Cranky Ladies of History Read online

  “Why is she here?” Mary asked.

  “To see her daughter.”

  “Alone?” Mary bit her lip. “She’s planning something.”

  “What? To stab you with a dagger hidden in her farthingale? She’s come to spend an hour with her daughter, child. Your mama did the same when you were small.”

  Lady Mary scowled at the comparison, but I was saved by a light footstep in the hall. The door opened, and there was the queen.

  She wasn’t beautiful, but neither was she the deformed monster her enemies portrayed. She had regular features, perhaps a little thin, but pleasant to look at. Her eyes were too wide and her mouth too thin, but cleverness made her eyes sparkle and her smile made her mouth seem kind.

  She was not smiling today.

  “Mama! I have a new doll and I learned a French song, and Mary has promised to teach me Spanish and Latin!”

  While I bowed to the Queen, pushing Mary into a reluctant reverence, Elizabeth forgot all manners and formality. The queen seemed to shudder as Elizabeth ran towards her, though she concealed it quickly, forcing a merry note into her voice as she said, “My angel, how clever you are. The cleverest princess in Europe, I’ll wager, and smarter than most of the princes as well. Sing me your French song.”

  She watched as the princess sang, her eyes hungry, committing this moment to memory. I had seen that look before, on Queen Catherine’s face in the weeks before Princess Mary was sent away to her own court in Wales, in recognition of her status as the king’s heir.

  But Elizabeth was much too young for such a move, and surely the king hadn’t given up hope of getting a son from Queen Anne.

  “Why are you here, Mama?” the princess demanded as soon as she had finished her song. “No one told us you were coming.”

  “It’s a surprise. Don’t you like surprises?”

  “Did you bring me a present?”

  “Perhaps.” This time, the Queen’s smile reached her eyes. “That’s a surprise, too.”

  “You did bring a present!”

  From behind her back, the Queen produced a book.

  “It’s about the French court, where I grew up,” she said. “Look at all the pictures! The lady in blue is Queen Claude.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Can you find a picture of a yellow apple? You have to look on every page.” When Elizabeth had settled to her task, the queen turned to Mary and said, “We must speak.”

  I held my breath, hoping that Lady Mary would have the good sense to keep her sharp tongue to herself. That thin hope scarcely had time to form before it was dashed.

  “Speak?” Lady Mary said. ”About what? Sending my mother to a lonely death? Or leading my father and all of England into heresy?”

  So sallow was Queen Anne that one might have mistaken her for the Spaniard, and the golden-haired, rosy-cheeked Catherine for the Englishwoman. Anne Boleyn’s colour rose only with her anger. Now, her cheeks flushed red and she spat, “Your mother died of old age and disease. As for heresy—” Miracle of miracles, she stopped and drew breath. When she spoke again, she was calm.

  “Under different circumstances, I’d have enjoyed debating religion with you, Lady Mary.”

  “The Word of God is hardly a matter for debate,” said Mary, but I saw her hesitate. Not quite distracted by the queen’s ploy, but curious nonetheless. A mirthless little smile tugged at her lips. ”Unless, I suppose, circumstances were very different.”

  “Do you remember the visit I paid you two years ago?”

  I knew nothing of such a visit. I eased myself into a chair beside Princess Elizabeth, hoping the Queen and Lady Mary would not notice me. God forgive me, I’ve always enjoyed a gossip, and in Henry’s England, a little knowledge can save a life.

  Or condemn it.

  “You told me,” Lady Mary was saying in a low voice, “that if I renounced my mother and the Pope, I might return to court. You promised me,” her voice turned bitter, “friendship.”

  “I meant it,” said the Queen, “though you’re as unpleasant a girl as ever lived. I had thought to send you to France.”

  “France.” Mary, good daughter of Spain, made it sound like hell.

  “You’d like Queen Claude. She’s intelligent and educated, and appreciates clever women. She is a loyal friend to the Pope. You would have been happy in France.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I fear,” the Queen’s voice was even, “that the king loves me no longer. I fear that my daughter will be…cast out.”

  “As I was.”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me,” said Lady Mary, “but why am I meant to care?”

  “My daughter. Your sister.”

  “Perhaps she’ll be sent to wait upon the next heir. No doubt I will follow. Who has my father’s eye now?”

  “Jane Seymour.”

  “I remember her. She was kind to me.”

  “She’s as stupid as a turnip. She can barely write her own name.”

  “His Grace won’t mind,” said Mary. “As long as she gives him a son.” She sat down, arranging her plain skirts around her. “What have you done to displease him?”

  “I don’t know.” The queen’s calm facade cracked at last. “I miscarried—our son died—but it was an accident, he knows it. But he was sitting with the Seymour woman in his lap—someone has filled his ears with poison, and so many lies, I can’t even—”

  “Did you betray him?”

  “No!”

  “He thinks you did.”

  “Lies,” said the Queen. “All lies.”

  “Cromwell?”

  “I believe so.”

  “He’s as bad as Wolsey. Maybe worse.”

  “Then we have a common enemy,” said the Queen.

  It was true, I realised, but she did not mean that their common enemy was Thomas Cromwell. It was the king. I saw horror dawning in Mary’s eyes—she loved her father, even now.

  Such thoughts were treason. We’d be ruined, all three of us, and then who would protect Elizabeth?

  Lady Mary stepped back.

  “We have nothing in common,” she said.

  This was a victory for Mary. For years she had resisted the call to be pragmatic and sensible—obedient to her father’s wishes—and ally herself to Anne Boleyn. Now the queen’s position was precarious, and if she fell, Mary could say, “Look, I was right all along.”

  Jane Seymour—she was domestically-minded and dull, but she had always been kind to Mary. If the king married again, there would be no Spanish ghost hanging over his next wife.

  For the first time in years, Mary’s desires were in accord with her political well-being.

  There was a fierce hope in her eyes. After these years of pain, she finally had a tiny shred of power.

  She straightened her spine and said, “What do you want from me?”

  “My daughter.” The queen spoke softly, so that the princess, still absorbed in her book, wouldn’t hear. “She will need someone to care for her.”

  “Me?”

  “She is your sister. You seem to love her.”

  “My mother taught me to love all my father’s bastards.”

  The queen’s hand twitched. Many times she had said Lady Mary deserved to have her ears boxed, and occasionally I even agreed with her.

  She did not move.

  “Please,” she said.

  A bitter little laugh escaped Mary’s mouth. “Would you put me in charge of her religious instruction? Or should I share my fond memories of her late mother?”

  “Will I have to beg?”

  “Lady Bryan will look after Elizabeth, as she always has.”

  I’d hoped I was forgotten. But the queen cast a dismissive glance in my direction and said, “She’s not family.”

  As if she had been born to royalty. I swallowed my irritation and helped Princess Elizabeth turn back to the beginning of the book, still searching for that elusive yellow apple.

  Mary shifted in
her chair, straightening her spine and raising her chin. She took on a fragile, brittle dignity. I could almost see her future: a middle-aged woman with a bitter tongue that concealed the pains—not all of them physical—of her existence.

  When she spoke, her voice was very soft. “You wore yellow to celebrate my mother’s death. You persuaded my father to abandon their lawful, Godly marriage, then you hounded her until she died in a cold castle, miles away from those who loved her. Now you come to me and ask me to treat your daughter with kindness. Because you think—what? That I would treat my sister as badly as you have treated me?” Mary looked away, dismissing the queen. “You insult me.”

  She hesitated, then added petulantly, “She’s a good, clever little girl, who will know her place and accept the one true religion, and whoever succeeds the King, we will serve him with humility and honour.”

  Not so many years ago, she would have added, So there. It was all I could do to keep from laughing and applauding. The queen thought she was dealing with an ignorant girl, but Mary was as stubborn and clever as her parents, and as touchy about her dignity. This was her first victory since the king remarried, and by God, she was savouring it.

  Not for nothing had the queen spent these past years pleasing the king. Her cheeks were flushed and her jaw set, but she inclined her head and said, “My thanks.” Then, so that Mary would not forget her place, she added, “Lady Mary.”

  Mary’s lip curled, but she merely stood up, putting her hand to her temple.

  “My head,” she said. “I need to rest. Lady Bryan—”

  “I’m coming, child.”

  As I got to my feet, Princess Elizabeth cried, “The apple! I found it!”

  “Show me, my angel,” said the queen, “and I’ll read you the story.”

  Having got what she wanted, however unexpected or unpleasant the means, we no longer existed as far as the queen was concerned. I took Mary by her elbow.

  “I did well, did I not?” she whispered as I led her upstairs to her room.

  “Your mother would have been proud.”

  “It was my father that I had in mind.” She eased herself down on the bed. “I think I’ll sleep a little while.”

  “It’s good for you.”

  “And tomorrow,” she looked up at me, and through the pain, there was a new determination in her eyes, “I think I shall send my respects to Jane Seymour.”

  “Queenside” by Liz Barr

  THE COMPANY OF WOMEN

  Garth Nix

  Summer. The sun noon-high in a sky clear as water, save for the merest scrape of cloud above the hills to the west. The meadow white with clover, the flowers so thick upon the ground no other colour could be seen, as if some strange snow had fallen out of season.

  All through the meadow, bees. Single bees searching, groups of bees gathering, great swarms of bees swirling about the tall conical bee-houses arrayed in long lines, each one new-built every spring in its own place, as had been done for centuries past and all trusted would be done for centuries to come.

  Godiva, Countess of Mercia, stood on the mound before the meadows proper, where the tips of the old standing stones could still be seen, the stone women of long ago buried by later Christian rulers but their presence still felt beneath the earth.

  Lady Godiva was not alone. She stood in the very centre of the mound, at its highest point, albeit only a dozen paces above the meadow. Around her, ranged close, were the women of her household, at least those who had children, for all must be mothers who came that day to sing praise to the bees. Around them were the servants of the castle, and around them, in close-standing rings that extended to the edge of the mound and beyond, down into the white clover, were the mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers and even one ancient great-great-grandmother of the town of Coventry.

  The song was as old as the buried stones, though the words had changed through several languages, and perhaps no longer made much sense, if anyone cared to examine them. But they did not look closely, for it was the feeling of the song that mattered, the sense of being at one with all the other women, and with the queens in their houses, the queens who were the minds and hearts and souls of this great metropolis of bees.

  As the last note came from the assembled women and faded into silence, the bees answered. Deep in the hives there were thrummings and rumblings, and great droves of bees rose from the meadow and buzzed together, so many in number that the buzzing sounded like a mighty cascade, and a breeze blew across the mound, made from the beating of myriad tiny wings in unison.

  Then the breeze faded, as the bees returned to their business. The women relaxed, letting go the slight stiffness of apprehension, that small fear that perhaps this year the queens would not answer the song, the meadows would fade early, and the honey would be sparse. To many families of Coventry, their bee-house and the honey it would provide might make the difference between comfort and privation, or for some, even a bare sufficiency and starvation. Few ate much of the honey themselves; it was too valuable. But sold at autumn fair, it would make silver to see them through the winter.

  Godiva relaxed too, for it was a great responsibility to lead the singing, and this was only the third time she had done so. For a few minutes, lost in the song and the bee-sound, she had also managed to forget some things that were disturbing her mind, most principally the altered behaviour of her husband Leofric, the Earl of Mercia. In recent months he had become withdrawn, from his family and his court, and even more troubling, had taken certain decisions which were alienating the people of Coventry. Leofric had always been so reasonable, but now he would no longer listen to the counsel of Godiva or any of his former most trusted advisors.

  This change in Leofric stemmed from the arrival in their court of one Ralph, a Norman knight and ferromancer, who Leofric had immediately appointed as his steward, replacing the good Athelbard who had served both him and his father before him well, and was not too advanced in years to continue for many years ahead.

  Ralph had introduced a number of unwelcome changes, and at all times, Leofric had supported him. Most of the changes involved taxes and fees, Ralph suggesting new ways to gain money for the earl. As Leofric had never cared greatly for the accumulation of silver before, this was very strange. It was as if Ralph had some hold over the earl. Leofric wouldn’t talk to Godiva about it. Whenever she tried, he would evade her and disappear hunting.

  At least it would be a good season for honey, Godiva thought, as the women on the mound dispersed and she walked back with her handmaidens to where the dozen housecarls of her bodyguard waited. The men had stayed just within earshot, in case of need, back along the old Roman road behind the mound.

  The harsh clatter of horseshoes on that road broke through the quiet murmur of the women, catching Godiva’s attention. She frowned as she saw a black destrier ridden too fast coming towards them, sending the women returning to the town scuttling aside. It was, of course, Sir Ralph, as if her thinking of him had made him appear. Like the devil, she thought, and wondered. Ralph had also had his run-ins with the Bishop of Coventry and the gentler English church that still embraced much of the old Anglo-Saxon magic and tradition, the workings of holly and iron. The Normans followed the pope, of course, as the English did not, and claimed their ferromancy was the only true magic approved by God.

  But she did not believe in the Devil incarnate. There was enough ordinary evil in the world and in people to not need any special manifestation. Ralph was clearly feathering his own nest while he worked to extract more coin for the earl, and surely this was explanation enough for his behaviour. But why had he ridden out to the bee-fields, on this day of all days?

  Her housecarls lifted their axes as he approached, and spread out across the road. They had served her father or uncle before her, and were all veterans of numerous battles. In common with almost everyone else in the earl’s household, they did not like Ralph. Godiva suspected if he gave them an excuse, such as trying to ride through to their
mistress, they would happily cut him down and be contrite about it afterwards.

  Ralph slowed his war-horse to a walk, and turned the stallion aside to calm him, allowing Aelfwyn, the leader of the housecarls to swagger up, his axe now on his shoulder. They spoke quietly, Aelfwyn shaking his head and pointing back to the town, Ralph in turn gesticulating and making some sort of vehement demand. Godiva walked more quickly. It would be better for her to find out what this was about, before Aelfwyn or Ralph lost their tempers.

  “What brings you here, Ralph?” she called out as she drew closer. It was not a polite greeting, but she did not care to be polite to the man. He never seemed to notice, anyway.

  “I am upon the earl’s business,” said Ralph loudly. “I have come to see his famous bee-meadow.”

  Godiva’s fingers curled towards becoming fists and she had to force herself to relax them, to let her arms remain at her sides.

  “The bee-meadow is not the earl’s,” she said calmly. “It is held by all the women of Coventry, direct from the king, as has always been.”

  “Is it?” asked Ralph, in his nasal voice that had little variation in pitch, and so disguised any emotion that might lie behind the words. “Yet there is no deed, no title, no document at all that says so, and in that absence, the bee-meadow, as anything else, must therefore be of the Earl’s demesne.”

  Godiva felt an almost over-powering urge to meet this smug announcement with a command to her housecarls to cut the Norman down, and keep on hacking at him until the pieces were so small even the smallest dog, nay even the smallest rat could carry a piece away. But she resisted the surge of fury, for what he said was true, or at least true to a degree. There had been a grant of title, long ago, but it was believed destroyed when St Osburga’s was burned in the first Viking raids.

  “It is recorded as such in many records,” she said. “And in the memory of the people. The earl himself I am sure would not contest it.”

  “The earl has given me the duty of ensuring his lands are properly managed,” said Sir Ralph. “All his lands. Including this bee-meadow, milady.”