The gentlemen were standing aside and Lizbeth realised that she would have to pass close to Rodney and it would be impossible for him not to see her. His face was alight; she saw by his expression that he was thrilled with the honour that had been accorded him; then his eyes met hers and for a moment everything was forgotten. Lizbeth was not aware that she was still walking forward, she felt that for one moment there was nobody in the Long Gallery save herself and Rodney and that they reached out their arms to each other.
Then the moment passed and she found him bowing over her hand and she was curtseying to him.
“Meet me in the Great Hall as soon as you can,” he said in a voice so low that she could barely hear it. “I must see you.
She had no time to answer him – in fact she was far too frightened to say anything. Already she was behind the other Maids of Honour, and now she scurried after them, wondering if anyone could have overheard what Rodney said to her.
It was not going to be easy to meet him, she knew that, yet not for one moment did she think of disobeying his command. Somehow it must be managed, and she felt that the only thing to do was not to retire to the bedchamber with the others, but to hide herself so that they might think that the Queen had kept her or that she had been sent on an errand by one of the Ladies of the Bedchamber.
So she moved with the others towards the Queen’s apartments where Her Majesty turned to bid them goodnight.
“It has been a great day,” the Queen said, “and one we shall always remember. We must give thanks to God.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
There was a little chorus of assent as the ladies sank in a low obedience.
“A great day,” the Queen repeated, almost to herself. Then with a flash of mischief in her eyes she added, “Dux femina facti.”
There was a little ripple of laughter and Lizbeth, who knew the words meant “It was done by a woman”, remembered that they had been inscribed on some of the medals struck in commemoration of the victory over the Armada.
The Queen then withdrew into the inner room, followed by the Ladies of the Bedchamber.
As soon as she was out of sight, the Maids of Honour began to chatter and gossip among themselves and this was Lizbeth’s opportunity. The corridor was full of shadows. She slipped behind a pillar and waited till the voices had almost died away, then sped towards the stairs.
The Yeomen of the Guard looked at her in surprise as she passed, but it was not their business to enquire what she was doing alone at this time of night. The grooms and pages in their broidered coats of Venice gold were yawning as they wandered away to their own quarters, tired after the long hours of duty.
Lizbeth was afraid she might meet some of the older Ladies-in-Waiting; but in this she was fortunate and she reached the Hall to find no one there save Rodney standing alone, his jewelled buttons sparkling in the firelight. Lizbeth ran to him impulsively. It was hard to remember at that moment to keep a rigid control upon herself, to think of Phillida, to know that she must not betray the secret of her own heart.
“Rodney, I am so proud.”
The words came unrestrainedly from her lips.
“I’m glad you were there,” he said. “In truth, you should have shared it with me.”
He looked at her as he spoke and she felt there was some meaning in his voice which she did not understand. Then, hastily, as if he recalled something of importance to his mind, he said,
“Come, there is someone waiting to see you outside!
“Outside?” Lizbeth echoed in astonishment.
Rodney nodded; then swinging his embroidered velvet cape from his shoulders he placed it on hers.
“’Twill be cold.” he said, “ but you need not stay long.”
“But who is there?” Lizbeth asked.
If it had not been Rodney, she would have refused to go outside at this hour of night in her richest gown, with jewels around her neck and in her ears, which might attract the attention of footpads and robbers.
“Come, do not be afraid.” Rodney reassured her.
And now, his cloak warmly round her shoulders, she let him lead her past the sentries at the door. There were several horses standing in the courtyard and even in the dim light of the lanterns Lizbeth recognised a chestnut mare. She gave an exclamation which turned to a cry of sheer surprise as she saw who rode her; and then as she ran down the steps. Phillida dismounted and came to meet her.
“Phillida. what does this mean?”
Lizbeth’s surprise was mingled with the sudden thought that Rodney and Phillida were married. That must be why they were here. They had ridden together from Camfield and there could be no other explanation of Phillida’s presence; and then, as she felt herself grow cold, she knew that it came not from the clear frosted air, but from the sudden sinking of her spirits.
Phillida bent to kiss her and drew her aside so that they were out of earshot of the grooms and sentries.
“I had to see you, little Lizbeth,” she said, and as she spoke Lizbeth saw her face and knew that she was happy. She tried to repress the pang of jealousy that shot through her as with lips suddenly dry she asked,
“You are married – you and Rodney?”
“No, indeed!” Phillida’s response was quick and joyous. “It is other news I have for you, Lizbeth, news so wonderful, so unexpected that even now I can hardly believe it is true.”
Lizbeth felt she had never seen her half-sister like this before, talking excitedly, with a flush on her cheeks that were usually so pale.
“Tell me,” Lizbeth pleaded, “tell me quickly.”
“It is Rodney who has arranged everything for me,” Phillida answered. “I am leaving for France tonight. I go to Le Havre, to enter the Convent of Notre Dame de Consolation.”
“To a Convent?” Lizbeth found it hard to say the words.
“Yes, indeed, and Rodney has arranged everything for me.
Phillida’s eyes dropped in sudden embarrassment and Lizbeth knew, without being told, that Rodney had arranged not only to send her to France but to give her the dowry which would ensure her entrance into the Convent.
“How has he managed this? Are you sure you will be accepted?” Lizbeth asked, bewildered; and Rodney answered the questions from behind her.
“’T’was not as hard as it appears. She will be welcomed, I can stake my oath on it, for my sister is the Reverend Mother of the Convent to which she travels.”
“Your sister – and a Catholic!” Lizbeth ejaculated.
Rodney looked uncomfortable for the moment.
“Faith, I warrant ’tis not a thing a man would talk about unnecessarily,” he replied.
Lizbeth laughed at that. It was so funny that she should have been hiding the truth from Rodney about Phillida and he was keeping secret the fact that his sister was also a Catholic, and a Reverend Mother at that.
“My sister is much older than I am,” he said, as if somehow that made the situation better.
“I told Rodney the truth,” Phillida was saying contentedly, “and then everything was easy. He promised to help me. How can I ever be grateful enough?”
“By coming away now, at once,” Rodney replied. “We must not linger here. Lizbeth might get into trouble, and your ship sails on the dawn tide.”
“I will come at once,” Phillida answered.
She bent down and put her arms round Lizbeth.
“Good-bye, little sister, she said, “we may never meet again, but I am happy, remember that, always. I am happy.”
“That is what matters,” Lizbeth said, “and oh, Phillida, I am so glad for you.”
Phillida’s cheek was against hers. It was cool and soft, and she whispered very low so that only Lizbeth could hear;
“You love him, I know that. I saw it in your eyes the night that he arrived at Camfield. I shall pray that you will find happiness together.”
Lizbeth could not find words to answer her. She hugged her closely. Then Rodney swung Phillida up into the saddle and
they were on the move, their horses’ hoofs clattering over the cobbled yard.
It was only when they were gone that Lizbeth realised that she still wore Rodney’s cloak about her shoulders. She went back into the Palace, took it off and held it gently in her hands, before with a sudden passion, she cradled it against her breast. It was his, a part of him, he had worn it. She pressed her lips against the soft material. She loved him and now miraculously he was free-but she was not certain that he would come to her.
She hid the cloak in a chest in her room and found that fortunately her absence had gone practically unnoticed. The Maids of Honour were talking too excitedly of what had happened during the day. Only Elizabeth Throgmorton was silent with a dreamy look in her soft blue eyes as she sat on her bed thinking of Sir Walter.
“I shall win my Lord Essex from the Queen. What do you wager me?” Lady Mary was asking, her face sparkling with mischief, as Lizbeth crossed the room.
“How can you dare say such a thing aloud?” one of the Maids of Honour asked. “The Queen will send you to the Tower if you so much as look at him.”
“I shall do a great deal more than look,” Lady Mary threatened.
The others cried out at that, telling her she was crazed: but she only laughed at them and flung herself down on her bed lying with her arms crossed behind her head.
“The Queen is old,” she announced. “Do you realise that we shall grow old, too? Why should we waste our youth and our beauty and all the love which lies within our hearts?”
“You will not live to grow old if the Queen hears you,” someone threatened.
“I do not think that I care one way or another, Lady Mary replied. “Old age is horrible! It will mean that we shall have to dye our hair, our teeth will decay and grow black. We shall feel all the pains of hell in our withered bodies. We shall have to rest – rest! When we might be dancing or riding or running hand in hand through the gardens with someone we love.”
“Be quiet. You make me depressed.”
It was Elizabeth Throgmorton who spoke for the first time, a look of fear on her lovely face as if she knew the years were passing by and she might never win the man she loved so dearly.
“’Tis true,” Lady Mary replied stubbornly.
Lizbeth could listen to no more of their chatter. It was true, as Lady Mary had inferred, that the Queen’s hair was dyed and her teeth black yet she could inspire such men as Drake, Raleigh and Rodney to great deeds, to a devotion which was expressed in that they served her not only with their bodies and their minds, but with their very hearts and souls. What more could any woman ask? It was not youth that mattered. It was something greater and more important than the counting of years.
She did not sleep for a long time. When she awoke, it was only just dawn and a pale light was coming like a grey ghost through the sides of the curtains. The other Maids of Honour were all still asleep and as she lay there and listened to their gentle breathing Lizbeth suddenly felt a yearning for the open air of the countryside, for the wind blowing up the valley at Camfield, for the frost lying white on the grass of the parkland.
She rose softly from her bed and slipping into the other room, sent the maid who was on duty in search of Nanna. The old woman came hurrying. Lizbeth commanded her riding habit and sent a message below that she required her horse immediately.
“You should not be going out as early as this,” Nanna said scoldingly. “’Tis all very well for you to indulge your fads and fancies at Camfield, but Her Majesty will not allow it at Whitehall!
“I want to breathe,” Lizbeth said.
Grumbling and protesting Nanna brought her riding habit and plumed hat and when at length she was ready, Lizbeth looked at the river through the window and saw that the early sun was dispersing the silver mists. It was cold, but there was an invigorating crispness in the air and the frost brought the colour to her cheeks as she guided her horse through the narrow streets until she reached the Park.
There was a beauty she did not expect in the leafless branches of the trees silhouetted against the pale sky. In the distance the Serpentine gleamed silver as the lake at Camfield might have done. There was the smell of autumn on the air, the aroma of rotting leaves and the faint acrid smoke of the woodcutter’s fire.
Her horse was fresh and Lizbeth gave him his head. Soon she had left the groom far behind and was alone, forgetting convention and formality and everything except the joy of feeling herself move in one accord with the great animal on whose back she sat.
And then, as if this moment had been predestined from the beginning of their lives, as if everything they had thought and done led to this moment, she saw Rodney come riding towards her through the trees. The sunshine was on her face as she greeted him, not in words, but with a sudden glory in her eyes and the parting of her lips.
He reined in his horse beside hers. For a moment neither of them spoke. The animals, spirited though they were. seemed suddenly to grow quiet as if they were waiting for the drama to unfold and for the climax of the play to be reached.
“Lizbeth – ” Rodney began, but as he looked into her eyes, he forgot what he was going to say. “I love you – he stammered. “I adore you – I worship you, I did not realise until you left me. I did not know until my life was empty without you how much you meant and how little I could do without you.”
Lizbeth thought then as she listened that she must be dreaming. For one wild moment she believed she would wake up and find herself in bed, not at Camfield or at Whitehall, but aboard the Santa Perpetua. It was for this she had yearned for so long, aching to hear this note in Rodney’s voice, to see this look in his eyes.
It was true! With a little incoherent murmur she put out her hand towards him. He drew the glove from her fingers and, turning her hand over in his, raised it to his lips and kissed the soft palm with lips which bespoke his passion without words.
She felt a quiver and a thrill go through her. She felt herself tremble. Suddenly the whole world was too dazzling, too golden to be borne.
“I love you,” Rodney said again, his voice low and deep with emotion.
Vaguely and like an echo she seemed to hear another voice saying the same thing, and then everything was forgotten in the knowledge that Rodney was here beside her and her love for him was welling up within her like a flood-tide which could not be denied.
His hold tightened on her hand, and now, skilful in horsemanship as in everything else, he moved close beside her so that he could reach out and put his arm round her waist. She felt him draw her near to him. Her face was upturned to his, her lips waiting to be surrendered.
Swiftly to her mind came the thought that this was the beginning. There was much ahead of them both, so many adventures, so many marvels, so much glory to be striven for and achieved. Then, masterfully and with a sudden passion that would not be denied, Rodney held her against his heart.
“You are mine,” he cried, “and I will never let you go again.”
She looked up at him and it seemed to her as if every different facet of his character was there in his expression. She saw the reverence and adoration which he offered the Queen, the grim determination he showed to the Spaniards, the mercifulness he offered the ill-treated natives, the hatred of Don Miguel which had frightened her in its intensity, and a new and strange emotion which she did not recognise.
For a moment she thought it was courage – that shining, brilliant courage which was to her characteristic of everything Rodney thought and did, and then she knew it for an expression of love.
Rodney loved her, and everything he was and would be he laid at her feet. Lizbeth could hear the thumping of her heart, her whole being was a – thrill. Breathlessly she parted her lips, but before she could speak Rodney’s mouth was on hers. She felt the world whirl round her, this was life, this was living, this was an adventure more poignant, more marvellous than any she had experienced before.
She knew then that Rodney’s heart was hers for ever and for all time – but
he was still dedicated to Gloriana. As Lizbeth thought of the Queen she felt one last fleeting pang of jealousy, then Rodney’s voice, low, broken and deeply moved, whispered:
“My little love, my sweet, my beloved!”
She felt his lips drawing her very soul from her body and with a sob of sheer, untrammelled happiness, she surrendered herself unreservedly to her lover’s kiss , her Elizabethan lover!
THE LITTLE PRETENDER
TO RAINE,
whose beauty and sweetness are a continual joy and inspiration
Author's Note
No author, especially one of Scottish blood, would dare to give too free a rein to fiction in connection with Prince Charles Stuart, because his memory is sacred to every Scot, and the story of his exploits, so exciting, dramatic and heart-stirring, is as clear and familiar as if the events took place only yesterday.
I have therefore in this tale of 1750 – four years after the Prince led the Rising of the Clans and had been defeated – contented myself with making use of only two historical facts: the first that the Prince lost his bonnet as he fled from the battlefield of Culloden Moor, the second that he visited London secretly in September, 1750, and at a house in Pall Mall asked the Duke of Beaufort and the Earl of Westmorland to raise him 5,000 men.
The rest of this book and its characters are entirely a product of my imagination, including the Clan MacCraggan and their position on the map of Scotland.
1
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Vous êtes tres charmante!”
Iona stopped and looked up, for her eyes had been on the ground as she picked her way carefully over the dirty, cobbled street. In front of her, barring her way stood a gentleman. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but neither his clothes nor the rouge and powder with which his face had been carefully embellished could hide the fact that he was elderly.
But if he would disguise his age, the wrinkled Lothario made no attempt to hide the question in his peering, lecherous eyes or the invitation that twisted his thin, reddened lips.
An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition Page 25
