“Come,” I said, “I will show you some of my treasures. I have them here to hand.” I opened my desk in which I kept miniatures of those of my friends whom I loved best. I had carefully wrapped them and written their names on them so that I could select them and study them at will. On one of these I had written “My Lord's Picture”. I unwrapped it and showed it to Melville. It was a very good likeness of Robert.
I said: “If the Queen of Scots saw it she would not hesitate to take him. What think you, Sir James?”
“Allow me to take it to her.”
I almost snatched the picture from his hands. “I have only this one of him. If he goes to Scotland she would have the original.”
I certainly was not going to give up Robert's picture. I feared that if the Scottish Queen saw how handsome he was, she might decide to take him in spite of his lack of royal blood.
No, Robert's picture was certainly not going to Scotland.
When I was alone in my bedchamber and my ladies concerned themselves with the intricate operation of preparing me for my bed, unlacing me, helping me out of my whalebone hips and petticoats, letting down my hair, placing the false pieces in their tray, I was feeling contented.
I knew which way I was going.
THERE WAS FURTHER trouble with the Grey family. It had been said that Jane Grey was remarkable for her wisdom. Perhaps—but it had not prevented her from going to the block before she was seventeen. They had no instinct for survival, those foolish Grey girls.
All the same they were a menace. Katharine was still under restraint. But she had given birth to two sons. The first was understandable, for she had achieved that in secret, but when her husband had been in the Tower with her they had contrived to meet and a second son was the result. Now a possible heiress to the throne who had two sons was in a fairly strong position, especially when the reigning Queen had declared her desire for virginity and was now past thirty. A plague on Katharine Grey! I thought; but it was entirely due to the plague's coming to London that she had been removed from the Tower and while her husband Lord Hertford was sent to his mother with the eldest child, she with the younger went to her uncle in Essex.
Of the three Grey girls Jane did seem the only one to have had any sense, for although she had lost her head it was through no fault of hers. The other two, Katharine and Mary, seemed quite feckless. I had not anticipated trouble from Mary. She was a poor creature, almost a dwarf. I suppose few men had looked her way—royal-blooded though she was—until one day she formed an acquaintance with a man who held a post at Westminster Palace. He was in fact distantly—very distantly—connected with the Knollys family and I supposed that was why he had been given the post of Sergeant Porter at the water gate. The foolish pair decided to marry secretly and this they did.
The match was most unsuitable in every way. Dwarf as Mary was, she, being royal, committed an offense by marrying without the consent of the Sovereign and the Council. Perhaps the silly creature thought it did not matter in her case. But the incongruity of the match was that Thomas Keys, the bridegroom, was unusually tall and the pair must have looked ridiculous together.
What if there should be a child of the marriage? It might be quite a presentable child for if she was minute he was large enough and the child could be somewhere in between which would make it normal, and through Mary it would have royal blood and a claim to the throne.
There was only one thing to do and that was separate the pair, so Thomas Keys was sent to the Fleet prison and little Mary to the Duchess of Suffolk, who was her step-grandmother. If she were not already pregnant that would prevent further complications.
Cecil discussed the matter with me in private.
I said to him: “We have the two Grey sisters under restraint, and so should sleep more quietly in our beds.”
He looked at me shrewdly. I think he was beginning to respect me more than he ever had. He had deplored the frivolous side of my nature and that I could understand, for sometimes I deplored it myself, but I think he was beginning to see that there were times when I could use it to advantage.
I went on: “Mary of Scotland will always be the one to be feared most, and she is so taken with Lord Darnley that she is besotted by him.”
“She intends to marry him. It will strengthen her claim, for he has a slight one himself.”
“What do you think of Darnley?”
“Dissolute and weak.”
“And do you think he will be a help to our lady of Scotland?”
Cecil shook his head.
“She has declared her intention of marrying him,” I said. “The little boy is puffed up with pride and already sees himself as the King of Scotland which …” I added slyly … “is what happens with ambitious men when queens lift them from their humble status.”
Cecil smiled. He was beginning to realize that I would never share my throne with any.
“Well, Master Cecil,” I went on, “here we have the Grey girls in restraint where they can do little harm even if they had the wit to do so. Oh, I know they would be merely the figureheads of ambitious men as poor Jane was, but we have them safely under lock and key. And Mary of Scotland is to marry her Darnley. May she have quick joy of him for I'll warrant it will not last long.”
Cecil nodded and I went on: “Should I not have reason for rejoicing?”
“Your Majesty is right,” he said. “We should rejoice.”
And we did even more when the news came to us that Mary had indeed married Darnley and he was proclaimed King of Scotland.
“I am confining the Countess of Lennox to the Tower for daring to bring the marriage about—another troublemaker out of the way. We shall deplore the marriage in public, Master Cecil, and only while we are alone congratulate ourselves that it has taken place.”
“It can bode no good for Scotland,” said Cecil. “And what is bad for Scotland must needs be good for England.”
A TERRIBLE TRAGEDY occurred about this time.
I knew that Kat had been ailing for some time. I insisted that she remain in her bed and pass on her duties to others which she did most reluctantly, until she became too ill to be able to do anything else.
When it was borne home to me that she was not going to recover, I was overcome with grief and whenever I could escape from my state duties I was at her bedside. She loved to hold my hand and talk of the past. Sometimes her mind wandered and I believe she thought she was back in the Dower Palace at Chelsea where Sir Thomas Seymour had pursued me.
“You were a wayward girl,” she said. “You led him on. Oh, it was dangerous … and so exciting. Do you remember when he cut your dress to pieces in the garden? Do you remember when he came barefoot to your bedroom?”
I said I remembered.
“And the terrible time they took me … and Parry, remember? The Tower … I never knew such fear … and I betrayed you, I betrayed my darling…”
Then I would go down on my knees and try to soothe her.
She had never betrayed me, I told her. She had only told what had happened and they had forced her to do that. She was my very dear Kat and one of the happiest days of my life had been when she had come back from the Tower.
So we talked and each day she grew more wan, her voice more faint, and she could not remember very clearly those events from the past. She merged Thomas Seymour with Robert Dudley. “Such men,” she said. “The most handsome men in the world… both of them. We both loved them, didn't we, my precious.”
I hid my tears from her but when I was in my bedchamber I wept for my dearest friend.
It was a very sad day when she died. I shut myself away and would see no one. There was nothing I could do but grieve.