“Spare me, Edward. She’s a beautiful woman, and until she bears a son, the Oxford name is in jeopardy.”
“My cousins can inherit.”
“They’re unmarried, and your lands are crucial to England’s defenses.” Cecil folded his hands on the desk. “My boy, you must live as man and wife. There’s simply no alternative.”
“There is. My position won’t change.”
“Neither will mine.”
The longer they stared, the stronger he felt. What could Cecil do, force him to copulate? He had yet to bed any woman, and he wasn’t going to start with Nan.
Finally, Cecil sighed, stood, and left the library.
A few weeks later, the queen invited him to Havering-atte-Bower, another of his father’s country estates. He assumed the invitation was for a Christmas celebration, but just to be sure, he asked Ned Manners to inquire.
“Well, it’s not a Christmas party.”
“How do you know, Ned?”
“You’re the only one invited.”
“Perhaps she wants to celebrate my wedding.”
Ned rolled his eyes. “Without your wife?”
“Maybe she intends to discipline me,” Edward said. “When I wrote the preface to Bartholomew’s translation of The Courtier, I signed my—”
“The queen doesn’t give a fig how you sign your name.” Ned grinned. “She played the same game with Hatton. Prepare yourself for a merry Christmas, my friend.”
“What the devil are you getting at?”
“Get your head out of the clouds, Edward!” Ned slammed his book shut. “The queen wants you in her bed.”
Edward couldn’t say anything for a minute. Then, finally, “She’s forty! She was beautiful a few years ago, but …”
“What are you going to do when she climbs on top of you, politely decline?”
“Her face is covered in little scars, Ned—her maids put paste on it!”
Ned was shaking his head. “You ought to know by now, no one says no to the queen.”
Edward returned to Savoy House and buried himself in the play he was working on, The Troublesome Reign of King John. He found it hard going.
Several hours later, Arthur tapped on the door.
Edward looked up. “You brought notes?”
“I did,” Arthur said. “My boy, you violated Aristotle’s unities of time and place! Seventeen years in one king’s reign—I’m not surprised you’re having trouble.” He held up a scrap of paper. “And your use of rhetorical devices is effective, but there are dozen of quotations from Horace and Ovid. You have to—”
“Can’t you say something nice? I feel melancholy.”
“Feelings are not my brief, my boy.” Arthur flipped through his notes. “The play’s too long, your language is dated, and I count three thousand made-up words. Oh, and for God’s sakes, get rid of John wanting to abdicate—the queen will have your head.”
“The queen.” He glanced out the window. “Yes, there is that.”
That was a week ago. Now he sat in the queen’s bedroom, waiting for her to complete her morning ablutions. It didn’t seem proper, but her maid said she’d insisted. He tried to calm himself by reading the labels on the jars. Egg whites. Powered eggshells. Alum. Borax. Ground poppy seeds. Mill water. All mixed together to make the paste, he assumed. He didn’t want to think about the paste. But when she swept into the room, her face looked lovely until she sat next to him and he saw it close up.
“Your Majesty, it’s Sunday,” he said. “Would you like me to accompany you to church?”
She waved a hand. “Sermons are excuses for clergymen to lecture women. Sometimes I think my stepsister Mary was right—all Puritans should be burned at the stake.” She smiled. “Do you know they want me to ban all mystery plays? Good God, I can’t live without plays.”
“I know exactly how you feel.”
“Cecil insists that I marry. They suggested Eric of Sweden, Archduke Charles of Austria, and Philip of Spain.” She made a face. “I can’t marry a Catholic, and I refuse to take my stepsister’s leavings.”
He relaxed. She wanted to talk. He liked listening to her.
“Some even want Robin Dudley, but he’s as bad as my father.”
“Your Majesty, some say it was Cecil behind Dudley’s wife’s accident.”
“No, it was Robin, all right.” She shook her head. “No woman breaks her neck falling down two steps. Besides”—her eyes danced—“I don’t need to marry Robin to sleep with him.” She glanced at his untouched glass. “I thought you liked sherry?”
He took a sip. “Your Majesty, your predicament is awful.” He thought of Nan. “Believe me, I understand.”
She refilled his glass. “They say Catherine de Medici is pushing her sons again. I told Smith to take another look at the oldest one—imagine, me asking Thomas Smith for help.”
Edward smiled. “I was so grateful you appointed him ambassador to France.”
“Why not? I like learned people.” She drained her glass. “Smith wrote me Charles is wise for his years. Good God! He’s still half my age.”
“And I doubt Charles has a mind of his own,” he said. “His mother is so controlling.”
“Thankfully, he doesn’t need a mind of his own, just a penis.”
They both laughed.
“I sent your uncle to Vienna to inspect the archduke, Edward. He said the archduke speaks four languages, so he’s learned.” She sighed. “But again, Catholic.”
“It’d be civil war,” he said. “After the northern rebellion, we know that for a certainty.”
“The piece de resistance was when the archduke asked to ‘inspect’ me. What am I, a cow at a country fair? I told Tom to send him one of my approved portraits, and the archduke could take it or leave it. He left it, for which I’m glad.”
“Earl John used to say if one waits long enough, things take care of themselves.”
She picked up one of the mirrors that littered her table, glanced at her face, and grimaced.
Could one be in love with a mind? Nan never had a thought of her own, but the queen was clever and fun, her figure still slim. She smiled at him. He squirmed, stood up, and stretched.
“I sent Walsingham to Spain to talk marriage with Philip again,” she said. “At least he’s not a French prince. Did you know one of them—Henri, I think—wears two rows of rings on each finger of both hands?”
Again she patted the cushion next to her. Again he sat down.
“Your Majesty, this marriage business is so difficult for you,” he said. “I wish there were something I could do.”
“You’re sweet to care.” She blew him a kiss—he spotted a couple of blackened teeth. “And so innocent. That’s why I love you.”
“Your Majesty, have you heard John Dowland’s new song, ‘Vivat Eliza’?”
“Yes, it’s lovely. Puritans say I commissioned John to write an ‘Ave Maria’ to show people how to worship me.” She took his hand. “I know I’m driving Cecil mad, but so long as they can’t agree on whom I should marry, I think I’m safe. What do you think?”
“I think you probably are.”
“We must play William Byrd and Thomas Tallis on the virginals.”
“I gave Byrd one of my houses. Battails.”
“How generous of you, Edward.”
He shrugged. “It was the least I could do after he wrote some songs for me.”
She shivered, though the room was overheated. He patted her hand.
“My doctors tell me I’m suffering from hysteria,” she said. “My melancholia can last for days.”
“Mine too. Aristotle said it can last as long as a season.” He shuddered.
“Your Cardano, though—he truly understands. I can’t thank you enough for recommending his book.” She sighed. “I wonder if migraines are the result of my mood.”
“Perhaps you should consult the doctor.”
“So long as I don’t have varicose veins, I’ll be all right,” she said. �
��That’s what killed my father—of course, weighing much too much didn’t exactly help.”
They laughed. She poured more sherry for both of them.
He glanced down. She’d once prided herself on wearing simple black dresses, but her maid told him she owned hundreds of gowns now—all cut low like the one she was wearing. Pearl ropes looped around her neck like vines. Where were the diamonds that dominated her latest approved portrait? He’d heard she was threatening to include a spider motif in the next one.
“What are you writing, now, Edward?”
“History plays. The first one’s about Henry V.”
“Write amusing plays. The Puritans will bore us to death or burn us . I’m not sure which is worse, and I need to laugh.”
Surely this was his chance.
“I’d very much like to go to Italy and study their improvisational technique, commedia dell’arte. Of course, Cecil’s against my going there until I’ve fulfilled my ‘marital obligations.’ ”
She looked away. He spoke faster.
“Commedia actors take a character, a static role—a nasty old man, a stuffy soldier, a crooked doctor, a crazy zanni—and improvise his lines. They perform right on the street.”
“Can you really learn just by watching?”
“I would think so, but there’s a playwright in Mantua who has a school for drama—the Gonzaga duke’s his patron. The man’s written a fifty-volume manuscript on every aspect of theater from makeup to diction to gestures to lighting. It’s not published yet, but Arthur thinks he’d let me read it.”
“How exciting! Oh, I’d love to go with you, if I could.”
“I’d also like to watch the playwright work with his company, Your Majesty. His name is Leone de Sommi.”
“I’d marry a handsome Italian in a heartbeat—now, that would be cause for my assassination.” She laughed, but her eyes showed no mirth. “Someday one of those nice English boys they send to France for indoctrination will come back to England and kill me.”
“Your Majesty, Walsingham will protect you. He trains his men well.”
“Ever since the Pope announced it’s permissible to murder me, I haven’t been able to sleep a wink.” She grabbed both his hands. “Sit closer, Edward. I need you.”
Ned would know what to do—he had no idea. But perhaps it didn’t matter. She took his hand and pulled him to his feet. Then, still holding his hand, she walked him to her bed. She let her robe slide off her shoulders and fall to the floor. All she had on underneath the robe was a thin shift! Mesmerized by the sight of the muscular yet feminine body beneath the silky material, it took him a second to realize that the Queen of England was undressing him.
In moments they were in her bed, and worry turned to fear.
What if he got her with child? No, that wouldn’t happen—he wasn’t aroused.
But then she began to stroke him in ways he could never have imagined, with effects that astonished him.
His eyes widened and then shut tight. He could barely contain himself.
He knelt over her, the way they did in Giulio Romano’s pictures, and spread her legs. In a moment he was inside her, and as he began to move, so did she. His pleasure mounted but then became excruciating. It was for her, too—he could see it in her face, now beautiful beyond belief. When the explosion was over, he kissed her and flopped onto his back.
She turned on her side and stroked his shoulder.
“Edward, you really must sleep with Nan. You’ll enjoy the practice.”
He felt plunged from a glorious height.
“I’m sorry you were disappointed, Your Majesty.”
“Not at all—you’re quite the best virgin I’ve had. First times are usually far more difficult.”
So this wouldn’t be the last time. He smiled—why practice with Nan when he could have this? The queen knew so much. And what fun learning from her would be. He’d always been a quick study.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “If I’m willing to marry someone half my age from France, why not marry a handsome young nobleman from England?”
He blinked.
“Nobody seemed to think Dudley’s wife would be a problem, least of all Dudley,” she said. “So, I got to thinking—marrying you could be even easier. Cecil would agree—he always does, after he’s compensated.”
“Your Majesty, I don’t know what to say—”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything. Let events develop. Semper Eadem’s my motto, the same as my mother’s. Of course, nothing’s really the same. The only constant is change.”
Quick as a rabbit she straddled him.
Maybe it wasn’t love—no play, no poem would call it that—but it was sublime. She’d done things that weren’t even in Romano’s sketches. But a half-hour later, when she moved to try again, he hesitated.
“Edward, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to make a baby.”
“That’s so sweet.” She lay her head on the pillow next to his. “After my father executed my mother, he declared me a bastard. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, so if I become pregnant we’ll just have to marry.”
He took her advice and said nothing.
He left for London wondering if she was serious. He had no doubt that she could buy Cecil’s agreement to an annulment or that Nan would be happier with someone else. But did the queen really want to marry him? He was sure he could do things for England, perhaps more than his forebears. He might even be happy—she was bright, witty, educated, and God knows she was experienced. Perhaps they could cure each other’s melancholy.
Until yesterday, all he’d wanted was to go to Italy and write. Did he now want to be the queen’s consort? Or perhaps king?
If women could be fair and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm and fickle, still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond,
By service long to purchase their good will… .
Unsettled still like haggards wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man …
Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please …
And then we say when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, O what a fool was I.
The Earl of Oxford
Woman’s Changeableness
Edward was riding with the queen to meet Matthew Parker, the Archbishop of Canterbury. The road was slippery with snow, but she insisted they return to Havering-atte-Bower by horseback. If she meant to prove her riding skill, she succeeded—even the guards had trouble keeping up.
She pulled her horse closer to him. “None of us rides as well as you,” she said.
Now he knew why they’d ridden ahead of her guards. She didn’t want to be overheard.
“Edward, the day before my poor mother’s head was chopped off, she placed my hand in Matthew’s and said, ‘Elizabeth, you can count on this man.’ Matthew was her confessor, my father’s, too, and in time I chose him as mine.” She turned to face the road ahead. “You can confide in him.”
He tightened his grip on the reins. Even if she were pregnant, she could place the child with a nobleman who’d give the baby his name. She didn’t need to marry him. Apparently, a great deal depended on how things went with the archbishop.
Matthew Parker, with ruddy cheeks and a broad smile, was waiting for them at the front door. The queen kissed him on the cheek, Edward shook his hand. As they made their way to the library, Parker laid a hand on the queen’s shoulder for support.
“Edward,“ the queen said, “Matthew’s well cared for by his wife, Margaret. He was the first clergyman to marry, even before the law permitted it. He even supported Northumberland in the Northern Rebellion.”
She’d told him that on their ride to Havering. Lately, she was repeating herself—was she nervous?
They sat close to the fire. A stiff wind rattled the windows.
“Edward,” the ar
chbishop said, “the queen tells me you write plays. She saw your first when you were graduated from Oxford. She’s very proud of you.”
Edward glanced at her and smiled. “I’m very grateful.”
“When I was vice chancellor of Cambridge, I got myself in trouble over a play,” Parker said. “I permitted students to perform Pammachius, which derides the ecclesiastic system. It’s important to shake things up, don’t you think?”
“I do, provided it’s done carefully.” He put on a serious expression. He was being tested.
“I quite agree.” The archbishop’s gaze was piercing. “It’s always good to seek a middle ground. Catholics and Protestants could benefit from finding a mean, don’t you think?”
“Indeed I do,” Edward said. “I would love to see our country at peace with itself.”
Parker smiled. “I don’t credit myself with knowing all the answers—”
“You’re too modest, Matthew,” the queen said. “I wish you’d accept appointment to the Privy Council. The reformers don’t want bishops and the Catholics don’t want change. Cecil can’t get anything done.”
“Given my age, Elizabeth, I can’t decide anything more important than the color of vestments.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re the architect of our religious settlement. Thanks to you, the Church of England has an identity distinct from Catholicism and Protestantism.”
The conversation continued until the wee hours of the morning. When they went to bed, he and the queen slept in separate bedrooms. In the morning, they returned to London.
There were two more meetings in as many weeks, and then the queen announced her courses resumed. She did not need to tell him there would be no marriage. Edward felt hollow. It had been only a dream, but a marriage to the queen had captured his imagination. If there were ever a time for him to leave the country and lick his wounds, this was surely it—so he broached the subject of Italy with Cecil.
“Edward, you haven’t created an heir,” he said. “What if you were captured or killed? What about Nan?”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 10
