Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I Page 9

  In the north of England, many Catholics rejoiced.

  Shortly thereafter the French ambassador sought an audience with Her Majesty. “My master has directed me to tell you, Your Grace, that if his cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, is not immediately returned to her throne, he will be forced to declare war against you.” He removed his cap with a flourish, then removed his presence from the chamber.

  Within a second Cecil spoke up. “Majesty, it would be to your uttermost peril to agree to reinstall Mary in Scotland,” he said. “Not only would her, and your, Protestant subjects rebel, but she is discontented with her own throne and seeks yours instead. You would be endangering your own person.”

  “This is not the moment for me to dither with France, Cecil,” she said, holding the back of her hand to her forehead and then staring out the window. “We shall dictate some terms to you under which we would consider assisting our sister to regain her throne.”

  I saw the look of utter dismay on Cecil’s face before we ladies were dismissed to prepare a private chamber for a midday meal for the queen.

  • • •

  I awoke on May 25 to a furious pounding on my door not but a few hours, it seemed, after I had gone to sleep.

  It was Clemence. “Her Majesty has need of you to assist her in dressing,” she said. I rushed to brush and pin my own hair while Clemence prepared a gown for me to slip into. I raced down the gallery toward Her Majesty’s chambers. When I arrived, only Anne Dudley was there, and she signaled to me to help her assist Her Majesty. Many of the other ladies, older than we, took longer to arise in the morning when they were not expected.

  “That will not do!” the queen barked at Anne as Anne brought forth a gown. Anne nodded to the maid to run back to a nearby chamber where some of the queen’s gowns were stored. She brought back two other choices, and Anne nodded toward one. The queen didn’t speak her agreement, but she said nothing to the contrary, so we continued to pin her sleeves and other pieces together. I held open a pair of delicate gloves as she slipped her hands into them. We applied her makeup and powdered her red hair with finely ground diamonds. Without a word, she left and went to meet her councilors in a private chamber.

  “This morning a Mr. John Felton nailed a bull from the pope onto the garden gate of the Bishop of London,” Anne told me. “In it the pope denies ‘Elizabeth, the pretended Queen of England, the servant of wickedness,’ her throne. He said that henceforth he was absolving all of her subjects of their allegiance to her.”

  “Surely not! Her Majesty has always trusted that her subjects would be loyal to her,” I said.

  “It worsens,” she said. “He called on all faithful Catholics to rise up, oust, and, if necessary, murder the ‘heretic queen.’ I suspect it will be ignored by most of Her Majesty’s subjects, Catholics included.”

  “And yet even if there are but a few who seek to do her harm, and there will be, she shall not know whom to trust.”

  “She can perhaps trust no one at all,” Anne replied.

  I returned to my chamber in sorrow. Her Majesty had always desired that her recusant Catholic subjects be allowed to worship, in private, as their consciences dictated. “I have no wish to have windows into men’s souls,” she’d said on the matter. But now the pope had forced English Catholics to choose between treason or faith.

  It would not be a lie to say that, while many recusants yet worshipped quietly, after the pope’s decree, the queen’s policies of necessity began to change. She outlawed Rosary beads. She had the import of bulls and other communiqués from the See of Rome banned; punishment was hanging, disemboweling, and quartering. John Felton, who had nailed the bull to the garden gate, was tortured and executed, but not before loudly denying that Elizabeth was his queen. His wife had been the queen’s childhood friend.

  That night, I asked Clemence, “What did Her Majesty do when her sister, Mary, was queen? Mary was most Catholic, is that not so?”

  Clemence nodded proudly. “Her Grace told her sister that she would investigate the Catholic faith, having not been raised in it. But my mother served in that household, as Lord Northampton knows, and she told me that all present were Protestants, reading Holy Writ and praying in English and putting away popish superstitions and such.”

  “So the queen remained true to her faith, though its practice was hidden?”

  “Yes.” Clemence nodded. “All of Her Grace’s friends and household were Nicodemites, after Nicodemus in Scripture, he who came to the Lord Jesus privately to ask Him questions on matters of faith for which he knew he would be persecuted, perhaps unto death. They worshipped privately and bided their time.”

  I nodded and said no more. I was a Protestant myself, having been raised in the Lutheran faith and then choosing the Church of England as my own. But I saw little difference between a Nicodemite in Mary’s reign and a recusant in Elizabeth’s.

  I would, of course, keep that thought to myself.

  The next day William sought me out, though it had been some weeks since we had spent time together. He looked young and hopeful in a way I’d not seen for some time.

  “What is it?” I asked, after inviting him into my apartment. He drew me near the window and then near to himself, into his arms.

  “I know I should not take pleasure in this,” he said. “And indeed, in the suffering, I do not. But my . . . Lady Anne Bourchier, to whom I am married, has taken ill. She is not expected to live beyond the year.”

  I smiled at him, wanly, I knew, which I am sure he interpreted as my unwillingness to rejoice over the illness of anyone. But inside, I was mixed. I was fond of William, but I had long let go of the heartstring that tied me to him, thinking we would not marry. And, of course, I had of late joyfully considered handing that string to another.

  I did not yet know what to think, or feel, or how to proceed, should her death come to pass.

  • • •

  In November, Sir Henry Lee instituted an Accession Day celebration to commemorate the day the queen had taken the throne. Sir Henry had, with other courtiers, chosen to mark the occasion from this year forward with festivals, jousts, banquets, masques, and all other manner of joyous observation.

  “It is,” William told me, as we made our way to the banquet on the opening night, “a way to pledge our allegiance to the queen, to rebuke the effrontery of the rebellion of the north, and to respond to the excommunication of the queen by the pope.”

  Throughout the land were bells ringing and bonfires. Poets from Oxford down to the smallest schoolboy composed verse in honor of the queen, and whenever they were presented to her it was clear that she took similar pleasure, no matter the source. The day was added to the calendar of holy days.

  “Does this concern you?” I asked William quietly. “She is, after all, woman as well as queen. The more they beatify her, the more difficult it will become for them to accept her marriage and the bearing of children.”

  He smiled. “Though she is already thirty-seven years of age, the people want, above all, her marriage and children,” he said. “And, methinks, marriage is much on the mind of someone else.” He smiled warmly. Anne Bourchier had grown weaker and more ill, and while neither William nor I desired it, her death would open up the way for us to be married. She had, after all, repudiated him nigh on four decades earlier.

  With some effort I brought my heart and mind round again to the idea of marrying William. But I did.

  On the second day of the celebrations, Anne Dudley introduced me to Anne, Lady d’Aubernon of Usher. “She is cousin to Sir Henry Lee, the man who organized the Accession Day festivities, and he is the queen’s champion,” Anne said. “As her mother, Meg Wyatt, was a great favorite of Queen Anne Boleyn, Lady Anne is, of course, a favorite of Her Majesty.”

  I bowed my head slightly. “Lady Helena von Snakenborg,” I said. “I am surprised we have not yet met.”

  A woman of about thirty, she looked ten years younger when she laughed. “I am about court from time to time, but m
y husband and I have a large brood of children already and I found I am better suited for the country than for court. However”—she grew somber—“I will be present anywhere, at any time, to support the queen. My brother, William, Earl of Asquith”—she nodded toward a tall man with curly brown hair—“often represents Her Majesty as an ambassador or emissary as well as administering his estates.”

  We made some small talk, but I soon saw Thomas Gorges walking toward me with purpose. He had no armor on, nor stage paint, but bore himself with dignity. I had not seen him since the performance of Lyly’s play and my breath caught in my throat.

  Lady d’Aubernon smiled at me. “That man looks intent upon speaking with you. I am sure we’ll meet again, Lady Helena.”

  I murmured my agreement as she withdrew.

  Thomas bowed. “Elin,” he said, smiling at me. “May I have a word?” He looked about, confused. “You are unaccompanied?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I was about to make my way back to the viewing windows before the tilts begin.”

  “I see. You sit with the queen?”

  I shook my head. I greatly desired to leave and say no more, but I knew what he truly asked and I needed to answer him. “I sit with the Marquess of Northampton.”

  Thomas nodded and gently withdrew his proffered hand—which was strong and as square as his jaw—out of respect, I guessed. “I’ve heard his wife is ill unto death.”

  “You’re well informed for a man who spends most of his time away from court.”

  “I am no court creature, but I learn what is important to me,” he said. “Shall you marry him when she dies?”

  I nodded. “He has cared well for me for five years since I arrived in England.”

  “Do you love him?”

  I could have reproved him for his impudence, but I knew the hurt and loss of hope behind his question and so I did not. “I care for him as he has cared for me. Fondly. And I shall not disappoint or dishonor him.” I waited a moment before speaking again. “I shan’t ever forget your performance as Endymion, nor the words you spoke to me. I recall them to heart and mind most often.”

  He held my gaze and recited a sonnet to me, softly. “Then here are some others, which I hope you will not forget. ‘You do beguile me; O, that I could fly; from myself to you, or from your own self, I.’ ”

  With great reserve, and the training of my mother, I held back from my eyes and my face the affection and budding passion I felt toward him. I kept my hands at my sides so they did not reach forward for him.

  He bowed and walked away.

  Shortly after the new year, Anne Bourchier died. William saw that she was buried with dignity, then asked the queen if we might marry in May.

  I’d thought that the Englishwomen would more readily yield friendship to me now that I was to be properly married, and to a peer, but they did not. Instead, I heard whispers when they thought I could not hear about my skills with herbs and how useful it was that Anne Bourchier had died before Lord Northampton did, though he was unwell more and more often. If he had died first, of course, I would have no husband. The implications in the great hall, where we dined, was that I’d had a hand in assisting Lady Anne Bourchier heavenward in order to procure a high title and substantial incomes. It cast a shadow over the already cool affections many at court had for me, a stranger among them.

  Nothing was directly accused, so nothing could be directly responded to.

  I said naught to William.

  EIGHT

  Spring: Year of Our Lord 1571

  The Palace of Whitehall

  Autumn and Winter: Year of the Lord 1571

  Kenilworth Castle

  Warwickshire

  I, a Swedish bride of twenty-three, was to be married in the Queen of England’s Closet at Westminster. The queen herself had taken charge of the arrangements that would normally be made by the bride’s family; she helped me choose my maids of honor and a lady to stand with me. I chose my dear Anne Dudley, Countess of Warwick, and I know that pleased the queen as well as me. I also chose Eleanor Brydges as a maid, and another small girl, the daughter of one of the queen’s courtiers, would hold my train.

  “We’ve ordered yellow silk dresses trimmed with green velvet and silver lace,” the queen said, “for your maids and ladies. They shall be delivered tomorrow.” She did not ask me if that met with my approval; I do not think the queen asked anyone for their approval. However, she had impeccable taste and knew what I liked, the colors of herbs and gardens, and had planned accordingly.

  “I’m very grateful, Majesty,” I said, hiding a smile at her competency in this, and every, area. “And I’m also grateful for the banquet you’re sponsoring for William and me afterward. I do not know how I can ever repay your kindness in this matter.” In truth, as the day approached and I truly began to allow myself to believe I would be a bride, at last I grew more excited. I was to be a wife! Mistress of many manors and, legally, rightly, dearest to William’s heart and person. I could not keep back my smiles.

  The queen saw and smiled at me in return. “We are pleased for Northampton’s sake that this marriage, at long last, will come to pass, but we are also glad for our own sake,” she replied. “This one time, I do not so much feel that I am losing a lady as gaining one.”

  I did not understand, just then, what she meant, but there were many details to attend to and well-wishers to respond to, so I let the comment pass.

  “The king and queen of Sweden were present at my mother’s wedding,” I said. “So I am honored that you will attend my own. My mother also said it was luckiest to be married in the morning.”

  “Then it’s a good omen that you will be married in the morn,” she said.

  “You must arrange your own wedding for the morning, too,” I said, teasing her. She still held hope that she would marry, and her monthly courses were regular, so we hoped, too.

  “Impertinence!” she said, but with a light wave of her gloves. “What should we present to you for a wedding gift?”

  I stared at her. “Surely not. The gowns, the wedding dinner in the council chamber, the musicians—that is enough and more.”

  She was pleased, I could tell, but pressed on. “Nothing at all, then, my lady?”

  I thought for a moment. “There is one request, if I might be bold.”

  “Go on.”

  “In my family, when something of consequence occurs, we sisters would send one another off with a kiss on the temple, for affection and care, and concern. I have no sister to send me off on this journey, Majesty, but you are setting me off upon it. Would it be overbold of me to ask that you might kiss my temple in such sisterly fashion as I took my leave from your chamber to meet with William?”

  For the first time in our acquaintance she appeared to know not how to respond; she opened her mouth to say something and then closed it, appearing to think upon the matter. I grew vexed that I had greatly overstepped my bounds, but instead of a sharp rebuke, which she was not afraid to regularly offer, her face and tone softened and she said, “Yes, Lady von Snakenborg, I willingly send you off thusly.”

  I steadied myself so as not to let a sigh of relief escape my lips!

  The next morning Her Majesty had her own ladies, in addition to Clemence, assist me with my wedding attire. I used my own cosmetics; I preferred to prepare them myself. And just before I was to meet William, the queen bent over and kissed me softly on the temple, leaving a lingering scent of the vanilla perfume I’d blended for her.

  That evening there was a grand dinner and the queen danced many times more with Lord Robert than did William and I. William’s legs still pained him and I kept close to my new husband to attend to him whenever he needed me, and to shower him with my affection and attention, which was his due, and gladly given. He left to receive the congratulations of some of his highborn friends. The queen came to stand near me with some of her other ladies, who looked at me in a new light. I was no longer simply Lady von Snakenborg; I was the Marchio
ness of Northampton. As the Duke of Norfolk had not yet remarried, after the queen, I was now the highest-ranking lady in England.

  The men stood some feet away from us and I could not help but notice how splendidly attired they were. “They are as richly gowned as the women!” I said without thinking. But the group of women around me tittered an agreement and I smiled.

  “ ’Tis your wedding night,” Mary Radcliffe said slyly. “It’s natural that you would be noticing the men and what they are wearing.”

  There was an undercurrent there, and it didn’t take the queen, who loved a bawdy joke, long to pick up on it. “Perhaps there is a particular item of the men’s clothing that has drawn your attention, Marchioness?” She used my title with relish and affection, so I knew she jested with me, but she waved her fan about midwaist level toward the men. I knew what she was speaking of; like ruffs, which had started small and tasteful and had grown all out of proportion, men’s codpieces had become immodest and prominent.

  “There are sometimes accessories made so overlarge that even the eye which would seek to avoid them cannot,” I said.

  “Are ‘accessories’ not overlarge in Sweden?” one of the ladies asked unpleasantly. I suspected my new title did not warm her English ears, but the queen looked at me expectantly; not replying was not an option.

  “In Sweden, the cobblers fashion the shoe to fit the foot, not several sizes too large,” I countered delicately.

  The queen burst out in laughter, and even the lady who’d meant to prod me responded with a genuine smile. Anne Dudley reached out and took my arm in hers and I gladly entwined elbows; she was a true friend and I hoped I could repay her in kind.