by Betty Younis
“Majesty,” he had explained, “If you announce such a rebellion, you only inflame and inspire those who might have joined. Do not give them such an opening. Let the matter be dealt with quietly and in secret.”
Elizabeth had responded heatedly.
“They were to assassinate me – they had me in their clutches!”
“No, Majesty, there was nowhere for them to go – they were a handful of Mary’s men and they were killed or have now gone abroad. Do not give it legitimacy by speaking of it to anyone.”
There had been no evidence that Mary was involved, but Cecil knew, as did Elizabeth, that the affair had been a bid to put Mary on the English throne. There could be no other purpose and indeed, long before that night rumors had flown through the court regarding such attempts.
Cecil was as good as his word: the number of guards at each palace had increased. All petitioners to the common court of pleas and appeals now had to be cleared before entering. Priests were watched more closely, the northern territories settled with more of Elizabeth’s men, sea port activities more carefully scrutinized. Cecil was well aware of the danger the realm had been in that dreadful night, even though he chose to downplay the event with Elizabeth. There was no point in frightening the woman – the only point to be remembered was that the queen must marry and produce an heir. Now. All else was porridge.
Elizabeth sighed as the musicians filed into the great library at Coudenoure, for the rumors had continued unabated. Such was life at court, she thought ruefully. She looked around the room loving what it had become for her. Great candles burned even in the darkest corners, and the fire spit and crackled happily. Bess and Quinn sat shyly smiling at one another, suddenly uncomfortable in each other’s presence, despite being joyfully pleased and happy with themselves and the world. There was Dudley, whom she leaned upon as much as ever. His curiosity about Coudenoure and Bess had never been satisfied. Nor had Cecil’s. The secret made Elizabeth happy, as though court and crown had not conquered her completely. There still existed some small corner of her life in which her life was simplicity itself: Bess was her niece and she her aunt. The knowledge that Bess’ loyalties had been tested and proved under the most terrible circumstances made her tender feelings towards the girl and her estate doubly important to her. This was her family. In that same moment, she had been forced to realize that the time had come for Bess to marry – she could no longer hold her captive at court to give her selfish comfort. No, the girl’s own life cried out to be lived and she must let her go.
The music began and Dudley approached. Chairs and tables were put aside to create space and she closed her eyes as he held her tightly. Round and round they went, spinning together in a world that if only for this moment was devoid of all scheming and ugliness and doubt and circumstance. She lost herself in his eyes, giving herself over to him even as knew it could never happen save here while the music played. Oh Robert. My Robert.
John Dee watched them from a chair near the fire.
“They can never be, and they know it.” he spoke sadly to Prudence who sat next to him watching them twirl happily upon the floor.
“I disagree, old man,” was her response. “They are now, and sometimes that is all we get in this life.”
He raised his glass in acknowledgement of her rightness.
“Shall we dance, Madame? It has been some long time, but I believe I can still manage it.”
They rose and joined Elizabeth and Dudley on the floor.
*****
The air was preternaturally still, as though commanded to serenity for this moment. The cold stone floor of the old abbey was still in place inside its soaring, arching, skeletal walls. The servants had strewn it with carpets Prudence mysteriously produced from the attic spaces of Coudenoure. Tall spruce had been chopped from the estate’s forest and stood banked in a semi-circle behind Father Michael. In front of them, in deference to the priest’s age, a great fire had been built where an altar had once stood. Candles lit the scene and lined the makeshift aisle down which Bess walked. The small knot of witnesses gathered and as Bess and Quinn stood before Father Michael, she dropped her cloak to reveal a dress clearly from another age. It was a simple, velvet frock. A pale blue bodice, laced tightly beneath her breasts, revealed a finely woven linen underdress. A full skirt of the same blue was intercut with light velvet ivory panels, each adorned with intricately stitched bouquets of pale wild flowers.
Prudence began to cry. When she had first produced the dress, again from the shadowy quarters beyond the top floor of Coudenoure, the queen had questioned her insistence that Bess wear it at her wedding.
“’Tis the dress Elizabeth de Gray wore at her pre-contract to your father, Majesty. ’Tis her own dress, the very same.”
The queen had touched it gently at first, then held it softly against herself. After a moment, she agreed.
“Bess, you must wear this dress, for it was your grandmother’s at her pre-contract ceremony with my father.”
Bess wore it now and its pale blue was picked up by the crimson pinks of the fading light off to the west. A sense of sacred purpose settled upon the small band gathered in the ancient sanctuary, and as Father Michael walked Bess and Quinn through their vows, a gentle snow began to fall. Quiet settled across the fields and woods of Coudenoure. They were married that day in the eyes of God, of Queen and of family and friends.
The prior evening’s treats and wassail had been only a prelude to the sumptuous banquet Prudence and the kitchen servants had prepared for the wedding feast. The doors of the great public room, the hall across from the entry and library, were thrown wide to welcome the wedding party upon its return from the chapel. As they stomped the snow off their shoes and boots and loosened their cloaks, they entered and gasped.
The oaken-arched ceiling, so high it seemed to reach unto heaven itself, disappeared into cavernous darkness. Medieval chandeliers of heavy iron, black from age and smoke, had been lowered and hung with fine and huge candles. The hearth, a relic of that same age, roared with a welcoming fire and almost drowned out the musicians Elizabeth had arranged for the party.
Tables had been put end to end and laid with festive foods: two stuffed peacocks decorated either end of the display, and in the center stood Quinn’s favorite dish, mince pie of mutton, currants, figs and plums. Between the peacocks and the mince pie were innumerable coffins of various meats and delicacies.
The celebratory mood expanded and as the wine and wassail flowed, Elizabeth took Bess aside.
“Child, come with me.”
Bess followed obediently. They slipped across the hall and into the library where a large wooden box, decorated with multi-colored tessellations of stars and squares sat upon a table. Around it was a wide, red satin ribbon tied in a pretty bow. Elizabeth nodded excitedly to her niece.
“Go on, open it!”
Bess giggled and slowly pulled the knot from the bow. As the ribbon fell away she lifted the lid and removed the linen cover. Inside lay yet another box and she carefully lifted it out and opened it. Inside lay a manuscript of such age Bess was almost frightened to touch it. Elizabeth lifted it from the box and Bess slowly realized what it was.
“’Tis the book grandfather longed for – the Latin Bible, the one printed by Johannes…Johannes…”
“Gutenberg,” Elizabeth smiled and finished the sentence for her.
“And see here? An indulgence as well, and in Latin.” She paused and counted the lines. “Some thirty lines I believe.”
“When was it made?”
Elizabeth looked up.
“Before Henry VII came to the throne, child. The book is quite ancient, and Thomas, your grandfather, would have been proud to own it.”
Elizabeth turned back to the box and from within it pulled another, almost paper-thin box.
“Incunabula,” she said simply.
Bess turned and looked at her aunt.
“I do not know what to say, Majesty, for such valuable and rare g
ifts are surely out of place at such a small and unknown estate such as Coudenoure.”
Elizabeth smiled and touched Bess’ cheek lightly.
“Do you remember you told me about an inventory you had discovered one day among your books and manuscripts?” She nodded at the wall covered in books.
“Of course. Apparently my grandmother, at some point, prepared an inventory of her father’s library. It seems it was terribly disorganized and unkempt.”
Elizabeth nodded excitedly.
“If you look now, Bess, you will see that inventory lies upon yon table. I borrowed it some weeks ago and asked Dee to look it over.”
“Why?”
“Bess, Coudenoure may be small, un-noteworthy and out-of-the-way, but because of your great grandfather Thomas and his obsession with books, it also boasts one of the great libraries of the realm. You must take care to protect it and add to it, for it shall be our legacy to our shared future.”
Bess began to cry.
“Oh, Elizabeth, I wish they were here – Henry, Elizabeth, Constance, Agnes – to see this night, and the joy that fills Coudenoure.”
Elizabeth looked beyond Bess into the fire.
“But they are not, child, and we go on.”
A moment passed in silence before Bess spoke.
“I have something for you as well, aunt, but it is not nearly as grand as these.” Bess spoke in an embarrassed but determined tone.
Elizabeth was touched and waited to see what Bess would produce. From a case near the window she took a large, rectangular package. A blue ribbon bound the linen cover neatly. Elizabeth noted a folded letter slipped under the ribbon.
“This is for you, aunt, so that you will not be bored without me. Now, you must bring your work to Coudenoure periodically so that I may instruct you.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Usually, Bess, gifts are given to the bride on her wedding day, not to her aunt,” she observed as she tugged at the ribbon. It fell away, and she gently swept aside the wheat-colored linen. Beneath the wrapping lay a large sheath of fine parchment and paper, and two small boxes. Opening the first she discovered two rows of tiny pots of color – pigment Bess had mixed for her; the other contained brushes, two pots of ink and tools for drawing. She examined each minutely, picking them up, turning them and feeling their measure in her hands. After a moment, she turned and hugged Bess fiercely.
“Do you remember the jewel – the large sapphire – given me by Tsar Ivan Grozny?”
“The ‘king’…”
Elizabeth interrupted her.
“Tsar – they call him the imperial Tsar.”
“Yes, well, the man who stole the jewel from your ambassador to Cleves and then presented it to you as though it were a gift?”
“The man is troubled in his mind, no doubt. But that is not my point. Bess, that jewel and all my other wealth are nothing compared to this token of your love and devotion.”
Bess considered before speaking.
“Whatever you do, do not ask your ladies maids for assistance.”
“Why not?”
Another pause.
“Aunt, have you never wondered why they do not show you their work from my tutoring sessions with them?”
Elizabeth chuckled.
“’Tis true – though I had never considered it. I shall tuck that bit of fun away for a rainy day. Now, let us rejoin your guests, for I believe none of them have even missed us!”
As they walked towards the door Elizabeth stopped.
“Tsk! I almost forgot!” From under her gown she produced the ruby cross given by her father to his love so long ago. She placed it around Bess’ neck.
“It did indeed protect me, and I thank you for your many kindnesses, child. Keep it safe.”
They rejoined the party.
“Tell me,” Elizabeth shouted merrily as they re-entered the great hall, “Who amongst you dares to dance with me?”
It was late indeed before they put the young couple to bed amid riotous laughter and innuendo. Finally, however, it was only Quinn, Bess, and a single candle burning on a table nearby.
They lay beside one another, covers drawn to their chins. Quinn finally spoke in a faltering voice.
“My love?”
“Yes?” came the whispered reply.
“I must confess.”
“Yes?”
“I am a virgin. I have not done this before, and so I am uncertain…”
Bess rolled to her side and stared at him before breaking into a gentle, blushing smile.
“Put out the light, Quinn, and we will figure it out together.”
Quinn did as he was told.
Chapter Sixteen
Summer 1565
Scents. They took Bess places. Places and times travelled before, places and times she had yet to know. Take for instance the lavender of the meadow on the far side of the ridge: it was Quinn. A peculiar dusky aroma she knew from his clothes when he collected seeds and insects from there. It was very different than that of the lavender which grew atop the ridge. In that place, the lavender was spare, growing among the rocks and clefts, keeping to itself, not mixing with the other wild and mongrel plants of the area. Its scent was pure – simple and milky in its ability to soothe. Like the feeling that flooded over her when she took her pots and canvases there and lost herself in the vastness of creation on display from such a glorious vantage point.
There was the sharp smell of the wild daisies which grew along the river bank. It mixed well with the pungent fragrances offered by the Thames, combining into the memory of a well-seasoned and good pot of fish chowder, or perhaps a halibut of the type Prudence used to prepare. Before Prudence became ill. Before she died. And in death, the smell of the white gardenias the old girl had loved since childhood, now planted round about her grave, contradicting the sad nature of death with their heavenly fragrance: defiance in its purest and most subtle form.
Of course, there was Rome. When she closed her eyes and remembered, the exotic nature of the scents she recalled were almost overwhelming. In the market, the day with her father when she had tasted the curry in the spice souk and cried for relief from its tingly burn. The smell of his hair and his clothes as he laughed and cradled her in his arms until the sting passed. The smell of sewage and the wharves of Ostia linked forever to the sight of her father and Roberto on the dock, waving farewell as they weighed anchor for England. The smell of cornflowers and Constance. Of grubby porridge and her son. The scents and odors that caused her to pause, almost but not quite catching a memory. Yes, scents.
Today, the sun beat down from a clear blue sky. A gentle breeze caressed the tops of the wild flowers and grasses planted in abundance upon what had once been the great lawn of Coudenoure. Quinn had seen no use for the neatly trimmed grass.
“It attracts no birds, no insects. Surely we must give them a home.”
She had smiled and left him and his gardeners to their wild and grand schemes. The result was a harmonious chaos, choreographed color, shape and texture. The wind picked up all the scents from the happy madness – the good, the bad, the earthy and the fragrant, the sharp and the crisp and sweet – and rolled them into a powerful concoction of place and time and scent, and she knew that from now on, should such a potpourri ever rise again and be carried to her on some summer breeze, she would see Quinn in the distance with Michael on his shoulders and Anne with her butterfly net at his feet, happily waving it about as they tromped across the meadow-lawn of Coudenoure.
She raised her face to gather the sun’s rays, feeling the intensity of their heat. Her hand rested on her stomach, and she felt the baby kick.
A perfect day.
*****
Elizabeth patted the neck of her sweating bay, and nudged it past the pillars of Coudenoure’s gate. She had dressed too warmly for the day, and with her guards on the far side of the high wall, she impulsively unbuttoned her riding jacket, revealing the stiff front of the dress below. The patterned blue sil
k of the ensemble matched the sky and her mood, while the jaunty feathers in her flat cap of silk and wool completed the picture of queenly grace out for a ride on her favorite horse. What a lovely day. She dismounted and walked the drive to enjoy it more.
There was Quinn in his meadow-lawn with Michael and little Anne. Michael was singing some ditty atop Quinn’s shoulders while Anne toddled along with her butterfly net. Anne. Elizabeth never knew a word which could encapsulate or fully express all of her feelings about the little girl. Borne on Christmas day, she had inherited the dark beauty of her great grandmother, Henry’s love Elizabeth. Even at birth she had the sharp chin and dark almond eyes so characteristic of the woman in Michelangelo’s sculpture which graced the library at Coudenoure. Her hair had cured into a warm chestnut over time and curled in ringlets about her face and down her back. But the physical traits of Henry’s love were also the physical traits of his second wife, the queen’s own mother. Indeed, Bess and Quinn had named the child Anne Elizabeth in celebration and remembrance of the two great women. But just as it had caused gossip and rife speculation in its day, so now the resemblance caused Elizabeth to catch her breath each time she saw the tiny toddler. Her familial love for the child became inextricably bound with her love and tangled, fragmented memories of her own mother, but with one obsessive distinction: her love for the child had no overwhelming loss and terror associated with it. As Anne grew so did Elizabeth’s compulsive need to protect and nourish her against all that might come against her or harm her in any way. At some moment Elizabeth had realized she was heaping upon the child all the love she had never been able to express for her own mother – perhaps it was the moment she realized she unconsciously rubbed the portrait ring she wore each time she saw Anne, or perhaps the moment she realized that her heart lifted to a joy she had never known each time Anne appeared. She was never sure and she no longer cared or pondered the situation. Anne was for her all things happy and elating, and she reveled in the experience, knowing it was her only chance to know such unbound and unbounded love.
