Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Sandra Byrd

  “I wish I could come with you,” I said.

  “I wish you could, too,” he answered. “Do you worry that I shall not represent you, or Her Majesty, well?”

  “No, no,” I said, holding him close for a moment. I then disentangled myself. “It’s only that I wish to see my homeland once more. My mother, my sisters, my cousins. The beech trees, the small strawberries . . .”

  “I should capture all of them for you, if I could, and return with them.” Thomas was beyond enthusiastic. “I shall comport myself well,” he said, reassuring himself, I knew, and not me.

  I laughed. “You shall indeed, was there ever a question? But beware; there are still debts outstanding from Princess Cecelia, and Johan, who was duke when he came here but is king now.”

  “Yes, indeed, I know,” he said. He practiced some Swedish and German phrases with me, and our young Elizabeth came dancing into the room and corrected his pronunciation while shushing baby Edward, whom I reluctantly handed over to his nurse.

  “I see how it is,” Thomas declared, tickling Elizabeth’s chin. “This young lass is going to correct her father’s speech!”

  “I shan’t want you to say it incorrectly!” she insisted.

  He turned her upside down and then sent her on her way.

  “Me, too!” Francis raised his hands toward his father. Thomas, aware of Francis’s delicate nature, tipped him upside down more carefully and then sent him gently on his way.

  I saw Thomas off, watching him ride away until I could not see him on the horizon any longer and wiped tears away from my face. More often than not, it seemed, he was riding away from and not toward me.

  I returned to court, where I was pleased that Her Majesty was negotiating in favor of the marriage of Francis Knollys’s son to the rich daughter of Lady Rivett. The lady and young gentleman in question desired to marry out of love, and one might have expected the queen to oppose such a match. But, perhaps out of affection for Sir Francis and loyalty to the long-dead Lady Knollys, the queen intervened on behalf of the young lovers. Perhaps, too, it was a way to pay penance for the banishment from court, forever, of Sir Francis’s daughter the she-wolf.

  Illness came to London, and we were all gladdened when it passed by queen and court. However, Clemence came to get me early one morning, while it was still dark. “Lady Northampton,” she called, knocking on my door. “Come quickly. It’s Francis.”

  I was only partially awake and did not know of whom she spoke—Sir Francis Knollys? Francis Walsingham? Then it occurred to me that she would not refer to either man by his first name but that she spoke, instead, of my son.

  We raced through the dark on horseback with a brace of my servants, but by the time we arrived my poor Francis was gone. His small, gaunt body was laid out on his bed with a thin white sheet covering him; his eyes, their lids darkened, had been closed. His soul was already with the Lord Jesus. That brought me some comfort, as did the continuing health of my other children.

  I dismissed everyone from the room and wept over this fine, sweet boy, whom, I admitted, I barely knew though he had held me in highest love and esteem. I sang to him, quietly, till his body cooled, my heart wrenched within me. When I finally left the room, my young Elizabeth and small Frances took my right and left hands in their own small ones, and while it dulled the pain, nothing could erase it.

  I had his coffin prepared, and before the lid was closed and he interred at St. Dunstan’s, I put some of the first lamb’s ears of the season in with him, for gentleness, and wished, for a brief moment, that I could join him.

  • • •

  The Danes had resolved their conflict with the English and with the Swedes, for now, and so Thomas was able to return home only months after he left. He departed the islands of Stockholm on August 14, stopped in Paris to pick up some dispatches from Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen’s current ambassador to France as well as her spymaster, and then returned home.

  I was at court when he arrived; he returned to Blackfriars and then came to see me. I excused myself from service.

  “Please, take your leave, my good lady marquess,” Elizabeth said. “We shall see you presently when our good cousin Gorges reports back to us of his trip.” She knew I would want time to mourn young Francis with Thomas.

  He was waiting for me in my apartments and I shut the door and then fell into his arms. “Francis . . .” I began, and the tears I’d held back since I buried our son came forth, unbidden.

  He stroked my hair; he did not cry, for my sake, I know, but his hand and jaw trembled. “Shhh, there now. I have already been to Blackfriars. The governess informed me.”

  We sat together for an hour and mourned our son for some time. Then we spoke of his gentleness and humor and the way he won everyone to him, and the charming antics he played as a toddler, and we laughed, the first I had remembered him with joy since he’d passed away. Later that night, Thomas told me of his trip; I loved hearing of his travels, even when he rode within England. He’d loved Paris—and knew I would, too. He’d brought me back some silk and had been able to carry out some missions for Her Majesty there.

  The next day the queen invited us to dine with her, privately, while Thomas recounted his trip.

  “I was able to negotiate with King Johan,” he said, “for repayment of many of the debts that are outstanding against your kingdom, Majesty, but to my regret, not all.”

  The queen leaned over and patted his hand. “In the letter the king had you deliver to me he commended you in all ways, Cousin, so we are certain that you achieved all that could have been achieved and more.”

  “He would like our backing in his war with Russia.” Thomas looked uncomfortable.

  “He has as many of our funds as he is likely to acquire,” Elizabeth said shortly. “He may use them as he will.”

  Overall, though, she was pleased with Thomas’s service and told him so. I asked for three days’ leave and she agreed, though perhaps a little unwillingly.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said as we rode to Blackfriars.

  “A surprise!” I couldn’t wait. When we arrived at our home, my surprise was awaiting me in the greeting chamber, surrounded by my children.

  She came forward, and as she did, I recognized myself ten years earlier. She had the same red-brown hair, same eyes, same fair skin as I did. Her body was as mine, but perhaps more lithe as she had not yet borne children.

  I cocked my head. “Sofia?”

  “You recognized me!” she exclaimed in German, throwing herself at me and kissing my cheeks time and again. I had not seen her since she was a small girl nearly running off the dock as I’d left Sweden.

  Thomas stood behind me, eager for my response. “I knew how you longed for family, and for Sweden, and I thought, what could I better bring to my love than both of those?”

  “I hope, I hope you approve?” she asked.

  My children, already enchanted, jumped up and down and said, “Ja, ja, ja!” Had she been speaking with them in German in my absence?

  “Of course, Cousin,” I said, and then turned to embrace, in gratitude, my pleased husband. I was thrilled to have someone from Sweden here, a friend, my very own family. “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you like.” I turned back and kissed each of her cheeks softly; they smelled, somehow, of home.

  “I plan to remain in England, Cousin, as you did!” she said.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “Have you settled into a chamber?”

  “Of course. The servants were kind enough to assist me. Oh—and I have a letter from your lady mother.”

  At that, I grew truly excited. I had not heard from my mother in some time. Sofia quickly ran to her room and then returned with the letter in hand. “Can I help in any way?” she asked me.

  I smiled. “I shall think upon it. Thomas and I will return to court, though we shall both be back and forth from time to time, he more than I. I’ll ask the governess to assist you in finding an English tutor to wo
rk with every day, and when the time is right, you can come to court, too.”

  She leaned over and kissed me. “Thank you, dearest Elin.”

  I wasn’t sure why my given name grated on my ears from her tongue. “Here in England, I am known as Helena,” I said.

  “But Thomas . . .” she began.

  “Thomas is different,” I said firmly, then reached over and embraced her. “Welcome to our home.”

  I retired to my room and read the letter from my mother over and over again, rubbing my hand upon the page, which I knew her hand had touched, too. In it she asked after me and my family, told me she prayed daily for my well-being and that of my children. “Your Thomas is magnificent,” she said. “All here were taken with him and it is clear that he is well read, well spoken, and well looked after! I daresay that Christina Abrahamsdotter was brimming with envy, as her husband is fat and old. Bridget ensured that Thomas knew whom to speak with and when, and translated from English to German when Latin wouldn’t do.”

  Dear Bridget. I had a sudden pang, an uncharitable thought, wishing that Thomas had returned with Bridget and not Sofia. I repented of it; I had expressed my wish to him to see my family, and now he had provided it for me.

  My mother concluded her letter by proclaiming her love for me over and over, then begging me to take care of Sofia, her sister’s daughter, my cousin.

  I would have, of course, even if she hadn’t asked me to.

  Thomas and I spent those three days playing with our children, listening to Sofia’s stories, making love, and practicing the few Swedish words he had learned, which made me laugh when he spoke them, whereupon he began to laugh, too.

  • • •

  The queen held a banquet in honor of Thomas’s successful journey to and from Sweden; she was always festive when monies were earned or recovered, or saved. The court musicians played German compositions in addition to her usual Italian and English pieces.

  “Thank you, Majesty,” I said after she had completed a dance and was watching others. “Thomas is blessed by your trust and attention, and I am, too.”

  “My good lady marquess, I am always pleased to laud my servants . . . and friends,” she finished with a smile. She put her hand upon my arm. “Helena, who is yon woman?” She nodded toward Sofia, who, new to court, was at the center of a group of male courtiers, young and old. Her English was good and getting better each day.

  “That is my cousin,” I said. “She came back with Thomas, hoping for a better life in England, as I’d found.”

  “And perhaps a husband, too, as you’d found. We see that she is busily assaying the selection,” the queen said, not with malice, but perhaps with a note of caution. I watched as Sofia charmed the men around her. “She favors you,” the queen said.

  “Without the fat that bearing babies brings,” I agreed, pinching a small amount on my still comely white hands. At that, the queen laughed.

  That June we spent at Windsor Castle, I on constant attendance of the queen, Thomas sometimes at Windsor, sometimes at Blackfriars, sometimes on commission for the queen. We spent an odd day together now and then, mainly discussing the business of our family or our children, or making plans for the weeks and months ahead, but he was often sent on the queen’s business and I was always in service. I sorrowed that there was little time for sharing walks and promised myself that, as soon as time permitted, we would bow hunt together again.

  The queen loved Windsor with its mirrored ceilings and walls, its pretty-smelling privies, and the sense of security being ensconced in a fortress brought. As for me, I loved harvesting its gardens.

  There was never a moment of rest from the Scots’ ferment. Thomas and I had discussed in the preceding months and years the possibility that Walsingham saw shadows and specters where perhaps none existed. One night, during a rare dinner alone, he shared with me that perhaps Walsingham’s fears weren’t unfounded. “I listened to what the man had to say when I was in Paris for Her Majesty,” he said. “And there are those surrounding the queen on all levels, and seeded into all corner of the realm, who would do her harm.”

  I mentioned to him the book that Mary Radcliffe had brought up to me, urging the queen’s ladies to murder her. Thomas grew quiet but said nothing, simply nodding. “And I’ve heard that a wandering priest, disguised as a man who draws teeth for replacement, has been stopped by Walsingham’s men. He was set free but his bag was seized, and in it, concealed amongst his equipment, were letters from those plotting with Mary against the queen.”

  “Will she never learn?” I asked.

  “There’s naught that says she’s initiating these plots,” Thomas warned me.

  I hadn’t expected that; I had thought to hear his concerns echo my own. “Whence did you learn of this?” I asked.

  “From one of my Gorges cousins,” he said. “And now, Lady Gorges, we shall finish our dinner and retire to a night alone.”

  I savored it, as we had so few days or nights together of late. I lay abed long after Thomas was asleep, though, my mind unquiet with thoughts of my children and their governess, whom I no longer wanted to engage but had not yet had time to find a replacement for, and Scotland.

  • • •

  I walked with the queen, just the two of us, trailed by some other of her maids and two ladies, the next morning in the rose gardens of Windsor. “Do you find what you need, Helena?” she asked me as I unlinked from her arm to snip some roses.

  “I found some, Majesty. The gardens are not so lush as those at Richmond, but I shall find enough ripe roses that I may blend a linen water for your bedchamber and my own!” I said, snipping some longish stems and placing them into the basket I carried alongside.

  The sun was out and the day grew warm so we soon returned to the queen’s Privy Chamber, where she would attend to the day’s paperwork from her council. I set the basket down near the marble table I’d work upon; Anne Dudley helped the queen into a more comfortable gown in which to work and then withdrew to arrange for the week’s wardrobe to be requisitioned from the wardrobe stores at the Tower.

  I arranged a small posy of rosebuds, both red blooms and white, to recognize Her Majesty’s royal heritage, in a glass vase and placed it near where the queen worked so she could enjoy the scent throughout the day. I glanced at the paperwork before her; ’twas from the ambassador of Scotland. “Thomas tells me they have caught a priest-spy from Scotland,” I said. “And that your Tudor cousin foments against you once again.”

  “Thomas is particularly well informed for his position,” the queen said.

  “We are all concerned for your well-being, Majesty,” I said. I slipped one more rose into her Tudor arrangement but had, apparently, neglected to snip off a thorn and it broke my flesh and I began to bleed.

  “And I for yours. Be careful,” Elizabeth said as she turned back to her dispatches. “Roses have thorns.”

  SIXTEEN

  Year of Our Lord 1583

  The Palace of Whitehall

  Theobalds

  Blackfriars

  Year of Our Lord 1584

  The Palace of Whitehall

  Sheen, Richmond

  Shortly after the new year, King Johan sent a representative from Sweden to continue the bonhomie and diplomacy that Thomas had reignited the summer before. Count Eric Brahe, a friend of my family, came on behalf of the king and was awarded rich rooms at court for the duration of his stay. He delivered a packet of letters from my mother, and I spent as much time as possible with him and threw several entertainments in his honor. I’d heard that he particularly enjoyed jugglers, so I asked Thomas to query the community of players and find which performers were known to have the finest skills.

  He found two men who performed together under the title A Deux, and we held an evening’s entertainment in one of the large banqueting rooms, sumptuously and expensively decorated for the event.

  The men began by throwing large rings at and toward one another—one would catch a ring and then toss i
t back to the other, arcing it high into the air, then back and forth again until there were more than a dozen rings in play. One by one the rings landed about the neck of one of the jugglers until he had a fair high cuff, which he paraded about with, imitating the high noses of the finely ruffed courtiers. The crowd roared and the performers bowed and we clapped. Then they performed tricks before and behind one another with pins and boxes, too.

  By far the most exciting was the juggling of lit torches, perhaps a dozen between them spiraling through the air. One juggler called Thomas forward, and then he indicated that they wanted me, as hostess, to come forth.

  “I?”

  Thomas nodded. He took my hand and led me forward as the crowd hushed. The smell of the flame and ash filled the dead silence; the only noise was the whoosh of torches through the air. The players indicated that I was to run through the space between them. My eyes opened wide, but Thomas leaned over to me and whispered, “ ’Tis safe, I’ve run through them myself.”

  I stood near the edge of their stage, praying that one or more of the torches would not light upon my expensive gown, and counted to five, at which point I dashed through the fire field. I could sense that they adjusted the speed of their throw and catch to accommodate my path, and, unbelievably, I made it through.

  When I ran back once again and arrived safely at my seat, all in the room stood and cheered and whistled. Thomas looked pleased to have me so appreciated, more pleased than he had been with me for some time, which delighted me and made me think upon ways to encourage that. Although the queen did not stand she clapped and cheered very loudly indeed. Sofia smiled and raised a hand toward me, then soon took her seat.

  Later, after the entertainments had concluded, Eric drew near to me. “I see your cousin Sofia has settled in well,” he said.

  I nodded. “I see but little of her, as I am in constant attendance upon the queen. I have tried several times to help her make her acquaintance with men of right standing, but so far, there are none she feels drawn to.”