by Betty Younis
“For how long?”
Elizabeth leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Ah, I see you understand my problem. Dudley’s marriage is profane enough…”
“Profane? I was thinking it was more the act of a shallow, witless, offspring of a…”
Elizabeth interrupted.
“’Tis not his marriage that is at the heart of my problem these days. Initially, if I am honest, I must admit it was. But now, ’tis the loss of the man’s companionship and friendship which prolongs my grief. Did you know, Bess, only Dudley understood my excessive need for gowns and jewels. We grew up together, and he saw the hardships placed upon me by always being the one without, always being the child “almost good enough” for court. Almost good enough, but never quite. And it mattered not how much I learned or what I did.”
Bess again was silent. Elizabeth shot her a look that demanded an answer.
“I suppose ’tis true,” Bess finally replied, “But then, so are a great many other things. You rule a vast and splendid kingdom, you have courtiers and princes lining up for your favors and hand in marriage. What is Dudley, after all? Hmm?”
She stood and turned the fire with a nearby poker.
“If you miss Dudley, bring him back to court. If you are too angry to do so, do not. But you cannot change what he did. ’Tis simple.”
Elizabeth changed the subject.
“And then there is my cousin, that shrew of a woman, Mary.”
“And where is she secreted away these days?”
“Chartley Castle. But I promise you by all that is holy, that woman still plots! Each day I hear rumors upon rumors of Spain this, of France that, all of them wanting me to burn in hell.”
“Oh, Auntie, I do not think they want you in hell.” Bess paused. “Well, perhaps.”
They both giggled.
“Forget your heartache over Dudley – it will pass one way or another. But Mary, now that is a true quandary. And a dangerous one.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“No, but for my advisors, all roads lead to execution.”
“And France? Spain?”
“Exactly! Drake and his sort are building a navy, but they must have time. For as surely as I move against Mary they will move against me. Even now Spain amasses an ever-growing fleet. Oh, I know they say ’tis for the new world, but ’tis also to remind me of their power, their will to see me gone. ’Tis only a matter of time. All comes back to time.”
Now it was Bess’ turn to change the conversation, for she sensed a melancholy settling over Elizabeth.
“You must see Anne’s work in my studio.”
Elizabeth brightened.
“Ah, she is talented, is she?”
“Oh, Majesty, what she has accomplished will amaze even you. I know that all of us here at Coudenoure have been stunned.”
“Let us go dance, and tomorrow, or anon, you will begin chatting with us again here at your home.”
Arm in arm they walked down the hall.
“Tell me, does that music seem uncommonly loud? For it plainly stirs me even up here.”
“Yes, and what is that noise? Singing?”
Bess’ brow furrowed.
“Surely Quinn did not leave our guests alone.”
Elizabeth gave a wicked grin full of anticipation.
“Our guests? You mean your children and the other young people? Let us find out!” There was no need to open the library doors, or the door to the great room, nor to Quinn’s workshop at the end of the hall. All stood wide and from all poured din.
By the window in the library three young men sat singing a ditty of unknown tune. Loudly. Beside them, so they would not have to bother carrying their cups, was a bowl of wassail. Catherine and the young officer (what was his name?) stood alone where the furniture had been pushed back to make way for dancing. Her hands, small and white, rested gently on his shoulders while his arms encircled her waist. The musicians were performing a lively tune suitable for dancing but the two of them had long since stopped moving as they stared, entranced, into one another’s eyes.
In a far corner by the vast shelves sat Anne with Marlowe. A table had been pulled close and the two of them sat side by side. In fact, Marlowe, ostensibly to get close enough so that they might both inspect the manuscript laid out before them on the table, had carefully placed his arm along the back of Anne’s chair. Close, indeed.
Elizabeth was now enjoying herself.
“But where is the other one?” she whispered. “Perhaps with his tart?” She cackled with laughter at her own pun. “Bess, his tart?”
“She is a talented scullery maid.”
They entered the kitchen and yes, there was Michael, paying rapt attention as Jane demonstrated the making of pressed biscuits. The two of them never even noticed Bess and Elizabeth. Nor did they even seem to hear the sudden rumbling coming down the hall from the direction of Quinn’s workshop. Out of a cloud billowing smoke scampered Cecil with the other men skipping quickly behind. Quinn closed the door, dusted his clothing, straightened his collar and began walking back to the party as though nothing had occurred.
Elizabeth nearly collapsed in tears and laughter on the stairway.
“Oh, God in heaven, Bess, wherever will it all end?”
Bess sat beside her but refused to be jollied. After a moment, Elizabeth rose, made a patent imitation of Quinn dusting his clothing, and still chuckling announced her departure.
“’Twas a fine evening, but we shall all now take our leave, for I am certain the lady of the house has need to speak with her family.”
And that was that. For the first time in her life, Bess considered exploring the wondrous effects of too much ale.
Chapter Nineteen
Christmas 1579
The gray North Sea waters were chopped and frothy. With each rise and fall of the massive prow of the ship, an icy surge showered the decks with a chilling spray. A strong headwind blew off the coast of France, and as the tiny fleet beat northward, every sailor and officer alternating their gaze continuously between England’s distant coast on the leeward side and the waters ahead in which they sailed. The coastline would tell the seasoned hands what they needed to know of shoals, coves and rocky graveyards – dead reckoning was in their blood, a skill learned and passed through generations. But as a heavy mist began to descend upon them, obliterating even their fellow ships, only the color of the icy waters through which they ploughed whispered what they each yearned to hear: home must be near, for the water muddied. They were closing in on the Thames estuary and their homeport of Woolwich.
Michael Janyns’ face was turned northward. His hair, dark and wild, framed his chiseled features perfectly while his deep, brooding eyes betrayed a rare intelligence. Since the turning of the sails to catch the homeward wind, his heart had beaten a consistent rhythm: almost home, almost home, God on high almost home. The refrain grew stronger even as the light from the low December sun began to cool and sink beneath the frigid horizon. The fog was upon them, but as the final ray of wintry light bid them farewell a shout arose from the lookout.
“Land ho!” he called. “Tack two aft and be quick!”
A cheer arose from every lip as the riggers began a short haul shanty. Suddenly, the ship crawled with activity. Great billowing sails slammed to the deck while another was raised, causing a wild veer in the ship’s direction towards the shore. The sister ships sailing behind immediately followed suit. Every breath of every living creature on board now strained and sweated to the sweet music Michael had heard all day: almost home, almost home. The mousers stopped cleaning themselves on the upper deck and turned their heads, ears cocked slightly forward in wariness; Jacko the monkey – picked up by old Rastol in the jungles of New Spain – looked about expectantly. Almost home. With a final wrenching turn, the craft veered once more and the sailors found themselves in the mouth of the estuary with the lights of Woolwich now visible through the haze, glowing
in the distance.
There was no leisure as they dropped anchor, however, for the captain intended to put back out on the morrow – if he were quick enough, he might yet catch the cargo offered to him in Calais. The linen and spices would fetch a sum in London and had he not already been loaded below the plim line he would have spared this present landfall. No one balked at unloading in the faded daylight – the tavern keepers knew of their arrival and would wait for them. Imagine! English ale on English soil! And more pay if you were willing to put back out with the captain for Calais – a short voyage indeed. When the last bale was hoisted down the narrow, swinging gangplank and the names of those sailing at dawn noted, the captain was left alone on his great beast of a ship rocking gently on the ebbing tide.
Michael was carried along by the throng. Woolwich taverns occupied a specific stretch of the cobbled street nearest the river, just after the end of the high road. Their doors were open and pitchers of ale awaited the men. There was an odd, almost mechanized feel to their movement, one well-practiced: as they reached the first tavern, those in the lead piled in until it was full. At that point, the mass of sailors moved on to the next one and repeated the operation until finally all had found a seat and a glass. Michael settled comfortably into the second such tavern and threw back the first pint like water. He looked around, grinning at his companions.
“Home!” he exclaimed simply. The fair-haired man next to him raised his glass and a great cheer went up.
“To England! To the queen!”
Pitcher after pitcher went down quickly until finally the ale could be felt, and a comfortable, warm feeling begin to envelope them. A few women, some old, some young, begin to circulate amongst the tables. The men eyed them appreciatively. Michael, with his dark good looks soon caught the eye of a young girl, no more than fifteen. His table mate called her over.
“Lassie,” he began, “What is your name?”
“Helen.” She answered his question while smiling at Michael.
“Well, Helen, let me tell you something about my friend here, Michael.”
Michael grinned again, took a deep drink, and ignored him.
“You see, Helen, my friend is a strange, disturbed man.”
“He does not look disturbed to me,” she ventured, still smiling at Michael.
“He is, lassie, trust me.”
“Perhaps I could help him.” Her smile became slightly provocative.
“Helen, many a woman has said the same thing. Why, each time we make port women make for him like ducks to puddles, but you are wasting your time, for he has a sweetheart.”
“Is she here?”
The men roared with laughter. Finally, Michael rose, bowed to the girl and spoke.
“What my nit of a friend is saying is that I remain true to my woman.” He shrugged as a great cry of disgust arose round the table. “I surely appreciate your charms and wit, but I must decline.”
Her smile disappeared and she looked at him like one looks upon a god. Again, the fair-haired man spoke.
“I have no such issue, lass” ventured his companion, “For my woman is most understanding, and if you were to sit here…” he patted his lap, “…she would not mind a bit.”
Helen shot him a look, smiled at his brazen approach, and disappeared into the crowd. It was Michael’s turn to laugh.
“Bring us some cards,” he shouted, “For there is money to be made at this table tonight!”
Cards and two more pitchers of ale appeared, and the men settled into the night.
*****
His gray woolen cloak was thrown with careless élan over his powerful shoulders. He kept to the shallows, preferring to alternate between rowing and poling as he made his way up river. The Thames ran cold this time of year, its mist laying still and quiet upon the landscape. Woolwich still deep in early morning sleep showed no signs of life save for the smoke curling from its chimneys and he soon left it behind. So too the proper houses of the town’s lesser streets disappeared in a silent slow march as he passed them by. Further on up river, the landscape became more rural, dotted with smaller houses with their livestock tucked away in the barns which joined their living quarters. Now silently he passed the small thatched houses of the peasants who worked the fields nearby. As the sun rose higher, he made Greenwich Wood, the great hunting ground of England’s kings and queens. Almost home.
Up ahead, round a sharp yet gentle curve in the river, he saw a familiar site – the rickety dock of Coudenoure. How often had he played there with Anne and Catherine? How many tiny ships had he launched, sending them downstream with messages attached, with sails made of his sisters’ old clothes, with tiny wooden men to rig them? He smiled.
And the dock itself. Had it shrunk? Had someone rebuilt it in his long absence? Michael had travelled the world in the past three years, had seen sights and lands and peoples that hardly anyone would ever see. He had known fear as they raided Spanish galleons, had seen gallantry which would break even the meanest person’s heart, had felt the loneliness which came with being a stranger in a far away and unfamiliar land. He had even known Cathay with its mysterious and ancient culture. And yet none of these wonders had ever moved him like the sight of the tiny dock set slightly askew in the mighty Thames. He tied his tiny craft to the landing and laughed aloud – no one had rebuilt the dock for there, on the third plank from the end, were the initials he and Anne had carved long ago as children. There too was the tiny flag bearing the Tudor colors he and his sisters flew so that Elizabeth might know where to dock, tattered now, but still beckoning their sovereign come.
He tied the rope expertly, grabbed the bundle which lay securely tucked beneath the plank seat of the craft, and stepped onto the dock. He smiled with excitement at the thought of reunion – no one knew of his return, and he anticipated a mighty and wonderful surprise.
*****
Catherine was up early. She absently-mindedly nibbled on the breakfast of cheese, bread and tea her maid had supplied. Her hair had never darkened with age and a riot of pure blonde curls escaped from the long braid which extended down her back. Her cornflower blue eyes were wide-set, and when combined with a smile from her equally wide, full lips there were few men who could resist her charm. And while she was well aware of her effect on men, she did not much care. She had not cared for five years, since Coudenoure’s first Yuletide feast and celebration. The tradition was being played out again that evening, and she knew Joshua Hill was coming. She looked out her bedroom window onto the rooftops of the servants’ quarters nestled behind the manor house. Smoke was beginning to rise from several of them, and she watched dreamily as the stable doors were pushed wide and the plough horses led out for the day. There was no work this time of year but old Norman believed in exercise regardless, and so a stable boy would take them to pasture in the nearby fields. And there, trundling out the kitchen door with her round tea bowl held carefully between her hands went her mother to her studio. Catherine smiled – she had long since stopped pretending to an interest in the arts, but her love for her mother and her mother’s talent was fierce. She had come to understand the relentless will it took to accomplish almost anything worthwhile, and Bess’ devotion to her marble, year-in and year-out, endured only because Bess willed it thus. As she sat on the cold, stone sill of the window, she reflected on Bess’ role at Coudenoure. Her mother was the iron rod, staked deep and secure, around which the estate whirled. Like a spinning top it sometimes veered now this way now that, threatening on occasion to spin completely out of control. But Bess always managed to right it, to orient it towards family and love, towards kindness and learning, towards all that she, Catherine, had been taught was good and right. It was amazing to her that one woman could accomplish so much. Would she be as successful with her own home?
She thought of Joshua and smiled. Since that first meeting five years earlier they had become inseparable. They had both known within seconds of meeting one another that they were destined to do so. Over time, the
y had overcome family expectations and concerns and weathered many separations. They viewed this evening as their fifth anniversary, and Catherine was certain that finally, Joshua would propose – it was time.
He had longed for a career as an explorer and finally, after a long apprenticeship, he had achieved his heart’s desire. Sir Walter Raleigh was financing a voyage to the new world to establish a colony there, and Joshua had been chosen to sail with it. He would work under Arthur Barlowe aboard the Dorothy, the second and smaller of the two ships designated for the expedition.
Catherine had never even thought to question Joshua’s choice of careers and the long separations it forced upon them. Since the evening they first met five years earlier, neither had ever doubted their love for one another. She had always been warned that courtship was fraught with heartache, and that a young maid must dance and court many before she might be fortunate enough to find a suitable mate. But that was not her fate. After the first Yuletide feast, she had known and was as certain as she was of the sun rising the next morning.
Bess had smiled and been maddeningly sweet when Catherine had proclaimed that Joshua would be her husband – she perceived it as a first crush and did not bother to hide her disbelief. By Joshua’s appearance at their third Yuletide event, her mother finally realized the depth of feeling, at least on Catherine’s part. Even Elizabeth had picked up on the steady and constant communion between the two and after much deliberation, the two women had agreed that while Joshua could continue to attend as one of Drake’s officers-in-training, there must needs be a cautionary note placed upon the affair for Catherine’s sake.
But in the end, nothing had dissuaded the two, and tonight, Catherine was certain that Joshua would propose. He would leave in March for the new world, and if they were to start a family of their own, they needed to begin now. A knock on the door interrupted her happy reverie.
