by Jeane Westin
Mary bowed her head to hide her dismay that she must now wear the itching white paste on her face. But she prayed that the queen, who was rumored to have more than three thousand gowns, would now commend her fashion, since it had once been Her Majesty’s own.
Making her way into the presence chamber, Mary strode straight ahead as if already on the queen’s business. Sir John Harington stood with Essex in the center of a group of loudly laughing gentlemen. All stopped and looked her way, bowing. Mary walked on, a newly made court beauty who was certain they had taken notice of her. She nodded and smiled at their courtesy. They bowed again, Sir John lower than the rest. The court was a welcoming place in spite of its reputation.
Her grandfather sat in his rooms on a chest before the fire, his fur-lined traveling cloak over his arm. He looked up, his eyes as sad as she had ever seen them. “I see by your gown that you are decided on your course, Mary.”
She sat next to him and rested her head against his shoulder. “Grandfather, the queen commands. Surely this is a boon for your business at court and our family.”
Sir William lifted a bag of clanking coins. “My bill has been partially paid and I have been wished a fair journey.”
“Partially?”
“Yes, the queen withholds thirty marks for your pay.”
Mary took his hand, astounded. “Grandfather, I will refuse the queen’s offer.” Though it broke Mary’s heart to say it, she also meant it. “How could Her Majesty?”
Her grandfather laughed. “You do not know her yet. She is well-known to be . . . frugal, even close dealing, where she can, since all costs of her government come from her purse.”
“But—”
Sir William shook his head to silence Mary. “She will pay the rest, the Lord Secretary Robet Cecil assured me, when you have proved your worth this coming year. I have quite enough here to stave off my creditors. And I could not deny you what you hold so dear.”
Relief raced through her. “She will pay if pleased, and I will give her such service that my salary is certain to be returned to you. And with me at court, you need no longer fear for my future.”
Her grandfather shook his head. “I fear more and more, Mary. Servants have carried word to me that your name has been talked of in the court . . . in a most shameful way.”
Mary stood, her hands shaking beyond her ability to control them. “Who could say aught against me? I have done nothing ill.”
“It is not against anything you’ve done, Mary, but shameful nonetheless. It is said that there is a wager abroad that you will lose your maidenhood within a month.”
“Who would make such idle and hurtful speculation?”
“John Harington, I suspect. Be watchful, Mary. He is a man who pretends to care for nothing and so must often prove it.”
Her chest tight with anger and disillusion—and perhaps more she refused to inspect—Mary sank down and took both her grandfather’s hands in hers. “Have no fear. He has lost more than a wager, Grandfather. I had thought him a pretend scoundrel. If he has true evil intent toward me, he has lost my regard, and once lost, it can never be recovered.”
“A man like that cares nothing for a woman’s regard.”
She laughed, perhaps a bit too heartily. “As with most seducers, he sees himself as irresistible. He will care greatly when I refuse to give in to him before the entire court.” She hugged her grandfather. “Do not underestimate this country mouse.”
CHAPTER TEN
“The stone too often recoils on the head of the thrower.”
—Elizabeth Regina
St. Hilary’s Day
January 13, 1599
John Harington stood in front of his mirror. “What manner of man is this?” he asked aloud, turning away from the face staring at him without answering the question, at least not an answer he could fully own. A chill swept through him, for, by tradition, this saint’s day was the coldest day of the year. Yet he knew that Saint Hilary was not to blame for his icy distress.
John had tried for a week to absolve himself of fault for the foolish wager he had made, attempting to convince himself that the Earl of Essex had left him no other honorable choice. Devereux had announced in the presence chamber that he would have the queen’s new lady, Mary Rogers, on her back inside a month.
John had been angered, and surprised by his anger. “My lord, to take a Puritan maid new come from the west country is beneath your talents.”
Essex had laughed. “But not, I think, beneath yours, John, since you are a Somerset man. You but keep her for yourself. When have we not shared like brothers?”
John had kept his irritation close, perhaps because there was too much truth to what Essex said and he was suddenly shamed by that truth. “Beware, my lord. I have felt her tongue and she is not as timid as she first appears.”
Their raised voices had drawn a larger crowd of gentlemen. Essex was smoking one of Sir Walter Raleigh’s pipes, though he hated the man, who had once had the queen’s affection and kept some still. “Then, John, you do fear your manhood would fail in a trial against me.” He bowed to the crowd’s burst of applause.
“My lord, you insult me to no purpose. My manhood has never failed me.” Some of the men applauded him. John braced himself for Essex’s anger and to keep his hand from moving to his sword. This was not a new dilemma, though John was a long-forbearing friend, as were all the earl’s friends, including the queen. She’d forgiven Essex getting Elizabeth Southwell with child, and his affairs with Lady Mary Howard and Mistress Russell, both ladies of the queen’s bedchamber—and his bedchamber, as it happened. Even his marriage to the daughter of the queen’s spymaster, Walsingham, had been accepted when Essex, prostrate at the queen’s feet, swore that Elizabeth, alone, was the true and only queen of his heart. He kept his wife away from court at his Wanstead manor northeast of London so that he could be many a woman’s fair russet-haired boy, but be damned if John would allow Essex to add Mary Rogers to that long list.
John saw his fists clenching in the mirror and surprised himself with his own fervor. He did not usually care whom Essex bedded.
“Then, John,” Essex had said, his words loud enough to carry through the presence chamber, “be a man and take my wager. Ten gold marks, sir, that I have the little maid impaled upon my upstanding cock before you.” Essex, holding his pipe in front of his breeches and thrusting forward, swaggered a few steps and added most reasonably above the applause of the changeable crowd, “What say you, John? Shall we let the winning cock determine the better man?”
John turned from his reflection and sank into a chair. That intolerable taunt had forced his response. He had heard his agreement to the wager before he’d thought. Ever his problem. Mary Rogers was a girl, barely a woman, who needed gentle wooing, not an Essex frontal assault that amounted to little better than amused and playful rape. What Mary needed was an advance-and-retreat strategy that gradually broke down her resistance. Now there would be no time for such delicate games, because Essex would move fast. If John Harington were to save Mary Rogers from ruin and banishment from court, he would have to outflank Essex.
The thought brought a smile. “You fool!” he said aloud. He had never before thought it necessary to claim keeping a virgin for himself as a charitable act. He must be a little mad. Or had the girl’s spirited innocence bewitched him? Was she a sorceress who could change a man?
He groaned. Time was short. Essex would force Mary, if necessary. The wager was the talk of the court, and no doubt the gossip had traveled to the queen’s ladies and come to Mary Rogers’s ears. Almost daily she passed him on her duties without returning his normal courtesy. In the queen’s privy chamber she did not know him. He was now the villain in her eyes.
Essex be damned eternally! Restless, John rose and went again to his mirror. The same man stared back at him. He smiled, not very heartily, but like a sick man pretending to superior health.
“One good thing may yet save your soul, John Harington,” h
e said aloud, straightening his ruff to better show the queen’s gift, a valuable pearl earring. “You seem to have some little conscience remaining.”
The court theater was decked with every bough and flower that the royal hothouse could force open in deep winter. For once, Mary thought the air at court almost breathable, as she followed the queen in procession to the great hall. She was still not used to living with a thousand people and twice that many servants. Though Whitehall Palace had two thousand rooms, it seemed always teeming, the people moving about in crowds rather than in twos or small groups. She lived and slept in an antechamber next to the queen with the other young ladies, never alone, scarce able to sort her thoughts. Perhaps that was a good thing. Let her thoughts remain unsorted. She did not want to face her disillusionment . . . oh, never with the queen, who was every great thing she’d hoped . . . but with John Harington, who was the cause of her disappointment. She had hoodwinked herself into thinking there was some good in him. Now she knew him for the blackest of blackguards.
They moved into the presence chamber toward the throne, the ladies chattering about the play they would see. Today, Master Shakespeare and the Lord Chamberlain’s men were presenting A Midsomer Night’s Dream, one of Her Majesty’s favorites. White plaster columns were in place to serve as the Athenian court, and trees on wheels peeked in from the next hall, ready to become the faerie forest outside Athens. Mary was already familiar with the play, since its tangled love stories had been the talk of the bedchamber for days.
The Earl of Essex escorted the queen to the dais and her throne, turning once to smile at Mary, a smile other women were said to find alarmingly exciting. She had to admit that he was a very handsome man, extremely tall, and he wore his multicolored, gem-covered clothes as if they were his second skin. His hose were very tight, showing every muscle in his fine legs to advantage. Mary doubted that any woman at court missed a single stride of those long legs.
John Harington lounged near the throne, not so finely dressed, indeed attired in plain black with a white ruff. His short dark beard and hair were neatly trimmed, while Essex grew his russet curls long and tumbled. Harington’s only ornament was a great pearl drop in one ear. His very simplicity made him stand out from the other courtiers, as he was no doubt well aware. He stepped toward her, but Mary turned her face from him. “Fool,” she muttered. There would be no avoiding him forever. He was too much with the queen, and she might be offended if one of her ladies was rude to her favorite godson. Taking a deep breath, Mary turned her head to acknowledge him, but he had engaged Lady Warwick’s ear in whispered conversation, which made the countess laugh.
Mary’s face flamed beyond her control. Christ’s blood! Whether or not he was abusing her name, it was time to set him in his place. She left the queen’s retinue and curtsied to Lady Warwick, who looked her caution at Mary.
“Sir John,” Mary said, gaining control of her voice, indeed making it bright, as if she had not a single care. “I understand your purse may soon be lighter by ten marks, as will my lord Essex’s? I suggest hereafter you save your money, for neither earl nor knight will be the richer by me.” There! Now the scoundrel would be in no doubt as to her knowledge of his sham of friendship.
She expected him to show some unease, but he was too practiced at hiding what he truly felt. He’d been at court long enough to learn advanced deception. “Mistress Mary, my purse does not contain so great a sum, nor do I wish it.”
“Nor will it soon, sir,” she said, unable to let the matter rest, though she saw regret on the rogue’s face. Too late for that, Sir John.
He bowed, as etiquette demanded. “Next time we meet, mistress, I will wear armor against that cutting tongue.”
“A wise decision, sir.”
Lady Warwick raised her kohled eyebrows in warning. “Docile, Mistress Rogers, docile . . .”
With a curtsy to the countess, Mary swept on, holding her gown away from the possibility of touching him, as if he were a running sewer in the meanest London alley. She looked up to see that Lord Essex had viewed the scene, and his wide smile confirmed his interest. Mary took a deep breath to quiet the heat rising to her face. The palace was full of rascals with their cocks on offer. They would soon learn she could not be cozened out of her virginity by either a witty scoundrel or a fine-turned leg. She had come to serve the queen, and there was no more certain way to end that service than to grow a belly. Mary, her head high, walked toward the throne, but Essex stepped in her way.
“Mistress Mary.” He bowed as if paying the new lady of the bedchamber a usual civility. “As you know, I hold Her Majesty’s interest high in my heart. I would know you better and hear about your west country people. Are they loyal?” His gaze dropped to her breasts and he smiled. It was a clear invitation.
“My lord, I do not speak for all, but my father was loyal enough to die for the queen during the first coming of the armada, and I am too loyal to abuse her trust.” She tried to step past him, but he took her arm.
“Perhaps we could meet later to talk further . . . a little supper in my rooms this evening.”
“As does the queen, I eat sparingly, my lord.”
“I promise I’ll have such a dish to tempt even you.”
It was time to put an end to his hopes. “My lord, release me. I am come to court to serve Elizabeth Tudor . . . and for that purpose only. Your dish will never appeal to me.”
He laughed softly. “You are too proud for a country maid without rank. Do not make purposes you cannot keep.” He bowed, whispering, “I never lose, pretty Mary.”
“If the queen hears of this, you are indeed lost, my lord of Essex.”
He reddened. “I take no person’s threat, man or woman. The queen will believe me, mistress. Beware. You have made of me an enemy.”
Before she could answer his unpardonable behavior with words no lady should speak, he went, smiling, to Her Majesty’s side.
Shaken by his reckless approach so near the throne, Mary arranged herself in her place at the rear of the ladies, as she had learned on her very first day in the queen’s bedchamber. What did Essex plan? If the queen had seen or heard such an exchange, would she have blamed Essex or Mary? Was her Wild Horse forgiven all behavior as boyish excess? Mary determined to stay as far from Lord Essex as from Sir John, admitting that Essex would be the easier task.
Thus far, Her Majesty had paid Mary little attention beyond approving her appearance, although Mary doubted that much escaped Elizabeth, who had learned as a child to observe every shade of court behavior and what it could mean to her.
Nor had much in the queen’s quarters escaped Mary’s notice. She had learned her duties quickly, but had waited in vain for any praise on the improvements in the queen’s closestool, which she had even covered in purple velvet. Her grandfather had spoiled her, praising her for every little effort. In the queen’s service, she must become used to excellence being expected and appreciation being rare.
The actors approached the domed dais and knelt before the queen, caps in hand.
“Let the play begin, Master Shakespeare.” The queen addressed a balding man of average height but with large, lively eyes. “And let us see more of Bottom and Puck . . . a most amusing Robin Goodfellow.”
“I have added to their parts to delight Your Grace,” Shakespeare said.
Bowing low, some players disappeared.
Lady Margaret whispered to Mary, “The boys playing women must change to their costumes and wigs.”
At last, Master Shakespeare signaled the trumpets for an opening fanfare.
Mary saw from the corner of her eye that John Harington had left the court theater. Now she could enjoy the play without being always aware of where he was and what he was doing . . . wondering what he was planning and waiting for him to turn his eyes toward her. For some reason, she thought him more dangerous in his humor than Essex in his practiced advances. She did regret that she would have no further opportunity to rebuke John Harington this day and w
ondered why she needed to.
Lady Margaret gasped and nudged Mary’s arm, looking toward the throne. Essex was leaning in very close to the queen . . . and she had her long fingers sliding up his neck and through his hair. It was so intimate a move that Mary looked away, embarrassed for Her Majesty, since many in the court saw.
Trumpets sounded and the first act of the play began with Hip polyta, queen of the Amazons, appearing before Elizabeth holding a spear and wearing a polished cuirass and red-crested helmet. Elizabeth was pleased and suddenly pushed Essex away as if he were a naughty boy, applauding this obvious tribute from the playwright. The queen was often called an Amazon in poetry and obviously liked the comparison.
Mary suppressed a smile. How else could Master Shakespeare, or any man, explain a woman like Elizabeth, who for so long had ruled her council, her Parliament and her people through wars and uprisings without a man? Such a queen without a king must be a goddess and no ordinary woman. Otherwise, how could she take care of regal duties which women, being weak-minded, knew nothing about?
Mary knew that most men and many women accepted this natural order of being: God was overall, then kings, nobles, common men and, last of all, women. That Elizabeth had defied this order had emboldened more than one of her female subjects. Mary smiled to herself. If Elizabeth Tudor could confront France and Spain, then Mary Rogers could defy Harington and Essex.
The scene before her shifted to the forest and recaptured her attention. Trees were rolled in to make a bower, and Mary was fascinated to watch as Oberon, the king of faeries, sent Puck to seek the juice of a magic flower and place it on his queen Titania’s eyelids while she slept. The magic potion would cause her to madly love the first creature she saw on waking. The ladies around Mary, who had seen the play before, giggled in delight.
