by Mary Hooper
I moved my head slightly, as if looking elsewhere, but concentrating all my attention on her. This was Mistress Madeleine Pryor; the girl I had to follow. Where would she lead me? Was she – though seemingly lovely and innocent – an enemy to our queen? Was she part of a larger plan to put Mary Queen of Scots on the throne of England?
It didn’t seem possible. But how could I tell?
A heavy cart came through the gates and trundled over the cobbles, coming to rest just before the platform on which the queen was to stand. On this cart was a great barrel of earth and, growing out of this, a full-sized evergreen tree, tall as a house, pinned here and there with paper blossoms.
‘Why ever is that tree there?’ my companion in red asked as they removed the dray horses that had pulled the cart.
I shook my head, then said in surprise. ‘I believe I see someone sitting in it!’
From behind us came some laughter, and I turned to see a stout, elderly man wearing a black velvet doublet glossed with silver embroidery. ‘That is poor Lord Stamford,’ he said to us. ‘Two years ago the queen was so greatly displeased with him that she banished him from Court, and now he seeks to regain his place in her heart.’
‘By sitting in a tree?’ I asked.
‘Not only that. I believe he is to perform a pretty song commending Her Grace’s charms, and also recite a poem seeking her forgiveness.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, ‘tis a terrible thing to be banned from Court!’
‘Indeed!’ the older woman said. ‘My daughter told me that only this week Her Grace had shut someone in the Tower for daring to marry without her consent.’
‘Aye,’ said the portly man. ‘That’s young Elsbeth George. She is in the Tower, and her husband is fled to France to escape the queen’s wrath!’
‘But what was their crime?’ I asked.
‘Just to marry, I believe,’ said the woman.
The man looked down at his velvet doublet and brushed it with a fussy, finicky motion. ‘If I may attempt to explain. It appears that our Gloriana – may God bless her name – does not wish to marry at the moment. While she keeps her single status, she holds her virginity very dear and expects her ladies to do the same.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She also expects unstinting love and attention from the men who surround her. If one of them marries, then that means one less suitor for herself.’
‘They cannot all be her suitors!’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Do you not think so? But we all adore her! You should see us clustering around her like drones around a bumble bee.’ He sighed again. ‘The Court is like the sun – ‘tis the centre of all glory.’
‘So they say,’ the woman returned.
‘And are you, too, Sir, one who craves the queen’s love?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Alas, I am too old! And when I was not, I was not sufficiently well-born, nor rich, nor elegant enough to attract the queen’s attention.’
‘You need all those attributes, then?’ I asked, somewhat amused.
‘All those and more. Her Grace likes a man to be handsome, and beyond that he must also be a wit, poet, musician, dancer, linguist, horseman and tennis player. Ah, and he should have Italian manners.’
‘’Tis difficult to be all those things!’ the woman and I exclaimed almost as one.
‘’Tis damned difficult! And ‘tis only the Master of the Queen’s Horse, Robert Dudley, who has managed to stay the course over these past years. He remains the most loved and favoured courtier of them all.’
‘But my daughter said there are rumours about Dudley . . .’ the woman murmured, and the man alighted on this eagerly.
‘Indeed! There are rumours everywhere that he has secretly married, and if that is true and Her Grace discovers it . . . well, there will be greater fireworks about the palace than ever you will see tonight.’
I looked at him, marvelling, anticipating conveying all this gossip to Isabelle. Was the queen’s French suitor not enough, then? Did she wish to retain Robert Dudley as her lover as well? And what of he? If he had married, was it for love, or just to get even with the queen?
‘You say Her Grace will not marry,’ I said, ‘but what about the French suitor who has come a-wooing with a bag of pearls?’
‘There you have said it: French,’ said the man. ‘French and Catholic. Though Her Grace seems fond of him and will take his pearls, I wager she will not marry him in the end.’
‘She is coming!’ someone in the crowd shouted. A ragged cheering broke out from the balconies and terraces and, looking to the horizon, I saw bobbing lights in the distance which, coming closer, turned out to be a small party on horseback riding across the park with lanterns aloft.
The tension and excitement grew and, as the riders neared the palace, bells from the nearby churches began ringing and the musicians below us struck up a tune. Hearing this, everyone within the courtyard set up a frenzied cheering which, had we been inside, would surely have lifted the very rafters.
Her Royal Majesty the Queen of England was within our sights!
Chapter Twelve
I joined in the excited cheering and waving, all the while watching Mistress Pryor to see if there was less fervour in her greeting; to see, perhaps, if her heart was elsewhere and she responded to the arrival of Her Grace with less enthusiasm than did everyone else. I could not detect a whit of difference, however.
The little group on horseback paused at the gateway and was greeted by a tall man wearing the queen’s livery, who our male companion said was the Lord Chancellor. Bowing very low, he unrolled and read out a parchment commending Her Grace’s return to Richmond and acknowledging that, of all her palaces, it was her favourite. In flowery language it bade Her Royal Majesty the compliments of the season and announced that the festivities which followed were the first of twelve nights of revelry to be enjoyed before the Court moved to Whitehall in January.
This speech over, the men surrounding the queen slipped from their horses, but she stayed on her white mount and was led by a man dressed in black and gold (‘Robert Dudley!’ everyone whispered) towards the platform in the centre of the courtyard. I stared very hard at him, hoping to see something of the charm and charisma which made him the favourite of the queen, but could not, for although he held himself proudly and was dressed mighty fine, with shining buttons on his doublet and glittering braiding across his chest, he was too old and grey for me to consider handsome.
The queen, in black and ermine riding jacket, was helped from her horse and escorted to a throne which had been set upon the platform. As she sat down, we all – inside the courtyard and without, wherever we were standing – set up a cheering and a cry of ‘God bless Your Majesty!’ which was given so fervently and lovingly that it brought a tear to my eye.
Her Grace looked round at us and silence fell. ‘I thank you all, my good and faithful people,’ she said, then added, ‘You may well have a greater prince, but you shall never have one who loves you more than I do.’
We were all much affected by these words, and I saw several lusty men reduced to tears. Under the cover of feeling in my pocket for a kerchief, I stole a glance at Mistress Pryor and saw that she, too, was dabbing at her eyes. So either she loved Her Grace as entirely as everyone else – or was feigning very well indeed.
There was a little pause while a fur-lined purple cloak was placed around Her Grace’s shoulders by a maid of honour, following which she was joined on the stage by those gentlemen who had escorted her. All were of noble stature, great striding men who seemed very well aware of their own worth in the world. The portly man behind us named them Hatton, Essex and Ralegh, though I could not have said which one was which.
As all the courtyard grew hushed, I was charmed to see Tomas appear in front of the stage with about twenty little children dressed in white. He set them in their proper places with some difficulty, for they kept wandering off, sitting down or engaging each other in conversation, thus eliciting much amusement from the crowd. Once settled, however, they sang a carol,
and then a Christmas greeting to Her Grace, their pure voices floating upwards and enchanting us all. The songs over, they were invited on to the stage and allowed, each in turn, to kiss the queen’s hand. Most did so, although two or three were just too young and overawed to do such a thing and ran away before they could be called forward.
There was more laughter at this and I glanced to Mistress Pryor. Yes, she was still there, leaning on the balustrade, applauding and laughing along with everyone else.
Tomas disappeared with the last of the children and, the musicians striking up anew, about eight lads and lasses came on dressed in country style as milkmaids and shepherds and carrying Christmas garlands and coloured ribbands. They proceeded to dance a pretty set before the queen, criss-crossing the ribbands they held and dancing to and fro with much agility. Sometimes the fellows lifted the girls so high that a flurry of white petticoats, stockings and coloured garters could be seen, which set all the men in the audience a-cheering.
I turned again to look for Mistress Pryor and saw her still applauding. When would she leave? Would she go at all? She must, I thought, be a very brave woman if she would secretly plot against Her Grace in the midst of her own Court. But then, if she held Mary Queen of Scots to be the true queen she would probably do anything to see her on the throne – in the same way that I, too, would be prepared to lay down my life in my queen’s interests.
A woman clothed all in white and silver, wearing a headdress of snowy-white flowers, came on the stage next and announced that she represented the Spirit of Winter. She handed Elizabeth a key, said it was the key to the hearts of all her people, and sang a beautiful song, but this was all in a foreign language and I did not understand what it was about. Her Grace evidently did, however, for she applauded very much at the end and spoke to the woman for several minutes.
Next came a wonderful amount of birdsong, which caused the men on the stage to stare at the skies and cup their hands to their ears theatrically, as if they were filled with wonder at such a sublime noise. It was not clear where it was coming from, for none of the musicians seemed to be playing, and I asked my lady friend if she thought it was a nightingale, and if so, how she thought it could sing on cue.
‘It is not a bird. It is Stamford! It is Stamford singing his heart out!’ whispered the man with us, and as the birdsong continued, the leaves on the false tree shook and shivered. When it stopped, the branches parted and a man was revealed sitting on a branch. He was dressed as a minstrel in red silk doublet and hose, and carried a lute.
‘Your Grace, I seek your pardon,’ he called, sounding very humble, and read a sonnet asking for forgiveness. After this, playing a plaintive tune upon his lute, he sang a song which complimented the queen on her wit, her elegance and her beauty, ending with the plea that he might return to her side and be one of her favoured circle once more.
As the last notes of this died away, all eyes were on the queen to see what her reaction might be, and there were several moments of silence during which Her Grace seemed to be considering her answer. At last, however, she smiled, rose to her feet and went over to the tree, where she offered the singer her hand so that he might climb down.
Everyone cheered mightily at this, for although not many would have heard of the man nor know why he’d been banished, the exceedingly cheerful mood of the evening meant that had England’s great enemy the King of Spain come by then, he, too, would probably have been forgiven for his sins. Yes, and given a bag of treasure, as well.
Stamford knelt before the queen, then seized her hand and kissed it effusively before she bade him rise and join the other men on the platform.
I looked back to my quarry, standing at the balustrade. Was she really conspiring against Her Grace? How was that possible? Such was my devotion that I couldn’t envisage a world where the queen wasn’t loved and admired more than any other living person.
I returned my attention to the platform, wondering what was coming next. It was a chill night but the proximity of so many others and the sheer excitement of what was going on were enough to warm me through. A play followed: a story enacted on the other cart which purported to show members of a family sitting around a dining table having their supper. There was much discord between them, many arguments and oaths, with the father of the family bitterly complaining to his wife and children of this and that. Suddenly, however, an angel appeared from a trapdoor in the cart and counselled them all to love each other, and following this they vowed to make friends and live in unity ever after. This was acted in a seemly manner and easy to understand, but I could not accept the sentiments therein, for I knew that my father would never suddenly become mannerly, kind or generous, whether appealed to by one angel or ten.
The play finished and, as the cart was rolled away, there was a sudden noise like a gunshot – nay, a score of gunshots together – making us gasp or cry out. The only one who didn’t seem disturbed was Her Grace – but, of course, she had seen fireworks before.
A puff of smoke went up from somewhere to the right of the platform, then a sheet of pink flame, and everyone murmured in admiration and made themselves ready so that the next great commotion would not catch them unawares. This came as a comet trailing orange and yellow sparks, and after this a wheel of fire, then a vast column of coloured sparks accompanied by a tremendous rush of noise. There was great applause and cheering at these violent and fiery explosions (which went some way to drown the screaming of frightened children) in spite of the fact that they sent sparks in every direction and one lady’s gown began smouldering.
The display lasted several minutes, only stopping when another great comet-like object hurtled sideways instead of upwards and, falling on to a thatched pig-barn on the other side of the wall, set it alight. All the pigs could be heard running out, squealing and grunting, and in a moment the roof was blazing high and bright. There was great alarm, of course, in case the fire spread towards the palace, and people immediately began running for buckets and organising themselves into a chain to bring water from the river to put it out.
It was then, in the midst of all this chaos and while the queen was being escorted safely inside on the arm of Robert Dudley, that I turned and realised that Mistress Pryor had disappeared.
I stared at the space where she’d been, furious with myself, muttering a curse under my breath at my own stupidity and making my female companion look at me in surprise.
I murmured an apology, ran down the steps and pushed through the throng, searching for a woman in a green velvet gown. She was not there, however; she had fled, and I was deeply embarrassed and ashamed. I’d failed Tomas and, to my mind, failed Her Grace also.
‘I was watching her all the time,’ I said to Tomas, very contrite. ‘I hardly took my eyes off her but for a minute.’
Tomas shrugged. He was disappointed, I could tell, but was trying to make light of it. ‘Mistress Pryor is very good at disappearing. She’s already escaped from me twice.’
‘I’m so sorry, Tomas.’
‘You’re forgiven,’ he said. ‘You’re new to this game.’
‘I promise I won’t fail the next time. There will be a next time?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Of course. You are coming to the palace with Dr Dee and his partner, are you not?’
I nodded.
‘Perhaps you’ll have occasion to follow Mistress Pryor then. But now you must go home, for the fire’s been put out and the courtyard is emptying fast. He felt in his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, which he gave to me. ‘Use part of this to hire someone to light you home, and keep the rest in case you need it on another occasion.’ Hailing a passing lackey, he asked him to find a link-boy to see me safely back to Mortlake, and I thanked him very much, though I had been hoping that he’d have taken me home himself. Instead, however, I was wished goodnight in a kind enough way, but with no kiss, nor even clasping of hands.
I’d hoped that Mistress Midge would have retired for the night, for, my mind full of the sights that
I’d seen, I wanted to go straight to bed and think of them all. I did not, besides, want to have to make up any tales of how Isabelle and I had gone a-mumming around the streets. In spite of the late hour, however, Mistress Midge was still in the kitchen, sitting on her usual stool before the kitchen fire and looking very glum.
‘Are you still here?’ I said, pulling my cloak tight around me so that she wouldn’t see my fine gown. ‘I thought you’d be a bed long ago.’
She sighed. ‘I’m fair mouldered with tiredness,’ she said, ‘but the news has made me so out of sorts that I know I won’t sleep.’
I looked at her in alarm. ‘What is it? Has something happened to one of the girls?’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that. ‘Tis just that the Walsinghams aren’t coming to dinner after all.’
‘Not coming!’ I cried, thinking of the amount of food we’d prepared and set on shelves in the cold room, the pickled oysters, the peacock, the roasted calf’s head, the sugared flowers, coloured jellies and sweetmeats – not to mention the greenery around the house, the new table linen and glassware and the venison. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Sir Francis must remain with Her Grace, for she has ordered that all her gentlemen are to stay at the palace until Twelfth Night.’
‘Oh,’ I breathed, and though I was sorry that I wouldn’t be seeing the mighty Sir Francis Walsingham, I was also somewhat relieved, for I knew the day would have been full and very fraught.
‘Dr Dee is very much vexed, for he’d set his heart on having a noble family come to eat the queen’s meat,’ said Mistress Midge despondently.
‘But . . . well, we’ve been saying all along, haven’t we, that ‘tis far too much work for us and that we’d never manage it all?’
She nodded grudgingly. ‘We have.’
‘Then isn’t this good news?’
‘But to let us know now, at this hour, when we have enough foodstuffs in the cold room to feed King Harry’s Army. The waste of it all!’
