The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  The chords of my heart, being stretched to capacity, strained at the weight of anticipation, and I could wait no longer.

  “Mary.”

  She slowly turned her body toward me, and when she saw it was me, she swayed in disbelief. I reached out to grab her, and in doing so, I lost my balance, and we crumpled onto the stone floor. In an instant her face was wet with tears as she clasped my face in her slender hands.

  “Thomas,” she sobbed, but that was the only word that parted her lips. She covered my face with gentle kisses, and I held her in my arms for some time, smoothing away the wet tendrils of hair that clung to her face.

  “I dared not dream that I would ever see your face again. You are here. You really are here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am here, my sweetling.”

  The queen seized the back of my head, and running her hand down my neck, she rested it where she could cup it securely in her hand. She clung to me, and I could feel her warmth and smell her sweet breath.

  After a painful pause, she spoke in almost a whisper, “Please forgive me, Thomas.”

  “Forgive you for what? There is nothing to forgive you for.”

  She closed her eyes a moment, and I could see the faint hint of fresh tears clinging to her lashes. “I have been so stupid. Again and again I have been forced to make decisions that I found to be fraught with no amiable outcome. You tried to warn me. You tried to guide me in the direction I should go, yet I wanted to do things my way. At the time I thought it was the only choice I had, but now I see that I had other choices—” She broke off as a sob overtook her voice. I pulled her closer to me.

  “Hush now,” I soothed, as I wiped another tear that had fallen down her cheek. There were no words that could make it better, nothing that could be said that could make everything all right and get her out of her present circumstance. All I could do was hold her, and that I was determined to do.

  After another excruciating moment of silence, she asked, “Do you love me?”

  The question astounded me. I thought I had made that abundantly clear time and time again. Yet I realized there was a fine line between love and loyalty, and perhaps I hadn’t made the distinction clear enough to her. I had never told her so.

  “I have always loved you. I love you more than my own flesh,” I replied without hesitation.

  “If only…if Bothwell hadn’t…”

  “Mary don’t.” This time my voice almost gave way, and I paused to regain my composure before speaking again. I squeezed my eyes shut in an effort to block out the memory of what he had done to her. How he had used her, then forced her to make a decision that went against every thread that had woven together her fragile heart.

  “Did you know he died in prison? He fled to Norway but was eventually taken to Denmark. They say he went crazy.”

  I had heard of Bothwell’s death at the time it occurred. Nine years had passed since then, and I had to admit, there was still no love lost at the thought of his demise.

  When I had control of my trembling lips, I spoke slowly and changed the course of our conversation. “Mary, I have tried to help you. William and I have written letters to Phillip of Spain, Henry of France, and even your pope, Sixtus the fifth; although I fear this protestant minister had no influence on him whatsoever.”

  “What about my son? I have tried to write to him, but he doesn’t care for me much, I’m afraid.”

  “James is conflicted. He has been lied to his whole life about the kind of person you are.” I stopped when I saw that my words had brought fresh tears to her eyes. I just couldn’t cause her any more pain.

  We sat watching the light of the candles flicker their long shadows against the walls of the tiny chapel. Silence held us, wrapped like a cocoon, protecting us from the outside world and our harsh reality.

  In spite of the comfort the stillness brought us, Mary spoke once more. “I have felt so alone, Thomas. I have been surrounded by my ladies-in-waiting, guards, jailors, visitors, plotters of my escape, and those who have said they are my friend. But you can’t imagine how incredibly alone you can still feel even amongst so many people, especially when you know they do it for their own gain. Thank you for dispelling the loneliness and not asking for anything in return. It is the greatest gift you could have given to me.”

  “Mary, you were always my destiny. From the day your father died when you were six days old, my duty has been to protect, defend and love you. I hope you know that I would do anything for you that God and my conscious would allow. I’m only sorry there is nothing more I can do.”

  “No, nothing more,” she repeated, and drawing me closer she pressed her lips to my mouth. Her soft, supple lips gave pause as she gently brushed them over mine. I did not resist her, for it had been so long since I had felt her this close. She drew away, and I was breathless. The void she left caused an ache in my heart.

  Silence hung between us until she spoke again. “There have been few people in my life that I could trust whole-heartily. You have been one of them. You have been my protector—my guardian. I’m only sorry that...,” her voice caught yet I listened silently, daring not speak for fear of disturbing the energy that had suddenly charged the tiny chamber. There was nothing more I could say to her anyway. She had crossed the line, and if I did not take care to remove myself from her presence immediately, nature would prevail, and I would regret it later.

  Yet no matter how hard I tried to convince myself to be removed from this present situation, it was to no avail. A force greater than any will I had ever exercised within my being had seized me and quickly took full control. Perhaps it was the raw, male instinct that pounded through me or the basic need to protect the fairer gender. Whatever it was, it gripped my body like a vice and urged me to action. I wrapped my arm around her waist and pressed her to me, kissing her with more urgency than when she had kissed me. I stroked the smooth ivory skin of her neck and allowed my fingers the liberty to explore what lied beneath the boundaries of the neckline of her dress. Like a beggar greedily taking his fill of whatsoever has been so generously offered to him, I felt my way along every curve. I continued to kiss her, sucking the honey that I imagined flowed from her lips. Then my attention turned to the scent of her skin, and I allowed my mouth to explore where my hands were too hesitant to go.

  All the while my mind screamed out to me and reminded me how wrong this was. She was a queen. I was a man of the cloth. A great chasm stood between her earthly position and mine. But I didn’t care anymore. For too long I had tried to do what was right and good, and now here I was about to lose the only thing that ever mattered to me. The weight of that realization soon took hold of me, and I could control my emotions no longer. I felt the bile rise in my throat and staying them no longer, I allowed the tears to finally fall. I clung to her, sobbing as I kissed the lobe of her ear and made my way down the curve of her neck. She was still weeping, and I could feel the shaking of her body as she tried to stifle the silent spasms that convulsed her. Finally, I pulled myself away, and when I looked into her eyes again, I saw that she too felt the weight of this abyssal separation.

  I brushed away another tear that had just escaped from her eye while mine poured freely down my face. She pulled me back and held my head against her chest, cradling me as if I were a child. The angel that I had spent my life trying to comfort and protect was now consoling me.

  Time lost all power over us as we held each other, collapsed upon the cold stone of the floor. I laid my head upon her lap, and she spoke softly as she ran her long slender fingers through my hair.

  “Love has come at last, and such a love as I

  should be more shamed to hide than to reveal.

  Cytherea, yielding to my Muse’s prayers,

  has brought him here and laid him in my arms.

  Venus has kept her promise. Let people talk, who never

  themselves have found such joys as now are mine.

  I wish that I could send my tablets to my love

&n
bsp; unsealed, not caring who might read them first.

  The sin is sweet, to mask it for fear of shame is bitter.

  I’m proud we’ve joined, each worthy of the other.”*

  I listened to her recite the Sulpicia poem*, then lifted my head and looked into her pale green eyes. All the fire had gone out of them. The golden flames that used to set them aglow had faded, and in its place lied a tranquil green as still and peaceful as the grassy bens of Glencoe.

  “Do you speak in truth?” I whispered, outlining the fine lines on her hand with the tip of my finger. “Are you not ashamed of your feelings for me?”

  “Nay. Neither ashamed nor remorseful. My only regret is that I was not free to act upon my feelings. I was not free to be the carefree lass that I longed to be. The girl who could love whom she wished and in what manner she wished. I often dreamed about what it would be like to be a simple clergyman’s wife. I think we would have been very happy together, Thomas. We would have had a dozen babies, and you would have contented yourself instructing at St. Andrews while I mothered our little ones and kept house for you.” She bent and kissed my forehead and a fierce ache clenched my gut and refused to relinquish its hold.

  “Nay, you would not have been content. You were destined to lead and influence. Destined to commandeer armies and rouse men’s hearts to action with your inspiring beauty.”

  She let out a soft chuckle, a sad smile pulling at her lips. “And what about you, Thomas? Would you have been content with a life with me?” Her eyes caught a spark that I wanted so desperately wanted to fan.

  “You would have possessed me: body and soul. As you do now,” I confessed. I touched her satin cheek with my palm and brushed my thumb across her trembling lips. She grabbed my hand with her two smaller ones and squeezed so fiercely that her pain shot straight to my heart. How in the name of all that was holy was I going to let her go?

  The hours faded quietly into the cold February night, and the candles that had been lit earlier would soon burn down to their nubs. When I finally spoke again, it was not what I wished to say.

  “I must go,” were my only words.

  Mary looked at me painfully.

  “Remember me when I’m gone,” she requested, and then touching my cheek with her thumb, she stood. I held onto her hand a moment longer. Only then did I notice the small confines of the room to which she was banished. A small wooden chair fitted with a red velvet cushion sat in the corner. A sewing basket, which held the tools with which she occupied her hands and troubled mind those many long years, sat within reach. In another corner of the room sat a desk, where a thin stack of paper lay neatly next to a pot of ink. Three quills lay perfectly carved awaiting her gentle touch. Setting atop the desk was another small vessel with a round piece of cork pushed into its mouth. I walked over to the desk and picked up the metallic-colored jar, swirling the contents around inside the container.

  “What’s this?” I inquired, knowing the answer already.

  Mary did not answer, but stood silently across the room, looking at me intently. When I raised an eyebrow to her, she finally let out a soft sigh.

  “Lady Elizabeth Combs gave that to me. She said it would be painless and less humiliating. I could die with my dignity intact, at the time of my choosing and not someone else’s.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she wasn’t finished. “Oh, don’t fret, Thomas. I have no intentions of using the potion. The only way for me to die with dignity is to stand innocently at the scaffold and die blameless before my God and Savior, knowing I have done no wrong. Taking that elixir would be like admitting my guilt.”

  I stood like stone for a moment and contemplated her painful words. The thought of her doing herself harm tore me apart. But the thought of someone else harming her set a fire right to my innermost being. I shook my head as if to settle all that had just transpired into it. The forbidden fruit that I dared not hope to ever hold in my hand had just befallen me. Yet, an aching pierced my chest and the reality of my circumstances interposed to remind me that it didn’t matter. Her kiss didn’t matter. The love she felt for me, as more than a brother, didn’t matter. She was scared. As a caged bird brings harm upon itself while feverishly flapping its wings to be free, she was desperately trying to make sense of her heart. And in her final hours her need for confession was the last gift that I could give to her. I knew the truth, and she knew the truth, but what difference did it make now?

  No difference. It made no difference at all.

  ~37~

  February 1587

  Dawn broke cold and harsh the next morning. I had been awake since leaving Mary and had passed the remaining early morning hours sitting in a great oversized chair. Here, I could stoke the fire continuously to ignite the embers and sit captivated in their trance. I could not sleep and what little sleep I took was found in the comfort of the great chair. William had tried on three occasions throughout the night to convince me to take my rest on the feather mattress, but I couldn’t get myself to leave my spot. Mary had never left my thoughts, and the events of the previous hours hung heavy on my mind.

  I prayed. In anguish, I cried out to the Almighty, but my prayers seemed empty and unworthy. How could the Almighty take heed to my pleas when the voice of my sin must cry out to Him? I had poured a bit of wine into a cup an hour before but could not bring myself to taste it. Even now I toyed with the cup, rolling the stem back and forth between my thumb and forefinger. I sat it down and crossed the room to retrieve the letter from Sir James Melville. I read it and reread it over and over again, trying to find some comfort in our efforts and the schemes we had exhausted trying to free Mary.

  As I folded the letter and placed it back in my satchel, I heard a light rap at my door. I stepped lightly across the floor so as not to disturb William from his sleep. Cracking the door just slightly, I peered out to behold Lizzy clinging to what shadow remained in the corridor before dawn chased it away.

  “Sir, the guards have come. The Lady is already in the great hall. She has asked for ye but Sir William Cecil has denied her request.”

  “Infidel! What harm could it bring to allow her one small comfort as her final wish? May he burn!” I bit my lip and stopped myself before I brought a curse upon my person for such speech.

  I was in a foul mood, and the fact that I had gotten little sleep added to the ominous morning. I thanked her for the information, then closed the door in order to regain my composure. I grabbed the crucifix Mary had entrusted to me and wrapped it in a small, white handkerchief trimmed in gold. The cloth, purchased in Inverness when I accompanied Mary on one of her tours, ripped the memory from the pages of my mind and muffled it in my face. But I didn’t have time to dwell, so I slid it into my pocket.

  “Father, what is it? What has happened?” William rubbed his eyes with the ball of his hand as he raised himself upon his elbow to inquire.

  “It is time,” I said shortly. “Go back to sleep. You don’t want to see the gruesome display that is about to transpire.”

  “Nay, Father. I will accompany you,” William protested, sitting up and rummaging for his clothing. I nodded my head slightly.

  “Dress yourself and meet me in the courtyard. I’ve no time to waste; I’ll see you shortly.” Without waiting to hear his reply, I opened the door and slipped unnoticed into the half-lit corridor. The sunlight seeped in through the small round windows that rested between the ceiling beams. The rays of light bouncing off the floor in a crisscross design provided a path for me as I stepped soundlessly through the corridor. Silence hung oddly in the hallway and struggled for attention against the foul odor that lurked in the still-dark crevices untouched by early morning light. As I drew closer to the inner courtyard, the sound of jeering voices, mixed with pleas and cries of disbelief accosted my senses. Mary had many enemies here in England, yet many still recognized her sovereignty and royal blood. Catholics, Protestants, and common busy bodies had braved the chilly, morning air to take in the grisly display that was ab
out to take place.

  I slipped into the courtyard and weaved my way through the crowd of people to make my way to Mary. Cecil may have denied her request to speak with me, but I was determined to get to her. Across the courtyard I caught a glimpse of Melville. His eyes hung heavy with grief and the dark circles underneath bore the tale of another soul taken with a sleepless night---maybe even more than one. His blood shot eyes locked with mine, and in them, I read all the hopelessness and grief that a nation should feel for the loss of their sovereign. At his side, and equally vexed, was his wife, Christina. She stood with her head bowed, wiping her eyes with a scrap of cloth.

  I squeezed my way past a large, busty woman who wrestled with the hand of a small child struggling to break free from his mother’s grasp. She cursed loudly at him, jerking him closer to her and sealing my idea that these English—these obnoxious, brute people—had no class and no means of securing any. What mother would bring a child to witness such a vile sport anyway? My stomach tightened, and I felt as if a burning iron had been shoved into my veins, heating my blood, and setting me on fire. My nostrils filled with the stench of the thrill-seekers as I continued to push myself forward toward the platform where the block sat heavy and waiting.

  Breaking free from the crowd, I found myself standing to the left of the crude platform. The height spanned a mere three links and the furnishings, or lack thereof, added to the desolate feel of the riser. It had been built particularly for this occasion, for normally the inner courtyard of Fotheringhay Castle had a large open space lined with hedgerows and yellow oxlips, although it was much too early in the year to see the flowers growing there. I walked toward the center, all the while scanning the crowd for a sign of her. As I approached the middle of the large stage, I suddenly caught a glimpse of her standing near the steps that ascended to where the blade waited impatiently to give the crowd what they longed to see. Her ladies-in-waiting, Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, stood beside her. Cecil was there too, his watchful eye all the while pinned to Mary as a hungry dog drooling over a scrap of meat. I blinked hard to stay the water that began to swim in my eyes. I glanced about me to quickly ascertain my situation.