Queen Elizabeth's Daughter: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Barnhill, Anne Clinard

  “The queen knows all and sees all, dearie. I did not divulge your secret, though I considered doing so. I understand her concern for your welfare—you are like her own child. As such, she does not want to see you hurt or used for some young man’s advancement. She is wise to the ways of men and you should harken unto her wisdom,” said Mistress Blanche.

  “I only do what the queen herself has done. I have danced with Tom and met him secretly in the gardens. We have kissed a little and pledged our love. He has had me in his arms, but not nearly so often as Sweet Robin has held the queen thus. And Tom has never touched my dugs, as I have seen Robin do with the queen. Once, I even saw him put his mouth to the queen’s nipple. I have seen much over the years, Mistress Blanche. On our picnics, when they thought I was sleeping, sometimes I would open my eyes just a crack and I watched them kiss and whisper together, fondling one another. I have never done such with Tom—so how is it she can tell me to keep my honor when she besmirches her own?” said Mary, still sobbing into Mistress Blanche’s shoulders.

  “No matter what you have seen Her Majesty do, she is the bearer of her own consequences. She is a grown woman and she is queen. You, however, are still a girl and you remain her ward. Granted, you are old enough for marriage, but only if the queen allows it. She wants great things for you, Mary. She has trained you as she, herself, was trained: you know the classics, you can read Latin and Greek, even French; you do mathematics and can write a splendid hand; you dance and sing and play the lute and the virginals. Why do you think the queen has taken such pains with you? Why would she bother even keeping a royal ward in her presence for all these years, rather than sell the wardship to enhance her own coffers?” said Mistress Blanche.

  “I suppose no one would have me,” said Mary, allowing herself to be led by the hand to sit at the window across from Mistress Blanche.

  “Oh, Shelton Hall is a fine palace and your brother would have had you back within its walls years ago. He wanted your marriage rights but the queen refused him. Elizabeth wanted you here, child. She loves you. Surely you must know that,” said Mistress Blanche.

  “Then why would she send Tom away from me? Does she not wish my happiness?” said Mary.

  “She has a grand plan for you! She intends to make you a fine match—not marriage to the son of a minor lord but perhaps to a prince! She has seen to your education and has dressed you in fine clothes and jewels. Have you not noticed that among all her ladies, you are the only one allowed to wear colorful gowns of blue and yellow? She wants your beauty to shine forth for all the court to see. And you, selfish girl, have almost ruined it,” said Mistress Blanche.

  Mary remembered all the nights she and the queen had spent together when Mary was a little girl. So many times, Mary had been afraid and sad, waiting for the queen to join her in the royal bed. Elizabeth would sing to Mary, funny ditties about lambs and wool and ring-around-the-rosy. Mary could still recall taking Elizabeth’s long, delicate hand in her own and rubbing each nail, feeling the sleekness of the fingers and the heaviness of the rings that adorned them.

  “I am sorry,” said Mary. Such an admission was difficult to make, but it was true. Mary was sorry.

  “Give your apologies to the queen. You have naught to fear—she will not send you to the Tower. Tonight, when she comes into the bedchamber after dancing, go to her and make amends. I have found Her Majesty quick to anger but even quicker to forgive,” said Mistress Blanche. “Now, crawl into your trundle bed and I shall bring you some bread and ale. You need to sleep a little, methinks.”

  * * *

  The night air was cool, as though June were some imposter and April the true month. After an evening of dancing, the queen found herself inhaling great gulps of the cold air as she caught her wind. She would not admit to being tired out from such leaping and stepping—her courtiers would never see her out of breath. At thirty-six, she was fast approaching her middle years, but no one must know the queen, Elizabeth Regina, was mortal, and time dealt with her in the same way he dealt with all—the slow decline of the flesh, even as the spirit remained ever young.

  How she had needed this evening! How the weight of government fell heavily onto her thin shoulders! A night of frivolity with Robin! That always soothed her. And her Sweet Robin had never failed her—he was the best dancer at court, the handsomest man, the best on a horse. Oh, if only he’d an ounce of royal blood, she might have married him, the naysayers be damned.

  But such a match was never to be—she had come to that decision long ago, when his name (and hers) had been blackened by the mysterious death of his wife, Amy Robsart. Amy’s death was the death knoll for the queen and her lover. Her Majesty could never have Robin after that—her own honor would have suffered and that she could not abide.

  She strolled along the familiar garden path, lit by torches and the moon. The fresh leaves on the trees shone silver in the light and the pebbles along the path glinted like the stars. She was heading for her white garden, hoping to find some early rosebuds to pin to her silk dress. Just as she was approaching this place that was wholly hers, she heard voices coming from within the garden itself.

  She paused, listening.

  She recognized the voices at once—Robin and Lady Essex! She could identify that tinkling, silly laughter anywhere. She stood immobile, straining to hear their love talk. Oh, he tells her she is beautiful. She laughs again, throatily this time. He says hers is a warm beauty, not like the queen’s regal coldness. Elizabeth could contain herself no longer.

  “Cold, am I? Untouchable? I shall teach you of coldness, milord!” said the queen as she strode toward Lord Robert. Before she could think, she slapped him hard across the face. Then she turned to Lady Essex and pushed her so that she almost fell to the ground. The shoulders of Lady Essex’s dress had come down and her breasts were exposed. The queen stared and then grabbed hold of Lady Essex’s hair, tugging it with great gusto.

  “Out, whore! Adulterer! Go back to you husband! And do not return to London on pain of death!” shouted the queen. Lord Robert regained his senses and grabbed the queen by her arms.

  “Run, Lettie! Run while you can! Bess! Bess! Get hold of yourself!” said Lord Robert.

  Lady Essex gathered herself and disappeared into the larger gardens. Lord Robert still held the queen.

  “How dare you! How dare you make love to her! Oh Robin! How can you betray me thus?” said the queen, her voice cracking.

  “Bess, dearest, what would you have me do? Just because you choose the virginal state does not mean I must—I am a man, Bess. I have desires you would not understand! Such women mean nothing to me, darling. You are my love—you will always be my true love! If only you would marry me, Bess, I would be your faithful knight, serving you only and always. Marry me, my love, and put me out of my misery,” said Lord Robert, pulling her against him.

  “Hah! Marry you! So you could rule this kingdom! That is the only reason you would marry me. I am cold and regal—nothing like the hot beauty you were holding only minutes ago. Go! Get out of my sight! Go!” screamed the queen, sinking down to the ground. “Go at once or I shall call my guards!”

  Lord Robert bent down to her but she shoved him away. He turned and left her there, sitting in the damp grass.

  Four

  God’s blood, how am I to bear it? How can I stand to look at him, see him each day, imagining him with his arms around that she-wolf? Does he think me a fool, that I would still cling to him after such a display? Does he believe he can act as he pleases, that I am so besotted with him that I will allow any sort of betrayal? God’s blood, Parry! What am I to do?

  And Mary, my dear Fawn, how can I make her understand the importance of a good marriage? You remember well my own silly youth, that terrible scandal with Thomas Seymour … What is it about the name Tom? She does not see the dangers in men—how could she? I know, I know. She is no longer a child. But she will always be my girl, the child of my heart.

  Do you remember how she fir
st came to us? The sky over London was bleak and gray, though the mood of my people was light, almost giddy, for my sister was dead and I was to be crowned queen. I still recall the way my people gathered as I rode from Lord North’s city house to the Tower, the guns booming and the trumpets blaring. The bells rang constantly as the procession snaked its way through the narrow streets. Peasants threw sweet herbs in my path and children sang songs. The litter stopped at my command so I could receive the gifts from my people—an apple, a bit of fine cloth, flowers. I looked each person in the eye and I can still hear their cries of “God Save the Queen!” and “God Bless Elizabeth” ringing over the cobbles. Washerwomen and apothecaries, boatswains and carters, porters and merchants—all of London jammed the streets to see me, hoping I might favor them with a smile. So long ago and I was young.

  And Mary, sweet Mary—you brought her to me while Robin and I were selecting the materials for coronation clothes and all the festivities of that day. Robin said I would empty the coffers before I was crowned; I told him how the people were taken and held by pompous shows. Then he said he knew how I had longed for such luxuries, as if I desired to please myself more than my people. He raised my ire then as he does now. I still feel the touch of his hand upon my cheek as he told me my beauty would shine forth even if I were dressed in filthy rags. How I blushed for him. By the saints, I shall blush for him no more.

  Then, there you were, Parry, holding Mary by the hand, the girl’s black hair and large dark eyes setting her apart from most of the children I’d seen on the London streets, children with golden curls and pale eyes. She walked so slowly toward me, I could sense how terrified she was. Her eyes were wide and she could not stop gazing at me, at my jewels … and when she curtsied to me, just like a grown-up woman, I smiled at her. I couldn’t stop myself from holding out my arms to her and she ran into them just as if I’d been her own mother. You told me then of how her parents had died within days of each other, the sweats, you thought. Her brother, Sir Ralph, had inherited, but he was asking for Mary’s marriage rights. I was ready to give him what he wanted, so busy was I with preparations. But later that night, when you brought her to me, the little thing sobbing her heart out, I made the mistake of putting her in my bed. She took my fingers in her pudgy hands and began to trace each nail, rubbing me over and over again. For whatever reason, the action seemed to calm her and she fell asleep, curled up beside me.

  Ha! After that, wild horses could not have dragged her from me! We have raised her up, Parry, together. And we shall see she makes a good marriage. I will not allow her to throw herself away on some ruffian like Tom Wotton!

  Five

  June 1569

  Most of the torches had been dimmed for the sleeping ladies in the queen’s bedchamber, but large candelabra gave off flickers of light that played against the tapestries on the walls. Mary fidgeted in her nightgown, fingering the gathers at her neck. She could feel the raised threads—blackwork, the queen’s favorite form of stitchery, and done by the queen’s own hand. Such a style had been a favorite of Elizabeth’s father, Bluff King Hal, but was somewhat out of fashion with the younger set at court. However, Elizabeth excelled at those tiny stitches and continued to create smocks and gowns for her favorites. Mary had been a favorite for as long as she could remember. But after tonight … after tonight … she could not allow herself to think about that.

  Mary dreaded the confrontation to come. The queen’s dark moods of late were the talk of the court. No one was immune from her lashing tongue. Indeed, Mary had seen Her Majesty strike serving girls when they spilled ale or wine onto the table. Once, she witnessed the queen pull the hair of Mistress Eleanor because Mistress Eleanor had outwitted the queen at primero. While Mary had observed the queen’s temper for more than ten years, she knew Her Majesty’s inner rage grew worse with each passing day. Since Kat Ashley’s death, the queen seemed more prone to giving fits, as though losing Kat had freed her in some way.

  Mary did not know what suffering awaited her when she gave her apologies to the queen. She had no wish to say she was sorry because she was not, at least not completely. But she knew an apology was demanded and she dreaded a long, laborious lecture. She had not long to fret over it.

  The queen arrived without fanfare, her hair falling in ringlets from the coif Mary had helped build earlier in the day. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she walked as if she’d been beaten by the world’s troubles. Her shoulders slumped and her face seemed pulled down—her mouth, even her eyes, seemed slanted toward sadness. To Mary, the queen looked very old.

  Mary rose from her trundle bed beside the queen’s large four-poster. She curtsied deeply and did not lift her head.

  “Oh, child. I had forgot you were waiting to make amends. Well, get up. Stand, I say,” said the queen, her voice ragged.

  “Your Majesty, I am sorry. I do not know what came over me to speak to you in such a manner. Forgive me,” said Mary. She tried to keep the irritation she felt out of her voice.

  “Bah, you do not sound sorry in the least,” said the queen, standing as her ladies slowly rose to help her untie her sleeves and unlace her stomacher.

  The queen stood still as a statue. Mary knew she was waiting for further demonstration of Mary’s sorrow at their disagreement. Mary cleared her throat, ready to try again.

  “Majesty, I am truly sorry to have offended Your Grace,” said Mary, her voice a monotone this time.

  “Tut-tut, all is forgiven,” said the queen.

  The ladies fussed over Her Majesty as the queen motioned for Mary to join them. Mary carefully plucked the jewels from the queen’s gown and sleeves to put away. She knew the queen loved her, had raised her for a fine marriage. But she also knew Tom Wotton loved her and she loved him. His lands were not grand, nor was he. He would be just fine for Mary, no matter what the queen thought. She felt her blood rising again and her breath coming in short spurts.

  “Mistress Mary, I said we are finished with this business. Now, help me out of this infernal gown,” said the queen. The queen sighed loudly, then spoke in a more gentle voice. “I only want what is best for you.”

  “I know, Your Grace. I have always known your love for me to be a true and genuine thing. My love is also true,” said Mary, still not looking at the queen.

  Mary untied the ribbons that secured the sleeves to the pair of bodies. The silk felt light as feathers in her hands. She was not speaking of her true love for the queen, but for Tom.

  “Humph, love. What could one such as you know of that cursed condition?” said the queen.

  “Your Majesty seems in low spirits tonight,” said Mary as she unlaced the queen’s stomacher and helped her step out of her kirtle. The petticoat came off and the queen could relax—there would be nothing left to bind her.

  “Ah, much better, Mary. I’ll sleep in the silk gown, yes, that one,” said the queen as she slipped her shift from her shoulders and raised her arms over her head so Mary could slide the nightgown on. Mary noticed how thin the queen had become—too thin. She looked unwell. The queen sat on her bed so her maids could remove her velvet slippers and her silk hose.

  “Begone, all of you! All except Mary,” shouted the queen. The other ladies scurried about like mice. When they had all disappeared, the queen patted the spot on her bed and indicated for Mary to sit beside her.

  “Mary, I would protect you from what happened to me tonight. Aye, and every maid at court,” said the queen, color creeping up her slender neck. Mary could see the royal pulse beating there.

  “What is that, Your Majesty?” said Mary, sitting beside the queen.

  “Man’s treachery!” said the queen, pounding her fists against the mattress.

  “What treachery, Majesty?” said Mary, stretching out beside the queen.

  “My Sweet Robin! He has betrayed me with that she-wolf, Lady Essex! I caught them in my very own white garden!” said the queen, her voice pinched up.

  “This cannot be true—if ever a man loved a woman
, Robin loves Your Majesty!” said Mary.

  “He may love me—I do not doubt it. But he lusts for the she-wolf!” said the queen. “He held her in his arms and his mouth was on hers! Oh, she tried to straighten herself when I found them—but it was too late!”

  “What did Your Majesty do?” said Mary.

  “Well, I am ashamed to say that first, I pushed them apart. And then I pulled her hair, almost yanked it out by the roots,” said the queen. She cut her eyes to Mary and they exchanged a look. They burst into nervous giggles; the strain between them vanished.

  “Then, I banished the baggage! Told her never to return to my court. And Robin—I sent him away as well. I cannot bear to look upon him—he has broken my heart,” said the queen.

  “Majesty—I do not know what to say. I would comfort you,” said Mary, rubbing the queen’s shoulders as she used to when she was a child.

  “There is nothing to say, Fawn. This is woman’s lot. This is what I would protect you from—this emptiness, this sorrow,” said the queen.

  Mary could feel the shuddering of the queen’s body as Her Majesty sobbed quietly. Suddenly, the queen sat up straight.

  “Now you know why I sent that young cur away from you. To love a man is death to a woman—our love never holds them, Fawn. Always, some younger, prettier woman catches their faithless eyes. And then … and then, the betrayal starts!” said the queen.

  “But Your Grace, surely this is not the same for all men and women. Surely there are some who love until death parts them,” said Mary.

  “No! Men marry to get heirs and a goodly portion of money and land from a dowry. They scheme and lie and keep kitchen wenches as mistresses. They dissemble and dishonor God’s holy laws by making do with any whore they can find. Oh Fawn! Beware the marriage bed! One night of pleasure could bring death nine months later! Or the French pox! Or a broken heart! Look at poor Amy Robsart—I’ll warrant her heart cracked ere she died. And Sweet Robin did not blink—he barely saw her during those last years of her life. She was alone and in misery. No, Fawn. Best not to marry. That way, you will be alone, but on your own terms. And you will never be miserable—there are too many handsome men to allow you to feel sad for long. From now on, I will not keep my favors for our Sweet Robin. I shall enjoy the attentions of all the handsome fellows,” said the queen, her mood switching from dejection to elation.