The Virgin's Daughters

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part One - FIRST LOVES

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Part Two - LAST LOVES

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Praise for The Virgin’s Daughters

  “Jeane Westin’s The Virgin’s Daughters takes the reader on a poignant journey into the hearts and minds of three dynamic Elizabethan women, including the queen herself. Intimate characterization and beautifully rendered settings and customs make us realize that the tumultuous Tudor times are both unique and yet not so very different from our own. A compelling, unforgettable historical novel.”

  —Karen Harper, author of Mistress Shakespeare

  “Two well-crafted love stories set against the backdrop of the court of Elizabeth the First create high drama and at the same time paint an unforgettable portrait of the last Tudor monarch. Jeane Westin writes powerful scenes that not only pack an emotional wallop but also transport modern readers directly into the minds and hearts of members of the queen’s inner circle.”

  —Kate Emerson, author of Secrets of the Tudor Court: The Pleasure Palace

  “In The Virgin’s Daughters, Jeane Westin has given us a suspenseful tale of royal power and the grip of an iron queen on the destiny of her ladies-in-waiting. Vivid characters and compelling dialogue illuminate the Elizabethan court where danger lurks in the shadows, love can be treason, and every step could be the last. You’ll find yourself looking over your shoulder in this engrossing read.”

  —Sandra Worth, author of The King’s Daughter

  “Jeane Westin has brought the Elizabethan court vividly to life. Her heroines walk a delicious knife-edge between love and disaster. I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Anne Gracie, author of The Tudors: The King, the Queen, and the Mistress

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  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2009

  Copyright © Jeane Westin, 2009 Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Westin, Jeane.

  The virgin’s daughters: in the court of Elizabeth I/Jeane Westin.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-10528-3

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  FOR MY HUSBAND, GENE, AND MY DAUGHTER, CARA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to my friend and fellow writer Shirley Parenteau for her helpful advice and sustained enthusiasm, and to the many librarians and old booksellers who helped me find long-out-of-print research books. My appreciation also goes to the staff of the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, England, who found for me a sold-out copy of their wonderfully illustrated tribute to Elizabeth I, published on the occasion of the four hundredth anniversary of her death in 2003. In addition, I’m thankful that my agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, is such an enthusiastic Queen Elizabeth fan.

  Writing this book would not have been possible without the help of my computer tech, Ashley Lucas, a Renaissance-costume fan, who can always get me back up and running. Thank you, “Lady” Ashley.

  Finally, and always, I must acknowledge my superb editor, Ellen Edwards, who sees what I need to do and knows just how to tell me.

  Part One

  FIRST LOVES

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I shall have here but one mistress and no master!”

  —Elizabeth Regina

  January, 1562

  Whitehall Palace

  The queen’s voice raged above the din of smashing crockery as Lady Katherine Grey sped through the presence chamber toward the royal apartment just beyond. She stopped and pressed a hand to her painful side, catching her breath. Though fragrant Christmas boughs of yew and laurel, draped with holly and bright with red berries, hung everywhere, all the greenery remaining in the snow-covered palace gardens would not make this a good day for her, or for any lady of the bedchamber.

  Kate took a deep breath, preparing herself to dutifully accept the queen’s Tudor temper . . . any threat, any blow. She would never defy Elizabeth and jeopardize her place as chief lady-in-waiting. If she were sent from court, she would be forced home to Bradgate in disgrace. By Christ’s cross! Her mother, Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, would despise her daughter more than ever for losing a last opportunity to advance her family. All Kate’s life she had been pushed beyond her desire, forced to bow to the will of her family, no one caring what she might want for herself. The only dream she had ever held had been denied her years ago.

  Kate hurried on, stumbling on a marble tile, recalling her mother’s sharp voice, all her angry disappointment at Kate coming down on her head again: “You stupid girl! You have once more failed your family. The crown is next yours by blood, by birth and by your uncle Henry VIII’s will! Your sister, Jane
. . . now, there was a queen to make me proud.”

  And did it make you proud, Mother, when the Tower ax fell on her girlish neck? Kate knew better than to say it, but not even her duchess mother could govern her thoughts. Oh, yes, far better Elizabeth’s temper than her mother’s fierce ambition. Kate’s hand went involuntarily to her own neck, long, slender and . . . vulnerable.

  Taking in a deep and much-needed breath, Kate walked on toward the queen’s apartment, her step resolute. Never would she be sacrificed by her mother, as she and her father had schemed and sacrificed Jane to gain a throne.

  Kate stopped for the gentlemen ushers to open the high double doors to the queen’s apartment. But stopping proved to be a mistake. Lord Secretary William Cecil stepped in her way and bowed. “A word in private, my lady,” he said softly, “if it please you.”

  Kate nodded. “My lord.” She couldn’t deny him without risking his enmity. She allowed him to guide her across the vaulted stone hall, half-afraid and alert to what he might say.

  “Some on the council, my lady, believe that the queen will never marry.”

  He paused for a response, but Kate did not allow an eyelid to flicker.

  Forced to proceed, Cecil added, “Of course, I do not believe the queen really wishes to remain a virgin maid. Any young woman, even a great queen such as Elizabeth, must have a man’s near guidance to . . . uh . . . keep her from those natural follies that are part of a woman’s God-given nature.”

  Kate remained silent, being well versed in what men thought women needed.

  Cecil, his sober face just a bit flushed, spoke again. “My lady, there is much support for you to be named her heir. You are seen as a woman who would welcome a husband and children.”

  “If you do not believe the queen will remain an unmarried maid, I wonder, my lord, why you think an heir must be named.” She added to soften her response: “I do thank you for your care of me, Lord Secretary, but you may tell those counselors who would promote my name that I am a loyal subject to Her Majesty. She is England’s greatest queen and I am proud to serve her. Tell them, too, that since I do not seek the throne, therefore I do not need their aid.”

  “My lady,” Cecil said, his voice now holding an edge, “I must advise you that they have your lady mother’s full agreement.”

  “But never mine,” she said, the words wobbly despite her resolve to steady them. “I need not remind you, my lord, that it is for Her Majesty to say who is heir to her realm, not my mother. As for me, I will follow my queen’s will, and not my sister to the block.” For the first time, Kate felt the seeping winter cold in the hall and wrapped one arm across the other.

  Cecil bowed, but his face showed clear disbelief. “We will speak again on this matter, Lady Katherine.”

  “You may speak, my lord, but my answer will remain the same.”

  “Then what do you want?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  Jesu, he had asked the one question she could not answer. She had wanted only one thing, one happiness in her life, and that had been denied her. With a quick curtsy, she stiffened her shoulders and walked inside the queen’s outer chamber.

  “Down! Down upon your knees, my lord!” The queen’s commanding voice penetrated the walls of her privy chamber as if they were so much fine Flemish paper.

  A man’s deep voice answered the queen. “I will always kneel to my queen, though I see nothing of the Bess I first loved as a playmate these twenty years gone!”

  Kate knew that male voice to be Robert Dudley’s, her brother-in-law since his unfortunate brother, Guilford, had married Jane. Both had lost their heads on Tower Green for daring to occupy the throne for nine days, followed to the block by Kate’s father, Henry Grey, the Duke of Suffolk, who had escaped the ax once, but rebelled again and lost. So much for family ambition. Thanks be to heaven above, she had inherited none of it.

  Beyond, in the privy chamber, another priceless vase or mirror was thrown. Robert and the queen often had such bitter arguments, slamming hurtful words into each other like lances against shields in a hopeless joust of love that neither could expect to win. Or they closed themselves away from the world for long hours, raising ru mors that they were lovers and the queen was pregnant.

  Kate’s nails dug into her gloves until she felt them almost pierce her flesh and she swore an oath to go to the Royal Chapel at her first opportunity. She must pray the queen did nothing so rash as to make the council pounce on her, Henry VIII’s next Protestant heir by his will.

  An eerie silence had followed the last outburst and raised more fear in Kate. Was the queen pacing angrily? Whispering a regret in his ear? More? In spite of Kate’s alarm, she could not help such romantic thoughts as they came into her head . . . and though she pushed them away, they came again. She was a young woman, after all, a woman whose heart still ached, would ever ache, for a lost love. She did not blame her starved heart for desiring what every woman needed.

  Dudley and the queen were madly in love. Anyone could see that. Their explosive behavior was the talk of court. Indeed, gossip about them had reached the Continent, though everyone said the English people would never accept Dudley as king. Elizabeth knew all this damaging tittle-tattle, had princely suitors from every kingdom in Europe and yet could not break from Dudley. What was it like to be a woman grown and to love a man so much? Kate felt a familiar warmth as her imagination took hold. Once, just on the border of maturity, she had known such a love. She thrust a vision of his young face from her, though she knew he would return in her night’s dreams, as he always did.

  Voices in the privy chamber rose, and Her Majesty’s ladies halted their duties to gather in the anteroom and listen. Mistress Parry, Lady Saintloe, Lettice Knollys and the others stood about biting their lips and rolling their eyes, trying to busy themselves with embroidery, or continually smoothing the wrinkles from their satin gowns.

  Forcing herself to a calm demeanor, Kate moved to study the antechamber wall. Ordinarily, she avoided the great Hans Holbein picture of the queen’s father and her own uncle, Henry VIII. The painter had captured the king’s cruel little mouth set in a red face bloated with indulgence, his monstrous codpiece, trumpeting an incredible virility, thrust through his short cloak, all atop legs like tree trunks that seemed to bestride England. He had terrified her as a child when her father had taken her to Richmond Palace to be presented. The king was a huge man, old and scowling, his swollen leg propped on many soft cushions. The ghastly odor of the leg’s pus-seeping wound filled the huge presence chamber and frightened her. She had started crying.

  “My lord Duke of Suffolk,” the king had roared, “if you cannot quiet your daughter, remove her.” She’d clung hard to her father’s leg, fearing the Tower. That was where His Majesty sent girls who did not please him. Everyone said it was so.

  Her father had gripped her shoulder and she had felt his shaking anger, though he would cut off only her supper tart, not her head.

  As a pretty girl child of the blood royal, she was expected to please the king and to be invited to school with the royal children, Elizabeth and Edward. Kate’s older sister, Jane, was already shouting out her Latin verbs with them. While Kate was not so clever at her books as Jane, the duke had said it was not beyond reason that she could be betrothed to Prince Edward and eventually become queen. Kate had overheard her mother telling her father: “If not one daughter, perhaps another, and Kate is our beauty, though not as biddable as Jane.”

  But seeing the king’s mood on this visit, her father had not broached either subject. Kate retreated with nothing but her father’s anger at her poor showing in a first court appearance. That evening, her mother had ordered her beaten and refused to speak to her for days. Kate remembered how she had waited in her rooms, content with her loving nurse, Sybil. But she couldn’t buy safety for longer than a few days. Though she hardly understood her transgression, she went to her mother, knelt and begged forgiveness for her failings, earnestly promising to be a better daughter
in the future. The Duchess of Suffolk offered her a cold forgiveness, and Kate ran back through the castle halls to her waiting nurse for the tenderness she needed.

  Kate heard Mistress Ashley speaking. “She will faint if she continues in this much anger. It was so from her early years.” The former governess, small and fleshy, had cared for the queen as a child and was now a lady of the bedchamber pacing outside the closed doors, clasping and unclasping her hands as she listened to Elizabeth’s rising voice. “I must have vinegar cloths,” Ashley said, and stepped to the hall doors to order them made ready.

  Lady Saintloe edged toward Kate before she could escape the lady’s unwanted attention. Saintloe bent close in confidence. “I see you admire the late king’s portrait. A true likeness, my lady Grey?”

  Uneasy, Kate answered without looking at Saintloe. “Yes, though I was only a child when presented at his court.”

  “I believe I heard of it.” Saintloe smiled, encouraging a confidence, which she would swear to hold close, then pass on to half the court until it came back to the queen’s ears. Kate, seeming engrossed in the picture’s details, moved slightly away from the lady. She would not satisfy Saintloe’s need to pry into her thoughts.

  The queen would allow no ill word spoken of her father, though Kate could not understand why, since Henry had not treated Elizabeth well. Royalty must have its reasons.

  Kate forced herself to appear intent on Henry, towering wide-legged over everyone in the antechamber as if he were still ruling. She counted herself lucky to have escaped his court. This king had decreed Elizabeth a bastard after beheading her mother, Anne Boleyn. He’d banished Elizabeth from his sight for long periods, bringing her back to court for a time, then sending her away again, owning her completely as his daughter only in his last will. Being in the succession had saved Elizabeth’s life from her older sister Queen Mary’s revenge. Mary had never forgiven Elizabeth for her mother, the beautiful, spirited Anne, who’d caused Mary’s own mother, Catherine of Aragon, to be set aside, and banished so cruelly that it hastened her lonely, painful death.