Queen Elizabeth's Daughter: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Barnhill, Anne Clinard

  “As you command, mistress,” said Oxford.

  They crossed the stream with no trouble and wandered toward a large rock some distance from them. When they arrived, Mary sat to rest and the earl stood above her.

  “May I join you?” he said, sitting beside her.

  He sat very close so that the lower part of their bodies touched from hip to knee. Mary tried to scoot away from him but his arm caught her and pulled her to him.

  “Mistress, I have dreamed of this—you and I together,” he said. His pale blue eyes seemed to belong to another world, but the look in them definitely was of this earth.

  “My lord, I have heard that you are a writer of verse—perhaps you could recite some for me,” said Mary, pulling away from him. She did not trust him in these dark woods. She did not wish to fight him off like a bear at a baiting.

  “You know well how to parry, mistress, for what poet could resist such a request. I do have some verses I have composed for you—if I may be so bold,” said Oxford. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a piece of parchment.

  “You have not committed the words to memory?” Mary asked, smiling.

  “I have not finished writing the poem yet—it is new. But let me begin.”

  What cunning can express

  The favour of her face

  To whom in this distress

  I do appeal for grace.

  A thousand cupids fly

  About her gentle eye.

  From which each throws a dart,

  That kindleth soft sweet fire:

  Within my sighing heart,

  Possessed by desire.

  No sweeter life I try

  Than in her love to die.

  He stopped, waiting for her response. She said nothing. He fiddled with the edges of the parchment and finally placed it back inside his shirt.

  “What … what do you think?” he said.

  “It is not finished, you say?” she said.

  “No—just barely begun. I was thinking of you, your beautiful brown eyes and how I seem to drown in them each time our gazes meet. I tried to capture how you make me feel…” he said, sitting down beside her again.

  “It seems to me the poem does not discuss so much the lady as he who ardently desires her—it is more about desire itself. If I were to write a poem about someone I loved, I should make the poem more about that person, less about myself,” said Mary. She did not look at him for fear he might kiss her.

  “Yes! That is absolutely right! I do not know why I had not thought of it before—the focus should be on the lady herself,” he said. “Now, look at me so that I may memorize each thing about you.”

  To her surprise, rather than stare at her, he closed his eyes. Then, gingerly, he put the tips of his fingers on her face, slowly moving across her features.

  “There, the shapely lips I long to kiss,” he said as he traced them over and over. “And here, the nose that turns up just a little. The eyebrows, arched and thick … so smooth. The cheeks, rounded and velvet-soft. Ah, the ears, little conch shells, whirls within whirls.”

  Mary could not move. No one had ever touched her this way. Her heart beat so loudly she wondered he did not hear it. Her face blazed under his touch. When he opened his eyes, he did peer into her own. She could not look away. He moved toward her and kissed her, a gentle kiss that lingered and lingered. Then, he pulled her to him, kissing her again and again. She felt powerless against him and was surprised to discover she enjoyed it when their lips met. She tried to think but could not. Her body had a life of its own and, although reluctantly at first, she returned his kisses. This seemed to inspire him. He forced his tongue into her mouth and she allowed him to explore her completely. She could hear his breath quicken and felt his hands move along her ribs, to her breast. She gave a little gasp as he touched her nipple, tugging and squeezing gently.

  He leaned her back against the rock, putting his arm under her head for a pillow. His other hand was lifting her skirts.

  “No! No! This cannot be,” she said, sitting up abruptly.

  “Why, my dearest? I can see that you want to love me as much as I wish to love you,” said the earl, still nibbling her neck, though he, too, was now in an upright position.

  “The queen frowns on such behavior. She would dismiss me from court if I lost my honor. She has managed to keep the love of good men without giving herself to any,” said Mary. Now, she stood and he stood beside her. He grabbed her waist once again and brought her near him.

  “But you are no queen,” he said. Before she could stop him, he kissed her deeply. She could feel his manhood against her.

  “And you are no gentleman,” she said. “I must return at once to the queen!” She pushed him away. When he released his grasp, she ran into the woods toward the stream.

  “Mary! Wait! Please come back!” he shouted.

  Mary continued to run, her heart beating furiously, her face aflame. Her clothes caught on brambles and weeds but she did not care. She knew if she stayed with Oxford, she would give way to him. She did not love him; she barely knew him. What was his power over her? How could she ever learn to keep such a courtier away and guard her dignity? How does the queen, herself, manage to govern her own desires and those of the men around her?

  She hurried to where she had left the queen, hoping Her Majesty could give her advice. Oxford did not seem to be following her, so she slowed her pace and stopped for a moment after she had crossed the stream. She stilled her breathing and walked very quietly to the little clearing where they had eaten. She was just about to enter the area when she heard a deep sigh. She hid behind a large tree and peeked around.

  Lying on the ground in her shift was the queen, with Lord Robert hovering over her, his doublet and shirt in the nearby grass. He was kissing her and she had her arms wrapped around his neck. Mary watched as Lord Robert ran his hands along the queen’s body, pausing at her breasts, which he began to knead. Then Lord Robert lifted her shift over her head and the queen was naked beneath him. Just then, the queen rose up to meet him and Mary froze. The queen saw her, saw her without a doubt. Mary moved behind the tree again and began to tremble.

  What was Her Majesty thinking? Could all the rumors about her and Lord Robert be true? Could she have been his mistress all these years? Mary shook her head, trying to sort it out. They had been like a little family—Lord Robert had treated her as his own child, as had the queen. She did not doubt their love for her, nor did she doubt the love they had for each other. But for the queen to give away her virtue? Could it be possible?

  Mary could not stand there any longer. Very quietly, she dipped back into the woods and walked in a new direction. The last thing she wanted was to meet Oxford again. No, she needed to think. She needed to put the queen’s words against Her Majesty’s actions.

  She needed to run and run until she could run no more.

  Nineteen

  By Christ’s wounds, I did not expect Fawn to find me thus. Yes, I know I was foolish—it had been so long since I had held Rob in my arms—and that harlot, Lady Douglass—no telling if she had given herself to him or not. But when I rose up to hold Rob and saw Fawn there, behind the tree—you should have seen her face! She was pale as death and clearly shocked by the sight of us. Oh Parry, what is she to think, but that I am a hypocrite? I tell my ladies to guard their virtue, and yet Fawn has discovered I do not guard my own. No wonder she will neither look at me, nor speak to me unless I command it.

  I know not what to do—should I tell her that I am still a maid and there are ways to be with a man that do not include giving up one’s virginity? What sort of ideas might that put into her head? I would not have these dogs at court sniffing around my Fawn! God’s blood, I am her guardian, her protector. I am to act in loco parentis, in the place of her parents. I am responsible for her virtue and I must ensure she makes a good marriage.

  If only she knew the torment my unmarried state gives me! If only she could realize the sacrifices Elizabeth, the
woman, has made for Elizabeth, the queen! How can I demand her obedience when now she sees me as a vessel for sin? How can I command her respect when she has seen me in my Sweet Robin’s naked arms?

  How can she know the way I ache for Rob? Has she ever loved a man? I think not! She is but a child in a woman’s body. She knows nothing and I have not been any help to her.

  Yes, yes, I see how Oxford pants after her. I shall send him from court immediately. I know, I know. I cannot send every man from court. But I would protect her, Parry. God’s teeth, she has no idea what rogues these men can be. I would not give a fig for any of them—even my Robin’s eyes wander. No, do not think to comfort me. I know he goes to Lady Sheffield for what he cannot have from me. She gives it willingly enough.

  And I do not blame him. He loves me and has always loved me. I believe he shall always love me. I have not married him, lo, these many times he has begged it of me. I allow him a few of the pleasures of my body, but not everything. Not everything. He wants an heir. That he shall never have from me. So, let him sire a baseborn son or two. Where is the harm in that?

  As for Fawn, talk to her, Parry. Make her understand. And remind her of the great love I bear her. I can still remember her little hand in mine, rubbing my fingernails as she slept, cuddled against me—child of my heart.

  Twenty

  May 1570

  After Mary had seen the queen in Lord Robert’s arms, she found it difficult to be in Her Majesty’s presence. Each time she helped the queen dress or accompanied her around the gardens, she felt her face blaze with shame. Somehow, sharing such secret knowledge with the queen made Mary feel guilty, as if she had done something wrong. All those lectures she remembered the queen giving her ladies seemed laughable now. And Mary did not like the feeling she had that the queen was not quite as royal, not quite as elevated as Mary had thought her. Her Majesty seemed to understand these feelings, as she called for Mary less and less. Mary imagined the queen was ashamed and did not wish to be reminded of her sinful behavior by having to look into Mary’s eyes. But, though Mary was disillusioned and disappointed with the queen, the comings and goings at court continued as usual, and soon the weather was right for the royal progress.

  Because she needed something to soothe her nerves as she fretted over the queen’s behavior, Mary asked Catspaw for a cordial recipe that would calm her. She hoped if she could brew something quickly, the queen might also be able to use it on progress. And, though there would not be enough time for the cordial to reach its fullest potency, Mary was convinced anything was better than nothing. Catspaw knew exactly what potion to brew, chamomile blossoms and rose petals, which she swore could calm even the most nervous creature. Mary had gathered the flowers and was in her little room, where the air was cool and a fragrant aroma gathered. She heard the usual kitchen bustle, feet running back and forth, cooks and washerwomen joking as they worked. She was straining the newly washed blooms when she saw a shadow fall across the entranceway.

  “I see I find you experimenting—you look like Dr. Dee, poring over his laboratory instruments,” said Sir John Skydemore. He looked a bit disheveled, as if he had hurried from one place to another. Mary smiled at him and he returned her kind looks.

  “I suppose I am. Since we are leaving to go on progress soon, I wanted to try this new cordial—for calming the nerves,” said Mary.

  “Well, I understand the queen’s progress can be a bit daunting,” he said.

  She nodded and continued to strain the flowers. After making certain they were clean, she spread them on a white linen cloth.

  “I have been looking for you everywhere, Mary. Luckily, I ran into Old Catspaw and she told me where you were. I have something I would like to discuss with you,” he said, suddenly seeming nervous.

  “Oh? What is it?” said Mary, pressing another cloth over the petals.

  “I wish to go ahead with our courtship. I must return to Holme Lacy tomorrow to see after the rents and some other things. And, of course, to see the children … I shall join the progress in a week or so. And, when I do return, I would like to speak to the queen about us,” said Sir John.

  Mary could not help but smile. Though she was not sure Sir John would suit the queen, as she looked into his eyes, she thought he would easily suit her. And she could trust that he was serious about his intentions. Unlike Oxford, who said he was going to speak to the queen but, thus far, had not, Mary knew Sir John would keep his word. He had such a sincere manner.

  “Are you certain you are ready?” said Mary.

  He took two long steps to her, wrapped her in his arms, and kissed her.

  “Yes … yes, I am ready,” he said.

  * * *

  The queen and her entourage set out for her annual progress in late May because the weather had turned unusually warm and a siege of summer sickness took hold of the city early. Her first visit was to Nonsuch Palace in Surrey, where the queen enjoyed hunting amid the rich forests and meadows. The whole court traveled with their mistress, though the long parade of wagons and heavily laden mules precluded a quick journey. Instead, the queen and her party slowly made their way through various towns and villages where Her Majesty would be welcomed by the local sheriff, the mayor, and aldermen who dressed in their solemn robes to hand her the ceremonial keys. Then, the people would line up along both sides of the narrow road, throwing flowers at the queen, reciting poems and singing songs in her honor. Often, the queen stopped everything to hear the song of a child or to receive a bag of gold from some poor widow who could scant afford such generosity. No matter what the gift, the queen accepted it cordially, with many waves and kisses to her people.

  Although the queen lived in her usual splendor while on progress, her maids did not. Often, they were crowded together with the maidservants of the house and sometimes they were stabled in makeshift tents. The queen loved being among her people and living lavishly at the expense of her courtiers; her ladies did not.

  “At least we can enjoy Nonsuch—after that, we head for Sir Francis Carew’s Beddington estate. I have heard there is no room at all there for us—we shall sleep with the kitchen wenches,” said Lady Douglass, brushing specks of dust from her sleeves.

  “Surely things will not be that bad—the queen does have a care for us,” said Mary, washing one of the queen’s shifts in a bowl of warm water. The queen had spilled a little wine on the edge of the sleeve, so Mary had taken it upon herself to try to remove the stain before the washerwoman came to collect the laundry. She looked out the window at the sprawling hills below, the forests fully green and the flower gardens showing off the colors of the rainbow—pink roses, purple columbines, pale green lilies—and Mary thought she had never seen anything quite so beautiful.

  Though the queen and Lord Robert continued to enjoy hunting together, rumors were circulating about Elizabeth and the Duke of Anjou, that the queen would accept him as a candidate for her hand, though he was much younger than she.

  “Old Catspaw has been spreading the news to anyone who will listen,” said Mistress Eleanor, folding the lawn sheets to be fitted on the queen’s bed later.

  “That old bird has lost her feathers; she was ever a flibbertigibbet and now she tells such silly tales. The duke is twenty years younger than Her Majesty. Do you seriously think he would consider marrying such an old woman? And, she has that awful sore on her leg! She is aging fast and none the better for it,” said Lady Douglass.

  “The queen’s leg will heal—it is an ulcer of some sort. Mistress Blanche has been placing warm compresses on it each night and rubbing an unguent of chamomile and aloe on it. Already, it begins to heal,” said Mary, scrubbing harder on the stain. She wished she were scrubbing Lady Douglass’s face.

  “There is to be a grand dance tonight. Lord Robert told me to dress in my finest silks. Are you going?” said Lady Douglass.

  “Of course. Where else would we be but at the queen’s service?” said Mary.

  “I shall wear my new black gown with cl
oth-of-gold sleeves and a pale green kirtle. Master Nicholas has said he wishes to sketch me tonight in the candlelight,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  “Humph. Sketch you, indeed! I know full well what he would like to do in the candlelight,” said Lady Douglass.

  Mistress Eleanor flushed all the way down her neck and looked at the floor.

  “Perhaps you would know of such things, having been a married woman. As for us maidens, we have no such wisdom,” said Mary, staring at Lady Douglass hard.

  The women finished their chores and picked up their sewing.

  “I shall wear my silver dress with silver sleeves—the queen has given me a new diamond necklace to wear as well. Would you like to see it?” said Mary, suddenly proud of her kinship to the queen, at least proud in front of this haughty woman.

  “I have more important things to do, mistress, than to see what castoff the queen has tossed to her little dog. Lord Robert has asked me to go along on the hunt—I must ready myself,” said Lady Douglass, rising and throwing her sewing hoop on the table near the queen’s bed. She then swished out of the room, her skirts twirling about her legs.

  “I want to see it, Mary—pay her no mind. Her head is as empty as Pakington’s pockets,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  Mary rose and walked to the linen press. She reached deep within and pulled out her treasure box.

  “Oh, the special box! I have not seen this in a while,” said Mistress Eleanor, squinting to see inside.

  “My treasures … I did not want to leave them behind when we went on progress, so I hid the box in here. Look! The necklace,” said Mary, pulling out a small gold chain on which tiny diamonds glittered.

  “It is beautiful—not gaudy like those heavy links Lady Douglass wears. It is delicate, like you, Mary. I think it’s perfect for tonight. What is that?” said Mistress Eleanor, pointing.

  “Oh, a silly keepsake—my hair woven with the queen’s. She pledged her eternal friendship with this ringlet back when I was a child. But I kept it … such tokens of the queen’s affection are rare and it means more to me than these diamonds,” said Mary, replacing the necklace and closing the lid. She hid the box once again in the cupboard.