by Jeane Westin
She kept her face free of any emotion. Was Robert wearied of court life? Or of her?
“The man works like a fiend from hell. He does not displease me and has returned with most valuable information.” Her father paused, smiling suddenly, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Mary Stuart has been foolish enough to send her complete and new cipher to a recusant, and Pauley has intercepted and copied it, then sent it on. We will be able to read every treasonous word the woman writes. Yea, Robert Pauley is my most valuable intelligencer. Why do you ask, Frances?”
“No reason, Father.” Though his words were like hammer blows to her ambition, she kissed him again and left, her head dutifully bowed. Yet her mind was full of sorrow. Phelippes would not need her now. Was her brief career as an intelligencer over? She determined to find a way to continue what she had started.
Her heart was full of reproof for Robert. For a moment, or perhaps more, she had wondered whether he had left court to escape any feelings he might have for her, but that was too much like one of Philip’s sonnets. More likely he found being her servant too burdensome for him. Was she so demanding a mistress that he would run from her and make every opportunity to do so?
In the crowded corridor, she stumbled on an uneven stone, drawing unwanted attention and concern from passersby. The court was always wary of sudden weakness, which could signal illness. Although the weather was still not warm enough for the plague or sweat, one could never be too cautious when living with two thousand people, though the fresh air sweeping from the channel was sweeter here in Greenwich than in London. And the fiery torches in every corridor kept disease at bay.
Frances waited until she was in her chambers before she allowed tears to form and fall. Had she failed in every way? Jennet was lost to her, and Robert had left and taken his friendship with him. Her father was immovable when he saw his duty so clearly. Frances doubted that even she, his only child, would escape his sense of justice if she should be tempted by the idols and saints of the popish Church.
As for Robert, she was at a loss to understand his behavior, or her own anger and distress, which were equal to or greater than the anguish she felt for Jennet.
Was she ready for Bedlam?
Frances sat near the hearth to read Philip’s letters, though they would require writing to him when she had less and less to say. She broke the wax seal on the first one and read as the firelight flickered over the page. He asked about the Twelfth Night masque in several casual ways. She had written to him just the bare outlines of the play and that it had been well received. If he expected news of Stella, he would not receive such word from her. That would extend a good wife’s duties beyond her limit.
But was she a good wife? Didn’t a good wife need a good husband? She had tried to be what Philip and her father wanted her to be, but she felt less and less like a married woman now. And—she caught her breath at such a thought—she felt more and more like the young girl at Barn Elms who had yearned for her next meeting with a handsome poet, expecting so much from a man’s love. Still, what she’d felt then was nothing compared to the ache she felt now, the one she dared not name.
Frances shook her head to rid it of such thoughts before they led to a place in her heart where she did not wish to go, to a door she could not open without releasing danger. If Robert could stay away, then she would have a similar strength.
From a green glass decanter, she poured a cup of Madeira and allowed the sweet, heavy liquid to fill her with warmth that the fire before her could not reach no matter how hot it burned.
Calmly, she suspected that Philip had heard from Lady Rich and wrote to her many times for each letter he received. He needed no further word on the lady from his wife, and she would dispatch none. She thought such things without rancor. She simply had no desire to play the stylish games that courtiers enjoyed, or ever again to play the naive wife.
Surprised, Frances heard Robert at the outer door and her new maid’s greeting, the former one having taken ill and been sent to Barn Elms with the groom. The air in her chamber, no matter how befouled by the odor of sea coal, now carried the persistent scent of woods and earth and fresh air, Robert’s scent. “Attend me when you will,” she called softly, hoping he would hear her.
He appeared immediately, wearing a fresh shirt and doublet with the ties not completely done up. His hosen remained spattered from riding roads sodden from spring rains.
“Yes, my lady.”
She half turned from him, hiding her eyes, fearful that he might see the joy no mistress should show. “Pleasant trip?”
“Your father was pleased.”
“That’s all that ever matters….” The bitter words quavered and caught in her throat and she could not push out better ones, being now without breath or strength. Shaking, she leaned forward, and, to her shame, tears began to flow and her body to tremble.
Robert feared she would slip to the stone floor. He knelt to her before he could think better of it. His arms went about her, holding her up against his chest, her head buried in his shoulder.
The warmth of her slender body beset him with the hunger he had tried to escape, creating a stir in his trunk hose, and he did not dare to move his head for fear his lips would reach her cheek. The combined scent of Castilian olive oil soap and rosewater rinse in her hair tantalized his nose and was near to undoing him. “Do not weep, my lady. Your tears will break my heart.”
“Ro-bert…” She sobbed now.
He held her limp body tighter. “What can I do? Tell me and it is done.”
“Jennet. Can you help her? Help me? Take me to her, as you regard me.”
“To the Tower? No, Frances. No, I cannot. But ask of me any other thing and—”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and cried out, “You…you could not leave me alone…quite so often.”
“Alone? But…” He could not go on pretending he did not understand her meaning. “I promise I will leave you…your service…no more than your father absolutely demands.” His face was in her hair and he smelled the deep, infused rose fragrance in her long curls.
Do not leave me. These were words he had waited to hear from her sweet mouth, had dreamed of hearing. But still he forced himself to draw back. His heart was overbeating and he feared losing control, the tight curb that he had worked so hard to maintain all these months. When he felt himself losing the battle, he left the court for a stiff ride on deep-rutted roads, preferring the discomfort of a horse’s back in mud and rain to the constant dull pain and cold, sleepless nights with Frances Sidney in the next chamber…far above him in rank and another man’s wife…forever beyond his reach, though not his thoughts and never his dreams.
Gently, he released her to sit back in her chair. Caution had begun to make its way to her face and into her great, gray eyes. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together.
Robert stood. “My lady, forgive me. My concern overcame…” He could not go on trying to explain with words he could never make believable.
Frances smoothed her gown and searched for some escape from the danger of Robert’s closeness. She found the safest subject of all. “Has the weather warmed?”
He coughed. “I was about to suggest a walk in the gardens. Freshened air and exercise will improve your—” He broke off what sounded like a physician’s prescription and went on in a lighter, more companionable tone. “My lady, on my return to London today, I saw plows in the fields, though it be long past January plow day, and early lambs on unsteady legs. It is warming and green buds are sprouting at the ends of branches, tiny, green leaves emerging on rose stems. A warm cloak and pattens to protect your slippers will—”
“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “The very thing to lift my spirit.”
“I will follow you at the usual distance, my lady,” he said, bowing.
Frances nodded without looking at him. He would see far too much and know too much. His gentleness had calmed her, but frightened her as well. She was drawn to the warmth of his
tenderness like a newborn lamb to its mother.
He held the door open, then fell behind her as any good servant would when she set foot on the gravel garden path, teetering some in her high pattens. With a groan of impatience, she soon slipped out of them and set them beside the path to gather up on her return. “Better ruined slippers than a fall,” she said, not looking back to where he had stopped well behind her. She walked on to the walled garden, breathing deep of air and earth freshened by a recent rain, sensing the heat of the pale sun, which warmed her anew as each cloud moved on.
Essex appeared from behind the wall, startling her. She shuddered a little inside at sight of the too-handsome face that was uncomfortably close to hers. How could one man create two such unlike feelings at once? He’d had this effect on her before: delight at his handsome face and dismay at what she saw there, repulsion and attraction. Yet despite his face and form and his undeniable appeal, she did not admire or trust him.
“Ah, my dear Frances, we both need an escape from the fetid bodies of servants and overbreathed air.” He offered his arm, but she pretended not to notice. With a frown, he dropped it. His following words were those of a frustrated boy used to getting his way in all things. “Perhaps you prefer your cripple-leg as escort.”
She faced him. “My lord, you speak such ill to no purpose.”
“Oh, no, my lady Sidney, you are quite wrong. I have a purpose. I will loose the vile hold your servant has on you.”
Robert stepped forward between them.
“My lord, you do offend Lady Frances.”
“Who are you to teach me conduct! I give the lady a warning, which is my duty as lord in this court. There is no offense in duty.” The earl put one hand on his sword, one of the new long French rapiers that were all the rage in fencing schools, his other hand coming to rest on a poniard.
Oh, dear God, no! Frances shuddered. Robert was armed with only a knife used for cutting his meat. And if he tried to fight a noble as a commoner, he would be taken in irons to the filthy and plague-ridden Fleet Prison next to the river Fleet, London’s open sewer, running toward the Thames. There he would be thrown down into a deep cell where no light could penetrate.
Robert held his ground, facing the earl. “I am without a sword, as you see, my lord Essex.”
“By Jesu, you play the hero for your mistress, and I will have none of it.” In a swift move, Essex grabbed at his sword, sliding it out as if it were recently greased. “What you require in great measure, churl, is a lesson in humility before your betters!”
Robert’s voice was low and strong, his body erect. “My lord, I am humble when before my betters.”
Frances caught her breath, hoping Essex missed Robert’s heavy meaning, or could not believe it. The latter proved to be true.
“Return to your work, you baseborn bastard! I will escort this lady as she deserves.”
Robert bowed. “Beg pardon, my lord, but I cannot leave until dismissed by Lady Sidney.”
Essex looked to Frances and saw no dismissal there. His face flushed an angry red and he raised the blade. The sun, full out now, glinted on its point. He advanced, the sword circling in front of Robert’s face. “I’ll leave you with a scar that will make your fine face fit for only a kitchen maid like your whore mother.”
Though he did not cringe away, Frances saw Robert’s face redden and a tremor shake him. A confrontation could no longer be avoided.
“My lord, you have spoken against my honor.”
“Cripple-leg bastards have no honor!”
Heedless of the danger, Robert Pauley stepped forward.
Frances cried out. “No! Stop this at once!”
But both men were beyond hearing her.
A pile of pruned branches lay nearby, and she moved quickly to grab up a fair-size limb as big around as her wrist, and almost simultaneously jumped between the two men. She brandished her weapon at Essex. She had watched Philip and her father practice often enough. She knew the stance, the nine parries, and the lunge. With her tree branch extended and her left arm gracefully positioned over her head, she smiled. “The queen has forbidden it, but if you seek a duel, my lord, then test my arm!”
Essex leaned his long frame backward, amazement fighting amusement on his attractive face. “That is a very threatening position, my dear Frances.” His mouth was tight to control his smile. But caution was beyond him, and he finally erupted into laughter. “If you insist on calling me out, perhaps our engagement would be more fairly fought in a less public space, on satin sheets rather than on gravel.” Now he smirked. “I’d like nothing more than to give you a lesson on how I could best you…and with what weapon.” He so amused himself that he laughed aloud.
Robert, his face a study in control, said, “Lady Frances, I thank you for your kindness, but I have always fought my own battles.” He slipped the branch from her hand. “Begging pardon, my lady, for laying on my hands, but I would place you out of danger, as is the duty of any good servant in your father’s service.” He lifted her with ease to safety beside the gravel path.
A silent prayer filled her heart. What had she brought about?
He turned to meet Essex. “My lord, I am ready for your rebuke.” He threw the stick aside, his jaw set in firm lines.
Frances saw more courage in his face and form than she had ever witnessed in Essex, who, though taller and richly dressed in black velvet and beribboned trunk hose, was suddenly the much smaller and poorer man. She made sure her thoughts were written plain on her face.
With a grunt of disgust, Essex sheathed his rapier. “What gain for me in fighting a crippled groom of no consequence? I will have the queen dismiss you as a servant who does not know his place!” He turned to Frances and leaned down very close to her face, almost as if he might touch her with his lips.
She stood very still, unafraid.
“And, Lady Sidney, you will see more of my swordplay very soon, I promise you.” With those parting words, he walked away toward the palace, laughing most heartily.
Frances, so relieved that Robert had not taken a sword thrust for her, sagged toward the ground.
Robert caught her about the waist. “Again, I must beg your pardon for touching you, my lady,” he said softly.
She bowed her head and with a full heart said, “You have not acted as other than a great gentleman. It is over, Robert. Let it be.”
But the matter was not over, as Frances had hoped. Later that day, the queen sent for her.
In great haste, Frances penned a note for her father, briefly telling him what had happened in the garden, careful not to chastise Essex or praise Robert overmuch.
Lord Father, surely Robert is too necessary to your work to be sent from your service. Please beg the queen to be forgiving.
Frances thought she was almost certain to be banished from court for creating such an unseemly scene. She walked none too swiftly to the royal apartment, its windows overlooking the river Thames and the gardens where she had lately been. Had the queen watched the tableau? The courage Frances had so recently felt rise in her heart was now absent as she approached the royal apartments. She would rather face Essex’s sharp rapier than the queen’s sharper tongue.
She found her father kneeling before the queen and curtsied deeply as the ladies-in-waiting left to avoid the anticipated explosion. Frances did not dare look in Her Majesty’s face.
“Perhaps, my lady Sidney, you should cease your lessons with the French dancing masters and repair to the city fencing academies in Blackfriars.”
Frances raised her eyes to see the quizzical look on the queen’s face, which matched the tone of her voice. Yet there was more there. Elizabeth of England was amused—perhaps more than amused.
Her voice was tinged with mockery. “Perchance my lord Essex should return to Holland, where he can satisfy his appetite for warfare, although the Spanish will give him more swordplay than you, even more than he may desire.” She raised her fan now to cover her mouth, which was twisting into
a grin. “Perhaps I should even make you my official sword bearer, Lady Sidney.”
A burst of laughter came from the adjoining room; her ladies were unable to stifle their amusement.
Frances’s head sank lower into her chest. She wished to be in any other place and time but this one. Elizabeth, shaking with mirth and not ready to surrender her jest just yet, added, “I wonder if Sir Walter could use another good arm in my personal guard.” Her fan came up to her face again. “I think a silver cuirass would suit that gown very well.”
“Majesty, I—” Of all responses, laughter was the one that Frances had not anticipated. This Tudor queen could ever surprise. “Majesty,” Frances began again, “I am always happy to serve you in any way you desire.” It was all she could think to say.
Elizabeth did laugh aloud now, bringing some of her women sidling back into the chamber to witness this rare event. “Oh, I think I have enough men poseurs with their swords for one palace. What I lack are ladies with courage. You will stand closer in the presence chamber, Lady Sidney, since I find qualities in you that I quite like…though they are not what I demand of my ladies. Henceforth, you will confine your exercise to dancing and riding.”
But Elizabeth had not finished. “And, Mr. Secretary, I take heed of your pleas for your man Pauley. He is indeed an intelligencer of spirit and worth. Yet it would be a good thing to have him restricted to his singular occupation in your service instead of also serving as your daughter’s protector…when, indeed, she seems well able to protect herself.” A low laugh rumbled in her throat, which she again covered with her fan. “I will place a guard at her door, since she seems to be honey to men.” Her voice turned stern. “I will have a decorous court.”
“Yes, Majesty, I will make it to be,” Walsingham said, and bowed his way out of the royal apartments with Frances on his rigid arm. “Say nothing more, daughter.”
They walked swiftly into the whispering crowd waiting in the outer chamber. When her father was momentarily detained by Baron Burghley, Frances was confronted by a furious Lady Stanley, who spoke low in half-bitten words.
