by Jeane Westin
Mary pulled her grandfather forward to be nearer that great radiance before noticing those closest to the queen. “Who are they, Grandfather?” she asked, nodding toward two gentlemen kneeling on cushions before the throne.
“The one in embroidered black velvet is the stepson of the Earl of Leicester, Robert Devereaux, the Earl of Essex and the queen’s high young favorite . . . until he o’ersteps himself again and is sent packing from court.”
“And the other, the dark young man, who is smiling? Oh!” she said as the queen slapped the smiling man with her fan.
The punished man removed his hat, kissed his fingers and gallantly touched the cheek that bore a red mark. She knew him . . . from somewhere.
“He’s the queen’s impertinent godson, Sir John Harington, a notorious scoundrel and writer of things you should not read, indeed I forbid you to read. His translation of Ariosto is shocking. Stay well away from him, my girl.”
Mary laughed, and to her own ears her laugh was strained. “Don’t worry, Grandfather. He won’t even notice me. I remember we met at a masque near Taunton once and he paid me no attention.”
Her grandfather’s face sobered. “You were not a woman then, Mary. Don’t let well-learned modesty blind you to present danger. I do assure you that your fresh beauty will bring you more attention than you know in this court where innocence is a challenge . . . most especially for John Harington.”
“Why him, Grandfather?”
“I would not soil your ears with the tales I’ve heard.”
“Tales?” She longed to know more court gossip, since all she knew from Lady Katherine was a decade old just before she died.
“Harington’s a seducer, child. Your virgin’s perfume would draw him like . . . Never you mind.” Sir William set his mouth to say no more.
Mary hugged his arm. “You are a good and gentle knight, sir, but you need not worry. I am not come to court to find a husband, less a lover.” She drew closer to his comforting bulk to stop a little shiver, for the thought of a handsome husband was not strictly abhorrent. The air laced with musky perfume, the courtiers splendid in gems and silks were suddenly nearly overwhelming her senses. Her hands crossed over her breasts as if to hide her gown. “Even my best is all tatters in this court.”
At that moment her fears were confirmed. “Who is that creature new come to court?” The woman dressed in much silver lace nearby was looking at Mary.
“My lady Warwick,” her companion answered, “she is nobody, naught but some country mouse.”
Mary could sense the heat rising to her face and opened her mouth to answer but thought better, since the Countess of Warwick was the queen’s chief lady.
Her grandfather tightened his grip on her arm. “I will ask permission to leave if you are to be insulted.”
“No, Grandfather, you must be paid what is owed you and recover the properties you had to mortgage to pay for Lady Grey and her attendants’ care.” She left unsaid her own precious purpose, which was to gain a place in the queen’s service. No insult would deny her this one chance. She put on her brightest smile and curtsied to Lady Warwick. “My lady, my name is Mary Rogers, and I make it my duty to bring the look of a plain Somersetshire woman to Her Majesty’s court . . . for instructive purpose only.” She curtsied humbly to take away any sting.
Warwick glanced at her, nodded, and then walked on toward the throne.
“Guard your tongue, child.” Her grandfather pulled her forward on his arm.
“I’m trying, Grandfather,” she replied, resolving to try harder, since her most recent effort had not been completely successful.
The closer Mary came to the queen, the more she was forced to admit that Elizabeth was no longer the youthful, beautiful queen of the portrait hanging in her grandfather’s great hall. It was true, then, what she’d heard and for so long rejected: The queen no longer sat for her likeness, but a pattern of her face from earlier times was used, turned first one way and later, for another portrait, turned the other.
Though outlined in kohl, Elizabeth’s eyes were sunken into her thin face, her cheekbones sharp and the softness of a youthful jaw become as slack as the skin of her neck. No paste of alum, ass’s milk and egg white could glaze over what great age and great cares had made of her features and bosom. The closer Mary came, the more she saw that the layer of added complexion covering the wrinkled skin had cracked on her cheeks to expose what the paste was meant to hide.
And yet, in spite of all the destruction, Mary thought the queen a commanding, even handsome woman, her still-luminous eyes and her sharp ears missing nothing. She had probably seen the little scene with Lady Warwick, had perhaps heard what passed. Mary knew she must, must regain every appearance of docility.
The queen motioned her grandfather forward. He knelt on one knee and swept his hat sideways in a slightly unpracticed bow. “Majesty,” he said.
Mary, almost numb with excitement, knelt next to him, daring to glance up only hastily.
Elizabeth motioned for them to rise. “Who is this?” the queen asked sharply, pointing toward them.
A gentleman usher in his red-and-black uniform bent to the queen. “Sir William Rogers, come to petition Your Grace for the return of expenses for the care of a certain lady.”
The corner of the queen’s mouth lifted. “Ah,” she said, and Mary thought she had known full well who her grandfather was. “Sir,” the queen said, dropping her fan again, “is this pretty young maid the wife and bed comfort of your elder years?”
Essex, standing closest to the queen, laughed heartily. “Fie, sir! If you old fellows take all the pretty girls, what will we young men do for amusement?” He elbowed Harington in jest, who turned about and stared at Mary with curiosity.
Mary felt her grandfather’s arm muscle tense even more.
“Majesty,” he said, standing and leading Mary two steps forward, “my granddaughter, Mistress Mary Rogers.”
The queen raised a hand to silence Essex, who frowned his dislike of being silenced.
Mary thought that a kind gesture, and confusing after the queen’s earlier pointed jest. Did a queen ever regret her words?
“You may come closer, Mistress Rogers.”
Mary advanced almost to the throne, amazed that she felt a sudden inner calm. She thought she saw some interest in the queen’s face.
“You wear our portrait,” the queen said, pointing to the brooch tied by a ribbon at Mary’s waist. “Advance to us.”
Mary rose up the last step, aware that the two men beside her were straining to see the portrait.
The queen frowned. “How came you by this?”
“Majesty, this picture brooch was a gift from the lady Katherine Grey when I was a child and greatly admired it. I treasure it still.”
The queen’s eyes narrowed. “That is no name to speak in our court.”
“I beg forgiveness, Majesty,” Mary said, surprised that her voice was steady. “I but answered truthfully.”
“You are truly new at court. Truth for a sovereign is what we would hear, Mary Rogers.”
The presence chamber was utterly still.
Elizabeth raised her fan again to rest below her eyes. “And do we still resemble our portrait of long ago?” The queen watched her closely.
Mary could sense courtiers leaning forward to hear how she would answer, though she was in no doubt of her reply. “No, Majesty,” she said softly, and didn’t stop for the warning gesture from John Harington. “You were new come to the throne when this was painted and had not grown in magnificence and the dignity of many battles won, as I see you today.” It was truth that flattered and not flattery that held but little truth, which the queen had no doubt expected, heard many times and dismissed. Mary curtsied and bowed her head for whatever was to come, though if she had guessed wrong, she would run straight to the near-frozen Thames and leap into it, hoping not to come up.
Elizabeth motioned to Harington. “What think you, Boy Jack? Should we listen to the wor
ds of a maid schooled by that traitor Lady Grey? Perhaps she, too, learned traitorous ways.”
John mounted a step and stopped very close to Mary. He brought a finger under her chin and turned her face to him. She was so startled that she did not resist. “Godmother, in this instance I see no treason in this fair face, for true treason never held so much beauty. If it did, then none dare call it treason.”
The queen laughed but knocked his hand away from Mary with her fan. “Though I have known beauteous traitors, I think me this is another of your epigrams, sir, and in this case holds some truth.”
Harington bowed as Elizabeth stood suddenly. Mary gathered her skirt and carefully backed down the steps until she was again on the arm of her grandfather. Had she gone too far, said the inexcusable, been too clever, misjudged this queen who had heard everything in her long life?
As the queen moved past them with Essex at her side, she commanded, “Sir William, bring your granddaughter to us after Twelfth Night revels.”
With no further word, the queen swept from the room, a long line of courtiers rushing to follow in the procession.
John Harington stopped briefly and bowed. “Sir William, your granddaughter is a credit to you.”
“Sir John,” Mary, near the end of her unaccustomed serenity, answered for her grandfather, “I thank you, but our Lord God made me as I am.”
Harington grinned. “And a fine job the Lord has made of you, Mary Rogers, and continues to do since we last met.”
Mary kept her mouth from falling open. He remembered her.
Her grandfather’s voice trembled with anger. “Sir, I have warned her about you.”
The courtier laughed aloud, winking at Mary. “Have no fear, sir. I seek a wealthy and widowed countess. But you were wise to warn her, sir . . . very wise. She has face and form . . . and wit enough to make me forget all my ambition.” He bowed again and, with one last glance at Mary—and still highly amused—he rejoined the queen’s procession.
Her grandfather sputtered angrily into the nearly empty presence chamber: “The arrogant whelp presumes!”
Mary watched the queen’s godson to see if he turned to look back at her. He didn’t. “Grandfather, don’t you think he was gallant to come to my aid before the throne? He hides it well, but perhaps there is some good in him.”
“Mary, my dear, this is not a court for the guileless. Give up this dream of serving the queen and return with me to the west country. I would keep you as you are.”
Mary smiled. “Surely not, sir, with all my tempers. And Her Majesty commanded my presence. I must have pleased her.”
Sir William huffed. “Her Majesty’s pleasure is often as short-lived as her memory of debt.”
She held tight to his arm as they moved toward the sound of trumpets and drums that always preceded the queen. She did not blame him for his vexation. He had gone nearly bankrupt tending Lady Grey, her ladies and her nurse. To his great credit he still provided for Nurse Sybil, who wished to remain near her dead mistress. Every bill to the Lord Treasurer had been ignored. Now, desperate for money, he had come to try in person to collect what was long overdue, and Mary was determined to help him.
It was near midnight when Sir William and Mary Rogers were announced by one of the queen’s gentlemen ushers.
“Sir William,” the queen said with a dismissive wave, “you must petition Robert Cecil, our Lord Secretary of State. We have no business with you.”
He bowed himself back into the antechamber and the door closed.
Remembering protocol, Mary knelt three times as she approached the queen sitting near a fireplace in a heavy satin robe of black and white, her crown removed, her chin in her hand.
An unsheathed sword hung from the arm of Elizabeth’s chair. With some unease Mary, watching the light glint from its blade, sank to her knees again.
Elizabeth turned a weary head to follow her gaze. “You need not fear, girl. My sword is not for you, but for those who would have done with my rule and come upon me to seek my life.”
The queen returned to her study of the fire, staring fixedly into the flames. A long moment later, she said, “We spared Lady Katherine when we did not spare the queen of Scots. A crown is a difficult burden to those who bear it, Mary Rogers.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Yet you think us cruel.”
Mary bent to kiss the hem of the royal gown. “It is not for me to judge your royal actions,” she said softly, sensing the queen’s fragile mood, and suddenly filled with sympathy. One day, Mary thought, she herself would look in her own mirror and see another face no longer youthful and flushed with health, one she scarce recognized and was reluctant to own.
The queen twisted her neck about. Some of her white complexion paste cracked off and fell on her black gown. “So you do not judge your sovereign. Another of your country truths, Mary Rogers?”
“Majesty, I beg forgiveness. I am new come to court and do not know its ways. Country truth is the only truth I know.” Her head bowed, Mary scarcely dared to look in that ravaged face for fear of showing her compassion, surely unwanted by this proud monarch.
Elizabeth gazed past Mary for a long moment before she spoke in a voice that had none of the commanding quality Mary had heard in the presence chamber. “So, mistress, how did Kate die?”
Mary was surprised, knowing that her grandfather had sent much correspondence about Katherine Grey to the queen’s council at the time of that lady’s death, these ten years past. “Of consumption, Majesty. My grandfather provided every physick and care. She died in the faith with her chaplain at her side, blessing you and begging forgiveness for her sins.” Lady Katherine had also died in a pool of her own blood with Lord Edward’s name the last word from her lips, crying out that having been denied him in this world, she would be with him and her babes in the next. But Mary withheld that knowledge, hoping an untold truth was not a lie. Would Elizabeth recognize such a lie no matter how well hidden?
The queen nodded, then seemed to forget Mary was there, giving her time to look about, noticing what she had been too nervous to see before. The queen’s huge, high bed was covered with gilding, carved animals and ostrich plumes. A virginals made of heavy glass stood in one corner, and from a partially open door, Mary heard the sounds of ladies in low voices talking and laughing, waiting to help the queen into her bed, if the queen decided to sleep. It was known that she slept poorly, often bending to her state papers until first light, when she did not spend the night at cards with her favorite, Essex.
Mary also saw what was not in the room. There were no mirrors or reflecting surfaces anywhere, not on walls nor tapestry-covered tables. Even the table that held pots of paint and kohl had no gazing glass.
She knelt until she was not certain she could stand.
“You are come to ask for money,” the queen said, rousing herself.
“Not for myself, Your Grace, but to save my good grandsire the loss of his mortgaged properties. He yet cares for one of Lady Grey’s servants.” She swallowed hard, knowing how much too far she had already gone. “As for me, Majesty, I seek only to serve you in any way you choose.”
“Ah, a profitable position so that you can wring gold from the lords of our court for putting their words in our ears.”
“Only if their words serve Your Majesty.” Mary was not surprised to have her purpose doubted. Elizabeth was hounded for positions.
“Pish! You search out a rich husband and think your distant blood ensures we will find you a highborn one.”
Mary shook her head, true tears welling, which she tried to blink away. “Majesty, may I make so bold as to ask you a question?”
“Ah, a brave country mouse to challenge her sovereign.”
Her tone told Mary the queen was now disbelieving. Yet what more could Mary say but what she thought? “It is true that I am not trained for court, Your Grace. Forgive me if I cannot understand why England’s greatest queen would not believe that a true English woman of good fam
ily would desire to serve her for herself alone.”
Elizabeth’s head jerked toward her, her visage haunted and angry. “We have believed such before! Yet many of our ladies—our beloved daughters—have betrayed us. And our good servants”—and here her voice caught on the name—“Leicester . . . Burleigh, Walsingham . . .” Her memory trailed away to bitterness. “You would leave us as they all did.”
Elizabeth blamed Leicester for dying? Did she yet love him so and keep his stepson Essex as a substitute for her long love?
But Mary felt the queen’s deep loneliness in her bitter words, and it emboldened her. She had not desired to quiet a heart so much since Lady Katherine died. Lifting her hands palm upward in supplication, Mary said, “We cannot know when God will call us to Him, Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth jerked upright in her chair. “As governor of the Church of England, I remind you that you need not instruct us in theology!”
Mary bowed her head and whispered, “I meant only to comfort, Majesty.”
“We are the queen of England and need no comfort from you, Mary Rogers. Go back to your country manor. There is no place for such a lamb in our court.”
Desperate, Mary blurted, “Majesty, you would find me no lamb in your service, but a lion as Your Majesty was with your troops at Tilbury before the armada.”
“We see you are too clever for us to trust. Now leave us.” Elizabeth angrily waved her away.
Her throat aching with regret, and feeling close to tears at her clumsy tongue, Mary rose and backed toward the door, her head bowed. She dared not look at the queen again, lest she burst into sobs, in truth, and completely disgrace herself.
In the anteroom, her grandfather rose to greet her. With one look at her face, he put his arms about her.
“She could not hear me,” Mary said, swallowing sobs. “I could not find the right words to make her believe me.”
