Assassin by Lady Grace Cavendish Read Free Book Online

to my chamber.
    Fran unlaced and unhooked me very quickly, and the rose-velvet kirtle and bodice came off. Then the petticoat and farthingale and bumroll and the other petticoat, and then, at last, Fran unlaced the stays and I said, “Oooff!”
    It’s pleasing to wear stays and know how small your waist is, but it’s even better to take them off and let everything sag. And then, of course, your innards start working again, so you really need to be alone, and Fran knew it, so she smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
    “You were beautiful this evening, Lady Grace. You outshone them all,” she said.
    Now I know it isn’t true because no one with mousy hair can outshine Sarah Copper-locks Bartelmy, but it was nice of her to say it, so I kissed her back.
    She went out, carrying my kirtle and French stays for brushing and hanging up in a closet.
    I took off the pearl necklace my Lord Robert had given me and placed it beside my bed, then changed into my ordinary smock that I wear to bed and used the close-stool.
    Fran had poured out some fresh rose-water so I could wash my face and I used my new toothcloth for my teeth and fennel-water to rinse out the almond-and-salt paste.
    So here I am. There is a fire in the grate and it’s not cold, so I have put my dressing gown on to sit in my favourite corner and write everything down.
    Perhaps as I am writing all this in my daybooke, my mother will peek down from heaven and read it, too, so it’s as if I am writing to her. I know she would have enjoyed me dancing at the feast. I wonder what she would have thought of my suitors? I think she would have approved of my choice. I know she wouldn’t have liked Sir Gerald and I’m sure she would have understood about Sir Charles being too old.
    I am finding it hard to keep my eyes open now. I must retire to bed.

I had intended to sleep, but now cannot. I am all unsettled and must write this down, too.
    When I pulled back the bedcovers I saw a small package on the pillow. At first I wondered which gentleman had placed it there, but then I remembered the Queen’s words as I left her chamber. I picked it up and held it to the candle—then had to put it down again quickly as I recognized the writing on the front. It was my mother’s writing, dated 14 February 1568, the night she died.
    Sometimes I wish that when it happened, on that night a year ago, instead of being where I really was, tucked up fast asleep in a truckle bed in my mother’s chamber, I was an angel. Then, God willing, I could have saved her.
    I shall tell the story properly, as if I were a storyteller at the fair. Then perhaps I’ll get through it.I’ve heard that making a tale of a terrible matter may tame it, so the memory no longer rises up and fights away sleep.
    My mother, Lady Margaret Cavendish, was a Gentlewoman of the Bedchamber and one of the Queen’s closest friends. On 13 February 1568, after kissing me goodnight, she was sitting down to a quiet supper with the Queen, when a man came from Mr. Secretary Cecil to say there was an urgent dispatch from Scotland. The Queen told me she kissed my mother, said she would be back in ten minutes, and suggested my mother try a little wine to help her megrim headache. Then she went to hear the news from Scotland.
    And my mother poured herself some wine and drank it….
    When I think about it, this is where I imagine being an angel. I fly into the room just as my mother takes up her goblet and I shout, “My lady, do not drink the wine!” And as I would have been a very impressive sight, what with the wings and halo and all, my mother drops the goblet on the rush matting, and then one of the Queen’s canary birds—the vicious one that pecks your hair—flies down and drinks it and falls over and dies and so she knows that the wine is poisoned. And then the Queencomes back and they call the guards and test the wine and the doctor finds it contains a deadly poison called darkwort. Then everyone bolts the doors and