The Forgotten Sister Read online

  Even so, I thought about Robert Dudley whilst Joan helped me to dress and started to plait my long fair hair. She was slow and methodical, her tongue sticking from the corner of her mouth as her fingers worked. My thoughts, my dreams were the opposite of slow, skipping lightly from one place to the next. My memories of Robert were vague but that did not stop me from pinning my dreams on him. What sort of a man had he become? Was he handsome? Would he like me? Even as I counselled myself to hold fast to my common sense, I could feel excitement bubbling through me.

  ‘Keep still, Mistress Amy,’ Joan tutted as the braids slid from her fingers. ‘You are hopping about like a hen on a thorn.’

  It seemed to take her an age of pinning and smoothing and straightening but finally she was done and I flew down the stairs. Yet when I reached the door of the hall I hesitated, stung by a sudden shyness at the sound of voices within. I smoothed my skirts, patted my coif, took a deep breath, but my feet seemed fixed to the flagstones. I could not move.

  ‘Amy!’ Mother appeared in the doorway, voice as sharp as a needle. ‘Why are you loitering there?’ Her gaze darted past me, looking for trouble. When she found none, it did not seem to appease her.

  ‘Come in.’ She flapped at me to go ahead of her.

  The hall was hot. We did not need a fire in August but Father had ordered one lit anyway, all the better to show off the richness of his glass and silver. I wondered how the table bore the weight of so much food and spared a thought for the kitchen staff; cook’s sweat must have been liberally mixed in with the sauces. The servants were sweating too as they attended us, heat and nervousness making their faces redden and their hands shake. Father, never the most patient master, was snapping orders as though he were a general in the field.

  ‘There is a space for you there, Amy—’ Mother pushed me towards the centre of the table where there was an empty place laid. I sat. She sat opposite me, watching me like a cat with a mouse.

  I felt like telling her that there was no need for her vigilance. On the one side of me was an old man who looked as though he had last ridden to war alongside the late King Henry at the Battle of the Spurs. On the other was a younger man who was so fat I wondered at the horse that had to bear his weight and whether he had to be winched into the saddle. A swift search of the room, conducted surreptitiously as I took my seat, had told me that neither Robert Dudley nor his brother Ambrose was present. I felt disproportionately disappointed. The old soldier ignored me, sucking noisily on chicken bones and throwing the scraps to the dogs. The younger smiled shyly and poured wine for me.

  At the head of the table Father was deep in discussion with Lord Warwick. The King’s general was a fine-looking man, all the more so in his armour. He had presence and grace; I watched him as he talked, animated and at times fierce. I caught an echo of Robert in the proud lift of his head and directness of his gaze.

  I picked at my food. The chicken was drenched in a sauce that was too rich and heavy. I wondered if cook was a rebel sympathiser and wanted to give the King’s men a stomach ache. Not that they were complaining. They looked half starved and only the presence of ladies prevented them from falling on each dish like dogs as it came out.

  There was little conversation. The weather, the poor quality of the roads, the availability of horses and the fine taste of Stanfield-grown apples sustained us through several courses whilst I sat and sweated and reflected bitterly that I had wasted my hopes and dreams on a fantasy.

  I escaped to my chamber as soon as I was able. Mother had no need to chivvy me out whilst the men sat late over their wine and their strategy. I took off my pretty dress and released my hair and lay down but of course I could not sleep. I was too irritated; with Robert, who had asked for me and then forgotten me, with myself for building something out of nothing. Outside there was a cacophony of noise: shouting, hammering, horses, footsteps, sounds of urgency that now rather than exciting me only served to annoy me. After a while I realised that I was not going to sleep. That irritated me even more. I threw back the covers and strode to the window, pushing wide the leaded pane.

  Outside there was full moonlight, bright as day and yet casting the world in only black and white. It was the moon that preceded the harvest, except that the rebellion had thrown the harvest into disarray this year. The crops lay trampled in the fields and there would be no festival of celebration though there could well be a reaping of souls if not of corn. Instead of mummers and music, shadow men walked amongst the trees of the orchard. Smoke rose white against the bleached night sky and the air was rich with the smell of cooking and dung, a curious combination that caught at my throat.

  There was sudden movement below my window. A man swung down from his horse, tethered it to a tree. I saw him in flashes of silver and black; the moonlight on his armour, his long shadow. He took off his helmet and took a deep breath of air, head back, shaking himself like a dog coming out of water. He was dark; the moon lit shades of blue in his hair like a raven’s wing. Then he looked up and the light fell full on his face.

  I must have made some involuntary movement that caught his eye for he turned his head sharply to look at me. The gesture was so familiar even though I had not seen him for so many years. Recognition tugged deep within me. He raised a hand in greeting. I saw the flash of his smile. He knew me too.

  I pushed the window frame wider. ‘Robert Dudley,’ I said. ‘You missed dinner.’

  He laughed. ‘I am here now.’ He set his foot to the climbing rose that grew beneath my window. The whole delicate structure shivered as he put his weight on it, the last petals of summer drifting down, and I leaned out further to stop him.

  ‘You’ll fall!’ I had no care for propriety, only for his safety. I did not see the ranks of grinning soldiers pausing in their drinking and their gaming to watch us. I saw only him. Already I was swept away.

  ‘Never,’ he said. ‘You won’t lose me, Amy Robsart. I’ll not fall.’

  A cloud passed over the moon, red like blood from the fire on the heath.

  Despite the cumbersome weight of the armour he climbed fast, sure-footed, like a cat. He reached the window ledge and swung himself over and then he was in my room. A ragged cheer went up from the men below and he reached across me to close the window and banish them so that there was only the two of us there in the candlelight. He smelled of sweat and horses and smoke and the night air; it was exciting and my head swam.

  We stood and stared at one another. His armour was dented and blackened by smoke. His face likewise was filthy with dirt and sweat. I put a hand up to touch his chest but could feel nothing but the coldness of hard steel beneath my palm so I raised it to his cheek and touched warm flesh. He was vital and vivid and all the things that my life lacked. His eyes blazed as he bent his head to kiss me.

  That was how I met Robert Dudley again. By the morning we had pledged our troth and the seeds of our mutual destruction were already sown.

  Chapter 3

  Lizzie: Present Day

  The call came through five minutes before Lizzie was due on stage. She was nervous which meant that she was also in a bad mood. She didn’t do literary events; they really weren’t her thing. Everyone knew that she hadn’t written the book herself – she’d been quite open about that from the start – and she couldn’t even remember much of what the story was about. What the hell was she going to talk about? What the hell were they going to ask her? She’d insisted on approval of all the interview questions and now she couldn’t remember a single one of them or the answers she’d prepared.

  She stood up and paced across the tiny space that the festival organisers had imaginatively called the green room. It was green because it was a corner of a marquee that had been cordoned off for her use. The carpet was actual grass. Lizzie could even see a ladybird crawling towards her. There was one lopsided mirror, an extension lead was the only source of power, and there was no proper lighting, which had made doing her hair and make-up a nightmare. It was so hot under the canvas
that once her make-up was done it had all slid off her face anyway. The fruit juice was warm and the sandwiches had curled. Kat had reminded her that she couldn’t expect the same VIP treatment at a literary event that she got at a film studio which had only made her more annoyed. It wasn’t as though she was a diva. Everyone said she was lovely. But the whole thing was hideous and she was within an inch of walking out.

  The other authors speaking at the symposium on Young Adult fiction, the real ones, were accommodated in the historic environs of Gloucester College but perhaps they hadn’t thought that appropriate for her, the celebrity, the interloper. Here she was right next door to the main marquee where she would be doing her interview. She could hear the crowd arriving, hear the swell of sound and voices, and sense the pulse of excitement. Normally that would have excited her too with the buzz of a performance imminent, but that was when she was singing, or presenting, or performing on Stars of the Dance. She had spent most of her life in the spotlight. Tonight, though, was all about writing and she was so far beyond her comfort zone she couldn’t even see it over the horizon.

  She’d turned down the invitation to the event as soon as it had arrived but Bill had overruled her for once. He’d called her into his office in Bloomsbury, which was also unusual as he normally came to her. As her agent, he did work for her, after all. It wasn’t her job to go to him. And she was twenty-six now, not sixteen, as she had been when she had signed with him. She did not take well to being told off like a sulky child.

  Thinking back, Lizzie remembered how distracted and irritable Bill had been that morning, even more than normal. She had hoped it was just his ulcer playing up but suspected that it was because of her. She knew Bill wanted her to change direction and move away from the kids’ presenting into something more grown up; he’d suggested a game show that was currently looking for a new host and she’d turned it down on the grounds that it would kill her brain cells faster than sniffing paint. Then he put forward a new show called Celebrity Wrestling: The Hot Moves. She’d told him it sounded like porn. Bill had slammed the flat of his hand down on his desk in exasperation.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he had shouted.

  Lizzie hadn’t jumped at the crack of Bill’s hand on the wood. Her father had been given to sudden violent storms of temper and she was inured to it.

  ‘Do you need a cup of tea, Bill?’ she asked. ‘It might help you calm down.’

  ‘I need a client I can work with,’ Bill snapped. ‘It’s time to grow up, Lizzie. You’re too wholesome. It’s infantilising. What are you now – twenty-seven?’

  ‘I was twenty-six last month,’ Lizzie said coldly. Bill’s secretary had sent flowers from him, a whole hothouse full of them. She’d known Bill had had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Then act like it,’ Bill said sharply. ‘No more of this bubble gum pop and kids’ shows. And get yourself a partner. I don’t care what sex they are. This “best friends for ever” thing you have going on with Dudley Lester may have been cute when you were fifteen but it’s cloying now.’

  Lizzie had known it wouldn’t be long before her relationship with Dudley would be thrown at her. Dudley was her oldest friend – her rock – and she loved him as much as Bill hated him for the influence he had over her.

  ‘You’re well aware that I haven’t written or performed any music for over a year,’ she said, ignoring Bill’s comments about Dudley to focus on her other grudge against him. ‘You told me to stop and I did even though I loved it! I’ve been offered nothing but crappy kids’ gigs ever since.’

  ‘Because you’re such a princess,’ Bill said. ‘People still think of you as a teenager. Your reputation—’

  ‘Is squeaky clean,’ Lizzie said. ‘And it stays that way. I’m not going to shag someone – of any sex – just to please you.’

  There was a long, dangerous silence. Lizzie could feel the tears stinging the backs of her eyes and blinked them away. She’d worked so damned hard for everything she had, distanced herself from the sleaze and scandal of her childhood, and she wasn’t going to let Bill put any of that in jeopardy.

  She saw his shoulders slump. ‘You’re not just going to walk into Newsnight from the Ninja Teatime Club,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to put the graft in first.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘Starting with the Oxford Symposium. I know you’ve refused the invite but if you want people to buy your books then you need to get out there and meet the readers.’

  ‘They’re kids’ books,’ Lizzie said. ‘I thought you said I should aim for a more mature audience.’

  ‘Writing adds gravitas,’ Bill said. ‘Loads of celebs write books for children.’

  ‘But it’s Oxford,’ Lizzie objected. ‘They’ll hate me. Everyone despises celebrity authors, especially the ones who don’t even write their own books. We’re the lowest of the low, taking huge advances we don’t need and cheating ordinary writers out of a living.’

  ‘You’ve been reading The Bookseller magazine again,’ Bill said irritably. ‘I told you not to do that.’

  ‘You gave it to me so I could see how well my latest book was doing,’ Lizzie said. ‘Number one in the e-book charts for three weeks so far and in the top ten paperbacks—’

  ‘Exactly.’ Bill cut her off with a snap of his fingers. ‘So get over to Oxford and keep it at number one.’

  ‘What do you think, Kat?’ Lizzie said. She’d brought Kat Ashley with her even though Bill hadn’t invited her, even though he barely tolerated her as a fixture in Lizzie’s life. Nominally Kat was Lizzie’s PA but she wasn’t exactly efficient. Lizzie really needed a secretary to organise Kat but she was fiercely loyal to her because their relationship had nothing to do with work, not really. Kat was her godmother and had looked after Lizzie when her mother had died. She’d been in her life ever since, the only constant other than Dudley and someone Lizzie clung to tenaciously because deep down she saw Kat as the last real connection to her mother.

  ‘Don’t ask Kat!’ Bill exploded. ‘She’ll only tell you what you want to hear.’

  Kat glared at him.

  ‘She’s my friend,’ Lizzie said. ‘Of course she’s on my side.’

  ‘I’m on your side,’ Bill said bitterly, ‘if only you could see it.’

  ‘You should do it, honey,’ Kat said, surprising them both. ‘Bill’s right. You want the books to do well; your fans love them…’ She shrugged. ‘It’s business, babes.’

  So here Lizzie was in Oxford on a wet September evening, about to be interviewed by some local journalist who probably couldn’t believe his luck in getting to meet Lizzie Kingdom, one-time girl band member turned kids’ TV presenter and now non-author of the Celia Jones and Friends books for pre-teen girls.

  Her phone buzzed. She waved a hand at Kat, who was sitting on a hard wooden chair painting her nails turquoise, engrossed. Her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth with the effort of concentration.

  ‘Get that for me, would you, Kat?’

  Kat looked pained but she stretched out her unvarnished hand for the phone without reproach. Lizzie felt a flash of guilt. She was behaving like a brat and had been doing so all day. It was the nerves. Nothing should make her nervous after all these years; she had been a child star at five and an adult one at twelve. Her father, a theatre impresario, had seen her potential as a performer when she was in nappies and had promptly signed her up to do baby commercials. After her mother had died, he had forever been taking her out of school for parts in various shows. It had all progressed from there. Tonight, though, was about literature, a subject on which she knew next to nothing. She didn’t feel comfortable and she hated that sense of vulnerability.

  ‘It’s Dudley,’ Kat said, checking the caller ID. Her voice was expressionless in the way that could only imply disapproval. Kat was another one who heartily disliked Dudley Lester. Kat said that Dudley used Lizzie, that he lived off her success because he had never quite achieved the same level of fame himself and now that he had financial troubles he
was even more of a leech. Lizzie knew there was a grain of truth in this. When Dudley’s band had split four years before, he had wanted to move into presenting and Lizzie had helped, putting some work his way, suggesting joint projects. She didn’t see the problem; that was what friends did for one another and Dudley had always been there for her. She could tell him anything and everything, and frequently did. He was the only person she loved and trusted completely. She knew Dudley could be petulant sometimes but he made her laugh. She didn’t have many proper friends, people who understood what it was like to have a spectacularly messed-up childhood lived out under very bright public lights. Dudley genuinely appreciated that and had stood by her through it all. That counted for a lot.

  Smiling, she took the phone from Kat’s outstretched hand. It would be so good to talk to Dudley. He’d cajole her out of her nervousness. He could always make her feel better.

  ‘Hi, Duds,’ she said. ‘Have you rung to wish me luck?’

  ‘Lizzie.’ Dudley didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘Thank God you’re there. She’s dead, Lizzie! I’ve only just heard. I don’t know what to do…’ He sounded dazed, his voice so broken and confused that Lizzie barely recognised it. She felt a lurch of fear. This did not sound like the Dudley she knew, the irreverent, impetuous, fun-loving companion who could tease her out of any bad mood.

  ‘Dudley?’ she said sharply. ‘What’s happened? What do you mean? Who’s dead?’

  ‘Shit,’ Dudley said. ‘Haven’t you seen it online? Are you locked in a cellar somewhere, for God’s sake? I told you. It’s Amelia. She’s dead!’

  Amelia. Lizzie’s mind locked onto the name. Amelia was Dudley’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, whose existence Lizzie so frequently – and so conveniently – forgot. The churning sickness in her stomach intensified. How could Amelia be dead? She was only twenty-eight years old. Had there been an accident, a car crash, like the one that had taken Lizzie’s mother? For a terrifying second the present slipped away and Lizzie felt as though she was four years old again, watching through the bannisters as the police came to break the news to her father.