His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  “Your master is curious about my walking? He need have no fear that I could easily pace him in walking or riding.”

  “Majesty,” he said, and threw himself to his knees again. “You may slit my tongue if I implied any other thing. You are the mistress of all activity. I have told him that you dance like a goddess on Olympus, float on the water like a nymph of the sea, hunt like Diana in the night woods—”

  She laughed at his delightful exaggerations. “Monkey, begone! I have no time to spare for the entire pantheon this morn.”

  He started to leave and then ran back and snatched up her handkerchief from her bed table. “This, my beautiful queen, is for Jean de Simier!” And waving his trophy in the air, he danced from the room without another word and she felt as if he had sucked the room’s air out with him. She did not wake ready to joust, but such an exchange was . . . Would the duke be so loving when he rose from her bed? She shivered and put her arms about her body. “Build up the fire,” she ordered. “We are afflicted with winter in our own palace!”

  When a fire roared in the giant hearth, Elizabeth stretched, stood, dropped her night shift and spread her arms to be bathed with rose water and dressed in fresh linen shifts and a gown sparkling with diamonds and rubies like all the stars in the night heavens. Her favorite ladies, Anne Warwick and Kate Cary, attended her on rising, as did her ancient tutor and loyal lady from childhood, Blanche Parry, weak and nearly blind now, but insistent on doing her duty until Elizabeth ordered her taken to her bed.

  The queen closed her eyes and sighed as her body was refreshed with cool water and her own special Elizabeth perfume, made from herbs, damask roses from her Hampton Court garden and musk from a ripened deer that she had shot with her own bow. She breathed in deeply, bringing her summer garden aroma to her nose. Opening her eyes wide to the pale winter-morning sun lighting her east windows, she noticed at once that Anne had a frown line between her eyes.

  “What troubles you, dear Anne?”

  The line disappeared. “Nothing of importance, Your Grace.”

  “Is it de Simier?”

  Anne bowed her head to tie the queen’s oversleeves to her gown and, Elizabeth knew, to escape her question. “Monkeys are harmless, comic creatures, Anne.”

  “There is talk, Majesty.”

  Pup! Pup! “There is always talk. What else would they talk about if not their queen?”

  “He is very bold.”

  “He is French!” Elizabeth laughed. “They must all be bold or lose their reputation as lovers, which they care for above all things.”

  Anne smiled, but she did not look quite satisfied.

  “Anne, I have been courted forever and know the rules. If I have not been ensnared before this . . .” Her voice trailed away before Robin’s name came unbidden to her lips or Anne’s. For that matter, what if she were to marry young Alençon? Could she still have an heir for England? She had submitted to a doctor’s examination and they had informed her and her council that she could bear children. But what did men know? Her courses had been erratic and of short duration in late days. She was nearing . . . Well, she was growing older. She shivered.

  Humbly Anne knelt. “I worry for you, Majesty.”

  Elizabeth drew her up gently. “What worries you, Anne? Tell me and I will order it resolved this day.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must speak. I worry about this proposed marriage . . . and . . . and childbirth.”

  Elizabeth had to dispute Anne. This was her own great fear and she would not be reminded. But a modern queen did not show fear, not Elizabeth. “Anne, would you have me never know the blessings of motherhood?”

  Anne stiffened and retreated without moving a step away. “Your Majesty will do what is best. Forgive me my presumption. It was said out of love for you.” Anne added, hurriedly, “Your Grace, I would never question—”

  Elizabeth turned her face away toward the lightening windows, her chest tight, tears daring to form in the corners of her eyes. “Anne . . . Anne, courtship is always a . . . a balm to me, reminding me that I am more than a queen . . . when little else does.” She kissed Anne’s cheek. “Sweet Anne, quiet your heart. I will break my fast now with ale and vanilla comfits.” Elizabeth smiled and waved all her ladies but Anne from her bedchamber. Although these were her most trustworthy attendants, nobody should know her mind . . . until she knew it herself. She laughed lightly at the change in her mood. “Anne, I know you love me. There is no need to concern yourself. And remember, if we were deeply allied with France, both Spain and France, our great enemies, are neutralized.”

  Anne curtsied. “Gracious Majesty, you know best.”

  Elizabeth’s pearl strands were brought and looped about her neck. “Anne, you know above any woman here that love has been cruel to me. If not for my realm, why would I wish it?” And why would I wish to love another when I have my loyal Robin forever?

  Anne bowed her head and Elizabeth said no more. Each had spoken her truth as friends should do.

  After a quaff of bitter ale and a nibble or two of a vanilla comfit, Elizabeth put several comfits in her pocket and called for the captain of her guard to form a procession for the presence chamber.

  Her dear Sir Christopher Hatton strode in and knelt for his orders. His gold breastplate was shining and he wore her portrait miniature on his waist cord. “Good morrow, Kit. How is my good Mutton today?”

  He wore a little gold bell about his neck on a chain to portray his other nickname, Bellwether. It tinkled as he bowed his head. “Majesty, never better than when I see you well of a morn. The sun does not rise for me until I know how goes it with my sovereign.”

  She smiled at him and allowed him to retain his lips on her hand just a moment beyond necessity. He was yet a handsome man, tall as all her guards must be, and handsome, also a requirement, his beard and hair sparkling from sprinkles of gilt. He was vain, but a clever man could be vain without offense; otherwise false modesty was cause for great suspicion.

  The procession was formed, the trumpets sounded, drum-beats began and, leading her lords and ladies, Elizabeth walked slowly to the presence chamber, stopping to recognize and raise up those who deserved it, ignoring those who did not.

  Robin she raised and he escorted her to the canopied throne while Kit took his place nearby as captain of her guard. Robin knelt . . . always there. Her world was in order. She motioned Burghley forward. “Good Lord Burghley, you have come from a committee meeting about the Duc d’Alençon’s contract of marriage. What news?”

  Burghley bowed, favoring his gouty knee. “Majesty, it is my duty to inform you that your council does not agree to the large life pension that the duke’s emissary demands, nor that he would be crowned king the day after your marriage.”

  “What! They demand so much, my lord, when we have yet to meet. Do they think of fortune only or our person? Look upon us! We have no defect of nature.” She glared about her and saw only agreement. “It has pleased God to bestow upon us many gifts in good measure! Let France show us this Duc d’Alençon and we will decide if his worth equals ours!”

  De Simier stepped forward at once, bowing, now dressed in blue velvet reflecting candlelight on its surface, his slender, handsome face a picture of distress. “Gracious Majesty,” he said in his soothing English, “I have just received communication from my master that rescinds all former conditions. If you grant him a passport, he wishes to come to you incognito, if you will receive him . . . and his gifts.” He bowed again. “I have told le duc that he will find you at the height of your beauty.” He smiled. “And it is well-known in my country, madam, that Englishwomen born under your sign produce children into their middle years. Tudor rule could go on forever.”

  There was light applause from the gathering, but after she smiled at de Simier, the applause remained light. Few present wished for a French marriage. “Let us think on this new offer, sir. We will decide soon if le duc may come . . . with his gifts.”

  Elizabeth saw Robin
wince. His eyes were haunted, as she remembered they were when she had offered him to the queen of Scots. He would never learn that a queen must sacrifice for her realm. If it required taking a poxy little Frenchman to her bed . . . then he must bear it, as she must. Nothing would change between them. Nothing could ever change.

  That afternoon Elizabeth was in an explosive mood. Walsingham had reported that crowds in London streets were proclaiming loudly against a French marriage. One man on King Street not far from Whitehall had announced a return to the days of Queen Mary and King Philip’s Protestant persecution and that the Smithfield burnings would begin again.

  The queen was incensed. “Have these same Londoners and all the Parliament not been begging me for marriage now these twenty years? I am ruler here!”

  “Majesty,” Walsingham reminded her in his dry voice, “you have always sought and have had the greatest love from your people.”

  “Speak up, sir. Do you warn me that I could lose their love for having their best benefit in my heart?”

  “Majesty, London gamblers lay two to one against the French duke.”

  She waved him away.

  He stood his ground. “Majesty, I beg you. I think the people’s mood is one of hatred for an ancient enemy and fear of childbirth for you . . . at your age.”

  Elizabeth was furious. “I am but forty and six . . . in my prime!”

  Walsingham spoke quietly. “Madam, your subjects know well that high ladies die more readily than low women . . . from the care of learned physicians.”

  “So you count yourself above my physicians now, Sir Francis?” How dared he speak of her age! Her voice was cold, which would have withered a lesser man, but Walsingham’s face never changed, nor did his dispassionate tone.

  “Your Grace, the common people are anxious for you. They do not understand that great doctors who wrap a woman’s belly in the skin of a freshly skinned sheep have skills beyond their poor midwives.”

  The queen did not know if he mocked her doctors or her people. Maybe both. She dismissed him without another word and he crossed the chamber to join the Earl of Sussex, who was also against the French marriage, though he had begged her to marry for twenty years. But Walsingham and Sussex were soon replaced by her Monkey. She smiled with relief. No more grave matters and frowning councilors with news she did not care to hear.

  De Simier bowed and presented her with a miniature prayer book no bigger than a child’s hand, its binding sparkling with jewels. “A tiny gift, Majesty, from my master, le duc, begging a great queen to remember him in her prayers when he starts his journey to you.”

  “We have not agreed to his coming.”

  “He says that God’s words in these pages will change your heart.”

  “God’s word always changes my heart.”

  He bowed most elegantly. “I am confident that God will speak to you, Majesty, but I fear that one certain lord with a loud voice speaks against your marriage, fearing it more than his own.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “What lord fears my marriage more than his own?”

  De Simier appeared startled. “Madam, I may have spoken wrongly. I will say no more.”

  “We command you to say more of what you mean.”

  Both Sussex and Walsingham hurried forward, begged her to delay his speech until they returned to the royal apartments.

  When the queen, trailed by her ministers, reached privacy, de Simier knelt, his forehead almost touching the Turkey carpet. “Most gracious and beauteous queen, I speak of the Earl of Leicester, who was married for this past year to Lettice, former Countess of Essex, but has not told you, which is the duty of any peer.”

  Elizabeth felt her hands freeze so that she could not lift them to slap de Simier’s lying face. “Leave us,” she said, the words dull and flat. Robin? No, Robin would never deceive her in such a way. Yet, deep in her heart, another voice spoke. Lettice’s husband, the Earl of Essex, had died in Ireland these two years past . . . and Robin went often to Wanstead near Chartley and Lettice.

  Her heart cried out against such false trickery, but her head . . . her head told her a different story. He had been bewitched years ago, and the slut had done it again and this time must have forced marriage on him against his will. She rose and paced the room from hearth to outer doors and back, and forth and back again. Wed a year ago! Yet he had not been with her at the hunt, in the masques and in her garden as a married man, but had been hers . . . as always. All the court had known, while she was kept in shadow, made the laughable fool. Or had she . . . had she resisted knowing, willed herself not to know? Bile spilled into her mouth and she motioned Lady Warwick to bring her wine. But that lady did not move fast enough. “At once, my lady! Must we always wait? Always be last!”

  Quickly, Anne brought the cup, but Elizabeth dared not try to swallow and threw the drink against the wall, bringing Walsingham to his feet to take a distraught Anne from the room.

  Sussex approached her and knelt. “Majesty, what can I do?”

  “Nothing! You all knew and you did not tell me. You are all traitors to your sovereign.”

  Sussex bowed his head, which had turned from blond to white in her service.

  When had he become old?

  “What would you have me tell you?”

  “The Earl of Leicester. You all knew of his . . . his disgrace and yet did not tell us.”

  “Madam, we thought it the earl’s duty to tell you.”

  Elizabeth’s voice was trembling and heavily sarcastic. “You did not wish for our wrath to fall on you.”

  He nodded and she knew he had nothing to say that would appease her. She was full of fury now, but not against Sussex. Robin had betrayed her . . . betrayed their love. Never would she trust him again . . . or trust love. A man’s love was false. Always false. She held her throbbing head. Rob . . . married? Another woman’s arms about him? Another woman’s body warming him in the night? Her face on his bolster, where a queen’s once rested?

  “Quickly!” She faintly heard Sussex shout the word as she slumped to the floor. “The queen is in a swoon.”

  Lady Anne rushed to her with a cloth soaked with a balm of vinegar and pennyroyal.

  Elizabeth heard them talking, the sharp scent of vinegar forcing her eyes wide-open to a truth from which she wanted desperately to escape.

  Walsingham and Sussex helped her to a chair, while Lady Anne hovered nearby, tears scribing her face. “My lord Sussex,” Elizabeth croaked, “send them both to the Tower immediately.”

  She saw the disagreement on all their faces and drew in enough breath to let out her fury. “Jesu on the cross!”

  But Sussex spoke softly, pleadingly, kneeling before her, his old face earnest. “Most gracious Majesty, you know I am no friend of the Earl of Leicester. But the Tower . . . It would do grievous injury to you, I fear. Praise God, if this affair could be kept quieter. Allow the earl and his”—she saw that he struggled with the word wife, which would strike her like a just-sharpened sword—“uh, woman to depart quietly. Banish them if you will, but I beg Your Majesty, quietly.”

  Elizabeth listened without wanting to. Lord Sussex had always been suspicious of Robin, thinking he had too much power and resenting it. On a sickbed once, when he feared for his life, he’d warned the council: “Beware the Gypsy!”

  She bowed her head, believing he spoke for her own good this time. “Banish them,” she said, the words muffled by her hand covering her quivering lips, “but not together. That She-Wolf is to go to Leicester House on the Strand, and he is for Wanstead.”

  Sussex stood and bowed. “At once, Majesty.”

  As he moved backward toward the doors of her privy chamber, she added: “We will not see him, nor accept his letters.”

  “As you will it,” Sussex said, the doors closing on her last words, though they rang through her head.

  One week later

  Greenwich Palace

  Elizabeth busied herself with preparations to receive the Duc d’Alençon
in early April, when the channel waves were in a better mood. De Simier was his usual charming advocate for le duc, but she no longer warmed as easily to his substitute lovemaking. Even her vanilla comfits had lost their sweetness. Nor did she watch her still-frosty gardens, impatient for the first signs of spring. At night, she sat up with her ladies playing cards, and even though they allowed her to win every game, winning did not bring its usual enjoyment. All pleasure had rapidly drained away from her life.

  One night, as Anne prepared to sleep in the trundle bed nearby, Elizabeth sat sleepless against her satin bolsters, trying to concentrate on her prayer book. Several times she reached to open her jeweled treasure box at her bedside before she would allow her fingers to finally open its clasp. There was Robin’s miniature on top, as he always was in her mind, young and handsome, his mouth with its more prominent lower lip slightly curved in a smile, as if he held back an amusing surprise, his brows tilting up at their inner edges as if to say in his man’s way: Bess, look no farther for what you want.

  Had she driven him to this unfaithfulness? Her chest and throat ached as if her heart weighed more than the eight pounds, which was the heaviest of standard weights she had authorized in her realm. Did her own body flaunt her law? Could a heart actually grow heavier with the grief of betrayal? Could grief be weighed? Tomorrow she would call on Dr. Dee to examine the subject with his strange science.

  She breathed in deeply, gulping air, her lungs never feeling full until they hurt. Pain was the only sign to her that she was alive and could feel emotion. Other than her heavy heart, she was emptied of everything, the desire to eat, to hunt, to laugh, to dance . . . to live.

  “Your Grace,” Anne whispered, “how may I serve you?”

  “There is nothing you can do for me.”

  “Should I call your doctors?”

  Pup! Pup! “They can mend bones, but they cannot mend a heart broken by a faithless man.”