Shakespeare's Lady

by Alexa Schnee

  In the little time I had spent within Greenwich’s walls, I had learned that perhaps being queen was not worth all the gold and fine jewels, if you had to execute your own relatives to retain them. I hadn’t even been sure I wanted to be a lady. In some ways I wished I had stayed with the countess. I wouldn’t have been forced to be mistress to a man forty-five years older. I could have continued to play my harp and sing and write. The queen had come from a long line of monarchs and had been taught how to do her job. I would have to learn. Besides, what kingdom would want a musician’s daughter as their queen?

  For the first time since coming to court, I had a choice. I was not destined for greatness of any kind, nor did I want to be. I did not want to be queen.

  “I wouldn’t accept,” I explained. “Even if it was possible, I would not want to be a ruler.”

  Frances stepped away.

  “But why?” We both knew she would have accepted immediately. I could almost imagine Frances as the queen of England. She would be good for the job.

  “Some people are not meant for greatness, Frances,” I said. “It would take a lot for me to become a queen, anyway. People would have to die; babies would have to be born. The queen would have to make changes. It’s unlikely.”

  Frances shook her head and laughed. Her expression told me what she did not say. She would never understand why I would throw away something like this so easily.

  “If I had the opportunity,” she said as we turned back toward the palace, “I would want to be remembered for always.”

  THE DAY OF THE beheading came. We dressed warmly. The bitter February air would not be forgiving this day. Nothing would be forgiving this day.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what Elizabeth was thinking as we all made our way toward the Tower. I had never had a family, a real family, but I knew it would be difficult to get rid of your own cousin. Perhaps that’s why she stayed hidden in her chambers that day. She couldn’t live with seeing her cousin’s head roll off the block. Some criticized her weakness, but I admired her. Her Majesty rarely displayed such humanity.

  Bodies pushed against us as Frances and I made our way through the crowd. The square courtyard was packed with people, from simple farmers to dukes and earls and duchesses. Hostility was thick in the wind. It nipped at my hands and cheeks, and I pulled my scarf around my neck and over my exposed face. Boots thumped in impatience; people shivered from cold and anticipation. Everyone wanted to see the Queen of Scots punished. We were allowed closer to the front because we were recognizably ladies of the queen. The scaffold stood tall above us, a stage for the entertainment.

  I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them.

  “I can’t believe how crowded it is,” I said.

  Frances shivered and smiled at me knowingly. “Death is a popular show.”

  It was over an hour before we were allowed to see Mary. The cold was almost unbearable, and the crowd began to shout. When she was led out from the door to the Tower, there was a tremendous roar.

  The Queen of Scots was a small lady with a tired expression. At first glance, she looked defeated; her hands were folded around each other. She wore a black mantle pulled tightly around her body, but her skin was as white as the snow on which she stepped. She pursed her lips as she made her way through the crowd with her loyal ladies-inwaiting behind her. There were more jeers from the crowd. Frances joined in, booing. I couldn’t do it. It felt wrong to jeer someone in their final hour.

  Despite all those against her, Mary’s calm expression didn’t change.

  Before she stepped up to the scaffold, she handed her ladies-inwaiting the pearl necklace that hung around her neck. They carefully unlaced her outer robe and pulled it off slowly. Underneath, she wore a corset covered with red silk. She was wearing the color of the martyr. She believed she was dying for her country.

  She walked up the scaffold steps, her feet crunching in the snow. The black and red were striking against the white. I saw her tremble, but she smiled at the executioner. She was braver than any warrior. To stand up there in front of hundreds, knowing they had all come to see her die…

  My respect for her grew.

  The executioner lowered himself to one knee. More gasps came from the throng of people. He bowed his head, and she put her hand on top. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I was later to learn it was, “I forgive you, for you are about to end my troubles.”

  She was blindfolded and placed on the block. The crowd’s jeers grew louder until the noise was deafening. Mary shook uncontrollably. The executioner raised the ax high, and then, suddenly, everything was quiet.

  I heard the ax whistle through the air, and the next thing I knew, there was scarlet, like the color of her corset, everywhere. Blood flowed as a small river. The executioner raised his ax again; she hadn’t been killed by the first blow. The whistle came once again. This time the damage was done.

  The executioner held up her head by her brown hair. Blood dripped from the stub where her neck used to be. The expression on her face was serene. I went weak at the knees, and my stomach turned over. This woman had stood up to the crowd, to her cousin, to her executioner as no one else could, yet there she was, severed in two. This was what came of challenging Elizabeth. My fear of angering her grew.

  “God save the queen!” the executioner bellowed.

  “Come, let us go.” Frances’s face was ashen, and she took my elbow and steered me back toward the palace.

  We returned to the palace to find Margaret waiting for us. Queen Elizabeth had been distraught until the deed was done. Now she lay on her bed asleep, exhausted.

  “How was it?” Margaret asked when we had come back and sat down with some warm, spiced wine.

  “It was like nothing I had ever seen,” Frances said—and that was all that needed to be said.

  AFTER THAT FIRST NIGHT, Henry didn’t call for me for a few weeks, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I spent each night hoping he wouldn’t call the next. I did not want to think about when he would. The memory of that first night grew worse and worse in my mind. I prayed he had forgotten about me and moved on to another young girl.

  Margaret and Frances got into the habit of staying up with me in case he called. We chatted, mostly, or sometimes amused ourselves with games or sewing or reading. When it was past midnight we could rest peacefully; he would not call for me after that hour.

  One night, though, I could not avoid it. He asked for me. As Margaret unpinned my hair, I began to bawl, the tears streaming from my eyes. My face was turning red and my eyes puffy. Frances handed me a kerchief. Her face showed concern, and that was very unlike Frances.

  I came to him the same as I had before, my hair flowing, my nightgown clean and white. This time I made sure there would be someone waiting for me the morning after.

  That one night, he called early. I came to prefer when he called late, because he was often tired and would fall asleep quickly. The nights he called early were the worst.

  My throat throbbed from holding back tears. I couldn’t stand the man. What was I doing lying with him every time he had a whim? I sat down on a stool.

  “I can’t do it any longer,” I cried. “He must know how much I hate him.”

  Margaret sat beside me. The queen had long been in bed, so she was there to help me when I needed her. I handed Frances back her kerchief.

  “That is the way men are,” Margaret soothed. “They think of what will bring them pleasure. A woman is just a commodity to them.”

  Frances gave a soft grunt. “I don’t see it that way. Men are a commodity to me.”

  Margaret sighed and shook her head at Frances. She looked at me seriously and stroked my hair. What was she thinking at that moment? How she was married and never allowed to visit her husband? How she could never find the pleasure she should be given?

  “Oh, be quiet,” I said to Frances. “You have no idea what it’s like to have a really old man want to bed you. How much older was Philip Sidney? Fif
teen years? Well, how about forty-five? He is fortyfive years older than me.”

  I burst into another fit of tears. Margaret quieted me down by whispering softly, “Don’t wake the other ladies.”

  “But why? Why did it have to be me? Why not Lady Bess?” I asked, searching her face.

  Margaret closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she answered. Frances and I both waited, listening to the sounds of the other girls sleeping. They were so peaceful.

  “Because,” she started to answer. “The nights he is with you, he gets to pretend he is his father.”

  She looked me straight in the eyes.

  “And you are his Anne Boleyn.”

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS were quiet. We all knew he would be back, but he wasn’t a young man and I knew he could not deal with me every night. He was approaching his sixty-second year.

  One evening, though, Margaret and I sat up to wait…but Frances didn’t return to the chambers.

  I had seen her with Thomas Campion, a young poet at court, earlier in the day. She had waved me back to the chambers while she kept eye contact with the handsome bard. She boldly inserted her arm into the crook of his and gave him a playful smile. Frances had a way of making the men think they were in control of her, when really she held the higher cards.

  As we waited, Margaret paced back and forth, wearing a visible path on the queen’s carpet. I pointed it out to her with a smile. She was always so worried.

  “Frances will be fine,” I assured her.

  Margaret looked at me. She seemed so much older than even just a few minutes ago. Had I never noticed the wrinkles between her brows before? She worried more than a lady of her age should. First it was the queen, then me, and now Frances. How much would she go through before she herself would collapse under all of the pressure?

  “The queen will be angry.” She bit her lip harder.

  “It is not your fault, Margaret,” I said. “You can only do so much. Frances is just headstrong. You can’t control her all the time. You can try, but she will always find a way to get what she wants.”

  “You don’t realize what could happen to her if the queen found out. She could be banished, and she would have no place to go.”

  “The queen approves of my affair with Henry Carey. This is no different.”

  “You have her permission. More than that, she has encouraged this relationship for her cousin.”

  She was right. It made little sense that the queen would support one affair and forbid another, but Her Majesty always did seem more concerned with control than morality.

  “Sit down,” I ordered, patting the bed. “Frances can take care of herself.”

  “Frances cannot take care of herself.” She breathed heavily.

  I patted the bed again, and this time she submitted.

  “Frances and I are the same age.” I laughed. “Do you worry so much about me?”

  Margaret shook her head. I put my hand on her back, feeling her uneven breaths.

  “You are no longer a child. If there is one thing Henry Carey has done for you, it is that. Frances has no wisdom or reserve. She just does what she wants and does not think of those she might hurt.”

  She turned to face me. “Do you know who she could be with?”

  I shrugged, though I did know. “There have been many who have come to see her, but I think she was with Thomas Campion, last I saw.”

  Margaret put a hand to her head.

  “He was a friend of Philip Sidney’s,” she explained.

  She straightened her legs, but she stood instead of pacing. Some of the color returned to her countenance, and I could tell she was a bit more poised. The way she worried about those other than herself was not healthy. She cared too much for those who could not be controlled.

  Worrying about the queen was one thing, but Frances was another. Frances would always be high-spirited and willful. Anyone who thought otherwise was deluding themselves. My hands clenched. Had Philip Sidney done that to her? Or had she always been that way?

  “Please,” I said gently, “if Frances wishes to do this, well, that is her choice. She will have to face whatever happens.” I finally encouraged Margaret to go to her pallet, but I was sure that it would be a long time before she felt sleep come to her. I sat up and began the long wait for Frances.

  I sat up for hours. The large clock on the far side of the main chamber was my only companion and entertainment. Its face peered at me, almost like a person watching. The pendulum hanging like a long beard from its chin patiently swung back and forth. I pulled out my little book but thought of Henry’s words when he had seen me writing, so I put it back in the pouch that hung from the belt I wore. Instead, I thought of marriage, and I imagined my future husband’s every feature.

  He would be tall, taller than me. He would have a pleasant smile and kind hands that would hold mine. He would be a musician, and he would be happy with our one child, the child of Henry Carey. He did not have to be incredibly handsome, just so he was not wrinkled.

  I thought of the house we would share. It wouldn’t need to be expensive or filled with finely woven tapestries. I was a musician’s daughter. I imagined a house in the country, where we could raise crops and take long walks through the forest. I pictured a simple life where I could visit court occasionally to see the rest of the ladies. It would be perfect.

  When the sky began to lighten, I heard a soft knock on the door. Margaret had slept soundly throughout the night. Even now she was deep in sleep and the sound had not woken her.

  I walked over to the door and opened it a crack. A clear blue eye met my gaze and I recognized Frances’s smile.

  “Emilia.” She smiled. “Let me in.”

  I opened the door a little bit more so she could sneak inside. Turning to her sharply, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Where were you?” I asked. I gave her a cold stare. “If the queen found out—”

  Her smile fell. “You saw me leave with him….”

  “I did, but Frances…,” I began.

  I was angry because of the state she had put Margaret in the night before. Frances thought of only herself, and it hurt me to see Margaret in that way. It was not right that Frances had fun while I had to suffer with Henry Carey, either.

  “Then you should know.” Her attitude suddenly became defensive. I wished not to make her upset, only for her to realize the distress she’d put upon one of her friends.

  I looked her over. She stood with her hands on her hips. For a moment, I wondered what I could say in response.

  “Frances, perhaps it is time you thought about someone other than yourself,” I finished.

  She laughed mockingly.

  “Why should I? My father married me off when I was fourteen. He didn’t care about me. My husband only wanted me to bear him children. My life has always been about pleasing others. You know what that is like. And someday, you will feel as I do. You will want to escape as I do.”

  I could not look at her. We stood there for some time. I was not as witty as she was, and I could not think of a response until it had been several minutes. She kept her hands on her hips while I looked down to the floor. The path Margaret had worn was still visible, the color now gone from that area of the carpet. At long last I spoke.

  “Frances, we care about you.”

  She glared at me. It was as though she was scrutinizing me, like she did the first day we met. I felt as though she was again searching me to see if I was good enough to be her friend. She had no need to look through me like that. I meant every word I said.

  She would not accept my sincerity. She turned on her heel and quietly huffed to her pallet without one word.

  Our friendship seemed strong and also so fragile. But I knew at that moment that she and Margaret were my family and I was not about to let that go.

  SUMMER WAS A GOOD time for mistresses. Wives waiting at home had to be visited, so husbands left court. Henry Carey prepared to journey to Hunsdon, and I can’t say I was
sad to see him go.

  I saw him off. We met just outside the stables. The horses neighed behind us and the air smelled of horseflesh. I dressed in my dark green dress with the silver trim. I carefully avoided the mud that seemed determined to get on my hem. Henry kissed me quickly and swung onto his big bay horse.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. I will be back in the autumn when the queen asks for me.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I replied, lowering my eyes. I knew my duty as a mistress—and how to remain one.

  “I shall send you a gift.” He seemed to have believed my act.

  “You are much too generous,” I thanked him. “It would be most appreciated.”

  “Take care, my dear,” he said, as he reined his horse in.

  “You as well,” I replied.

  He gave me one last smile and then rode off. I watched until he was no longer visible, and then I ran inside the palace as fast as possible. My skirts swept out behind me. My face was triumphant. Henry Carey, gone for three months. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  My nights were free. I could do what I wanted and not have to worry about being called upon. I even returned to writing. My head was full of new ideas I had imagined while at court, and I shared them with that little book. It once again became a friend. I wrote late into the night, almost as late as I’d stayed up before. I was used to the hours and found I was most creative at night.

  Frances caught me working on my verses one night. She had been out with a courtier again. The rooms were empty, as the other ladies had all elected to stay late in the banquet hall. It was the perfect time to work on the story that had been spinning in my mind all day. There was still decent-enough light that I only needed a single candle. It illuminated the empty mattresses around me. I settled in under my covers and began scratching words into the book.

  When I heard the door to the chambers open and close, I tried to stuff the book under my mattress. Blankets flew and pillows fell as I tried to hide what I had been doing, but I wasn’t fast enough.

  “What are you doing?” Frances asked. She yawned, covering her small mouth with a hand.