Read Online Sisters of Treason by Elizabeth Fremantle - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Fremantle
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gown peeping out from behind the big yew hedge of the physic garden. She is likely canoodling with the Herbert boy. Half a dozen mounted Spaniards, Feria among them, thunder onto the field to a great cheer from the waiting crowd. The King stands, clapping his hands together above his head. The rest of us follow suit but the applause is hollow. The riders are dressed as if for battle in breastplates and boots, with odd-shaped plumed caps and voluminous black capes. Each of them makes a great deal of flicking the ends of his cape over his opposite shoulder. Instead of lances they carry long canes. Someone shouts, “That’s not much of a weapon!” which gets the crowd laughing, though I am not entirely sure what is so funny. Their weapons may be lacking, but their horses are beautifully turned out, shining like polished wood, their necks curved, nostrils flared, skirts swaying, bridles and bits as complicated as the Queen’s jewels.
The horses trot in formation, weaving in and out, lifting their forelegs high and flicking their tails, while their riders toss their canes one to the other, catching them deftly in midair.
“Is that the best you can do?” comes a cry from the crowd.
“I’m not familiar with this dance,” comes another, his voice pitched to a squeak in imitation of a woman, raising a laugh.
Felipe’s jaw tightens. He is tapping the arm of his seat with the nail of his first finger. We are all silent. There are a few morejeers and heckles. Tap, tap, tap. The Queen takes her husband’s hand. He snatches it back. She mumbles something about it being a spectacular display. He snorts in response, turning away from her. The Queen’s closest ladies, Susan Clarencieux and Frideswide Sturley, behind us, have begun to clap in pretend eagerness. The King turns and throws them a look that stills their hands. The Queen rubs her belly. One of the horses, a bay gelding, bucks, almost unseating his rider, whose cap flies off.
Even the King laughs at this, until someone calls out, “Has the lady lost her hat?” causing his jaw to clench once more and his eyes to simmer in anger.
But I have stopped watching whatever it is the Spaniards are doing on the field. My eyes are on a scene in the distance, over by the physic garden, involving my sister. Harry Herbert’s father, who is Earl of Pembroke, has his son by the scruff of the neck. Katherine is beside them; she looks so very small next to Pembroke, like a doll, and I can see by the tilt of her head that she is pleading with him. I am silently willing her to hold her tongue, because I know only too well that Katherine is someone who speaks first and thinks after, but she seems unable to stop herself.
Pembroke then, still gripping his son’s collar, takes a stride towards her and slaps her smartly across the face with his free hand. She collapses to the grass, her scarlet skirts spreading out around her. I can barely believe what I have seen, that giant of a man, who is now marching his son away, striking my sister like that. He will say she asked for it, but there is no excuse for such a thing.
What would Jane have done, I ask myself, knowing the answer before the question is out. I beg the Queen to excuse me, and clamber down from the stand without alerting Maman, for to draw attention to the incident might make the whole thing worse. My sister’s reputation teeters on the brink as it is.
The mizzle has turned to a steady rain, and my gown is damp and heavy by the time I reach her. She is still seated on the grass,the red of her dress is dark where it is soaked through, and she is shivering and sobbing uncontrollably.
“Come, Kitty,” I say, trying to sound older than I feel, trying to imagine what Jane would say to her. “Let us get you inside and out of those wet clothes, before you catch your death.” Her hood has tipped back and some loose strands of yellow hair have plastered themselves to her face. There is a red mark on her cheek in the shape of
The horses trot in formation, weaving in and out, lifting their forelegs high and flicking their tails, while their riders toss their canes one to the other, catching them deftly in midair.
“Is that the best you can do?” comes a cry from the crowd.
“I’m not familiar with this dance,” comes another, his voice pitched to a squeak in imitation of a woman, raising a laugh.
Felipe’s jaw tightens. He is tapping the arm of his seat with the nail of his first finger. We are all silent. There are a few morejeers and heckles. Tap, tap, tap. The Queen takes her husband’s hand. He snatches it back. She mumbles something about it being a spectacular display. He snorts in response, turning away from her. The Queen’s closest ladies, Susan Clarencieux and Frideswide Sturley, behind us, have begun to clap in pretend eagerness. The King turns and throws them a look that stills their hands. The Queen rubs her belly. One of the horses, a bay gelding, bucks, almost unseating his rider, whose cap flies off.
Even the King laughs at this, until someone calls out, “Has the lady lost her hat?” causing his jaw to clench once more and his eyes to simmer in anger.
But I have stopped watching whatever it is the Spaniards are doing on the field. My eyes are on a scene in the distance, over by the physic garden, involving my sister. Harry Herbert’s father, who is Earl of Pembroke, has his son by the scruff of the neck. Katherine is beside them; she looks so very small next to Pembroke, like a doll, and I can see by the tilt of her head that she is pleading with him. I am silently willing her to hold her tongue, because I know only too well that Katherine is someone who speaks first and thinks after, but she seems unable to stop herself.
Pembroke then, still gripping his son’s collar, takes a stride towards her and slaps her smartly across the face with his free hand. She collapses to the grass, her scarlet skirts spreading out around her. I can barely believe what I have seen, that giant of a man, who is now marching his son away, striking my sister like that. He will say she asked for it, but there is no excuse for such a thing.
What would Jane have done, I ask myself, knowing the answer before the question is out. I beg the Queen to excuse me, and clamber down from the stand without alerting Maman, for to draw attention to the incident might make the whole thing worse. My sister’s reputation teeters on the brink as it is.
The mizzle has turned to a steady rain, and my gown is damp and heavy by the time I reach her. She is still seated on the grass,the red of her dress is dark where it is soaked through, and she is shivering and sobbing uncontrollably.
“Come, Kitty,” I say, trying to sound older than I feel, trying to imagine what Jane would say to her. “Let us get you inside and out of those wet clothes, before you catch your death.” Her hood has tipped back and some loose strands of yellow hair have plastered themselves to her face. There is a red mark on her cheek in the shape of
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