by Brandy Purdy
Robert slapped me hard across the face, so hard, I stumbled and fell against the wall.
“I will not even dignify that with an answer,” he said in quiet fury.
I turned away from him, rubbing my stinging, smarting cheek and the side of my head where it had hit the wall.
There were angry voices out in the courtyard: one foreign—French, I thought, that sounded strangely familiar—and the other English, and I thought I recognized it as well, so I glanced out. I instantly felt as if I had been slapped again. The foreigner was a Frenchman—the tenderhearted highwayman, Red Jack! And the Englishman was Sir Richard Verney!
In a flurry of furious, fast-paced French, Red Jack flung a purse at Richard Verney’s feet, then spat on it and, with some last angry words that I was quite sure, by their tone, were a curse, turned on his heel and strode away, the red plume in his hat waving good-bye and good riddance behind him.
“Robert! Robert! Come look!” I cried, reaching behind me and groping for his sleeve. “Sir Richard Verney hired Red Jack to attack me—that purse he threw in the dust is proof! Look! Look!” I cried, forgetting that I had yet to tell Robert about my brush with danger on the road to London.
Robert slapped my clinging fingers from his sleeve and gave me a look of withering disdain. “Really, Amy, you astound me! What fanciful tale is this now?” With an exasperated sigh, he glanced out the window. “If you mean that fellow with the red feather in his hat, that is not Red Jack, the notorious highwayman, but a Flemish spice merchant. Richard Verney would piss himself from fear if he ever saw a highwayman, especially one with a reputation like Bloody Jack’s, so the idea that he would consort with one is utterly absurd. Red Jack wears a necklace—he calls it his string of pearls—made from the teeth of the women he has raped and murdered, you know, so if he had attacked you, you would not be here now to tell this ludicrous tale you are spinning for God only knows what reason. If Richard Verney thought he was under the same roof as that man, he would flee like one escaping a burning building, screaming as if his hair were on fire. All you’ve witnessed is a quarrel over the cost or quality of spices, nothing more or less. Now come away, and stop hanging out that window like a gape-jawed slattern—you’ve embarrassed me more than enough for one day!”
“No, Robert, no, you are mistaken,” I insisted. “I would stake my life upon it—that is Red Jack. I know it is! I would know him anywhere! And he does not wear a necklace of women’s teeth—that must be just a story. It was a miniature of St. Agatha on a chain set with pearls that he wore, but he doesn’t have it anymore—he gave it to me!” I fished it out of my bodice and showed it to him, ignoring Robert’s disdainful dismissal of it as “cheap and worthless Papist frippery!”
“It was all Richard Verney’s doing—I know it was!” I continued. “He is an evil, evil man, Robert. I know! When his attempts to poison me failed, he somehow found out that I was coming to London to see you, and he hired Red Jack to murder me along the way, to make it look like a random robbery, as highwaymen are known to lurk along the roads, but Red Jack spared me because Death’s mark was already upon me!” I blurted it all out, forgetting that Robert didn’t yet know about my breast. I had kept it a secret from all but Pirto; no one else knew but Red Jack, who had seen it with his own eyes when he ripped open my bodice.
Robert gave a weary sigh. “God, grant me patience. Amy, you do most sorely try me! Was ever a man more accursed in his wife than I am? You talk like a madwoman! People tell me I should have you locked away, but out of the goodness of my heart, I keep giving you chances, hoping you will snap to your senses and comport yourself properly as becomes a lady who has the honor of being my wife. That”—Robert pointed out the window, jabbing his finger at the man with a red feather in his hat, now mounting a handsome black horse—“is a Flemish spice merchant. I know that for a fact, as I bought some saffron from him a fortnight ago on Sir Richard Verney’s recommendation to mix with my butter and cheese to give them a better color and get a higher price for them at market. I have revived the dairy at Kew, since that was what gave the house its name, but I am not altogether satisfied with the quality of the goods produced. The milkmaids are a fat lot of lazy slatterns. I will lose my patience, and my temper, and dismiss the lot of them one day—I swear, they’re good for nothing but gossiping!”
“But I could fix that!” I cried, a hopeful smile lighting up my face. “Oh, Robert, please! I have much experience in running a dairy! I can help you! I know I can! I know the proper way to make good butter and cheese! And, with me in charge, you’ll have no further need for saffron! Oh, Robert, please, let me come to Kew, let me take charge of it. Please, let me do this, let me help you, let me show you how useful I can be, and I swear to you, your butter and cheese shall be the finest in all of London!”
“No,” Robert said in a single, abrupt, clipped syllable. “Absolutely not. I will not hear of it.”
“But why not?” I demanded, a petulant, desperate whine creeping into my voice.
“Because I said so,” Robert said simply. “I will not be made the laughingstock of London by having my wife running around London playing at dairymaid.”
“You just do not want me at Kew!” I accusingly retorted. “Elizabeth does not want me at Kew! She is the lady of that house, and there is no place for me in it, not even for my portrait!”
But Robert wasn’t listening; he was already walking toward the door.
Suddenly he paused, as if he had forgotten something, and turned back to look at me, staring hard. There was something shrewd and calculating in his eyes that made me shiver as if a goose had just walked over my grave. Slowly, he came back to me, put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me straight in the eye.
“When you were babbling on, telling me that ludicrous tale about Red Jack, you said he spared your life because Death had already marked you. What did you mean by that? Are you unwell, my darling?”
I hung my head in shame and nodded, not daring to meet his eyes.
“Amy, dear,” Robert said softly, his voice like a caress, and indeed as he spoke those words, he lifted his hand to stroke my cheek. “If there is something wrong, you must tell me. I am your husband, and in spite of our ... difficulties, you are still very dear to me.” He put his hand beneath my chin and tilted it up, making me look at him. “Tell me, my sweet, my darling little buttercup, tell me, so, whatever it is, we can make it better.”
“I ... I ...” Tears pooled in my eyes. I so wanted to believe him, but his sincerity no longer rang true to my ears; every word sounded feigned and false, like poison hidden in honey. I wanted to believe, I wanted to hope, but I couldn’t, and yet ... I couldn’t stop! “Th-There is a ... a ...”
“Come now, my darling, be brave, and tell me,” Robert cajoled. “Out with it. Keeping it bottled up inside you only makes it worse—you know that, Buttercup. Remember what the Scriptures say—the truth will set you free.”
I took a deep breath and let the words come rushing out. “I have a cancer in my breast!”
Robert just stared at me. “Is that so, my darling? Are you quite sure it is cancer, and not an abscess, or a boil, or some other bump or blemish? You know how excitable, imaginable, and prone to panic and think the worst you are.”
“I am quite certain.” I nodded. “It is cancer, Robert—I know it! If it were an abscess, it would have burst by now. Pirto’s aunt had one, and we’ve tried all the remedies, but upon me, they all failed. The lump has only grown larger and more painful, and ... there is a ... a ... an ... unpleasant discharge that is sometimes tinged with blood.”
“I see.” Robert nodded gravely. “Well, then, you shall have the best doctor in London, my darling,” he said, just as if he were promising I would have the prettiest gown at the next court ball. He leaned forward then and brushed his lips lightly against mine. “I want my Buttercup Bride to have the very best of care! I’ll go at once and arrange it,” he said, and he started for the door again.
“Robe
rt, please!” I caught desperately at his hand. “Do not send me back to Compton Verney. It is a terrible, frightening place! I cannot rest there! My food is poisoned, and I am sorely afraid that Richard Verney will murder me! Please, Robert, if you have ever loved, ever cared, for me, please, find me somewhere else to stay!”
“I have already made arrangements for you to leave,” Robert said, reaching out to stroke my hair with a tenderness that now only terrified me; I couldn’t believe it was sincere, it had come back all too suddenly. “Richard has told me how sorely jangled your nerves have been beneath his roof. In fact, they have been most disruptive to the peace of his household, and his servants have become wary of you; some even openly declare you are a madwoman and refuse to be alone with you. So I have already accepted, on your behalf, an invitation from my treasurer, Anthony Forster, to go keep his wife and children company at the house he is leasing, Cumnor Place. I shall take you there myself in November, before the Christmas festivities begin at court and I haven’t a moment to spare even for myself. It is near Oxford, and only a day, or half a day’s, ride from London, depending on which palace the court is staying at, so it will be much more convenient for me to visit you. You shall have your own wing, overlooking the center courtyard on one side and on the other a beautiful park with fine shady trees, flowers, and a pond. Mrs. Forster’s children love the pond; I’m told they like to catch frogs there, so their antics should amuse you. It will be like having your own little household, and you needn’t mingle with the others if you don’t want to, but there are other ladies staying there as well, so if you want company, then you shan’t be lonely. You see, my dear little buttercup”—he bent and smacked a kiss onto my lips—“your husband has thought of everything! Now, I’m off to find a doctor to make my Buttercup Bride all better!”
And then he was gone.
When the door closed behind him, I started shaking, trembling so hard, I had to take up Red Jack’s velvet cloak and wind it tightly around me again. Why hadn’t I thought to show it to Robert? It proved I had been telling the truth. I sat on the window seat and gazed out into the courtyard, contemplating all that had just occurred. I knew it was Red Jack I had seen having angry words with Richard Verney and throwing a purse at his feet. Surely it was not just a coincidence that it was the coach carrying me to London that he had waylaid? And why had Robert denied it, insisting that it was a spice merchant quarreling with Verney? Whenever he spoke of Verney, he painted a picture of a sentimental and cowardly man that contradicted everything I myself had seen and experienced with him. Regardless of what Robert said, Richard Verney was not the sort of man who would weep over a dead dog or piss his pants if he ever came face-to-face with a highwayman. On the contrary, down there in the courtyard with Red Jack, he had seemed fully in command of himself; he had kept his back straight, and no wet spots had appeared in the dirt between his feet. I knew what I had seen. That was no quarrel over spices, and the purse of coins flung down into the dust had been for something far more unsavory, that, to his credit, Red Jack had rejected. I huddled there, shivering in his cloak, and wondered what would become of me. I didn’t trust Robert; his manner had been too cunning, too silky, when he queried me about my condition, calling me affectionate names he had not used in years. It made me wish I had not told him. My life had become like a maze I constantly blundered about in, taking wrong turns and coming up against walls, making mistakes that, by the time I realized they were mistakes, it was too late to undo them. And telling Robert that I had cancer felt like yet another mistake, one that could prove to be as deadly as the cancer itself.
“God, help me!” I prayed as I sat there, huddled on the window seat wrapped in the highwayman’s red cloak. “Please! Deliver me from my desperation; I am so afraid!”
I thought I would be seeing a doctor soon, one of London’s best and most learned physicians, that he would come to the inn to examine me and mayhap prescribe some remedy superior to those I had tried, but when Robert returned, he was alone. He sat down on the side of my bed, took my hand in his, and said that he had discussed my condition in great detail with the Queen’s own physician and that the doctor had concluded that there was no need to insult my modesty with a personal examination. Instead, he had given Robert a vial of hemlock pills for me, though he advised that I wait until I was settled at Cumnor to start taking them, due to the deleterious side effects I was certain to suffer. Robert promised that he would arrange for a doctor to come from Oxford to visit me often and keep me well supplied with all the necessary pills and potions I would need, including the hemlock. And, he stipulated, I must obey him completely and do everything the doctor said, and take every remedy he prescribed exactly as instructed.
“But they will make you very, very sick,” Robert cautioned as he placed the vial of green pills in my hand, “for that is how they work. They will poison the disease until it is dead and make you feel as if you are on the very brink of the grave, but you must take them just the same. Don’t stop until you are fully recovered. Promise me to take them faithfully. Promise me, Amy.”
Hemlock I knew was a deadly poison. My hand began to shake, causing the pills to rattle against the glass vial, as my eyes searched Robert’s face. Were the pills he had just given me murder in the guise of medicine? I could not tell by his face. By his firm, unwavering gaze, Robert might as well have been playing cards.
“Promise me, Amy,” he said again, “that you will take the pills, even though it feels like you are swallowing death itself; promise me that you will keep taking them until you are well, that you won’t stop until the doctor pronounces you cured.”
“I promise, Robert,” I lied, just to put an end to it. I had no intention of taking even one of those vile, evil little green pills.
“That’s my girl!” Robert smiled and bent to kiss my brow again. “My Buttercup Bride shall soon be well, and we will put the past and all our problems behind us and make a new start!”
I smiled and said I hoped so with all my heart, but I didn’t believe a word of it.
After that he didn’t linger; he said he would come to Compton Verney next month to fetch me and from there escort me to Cumnor. I nodded and smiled to please Robert and speed him on his way, whilst inside my heart pulsed and pounded with fear. I could only pray that Cumnor Place would be better than Compton Verney.
26
Elizabeth
Richmond Palace, London
September 1559
For the second time in my life I saw a woman’s heart break upon her face. I saw the horror, the dawning realization, the awakening, like a brutal slap or a pail of ice water thrown in her face, as she discovered that all her suspicions, everything she didn’t want to believe, were true; her life and the love she held so dear were all a lie that, even as the shattered fragments fell about her, she wanted desperately to piece back together. As I watched Amy’s heart shatter and tears drown her blue green eyes, in my mind I was catapulted back to the day my stepmother, Katherine Parr, discovered me on the staircase at Chelsea in her husband’s arms. Tom Seymour was, just like Robert, another charming, handsome rascal who did not deserve his wife’s love, but both Katherine, and now Amy, were too blind and wounded to see that.
As Amy fled, crashing blindly through the crowded corridors, Robert turned to me; he actually opened his arms to me, as if he thought I would run into them, but I stormed past him into my bedchamber and slammed the door. I ordered my ladies, who sat gossiping over their needlework, to get out, and Kat to sit outside my door and keep everyone away. I wanted to be alone.
For the third time in my life I had come between a man and his wife. In my giddy, green girlhood I had succumbed to the seductive, virile charm of Tom Seymour, and, to save my life, during the reign of my brainsick sister, I had flirted and dallied with her beloved consort, Philip, and now, as Queen in my own right, craving passion and excitement, to be a woman without being a wife, I had discovered that my trusted childhood friend was also a liar, that what I d
id, thinking I was hurting no one, had actually broken a heart.
I poured myself a goblet of wine and sat and stared into the fire and wondered just how much of what he had told me about his marriage was true.
Amy’s eyes told me that Robert had lied. They were the eyes of a wronged and wounded woman. And that was not the face of a woman who no longer loved her husband and was content to bide apart from him. I saw the desperation and longing; I felt it, as if her angry, furious pain had reached out and slapped me. Amy’s love was still alive, palpable, kicking and fighting, though Robert’s had clearly died. Amy was fighting with all her might to hold on, to win back what she had lost, while Robert wanted only to put the past behind him and go forward, following the blinding-bright star of his ambition. No doubt when he squinted his eyes and tilted his head just right, that star looked just like a crown. And the pretty country girl who had worn a crown of buttercups on her golden curls on her wedding day must be put aside, cruelly, callously, and cold-heartedly, while Robert ploughed on, indifferent to her pain. Poor Amy! She was the sacrificial lamb to Robert’s ambition.
She was much altered since I had seen her last. I wondered if she had been ill. She had lost weight; though by no means slender as a reed, she was no longer the round and rosy young girl of seventeen I remembered striding across the meadow with a bouquet of buttercups on that joyous June day nine years ago. Had the worry and fear I had seen eaten her flesh away? She was very pale, and it was not the work of fashionable cosmetics, and her eyes were deep-sunken and dark-shadowed. I myself was no stranger to fear, I had seen its mark on her, and I knew I had been looking at a very frightened woman. But what was she so afraid of? There was more to this than met the eye, and I would have the truth laid bare before me.
