Queen Elizabeth's Daughter: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Barnhill, Anne Clinard

  “But are you willing to bet our lives on it?” said Mary.

  “I would rather marry you and be in heaven for a few short moments than to live in hell without you—for that is what my life would be if you were not in it,” said Sir John.

  Mary turned from him. The serious, wounded man she had first met seemed gone and before her was the gallant lover, ready to risk everything for her. If he was willing to gamble, she must rise to meet his courage.

  “All right, sweetheart. All right. We shall marry in secret and pray for the queen’s mercy,” said Mary, turning to him once more and kissing him tenderly.

  As their kisses grew hotter, Mary heard footsteps in the corridor. Around the corner hobbled Catspaw, a stack of the queen’s shifts in her arms.

  “What goes on here?” the old woman said. “Oh, I know better than to ask—you’ve been discovered, young lovers. Have no fear, Old Catspaw will say nothing—I never tell tales.”

  “Please, Catspaw, please do not tell this tale. Here, let me carry those for you! John, give her a coin—go rest a while, old dame. I shall finish your work this day,” said Mary, her face pale.

  “I thank you, my pretty. Me old legs is tired, ’tis true. I’ll keep yer secret—my lips are sealed as with wax,” said Catspaw, retreating back down the long hall. “I know how to keep my mouth shut, I do. Never tell nobody nothing … no, I can keep mum…”

  “Should we worry about her?” said Sir John.

  “I do not know—she is a notorious gossip but she likes me, I think. It matters not. We shall continue with our plans,” said Mary, squeezing his hand.

  “Yes, my love—we shall be married as soon as I can arrange it,” said Sir John.

  Forty-five

  January 1, 1574

  He gave me a fan made of white feathers with a golden handle, engraved with my lion and his bear. How I smiled my pleasure at him as he presented it to me—his dark, gypsy eyes staring into my own. How I dissembled, as if I knew nothing about him and that empty-headed Sheffield woman. And how I shivered when he kissed my hand, nothing discernibly changed in his manner to me, but I knew the difference. Oh yes, by all that is sacred, I knew.

  I am undone. He has killed me as surely as any of Burghley’s Catholic assassins. I have known and loved him all my life and have given him more of myself than was prudent. I have rejected suitors for his sake, though I knew I could never marry him—not after the scandal with his first wife. I know, I know, Parry—I have used him as well. Used him to avoid a marriage I did not want, used him to comfort me when there was no other comfort. I have called him my “little dog,” shaming him in front of lesser men. We have been through so much together … I cannot believe he would betray me thus, yet it seems he has done so.

  I am too filled with despair to be angry, Parry. The anger will come later. I shall, perhaps, banish him. But that would punish me as much as it would him. I shall banish her—that would be better. She can give birth to her bastard in the Tower. Others have done so.

  Yes, I have heard that rumor, too. Surely, he cannot have married her—behind my back. Bad enough to have given her a babe. Even Dudley cannot believe I would forgive such treachery. Do you believe it true?

  Oh Parry, you stab me to the heart! Why say you thus? She lives with him in Leicester House? There were witnesses? It is done?

  By God’s wounds, I shall not have it! He is mine! He is mine!

  Is there no single person I can trust? Will they all betray me? Oh yes, they flatter and cajole. They pretend love where there is only ambition. I am not blind, nor am I stupid—I know how privilege works. But I had hoped, oh how I had hoped, that with Robin, things were different. I dared believe he loved me just a little, a true love that had nothing to do with my queenship. I dared believe he loved Elizabeth the woman!

  A fool! I have been a fool for this dark-eyed man, the handsomest in my court, they say. He is handsome still.

  I shall do nothing. I shall watch and wait. She will not win him—what woman could win him from me? I am the queen! She will not keep him for long.

  And what of our Fawn? She still stares at me as if I were not of this world, as if I were some demon sent to torment her. Yes, she curtsies and obeys. But there is not warmth between us, none of the closeness we once shared. It seems the little family I sought to create has turned to dust in my hands.

  No, I have not sent Skydemore from court. They have my word on the matter—that should be enough to stop them from doing anything foolish. If my wishes are not strong enough to dissuade them from pursuing this matter, then to the Tower with them both! By God’s blood, I will be obeyed. I have flung higher born folk in the Tower when they disobeyed me. My other cousin, Katherine Gray, found out the hard way—I will be obeyed!

  Forty-six

  Late January 1574

  The night was bitter cold, with snow falling thick and fast. The wind howled and Mary pulled her cloak tighter. She shivered as much from fear as the icy weather. She hurried along the castle wall, heading to the courtyard where she was to meet Sir John. He had a horse ready for them to ride to a small chapel where he had arranged for a priest to marry them under the rites of the old religion. She would convert to Catholicism after their marriage and bring up their children in the popish church. It was what he wanted and she desired to please him above all else.

  She looked behind her as she half ran to the gate. She could barely see, the snow fell so thickly. She imagined she heard footsteps and wondered if the queen knew, even now, where she was going and what she was planning to do. She had escaped by feigning illness, gagging herself in the jakes and allowing the spittle and bile to stain her dress. Swearing she did not wish to infect the queen with what she called the flux, she talked Her Majesty into allowing her to sleep in the common room where the ladies-in-waiting slept. She had generously shared her sleeping cordial with them and then waited until she heard them all breathing steadily, some snoring softly, before she slipped out into the winter night.

  A strong hand grabbed her and pulled her behind the wall.

  “Mary—the horse is here,” said Sir John, already boosting her up to the pillion where she would ride behind him.

  “I do not think any heard me escape—I waited until they were all asleep,” she said, clambering onto the horse.

  “It was the devil finding a man willing to marry us—I finally sent word to our old priest in Herefordshire and paid him a princely sum to ride to Southwark where he will meet us at St. Bartholomew’s Chapel. Do not fret, sweetheart. All will be well,” said Sir John.

  “I am shaking—I cannot help it. I cannot imagine Her Majesty’s actions should she discover us,” said Mary.

  “She will not, my love. Have no fear. Once we have accomplished the act, she will forgive us and we shall be happy—you will see. She is, at heart, a good woman. And she is kind to those she loves. I have seen the care she takes with you, Mary. She loves you very much—have no fear,” he said, spurring the horse to great speed.

  The horse wove in and out of the narrow streets as quickly as possible. Sir John urged the animal on, in spite of the swirling snow. Mary could barely see anything and she wondered how the horse managed to get them to Southwark without injury. Sir John reined in, though the chapel looked deserted.

  “Wait here. I want to check it first,” he said.

  Mary could hear his boots crunching along the snow-covered pathway. She watched as he opened the heavy wooden doors and disappeared inside. Her hands shook and she felt the cold air travel down her spine to the small of her back, causing her to shiver. She looked around her to see if they had been followed. There was a man across the cobbled street, leaning against the wall of a tavern. He was huddled in a hooded cloak and she could not see his face. Was he one of Lord Burghley’s men? A spy sent by Walsingham? Or a mere cutpurse?

  What was taking John such a long time? Had someone been inside waiting for him, someone with a sharp knife? Perhaps the priest had not yet arrived. Mary contin
ued to glance in different directions, looking for anyone or anything suspicious. The horse sensed her uneasiness and pawed the icy ground, puffs of foggy breath shooting from his nostrils. Mary felt the cold air enter her own lungs and realized her whole body trembled. She was cold; she was terrified. The night was dark and dreary. Where was John? How long could he possibly be?

  Just as she felt tears threatening, the great door opened again and John walked toward her with long strides. He mounted the horse and guided their steed away from the chapel.

  “What’s wrong? Where are we going? What’s happening?” Mary whispered.

  “The priest will not marry us in that chapel—he says it is too dangerous, too public. He has told me of another location three miles hence. At the crossroads, we shall find the Body and Blood Tavern. They will be waiting for us,” said John, softly.

  “What a horrid name! I hope we are not to be married in such a place,” said Mary.

  “I shall be happy to marry you anywhere, my love. Do not be disheartened—such a name denotes a certain friendliness to Catholics. We shall be safe there, dearest. And by tomorrow morning, we shall be husband and wife. I cannot wait to hold you again,” he said.

  His confidence was contagious and Mary began to relax. She glanced behind them as they rode from the city into the countryside. She could see no other horses on the road this snowy night. Most people were huddled warm in their beds on such a night as this. Mary thought about spending cold nights at Holme Lacy, wrapped in the arms of her husband, her love. She smiled and listened as the wind whistled through the few buildings and trees that lined the road. The steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves gave her comfort and she tightened her hold around John’s waist.

  A small inn sat directly ahead on the right. Two large torches lit the place and Mary could see it was a modest establishment, certainly not the sort of place she was used to visiting.

  Sir John pulled on the reins and quickly hopped down to assist Mary as she dismounted. The snow continued to fall and she almost slipped on an icy spot. Sir John caught her by the elbow and led her to a rough door where he knocked three times, then two times, then once. Slowly, the door opened and a woman welcomed them inside. No one said a word. The woman put her finger to her lips, shushing them. Mary saw a few travelers lounging at a crude table, eating something steaming from their trenchers. They gave her a quick look, no doubt surprised by her velvet cloak and her fine dress. She wished she had thought to dress more unobtrusively. Surely they would remember her, wonder what she was doing at such a place on such a night. It was too late for worry now, however. She pulled the hood over her head and tried to hide her face as best she could. She followed the woman down a long, deserted hall. Mary saw a full-sized painting of a fisherman holding a large fish. She gave a little gasp as the woman pushed against the painting, and it moved, opening to reveal a secret room. The woman bade them go inside.

  Mary was surprised at the closeness of the room. Two tapers burned at a small altar where a golden cross bearing the suffering Lord stood. Incense filled the air and Mary saw the priest, blessing the sacraments in preparation for the ceremony. She saw someone stir to one side and was shocked to see Sir James standing there with Master Nicholas Hilliard at his side. There was also a woman she did not know.

  Sir John spoke with the men, who had agreed to come as witnesses. The priest called them to silence and quickly, with a lifetime of experience behind him, he performed the rite of marriage. It was over in just a few minutes and Mary could not believe she had defied the Queen of England for the love of the man standing beside her.

  After the Mass was taken, those who had gathered in that small room clustered together and began talking. The unknown woman turned out to be a neighbor of John’s and Sir James’s, Mistress Katherine Blakely. She had been in charge of John’s children and she was very interested in helping Mary with her new duties.

  “They are wonderful children—I should hate to be parted from them,” said Mistress Katherine.

  “I do not believe you will be asked to leave them, Mistress Katherine. I shall need all the help I can get with five young ones to tend to—I welcome your assistance,” said Mary, smiling at the older woman.

  “I hope you will not regret this rash action, my dear. But John is a good man and those five grandchildren of mine need a mother. I am glad you are one of us,” said Sir James, hugging her.

  “Thank you for your kindness, sir. We shall not forget your courage,” said Sir John. He then bowed to them all and led Mary away, through the same secret passage.

  “I am sorry you will not have the joyous celebration we would have had if we’d been wed at Holme Lacy. We would have lit the fires, had the cooks make a delicious feast, danced with our neighbors until we could not move. They would have bedded us properly, with the priest blessing our marriage bed and our friends leading us to the bed itself and throwing us in. Then, they would have sung ribald songs, raised the glass to us many a time, and finally, left us to our wooing,” said Sir John as he bundled her to the outer door.

  “Perhaps we can still have such festivities when we return to Holme Lacy—if the queen allows us to live,” said Mary.

  Sir John stopped and took hold of her by the shoulders.

  “Sweetheart, you will live, I promise. If anyone, and I do mean anyone, tries to harm you, they will have to get through me to do so. You shall be safe—I will make it my life’s work to insure that,” he said, kissing her. “I have found a room for the night—let us get ourselves to it.”

  “But I cannot be gone all night. The queen will call for me first thing,” said Mary.

  “Yes, I know. But we can take the room for its proper use on our wedding night,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. Maybe things would work out. Maybe the queen would see reason.

  * * *

  The room was warm with a small hearth and plenty of faggots in the nearby basket. The bed looked somewhat clean and Mary checked for bedbugs and any other sort of vermin. She found nothing.

  She began to remove her cloak when Sir John’s warm hands stopped her.

  “I shall assist you this night, dearest, as if you were the queen herself. I have brought some sweet oil and I will begin with your feet,” he said as he removed her cloak and hung it on a hook.

  He moved her to the bed where he bade her sit. Going down on one knee, he carefully removed her shoes and woolen hose. He rubbed the oil onto her feet. It was warm and smelled like spicy fig pudding. At first, she was ashamed for him to handle her in this way, and tried to hide her feet beneath her skirts. But he insisted and began to massage the oil onto the soles, the heels, and finally, between her toes. She leaned back against the pillows and sighed. Slowly, he pried the toes apart so that he could insert his finger, rubbing the oil around and around. He spent so many minutes warming and rubbing her feet that she lost track of time. She had not realized her feet could be so sensitive to his touch. Soon, he worked his way to her ankles; then he worked the oil up to her knees. He untied her sleeves, unlaced her bodice, and removed these. He took off her kirtle, which she stepped out of with trembling legs. She stood before him in her petticoat and shift. Before she knew it, he had whisked the petticoat from her and she was in her soft lawn shift edged in Belgian lace.

  “If you will allow me to remove this, you may crawl under the covers and I will apply the oil,” he said.

  She helped him lift the shift away. She stood before him in the firelight. She could hear his intake of breath. She hurried under the covers. Soon, she could feel him pour the oil on her stomach, her breasts, everywhere. His hands seemed to multiply and she could feel him on her legs, her belly, her breasts, her hair.

  For what seemed like a long time, she watched as he removed his clothes. Then he came to her, his manly smell mixed with the sweet oil. He gave her a wedding night to remember, though no one celebrated the occasion but husband and wife.

  Forty-seven

  February 1574

 
The deep winter chill showed no sign of relenting. In Richmond Palace, the queen kept her ladies busy with sewing for the poor and dancing for Her Majesty’s amusement. Mistresses Mary and Eleanor spent most mornings attending the queen’s wardrobe, preparing the spring dresses and keeping the heavier winter gowns smelling fresh and brushed. As far as Mary knew, her marriage to Sir John was a well-kept secret. Every member of the wedding party had sworn a solemn oath never to breathe a word about it, not even to their dearest ones. At first, Mary had been afraid Master Nicholas might let it slip to his new bride, but thus far, Eleanor seemed unaware of Mary’s dangerous actions. That was what she wanted, of course. Their lives depended on such secrecy. But part of Mary wanted desperately to tell Mistress Eleanor about the clandestine wedding, how exciting it had been, how terrified she’d felt, tiptoeing into the hidden chapel, meeting the forbidden priest. And then, the beauty of her wedding night, where her husband had ravished her completely, using his hands, his tongue, and, of course, his manly parts. She had never expected such actions and, at first, had been shy. But John was patient and his tender persistence had been amply rewarded with her little cries of pleasure. She was curious as to whether Mistress Eleanor had experienced similar delights in the marriage bed. But Mistress Eleanor would not be around the palace for much longer—it was almost time for her to go into her confinement. Mary had sewn several gowns for a gift. She had even embroidered some clouts for Eleanor’s babe. There was excitement in the air around Mistress Eleanor these days. Mary found it difficult to wait for the child’s arrival. And she worried for her friend’s first birth, an event fraught with danger.

  This morning, the queen had sent Mary and Mistress Eleanor back to her bedchamber to search through her casket of jewels for a large pearl brooch surrounded by blue sapphires. Her Majesty wished to bestow the treasure upon Sir Christopher Hatton, who was quickly outshining Lord Robert as the queen’s favorite. Mary liked Sir Christopher but she felt sorry for Lord Robert. She knew the queen was displeased with him because of his relationship with Lady Douglass. And though there were certainly rumors of their marriage, nothing had been proven, except that Lady Douglass was with child and living in Leicester House. All of this, the queen chose to ignore. Mary could only hope that if Her Majesty ever got wind of her own marriage, the result would be the same.