“But aren’t I too young, then, to become a Lady-in-Waiting?”

It was my last defence, I knew. Twelve I was, but the system of argument against argument was already known and well-used by me- as it had for years. It was not decent, of course, for a well-brought-up Lady, and mother- naturally- had to interrupt me.

“Fenella!” was her slightly reprimanding remark. Her dark eyebrows trembled dangerously under her richly decorated cap. I ignored her, though, and with a curt shaking of her head, she returned to the tapestry she was embroidering.

“Aren’t I too young?” I repeated, with the courage of the desperate, but it was useless and I very well knew it.

Father- Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey- paced back and forth in a somewhat impatient fashion indeed. Window… wall… window… wall… until he vehemently shook his dark-golden head as he- finally- came to a stop right before me. He frowned- I knew why. I wasn’t being a very good daughter, with my face all flustered and pink and my fists tightly balled beside my hips. I did not care- I had never been one either.

He didn’t raise his voice though. He didn’t snap either. He just crouched before me- which was ridiculous, since I was almost as tall as he was, but still. His face didn’t look angry- he knew his daughter well, he knew that anger would only fully launch my natural stubbornness- but it did look worried, and that in turn worried me.

“Fenella, you have to go and you will go.”

“Why?”

The one word came our as a snap- I was taking risks and I knew it. Father frowned again, but remained silent. The only sound in the large, stone room was the monotonous moving of mother’s needle through the thick velvet. She didn’t look up- had apparently decided to stay out of it for once.

Father’s silence was eloquent enough, though.

You know why, it said. You know it, Fenella.

And indeed I did. Grandfather had told us to- and my grandfather wasn’t the person to not be obeyed. It was necessary, he’d explained to father. I had, as I usually did, borrowed some cap of Betsy, my maid, and put it on, so I had, crouched down beside the fire with my servant, overheard every single word of their conversation. It was my way of eavesdropping because, despite the fact that I was, no doubt, granddad’s favourite grandchild, all girls wearing the broad, white cotton caps of the lower classes apparently looked strangely similar to the eyes of men. Even to the rather observant ones of my father and grandfather.

I had practised this way of gathering information ever since my sixth birthday- since Betsy had come into my service and had become a- according to my mother, at least- very bad influence on me. It was mere “looking for an excuse” on her part, of course. An excuse for the fact that her darling eldest daughter did not in the least resemble her own, embroidering, “submissive” personality. That was a lie, by the way, because “submissive” or not, she always got her way some way or another, and she damn well knew it. But it was true- I did not resemble her, nor my three sisters, for that matter.

I was, as my granddad had so uncharacteristically affectionately put it, when I was still a mere toddler:

“That child, Frances, that child is a Howard!”

Mother had probably snorted- I did not remember that- but I knew that that was the highest honour my grandfather could grant someone- in his opinion. And on top of it all I was a girl.

But it was the truth. I was a Howard. Stubborn and kind-of-intelligent, quick-tempered but knowing how to control herself for the proverbial “greater good”.

Although- one must admit what one must admit- not yet in those days.

In those days, in the end of Anno Domini 1545, I was a child of twelve, standing, arms crossed in what I then called “despair”- oh blissful ignorance of youth!- before her father, dark blue eyes big and watery, recollecting a conversation she had not-so-accidentally overheard.

I had- true- not understood all of it. Their conversations were mostly consideravly boring and on top of it, I had, in all my eagerness to look like a good servant, almost set the hem of my dress on fire.

But I’d understood the core of it- and I had to restrain myself from jumping up and telling my grandfather exactly what I thought of it, of his, so-called “ingenious plan”. But Betsy’s cool hand on arm, combined with the last bit of common sense left in my heated little head, held me back- and not only because of the punishment- additional punishment!- that would have certainly followed. No, the rest of their conversation was interesting as well. It explained- at least, a bit!- what they were planning for me.

It was their purpose, namely, to put me into the Household of the Lady Elizabeth, my second cousin and, more important, a Princess of England.

“Since your cousin Catherine’s death,’ I heard my grandfather declare.

“we Howards are not held in as high an esteem as we once were at Court.”

I could only agree with that statement- heartily.

Though I had only been nine years of age during the “grande finale” of the Aunt-Catherine-incident, I had heard and understood more than anyone thought me to have. I had, at least, understood that it had been a- fiasco.

Aunt Catherine- she was really my father’s cousin, but in those days relatives, especially when then were “in favour”, were easily called aunts- had been Queen of England. For about eighteen months.

Then she’d lost her position, and with her position her head. It’s perhaps not the nicest way to put it, but that were the facts. She was condemned for adultery, but what exactly that meant was by then still nothing less than a mystery to me. Even Betsy, my faithful Betsy who told me everything she got to now, was hesitant to explain it to me.

There had been a trial, naturally- but I, ever the overly protected bird-in-a-golden-cage was held far away from those things. And even the usual, small charade of dressing up like a maidservant could not help me there.

I knew enough, though, to fully understand, three years after “the facts”, the very high probability of truth in my grandfather’s statement. Aunt Catherine- still quite a young girl during the events- had been a serious mistake. A serious mistake of my grandfather’s, because being the well-known Duke of Norfolk and patriarch of our family, he should have apparently known better.

Perhaps he really should have, because out of the few rumours that had managed to reach my strictly censored ears, I had learnt that Aunt Catherine had been a rather stupid woman. Not that that gossip- reaching me via Betsy, who was six years my senior and thus picked up considerably more than I, being a young Lady, ever could!- was entirely trustworthy, of course, but still. I knew my own maidservant, and one thing was certain indeed. Whether Lady Catherine Howard had been stupid or not- Bethany “Betsy” Norwood definitely wasn’t.

Though utterly uneducated and barely able to spell out her own name, my maid, that rather slender, blushing girl with her dark-auburn hair and the smiling grey eyes, was in her own way very clever. And loyal to her “Mistress”- plus everything except secretive or willing to conceal things for day’s light.

And that was a quality I, even during my relatively happy childhood days, had learnt to value over many, if not; most things.

So I believed her when she told me that Queen Catherine Howard had not exactly excelled in intelligence- and she was proved right by my granddad years later.

“Perhaps that was, indeed, not the smartest move we could possibly have made.”

Grandfather sighed and I could almost hear the pensive look in his eyes as he continued.

“She’d never been the brightest one, that girl- resembled her father, unfortunately.”

Her father was granddad’s youngest brother, Edmund.

Suddenly, my father spoke up, though, for the first time.

“Well, Anne was clever, Father, and she didn’t end up any better.”

The Anne they spoke of was Anne Boleyn, I knew, another cousin of my father’s and the mother of Princess Elizabeth. She’d been queen once as well- and had indeed ended in the same way as Aunt Catherine had. On the scaffold.

And that was all I knew about her. I was but three when she was executed, and no-one ever spoke of her… I sighed and remembered for about the thousandth time that I was a girl and should not want to know such things.

My sighs were quite brusquely interrupted, though, because this time I really managed to set my skirt on fire. While I, quite frantically, waved my hands in the air and tried to extinguish the fire- which did, luckily, succeed- I saw Betsy’s quite worried glances at my father and grandfather and indeed, I felt their bothered looks pry into my back.

“Bethany, are you almost finished there?” was my father’s polite, but somewhat urgent question.

Betsy looked up again and cast him one of those wide-eyed, innocent looks f hers for which I have, later on, envied her many times.

“Give us some more time, Milord- otherwise the fire may go out…”

This was, especially in that cold November month of the icy, early winter of 1545, a horror scenario- and it was excellent improvising of Betsy indeed.

Father merely shrugged his shoulders, somewhat reluctantly nodded and then again turned towards my grandfather.

“See, what I am saying here, Father, is merely that I understand what you mean. But where comes my daughter into this, then?’

That was exactly what I wanted to know indeed! What did I have to do with the problems of my late “Aunts”, or even with those of my grandfather?

“Henry, we, the Howards, need someone at Court, or, if not at Court, then still with the Princess Elizabeth.”

Father sighed and asked

“But why Fenella, then?”

“Henry, listen. My sister Elizabeth has sent a daughter- two daughters, even- to Court. My brother Edmund has sent a daughter to Court. So now, when it’s needed more than ever, whose turn is it?”

For this, my dad had no answer. But I had. I had a thousand answers! Why me, then? Why should I be- almost sacrificed for the good cause? Why me?

“Yours, Father. But Fenella- you yourself have persuaded me to give her the best education I could- she reads and writes English, Latin, Greek and French!”

I almost smiled at this, despite my anger. It was true- I owed my education to my granddad, and to him alone. I had received the education of a Princess, I knew, and though the long hours of Latin exercises and reciting Greek had sometimes bored me to hell, I knew I was very lucky indeed. I knew I was an unique case among girls- even my eldest sister Jane, who was nine, had not learnt Greek or French.

The discussion went on, though.

“I know she does, Henry- and I am still glad I gave her the opportunity. She’s intelligent, that girl. She’s a Howard, not a Vere like you other children are!”

Vere was my mother’s last name- Lady Frances Vere she was- and I couldn’t help noticing the slightly condescending tone of his voice. I faintly smiled. No, granddad had never liked my mother…

“I like the child, Henry, but we have to remember that she’s a girl. She can never inherit, Henry, she’ll never get nor the title nor our lands, even though she’s your oldest. She should have been born a boy, perhaps, but she isn’t. She’s a girl and thus fit for this task. I know she’s intelligent- and that is an advantage. No-one will fool Lady Fenella Howard, be sure of that!”

I felt slightly complimented- grandfather’s praises were very rare, and now, all of a sudden, he couldn’t say a bad word about me. But I remembered what they were talking about and my anger slowly, but surely, came back.

It had raised his peak two weeks later, as I stood before my father and my watery eyes shot fire.

“But I don’t want to go!”

I knew I had lost. I knew how weak this last, final exclamation was- and yet I didn’t feel like giving up.

“Father, please!”

“You will go, and that’s my last word.”

“I don’t-“

“MY LAST WORD!”

I shut up. My father didn’t get angry easily- and after all, I had just realized that I had no choice. I would have to leave the house, my siblings, my parents and my beloved maidservant behind.

I, the bad daughter, would be forced to be the good daughter for once.