He doubted her word when she was in the royal box overlooking the tilt yard and he saw how her eyes searched the mounted riders for Dudley, how quickly she picked out his standard of the bear and ragged staff, how Dudley had a rose-pink scarf, the exact match of the queen’s gown, unquestionably hers, worn boldly on his shoulder where anyone could see. He saw that she was on her feet with her hand to her mouth in terror when Dudley charged down the list, how she applauded his victories, even when he unseated William Pickering, and how, when he came to the royal box and she leaned over and crowned him with her own circlet of roses for being the champion of the day, she all but kissed him on the mouth, she leaned so low and so smilingly whispered to him.
But despite all that, she had the Hapsburg ambassador, Caspar von Breuner, in the royal box beside her, fed him with delicacies of her own choosing, laid her hand on his sleeve and smiled up into his face, and – whenever anyone but Dudley was jousting – plied him with questions about the Archduke Ferdinand and gave him very clearly to understand that her refusal of his proposal of marriage, earlier in the month, was one that she was beginning to regret, deeply regret.
Caspar von Breuner, charmed, baffled, and with his head quite turned, could only think that Elizabeth was seeing sense at last and the archduke could come to England to meet her and be married by the end of the summer.
The next night Cecil was alone when there was a tap on the door. His manservant opened the door. ‘A messenger.’
‘I’ll see him,’ Cecil said.
The man almost fell into the room, his legs weak with weariness. He put back his hood and Cecil recognised Sir Nicholas Throckmorton’s most trusted man. ‘Sir Nicholas sent me to tell you that the king is dead, and to give you this.’ He proffered a crumpled letter.
‘Sit down.’ Cecil waved him to a stool by the fire and broke the seal on the letter. It was short and scrawled in haste.
The king has died, this day, the tenth. God rest his soul. Young Francis says he is King of France and England. I hope to God you are ready and the queen resolute. This is a disaster for us all.
Amy, walking in the garden at Denchworth, picked some roses for their sweet smell and entered the house by the kitchen door to find some twine to tie them into a posy. As she heard her name she hesitated, and then realised that the cook, the kitchenmaid and the spit boy were talking of Sir Robert.
‘He was the queen’s own knight, wearing her favour,’ the cook recounted with relish. ‘And she kissed him on the mouth before the whole court, before the whole of London.’
‘God save us,’ the kitchenmaid said piously. ‘But these great ladies can do as they please.’
‘He has had her,’ the spit lad opined. ‘Swived the queen herself! Now that’s a man!’
‘Hush,’ the cook said instantly. ‘No call for you to gossip about your betters.’
‘My pa said so,’ the boy defended himself. ‘The blacksmith told him. Said that the queen was nothing more than a whore with Robert Dudley. Dressed herself up as a serving wench to seek him out and that he had her in the hay store, and that Sir Robert’s groom caught them at it, and told the blacksmith himself, when he came down here last week to deliver my lady’s purse to her.’
‘No!’ said the kitchenmaid, deliciously scandalised. ‘Not on the hay!’
Slowly, holding her gown to one side so that it would not rustle, barely breathing, Amy stepped back from the kitchen door, walked back down the stone passageway, opened the outside door so that it did not creak and went back out into the heat of the garden. The roses, unnoticed, fell from her fingers, she walked quickly down the path and then started to run, without direction, her cheeks burning with shame, as if it were she who was disgraced by the gossip. Running away from the house, out of the garden and into the shrubbery, through the little wood, the brambles tearing at her skirt, the stones shredding her silk shoes. Running, without pausing to catch her breath, ignoring the pain in her side and the bruising of her feet, running as if she could get away from the picture in her head: of Elizabeth like a bitch in heat, bent over in the hay, her red hair tumbled under a mobcap, her white face triumphant, with Robert, smiling his sexy smile, thrusting at her like a randy dog from behind.
The Privy Council, travelling on summer progress with the court, delayed the start of their emergency meeting at Eltham Palace for Elizabeth; but she was out hunting with Sir Robert and half a dozen others and no-one knew when she would return. The councillors, looking grim, seated themselves at the table and prepared to do business with an empty chair at the head.
‘If just one man will join with me, and the rest of you will give nothing more than your assent, I will have him murdered,’ the Duke of Norfolk said quietly to this circle of friends. ‘This is intolerable. She is with him night and day.’
‘You can do it with my blessing,’ said Arundel, and two other men nodded.
‘I thought she was mad for Pickering,’ one man complained. ‘What’s become of him?’
‘He couldn’t stand another moment of it,’ Norfolk said. ‘No man could.’
‘He couldn’t afford another moment of it,’ someone corrected him. ‘He’s spent all his money on bribing friends at court and he’s gone to the country to recoup.’
‘He knew he’d have no chance against Dudley,’ Norfolk insisted. ‘That’s why he has to be got out of the way.’
‘Hush, here is Cecil,’ said another and the men parted.
‘I have news from Scotland. The Protestant lords have entered Edinburgh,’ Cecil said, coming into the room.
Sir Francis Knollys looked up. ‘Have they, by God! And the French regent?’
‘She has withdrawn to Leith Castle. She is on the run.’
‘Not necessarily so,’ Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, said dourly. ‘The greater her danger, the more likely the French are to reinforce her. If it is to be finished, she must be defeated at once, without any hope of rallying, and it must be done quickly. She has raised a siege in the certain hope of reinforcements. All this means is that the French are coming to defend her. It is a certainty.’
‘Who would finish it for us?’ Cecil asked, knowing the most likely answer. ‘What commander would the Scots follow that would be our friend?’
One of the Privy Councillors looked up. ‘Where is the Earl of Arran?’ he asked.
‘On his way to England,’ Cecil replied, hiding his sense of smugness. ‘When he gets here, if we can come to an agreement with him, we could send him north with an army. But he is only young …’
‘He is only young, but he has the best claim to the throne after the French queen,’ someone said further down the table. ‘We can back him with a clear conscience. He is our legitimate claimant to the throne.’
‘There is only one agreement that he would accept and that we could offer,’ Norfolk said dourly. ‘The queen.’
A few men glanced at the closed door as if to ensure that it did not burst open and Elizabeth storm in, flushed with temper. Then, one by one, they all nodded.
‘What of the Spanish alliance with the archduke?’ Francis Bacon, brother to Sir Nicholas, asked Cecil.
Cecil shrugged. ‘They are still willing and she says she is willing to have him. But I’d rather we had Arran. He is of our faith, and he brings us Scotland and the chance to unite England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. That would make us a power to reckon with. The archduke keeps the Spanish on our side, but what will they want of us? Whereas Arran’s interests are the same as ours, and if they were to marry,’ he took a breath, his hopes were so precious he could hardly bear to say them, ‘if they were to marry we would unite Scotland and England.’
‘Yes: if,’ Norfolk said irritably. ‘If we could make her seriously look twice at any man who wasn’t a damned adulterous rascal.’
Most of the men nodded.
‘Certainly we need either Spanish help or Arran to lead the campaign,’ Knollys said. ‘We cannot do it on our own. The French have four times our wealth and manpo
wer.’
‘And they are determined,’ another man said uneasily. ‘I heard from my cousin in Paris. He said that the Guise family will rule everything, and they are sworn enemies of England. Look at what they did in Calais, they just marched in. They will take one step in Scotland and then they will march on us.’
‘If she married Arran …’ someone started.
‘Arran! What chance of her marrying Arran!’ Norfolk burst out. ‘All very well to consider which suitor would be the best for the country, but how is she to marry while she sees no-one and thinks of no-one but Dudley? He has to be put out of the way. She is like a milkmaid with a swain. Where the devil is she now?’
Elizabeth was lying under an oak tree on Dudley’s hunting cape, their horses were hitched to a nearby tree, Dudley was leaning against the tree behind her, her head in his lap, twisting her ringlets around his fingers.
‘How long have we been gone?’ she asked him.
‘An hour perhaps, no more.’
‘And do you always pull your mistresses off their horses and bed them on the ground?’
‘D’you know,’ he said confidingly, ‘I have never done such a thing in my life before. I have never felt such desire before, I have always been a man who could wait for the right time, plan his time. But with you …’ He broke off.
She twisted round so she could see his face and he kissed her on the mouth: a long, warm kiss.
‘I am full of desire again,’ she said wonderingly. ‘I am becoming a glutton for you.’
‘I too,’ he said softly and pulled her up so that she was lying like a sinuous snake along him. ‘It’s a satisfaction that brings with it only more appetite.’
A long, low whistle alerted them. ‘That’s Tamworth’s signal,’ Robert said. ‘Someone must be coming near.’
At once Elizabeth was up and on her feet, brushing the leaves off her hunting gown, looking around for her hat. Robert snatched up his cloak and shook it out. She turned to him. ‘How do I look?’
‘Uncannily virtuous,’ he said, and was rewarded by the flash of her smile.
She went to her horse and was standing at its head when Catherine Knollys and her groom rode into the little glade followed by Tamworth, Dudley’s valet.
‘There you are! I thought I had lost you!’
‘Where did you get to?’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘I thought you were behind me.’
‘I pulled him up for a moment and then you were all gone. Where is Sir Peter?’
‘His horse went lame,’ Robert said. ‘He is walking home in the sourest of moods. His boots are pinching. Are you hungry? Shall we dine?’
‘I am starving,’ Catherine said. ‘Where are your ladies?’
‘Gone ahead to the picnic,’ Elizabeth said easily. ‘I wanted to wait for you, and Sir Robert stayed to keep me safe. Sir Robert, your hand if you please.’
He threw her up into the saddle without meeting her eyes and then he mounted his own hunter. ‘This way,’ he said, and rode ahead of the two women to where the ride crossed a small river. On the far side, a pavilion hung with green and white had been erected and they could smell venison roasting on the fire and see the servants unpacking pastries and sweetmeats.
‘I am so hungry,’ Elizabeth exclaimed with pleasure. ‘I have never had such an appetite before.’
‘You are becoming a glutton,’ Robert remarked to Catherine’s surprise. She caught the quick, complicit look that passed between her friend and Sir Robert.
‘A glutton?’ she exclaimed. ‘The queen eats like a bird.’
‘A gluttonous peacock then,’ he said, quite unreproved. ‘Greed and vanity in one,’ and Elizabeth giggled.
On Wednesday evening Denchworth church seemed to be deserted, the door unlocked but shut. Tentatively, Amy turned the big iron handle and felt the door yield under her touch. An old lady in the pew at the back looked up and pointed silently towards the lady chapel at the side of the church. Amy nodded and went towards it.
The curtains were drawn across the stone tracery separating the chapel from the main body of the church. Amy drew them aside and slipped in. Two or three people were praying at the altar rail. Amy paused for a moment and then slipped into the rear pew near to the priest, who was in close-headed conference with a young man. After a few moments the youth, head bowed, took his place at the altar rail. Amy went beside Father Wilson and knelt on the worn cushion.
‘Heavenly Father, I have sinned,’ she said quietly.
‘What is your sin, my daughter?’
‘I have failed in my love of my husband. I have set my judgement above his.’ She hesitated. ‘I thought I knew better than him how we should live. I see now that it was the sin of pride, my pride. Also, I thought I could win him from the court and bring him back to me and that we could live in a small way, a mean way. But he is a great man, born to be a great man. I am afraid that I have been envious of his greatness, and I think even my beloved father …’ She strained her voice to speak the disloyal criticism. ‘Even my father was envious.’ She paused. ‘They were so far above our station … And I fear that in our hearts we both revelled in his fall. I think that secretly we were glad to see him humbled, and I have not been generous about his rise to power ever since. I have not been truly glad for him, as a wife and helpmeet should be.’
She paused. The priest was silent.
‘I have been envious of his greatness and the excitement of his life and his importance at court,’ she said softly. ‘And worse. I have been jealous of the love that he bears the queen and suspicious of that. I have poisoned my love for him with envy and jealousy. I have poisoned myself. I have made myself sick with sin and I have to be cured of this sickness and forgiven this sin.’
The priest hesitated. In every alehouse in the land there were men who swore that Robert Dudley was the queen’s lover and they were giving odds on that he would put his wife aside on some excuse, or poison her, or drown her in the river. There was little doubt in the priest’s mind that Amy’s worst fears were near to the truth. ‘He is your husband, set above you by God,’ he said slowly.
She lowered her head. ‘I know it. I shall be obedient to him, not just in my acts but in my thoughts too. I shall be obedient to him in my heart and not set myself up to judge him or to try to turn him from his great destiny. I shall try to teach myself to be glad for him in his fame, and not to hold him back.’
The priest thought for a moment, wondering how to advise this woman.
‘I am cursed by a picture in my head,’ Amy said, her voice very low. ‘I overheard someone say something about my husband, and now I see it all the time, in my head, in my dreams. I have to free myself from this … torment.’
He wondered what she might have heard. Certainly, some of the talk that had come to his ears had been vile.
‘God will free you,’ he said with more certainty than he felt. ‘Take this picture to God and lay it at his feet and he will free you.’
‘It’s very … lewd,’ Amy said.
‘You have lewd thoughts, daughter?’
‘Not that give me any pleasure! They give me nothing but pain.’
‘You must take them to God and free your mind of them,’ he said firmly. ‘You must seek your own path to God. However your husband chooses to live his life, whatever his choices are, it is your duty to God and to him to bear it gladly and to draw nearer to God.’
She nodded. ‘And what am I to do?’ she asked humbly.
The priest considered for a moment. There were many stories in the Bible that described the scared slavery that was the state of marriage, and he had exhorted many an independent-minded woman to obedience with them. But he did not have the heart to coerce Amy, whose face was so white and whose eyes were so pleading.
‘You are to read the story of Mary Magdalene,’ he said. ‘And you are to consider the text “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.” We are not ordered by God to judge each other. We are not even ordered by him to consider anot
her person’s sin. We are ordered by God to let Him consider it, to let Him be judge. Wait until God’s will is clear to you and obey it, my child.’
‘And a penance?’ she prompted.
‘Five decades of the rosary,’ he said. ‘But pray on your own and in secret, my child, these are troubled times and devotion to the church is not justly respected.’
Amy bowed her head for his whispered blessing and then joined the other people at the altar rail. They heard the priest moving about behind them, followed by silence. Then, in his vestments, and carrying the bread and wine, he walked slowly up the aisle and went through the rood screen.
Amy watched through the network of her fingers, through the fretwork of the rood screen, as he turned his back to them and said the prayers in the timeless Latin, facing the altar. She felt an ache in her breast which she thought was heartbreak. The priest had not told her that her sorrows were imaginary, and that she should put them out of her mind. He had not recoiled from the suggestion and denied the gossip of the kitchenmaid, of the spit boy. He had not reproached her with the vanity of wicked suspicions against an honest husband. Instead, he had counselled her in her duty and in courage as if he thought she might have something to endure.
— So he knows too — she thought to herself. — The whole country knows, from the Denchworth cook to the Denchworth priest. I must have been the last person in England to learn of it. Oh God, how deeply, how very deeply I am shamed. —
She watched him raise the bread and drew her breath at the miraculous moment of change, when the bread became the body of Christ and the wine became his blood. Every bishop in the land had defied Elizabeth to insist that this was the truth, every priest in the land still believed it, and hundreds continued secretly to celebrate Mass like this, in the old way, in hiding.
Amy, dazzled by the candles and comforted by the presence of the Living God, too sacred a being to be shown to the congregation, too sacred to be taken every Sunday, so sacred that He could only be watched through the lacing of her fingers, through the tracery of stone, prayed again that Robert might choose to come home to her, and that when he came, she should find some way to hold up her head, rinse those pictures from her mind, be free of sin and glad to see him.
Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Page 79
