by Sandra Byrd
When Elizabeth found out about this pamphlet, she demanded that both Stubbs and his publisher have their right hands cleaved off, and this was done, publicly, even after the book was banned.
After the bloody deed was accomplished, Stubbs was said to have raised his hat with his left hand and call out, “God save the queen!” before falling in a faint upon the platform.
The crowd watched in silent horror, but Clemence, who had attended the spectacle, told me that there were great murmurings of malcontent and unhappiness with Her Majesty afterward. I admit to wavering between admiration for her strength and revulsion toward the deed.
“The people, perhaps she does not know that their hearts can turn,” Clemence told me.
Elizabeth knew.
Later that fall the council, still divided as to whether the marriage was good for queen and country, told her that, as they were split, they could make no recommendation at all.
We ladies loitered just outside the council chamber as was our duty, waiting for her to emerge, but we could, of course, hear the proceedings. Being closest to the door, I could see in as well.
Every man present looked down at the table as she began to cry and complain that she had expected them to support her marriage choice as a “surety to her and her realm . . . to have her marry and have a child of her own body to inherit, and so to continue the line of Henry the Eighth.”
Sir Francis Knollys spoke up. “Majesty, there are none present, nor in your kingdom, who could desire less than perfect happiness for you and issue of your own body. But it is our learned view, and that of Walsingham, who has long resided in France and who is in communication with those across the Continent, that this marriage would enslave England to France.”
“This is a fine way to show your attachment to us, who might desire, like others, to have children,” she rebuked him.
Francis said nothing but, having been both a husband and a father to daughters, bowed his head in understanding. He deserved better; he had given his life, and his wife’s, to the queen’s service. The queen fled the room in tears and did not allow but a few into her presence for some days. I retired to Blackfriars, as I was near to giving birth to our second child.
Once at our small home, I relished being with my child, Elizabeth, for many hours during the day. She gurgled at me and shook her tiny fist as she walked across the floor with her small ball in her hand, holding it up to me to play with. I kissed those hands, her cheeks, her head, which had fine downy hair that would soon be twisted into curls. I took over many of the nurse’s duties and enjoyed planning and ordering her wardrobe myself. We sat on my bed and I told her stories in Swedish and German, which she was learning to speak, though not well. They were rare hours that we spent together and I cherished them.
Thomas returned from court one afternoon much earlier than anticipated. He gently handed Elizabeth back to her nurse and then closed the doors to our reception room.
“Simier was sent back to France with the quiet understanding that if the queen’s people did disapprove of the French marriage, she would not go forward with it. Simier, being no fool, knew that the English would never accept the duke. So, before he left, he insured that the queen had heard of Lord Robert’s marriage.”
“Oh . . .” I exhaled.
“Oh, indeed,” Thomas said. “The queen has banished Lettice and Lord Robert from court. She’s threatening to send Lord Robert to the Tower.”
Nothing needed to be said to prompt our own memory of my banishment and Thomas’s stay in the Tower. However, should Lord Robert be sent to the Tower, he was unlikely to enjoy a brief stay, as the wound his marriage would inflict upon the queen would be nearly mortal.
“What happened?”
“The queen called Lettice to stand before her. Lettice, of course, did not come humbly nor did she bow, ask forgiveness, or in any way abject herself. Instead she held her head high and came much nearer to the queen than was meet . . . or wise.”
I shook my head. Foolish. There was a time for pride. This was not one of them. “She lashed out at her.”
Thomas nodded. “Indeed. She boxed her on the ear and said, ‘As but one sun lightened the earth, she would have but one queen in England.’ She shouted to her men to remove the ‘flouting wench’ from her presence and said she’d never set eyes on that ‘she-wolf’ again. Then she sent for men to remove Lord Robert from court, back to one of his properties, where he may await her decisions. Word is that she intends to strip him of his lands and titles rather than see them benefit Lettice. And then imprison them so they may not meet.”
“This is ill news, indeed,” I said.
“And yet, it is not unreasonable that the man may want a son of his own to carry his name, and a wife of his own to companion him,” Thomas finished. That was true, it was not unreasonable for Lord Robert to want such a thing; perhaps, as Lettice was the softer, younger version of her cousin the queen, he sought someone who favored her looks. My heart was entombed, I admit, from sympathy for Lettice. With a hundred or more men from whom she could have chosen, could she have settled upon any other?
Then my thoughts turned to poor Katherine Grey Seymour, separated from her husband, too, after marrying without permission.
A kingdom was complicated; a heart more so.
I ran my hand over my belly, which had begun to contract. “Quickly send to my Lord Sussex,” I said. “He was able to speak wisely to her after she’d banished me and imprisoned you.”
“Sussex?” Thomas asked. “He is no friend to Lord Robert.”
“Which is precisely why Elizabeth will listen to him,” I said.
My Lord Sussex did speak with the queen, and told her, gently but bluntly, that no one should be imprisoned for a lawful marriage. For my part, I prayed that although the queen had declared her desire to continue the line of her father, she would not continue his sins, punishing for personal vengeance and not for political right.
Lord Robert was not imprisoned, nor did he have his titles stripped. Lettice Knollys, however, was never again seen, or spoken of, at court.
We spent the days before our second child’s birth playing chess together, rehearsing play lines, and reading passages of Holy Writ to one another. Some mornings our daughter, Elizabeth, would join us in our bed, her tiny hand reaching over to the table nearby to grab a piece of marchpane left over from the night before, stuffing it in her mouth, eyes wide with pleasure, while we laughed with her. Thomas indulged her and offered her another piece; I loved him even more for his devotion to her, and to me.
Our son was safely born and we named him Francis, in honor of Sir Francis Knollys, who continued to serve his queen well at great cost to himself—namely, the companionship of his wife while she’d lived. I did not return to court for six weeks, flourishing in the love of my family, suckling my babe for a week before turning him over to the wet nurse, and speaking German to young Elizabeth. Reluctantly, Thomas and I parted, and I returned to Whitehall.
The queen greeted me with affection and love. In private, one evening, I asked how she truly did. Her mask dropped, just a little, and I spied the frailty behind her pale, pulled white skin.
“To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it,” she responded quietly. I knew it cost her to be honest with me, and I cherished the trust she’d placed in me.
• • •
The year 1580 started off with more difficulties and dark concerns; the papal secretary of state had been asked if it would be a sin for someone to murder Queen Elizabeth. After discussing it with the pope, he answered, “Since that guilty woman of England rules over two such noble kingdoms of Christendom and is the cause of so much injury to the Catholic faith, and loss of so many million souls, there is no doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world with the pious intention of doing service, not only does not sin but gains merit.”
Mary Radcliffe approached me one afternoon as we were attending to
the queen’s jewelry. “Whilst you were away, a new pamphlet was published, and a copy of it found here at court,” she said. “In it, the ladies attending upon Her Majesty are urged to follow the example of Judith, and execute Her Majesty for the good of the Catholic faith.”
Whoever wrote this must have known that the queen often slept under an eight-piece tapestry set of Judith and Holofernes. I shook my head. “Like Eleanor,” I said quietly. “Where did you hear of this?”
“Walsingham,” she said. “He wanted me to be aware.” She looked at me for but a moment longer before turning away. I knew she trusted me; had I wanted to poison the queen I could have done it with the ointments or dipped her dress pins. Perhaps there was nothing at all behind the look. It was hard to tell.
Once the French marriage proposal was dead, the English returned to the love and adoration of their queen. Although they now understood, perhaps like my very own revelation, that the queen was flesh as well as spirit, most certainly did not want Mary, Queen of Scots, upon the throne.
In September, Thomas’s great friend Francis Drake returned from the New World on his ship the Golden Hind. He had claimed new land for the queen and brought her back many novel and enjoyable tokens. After mooring his ship and securing it with booty and bounty aboard, he came to court to celebrate his victory.
“We welcome you!” the queen called to him as she raised him from his knees. He bent to kiss her ring and I daresay by the dip of her head that she was inclined to tickle his chin.
She spent six hours closeted with him, learning of his adventures, enjoying with a loud cry of delight the coconut he brought back for her. He cracked one open and personally served her some flesh and juice before asking if her confectioners could sugar the rest for her pleasure.
“Yes, all but one,” she said, hanging on to one of the large, coarsely clothed fruits. “I shall have a silver cup fashioned in which this shall repose, in a place of honor, in my palace. It will remind all who see it of your exploits, Francis.”
He grinned the devilishly charming smile of a pirate. “I do not want any to reflect upon me, Majesty. But if looking upon such a fruit can remind them that you, and your realm, have begun to dominate the world at large, yanking false claims from the Spaniards, then I am well pleased indeed!”
There had been some question as to whether Her Majesty, now that she had no shield in the French, should keep the booty stolen from the Spanish, but in the end, she kept it, as I knew she would. Francis Drake was made a wealthy man indeed and was knighted by the queen forthwith upon his ship.
Thomas and I profited, too, as investors. But late one night in bed, after we’d made love, he did not rest in the comfortable glow of marriage.
“What is it, Thomas?” I asked, stroking his cheek.
“I am well pleased for Drake,” he said. “And yet I am restless; he is now knighted while I am not. I seek to serve Her Majesty well in all I do, whether it be at home, abroad, or the regular forfeiting of the companionship of my wife.” I heard the notes of anger and restiveness in his voice, unusual for him.
“She may say nothing,” I reassured him, “but she sees. Cecil has said that the queen’s share of the bounty on the Golden Hind was more than the crown earned in a typical year throughout all other endeavors. She can hardly ignore that.”
“Not that I want her to,” he said. “But it’s a shame if sure-and-steady service, though it be quiet, should be ignored.” He kissed me on the lips before turning to sleep, but he seemed disquieted and perhaps overthoughtful. I tried to restart the conversation the next day, but he waved it away and turned the topic. There was nothing for me to do but comply.
Some months later our second daughter was born. We named her Frances after our friend, Drake.
FIFTEEN
Year of Our Lord 1582
The Palace of Whitehall
Blackfriars
Windsor Castle
In the spring of 1582 we entertained Thomas’s relations, many of whom were in town on court business, and some who simply desired to visit the markets of London, very near our home in Blackfriars. I said a quick prayer for my own family, and my mother in particular, as I tucked my locket under my gown. Perhaps now that the waters were mostly clear of Danes I could write to her more regularly and expect to hear something, anything, in return. Even though our home was small, we still had a staff of nearly twenty-five to assist us. I went to my children’s chambers and spoke with them before our guests arrived. They wanted me to stay and tell stories but I could not. I was as disappointed as their little faces showed them to be.
Elizabeth was, as usual, playing with her dolls, lining them up and speaking to them in an authoritative tone of voice. Francis, who worshipped her, toddled nearby, while little Frances slept under the watchful gaze of the baby nurse. I kissed Francis on the head, and he felt warm to me. “Has Francis been unwell?” I asked the nurse.
“No, ma’am, he has not, though he’s been a wee bit tired. I shall watch after him,” she said. There was no need to ask after Elizabeth; she was always ruddy and solid.
I made my way down to the great hall. The smell of roasting lamb filled the air, as did the aroma of the warm breads made of fine white wheat and the crisp scent of the parchment in which our fish had been baked. And then our guests arrived.
“Lady Gorges,” Thomas’s cousin John greeted me; John was often the first to arrive and last to leave. Thomas beamed; at court I was always the good lady marquess or the Marchioness of Northampton, but here at Blackfriars I was Lady Gorges.
Some of Thomas’s Poyntz relatives, on his mother’s side, came, too, and all told there were perhaps thirty people dining with us. I’d arranged for musicians to play from the upper choir level to soothe and entertain us as we ate. Toward the end of the evening the talk turned, as it almost always did, to court.
“I hear that Parliament has just passed a law that anyone who converts to Catholicism, or induces another to do so, faces charges of treason,” one of Thomas’s cousins said.
Thomas’s brother William, a staunch supporter of the queen, disagreed. “That’s only for those who withdraw their loyalty from Her Majesty, and surely, that would be cause for treason no matter what the cause.”
“Then how be it treasonous to attend mass, for which the penalty is a weighty one hundred marks?” another Gorges cousin chimed in. “And if you don’t attend the Protestant church, why, that’s a burdensome twenty pounds to the crown from you. No man can afford that. Seems unlikely they’re all treasonous.”
I recalled a snippet of a letter I’d read in the queen’s library once while searching out a history of the invasion of the Danes so long ago. It quoted the King Richard, second of that name. “This is a strange and fickle land,” he’d written, “which never ceases to be riven and worn down by dissensions and strife and internecine hatreds.”
The comments died away and then were replaced by talk of Drake’s adventure; Thomas brought forth some of the treasures with which Francis had returned home. We had seen little of him in the last year; his beloved Mary had died and he kept mostly to himself and his sailors.
That night, after seeing our guests safely abed and checking on my children, a rare pleasure I was not afforded while I was at court, I went to our bedchamber, where Thomas stood looking out the window upon the dark street.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, love,” he said.
I thought that perhaps he was disturbed by the distressing conversation at dinner. “Your cousin John is a Catholic, isn’t he?” I blurted. Then I wished I could take it back, because in truth, I did not want to know.
But Thomas nodded. “Yes, yes, he is. So are some others in my family, even in my mother’s family, the Poyntzes.”
I sat down on the bed. “How can that be?”
He came next to me and took my hand in his. “It’s an untidy business in this realm, Elin. We were to be Catholic, and then not, and then so, and then not. Neither king nor queen can com
mand what is subject to a man’s own conscience and heart and faith, though they would, if they could.”
I said nothing but looked at his face, still achingly handsome, by the light of the candles near our bedside.
“I want to please you,” he said. “I want you to be proud of me. I am no marquess.”
I gently squeezed his hand. “You joust with a ghost, my lord. I am your wife many times over what I had been to William. I am the mother of your children. I choose you above all others.”
He shrugged and pulled away from me. “And yet, I am still not a knight.”
I did not say that it did not matter, because we both knew it did. I was impatient for a moment, because he held me to account for acting with honor, and I had, from the time of our courting forward, always treated him with honor and respect, too—indeed, with a depth of love I had not developed with William. But I blew out the candles and sought to assure him of my love in the ways that only a wife might.
The next morning, Sunday, he told me to my surprise that he was unwell and could not attend St. Dunstan’s with me and it would be better if I attended alone.
• • •
That summer, our son Edward was born.
“He favors you,” I said, holding him toward Thomas, an offering of love that may come only from a woman to her husband. Thomas came near and kissed my cheek.
“He does indeed; he’s a lovely boy,” Thomas said. “Thank you, Elin.” He held the babe for a while, but though we both wished otherwise, he did not have time to spare, as the queen had just honored Thomas by planning to send him to Sweden. There was no official ambassador, but she wished, in the current political climate, to remain friendly with all Protestant nations. She’d allowed me to retire from court for a week while I helped him prepare.
