The Virgin's Lover

by Philippa Gregory

  “Yes, come,” he said, following her gaze, and led her through the door into his chamber.

  A handsome four-poster bed took up most of the room, a priedieu in the corner, a shelf with a small collection of books, a lute. His plumed hat was on the bed, his cloak on the back of the door.

  “No one will come in?” she asked him breathlessly.

  “No one,” he assured her, and then shut the door and slid the heavy iron bolt.

  He turned to her. She was trembling with anticipation, fear, and mounting desire.

  “I cannot have a child,” she specified.

  He nodded. “I know. I will take care of that.”

  Still she looked anxious. “How can you be sure?”

  He reached into the inner pocket of his doublet and drew out a prophylactic, made of sheep’s bladder sewn with tiny stitches and trimmed with ribbons. “This will keep you safe.”

  Torn between nerves and curiosity, she giggled. “What is it? How does it work?”

  “Like armor. You must be my squire and put it on me.”

  “I cannot be bruised where my women might see.”

  He smiled. “I will not leave so much as a print of my lips on you. But inside, Elizabeth, you will burn up, I promise.”

  “I am a little afraid.”

  “My Elizabeth,” he said softly, and stepped toward her, and took off the mobcap. “Come to me, my love.”

  Her mass of red hair tumbled about her shoulders. Robert took a handful of the locks and kissed them, then, as she turned her entranced face toward him, kissed her full on the mouth. “My Elizabeth, at last,” he said again.

  Within moments she was in a dream of sensuality. He had always imagined that she would be responsive but under his skilled hands she stretched like a cat, reveling in pleasure. She was wanton: no hint of shame as she stripped to her skin and laid on his bed and reached out her arms for him. As his chest pressed against her face he smiled to find her feverish with desire, but then lost his own awareness in the rise of his feelings. He wanted to touch every inch of her skin, to kiss every fingertip, every dimple, every crevice of her body. He moved her one way and then another, touching, tasting, licking, probing, until she cried out loud that she must, she must have him, and then at last he allowed himself to enter her and watched her eyelids flicker closed and her rosy lips smile.

  It was Sunday. The Hyde family, Lizzie Oddingsell, Lady Dudley, and all the Hyde servants were seated in a block in the parish church, the Hyde family and their guests in their high-walled pew, the servants arranged in strict order of precedence behind them, the women first, the men behind.

  Amy was on her knees, her eyes fixed on Father Wilson as he held the Host toward them, preparing the communion in full sight of the congregation, in obedience to the new directive, though no bishop in the country had agreed, and most of them were either in the Tower or the Fleet prison. Oxford’s own Bishop Thomas had escaped to Rome before they could arrest him, and the see was vacant. No one would come forward to fill it. Not one man of God would serve in Elizabeth’s heretical church.

  Amy’s gaze was entranced, her lips silently moved as she watched him bless the Host, and then bid them come to take communion.

  Like a sleeper in a dream she walked forward with the others and bent her head. The wafer was cloying on her tongue as she closed her eyes and knew that she was sharing in the very body of the living Christ, a miracle that no one could deny or explain. She returned to her pew and bent her head again. She whispered her prayer: “Lord God, send him back to me. Save him from the sin of ambition and from the sin that is that woman, and send him back to me.”

  After the service was over Father Wilson bade farewell to his parishioners at the lych-gate. Amy took his hand and spoke quietly to him, for his ears only.

  “Father, I would confess, and celebrate Mass in the proper way.”

  He recoiled and glanced around at the Hydes. No one but him had heard Amy’s whispered request.

  “You know it is forbidden now,” he said quietly. “I can hear your confession but I have to pray in English.”

  “I cannot feel free from my sin without attending Mass in the old way,” Amy said.

  He patted her hand. “Daughter, is this true to your heart?”

  “Father, truly, I am most in need of grace.”

  “Come to the church on Wednesday evening, at five o’clock,” he told her. “But tell no one else. Just say you are coming to pray on your own. Take care not to betray us by accident. This is a life-and-death matter now, Lady Dudley; not even your husband must know.”

  “It is his sin that I must atone for,” she said dully. “As well as my own in failing him.”

  He checked at the pain in the young woman’s face. “Ah, Lady Dud ley, you cannot have failed him,” he exclaimed, speaking more as a man than a priest, prompted by pity.

  “I must have done,” she said sadly. “And many times. For he has gone from me, Father, and I don’t know how to live without him. Only God can restore him, only God can restore me, only God can restore us to each other, if he can forgive me for my failures as a wife.”

  The priest bowed and kissed her hand, wishing that he could do more. He looked around. Mrs. Oddingsell was nearby; she came up and took Amy’s arm.

  “Let’s walk home now,” she said cheerfully. “It will be too hot to go out later.”

  It was the fifteenth of July, the day of the tournament, and all Elizabeth’s court could think of was the clothes they would wear, the arrangements for the jousting, the roses they would carry, the songs they would sing, the dances they would dance, the hearts they would break. All Cecil could think of was his latest letter from Throckmorton in Paris.

  July 9th

  He is failing fast, I expect to hear of his death any day. I will send to you the moment I hear. Francis II will be King of France, and it is certain that Mary will style herself Queen of France, Scotland, and England; my intelligencer has seen the announcement that the clerks are drawing up. With the wealth of France and the generalship of the Guise family, with Scotland as their Trojan horse, they will be unstoppable. God help England and God help you, old friend. I think you will be England’s last Secretary of State and all our hopes will lie in ruins.

  Cecil translated the letter out of code, and sat with it for a few thoughtful minutes. Then he took the whole transcript to the queen in her privy chamber. She was laughing with her ladies as they prepared their costumes; Laetitia Knollys, in virginal white trimmed with the darkest rose red, was plaiting roses into a circlet for the queen to wear as a crown. Cecil thought that the news he had in the letter in his hand was like a summer storm which can blow up out of nowhere, and strip the petals from roses and destroy a garden in an afternoon.

  Elizabeth was wearing a rose-pink gown with white silk slashings on the sleeves, trimmed with silver lace, and a white headdress trimmed with pink and white seed pearls in gorgeous contrast to her copper hair.

  She beamed at Cecil’s surprised face and twirled before him. “How do I look?”

  Like a bride, Cecil thought in horror. “Like a beauty,” he said quickly. “A summertime queen.”

  She spread her skirts and bobbed him a curtsy. “And who do you favor for the champion?”

  “I don’t know,” Cecil said distractedly. “Your Grace, I know this is a day for pleasure but I have to speak with you, forgive me, but I have to speak with you urgently.”

  For a moment she pouted and when she saw his face remained grave, she said: “Oh, very well, but not for long, Spirit, for they cannot start without me; and Sir Ro… and the riders will not want to wait in their heavy armor.”

  “Why, who is Sir Ro…?”Laetitia asked playfully, and the queen giggled and blushed.

  Cecil ignored the young woman, and instead drew the queen into the window bay and gave her the letter. “It is from Throckmorton,” he said simply. “He warns of the French king’s death. Your Grace, the moment that he dies we are in mortal danger. We shou
ld be arming now. We should be ready now. We should have sent funds to the Scottish Protestants already. Give me leave to send money to them now and to start the muster for an English army.”

  “You always say we have no funds,” she said willfully.

  Carefully, Cecil did not look at the pearls in her ears and the thick rope of pearls at her throat. “Princess, we are in the gravest of danger,” he said.

  Elizabeth twitched the letter from his hand and took it to the window to read. “When did you have this?” she asked, her interest sharpening.

  “This very day. It came in code; I have just translated it.”

  “She cannot call herself Queen of England; she agreed to give up her claim in the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.”

  “No, you see, she did not. She agreed nothing. It was the king who made that agreement and the king that signed that treaty is dying. Nothing will stop her ambition now, the new king and his family will only egg her on.”

  Elizabeth swore under her breath and turned from the merry court so that no one could see the darkening of her face. “Am I never to be safe?” she demanded in a savage undertone. “Having fought all my life for this throne, do I have to go on fighting for it? Do I have to fear the knife in the shadows and the invasion of my enemies forever? Do I have to fear my own cousin? My own kin?”

  “I am sorry,” Cecil said steadily. “But you will lose your throne and perhaps your life if you do not fight for it. You are in as much danger now as you have ever been.”

  She gave a harsh little cry. “Cecil, I have been all but charged with treason, I have faced the block, I have faced my own death from assassins. How can I be in more danger now?”

  “Because now you face your death, and you face the loss of your inheritance, and you face the end of England,” he said. “Your sister lost us Calais through her folly. Will you lose us England?”

  She drew a breath. “I see,” she said. “I see what must be done. Perhaps it will have to be war. I shall talk with you later, Spirit. As soon as the king dies and they show their hand we must be ready for them.”

  “We must,” he said, delighted at her decision. “That is spoken like a prince.”

  “But Sir Robert says that we should prevail upon the Scottish Protestant lords to settle with their regent, Queen Mary. He says that if there is peace in Scotland there can be no excuse for the French to send in men and no reason for them to invade England.”

  Oh, does he? Cecil thought with scant gratitude for the unsolicited council. “He may be right, Your Grace; but if he is wrong then we are unprepared for a disaster. And older and wiser heads than Sir Robert’s think we should strike at them now, before they reinforce.”

  “But he cannot go,” she said.

  I wish I could send him to hell itself, flashed through Cecil’s irritated mind. “No, we should send a seasoned commander,” he said. “But first we must send the Scots lords money to maintain the fight against the regent, Mary of Guise. And we must do that at once.”

  “Spain will stand our friend,” Elizabeth reminded him.

  “So can I send the Protestant lords some funds?” He pressed her with the main point, the only point.

  “As long as no one knows it is from me,” Elizabeth said, her habitual caution uppermost as always. “Send them what they need, but I can’t have the French accuse me of arming a rebellion against a queen. I can’t be seen as a traitor.”

  Cecil bowed. “It shall be done discreetly,” he promised her, hiding his immense sense of relief.

  “And we may get help from Spain,” Elizabeth repeated.

  “Only if they believe that you are seriously considering the Archduke Charles.”

  “I am considering him,” she said emphatically. She handed the letter back into his hand. “And after this news, I am considering him with much affection. Trust me for that, Spirit. I am not joking. I know I will have to marry him if it comes to war.”

  He doubted her word when she was in the royal box overlooking the tilt yard and he saw how her eyes searched the mounted riders for Dudley, how quickly she picked out his standard of the bear and ragged staff, how Dudley had a rose-pink scarf, the exact match of the queen’s gown, unquestionably hers, worn boldly on his shoulder where anyone could see. He saw that she was on her feet with her hand to her mouth in terror when Dudley charged down the list, how she applauded his victories, even when he unseated William Pickering, and how, when he came to the royal box and she leaned over and crowned him with her own circlet of roses for being the champion of the day, she all but kissed him on the mouth, she leaned so low and so smilingly whispered to him.

  But despite all that, she had the Hapsburg ambassador, Caspar von Breuner, in the royal box beside her, fed him with delicacies of her own choosing, laid her hand on his sleeve, and smiled up into his face, and—whenever anyone but Dudley was jousting—plied him with questions about the Archduke Ferdinand and gave him very clearly to understand that her refusal of his proposal of marriage, earlier in the month, was one that she was beginning to regret, deeply regret.

  Caspar von Breuner, charmed, baffled, and with his head quite turned, could only think that Elizabeth was seeing sense at last and the archduke could come to England to meet her and be married by the end of the summer.

  The next night Cecil was alone when there was a tap on the door. His manservant opened the door. “A messenger.”

  “I’ll see him,” Cecil said.

  The man almost fell into the room, his legs weak with weariness. He put back his hood and Cecil recognized Sir Nicholas Throckmorton’s most trusted man. “Sir Nicholas sent me to tell you that the king is dead, and to give you this.” He proffered a crumpled letter.

  “Sit down.” Cecil waved him to a stool by the fire and broke the seal on the letter. It was short and scrawled in haste. The king has died, this day, the tenth. God rest his soul. Young Francis says he is King of France and England. I hope to God you are ready and the queen resolute. This is a disaster for us all.

  Amy, walking in the garden at Denchworth, picked some roses for their sweet smell and entered the house by the kitchen door to find some twine to tie them into a posy. As she heard her name she hesitated, and then realized that the cook, the kitchenmaid, and the spit boy were talking of Sir Robert.

  “He was the queen’s own knight, wearing her favor,” the cook recounted with relish. “And she kissed him on the mouth before the whole court, before the whole of London.”

  “God save us,” the kitchenmaid said piously. “But these great ladies can do as they please.”

  “He has had her,” the spit lad opined. “Swived the queen herself! Now that’s a man!”

  “Hush,” the cook said instantly. “No call for you to gossip about your betters.”

  “My pa said so,” the boy defended himself. “The blacksmith told him. Said that the queen was nothing more than a whore with Robert Dudley. Dressed herself up as a serving wench to seek him out and that he had her in the hay store, and that Sir Robert’s groom caught them at it, and told the blacksmith himself, when he came down here last week to deliver my lady’s purse to her.”

  “No!” said the kitchenmaid, deliciously scandalized. “Not on the hay!”

  Slowly, holding her gown to one side so that it would not rustle, barely breathing, Amy stepped back from the kitchen door, walked back down the stone passageway, opened the outside door so that it did not creak, and went back out into the heat of the garden. The roses, unnoticed, fell from her fingers; she walked quickly down the path and then started to run, without direction, her cheeks burning with shame, as if it were she who was disgraced by the gossip. Running away from the house, out of the garden and into the shrubbery, through the little wood, the brambles tearing at her skirt, the stones shredding her silk shoes. Running, without pausing to catch her breath, ignoring the pain in her side and the bruising of her feet, running as if she could get away from the picture in her head: of Elizabeth like a bitch in heat, bent over in the hay, her
red hair tumbled under a mobcap, her white face triumphant, with Robert, smiling his sexy smile, thrusting at her like a randy dog from behind.

  The Privy Council, traveling on summer progress with the court, delayed the start of their emergency meeting at Eltham Palace for Elizabeth; but she was out hunting with Sir Robert and half a dozen others and no one knew when she would return. The councillors, looking grim, seated themselves at the table and prepared to do business with an empty chair at the head.

  “If just one man will join with me, and the rest of you will give nothing more than your assent, I will have him murdered,” the Duke of Norfolk said quietly to this circle of friends. “This is intolerable. She is with him night and day.”

  “You can do it with my blessing,” said Arundel, and two other men nodded.

  “I thought she was mad for Pickering,” one man complained. “What’s become of him?”

  “He couldn’t stand another moment of it,” Norfolk said. “No man could.”

  “He couldn’t afford another moment of it,” someone corrected him. “He’s spent all his money on bribing friends at court and he’s gone to the country to recoup.”

  “He knew he’d have no chance against Dudley,” Norfolk insisted. “That’s why he has to be got out of the way.”

  “Hush, here is Cecil,” said another and the men parted.

  “I have news from Scotland. The Protestant lords have entered Edinburgh,” Cecil said, coming into the room!

  Sir Francis Knollys looked up. “Have they, by God! And the French regent?”

  “She has withdrawn to Leith Castle. She is on the run.”

  “Not necessarily so,” Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, said dourly. “The greater her danger, the more likely the French are to reinforce her. If it is to be finished, she must be defeated at once, without any hope of rallying, and it must be done quickly. She has raised a siege in the certain hope of reinforcements. All this means is that the French are coming to defend her. It is a certainty.”