Free Sisters of Treason by Elizabeth Fremantle Page B

would have either one of those girls on the throne tomorrow. It is no wonder Frances is sick with worry, and Levina wishes there were something tangible she could do to help. The King wants Elizabeth married off to the Duke of Savoy, a cousin of his, and safely packed off to the Continent. But the girl resists, and her will seems greater than the whole of the Privy Council put together, so she festers at Woodstock out of harm’s way and under watchful eyes. As long as Elizabeth remains unwed and on these shores, the danger to Katherine is lessened. But the Catholic heir that the Queen has in her belly may save the Greys yet, particularly if it is a boy. She counts in her head: six full months since the wedding—that baby must be half cooked by now. She sets down the crimson paint, wiping her brush on a rag.
    The Cardinal’s hands are slightly clenched and his knuckles are yellow like shelled nuts. Levina looks again at the shiftiness in his eyes, the way they refuse to meet hers. What is buried beneath that beard, beyond a slash of pink mouth? She takes her fine brush to render the coarse chestnut hair, woven through with steely threads. It is an attempt to find truth in the detail. She imagines a looser style, creating more the idea of a scene or a person, rather than attempting such verisimilitude. It is something she had discussedmuch with her father. The way in which, however akin to life, there is something, an essence, a movement, that resists capture. Levina feels, when she is attempting a likeness, that she must render not only what can be seen but also what is hidden. The light drops quite suddenly and she looks to the window, where sodden sludge-colored clouds are billowing, flattening the hues of the Cardinal, rendering his skin an unappealing shade of gray. She finds herself thinking it is fortunate that the rain held off this morning, for that poor man’s death would have taken longer still with the wood damp, then is suddenly aware of the irony of her thoughts—nothing is fortunate about it, only marginally better.
    “I fear the light has gone, Your Grace,” she says. “May I beg an hour more of your time tomorrow?”
    He looks at her at last, with the words, “Show me,” prodding a hand towards the painting.
    Levina does not usually allow her sitters to see themselves unfinished, unless she knows them well, but the Cardinal’s manner makes her feel unable to refuse, so she takes down the portrait, which is not large, not even a foot across. Holding it carefully by the edges, so as not to smudge the wet paint, she holds it up for him. He cranes his neck forward.
    “Closer.” He speaks to her as if commanding a dog to perform a trick. She moves towards him; as she nears she can smell the incense that clings to his robes and can see more clearly the gauntness that hangs about his face. He looks in silence for some time, seeming satisfied, which is a relief to her for she has not tried to flatter him as she does with some. Then he reaches out a finger towards the close work of his beard. “The detail,” he says, seemingly to himself. But as he speaks he over-reaches, touching the paint, smearing all the fine hairs Levina has spent the better part of the last hour rendering and leaving a russet mark on his finger. “Oh . . . I . . . I didn’t . . .” He appears unable to spit out an apology, though he is clearly embarrassed by his own clumsiness. For a fragment of time he seems just like an awkward aging manand she thinks it may be kindness, or something like it, she sees in those eyes after all.
    “It can easily be redone, Your Grace,” she says, handing him a rag to wipe his hand. At least he can’t refuse her another sitting now. She begins to clean her brushes, rubbing the excess paint off them with a rag, popping the cork out of the jar of spirit. It makes her eyes smart, and the sour smell seeps out into the room. She watches from the side of her vision as the Cardinal clicks his