Elizabeth jerked to face me, her eyes narrow slits. “I am not a complete fool. Nothing has gone further than what you saw. Robin is a dear friend, a trusted friend, and now he is married. That is that.”
She turned away, finished with me.
I straightened, clutching the jug of wine so tightly that the silver’s pattern indented my palm. Aunt Kat was watching me from across the room, so I contrived a neutral expression.
To my intense relief, Robert and Amy left the next day for Norfolk, and Elizabeth returned home and to her usual routine.
We did not see much of Amy Dudley after that, but whenever Robert came to court at the same time Elizabeth visited, I slept very little.
Seasons passed, as did years. Edward grew closer to Elizabeth as his rule went on, but the court became a dour place. Edward left off his boyhood interests to endlessly discuss the reformed religion with men as dour and staid as he was.
Robert’s father, Warwick, made himself Duke of Northumberland in 1551, not long after he finally managed to have Somerset executed for supposedly plotting against him and Edward.
Robert resided quietly in Norfolk with his new wife and was elected to the House of Commons by his Norfolk constituents. The rebellion that had been fomented there before his marriage—ruthlessly squashed by his father—showed no signs of returning. Robert, if not beloved, was at least respected.
Archbishop Cranmer presented Edward with a revised edition of the Book of Common Prayer, as Edward took his religion very seriously. Edward approved of Elizabeth’s somber attire, which I continued to create for her, moving to new styles as the years slid one into the other.
Sweet Sister Temperance, Edward called her, and Elizabeth did nothing to disabuse his perception of her.
I could not help but remember Sweet Sister Temperance with her fingers entwined in Robert Dudley’s dark hair, but outwardly, as far as I could discern, Elizabeth behaved herself.
Young Edward, on the other hand, ground his teeth over his sister Mary, who refused to give up her Catholic masses. When Edward blatantly forbade it, Mary attended mass in secret.
Elizabeth, by contrast, read the Bible in English and discussed scripture intelligently with Edward, earning her younger brother’s praise.
Despite my worries about Elizabeth and Robert Dudley, life moved along calmly enough for the next few years. Then Edward, who as a boy had been hearty and athletic, suddenly grew sick, and then sicker.
It became known that his life was in grave danger. Elizabeth, riding to St. James’s in early 1553 to visit him, was turned away at the gates and had to retreat to Hatfield. Catholics dusted off their icons and prepared for the country to return to the old religion under Mary.
But Edward, as ill as he was, had another card to play. When he laid down his last hand, he shocked us all, and plunged Elizabeth—and by extension Aunt Kat and me—into dire peril for years to come.
Part II
Captive
1553 -1558
Chapter 10
July 1553
In the middle of a sticky midsummer night, as I neared my twentieth year, I sat in Aunt Kat’s chamber working on a velvet brocade, blue as the sky. The fabric’s embossed pattern depicted flowers exploding from a vine that grew from golden vases.
I saw in the cloth great beauty and regality, but behind my usual obsession, I was uneasy. I sewed the gown for Elizabeth’s next journey to court, but whether that would be to visit her sickly brother or to attend her sister Mary’s coronation, I could not say. Either event troubled me.
When a manservant banged into the chamber, I jumped, the fabric sliding to the floor. I quickly caught up handfuls of it, praying it hadn’t been soiled.
This particular young man, whose name was Tom, was in the employ of Master Parry, who tarried in London. Tom should have gone straight to Elizabeth’s chamber if he came with news of importance, but perhaps he’d felt safer confronting Aunt Kat and me rather than facing the uncertain temperament of Elizabeth.
“Disaster, Mistress Ashley,” Tom said breathlessly, his eyes alight, his pockmarked face holding too much excitement for his ominous words. “The king is dead.”
Aunt Kat scrambled to her feet so abruptly that she upset a small table with a candle burning upon it. I rescued the candle before it could set her skirt alight and placed it and its holder on a shelf. I sat down again, righting the table.
Aunt Kat hurried to the door and slipped the bolt across it, then she closed the shutter against the night, though the July weather was close, the room, stifling.
She resumed her place on her bench and bade Tom stand before her. “Now, tell me,” Aunt Kat commanded. “No embellishments, mind. I want the entire truth of what happened.”
I leaned in to listen. Young Tom, flattered at our attention, burst into his tale.
