The door opened, drawing them into the warmth.
“Where are we?” Mary asked with a sigh, her tight shoulders relaxing with the warmth of the room.
“I wanted to take you away from all this, and this was as far as we could get tonight.”
He knew she would understand. It was as if the events of the past twelve days had been designed to teach them both that they really wanted the simplicity of what they had the first night. The court may be beautiful and beckoning, but running away from it was a shared joy that bound them together.
He put her down, and she stepped closer to the hearth. “This is how I remember Twelfth Night. A steamy kitchen full of delicious smells.” She inhaled and smiled. “This place feels like home.”
An older woman, her once white apron covered in stains, came over. “Are you daft? What were you doing out in the winter night?” She clucked over Charles like a mother hen, dusting snow off his shoulders.
“Mistress Farrow, a happy Twelfth Night to you as well.” Charles leaned down to give the woman a good-natured peck on the cheek. He’d known her since he started at the palace. At a time when he knew no one, she’d been kind to him. “My lady and I already had a need to rest before your fire, but the cold outside has made the need more intense.”
She ran an appraising eye over Mary before nodding to Charles. “The wind seems to be picking up so you’d best stay here until it blows over. It may be awhile yet. Set yourselves by the fire.” With a toss of her head, she gestured to a small antechamber off the very busy kitchen. “And melt some of that ice off your fine clothes. I’ll be by in a bit with something warm for you.”
Mary looked at the simple bench before the fire, then down at her skirts.
“Mistress, if I’m not too forward, you may wish to drop your farthingale and bumroll so you can sit more comfortably. I’ll set them to dry out—your hoops are sure to be crusted with ice.”
Mary nodded, and Mistress Farrow ducked under her skirts and untied the underpinnings. They dropped to the floor with a soft whoosh. She stepped out of the circle, and the woman scooped them up and shuffled away. A ring of slush melted on the ground where they had fallen.
Charles sat on the bench and pulled Mary down beside him. She followed his lead and stuck her feet out from the hem of her skirts toward the fire.
The kitchen was bustling with people. A multitude of cooks were chopping, stirring, basting, and prepping the next step in a series of courses. The gifting must be over and the evening meal underway. Armies of servers marched in the storm between these kitchens and the palace, loading up small wagons with steaming foodstuffs before venturing back out into the cold.
Despite the organized chaos around them, he was glad to be here with her. It was the most real place in the palace. And despite the sheer numbers of kitchen workers, here they were truly private.
Now or never. “Mary, I was not forthright the other night . . . ”
She spoke over him, “I owe you . . . ”
Both stopped short and looked at each other with laughter.
“You first.” Charles had been ready to say what needed to be said, but he still smarted from her flat rejection last night. If she had something to disclose, he was not too gentlemanly to stop her.
He did, however, have a strong need to hold her close.
She cleared her throat as if to begin again as he put his arm around her shoulders and tucked her against him. She felt perfect, snug against his body, the two of them together being warmed by the fire. It felt like home. “Pray continue.”
Mary leaned into him, but her back was stiff. She remained silent. He didn’t know what she could possibly say that would make him not want her by his side, but she was clearly afraid. “I cannot marry you because you deserve a proper wife.”
Charles groaned. “Mary, that is the same nonsense you spewed last night. I want you for my wife. You saying you won’t marry me because I deserve better . . . honestly, that’s insulting.”
“That’s what Girard said.”
“Good. I’m glad we agree on that.”
“He said you deserved the truth.”
“Again, I like Girard more the more I learn of him.” Charles could not keep the irony out of his voice.
“Must you be flippant? This is hard for me.”
Charles could not help wonder if Mary realized how difficult this was for him. After all, he had to sit there and listen to her tell him why she felt it necessary to break his heart.
In hushed tones, she explained how she lost the baby. The accident. The midwife. Her fears. “A man of property deserves a wife who can give him an heir. I cannot do that. You deserve better.”
Charles was stunned. “The midwife said you could not have children.” How would someone be able to tell? He’d known of many women who’d lost one child only to have a brood more.
“She said my womb could not hold a child, that I would never be a mother.”
“And this is why you feel you cannot marry?” He was trying to make sense of everything.
“Yes.” She let out a harsh breath, then breathed in again and held it. When she released it again, it was more even. “Do you understand now? You are not indebted to me for anything. I cannot be pregnant, so there is no need for us to wed.” Mary choked on the last sentence, a restrained sob clear in her voice. “But I want you to know that I love you beyond all reason. When you asked me to marry you last night, it was as if all my questions had been answered. I knew what I wanted—I wanted to be your wife, but I thought it could never be. I turned you down because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought you only offered for me out of obligation . . . ”
She trailed off, but pulled back to look at him. The pain was clear on her face in the tight line of her mouth and red rimmed eyes. She was struggling and obviously felt strongly about this. Noble men needed heirs, but what would he pass on? No, he’d love to have a family but it wasn’t something that he needed, and yet she was clearly ready for his rejection.
Mary had to know that love was what mattered here. A chance at happiness for both of them.
• • •
Mary wasn’t sure what to say next. And why hadn’t he responded? Had he had a change of heart? Or had she hurt him so badly that he could not forgive her?
Nothing. He continued to hold her firm, but did not say a word. She turned and leaned her back against him once more, not wanting to see his face. More than that, she did not want him to see her face. Mary caught herself holding her breath again.
“I admit,” Charles began and Mary let out her breath, “it is sad to think that we may never have children of our own. I would have liked to be a father someday.” Charles gently stroked her hair as she reclined her head against his shoulder. “But if it is not to be, it is not to be. I do not, however, take this midwife’s word as law. There were many factors that could have caused you to lose the baby.”
“That is what Girard said.” Mary couldn’t help smiling. To think that Charles wanted to have children with her . . . she could imagine him holding their baby. Charles’s strong arm supporting a bundle of blanket wrapped perfection. It was a beautiful fantasy, but could never be reality and her smile quickly turned to a smothered sob.
“I’m glad Girard was so helpful.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I did not mean for my words to be so sharp. Whether we can or cannot have children is not nearly as important as you becoming my wife. You are meant to be with me. Baby, or no baby, I want you. I just wish you could have talked to me about this last night. You made the past twenty-four hours a living hell.”
She said nothing, could say nothing past her silent tears. “Sweeting.” He turned her to face him but she just burrowed her face in his chest, not wanting him to see her like this. Between bruises and half freezing to death, the indignity of ugly crying should be nothing. “What is it?”
“I am being silly. That is all.” Mary kept her face in his doublet. “I was just thinking how much I would
like to have your children. To see you holding your baby.”
“Mary, this is ridiculous. I love you and you love me. Maybe we can have children or maybe we can’t—that is no more than any wedded couple knows when they choose each other. There is nothing to keep us apart except your stubbornness.”
“I was not being stubborn.” Thank goodness she’d stopped crying. “I was trying to do the right thing.”
She paused a moment, wiping her face with her hand, before she said with a sense of wonder, “You really do love me.” Her voice was breathy, almost a whisper, as if she was afraid to say it out loud.
“Yes, I thought you knew that.”
“I thought you were being honorable last night. I never once thought . . . until tonight with Oxford . . . ”
“That’s what Kit said you would think. I was a fool for not saying it earlier.” At his words, Charles’s warm breath ruffled her hair.
“So between Kit and Girard, they have us completely figured out.” Mary was halfway between laughing and sobbing. Charles loved her—he knew the truth and loved her anyway.
“Yes.” He pulled her close again and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Perhaps we should ask them what to do next.”
Mary laughed and turned her face up to his to kiss him properly.
“Mary, will you marry me because you love me? I love you, regardless of whether or not we can have children.”
“Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”
Mary closed her eyes and sank into his kiss. His lips were hot and firm—his tongue stroked her lip, both soothing and exciting at once. He held her tight against him, yet she pressed closer, not able to get enough of him, his touch, his heat . . .
“Hey now, we’ll have none of that here.” Mistress Farrow returned with a platter of hot food.
Mary blushed and scampered down off Charles’s lap. How had she gotten into his lap?
The woman seemed unfazed by the passionate moment. She just didn’t want it happening in her kitchen. “For your pleasure, we have two mugs of hot, mulled wine, squab pie straight from the oven, fig sauce, candied carrots, some fine cheeses, and a slice apiece of Twelfth Night cake. If there’s aught else I can get you, you have but to holler.” She turned to leave but stopped herself. “And if it is not too familiar, might I offer my congratulations?”
Charles nodded. “Thank you, mistress, for your good wishes and for the repast.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mary agreed. “I am famished.”
“Well, no reason to miss out on Twelfth Night feasting just because you got caught out in the cold.” With that, the matronly woman hurried back to her duties.
There was no table, so the best way to eat was to have a picnic in front of the fire. Mary could not think of a more perfect way to share their meal.
“Charles, you should not eat your cake first.”
Charles smiled as he broke the dry, bready cake into pieces. “Why not? There is no particular order to the feast here. I want to know if I got the bean.”
“I’ve never gotten the bean. Besides, what good would it do you here? There’s no point in being named the King of the Revels without being at the revels.” Mary finished her little speech and then promptly broke into her own cake and gasped.
“What is it?” Charles took a bite of succulent pigeon.
“I found the pea!”
“It looks like you are the Queen of the Revels! As you said, it’s a shame we’re not at the festivities. You could order people around all night.”
Mary popped a bit of the sugared icing into her mouth and leaned forward to whisper. “I think we could have festivities of our own once we get back to the palace.”
“As you say, Your Majesty.”
The Feast of the Epiphany
January 6, 1577
Four years later
“Elizabeth, if you want to join the adults, you will have to behave like a lady.” Frances LeSieur chastised her eldest daughter after deftly catching a projectile. From Mary’s vantage point, it appeared to be a cranberry.
At least ten-year-old Elizabeth LeSieur had the good grace to look ashamed. “Mamma, I can’t help it. Uncle Charles keeps throwing bread at me. What am I supposed to do?”
Mary answered, “Quell him with a seething look,” and proceeded to do just that.
Charles simply laughed and tossed a piece of bread at his wife. “Come now, it’s Christmastide and we are all just being jolly. Besides, I was assigned the role to make mischief.”
Mary suppressed a laugh and did her best to look stern for the sake of the children present. “Yesterday. You were to make mischief yesterday. This is a holy feast.”
Frances and Henry LeSieur had joined Mary and Charles Fitzjohn at their country manor for Twelfth Night and the feast of the Epiphany. The families often spent time together. Henry had a special dock commissioned to make quick jaunts across the River Trent easier for the two friends. As it was, Mary and Frances spent most days in each other’s company. After Mary’s first child had been born, Elizabeth had taken to coming along to play with the baby.
“On second thought, my Lady Mother, may I take my meal in the nursery with my sister and little Girard?”
Frances nodded, and Elizabeth piled two more miniature minced pies on her plate before taking herself, and her feast, off to the nursery.
“Mary, you outdid yourself. Everything was perfection.”
Mary smiled at her longtime friend. “I’m glad you think so. I was surprised you agreed to let us host this year. I know how you like to plan these things.” By plan, Mary really meant “control” and everyone in the room knew it.
This was the first year that Mary and Charles had hosted the Christmastide festivities at their home. It had taken some time and quite a bit of effort to turn the dilapidated farmhouse into something warm and comfortable, but neither had been too proud to work. The last room they finished was the room they least expected to need—the nursery. They had it done in time for baby Girard’s arrival just over a year ago. They would need to make more room in there shortly.
Mary shifted her weight forward to relieve her back. She loved babies, loved seeing the way her husband’s eyes shone with love as he held his child. She loved everything about the process.
Frances, aware of Mary’s discomfort, commented, “You have another week, at most, to suffer through.”
“Your mother wrote that I should have begun my confinement by now, but I can’t stand to be holed up in a stuffy room. It will do the babe no good if I go mad before she is born.”
Charles looked up from his pudding. “She?”
“Who knows?” Mary shrugged. “I keep having a dream where I’m nursing a baby girl.”
The baby, girl or no, took that opportunity to begin a series of hiccups. Everyone at the table laughed as Mary’s belly began to jump at regular intervals.
“I’m ready when you are, sweeting.” Mary spoke directly to her stomach and ran a loving hand over the hard lump that was probably the baby’s behind.
• • •
Winter wind battered the shutters but found no access within the warm and secure manor house. All was quiet but for the sound of the storm outside and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Little Girard was sound asleep in the nursery. The LeSieurs were in the guest chambers, waiting out the weather. They would probably be able to cross the frozen river in the morning.
Mary lay, warm and well loved, in the crook of her husband’s arm. She was sad that the twelve nights of Christmas had come to an end. Mary loved the evergreen boughs trimming the beams and doorframes, the scent of woods and crisp winter permeating the house. The merriment of the festivities. Wassail and caroling. Gifting the tenant farmers. The Yule log, the kissing bunch, Twelfth Night cake, all of them were Christmas traditions that made her feel truly part of the season. Her children would grow up and carry these traditions on to their families. Traditions full of warmth and love despite the winter raging outside.
Drifting b
ack into sleep, she smiled at the thought that the next Christmas was only a year away.
Author’s Note
This story, while set at a specific time in history in a specific place, is fiction. None of this happened. That said, I put due diligence into portraying the court and customs of the early Elizabethan era with accuracy. I did exercise some poetic license for the benefit of the pacing of the story and the fantasy implicit in romantic fiction (my Elizabethans have excellent hygiene). Again, I used Italian Renaissance dances a few years ahead of their time.
In Courtly Pleasures, I introduced Mary, one of Frances LeSieur’s gentlewoman companions, with a vague backstory about her time with Anne Cecil. When I started building Mary’s story, I built up her past and imagined what living in that house, with a young and volatile Edward (I used the nickname Ned) de Vere, would be like. When I came upon the story of the “suicide” of the cook on the point of Ned’s sword, a story started to grow.
Mary is a fictional character. The aforementioned death is not fiction, but I did modify it some to make it match with my story. The most significant change is that Thomas, the victim, was married. Don’t worry, since Mary is not real, she wasn’t upset, but Thomas’s real wife may not be happy with my manipulation of history. To the long dead Mistress Brincknell, I apologize.
The law of the land was tough on illegitimate children. Even though I wrote Charles as a natural child of Ned’s father, I gave him a good upbringing—he had it pretty easy, all things considered. Still, as a bastard, he could not own land, hold office, or marry. Of course the Queen can fix anything . . . and She did in my case (because I am drunk with power and made it so). As for Charles’s name, the practice of specifying the baby’s name with a “Fitz” followed by the father’s name was only in the cases where the father claimed him and, even then, wasn’t the standard. One notable usage was when Henry VIII named his first son (via his mistress, Bessie Blount) Henry Fitzroy (which meant “son of the king”).
While it may seem like a modern issue, the practice of abortion has been prevalent for centuries. In Elizabethan England, it certainly happened (the use of herbs as abortifacients) and, from what I have read, didn’t have the controversial questions about morality to it that it does today. I did my best to remain neutral in today’s argument, only portraying Mary’s personal experience and how she came to terms with her past.
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