by Jeane Westin
He grabbed her and pulled her roughly up, crushing her against him, his lips overwhelming her words.
Helpless to stop herself, she returned his passion until both were breathing as if nearly drowned, and then he thrust her away.
“When you are in that cold lord’s bed, remember that!” He flung himself from the room, saddlebags over his shoulder.
Stunned, she groped behind her for the bed and fell back as her shaking legs gave way. Was this the price loyalty demanded? She had been willing to pay it until the debt was called. Now she wanted to run after him, to soothe his despair with her own body, to relieve her own desire this once. This was how Elizabeth had felt when she thrust from her first Robert Dudley and later Essex. How could Mary Rogers match the courage of a queen when the only realm she wanted was a manor set on a hill in Somerset?
Lord Howard arrived in two days’ time, worn from hard travel, without gifts or a large retinue. “Your Grace,” he said, kneeling before the queen, but watching Mary standing behind the queen’s chair. “I would claim my bride. I am of an age when waiting to marry is folly.”
“Waiting to marry is never folly, my lord,” Elizabeth said, her eyes bright with fever. “It prevents impatient error.”
“In truth, Your Grace.”
Mary could see that His Lordship could barely scrape up the courtesy to agree.
“Majesty—”
The queen, weary, interrupted. “Hold! The marriage warrant will be drawn today, my lord. . . . Trouble me no more.”
“I thank you. Would Your Majesty allow me a private meeting with my future bride?” He looked at Mary, frowning.
She knew her eyes were puffy and reddened from a night’s weeping into an already soggy pillow. She hoped he would reject a maid who had lost her bright eyes and skin.
“Time enough for meeting later, my lord. Time enough . . . for you. We have much need of her now and little time.”
Lord Howard bowed himself from the chamber, which allowed him to compose his face to one of obedience, although Mary could see that he did not like the queen’s answer. While Mary liked it greatly.
The queen waved away some steaming oxtail broth. “His Lordship is an eager groom,” she whispered, though some of her old mockery was there. “And Boy Jack has left the palace for the West. Is he then not so eager?”
“He is proud, Majesty.”
“And a man . . . too young to know that disappointment fades. I dandled most of the crowned heads of Europe, or their sons. I could have wed any of them, but I only wanted Robin, and I could not permit myself . . .” She made the familiar pup! pup! sound of irritation. “Men are such sorcerers, but you are young and do not understand that to a queen the safety of her realm must come first.”
Mary did not answer. Of course she understood. What woman would not understand love and sacrifice, the two legs on which every woman of worth stood all her life?
Again she offered the rapidly cooling broth.
“Nay, Mouse,” Elizabeth said, waving her hand. “You are growing forgetful. We were not so at your age, just beginning our reign.”
Mary smiled and kissed Her Majesty’s hand with affection, needing no permission.
The queen was sunk in memory that afternoon, finally taking a sip or two of fresh broth and sucking on a sweet comfit until her teeth ached. Somewhat restored, she tried to stand as the big case clock chimed four times, but she could not. Mary brought her stick, and Elizabeth stood, pushing Mary and stick away.
And there she stood for many troubling hours, holding on to life.
Finally her legs could not hold her, and she fell down upon the floor.
The physicians who waited in the anteroom entered at Mary’s frantic call. Whispering together, one spoke: “Majesty, we think your health will be restored by your bed.”
“Then, good physician, you need a perspective glass if you think a bed will add to my days.” Her other ladies had approached to assist in raising her, but the queen waved them off.
“Bring my pillows, Mouse,” she said, sending the physicians away, bidding them not to return.
All the merry lace and velvet cushions, rose and marigold, covered with fine knotted embroidery were brought and placed, as the queen commanded, on the floor near the fire. She lay there all that darkening day and night, staring into some far distance, seeing other faces, other days. Finally, she drifted far into the past, suckling her finger as if she were a babe at the breast.
John lingered along the road, bitterly regretting his anger, berating himself as soon as he rode south and west of Richmond on a road that would eventually lead him to Somersetshire and home . . . more than regretting. And within hours he had turned his annoyance against himself. His horse’s hooves seemed to tap out a message: You fool . . . you blind fool . . . you idiot fool! He had not gone many furlongs when full dark came again and he could not chance the rutted roads, the fog-shrouded woodlands and bands of outlaws surely lying in wait for love-addled knights.
The Blue Boar Inn stood close by the road, a lantern lit to welcome weary travelers. He knew that he would be more fit for travel tomorrow if he had food and rest. And drink, enough to blot the memory of Mary’s face, her look of abandonment that would haunt him forever.
He awoke at dawn, on what morning he did not know. His head rested on his arms amidst empty wine cups. “Master Innkeeper, bring my horse around.” He stood, swaying for a moment, and threw coins on the table. “How long have I been here?”
“Good sir, you have been a quiet guest, and now have great need of food and ale mixed with eggs fresh laid this morn . . . a sovereign sure cure for a wine-soured stomach.” He held out the bowl to John, who downed the contents, surprised his stomach didn’t reject such a slippery antidote, nodding his thanks and adding another shilling to the coins.
“Come again and find sure welcome, Sir Harington.”
“You know me?”
“Aye, from the Accession Day jousts.”
“I cannot say that I will pass this road again.”
“Begging pardon, sir, but I think you must return this way to solace what wine could not.”
John stared at him. An innkeeper who was also a diviner of men’s souls. This was truly a miraculous age.
He walked out to a foggy dawn, the sun just rising over low hills. Breathing deeply of the cold, moist air flowing past him, he felt his wine-sodden brain clearing. What strange witchery had he suffered? He had berated Mary for her gentle love and loyalty, the very qualities that had drawn him to her and kept him faithful all this long time. Bitterly ashamed, and without a thought of delay, he spurred his horse back toward Richmond.
He had stopped to rest his lathered horse at a hamlet water trough when a fast rider approached. He recognized one of the queen’s messengers.
“Sir John . . . Sir John,” the rider called, reining in alongside. “Mistress Mary Rogers sends to tell you that the queen is dying and bids you return at once.”
“Is the marriage warrant drawn?”
“Yes, I heard of it.”
“Signed?”
“I know not, Sir John.”
They both spurred their horses past the small thatched village houses, turning north for the palace of Richmond. Bells had begun to peal in village steeples, and crying dames stood beside the road. A blacksmith, red faced at his open forge, unashamedly covered his face with his leather apron.
John reached the palace mews and stabled his horse. “Does the queen yet live?”
The groom nodded. “But some evil mischief has attacked her tongue and she talks no more, sir.”
John rushed past the great fountain and the walled privy garden and into the palace. The presence chamber held small groups of whispering courtiers. The halls leading to the queen’s apartments were full of idle, hushed servants as the great palace stopped and waited.
A gentleman usher admitted John to the antechamber. “The queen can see no one, Sir John.”
Cecil looked up from a group
of privy councilors and nodded a greeting.
Lord Howard looked up and frowned. “I was not aware that you were called, Sir Harington.”
“My lord, the queen’s Majesty has the service of her champion, whether called or not.” He felt shame at that moment. This had not been true when he left the palace, but it was true now and ever.
Howard turned sharply and walked to the far side of the antechamber, meaning his back to be an insult to John instead of the relief it was.
John saw that he was holding a warrant conspicuously in his hand, but could not see if it was signed, though it had a seal and ribbon. He had to know.
“My Lord Secretary,” he said, addressing Robert Cecil, “a private word, if it please you.”
Cecil, wearing his black robe and badge of office, bowed to his fellow councilmen and approached. “The queen is gravely ill.”
“Is there reason to hope?”
“Her Majesty refuses her physicians and her bed, as if she knows she would not rise again.” Cecil spoke with pride on his face in the woman he had served as man and boy.
“Is Mistress Mary—”
“At her side, without sleep these two days.”
As Lord Howard approached with his head thrust forward to overhear, John lowered his voice and asked, “Is the marriage warrant signed?”
Cecil shook his head and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “The succession must be settled. Do not trouble Her Majesty for lesser reasons.”
John’s body stiffened.
Cecil spoke quickly. “I say it with sorrow, my friend, for I know the warrant is dear—”
“You have no knowing of how important it is to the ruin of two lives.”
Cecil smiled. “Do I not?”
“My deep apologies, my Lord Secretary,” John said, bowing. He was too much on the edge of despair, but he was done with being hurtful. Striking out did not ease his pain.
The doors to the privy chamber opened and Lady Anne Russell hurried out with a cloth-covered basin. John saw a weary Mary kneeling near the queen seated on her cushions, holding stubbornly to her realm with her last strength, almost at her last breath. They were two of a kind, he saw, both bound to their deepest commitment. He felt great pride that England nurtured such women and renewed shame that he had forgotten for a single hour the devotion he owed to each. It would never happen again.
Mary glanced to the doors as Lady Russell left to fetch more fresh, cooling rose water and saw John standing there in a dusty doublet, the strain of distress lining his face. She put all her glad welcome into her smile, her heart at greater ease on sight of him and wanting him to know it, though she doubted she could hide it if she tried. No reproaches. He had returned at her beckoning, which was far more important to her than his leaving. And it must be enough.
Or it would have been, had not Lord Howard stepped out in front of John, bowing.
“Majesty,” announced the usher, probably well bribed. He walked forward and knelt. “My lord Howard presents his marriage warrant.”
The queen waved him away, though he moved only a few steps. “This realm no longer has a need of this lord’s favor,” she said, or Mary thought she whispered the words. Or had she only wanted to hear them?
Elizabeth stirred, and Mary, ignoring the usher, leaned down to speak gently. “Majesty, your Mouse and all your ladies pray you to take some little food and wine.”
Her Majesty did not answer, her face in trance, unchanging. She was in some other place, some other time. She opened her mouth, trying to force out words. Mary leaned close to hear.
“Robin.” It was less than a whisper, a faint sigh only. Elizabeth’s gaze went to her bed table and her ivory jewel box.
Mary rose and quickly brought it. Kneeling again, she saw the queen wanted it opened. Unclasping the lid, she lifted it to reveal a miniature of Anne Boleyn, the queen’s mother, a yellowed ivory-handled fan with feathers fallen to dust and a folded paper inscribed with the queen’s own faded italic hand: His Last Letter.
Elizabeth’s eyes held such longing that Mary removed the letter and pressed it against the queen’s heart. Her faded blue eyes lifted to Mary and there were memories, longing and sweet quiet . . . all there.
Mary took Elizabeth’s hand, urgently holding back tears. The queen found the strength to draw her closer still. “My memories will soon be gone and I am left with this letter.” With an effort, she motioned the usher to leave and, from long acquaintance with her temper, he obeyed.
Mary looked to John and nodded. He entered swiftly and knelt beside her. The warmth of his hand over hers was all the support she needed.
With great effort, Elizabeth placed her hand over theirs, the queen’s face peaceful, as if she released some care.
In the anteroom, Mary and John heard the sounds of a scuffle as Cecil kept Lord Howard from rushing to the queen. Two yeoman guards took firm hold of Howard’s arms.
“Councilor,” Lord Howard said, his face swollen with anger, “the queen is not in her right mind.”
“My lord, Her Majesty’s mind is always in the right. Save your dignity and withdraw.”
Shrugging the guards off, Howard stomped to the outer hall, scattering torn pieces of the unsigned marriage warrant along with his dignity.
John gripped Mary’s shoulder and she wilted with relief.
She was sure Elizabeth had seen or sensed everything between her Mouse and her Boy Jack. Had Her Majesty planned to bless them all along, or had she changed her heart when it was the last gift of tenderness she could give? Though the queen was rapidly losing this world’s strength, Mary thought she saw a question in the darkening eyes. Now that all the queen’s choices were gone, would she have preferred a different way for her life, to have married Robert Dudley, had his children and reigned with him? As she clutched Robin’s last letter, Mary watched a doubt form in Elizabeth’s tired eyes. But Mary would always wonder if misgiving had really been there . . . or only years of gathering sadness.
Cecil approached without being bidden. “Majesty, to content your loving people you must go to your bed.”
Elizabeth, still the queen, always the queen, roused herself to new strength at that. “Little man, little man, the word must is not to be used to princes. But you know I die and that makes you presumptu ous.”
Cecil knelt where he was, his hands folded in prayer, keeping vigil with the queen’s ladies.
Hours passed as John, Mary and Cecil shifted on their sore knees. The queen’s other ladies of the privy chamber stood at the far side of the crowded room, whispering behind their hands.
At last, toward evening, Elizabeth caught her breath and whispered, “Daughter, to comfort you all, we are ready for our bed.”
They carried her wasted body to her huge gilt bed, colorful peacock feathers crowning the carved bedstead, and laid her head on her embroidered lace pillow.
The queen called for Archbishop Whitgift of Canterbury, who waited in the anteroom to come and pray by her bed. He began to praise her magnificence in prayer.
“My lord, say nothing more of my greatness,” she protested with her last strength. “We have had enough of vanity.”
Though her heart was full and heavy, Mary almost smiled at that. Elizabeth, who had never had enough adoration to fill the infinite well of her craving, now approached heaven humbly.
The archbishop prayed for several hours, but when he stood to leave, she motioned him back to his knees as if she would be prayed into heaven. And who would not wish it?
Mary with John at her side reached for Elizabeth’s hand, but it did not grasp hers. “Majesty.” Mary laid her cheek on the silk bedcover by the queen’s hand. “Mother,” she whispered, giving Elizabeth a last gift from her Mouse. If Elizabeth heard, she was beyond answering, although Mary prayed she was not beyond understanding.
Later, Cecil approached Elizabeth without bidding. “Majesty, the succession. . . . Is it to be James of Scotland?”
He leaned to her lips and announced on ris
ing, “Her Grace commands, ‘Who should succeed me but a king?’ ”
No one had heard her say it, and Mary doubted the queen could bring herself to relinquish her throne even with her last breath, but she would not dispute Cecil and risk an uprising of every ambitious peer who claimed a drop of Tudor or Plantagenet blood.
The room hushed as Elizabeth finally slept, her head upon her right arm, no longer able to resist the deep rest her now spent body demanded. Shortly after the big case clock struck the second hour on March 24, she breathed a final lingering breath; then her long struggle was done.
And won, Mary knew. The love that she had for her people and her people for her would be remembered. Elizabeth had marked this love herself to her Parliament: “Though God has raised me high, yet this I count the glory of my crown, that I have reigned with your loves.”
The queen’s long farewell sigh yet echoed in the chamber, and Mary bowed her head to pray for her, though she wondered for just one small moment if Elizabeth Tudor could take second place even in heaven.
Finally, John and Mary rose as one, his arms about her as she shed tears into his doublet.
A physician came forward to arrange the queen’s curled body into a more stately pose, while Lady Margaret carefully placed her red wig and crown on her head.
John pulled Mary away into the anteroom. “All is done here. Your duty is spent.” He held her tight. “Her father, brother and sister all died in great pain. Hers was a long life and a better end. Be glad of that, sweetheart.”
“I am glad of it, John, though I know her pain was of another kind.”
“It won’t be ours,” John said, his arm about her shoulders, giving her his strength.
They walked from the royal apartments through knots of hushed courtiers and others rushing past with gifts to the north and a new king with all his court positions yet to fill.
Others were acting as foragers, pocketing what they could grab. Tapestries had already disappeared from the great hall. Resting against a pillar, Mary saw a servant scooping up pewter plates and knives. Torches had been allowed to go out, and many inner halls were in full dark.
