Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Sandra Byrd

  As we helped her undress, silent tears slid down her face, coursing through the light powder she’d been made up with, streaking the faint sheen of whipped egg white that held said powder in place and smoothed her first wrinkles.

  “Our cousin, the Queen of Scots, has given birth to a fair son,” she said. Our hearts broke for her. Queen Mary had provided her kingdom, and if the plotters were satisfied, perhaps Elizabeth’s kingdom, with a prized heir, which meant stability, continuity, surety. A male heir was what the English desired but which our queen was as of yet unable or unwilling to provide.

  As I readied myself for bed that evening, I, like the queen, wondered if I should ever have a child of my own, something I had greatly desired since my own girlhood. I had recently realized that William had been married twice and had not yet sired a child.

  • • •

  Almost every summer, barring illness or plague, the queen would journey through and stay at some of the towns and estates in her kingdom, greeting the common people she held with motherly affection and being entertained by her courtiers. That summer on Progress, we stayed for some time at Lord Robert’s estates in Kenilworth. Some said that the queen was his wife in all but name, but I, having slept in her room and observed how impossible it would be to be in the queen’s presence alone, vigorously disagreed. We women surrounded her chambers night and day, and anyone who thought the queen could be expertly redressed by an unpracticed man, alone, had not been present in her bedchamber when the hour-long gowning and pinning was under way.

  I would admit, though, that they oft strolled together in the public gardens at Kenilworth unmolested by courtiers or other subjects. One afternoon William and I were arm in arm enjoying the roses when we came upon Robin, as she called Lord Robert, and the queen. I wondered if this Robin was a songbird she would like to cage, and was about to jest about it with William, but stopped myself. I did not think he would find it particularly amusing, as he was not given to either wry humor or to Lord Robert. As we passed them and I curtseyed, I thought I spied a faint bit of beard burn upon the queen’s fair and smiling face. Though I could not be certain, I hoped it was true. Every lady deserved to be kissed.

  We stayed at many manors and in many towns on Progress. Her people, her “children,” came to greet her with poems and poesies at each stop along the way. In Sandwich the good housewives had prepared a feast for the queen of 140 dishes, and to the horror of William Cecil, she tasted of them all without first having her taster test them for poisons. Instead, she indicated loudly enough to bring honor to all who had prepared them that some of them should be reserved for her and brought back to her lodgings for private consumption, which put a satisfied, and adoring, smile on the face of each and every townswoman.

  The queen listened attentively to the Latin discourse of a young scholar in Norwich, declaring it to be among the finest speeches she had ever heard. I rather thought that the young man would have taken up arms for her then and there if it had been required. She praised all and berated none.

  Late that evening, as we were unpinning her gown, Lady Knollys commented on the time the queen took with each of her subjects.

  “In truth, I love them well,” the queen responded. “And I am certain they know it. For if they did not rest assured of some special love toward them, they would not readily yield me such good obedience. As it is, they know I have their highest and best interests always in mind.”

  I spoke of that with William, late in the eve, before the dying fire in his apartment within the home of our host. He sipped his wine thoughtfully and then said, “Yes. But they greatly desire the queen to marry and to bring forth a son, to have the succession settled. They are discomfited by the thought of years of war that threaten a kingdom without an heir. And many feel it is unnatural for a woman to rule.”

  “Will she marry?”

  He lowered his voice. “She must. But whom? No matter the offers, parrying, and diplomatic considerations, I believe that the queen’s honor and faith will not let her choose a Catholic prince for herself or for her people. Protestant princes are few, and they are entangled in costly wars that would bring this realm nothing but debt, of which we already have an abundance after the . . . generous spending of His Majesty King Henry and the warring of Queen Mary at the provocation of her Spanish husband, Philip.”

  “An Englishman, then?” I grinned, truly fond of William. “I find myself much given to marrying an Englishman.”

  “Ah, that it should come quickly to pass,” he said as he kissed me lightly.

  “Our marriage or hers?”

  “Both. We know whom you should marry, my lady.” He clasped his hand over mine. “But the queen?”

  “Lord Robert?” I asked.

  “Mayhap,” he admitted. “As she has raised him to earl, making him of sufficient rank to partner her.”

  “Why do I sense your reluctance?”

  “The Dudley family is scattered with traitors who tried, like vines, to circle the royal oak and climb to the throne. Elizabeth loves Lord Robert well, but I am certain she does not forget that Lord Robert’s father conspired to keep her from her throne by placing her cousin Jane Grey, married to Lord Robert’s brother Guildford, on it in her rightful stead.”

  “Lord Robert’s father and brother Guildford are now . . . ?”

  “Executed. I believe Lord Robert well loves the queen, but most others believe he is simply another choking shoot of the Dudley vine. Whether or not the queen, in her great love, will risk being entwined with him, only time will tell. Which nobleman in this kingdom will bow the knee to Lord Robert? I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

  • • •

  After we returned to London, I made my way to the queen’s library. Lady Blanche, also keeper of the queen’s books, said I might take any of them back to my chamber to read for my pleasure, and to assist in my English. I was excited to find some histories and some Greek myths and stories, as well as a tiny New Testament in which was written on the forepapers, in Her Majesty’s own hand, “I walk many times into the pleasant fields of the Holy Scriptures, where I pluck up the goodly green herbs of sentences by pruning, eat them by reading, chew them by musing, and lay them up at length in the seed of memory by gathering them together so that having tasted Thy Sweetness, I may less perceive the bitterness of this miserable life.”

  I made my way back to my chamber and, as I did, glanced out the window at one of the turreted towers of the palace. I’d heard that King Henry had quietly, officially, married the queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn, here at Whitehall in one such tower, while my lady was already comfortably resting inside her mother’s womb. Did she even now wonder about her mother? Was her mother’s beheading the beginning of the bitterness of Queen Elizabeth’s life? Or was it the lack of a husband, of children? The bitterness of knowing that others greatly desired your death so that they may poach your royal perquisites and power?

  I wished I had my own mother nearby to discuss these things, to offer affection and counsel. I yearned to hear from her, but she had not written to me, or if she had, the letters had not made it through the Danes. The thought of home, and of belonging, brought me pain, so I quickly dismissed it. I had thought to be married by now, and perhaps on my way to becoming a mother myself.

  I carefully thumbed through the pages of the Scriptures I had just borrowed and noted diverse passages that someone, perhaps the queen herself, had underlined, for it was in the same ink found on the forepaper she’d written upon. One of these, in the Epistle of Paul to the Ephesians, struck me:

  For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything.

  I plucked from the seed of my memory Her Majesty saying that it was monstrous that the head should take direction from the feet. Should she marry, the example of her sister, common practice, and Holy Writ all declared that she would no lo
nger be head, something she knew very well.

  As for my own marriage, there seemed to have been no progress on the matter and little interest except from William and myself.

  “I cannot continue to live in limbo,” I said to him. “I do not know what I am or who I am or where my place is. Your . . . Lady Anne Bourchier, she could have a long and robust life.” At that I noted that one of his servants flicked her eye toward me, unusually, and briefly.

  I didn’t wish ill upon Lady Anne, but I wished to have my own situation resolved.

  “I will take it up again with the council,” William promised. “It was not so difficult to set aside a false marriage last time, when I married Elisabeth Brooke. But I need to win new champions to our side, and that takes time.”

  “By when?” I asked softly, but wearily, sensitive to the fact that this troubled him, too, but needing an answer.

  “Within a year.”

  FIVE

  Years of Our Lord: 1567, 1568

  The Palace of Whitehall

  Windsor Castle

  Hampton Court Palace

  At the new year the queen’s principal councilor, William Cecil, had drawn up a memorandum titled Certain Cautions for the Queen’s Apparel and Diet and circulated it among courtiers and ladies. The document suggested ways in which Elizabeth could guard against being poisoned. In it, he spoke against accepting gifts from strangers, which I found odd, as all gifts that came to Her Majesty were entrusted to Lady Knollys, and warned of perfume or scented gloves appointed for Her Majesty’s savor. That concerned me, as I knew better than most how vulnerable the queen was to using sweet scents to avoid rank ones. She’d insisted upon rose water in the palace privys for years.

  I was a welcomed maid of honor and the queen treated me with politeness, though she kept me at some distance. This was frustrating, as the others followed her lead. It pained me to admit that it was exactly as Princess Cecelia had predicted: I was daughter to no one, sister to no one, as yet wife to no one, mother to no one, and apparently friend only to Anne Dudley and William. I missed the companionship of my sisters and of Bridget. I longed to rectify that and had been seeking a manner in which I might make myself even more valuable to the queen. The queen often appointed me to sew new taffeta into the gowns she wished remodeled so she could pass them along to her ladies and maids, or even the underprivileged, but I wanted to be more helpful. And personal.

  After the queen had left for a meeting with her councilors, I approached Mistress Blanche with what I hoped was a wonderful idea that would help me please the queen and earn friends. “I wonder if I might offer my assistance in helping blend perfumes and pomanders,” I said, my voice trembling a little with hope and the fear of being told no. “In light of Cecil’s concerns, I could provide sweet-smelling respite for the queen while protecting her person from harmful fumes given as gifts.” I waited and held my breath till she answered.

  “That is a splendid idea, Lady Helena,” Blanche said. “I shall instruct Mrs. Morgaynne to provide you with whatever herbs and oils you need, and you may also select plants from any of Her Majesty’s gardens.”

  “Thank you!” I said, reaching over to hug her, and she laughed lightly before shrugging me off. Within the week I had prepared some herbal blends and placed them into small, pink satin pouches. I approached Her Majesty as she was relaxing after a midday meal.

  “Majesty, I have prepared some pleasant-smelling pomanders, some samples to choose among. Please, tell me which you prefer and I will blend some fine sachets for you.”

  “Come, Helena,” the queen said, calling me forth to the sumptuously covered chair she reposed upon. I knelt before her, and she indicated that I should instead seat myself at the low stool to the side of her.

  I held up the sachets one by one and I could tell from the look on her face which she preferred. Marjoram, of course, and those of rose, and some lavender that had been imported from France. The queen favored all things French.

  “I shall personally blend these for you, Majesty, and the sachets will be stitched and laced by my own hand,” I said proudly. “Is there any other way I can be of service?”

  I was still holding her favorite sachet in my hand, and rather than nod me away, she closed her own hand around mine for just a moment as a gesture of affection and acceptance. “No, my lady. How does Lord Northampton?”

  “He is well, madam. He is preparing to undertake the diplomatic journey you’ll send him on with the Earl of Sussex. I pray that their, and your, mission meets with success.”

  She smiled at me. “They are found faithful, as are you, Lady von Snakenborg. Come, tell me about your time thus far in my court.”

  She indicated that a cushion should be brought for me, and placed near her, and I chatted about my apartment and my readings and the hawking and chess that William was helping me improve at. She shared with me some Greek translations that she was working on, some of which she found vexing.

  “I should not have expected you to find anything vexing,” I said with admiration.

  “Ah, but we do,” she disagreed with me. It made her all the more likable.

  She offered some kind words and advice of her own, and invited me to dine with her and William, privately, when they returned from their journey. “I shall look forward to your company and pleasant conversation,” she said. “And your herbal preparations, of course.”

  “Thank you, Majesty.” I was exultant. I had a task that set me aside from the others, and a manner in which I might serve the queen and the beginning of real friendship with her.

  • • •

  In February, some of the queen’s ladies were in her apartment playing gleek when a messenger arrived and burst impolitely into the chamber. The queen was taken aback, Cecil looked alarmed for her safety, and Lord Robert stood up. The messenger went directly to Her Majesty, and, kneeling before her, said, “I bring ill tidings, Majesty. Your cousin Lord Darnley, the husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, has been foully murdered!”

  The room collectively gasped, and even Her Majesty, the ultimate dissembler, allowed some shock onto her face. “Is this true?” she demanded.

  “I fear so, Majesty,” he said. “Lord Darnley was in a building that was exploded. However, when his body was examined it was found that he had been suffocated to death before the explosion.”

  “Who has done this?” the queen demanded. “Scots rebels?”

  The messenger leaned close to her and whispered, but as I was at her card table I was just able to overhear him. “Majesty, the whispering from Scotland seems to be that his wife, the queen, was involved in the plot.”

  Her Majesty sat back and waved him away in utter contempt. Perhaps the messenger was familiar with the ancient story of Tigranes’s messenger having his head cut off for bearing ill news, but in any case, he stepped clear away from Her Majesty. In respect for dead Darnley, the queen canceled the card games and retired to her rooms. Another maid of honor, Eleanor Brydges, and I gathered Her Majesty’s cards from the tables.

  “I hope Her Majesty is well,” I said. “She looked saddened and shocked.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Darnley was her cousin, as is the Queen of Scots. It’s understandable that she be saddened. But there is no reason for shock. I do not believe that Queen Mary had a hand in her husband’s death.”

  Later, after I was abed, it came to me that Eleanor could not have overheard the messenger mention that the Queen of Scots was suspected, as she had been playing gleek well across the great room.

  • • •

  If Her Majesty was shocked and saddened on that February eve, she was shocked and angry in May when word filtered south that Queen Mary had married the Earl of Bothwell, largely believed to have murdered Lord Darnley so he could marry Darnley’s wife, the queen.

  “Has she lost all sensibilities?” the queen asked as she paced in her chamber. “She has gambled credibility as well as the affections of her people, which must never be treated lightly.”

&n
bsp; The ambassador brought news that the Scots were arming themselves against Mary after her marriage to a murderer and that she would soon be deposed in favor of her young son.

  That night, I heard whispering at the banquet tables while we ate. As few talked with me, I heard quite a lot. The queen rarely ate in public, which meant that most meals were free for courtier discussion. There was a name infrequently circulated in the banqueting hall that I did not know.

  I asked Clemence that night, “Who is Amy Robsart?”

  Clemence immediately stopped brushing my hair and caught my eye for a moment over the top of my head, in the looking glass. I had the sense that if she could have avoided the question altogether she would have, but William paid her handsome wages not only to attend to my physical needs but to answer questions such as I might need to know in order to better serve the queen.

  “Amy was married to Lord Robert Dudley,” she answered.

  “And she has now passed away?” I asked.

  Clemence picked the brush up. “Yes, many years past. She was found at the bottom of a flight of stairs in a manor home, after all the servants had been dismissed for the day.”

  It was my turn to be startled now. “Was she murdered?”

  “The inquiry says no, ma’am, but the people . . . they think yes.”

  “And who do the people say murdered Lady Dudley?” I asked.

  “Why, Lord Robert himself!” Clemence said. “So as he could marry Her Majesty,” she continued, her voice lowered. “Though others say ’twas his noble enemies, because with one wife mysteriously dead, the people would never accept him as king, now, would they? When Her Majesty’s sister, Queen Mary, married a man the people did’na like, they turned against her. Though all know the queen desires to marry Lord Robert, she dares not, lest she lose the favor of her people.”

  I instantly understood that night’s whispers connecting Amy Robsart to Mary, Queen of Scots, her dead husband, Lord Darnley, and Bothwell.