Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I Page 3

The queen herself stood as godmother some days later when young Edward was baptized at the Royal Chapel at the Palace of Whitehall. Queen Elizabeth had spared no expense for the child of her Swedish “sister.” The Archbishop of Canterbury, Matthew Parker, blessed the font before the child was brought in by our Bridget. She handed the babe to Lady Margaret Howard, who stood in front of the Earl of Leicester, the queen’s favorite, and the Earl of Sussex, an especially trusted friend of Her Majesty but sworn enemy of Leicester. My Lord Northampton held the towel with which to dry the babe.

  “Why the pelicans?” I asked him after the ceremony, nodding to the many fine linens upon which were stitched those delicate birds.

  “A pelican is the symbol of self-sacrifice,” he said. “When there is no other food available, she will reach down and with her beak wound her own breast to supply blood for her children to sup on. This is a figure of our Lord and His passion. And also of our queen, who readily sacrifices herself for her realm, England.”

  “I learn something new from you each day!” I teased, but it pleased me, the interest he took in me, and I wanted to offer a return. “So now I shall have to try to teach something to you as well.”

  I tried to teach him a few words of Swedish, but he could not readily grasp them and, after a moment or two, lost interest, though he was gracious about it. I suspected he found our language guttural. We reverted to smooth French, which was comfortable for both of us, or in the main, English.

  That evening, Anne Russell, in whose home we stayed, came to visit with me. We’d become quick friends, and I enjoyed her wit and kindness. So I found it odd, then, when she approached me with hesitation and perhaps a little fear. “The Englishwomen, we’re wondering—what did you give to Princess Cecelia that quelled her birth pangs so readily? I told them I would ask you and share the secret.”

  “Lady’s bedstraw,” I said. “Mixed with some other herbs from the north.”

  She remained quiet for a moment before shaking her head, and laughed, but uneasily. “Those strange northern herbs seem to have worked . . . wondrously!”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand; she was to be married very soon and I suspected that was the seat of her curiosity. “I shall readily assist you when it’s your turn to bear a child if we have not yet returned to Sweden!”

  She smiled, but I noted that she did not say she would be happy to have me do so. I sighed a little and wondered if we’d make any friends here at all before we returned home.

  Some days later, as my lady was recovering from childbirth, Lord Northampton asked if he might take Bridget and myself to show us his estates in London. “You may,” the princess said, waving her small hand in the air. “But I have sworn to be their mother on this journey, and I’ll expect you to care for them thusly.”

  “I shall,” Lord Northampton replied with an easy grace. “The Queen’s Majesty would have it no other way.” He brought around a fine litter with foot warmers and furs, and Bridget and I spent a glorious day at his large estate, waited upon by a dozen servants, eating pheasant and other delicacies as Lord Northampton spoke warmly of England. We passed the hours in charming, pleasant companionship and conversation, and I was sorry to leave his happy home.

  That night, in our chamber, Bridget asked me, “Is Lord Northampton wooing you?”

  “I do not know,” I said. And then after a minute, I said, “Perhaps. He says I favor his late wife. But he is kind and attentive to me for my own sake, too, I know that as well.”

  “What about Philip?” she asked me.

  “I do not know,” I said, not wishing to think upon it. For all I knew, he was cozily partnered with my sister. “If things progress, I shall ask our lady what I must do.”

  “Do you care for him?” she asked.

  “Philip or Lord Northampton?”

  “Either . . . both,” she responded.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.” I rolled onto my side to forestall further questions, even from my dearest friend, so I could think, and pray, about what I must do.

  • • •

  Some weeks later, the margrave and Princess Cecelia held a large, lavish banquet to celebrate the birth of Edward Fortunatus. After the rich meal of nearly one hundred courses, a masked herald arrived in the hall, and as the room hushed, he trumpeted three times and then spoke up. “A messenger has late arrived with tidings from a strange country, with greetings and an invitation for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and the Honorable Princess Cecelia of Sweden.”

  The crowd began to clap and all seemed delighted with perhaps the exception of the margrave, who had not, noticeably, been included in the greeting.

  A second man strode into the room attired in heavy boots and spurs and knelt before the queen. “In honor of the marriage, next month, of the Earl of Warwick and the Lady Anne Russell, four foreign knights challenge any comers of Your Majesty’s kingdom. Shall this challenge be met?”

  A great ripple of laughter, shouts, and cheers went up. Lord Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, called out, “I shall meet these strange comers. Who rides with me?” Many men stood to meet the challenge. Lord Northampton cheered and clapped with the rest of them, but he did not offer to joust.

  The queen raised a hand and instantly the room grew quiet. “We heartily thank you, Master Herald, Master Messenger, and we shall be most pleased to look upon these strange knights and the defenders of our realm,” she said. “And we are most pleased to attend the wedding of our dear friend Lord Ambrose and his betrothed, Lady Anne.” She turned to Princess Cecelia. “If that seems right to you, too, my good sister?”

  Cecelia nodded and smiled, and then the room burst into cheers again and music echoed throughout the hall. I was instantly chosen to dance, as were Cecelia’s other maids of honor, which pleased us all and brought happy, high color. The night was joyous and festive, and I admit I enjoyed not only the playacting and playfulness of the queen’s court but the pleasant manner of the queen herself.

  After some time I noticed Lord Northampton approach Princess Cecelia. I didn’t have to wait long to find out why. She called me into her chamber, alone, the next morning. “Elin,” she said, “sit with me.” She indicated a plush low stool near her feet. “Lord Northampton, the Marquess of Northampton, approached me last eve,” she said. “He said he had fallen in love with one of my ladies. I asked of whom he spoke, though I could but guess. He spoke of you and wished to know if he had any hope of winning your hand.”

  “But . . . I am engaged, my lady,” I said, vexed. Even if Philip did not love or desire me, I understood that there had been some arrangement that I could not set aside without permission or a refutation on his part. “To Philip Bonde.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you, indeed?”

  “Am I not?” I asked wonderingly. Did she know about the partial dowry, and had it canceled our engagement? Or had news reached her regarding Philip and my sister Karin? Would I want to stay here in England after the others returned home? Worse, perhaps, would be to return home with no dowry and my fiancé in love with my sister.

  The margrave came in then, and the princess dismissed me. I would have to wait until she raised the matter again.

  • • •

  It has been said that every wedding puts a woman in mind of her own nuptials, whether or not they have yet to transpire; therefore we ladies were a happy gaggle. Bedford House was the Russell family home, and we Swedes were particularly fond of the bride. She was of an age with most of us and, in fact, shared my exact day of birth and had her apartments across the hall from Bridget and me. So I felt closer to her, perhaps, than to the other Englishwomen. And of course William’s request to Princess Cecelia for my hand was much on my mind.

  One afternoon I helped Anne Russell stitch a rip in her train and asked, “Are you happy to be marrying Lord Ambrose?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course, he’s very kind.”

  “Do you . . . do you mind very much that he has been married before?”

 
She didn’t rebuke me for my impertinence. I think she knew I was airing my concerns about my own potential situation with Lord Northampton.

  “No. I believe he loves me, as he loved the others.”

  I smiled at her and she smiled back, warmly. In spite of her odd and somewhat unresolved comments regarding the lady’s bedstraw and other herbs, she continued to kindly befriend me. In that, she was alone among the Englishwomen.

  Later, we gathered at the Queen’s Great Closet for the wedding of Lady Anne, whom her new husband had nicknamed Amys, to Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, twenty years her senior. We ladies thought it romantic that her husband had a special name for her, and I hoped, for myself, that my own husband would lovingly do likewise. Lady Anne wore a kirtle of silver mixed with blue and a gown of purple embroidered with silver. Upon her fair hair she bore a golden caul, and her train was borne by little Catherine Knollys.

  Lord Northampton invited me and my friend Christina Abrahamsdotter to be his guests at his banqueting table, and we gladly agreed. I noted that he was served more quickly, more attentively, and with better dishes than the other guests. His benches were also cushioned. There were some long looks toward me from the others at the table, but soon enough talk reverted to the events of the day, and the week ahead.

  “Do you celebrate weddings in Sweden with banquets and jousting?” one woman asked politely.

  “We do banquet often,” I replied. “Vadstena Castle has a beautiful and ornate galley called the Wedding Hall. But we hunt and hawk perhaps more than joust.”

  “Which is a pity,” Christina said, “as your knights in their armor are compelling to look upon.”

  The others at the table laughed and began to speak of other tournaments they had witnessed, arguing the valor of one man over another. I smiled at Christina’s sentiments, heartily agreeing; the jousters were strong and fine-looking, and cast an air of manliness, but I said nothing. Lord Northampton’s gout prevented him from jousting.

  “You speak English well,” a young man sitting next to me said. “With a pretty accent.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Danke, or tack—thank you in German and Swedish, too,” I said with a wink.

  He grinned and struck me up in another conversation, but soon enough Lord Northampton stood behind my chair. “Would you and Lady Christina like to see the Royal Library?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, and Princess Cecelia nodded her assent. We followed Lord Northampton from the banqueting hall through a long gallery and up a sweep of stairs. At the top of the stairs the gallery led either left or right. We took the right, and as we did, I caught sight of a couple out of the corner of my eye. The man, splendid in purple, was the queen’s handsome favorite and her lifelong love, the Earl of Leicester, also known as Robert Dudley, whom I recognized from the christening.

  What would it be like to have a lifelong love? Highborn women did not expect to marry for love, but one had only to read Greek or Roman mythology, or attend a masque or performance at court, to know we all wished we could.

  Lord Robert was accompanied by a heavily pregnant, beautiful woman perhaps ten years younger than Her Majesty and looking remarkably like her. It was a tribute to the power of her charm, I supposed, that even while so pregnant she seemed able to enchant Lord Robert.

  “Who was that?” I asked Lord Northampton as he led to the library.

  “Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester,” he answered.

  “Nay, the lady . . . accompanying . . . him.”

  “Lady Lettice Devereux,” he answered gruffly. “Sister to the little girl who bore the bride’s train this morn. Cousin to the queen.”

  • • •

  Two days later we were seated at tournament to watch the jousting. Princess Cecelia sat with the queen, of course, her husband the margrave beside her. The margrave was splendidly dressed in new garments, as was Princess Cecelia, and they had been handing out lavish gifts to our new English friends, which was worrisome and the focus of much discussion among us ladies. The journey had taken many months more than we had anticipated, and gifts and remunerations had to have been paid along the way. I wondered that King Erik had funded his sister so lavishly, especially since any and all talk of a potential marriage between the king and England’s queen had come to naught since our arrival and the idea, for the most part, had quietly died. If she spent all of our money, how would we get home?

  Lord Northampton asked me to sit with him, and after ascertaining that this was all right with Princess Cecelia, I happily agreed. There was no need for a chaperone, as we were among all the others, so Lord Northampton did not invite anyone else to accompany us to his viewing area, which was very close to the action. I could have reached out and touched the jousters as they kicked up dust in the arena.

  “Some weeks ago I spoke with your princess about my affections for you.”

  “Indeed, she mentioned that to me, Lord Northampton.”

  “Please, call me William,” he said, smiling. His smile, as always, put me at ease.

  “William,” I said. “But then you must call me Elin.”

  “I had told her that I found you beautiful, Elin, a delightful, rare flower. I had wondered if there was any hope of your remaining in England and, perhaps, marrying me.”

  “What was her answer?” I, of course, already knew, as she had told me, but I wanted to let him speak for himself on this delicate matter.

  “She said there was an engagement in Sweden that she believes was set aside due to the lack of a dowry, and that she was to act as your mother while in England. She would also send a letter to your mother with some of Geoffrey Preston’s merchant friends. In the meantime, dear Elin, I should like to know your mind on this matter.”

  Princess Cecelia knew about the dowry problem and assumed that it had canceled my engagement—or perhaps she knew that it had already been canceled, and I was the only one who hadn’t been told for certain.

  I was angry and yet . . . I knew now that I did not truly love Philip, and I would never be able to trust him. But if we were legally betrothed, then there was no more to be discussed. William made me laugh, he clearly adored me, we had rousing discussions, and while he knew more than I in every matter, he never made me feel lesser for it. I felt good with him. I felt safe. I was truly fond of him even if there was not the passion found, perhaps solely, in poetry.

  “I am honored that you would wish to take me as a wife.” I took his hand, which seemed to please him, thrilled that he’d concerned himself with my opinion. “I find great pleasure in your company and enjoy our times together very much,” I said. “Perhaps I may think upon it while we wait to hear from my mother.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Of course you must. I would provide everything you need, should you agree, of course. Maids of honor and servants and lady maids of your own, fine houses and your clothing and jewels. No woman will ever be more treasured than you, Elin.”

  “I know your character, William,” I said. “I feel treasured by you already.” And I did. I had never felt so valued by a man.

  He placed his hand over mine and I allowed it to rest there. I prayed silently for a quick response from my mother; the Danes sometimes let through the English ships, so a letter and response might be forthcoming.

  Once the challengers rode into the tiltyard, my mind set aside thoughts of marriage and letters and focused on the match. The horses twitched with energy, stamping at each end of the arena, and though the men were wrapped in metal I could sense their readiness to battle. I watched and cheered as much as the next person. Lord Robert rode for the queen’s favor; the gossip was that there had been a loud and public quarrel between Lord Robert and Her Majesty after the queen had seen him close together with Lettice Devereux. I had difficulty believing that, as the queen seemed so calm and dignified. And today, when she smiled upon him, it was certainly with the look of a woman deeply in love. I looked but did not see Lady Devereux among those watching. I wished that one day a man would ride for
my favor, but then I looked at William, so kind, intelligent, and caring, and thought perhaps that didn’t matter so much after all.

  After the contests were complete and the crowds began to thin, William led me out toward the litters returning to Bedford House and then stopped to talk with someone while I proceeded on. As I reached the end of the tiltyard, one of the comers lifted off his helmet and then turned and looked straight at me. His longish blond hair was pulled back in a queue and he had a smear of blood on his cheekbone. His blue eyes held mine. I was taken aback by his strength and his frank interest. “Thomas Gorges,” he said before bowing to me, metal clanking.

  His words startled me out of my reverie, and I nodded. “Lady Elin von Snakenborg.”

  “Are you new to court?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I’ve come with Princess Cecelia from Sweden.” At that, I felt a presence beside me. William looked at Thomas for just a moment and then put his hand behind my back to guide me on. Thomas bowed his head toward me and turned to leave.

  “I know Her Majesty enjoys the tiltyard, but it can be a bloody and, perhaps, unrefined sport,” William said as we walked. “I shall take you hawking.”

  Later that night, in our chamber, Bridget and I discussed the day’s events. “William spoke to me himself of marriage,” I said, shrugging into my sleeping gown.

  “William? Not Lord Northampton?” she teased, already snug under a thick coverlet.

  “Yes, William,” I said with a soft laugh. “Princess Cecelia has written to my mother to ask her permission. Since things are unsettled, or perhaps void, with Philip . . .” I let the sentence dangle. In spite of his ill treatment of me, I did not want to dishonor him.

  “Has Cecelia truly written to her?” Bridget asked.

  I stopped brushing my hair and turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

  “If you were to marry the marquess, you would be nearly as highly ranked as she. I suspect she would like that not at all. Perhaps one way to forestall that is to lack the agreement of your family.”

  I found that unsettling for a moment, but then simply refused to believe that the princess would do ill by me. She had promised to care for me as a mother would. Hadn’t she?