Free Sisters of Treason by Elizabeth Fremantle

fruit it is. “And what fruit will be named for me? A gooseberry? I am as sour and as prickly.”
    “Mouse! This is not like you.”
    But I am thinking that it is like me.
    “Your eyes are perfect. You see, all is not lost and you are of the blood, as Queen Claude was, so . . .” She leaves her words hanging and spreads out her arms as if to show me that the whole world is mine for the taking.
    “Yes, Kitty,” I say, just to please her, my resentment hiding itself once more. “Of the blood, both of us.” This makes her smile, and when she smiles it is as if the sun is out. We can hear the clatter of people in Base Court returning from the tiltyard. “They will be going to sup. We had better go too before we are missed.”
    We walk, little fingers clasped, to the hall where the boards are laid out and people are arriving. I watch my sister crane her neck, seeking out Harry Herbert. His father is here but he is not, and I can sense Katherine’s upset in her stiffness. Maman is over by the dais, beckoning us up to where the King and Queen are receiving. I take a breath and Katherine helps me up, for the steps are too high for me. We curtsy before Their Majesties and a fuss is made of the fact that we have changed, when everyone else has come straight from the jousting. Felipe moves away to where his men aregathered and the Queen pats her lap—my cue to sit myself upon it—and I am back to playing her pet monkey again.
    February 1555
    Smithfield/Whitehall
    Levina
    Levina’s horse picks his way through the crowds. She is glad her groom is just up ahead for there is violence in the air. They are moving in the opposite direction to the river of people headed for Smithfield, where she has just been collecting new pigments from her supplier whose shop lies tucked in behind St. Bartholomew’s. She is due at Whitehall; the Cardinal is to sit for her. She fears being late for him and disgracing herself, but the crowds are thickening and increasingly frenzied. She had passed through the market square itself earlier and seen the stake at its center waiting for the prisoner to arrive and be strapped to the post for burning. It is the prebendary of St. Paul’s awaiting such a fate—he refused to revoke his beliefs. Levina has seen him about the city on occasion; he always seemed a reasonable man; his manner was gentle. She tries not to think of it, but wonders if it is coincidence that the burnings have begun so soon after the return of the Cardinal from his long exile in Rome, and the reinstatement of the old heresy laws.
    A great roar goes up and her horse takes fright, rearing, its flailing hooves almost striking a man’s head.
    “Get that blasted beast under control!” he shouts, waving his fist and baring his teeth like a cur.
    Levina struggles with her nervous mount, made all the more agitated by the shouting, and is thankful when her groom grabs her bridle, coming in close, whispering in the animal’s ear and soothing him.
    Another roar goes up in the square. “Oh God!” she cries, the words escaping her mouth involuntarily. The prisoner must have arrived. She had hoped to avoid this, but they are stuck and the crowds are pushing to see the spectacle before it is too late. She prays it will be over quickly, thankful for the strong breeze as the fire will burn well, and hopes that someone has thought to send the poor man a pouch of saltpeter to send him off quicker still. She feels a weight in her gut—that mild man, meeting such an end. She has never witnessed a burning and doesn’t want to.
    She looks behind to check that Hero has kept up with them; his ears are back and she can see the whites of his eyes; even he has a sense that something bad is afoot, more than the usual rowdy mob. He can sense the bloodlust. She hears a tortured screech and sees a coil of smoke rising, wishing she hadn’t turned. It is blowing their way, catching their nostrils, woodsmoke and still that terrible screaming, striking to