Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I Page 13
I hid a smile. Lord Robert had meant to make her mistress of all that was his, but she had gently rebuked him by reminding him from whom his largesse came. The queen gave, and the queen could just as easily take away.
Otherwise, she allowed herself to be refreshed in the mild countryside. Fireworks took place nearly every evening, and because the queen loved birdsong, Lord Robert had built a gilded aviary outside her apartment windows. Each morning when she awoke, she rose to the sweet song she loved, and she loved Lord Robert more for it. He joined her in her chamber each morning, and we left them by the window to talk.
“What else can I do to show my love to you, Elizabeth?” he asked. I knew of no other who called her by that name. “Shall I bring in other jugglers or finer jewelers? Gifted playwrights or poets who can better declare what is inside my heart than I can do with my ill-timed words and inadequate expressions?”
She shook her head and turned her back to us so we could not hear her response. But his face lit, and so he had hope, and so we who loved her did, too.
Lord Robert had players perform mystery plays of biblical miracles, hoping to show, perhaps, that nothing was impossible with God’s help, and he surely felt God meant for them to be together. He had players act out Arthurian legends as an homage to Elizabeth’s Tudor Welsh roots. He mostly had plays of romance and love performed, though, and very often, when it was a small group of us, he took the part of the lead so he could declare to her publicly what I knew he said in private. That softened her, and those same words softened me, too. Although I had been approached by other men of the court, some very highborn, I found them hidebound.
We stayed for nineteen days, and on the eighteenth, I dismissed her other women and said I would ready the queen for bed myself that evening. The married women welcomed a night with their husbands without duty and the others trusted me enough to know the queen’s mind that they did not question me. The queen herself, though, was surprised when she returned from her bath. She dismissed her lady maid, though. I had served her trustworthily for ten years.
“I shall help you this evening, Majesty,” I said, combing through her hair, which was still fiery, though beginning to be shot through with a few gray strands. I mixed up a small bowl of vinegar, honey, and fresh mill water, and then handed her a tooth cloth and golden pick so she could clean her teeth.
“Lord Robert has put on an amazing display for you, Majesty, these past weeks,” I began. “He loves you well.”
“And I, him,” she said. I realized that she was not speaking in the royal sense, but woman to woman, using I.
“In like manner?”
I held my breath, wondering if a rebuke would be forthcoming, but none was. Blanche had told me that Kat Ashley had often been able to speak freely with the queen, as she had been as a mother to her. I hoped that the queen would take my rare, forthright questions as those of a younger sister who both admired and loved her well.
“They’ve said Lord Robert is ill suited for me.”
“A finely bred falcon will not be best suited to a dove, madam, but rather to a high-flown hawk.”
“And Lord Robert is a high-flown hawk,” she responded.
I grinned. “Yes, madam. Or a peacock.”
The queen laughed aloud. “Women commend a modest man but like him not.”
“Though you are queen, you are a woman, too,” I said softly.
“Yes,” she agreed. And after a minute, “I have known the love of a man. I have held the hand and heart of a man, but I have not known the touch of a man. The flesh and heart want what the mind forbids. I decided at a young age that my head must be that which rules, not my heart, lest I lose both.”
I understood that.
“Do you not long for such a touch?” I dared ask.
“I have loved Lord Robert since I was a girl,” she said. “I am given to him in all manner but one. I had, and have, passion. But I put it under glass, Helena, lest it set my kingdom on fire.”
“Glass will snuff out a fire, Majesty,” I said, brushing her long hair.
“As Saint Paul wrote to the Corinthians, ‘There is difference also between a wife and a virgin. The unmarried woman cares for the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and in spirit: but she that is married cares for the things of the world, how she may please her husband.’ I am both virgin to the world and wife to my realm, and it is him whom I must first serve and please.”
I glanced at her coronation ring, which she never removed, and recalled reading a script of her speech in which she declared, “I have already joined myself in marriage to a husband, namely the kingdom of England.”
“Then what, my lady?” I asked.
“Within weeks of my marriage to Robin this kingdom would fracture into factions like a shattered platter, never to be whole again.”
My mind returned to the portrait Nicolas Hilliard had so recently painted, of the pelican that pricks its own breast to feed its children, sometimes mortally wounding itself in the process. “Does Lord Robert know?” I whispered, wishing I could somehow stanch that mortal bleeding for her.
She nodded, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, blotted out the deep misery etched upon her fair face. And then Elizabeth reverted back to queen. “We informed him tonight.”
TWELVE
Autumn: Year of Our Lord 1575
The Palace of Whitehall
Years of Our Lord 1576, 1577
The Palace of Whitehall
Autumn: Year of Our Lord 1577
Blackfriars, London
That September, we traveled to Woodstock, where Sir Henry Lee wrote a play, The Hermit’s Tale, and then had it performed for the queen’s entertainment. The story centered around two lovers who end up parting from one another due to her duty to her father and his dukedom. Elizabeth enthusiastically clapped throughout the play and at its end commended Sir Henry for his fine writing. Her duty came before her lover. He would not have dared perform it for her if he had not known it would meet with her approval. I began to understand even more about my mistress; as with the acceptance of the sacrae dedication, her support here was not only personal, it was strategic; it was a method in which she guided and ruled.
It would behoove us at court, I thought, to better pay attention to what she did and not only to what she said. She showed us all what she told very few.
• • •
I had one other occasion that year to ask to see the queen privately, just before the Accession Day celebrations in November. “Majesty, may I see you in private?” I asked. She indicated that yes, in the afternoon she would dismiss the others and speak with me. I arrived after the noon meal.
“Do you recall that I wear a locket necklace with a sketch of my mother and myself?” I asked.
She nodded. “Of course, Helena.” She wasn’t abrupt, but her tone said, “Do get on with it!”
I handed a golden ring box to her. “I commissioned this from Robert Brandon and Nicolas Hilliard.”
She opened it up, and nestled within was the ring, gold and surrounded with rubies and pearls with a diamond E on the front. She drew in her breath and let true pleasure shine upon her face. “It’s marvelous!”
“I know it’s not typical to present gifts to you other than at New Year’s, but I wanted this to be given in private, not public.”
She nodded. “Yes, of course,” she said. She lifted the ring out of the box and held it to the weak autumn light. The jewels shimmered. “This is a truly wonderful gift, Helena.”
“There is a locket under the diamond E,” I said. “I would be honored if you would open it.” I held my breathing, hoping that I would please her beyond all measure, slightly worried that I had overstepped.
The queen opened up the locket to see a tiny miniature of herself on one side, and one of her mother, Anne Boleyn, on the other.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and as she did, a tear slipped from one of them, which she quietly brushed away. She opened her eyes to
look at it again, and then closed the locket clasp before slipping the ring onto her slender finger. “Kept close, and yet hidden away,” she quoted herself exactly from some years back.
I laughed. “Do you forget nothing?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I do not.” She drew me near and took my hands in her own ungloved ones, a sign of deep friendship and intimacy. “Our servants and favorites profess to love us for our good parts, but they all end in the same thing, namely, asking us for money. But not you. I shan’t forget this.”
From then on, she wore the ring continuously and smiled at me when she caught me looking upon it. It brought me great pleasure, perhaps as much as it brought her.
• • •
The next year passed quietly, almost without incident, and we were falsely lulled by a sense of peace we rarely enjoyed. At the end of September 1576, word reached court that Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex, had died a violent death. The cause was dysentery, but the word circling round court was that Lord Robert had had him poisoned to clear the way to marry Essex’s wife, Lettice Knollys Devereux. At the end, Essex charged that his children be transferred to the care of one of his kinsman, the Earl of Huntingdon, rather than be despoiled by their mother. His request was granted.
Few mourned Essex; he had once invited the Irish nobles to a peace feast and then had them ambushed and slaughtered. But I again heard the name of Amy Robsart whispered in dark hallways and at the end of long banquet tables. It was clear when you saw Lady Devereux and Lord Robert together that, having been spurned by the queen once and for all, Lord Robert’s gaze lit and rested upon her beautiful cousin. It made me long for a loving gaze to be set and then rested upon me.
Thomas did not return to court, as the queen kept him abroad on minor business with the Spanish, but he did write to me, infrequently, so we did not draw curious eyes, I supposed. When he returned in the spring of 1577, I was the first person he sought. He sent a simple note by way of his manservant. My hands greedily opened the envelope. He’d scrawled, in bold script, “I’ve come for you.”
I threw the letter into the air and laughed aloud, followed by roisterous singing in Swedish, to the concern, I was sure, of my servants in the next room.
When we could do so without attracting undue attention, Thomas and I sat at the same table for cards, or met one another to walk in the galleries or gardens. We talked of his family, which had suffered some split when the church did, and of mine, though my family had, sorrowfully, begun to recede in my mind. Once I had made the decision to become English, to remain, I chose to focus upon my new home rather than pine for the old whenever the skies grew dark. Those skies were never dark, though, when I was with Thomas. We talked of his business, not only on behalf of the queen, but also at the London Exchange, which Her Majesty had established as a center of commerce and trade, to the health of the realm and the envy of the Continent. He asked about my herbal preparations, and I made some spiced scent for his wash water. I admit, I longed to press my face against his and draw in the scent of it as well as the feel of his skin.
One evening we sat in my apartments, Clemence quietly sewing in the next room, and he presented me with a gift. “I’ve been harried by guilt after ripping the train of your fine gown last year,” he said.
“Oh, that.” I waved my hand. “I am quick with a needle and Clemence quicker still.”
He held out to me a heavy linen bag. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
I cocked my head and eyebrow and took it from him. Inside were yards and yards of the finest silk fabric, shot through with gold, that I had ever seen. “It’s like a cloud lit by sunlight,” I said. “Thank you!” I reached over to hug him, and he wrapped his arms about me, both of us aware of Clemence humming loudly in the next room. He drew away for a moment, and then took my face in his hands and held my gaze with his fine blue eyes, asking my permission, silently, before continuing. I did not pull away.
He kissed me softly at first and then more insistently. I responded likewise. Within a minute he drew away and we both sat in silence, pink, restoring our breath. He stood up and pulled me to my feet. We held hands, facing one another.
“Let us see if you can think upon what occasion a gown made of that fine silk may be used,” he said.
I nodded, and ran my hand through his hair. Nothing more needed, or dared, be said just then.
• • •
Spring fleshed out into early summer, and while the queen was busy with her counselors I was busy falling in love. One early evening a hundred or more courtiers were gathered in Her Majesty’s gardens at Richmond, which were particularly beautiful, playing games upon the lawn. Thomas and I strolled about, he played bowls, and then one of his friends called to him.
“Gorges! Come along. We’re to play Last Couple in Hell.”
Thomas smiled and I looked at him wonderingly. “I have not heard of this game,” I said.
“You’ll like it,” he replied, and followed his friend to a portion of the lawn perhaps a little farther away from the palace than some of the other games.
An area was divided into three sections, and there were three couples who played. One couple was assigned to the center square, called Hell; they must hold hands at all times. The other two couples were in the section to either side of them, and sought to exchange places while the couple in Hell sought to catch them as they ran through. If a couple was caught, they consoled themselves with a kiss, took one another’s hands, and sang together the game’s song:
We two are last in Hell; what may we fear,
To be tormented, or kept pris’ners here?
Alas, if kissing be of plagues the worst,
We’ll wish in hell we had been last and first.
Then the other couples sought to run through and escape their grasp. After several rounds, Thomas and I were caught and had to remain in the center; he kissed me as we took our places.
“I suspect if you had your way, we’d remain here as long as you were required to kiss me,” I teased.
“And, my fair lady, would you object?” he whispered, his eyes smiling.
“Not at all!”
We strolled back to the banqueting area that had been set up outside, lit with torches as the sun began to melt into the horizon. “I am twenty-seven years old. I’ve served the queen for eleven years, and it’s been my pleasure. I served the princess for years before then. Although I’ve lived a life of satisfaction, I have never felt as alive and infused with joy until I met you.”
He nodded. “I do not want to live without you as my wife. But you are a marchioness, and I am well born but untitled. I do not think the queen will suffer you to marry me. It’s said that even in the best of circumstances, she is reluctant to let her ladies marry.”
I shook my head. “No. I believe it’s true that when her ladies marry she is, again, reminded of the fact that she will not, and the losses that entails. But she has arranged many fine marriages for her maids and ladies; do you think that if that were not so, noble parents would be rather reluctant to send their daughters to court? An advantageous marriage, after all, is what they seek for their girls. If they thought the queen would not allow or assist, surely there would not be mothers and fathers vying for their daughters to serve the queen. And there are.”
He nodded. “I hope you are right.”
“She worries, I know, that when one of her ladies marries she is allowing a little piece of her family to break away.”
He pulled me into a quiet corner and took my hands in his. “I love you, Elin. I’ve waited so long. I do not want to wait any longer. Life is fickle, and my heart is given to you.”
“And mine is yours,” I said. Could I, a marchioness, really approach the queen and ask to marry Thomas, an untitled man? It was perhaps better to act, and ask forgiveness, as Mary Shelton had done. Then again the Grey sisters had acted without permission and the queen had never restored them to her affections—and had kept them separated from their husbands until they di
ed. “I will think upon this forthwith,” I answered, then reached up to kiss his lips, stilling the protest I saw forming upon them.
The queen was busy at court that season with one of her new favorites, Francis Drake, whom she had selected to head the expedition to sail round the world seeking gold and glory for God and Her Majesty. It was a way to both give the king of Spain a box on the ears and fill her coffers, two activities that pleased the queen as much as the bold explorer himself.
Thomas was good friends with Francis, so we spent some evenings in his company and Thomas was among those who invested in the journey, hoping for a fine payoff. “I’m not just taking seamen,” Drake told him one night. “I’m taking archers and players and gentlemen adventurers. Can I number you among them? It seems like just the kind of exploit you’d enjoy. There’s certain to be riches and honor for us when we return to the realm, ships pregnant with booty for the queen.”
Thomas shot a quick glance at me. “I’m afraid not, Drake, though my gold and prayers sail with you.”
Drake looked from Thomas to me and back again and then broke out in delighted laughter. “Ah, I see now, the beautiful marchioness. We have both agreed to undertake a dangerous venture, Gorges, but I couldn’t say which of us has the most at risk.” At that he and Thomas both laughed, but I did not, perhaps understanding more than both of them what dangers might be dealt from the hand of our mistress.
The next week Thomas took me hunting after we’d secured permission from the queen to use her park. I was unpracticed with a bow, but he was an excellent shot. After some hours, I drew back my bow, taut and fresh, and shot a hart.
“My Valkyrie! Deciding exactly who falls in battle!” he exclaimed, and I was delighted to have pleased him, and felt flush and brave and, perhaps for the first time since I’d left Sweden, emboldened to let the strong woman I knew I was inside show herself through the court masque of obsequiousness and compliance.
We rode back to court, I pillion behind him, the first man I had ever clasped my arms around in intimacy on a horse, as William and I had always rode separately. I was engulfed in ecstasy.