The Forgotten Sister. Nicola Cornick
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I said. ‘And once, I think, when the Duchess took us up to London.’
My mother nodded. I felt the tension ease from her a little. Perhaps she believed that no harm could have come of a meeting between children under the auspices of the Duchess of Norfolk.
‘You were very young then,’ she said. ‘I wonder why he remembers you.’
‘I was kind to him, I suppose,’ I said. ‘The other children were not.’ I remembered dancing with Robert at some childish party at court; Lady Anne Tilney had scorned his proffered hand for the galliard and so he had turned to me as second choice. We must have been all of twelve years old and he had spent the entire dance glaring at Lady Anne and stepping on my toes.
‘They may be regretting that unkindness,’ my mother said, with another of her wry smiles, ‘now that his father rivals the Duke of Somerset for the King’s favour.’
A shiver tickled my spine like the ghosts of the past stirring again. I wondered whether Robert’s father had learned nothing from his own father’s fate. Why men chose to climb so high when the risk was so great was a matter on which I had no understanding. It was as though they enjoyed tempting the gods with their recklessness and repeating history over and again.
Mother’s mind had already moved on to more practical matters, however. ‘Wear your blue gown,’ she instructed, ‘the one that matches your eyes. Since you and I are to be present we shall at least make your father proud even if we will be bored to distraction by talk of military strategy.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said dutifully.
‘I’ll send Joan to you,’ Mother said. ‘And don’t lean out of the window to see what goes on outside whilst you dress.’ Seeing my blank look, she said with a hint of irritation: ‘Did I not mention but a moment ago that there is an army coming? There will be nigh on ten thousand men encamped in the fields beyond the orchard. I do not want you to become their entertainment.’
‘No, Mother,’ I said. I thought it would be easy enough to steal a look without being seen. The encampments, the fires, the horses, the food cooking, the scents and the noise… Stanfield Manor would be abuzz and it was impossible not to feel the expectancy in the air.
‘Remember that soldiers are dangerous, Amy,’ Mother added sharply, ‘commoner or nobleman alike.’
It seemed excessive to say ‘yes, Mother’ again, so I nodded obediently and hurried away to the stairs, aware that her watchful gaze was pinned upon my back. There was nothing to dispute in what she had said, nor in those things that she had not put into words. I might be young but I knew what she meant about soldiers and the way in which they snatched at pleasure with both hands in case it was their last chance. I did not want to be that prize, seized for a moment’s gratification then cast aside.
Even so, I thought about Robert Dudley whilst Joan helped me to dress and started to plait my long fair hair. She was slow and methodical, her tongue sticking from the corner of her mouth as her fingers worked. My thoughts, my dreams were the opposite of slow, skipping lightly from one place to the next. My memories of Robert were vague but that did not stop me from pinning my dreams on him. What sort of a man had he become? Was he handsome? Would he like me? Even as I counselled myself to hold fast to my common sense, I could feel excitement bubbling through me.
‘Keep still, Mistress Amy,’ Joan tutted as the braids slid from her fingers. ‘You are hopping about like a hen on a thorn.’
It seemed to take her an age of pinning and smoothing and straightening but finally she was done and I flew down the stairs. Yet when I reached the door of the hall I hesitated, stung by a sudden shyness at the sound of voices within. I smoothed my skirts, patted my coif, took a deep breath, but my feet seemed fixed to the flagstones. I could not move.
‘Amy!’ Mother appeared in the doorway, voice as sharp as a needle. ‘Why are you loitering there?’ Her gaze darted past me, looking for trouble. When she found none, it did not seem to appease her.
‘Come in.’ She flapped at me to go ahead of her.
The hall was hot. We did not need a fire in August but Father had ordered one lit anyway, all the better to show off the richness of his glass and silver. I wondered how the table bore the weight of so much food and spared a thought for the kitchen staff; cook’s sweat must have been liberally mixed in with the sauces. The servants were sweating too as they attended us, heat and nervousness making their faces redden and their hands shake. Father, never the most patient master, was snapping orders as though he were a general in the field.
‘There is a space for you there, Amy—’ Mother pushed me towards the centre of the table where there was an empty place laid. I sat. She sat opposite me, watching me like a cat with a mouse.
I felt like telling her that there was no need for her vigilance. On the one side of me was an old man who looked as though he had last ridden to war alongside the late King Henry at the Battle of the Spurs. On the other was a younger man who was so fat I wondered at the horse that had to bear his weight and whether he had to be winched into the saddle. A swift search of the room, conducted surreptitiously as I took my seat, had told me that neither Robert Dudley nor his brother Ambrose was present. I felt disproportionately disappointed. The old soldier ignored me, sucking noisily on chicken bones and throwing the scraps to the dogs. The younger smiled shyly and poured wine for me.
At the head of the table Father was deep in discussion with Lord Warwick. The King’s general was a fine-looking man, all the more so in his armour. He had presence and grace; I watched him as he talked, animated and at times fierce. I caught an echo of Robert in the proud lift of his head and directness of his gaze.
I picked at my food. The chicken was drenched in a sauce that was too rich and heavy. I wondered if cook was a rebel sympathiser and wanted to give the King’s men a stomach ache. Not that they were complaining. They looked half starved and only the presence of ladies prevented them from falling on each dish like dogs as it came out.
There was little conversation. The weather, the poor quality of the roads, the availability of horses and the fine taste of Stanfield-grown apples sustained us through several courses whilst I sat and sweated and reflected bitterly that I had wasted my hopes and dreams on a fantasy.
I escaped to my chamber as soon as I was able. Mother had no need to chivvy me out whilst the men sat late over their wine and their strategy. I took off my pretty dress and released my hair and lay down but of course I could not sleep. I was too irritated; with Robert, who had asked for me and then forgotten me, with myself for building something out of nothing. Outside there was a cacophony of noise: shouting, hammering, horses, footsteps, sounds of urgency that now rather than exciting me only served to annoy me. After a while I realised that I was not going to sleep. That irritated me even more. I threw back the covers and strode to the window, pushing wide the leaded pane.
Outside there was full moonlight, bright as day and yet casting the world in only black and white. It was the moon that preceded the harvest, except that the rebellion had thrown the harvest into disarray this year. The crops lay trampled in the fields and there would be no festival of celebration though there could well be a reaping of souls if not of corn. Instead of mummers and music, shadow men walked amongst the trees of the orchard. Smoke rose white against the bleached night sky and the air was rich with the smell of cooking and dung, a curious combination that caught at my throat.
There was sudden movement below my window. A man swung down from his horse, tethered it to a tree. I saw him in flashes of silver and black; the moonlight on his armour, his long shadow. He took off his helmet and took a deep breath of air, head back, shaking himself like a dog coming out of water. He was dark; the moon lit shades of blue in his hair like a raven’s wing. Then he looked up and the light fell full on his face.
I must have made some involuntary movement that caught his eye for he turned his head sharply to look at me. The gesture was so familiar even though I had not seen him for so many years. Recognition tugged deep within me. He raised a hand in greeting. I saw the flash of his smile. He knew me too.
I pushed the window frame wider.