though out of will to please Kate and not hunger, I knew. I busied myself in the room, as did Dorothy. One lady placed some of Kate’s books in her cupboards and another ordered some tables arranged for the afternoon’s card game. All affected a semblance of normalcy, but we knew how ill Margaret truly was. She confirmed it for us with her words to Kate.

“I have completed my will,” she said. “I’ve had my father’s steward assist me, and of course, dear lady, I have left everything to you. I shan’t require the money my father had set aside for my dowry or keep.”

“Hush, now, there is many a year to concern ourselves with that,” Her Grace said, trying to reassure her. I saw her face pink and she blinked. I looked away.

“Nay, my lady, ’tis not the truth.”

Lady Seymour disappeared into the Queen’s Closet and aimed a significant look at Dorothy and me. We dared not disobey and followed her in, where she gave us some meaningless duties to leave Kate and Margaret alone.

Within the month, young Lady Margaret Neville had passed away. One night soon after, I took the ivory-handled brush and performed the task that Margaret often had as Kate allowed herself to grieve, wiping her eyes with a nearby linen, tears coursing in disorderly fashion over her cheekbones and down under her golden collar, which had yet to be unclasped.

“I am sorry, Juliana, that you should see me thus.”

“Don’t be sorry, Your Grace. You were her mother.” I smoothed my hand over her head, wishing to soothe her as she so often did for others.

The queen wiped her face again and nodded. “I was. I was her mother, not just her stepmother. She was my only child.”

I set down the brush and pulled her head close to my shoulder, sharing her burden in hope of thereby halving it. “You were a fine mother to her,” I said, imitating the calm tone I’d often heard her use. “All knew it, not the least of all Margaret.” After a moment of silence I continued. “Someday, when I have children of my own, I will know how to mother them because I’ve watched you. You mother the Lady Elizabeth, Prince Edward. And though I am older, me,” I added softly.

Her Grace said nothing, but did allow herself to quietly weep for five minutes afore collecting her senses. I grieved with her. Lady Margaret Neville had been a friend, a kind and true friend. I had helped her maid to pack her things so that Kate would not have to, and sent them along to the poor.

At court one is not allowed to grieve overlong. Soon Lady Seymour brought news of Anne Askew’s arrest, along with a dangerous challenge for the queen.

One of Kate’s ladies was reading in the queen’s chambers whilst the March wind blew rain across the Thames so hard it tried to breach the windowpanes. I don’t recall what she was reading because shortly after she began, Anne Stanhope, Lady Seymour, entered the room and stood at the back. I could tell by the way she held herself that she had something to tell those of us assembled, but the queen intentionally did not give her leave to speak immediately.

Although they shared the same reformed beliefs and were beautiful in their own ways—my lady with her dark russet hair and Lady Seymour with her icy blond—they did not hold inordinate affection for one another. One was the wife of Edward Seymour. One still carried his brother, Sir Thomas, in her heart.

Dorothy leaned over and whispered, “You do know that the earl was married to someone else before he was married to the Lady Seymour.”

I shook my head ever so slightly, so she continued.

“Lord Edward was married to another woman first, but she is supposed to have continued having relations with Lord Edward’s father, so her husband put her aside. Many believe Edward Seymour’s first two children to be his brothers and not his sons.”

I opened my eyes widely and Dorothy nodded wisely. It brought her great pleasure when she shared a fact with me that I didn’t know, so I squeezed her hand and whispered that she should tell me the rest later that evening. I was hoping to rekindle our friendship, which had burnt down to a lukewarm ember since I began to room with Elisabeth Brooke. I felt, at that moment, pity for Edward and how he’d been wronged. His wife had certainly made up for his baseborn children, however, having already given him a handful plus one more, the fact of which caused great pain to my barren lady. I now understood a bit better Anne Stanhope’s fierce loyalty toward her husband and her willingness to tangle with any who stood in his way. When I married—and my mind drifted fondly to Jamie—I should be fiercely protective of my husband too.

Her Grace indicated that Lady Seymour should step forward. She did, and seeing that the women were few and like-minded, spoke freely.

“Askew has been arrested again. I’ve heard that she’s being held at Sadler’s Hall, and interrogated. She’s borne up well thus far but has little in the way of warm clothing, money for foodstuffs, or a word to hearten her.”

Sadler’s Hall was the guild for saddlemakers; we had one near my home in Marlborough as well. It was not a bad place but also not the kind of place to restrain a highborn young lady nigh on twenty-five.

“We should assist her,” Stanhope declared.

I knew my lady well enough to know she was holding back a tart reply about “we” assisting Askew. “What do you suggest?” the queen asked.

“Her brother is the king’s cupbearer. Could he be of assistance?”

The queen nodded and dismissed all but a few of us; I was among those who remained, as was the Countess of Sussex. I looked at her closely, remembering her prophecy about Mistress Askew. ’Twas comforting, of a sort, to know there was another woman nearby with that gift. It made me seem less peculiar, and I thanked God for the knowledge of her. There might have been many others, but none of us spoke of it and I was relieved that, these three years past, no further prophecy had been given to me. I oft forgot I had it at all. But it waited.

“Juliana.” The queen drew me near. “I have had Margaret run certain discriminating errands for me, in the past. Now that she is gone, I wonder …”

“Yes, madam.” I spoke up, thrill and fear racing one another through my limbs. “I will serve you however I may.”

She conferred with her closest circle of women and then said, “I shall give you a letter and a purse to bring to the king’s cupbearer, Askew’s brother. If he seems inclined to assist, after some delicate conversation on your part, pass these along to him. If not, you may return to me. I will decide what to do then. You must wear something that indicates you are well-bred, but not something likely to draw undue attention.”

I hurried back to my chambers and changed. I prayed quickly that I might be useful for Her Majesty.

I hid the letter and the small purse that the queen gave me and made my way to the king’s chambers, and beyond, to where his men stayed. Further down the hall were the lesser chambers of his lower servants—still all nobly born or gentry.

“I seek Edward Askew,” I said to a page. “The king’s cupbearer. I am here on an errand for the queen.”

“Certainly.”

I waited in the hallway whilst he found Askew. I was not going to be seen entering a man’s chamber, for certes, ruining my reputation for all time. After a few moments a tallish man with teeth bent upon one another like awkward saplings came to the hall.

“Her Grace would like to ensure that the king’s wine is not oversugared,” I said. “She has a concern that his health may be better served with less. Until she can speak with his physician, as his wife, she’s attending to this matter.”

Edward Askew looked at me a bit strangely, but agreed. “I endeavor in all ways to attend to the king’s well-being, as long as His Majesty agrees to the taste.”

I looked at him. “You seem familiar to me. Are you the brother of Anne Askew?”

He spat on the floor. “Better she should be called Kyme, the name of her husband, rather than spew her unwomanly nonsense and bring further disgrace upon the name Askew.”

I nodded and kept the letter and purse well within my sleeve. “I see. Mayhap we have not met before. I shall tell the queen of your sentiments regarding the king’s wine. Good day.”

“Good day, mistress,” he said, bowing his head curtly afore taking his leave.

I returned to the queen’s chambers and shared with her and her attendants the exchange between myself and Edward Askew.

“What now?” Kate said. “She’s like to be unwell with no one to care for her, nor funds for physic or food.”

“We shall find another way to get the monies to her,” Lady Seymour said. “I shall send one of my most trusted pages.”

“And if they do not allow a man not from the council to see her?”

“Send me,” I interrupted. “I shall cloak myself, and truth be told, I am of so little account that few outside of your circle know of me, Your Grace.”

They agreed, and shortly thereafter I was met by a young man wearing the blue livery of Edward Seymour’s household. I had not been on the streets of London before, only at my lady’s properties or with the court, and thus was uncommonly excited. I fixed my hat down low and drew my cloak about me.

We took two horses and made our way down the freshly paved streets till they churned into mud alleys. I was thrilled to be outside of the palace. The streets were lined with markets and peddlers and all manner of mean people, not unlike Marlborough but many times over. They shouted as they hawked their wares, lark pies, roasted nuts, and spices. Women of a vulgar sort boldly hawked their wares, too, as they loitered outside the taverns, their gowns barely covering their slack skin. I pulled my cloak about me, glad that their life was not mine.

“We’ve arrived,” the young man riding with me said as we pulled up to the guildhall. He brought our horses close to the door and bid me stay with them. I had never been out alone, without a servant, and I admit to a certain unease. Others looked closely at me; it was clear our horses were expensive.

The servant came back. “They’ve taken her to the Counter prison. Or the Compter, on Bread Street.” We rode down that street, slowly. “Next time,” he muttered, “if there is one, I shall not ride so fine a horse. Draws too much attention and I’ve already got difficulties fending off questions from Lord Wriothesley’s pages.”

We arrived at the prison and the servant spoke to the warden and then returned to me. “A woman can visit,” he said. “To offer feminine comfort. But not a man. Be quick.” I pulled my cloak about me again and went inside.

It stank of decomposing defecation and the sharp smell of blood. Vermin not only lurked in the corners but raced down the corridors. They seemed overbold to me, their beady eyes not bothering to turn aside as I stared at them, rather taking it as a challenge to come yet nearer.

I saw her; there was no doubt who she was, the only young, pretty, highborn woman there. I came close to her cell and whispered, “I have comfort to offer, my lady. And a coat, and a purse.”

She looked upon me, her eyes sharp and focused. I could feel her courage like a weapon at her side and I admired her for it. “Who are you?”

“A friend. Sent by highborn friends.”

She nodded. “I know of whom you speak. Yes, thank them.”

“How do you fare?”

“Well,” she said, not allowing herself the luxury of letting down her guard. “Pray for me.”

I handed the bag to her; there was to be no letter or other indication of who her benefactors were. “We will, my lady. Heartily.” I recalled to mind the words Father Gregory had given to me. “That you will be able to resist in the evil days that come. And to stand.”

At that she smiled, a warm smile that smoothed the zealous edges from her face. I realized that we were but a year or two apart in age and could well have been friends under other circumstances. I said nothing more, not wanting to give her any cause for softening. She would need her calluses.

Later, I reported all to Her Grace in the privacy of her bedchamber, thrilled to have been included in this most important, sacred almost, task. The kind of sensitive task a mother might entrust to a daughter.

“Well done,” she said, reassuring me.

“My lady … upon what charges do they detain Mistress Askew?” I asked.

“She is not in agreement with the king’s Six Articles,” Kate replied. “Which is the law in determining acceptable—and heretical—applications of faith.”

“Which of the Six Articles?” I pressed. I could not help it; having been drawn into the intrigue I wanted to understand the particulars.

“Chiefly,” the queen spoke softly, “Mistress Askew does not believe that the bread and wine, the Lord’s Supper, become the actual body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ during the celebration. She believes them to be representative, symbolic. The king marks that, especially, as heresy, punishable by death.”

I dared to ask a question; I needed to know the answer if I were to help her. “Do you mark that as heresy, my lady?”

After a moment, Kate responded. “No, Juliana, I do not. I find I now sympathize with Anne Askew on these matters.”

After my own readings I too was beginning to agree. After all, our Lord was neither literal vine nor door, either, though Scripture called Him both.

“And the king?” I asked with dread. “Does he know you believe thusly?”

She shook her head. “He does not. Prince Edward’s tutors and, er, uncles, share my sympathies. The Lady Mary is strongly in agreement with her father and devoted to her mother’s faith. I believe the Lady Elizabeth lightly inclines toward me, though she is young, and not zealous.”

“Excuse me, my lady. But a house divided against itself cannot stand.”

“Which is why I seek in all ways to persuade the king in this matter. As does Archbishop Cranmer.”

But not Bishop Gardiner, I thought, nor Lord Wriothesley nor many powerful others. They both seek to do you harm wherever they may. I had little confidence in my lady’s ability to offer guidance and instruction to the king on religion; I thought it rather more likely he would declare her a heretic upon discovering the magnitude of her beliefs.

A few months later, Thomas Berthelet, the royal printer, delivered to my lady a shipment of her book Prayers Stirring the Mind unto Heavenly Meditations, which I had seen her quietly working on for months. He had already delivered a copy to His Majesty, who soon made his way to Kate’s chambers to proclaim his pride in his wife’s learning and piety, under his own strong guidance and tutelage, of course.

Later that week His Majesty held a small feast as a celebration of the event. My Lady Suffolk, whose husband had taken ill, made a special effort to attend and celebrate without him to show support for the queen. All were delighted with her success, and I was particularly proud as I had seen her at work on it late at night. Lady Seymour was there with her husband, Edward, Earl of Hertford. As she viewed her family as nobler, and herself as superior in person, she did not seem to enjoy the well-deserved accolades given Kate as one among the few women to publish in the English language. Lady Seymour, Anne Stanhope, styled herself a writer, too, so ’twas more like sun in her eyes. I wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if Stanhope would do Kate ill if given the chance.

In August, the Duke of Suffolk, who had been the king’s lifelong friend and closest confidant, a brother, really, passed away. A certain lightness went out of the king and I do not think that, as he turned that corner, he ever returned. From that time forward his illnesses accelerated. The duke had requested a simple burial; the king insisted that his friend be buried with highest honors at Saint George’s Chapel, Windsor. His Majesty informed those gathered that the duke had never brought harm to a competitor nor to an adversary, nor had he spoken a word with the intent of injuring another. “Is there any of you, my lords,” the king added, “who can say as much?” I thought it was unlikely there were two such men at his court, ever.

In spite of his dour mood, His Majesty needed to keep up royal pretenses and thus bought fine new clothes for both of his daughters in advance of the Christmas celebrations. The Lady Elizabeth, being young, would not be in attendance all month so he held a series of celebrations in mid-November too. The one I looked forward to the most was a musical evening. The king was a fine composer and several of his songs would be performed by lute and harp; the virginals, of which I was particularly fond because my mother had ensured that I was well trained on them, would be played too.

The great hall overflowed with people who mingled and talked and ate of small fancies whilst the musicians played. I had loaned Dorothy one of my fine rings after she’d come to keep me company in my oft-lonely chamber. Elisabeth had left early to assist Lord William, as he’d held a small reception in advance of the evening in his chambers; she was there more often than not, night and day. She’d invited me to the reception but I did not feel particularly comfortable with that set. Dorothy took special care to find Tristram as soon as we arrived and I prayed that he would be delighted with her company.

To my own utter delight, Jamie was in attendance. I caught his eye across the room and he smiled broadly, then nodded warmly in my direction as if to say he would speak with me soon. I was glad that I had, again, chosen my peach gown with its womanly tucks sewn in becoming places.

“You look in want of company.” John Temple came up beside me.

I smiled graciously, as was required at court. “’Tis very kind of you to think so,” I said. “But I was just on my way to speak with someone else.” He followed my gaze to Jamie, who was deep in conversation with another woman.

“Sir Thomas does welcome the rakehells into his household, does he not?” Sir John said smoothly. “I’m not surprised.” With that he took his leave.

In spite of his nod, Jamie did not come and find me immediately thereafter. I saw him speak with another woman, and I joined Dorothy and Tristram and a group of others from Her Grace’s household in conversation. When I looked to Jamie again, he was speaking with another group. I tried to catch his eye but could not and he did not seem to be looking for me, either. Dorothy led Tristram away and kept him occupied, although he cast a longing glance in my direction once or twice, which I returned in a friendly but not necessarily inviting manner.

Rather than stand by myself and look a fool if Jamie should glance my way again, I reluctantly sought out Sir John to make happy, if forced, conversation and cheerful, even ebullient, company at dance.

’Twas a singular mistake that I’d wish undone.

“Ah, Mistress Juliana, your Irishman seems preoccupied,” Sir John said.

“He’s not my Irishman, Sir John.”

He nodded approvingly. “At least Marlborough, burg that it is, is on English soil.”

“I plan to return to Marlborough after the New Year’s celebration,” I said, glad for once to speak of home, which felt familiar and warming. “I haven’t visited my mother for some time.”

He smiled and made pleasant, educated chatter about the music. I drew a bit closer to him when I noticed Jamie looking in my direction. This seemed to please Sir John. “May I bring you a goblet of wine?” he asked.

I nodded, and wished that Jamie would come and sit nearby me in Sir John’s absence, but he did not. Sir John handed me a cup overfull, and drew near and talked with me for some time, about nothing at all of importance; the more I talked with him the more I disliked him, but he seemed to take no notice of that and I could not keep up the happy pretense. Finally I said, “I must return to my chamber.”

“So soon?”

“As I am alone I do not like to return too late. Thank you, Sir John.”

“May I persuade you to let me accompany you to your room, as the hour does, indeed, grow late?”

I nodded. It was a gentlemanly thing to do. We walked down the long galleries, tapers fluttering on the wall sconces, I weary and disappointed. Most doors were shut. I heard a small noise from within Dorothy’s chamber; ’twas she or the maiden she shared with, already returned for the eve.

“Thank you,” I said when we arrived. Sir John looked at me inquiringly but did not respond. I realized that he had had too many cups of wine, which was why he was presently unresponsive. As I opened my door he forced himself into my room.

“Sir, please, take your leave!”

“I shan’t, not until I get what you invited me to come here for,” he said, firmly closing the door behind him and blocking me from its path.

“I invited nothing, nor do I want anything from you, but for you to remove yourself.” I tried to dart around him in order to open the door of my chamber to show him out, or shout for assistance, whichever should be required to stop his menace. He blocked me.

“I shall, mistress, but not just yet.” He took both of my arms firmly in one of his own and then tore my gown down the back.

“Sir John! Have you gone mad?” I struggled to free myself and tore loose. I grabbed the small torch from the wall and swung it at him to set him afire but he knocked it from my hand and stamped it out while twisting my arm behind my back. I was firmly held and unable to move. So I shouted.

“Dorothy!” I shouted for the only person whose chamber was close enough to, perhaps, hear. But the chamber doors were heavy and I did not know if the sound of my voice could penetrate through them.

He clamped his one free hand under my jaw, over my closed mouth, so I could not even bite his hand, though I tried.

“If you free yourself or call out, I shall tell everyone that you invited me in and the noise they heard was rough play.”

My eyes were then opened and I knew what he was about to do. He pushed me onto the bed and undid his hose and codpiece. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that what was about to happen would not happen, would stop.

It did not stop.

I felt myself somehow drifting away from the situation, like a ghost, even as I was assaulted by stabbing pain and harsh treatment; the blood oozed from between my legs, then coursed along my thighs. His body was heavy on mine and though I had closed my eyes against his face I could not stopper my ears to his noises nor spare my skin from his rough beard and foul breath. The music from the evening made its way from my memory into my head along with the beating sound of my heart and I tried desperately to focus upon it whilst calling out in my heart, Lord Jesus! Save me!

To my great sorrow no supernatural rescue arrived and the constant searing pain reminded me that I was there in the flesh. Within a few minutes, Sir John fell back.

“You are a maiden!” he said with surprise. “I, I thought that others had had you.”

“Get out.” I pulled the linens around me but could scarce move my legs because I suffered. “You have badly misjudged me. It would not have mattered, should not have mattered, in any case whether I be a maid or not.”

He looked like a little boy whose governess had never told him no, both pleased that he’d had the temerity to act brashly but afraid of the potential consequences once caught. “None need know this but us. Your own behavior led to this. All saw you willingly seek my company tonight. You cunningly informed me that you would have the chamber to yourself and, therefore, the privacy we required. I should make sure others believe that you decided to cry rape once I declined to proceed further toward any binding relationship.”

“That is wholly untrue!” I protested. “And I shall not allow others to view it that way.”

“It’s all in the mind of the beholder, mistress, and in how it’s presented and by whom. I daresay it will surely bring sly and nasty comments upon the queen’s morals, after all, to have both you and Lady Brooke acting in such a vulgar manner—perhaps that’s why Her Grace chambered you together, hmm? And mark me, no good man will want you once you’ve been … sampled. I know I wouldn’t. And I know how men talk behind closed doors.”

That Kate’s morals and the running of her household would be slandered I knew to be true. She had many enemies sniffing about for a reason to give the king to question her. I did not know the way of men. Could Temple’s conclusion about no good man desiring me now perhaps be true?

He pulled on his doublet. “I told you once, mistress, that reputations are lost quickly at court. They can be best lost through whispers. They can be best retained by silence.”

I recalled Dorothy’s tale of the woman Sir Thomas was accused of debauching, and the shunned and sorry life she’d lived thereafter. ’Twas the unfair and startling truth that whether or not the story was true the consequences certainly were.

He finished dressing. “Justice at court is the domain of men, not women.”

He slammed the door behind him but within a minute, I heard a knock. It became persistent and I knew I must answer but I was so stunned I scarce knew what to do. “Yes.”

Dorothy pushed the door open; I had not gotten up to lock it. “Juliana. I heard the door slam and … oh. Oh,” she moaned. “What happened? Has someone harmed you?” she looked upon the bloody linens and my ripped gown thrown on the floor.

I nodded and answered dully, “John Temple.” She looked once more at the disarray on my chamber floor and then quickly left, pulling the door behind her. Shortly thereafter the midwife came to attend me. I allowed her to, as if in a dream, examine me, though each touch she made bruised me again within and without. I sobbed silent sobs, my body shaking with fear and pain and chill and shame as she finished her work.

The midwife kindly drew me into her ample bosom when she was done. “You will heal.”

“Shall I, shall I get with child?” I asked with dread.

“I’m sorry ta say it may be difficult to ever bear a child due to the damage done ta yer innards. I canna tell just yet. Later, yes.”

“I may never bear a child?” A new and terrible horror followed the one I’d just endured.

She took her hand in mine. “Perhaps. I do not know. Though you shall, after some time, be able to lie with a man again, ’twill perhaps not bear ripe fruit. I can help ye affect a maidenhead later if ye need. You just call upon me.” She gathered up the bedclothes. “I shall dispose a these—no one comments on bloody linens from a midwife—and have new ones sent to you. I shan’t tell anyone of this and I advise ye to keep your peace as well. Men run our world, mistress. It favors a man’s word, and even if some believe that this was not of yer choosing—and I can certainly see that ’twere not—not all will believe it, they won’t.”

I well understood what she said. “I shall keep my own counsel upon this.”

She nodded. “That be wise. Your friend who came quickly ta fetch me, I’ve warned her to speak naught of this again for your reputation’s sake. We three—and the cur who did this—are the only ones who need know of it.”

I nodded quietly and she took her leave.

There was no way to lie down that did not bring pain. I did not sleep for hours, speaking harsh and hot words in tear-stained prayer as to why a prophetic dream could not have been given me or anyone else to forestall this attack when dreams had been sent to help others. I lay chilled, wishing for the comfort of my own home, the laughter of my brother, the security of my childhood, the arms of someone I could trust, all of which had now been thieved from me forever by John Temple.

God rot him.

Is this why I have been brought to court? I next accused our Lord, though I knew one must not. Is it?

My sobs slowed to choking, then to panting, then to breaths before I fell into a restless sleep.

Dorothy did not appear at my chamber the next morning, leaving me to privacy and peace, which I felt certain she viewed as a kindness. We’d all been well trained to turn a blind eye to misdeeds at court and if one wanted to survive one continued to do so. Her silence only reinforced my conclusion that the situation would be viewed as my shame and that pretending it had never happened was the only sure path to retain my dignity. I did not want to be on the receiving end of pointed fingers, the recipient of pitying stares by others gladdened not to be me, nor the topic of conversation transpiring behind mouths shielded by hands. John Temple may have robbed much from me, but he would not steal my dignity nor my pride.

I got myself dressed and painfully made my way to Kate’s chambers. She was still being gowned.

“Your Grace,” I spoke carefully. “I have received news of illness. And injury. May I return to Marlborough and my mother rather sooner than I had planned?”

She turned toward me and I longed to fling myself into her arms and cry out with pain and sorrow, to have her reassure me that all would be well. But I was there to serve, not to bring misfortune or gossip upon her. If I were to seek unlikely justice, I should have to publicly reveal that Elisabeth had left me alone in my chamber most nights; this would bring shame to the queen, because Brooke’s married paramour was the queen’s brother. Sir John would certainly speak his lies. They would then spread like contagion to harm Kate, stirring up her enemies even more against her through her family, her ladies, and her religious belief.

There was also my unspoken shame, which had been whispered to me continuously in the night, endeavoring to take root. Had I, by seeking out Sir John, by sharing his wine, by keeping his company when Jamie had eschewed mine, by wearing a becomingly cut dress, and by my intemperate speech, brought this upon myself in some manner? I had no one to ask. Kate might perhaps no longer see me as the daughter I’d become to her, but as unchaste, and if not that, then perhaps pitiable. I could not abide her thinking of me thusly.

“You may take your leave.” She drew me in for a quick embrace and I took the sip of affection offered, though I greatly desired to beg for a goblet full. “Just return to me shortly after the New Year. I shall miss you terribly.”

I nodded, but it was a lie. I did not intend to return at all.