Chapter 2
Insistent knocking jerks me from slumber in the dead of night. My bare legs are tangled in the sheets; the windows are wide open, against my better judgement.
But I don’t believe in fairy folk stealing me away. I only wanted some coolness to alleviate the heat of this summer. Even here at Hampton Court, miles from London, we’re feeling the burden of it. Smelling the stink of it wafting up the river.
I stumble over to the door, skin sticky, mouth dry.
There had better be a good reason for rousing me when I’ve finally managed to doze off.
Last week, a drunken French cook, turned hot and silly from lust, chased a couple of kitchen maids with a knife because they wouldn’t kiss him.
Their screaming roused the palace, and he took off over the fields.
Everyone was out looking for him. Well, apart from Queen Elizabeth.
The food in his absence has been atrocious.
It’s given me a constant bellyache, which has made sleeping difficult.
‘What is it?’ I call out sharply.
‘Her Majesty requests your presence, my lady. It is a matter of some urgency.’
‘It is always a matter of urgency with her,’ I mutter to myself. But to the night guard, I reply, ‘I will be out anon.’
‘Very well, my lady.’
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I shuffle to the dresser and pull on my robe. My hands hover over the messy plait that hangs over my shoulder. There is no time to replait it. I have been summoned, and I must obey in a timely fashion.
As chief lady-in-waiting, I am at my queen’s beck and call. Day or night. But she does not take kindly to a slovenly appearance, even after the witching hour. Donning my leather slippers, I reach for a fresh candle and dip a hand in the water jug to wet and smooth any stray hairs.
The night guard, a bearded hulking fellow in a plain doublet with a dagger at his hip, nods once when I appear.
He lights my candle with his own and escorts me down the shadowed gallery to the royal chamber.
I am glad of his company as I dislike moving through the palace at night, and I do not want to bump into Catherine Howard’s miserable ghost.
‘What ails Her Majesty?’ I ask him, hoping to get some information before we arrive.
‘Was it a nightmare?’ The young queen is a terrible sleeper.
She is plagued by dreams of stealthy assassins creeping through the palace intent on murdering her.
That is why she has recently employed half-a-dozen night guards to be stationed outside her locked chamber.
But their burly presence does not seem to greatly reassure her.
In her times of nightly trouble, she requires a female ear—usually mine—to unburden her woes upon.
So the quicker I can soothe said woes, the quicker I can get back to bed.
‘I believe so,’ replies the guard. His thick neck is beaded with sweat in the light of my candle. But his voice is deep and even, with no hint of fear, and it calms my nerves and my thudding heart. ‘She was screaming and such. I know not what it was about, though. She would speak only to you.’
I heave a sigh and steel myself for the hours of reassurance ahead of me. My bed will be stone cold when I return to it, my eyes drooping. The night now looms as long as the dimly lit passageway ahead.
***
‘Will you not take a little wine, Your Majesty?’ I cross the richly carpeted room, plush under my thin-soled slippers, heading for the cut-glass decanter filled with ruby liquid. ‘It may help to ease you back to sleep.’
I have listened to her fears, kneeling dutifully beside her bed and spoken gentle words to allay them: ‘Your Majesty is safe. All is well’. I have even offered my kerchief for her wet cheeks and stroked her hand (with her permission)—all this I have done to comfort my queen.
The wine is a last desperation on my part as she has grown querulous and refuses to believe she will not be dead by morning. I am all out of ideas.
‘Yes, bring me some,’ she intones. ‘I will sup, and you shall tell me a tale. But of nothing gruesome. No swords or battles. A tale of romance. That one I like with the handsome knight!’
I smile to myself as I carefully pour the wine into her golden cup. Her Majesty does enjoy my romantic tales. Even more so if I add a pinch of spice to the story; her freckled cheeks flush, her brown eyes widen, and her hand flutters to her bosom with an ‘Oh, Hester!’
This latest story has caught her attention as I have described in some detail the knight’s passion for a certain high-born lady (she has red hair, of course, like our own) and how he keeps riding past her house to catch a glimpse of her in a state of undress.
‘Will he achieve it this time, do you think?’ she asks, settling back on the pillows and reaching an elegant pale hand for the cup.
I hand it to her and begin to sink to my knees, but she pats the side of the bed, so I rise and perch awkwardly on the intricately woven coverlet.
‘Well, Your Majesty, he has made sure that his horse has very long legs. Long enough so he can see into her bedroom window.’
The queen giggles girlishly; and I am struck, as I often am, how young she is to rule.
It defies belief that our country is resting in those pale hands, but as she reminds me, there have been monarchs much younger than she.
Her father, Henry, God rest his soul, was just seventeen when he was crowned king.
I am about to continue with the story and have the knight remove his codpiece to give her a thrill when she places her hand on mine.
‘Today, it is the seventh of August, Hester. One month before my twenty-seventh birthday.’ She lets out a sob. ‘I doubt I will see it. I feel sure I will die before the month is out.’
I grip her hand tightly, fear prickling my skin. ‘Do not say that, Your Majesty. There is no one who wishes you dead.’
She laughs hoarsely. ‘There are many who wish me dead, Hester. Have you not been listening to me?’
I remain quiet, knowing it best not to argue with her. But not wanting to encourage her nightmares on the matter. ‘Let us speak of it no more. Pray, drink your wine, and I will tell you of the knight...’
The queen raises the cup to her lips and halts suddenly. ‘I cannot drink,’ she says. ‘For it may be poisoned.’ She gazes at me suspiciously. ‘You may have poisoned it.’
‘I?’ I say, astounded. ‘I assure you I have not, Your Majesty. I am your trusted—’
The queen shoves the cup at me so violently wine spills out onto the neck of my ruffled nightgown; red blooms on the white, like a blood rose. ‘Then prove it. You drink it first!’ she hisses.
‘Certainly I will and at once if my innocence is in doubt.’ I raise the cup and then pause. But what if it is poisoned? Anyone could have tampered with it on its journey from the wine cellar to her chamber. I could be drinking to my own demise.
But the queen is watching me carefully, and she has a glint in her eye that reminds me she has already sent a few people to the Tower despite her youth.
So there is nothing for it: I must drink.
Raising the cup to my lips, I swallow a mouthful of wine, choking a little when it travels awkwardly down my throat.
The queen draws the sheets to her chin with a gasp. ‘I knew it. The wine is poisoned.’
I place a steadying hand on the bed and breathe deeply, waiting for the poison (for I now believe it too) to take effect and murmur my final prayers, ‘God, have mercy on my soul. Know that I have died for my queen. I repent my sins and offer myself into thy kingdom.’
But after several moments pass and I have not collapsed to the ground in a convulsing froth, I suspect that the wine is not poisoned as it would have taken effect by now.
‘The wine is not poisoned, Your Majesty,’ I inform her solemnly. ‘You may drink it.’
The queen claps her hands together excitedly. Either for the reason that she can now have the wine or that I am not dead, I cannot be sure.
She takes the cup from my limp grasp and drinks deeply, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Most excellent, Hester.’
I incline my head. ‘You are welcome, Your Majesty.’
‘In fact, I think your services in this regard will help me greatly in sleeping peacefully each night.’
‘I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?’
The queen gives me a firm smile, her pale lips pressing together in accordance with her inner will. My heart sinks, for I know that look, and it does not bode well for me. It is the same look she gets when sending someone to the Tower.
‘Yes, I have decided. Hester, you will be my royal taster. Every morsel of food, every drop of wine will need to pass your lips first. Only then, when you remain unscathed, will I eat or drink,’ she announces.
I gaze at the queen in horror. Her royal taster!
But what can I do? My hands are tied. I am chief lady-in-waiting, the one whom she trusts most in her inner circle.
The queen yawns. ‘Tuck me in and wait with me until I am asleep. Then you may leave. One of my guards will escort you back.’
My hands shake as she snuggles down with her eyes closed, and I adjust the coverlet, making sure she is nice and comfortable. After an unendurable wait, the queen’s breathing evens out. Extinguishing the candle on her night table, I creep to the door and knock softly.
On the walk back to my chamber with a different hulking guard, I am silent, for I know the queen has signed my death warrant.
But I cannot blame her actions. She has a kingdom to rule.
If it comes down to her life or mine, mine is the more expendable.
It may not happen tomorrow or next week or next month.
But sooner or later, poisoned food or wine will pass my lips.
For she is right: she has mortal enemies to the north who wish to put her in an early grave. God’s teeth! I am doomed.