The Virgin's Lover
( The Tudor Court - 4 )
Philippa Gregory
In the autumn of 1558, church bells across England ring out the joyous news that Elizabeth I is the new queen. One woman hears the tidings with utter dread. She is Amy Dudley, wife of Sir Robert, and she knows that Elizabeth's ambitious leap to the throne will draw her husband back to the center of the glamorous Tudor court, where he was born to be.
Elizabeth's excited triumph is short-lived. She has inherited a bankrupt country where treason is rampant and foreign war a certainty. Her faithful advisor William Cecil warns her that she will survive only if she marries a strong prince to govern the rebellious country, but the one man Elizabeth desires is her childhood friend, the ambitious Robert Dudley. As the young couple falls in love, a question hangs in the air: can he really set aside his wife and marry the queen? When Amy is found dead, Elizabeth and Dudley are suddenly plunged into a struggle for survival.
Philippa Gregory's The Virgin's Lover answers the question about an unsolved crime that has fascinated detectives and historians for centuries. Intelligent, romantic, and compelling, The Virgin's Lover presents a young woman on the brink of greatness, a young man whose ambition exceeds his means, and the wife who cannot forgive them.
From Publishers Weekly
Bestseller Gregory captivates again with this expertly crafted historical about the beautiful young Virgin Queen, portrayed as a narcissistic, neurotic home-wrecker. As in her previous novels about Tudor England (The Queen's Fool, etc.), Gregory amasses a wealth of colorful period detail to depict the shaky first days of Elizabeth I's reign. The year is 1558, an especially dangerous time for the nation: no bishop will coronate Henry VIII's Protestant daughter, the treasury is bankrupt, the army is unpaid and demoralized. Meanwhile, the French are occupying Scotland and threatening to install "that woman"—Mary, Queen of Scots—on the throne. Ignoring the matrimonial advice of pragmatic Secretary of State William Cecil, the 25-year-old Elizabeth persists in stringing along Europe's most eligible bachelors, including King Philip of Spain and the Hapsburg archduke Ferdinand. It's no secret why: she's fallen for her "dark, saturnine" master of horse, Sir Robert Dudley, whose traitorous family history and marriage to the privately Catholic Amy make him an unsuitable consort. Gregory deftly depicts this love triangle as both larger than life and all too familiar; all three characters are sympathetic without being likable, particularly the arch-mistress Elizabeth, who pouts, throws tantrums, connives and betrays with queenly impunity. After a while the plot stagnates, as the lovers flaunt their emotions in the face of repetitious arguments from Amy, Cecil and various other scandalized members of the court. But readers addicted to Gregory's intelligent, well-researched tales of intrigue and romance will be enthralled, right down to the teasingly tragic ending.
For Anthony
Autumn 1558
ALL THE BELLS in Norfolk were ringing for Elizabeth, pounding the peal into Amy’s head, first the treble bell screaming out like a mad woman, and then the whole agonizing, jangling sob till the great bell boomed a warning that the whole discordant carillon was about to shriek out again. She pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the sound, and yet still it went on, until the rooks abandoned their nests and went streaming into the skies, tossing and turning in the wind like a banner of ill omen, and the bats left the belfry like a plume of black smoke as if to say that the world was upside down now, and day should be forever night.
Amy did not need to ask what the racket was for; she already knew. At last, poor sick Queen Mary had died, and Princess Elizabeth was the uncontested heir. Praise be. Everyone in England should rejoice. The Protestant princess had come to the throne and would be England’s queen. All over the country people would be ringing bells for joy, striking kegs of ale, dancing in the streets, and throwing open prison doors. The English had their Elizabeth at last, and the fear-filled days of Mary Tudor could be forgotten. Everyone in England was celebrating.
Everyone but Amy.
The peals, pounding Amy into wakefulness, did not bring her to joy. Amy, alone in all of England, could not celebrate Elizabeth’s upward leap to the throne. The chimes did not even sound on key, they sounded like the beat of jealousy, the scream of rage, the sobbing shout of a deserted woman.
“God strike her dead,” she swore into her pillow as her head rang with the pound of Elizabeth’s bells. “God strike her down in her youth and her pride and her beauty. God blast her looks, and thin her hair, and rot her teeth, and let her die lonely and alone. Deserted, like me.”
Amy had no word from her absent husband: she did not expect one. Another day went by and then it was a week. Amy guessed that he would have ridden at breakneck pace to Hatfield Palace from London at the first news that Queen Mary was dead. He would have been the first, as he had planned, the very first to kneel before the princess and tell her she was queen.
Amy guessed that Elizabeth would already have a speech prepared, some practiced pose to strike, and for his part Robert would already have his reward in mind. Perhaps even now he was celebrating his own rise to greatness as the princess celebrated hers. Amy, walking down to the river to fetch in the cows for milking because the lad was sick and they were shorthanded at Stanfield Hall, her family’s farm, stopped to stare at the brown leaves unraveling from an oak tree and whirling like a snowstorm, southwest to Hatfield where her husband had blown, like the wind itself, to Elizabeth.
She knew that she should be glad that a queen had come to the throne who would favor him. She knew she should be glad for her family, whose wealth and position would rise with Robert’s. She knew that she should be glad to be Lady Dudley once more: restored to her lands, given a place at court, perhaps even made a countess.
But she was not. She would rather have had him at her side as an attainted traitor, with her in the drudgery of the day and in the warm silence of the night; anything rather than than ennobled as the handsome favorite at another woman’s court. She knew from this that she was a jealous wife; and jealousy was a sin in the eyes of God.
She put her head down and trudged on to the meadows where the cows grazed on the thin grass, churning up sepia earth and flints beneath their clumsy hooves.
How could we end up like this? she whispered to the stormy sky piling up a brooding castle of clouds over Norfolk. Since I love him so much, and since he loves me? Since there is no one for us but each other? How could he leave me to struggle here, and dash off to her? How could it start so well, in such wealth and glory as it did, and end in hardship and loneliness like this?
One Year Earlier: Summer 1557
IN HIS DREAM he saw once again the rough floorboards of the empty room, the sandstone mantelpiece over the big fireplace with their names carved into it, and the leaded window, set high in the stone wall. By dragging the big refectory table over to the window, climbing up, and craning their necks to look downward, the five young men could see the green below where their father came slowly out to the scaffold and mounted the steps.
He was accompanied by a priest of the newly restored Roman Catholic church; he had repented of his sins and recanted his principles. He had begged for forgiveness and slavishly apologized. He had thrown away all fidelity for the chance of forgiveness, and by the anxious turning of his head as he searched the faces of the small crowd, he was hoping for the arrival of his pardon at this late, this theatrical moment.
He had every reason to hope. The new monarch was a Tudor and the Tudors knew the power of appearances. She was devout, and surely would not reject a contrite heart. But more than anything else, she was a woman, a soft-hearted, thick-headed woman. She would never have the courage to take the decision to execute such a great man, she would never have the
stamina to hold to her decision.
“Stand up, Father,” Robert urged him silently. “The pardon must come at any moment; don’t lower yourself by looking for it.”
The door behind Robert opened, and a jailer came in and laughed raucously to see the four young men up at the window, shading their eyes against the brilliant midsummer sun. “Don’t jump,” he said. “Don’t rob the axeman, bonny lads. It’ll be you four next, and the pretty maid.”
“I will remember you for this, after our pardons have come, and we are released,” Robert promised him, and turned his attention back to the green. The jailer checked the thick bars on the window and saw that the men had nothing that could break the glass, and then went out, still chuckling, and locked the door.
Below on the scaffold, the priest stepped up to the condemned man, and read him prayers from his Latin Bible. Robert noticed how the wind caught the rich vestments and made them billow like the sails of an invading Armada. Abruptly, the priest finished, held up a crucifix for the man to kiss, and stepped back.
Robert found he was suddenly cold, chilled to ice by the glass of the window where he was resting his forehead and the palms of his hands, as if the warmth of his body was bleeding out of him, sucked out by the scene below. On the scaffold, his father knelt humbly before the block. The axeman stepped forward and tied the blindfold over his eyes; he spoke to him. The prisoner turned his bound head to reply. Then, dreadfully, it seemed as if that movement had disoriented him. He had taken his hands from the executioner’s block, and he could not find it again. He started to feel for it, hands outstretched. The executioner had turned to pick up his axe, and when he turned back, his prisoner was near to falling, scrabbling about.
Alarmed, the hooded executioner shouted at the struggling prisoner, and the prisoner plucked at the bandage over his eyes, calling that he was not ready, that he could not find the block, that the axe must wait for him.
“Be still!” Robert hollered, hammering against the thick glass of the window. “Father, be still! For God’s sake, be still!”
“Not yet!” cried the little figure on the green to the axeman behind him. “I can’t find the block! I am not ready! I am not prepared! Not yet! Not yet!”
He was crawling in the straw, one hand outstretched before him, trying to find the block, the other hand plucking at the tight bandage over his head. “Don’t touch me! She will pardon me! I’m not ready!” he screamed, and was still screaming, as the axeman swung his blade and the axe thudded into the exposed neck. A gout of blood spurted upward, and the man was thrown to one side with the blow.
“Father!” Robert shouted. “My father!”
The blood was pumping from the wound but the man still scrabbled like a dying pig in the straw, still trying to get to his feet with boots that could get no purchase, still searching blindly for the block, with hands that were growing numb. The executioner, cursing his own inaccuracy, raised the great axe again.
“Father!” Robert cried out in agony as the axe came down. “Father!”
“Robert? My lord?” A hand was gently shaking him. He opened his eyes and there was Amy before him, her brown hair plaited for sleep, her brown eyes wide, solidly real in the candlelight of the bedroom.
“Good God! What a nightmare! What a dream. God keep me from it. God keep me from it!”
“Was it the same dream?” she asked. “The dream of your father’s death?”
He could not even bear that she should mention it. “Just a dream,” he said shortly, trying to recover his wits. “Just a terrible dream.”
“But the same dream?” she persisted.
He shrugged. “It’s hardly surprising that it should come back to me. Do we have some ale?”
Amy threw back the covers and rose from the bed, pulling her nightgown around her shoulders. But she was not to be diverted. “It’s an omen,” she said flatly, as she poured him a mug of ale. “Shall I heat this up?”
“I’ll take it cold,” he said.
She passed him the mug and he drank it down, feeling his night sweat cooling on his naked back, ashamed of his own terror.
“It’s a warning,” she said.
He tried to find a careless smile, but the horror of his father’s death, and all the failure and sadness that had ridden at his heels since that black day, was too much for him. “Don’t,” he said simply.
“You should not go tomorrow.”
Robert took a draught of ale, burying his face in the mug to avoid her accusing gaze.
“A bad dream like that is a warning. You should not sail with King Philip.”
“We’ve been through this a thousand times. You know I have to go.”
“Not now! Not after you dreamed of your father’s death. What else could it mean but a warning to you: not to overreach yourself? He died a traitor’s death after trying to put his son on the throne of England. Now you ride out in your pride once more.”
He tried to smile. “Not much pride,” he said. “All I have is my horse and my brother. I could not even raise my own battalion.”
“Your father himself is warning you from beyond the grave.”
Wearily, he shook his head. “Amy, this is too painful. Don’t cite him to me. You don’t know what he was like. He would have wanted me to restore the Dudleys. He would never have discouraged me in anything I wanted to do. He always wanted us to rise. Be a good wife to me, Amy-love. Don’t you discourage me—he would not.”
“You be a good husband,” she retorted. “And don’t leave me. Where am I to go when you have sailed for the Netherlands? What is to become of me?”
“You will go to the Philipses, at Chichester, as we agreed,” he said steadily. “And if the campaign goes on, and I don’t come home soon—you will go home, to your stepmother’s at Stanfield Hall.”
“I want to go home to my own house at Syderstone,” she said. “I want us to make a house together. I want to live with you as your wife.”
Even after two years of shame he still had to grit his teeth to refuse her. “You know the Crown has taken Syderstone. You know there’s no money. You know we can’t.”
“We could ask my stepmother to rent Syderstone from the Crown for us,” she said stubbornly. “We could work the land. You know I would work. I’m not afraid of working hard. You know we could rise by hard work, not by some gamble for a foreign king. Not by going into danger for no certain reward!”
“I know you would work,” Robert acknowledged. “I know you would rise at dawn and be in the fields before the sun. But I don’t want my wife to work like a peasant on the land. I was born for greater things than that, and I promised your father greater things for you. I don’t want half a dozen acres and a cow, I want half of England.”
“They will think you have left me because you are tired of me,” she said reproachfully. “Anyone would think so. You have only just come home to me and you are leaving me again.”
“I have been home with you for two years!” he exclaimed. “Two years!” Then he checked himself, trying to take the irritation from his voice. “Amy, forgive me, but it is no life for me. These months have been like a lifetime. With my name attainted by treason I can own nothing in my own right, I cannot trade or sell or buy. Everything my family had was seized by the Crown—I know!—and everything you had too: your father’s legacy, your mother’s fortune. Everything that you had has been lost by me. I have to get it back for you. I have to get it back for us.”
“I don’t want it at this price,” she said flatly. “You always say that you are doing this for us, but it is not what I want, it’s no good for me. I want you at home with me, I don’t care if we have nothing. I don’t care if we have to live with my stepmother and depend on her charity. I don’t care for anything but that we are together and you are safe at last.”
“Amy, I cannot live on that woman’s charity. It is a shoe which pinches me every day. When you married me, I was the son of the greatest man in England. It was his plan, and mine, that my brot
her would be king and Jane Grey would be queen, and we came within inches of achieving that. I would have been of the royal family of England. I expected that, I rode out to fight for it. I would have laid down my life for it. And why not? We had as great a claim to the throne as the Tudors, who had done the self-same thing only three generations before. The Dudleys could have been the next royal family of England. Even though we failed and were defeated…”
“And humbled,” she supplemented.
“And humbled to dust,” he agreed. “Yet I am still a Dudley. I was born for greatness, and I have to claim it. I was born to serve my family and my country. You don’t want a little farmer on a hundred acres. You don’t want a man who sits at home all day in the cinders.”
“But I do,” she said in a strangled voice. “What you don’t see, Robert, is that to be a little farmer in a hundred acres is to make a better England—and in a better way—than any courtier struggling for his own power at court.”
He almost laughed. “Perhaps to you. But I have never been such a man. Not even defeat, not even fear of death itself, could make me into such a man. I was born and bred to be one of the great men in the land, if not the greatest. I was brought up alongside the children of the king as their equal—I cannot molder in a damp field in Norfolk. I have to clear my name, I have to be noticed by King Philip, I have to be restored by Queen Mary. I have to rise.”
“You will be killed in battle, and then what?”
Robert blinked. “Sweetheart, this is to curse me, on our last night together. I will sail tomorrow, whatever you say. Don’t ill wish me.”
“You have had a dream!” Amy climbed on the bed and took the empty mug from him, and put it down, holding his hands in hers, as if she were teaching a child. “My lord, it is a warning. I am warning you. You should not go.”
“I have to go,” he said flatly. “I would rather be dead and my name cleared by my death, than live like this, an undischarged traitor from a disgraced family, in Mary’s England.”
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