by Betty Younis
“Majesty,” Joshua offered a deep bow as did Christopher, “The musicians have finished their prelude and are eager to show off their full talents – come, let us dance!”
Through the open door came the sounds of lutes and horns. Catherine and a throng of young people joined them from the dining hall and all traipsed merrily into the library. All, save Christopher Marlowe.
“Majesty, come!” he gave another gallant bow and swept his hand towards the open door. His light brown hair fell forward across his dark eyes and pale skin. He smiled winningly at the queen, with no hint of what he himself had just pronounced only moments earlier.
“And Anne, you sly girl, you have neglected to tell me of the new incunabula the queen has gifted to Coudenoure! I must take you to task, for you know our common ground includes a love of this place and its marvelous library!”
Anne stared at him as though transfixed by some ancient and evil spell, unable to look away and unable to bear what she now saw. She almost fainted as fate snatched away love’s veil and revealed the truth behind it. As pale as moonlight on a misty night, she jerked herself forward towards him. Bess and Elizabeth waited behind her, silently alert. In the dress she had hoped he would notice, she curtsied unsteadily.
“Sir Christopher, you must excuse me this evening. An ache has come upon me and my head, well, ’tis spinning. I am sure there are other young women who will gladly fill your arms this evening and ensure your good pleasure whilst you tarry here at Coudenoure. Unfortunately, I must retire. I bid you a good evening, sir.”
Marlowe cocked his head and unconsciously narrowed his eyes. He sensed a change but could not ascertain its origins.
“What is this?” he asked, but with less bravado than before. “The fairest of them all will desert me? I shall die a thousand deaths should you not dance at least once with me this evening.”
Anne stared a moment longer, unaware that she was now rubbing the soft, supple fabric of her special gown. As though in a dream, she brushed off her mother’s attempts to aid her. With a heavy hand upon the marble railing, she seemed to pull herself up stair by stair, never turning back to look at the shattered remains of her own dream. She disappeared into the darkness of the upstairs hall. A short moment later, her door could be heard closing, slowly and gently, as though pushed by the void which now encircled her.
“And what ill spirit has come upon that girl, I wonder?”
Marlowe knew, instinctively, that something had gone terribly awry. Anne had looked at him as though beholding a monster with horror written across her soft, innocent features. That look, however, was far preferable to the ones he now faced.
“I must go,” Bess whispered to Elizabeth. As Elizabeth nodded, Bess strode across the short distance separating her from Marlowe. Her face blazed with anger and disgust. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself unable. A hiss escaped her lips before she turned and hurried up the stairs.
Marlowe turned to the queen.
“Majesty, I know not…” his face was now a mask of innocence and confusion.
Elizabeth’s face and neck were red with wrath. Marlowe backed away as she spoke to him in a voice barely human.
“So you would use a young girl and her innocence to receive my trust and patronage, would you?”
They must have heard. How, he did not know, but quick as he was, Marlowe had no time to curse his own stupidity and indiscretion. Elizabeth breathed fire upon him.
“Sir, you will leave now, and ne’er come back to this place.”
Marlowe stood, vainly attempting to find words, words that would ease the queen’s wrath. Elizabeth watched him for a moment.
“Ah, yes, the wordsmith seeks his tool, does he not? How best to move beyond the moment? How best to fill my ears with folderol?” She paused as though filling her lungs to their maximum capacity.
“Get out!” she bellowed. Within seconds, the great hall was filled with liveried guardsmen there to do her bidding.
“Take this, this, rogue from here, do you here me? He dares to stand before me after I have told him to quit this place.”
Hands were placed upon Marlowe, lifting him from the floor and hauling him towards the heavy entry door.
“Take him,” she breathed heavily. As Marlowe was put upon his steed, she walked uncertainly into the grand dining hall, falling rather than sitting on a chair.
“Majesty, are you ill? May we be of assistance?” The captain of her guard had seen her staggered walk.
Elizabeth shook her head and closed her eyes. Around her neck was a string of heavy, lustrous pearls, passed down to her from John of Gaunt’s second wife, the love of his life, Katherine Swynford. She fingered them now, absently, thinking of Dudley and his massive deception, of her own father and mother, of broken hearts and half-lived lives and the heartache that love inevitably imparted upon those foolish enough to open the door when it knocked.
“Fetch my carriage and see that Lady Bess is told of my return on the morrow. That is all.”
*****
Late into the night Anne lay on her bed alone, continually stroking the fine velvet of her ball gown.
“How ridiculous am I!” she exclaimed softly to herself. “And I thought he loved me. And the dress, what foolish sprite commanded such folly. And now all know, even Catherine and her beau, for he will not keep such mockery from her.”
She stood up and began unlacing her gown. It was difficult, reaching first behind her waist, now over her shoulders, but finally, with a wiggle of her hips, she slipped it to the floor, stepped out of it and bundled it in her hands as she walked towards the fire. It had burned low and only embers remained. With a forceful toss she threw the garment onto the grate and for good measure took two small kindling logs from the copper log bin nearby. She threw them on the dress, picked up a poker and blew until the flame caught. Once satisfied, she sat in her favorite chair and watched the fire.
“And so it ends,” she said quietly. “I have no art, no husband, nothing at all.”
Sometime later, as Eos crept across the eastern sky and she finally crawled beneath the covers, Anne realized she had not shed a single tear. She smiled wearily. Tears are for wee cuts on one’s finger, she thought, for a bumble bee’s sting, for being bested in a game. There were no tears for this, nor was there anyone to hold her close until it passed. And never, for eternity and beyond, would there be anyone to ever, ever make it better.
Chapter Twenty
It was officially published. Lady Catherine Elizabeth Janyns was to marry Sir Joshua Edward Hill. The match was deemed fitting and good by all. Sir Joshua was a northerner, a highlander of noble birth but a second son – no wealth or title had come his way upon the sudden death of his parents years earlier. He barely knew his elder brother, his father’s son from his first wife. He knew only that the man lived across the border which separated England from Scotland proper (for he had married a Scottish heiress), and that he cared not for the English, having adapted to Scottish ways completely. As Joshua grew to manhood the evident thinness of his circumstances became ever more apparent, and he perceived only two choices as possibilities for a way forward: he might enter the priesthood or alternatively, he could put to sea – the new world had opened many opportunities for those second born. Since neither poverty nor Latin appealed to him, he sailed with Drake.
As the weeks passed and the banns were read, a slow but steady change began to envelope Coudenoure. The idyllic isolation of the past was melting away, revealing the bedrock and sand which lay beneath. The mere presence of Joshua and Michael seemed to breathe new life into the old estate and the old ways. Immediately after the announcement of the approaching nuptials, Quinn, Michael and Joshua had determined that Agnes’ old cottage, just to the east of the main manor house, would be the perfect place for Catherine and Joshua to begin their life together. But Fernwood Cottage, as it was known, had been severely neglected for years. Its thatched roof had fallen in or blown away in many places and its garden
s had disappeared altogether. It now rose from a grassy meadow which extended all the way to its oak-planked front entry. Beneath the neglect, however, was a solid and small structure which was oddly elegant despite its disrepair. It had always reminded Bess of a fine-boned and attractive woman who perhaps had forgotten to comb her hair. For months Quinn was energized by the sudden prospect of turning his wandering mind back to its first love and without waiting for as much as a single approval from Catherine or Bess he began calling in glazers, masons, and all manner of other craftsmen. Quinn could be seen most days standing in the cold in the frozen grassland in front of Fernwood, rubbing his hands together delightedly or stretching his arms forward and using his thumbs and forefingers to form a square through which he avidly gazed. Almost unconsciously, he had adopted the clothing worn by his architect father before, dressing in monochromatic ensembles enlivened by colorful gay scarves draped casually across his shoulders and wrapped rakishly round his neck. Though he would have found it difficult to articulate, the new project had given him a sense of homecoming, of completion, as though a circle was being closed. His workshop lay forgotten for the moment and for that at least Bess was grateful. One more explosion and she was going to have to find a way to hide away the gunpowder and chemicals he and Dee found so appallingly irresistible.
The green monster had taken up residence in cook’s glass house, having first been tentatively identified as a new world creature known in Spanish as la iguana. The small children of the estate dubbed it Terrence in honor of a bunny which had disappeared the summer before in the same glasshouse under what they all deemed to be mysterious circumstances. The fact that Margaret had served hare upon the very evening of the first Terrence’s disappearance did not help matters. For months afterwards, she was subjected to their suspicious glances as she served them all at the children’s table. Terrence the second was unlikely to suffer the same fate. He, or she, routinely ignored Margaret’s name-calling and bruising remarks mainly because they were always delivered from a distance. He happily ate her lettuces and greens and sunned himself on the fire hearth which rose from the one brick wall of the glass house. His satisfaction was evident and he began to put on weight.
Quinn’s conservatory was given over to new world plants supplied him by friends and colleagues. The only distraction from his new architectural duties came from the seeds his son had brought home to him as a gift from the exotic lands he had visited. As Michael described the circumstances of their acquisition – clime, humidity, season – Quinn carefully wrote his words down in one of the very many notebooks which filled an entire bookcase in his workshop. Endless, happy discussions between father, son, and the occasional visiting alchemist or plant enthusiast ensued and the resulting plan was not just satisfactory to all, but highly exciting – the planting would begin in the spring.
Bess, too, seemed to find a new beginning with the marriage of her youngest child. She realized that her recent frustrations with her sculpting were due not to the work itself but an underlying ennui which had crept into her life. Despite her multiple blessings, she caught herself drifting on occasion upon a sea of discontent. She could not identify the cause. Age, perhaps? Or maybe simple boredom? Whatever the reason, a change of pace was in order, at least temporarily. Catherine was completely caught up in her wedding plans, and wanted nothing more from her mother than reassurances and resources – the legion of servants and hires she had enlisted in her cause could do the rest. But Anne. Anne’s heart had been badly broken. Bess determined that as her mother, she should help the woman child heal. Accordingly, she turned all of the attention previously given to her work upon Anne. Yes, she, Bess, through assiduous attention would help Anne find her way; so much assiduous attention, in fact, that Anne commented to the queen about it on one of their perambulations round Coudenoure’s wall.
“If you do not distract her I shall have to kill her. ’Tis that simple.”
Elizabeth laughed aloud as they walked along. It was a fine wintry day with a bright sun.
“So Bess has decided to mother you after all these years.”
“God on high, I shall not survive her ministrations. Can we not get the woman a puppy?”
“She worries about you, Anne,” Elizabeth was still laughing, “You have lost weight and your complexion has suffered on account of that oaf Marlowe. You must forgive your mother for feeling the need to help you somehow.”
Anne looked steadily down the path in front of them. It was not that her heart had turned cold, but simply that it had turned to other things, other pursuits. She was not one to put her hand upon a hot object twice. The constant attention to her emotional state had indeed helped her heal and move on, but not because of the empathetic hugs and reassuring words which seemed to flow from the household like water in a brook. Rather, in order to be rid of such heartfelt yet annoying sympathy, she had forced herself into a happier mode on the outside which was slowly giving her peace psychologically. The only person with whom she felt free to speak her mind about the recent events was Elizabeth, for she, too, understood viscerally the impact of Marlowe’s betrayal.
“There is nothing left to get through, Majesty,” Anne shrugged, “ If that cold-heartedly playwright could not love me and my books then I am certain there is no hope for me in that connection. I have decided to live happily here at Coudenoure with my books and manuscripts and bid adieu to such destruction as love may bring. I am done with that manner of waste and ruin.”
“The heart is a strange, resilient organ, Anne, and you may yet find someone to be yours. Do not imagine that life without a mate would be as simple as turning deeper into your books. You may find yourself wanting warmth one day, and they shall not provide it.”
Now it was Anne’s turn to laugh.
“I may not be as strong and as wise as you, Majesty, but I know that I shall spend my days striving to be as you are now – single and happy and blessed.”
Single and happy and blessed, thought Elizabeth sadly. Strange how the perception of those around one, even those who loved you completely, could be so at odds with reality.
“Will you be at the wedding?” Anne asked.
“No, for my presence would distract from the bride and her merry day.”
“Um.”
“I shall send lavish gifts instead – I know my Catherine well, do you not agree?”
“Indeed,” laughed Anne, “But how can anyone not love such a pure expression of life and joy? I am happy for her, for it is her path I am certain. And the gifts, yes, she will be pleased. Her Joshua seems a nice young man and Drake vouches for him a thousand fold.”
“He seems somewhat vacuous, however, does he not?”
Anne smiled broadly while Elizabeth continued.
“Tell me of your plans, Joshua. I have asked this of him directly on several occasions. And Anne, I promise, he stands and stares at me like a cow at pasture.”
“Did not you tell me that my father was so awed upon initially meeting you that he forgot to remove his own cap before bowing? So ’tis with Joshua, perhaps.”
Elizabeth gave her a sideways glance.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I believe he loves the sea and he loves Catherine, in that order. They are well-suited for neither is deep.”
She waved off Anne’s objections.
“Anne, I love Catherine dearly and if Joshua is the young man of her heart then I consent readily to the marriage. Being shallow is not a sin, merely a trait. And if one loves such a person, one must accept that, for as you know, no one can change another soul.”
The conversation turned, as always, to books and languages, the world in which they were most comfortable.
*****
Elizabeth was true to her word. On the eve of Catherine’s nuptials, many large and ponderous wains arrived, driven by Elizabeth’s own guard. The young bride-to-be was showered with great and somewhat gaudy gifts of furniture, clothing and jewels. Her world was now complete.
On the third Sunday af
ter the reading of the banns, Catherine Elizabeth Janyns and Joshua Edward Hill were married in the small parish church of St. Michael. Bess and Quinn had told the couple of their own nuptials in Coudenoure’s chapel ruins, suggesting the beginning of a tradition might be possible. In this they were ignored.
Renovations to Fernwood were coming along and the first floor had been readied for the young couple. There was no solemnity to the fete which followed their vows, only boisterous joy. The evening progressed, but Joshua and Catherine had long since begun to ignore the rowdy celebration. They danced to their own music in a quiet corner. Suddenly, Joshua was seen to whisper in his new bride’s ear. A faint blush could be observed upon Catherine’s cheeks as she returned a whispered answer. Joshua took her hand and together they threaded their way across the library, through the great hall and into the kitchen. As someone called to Joshua he turned, looked down at Catherine and grinned. She matched his with her own and with her free hand clutched the front of her dress, raising it slightly. His hand clasped hers more tightly, and they began laughing as they skipped lightly away without answering. Jane and Margaret turned a blind eye as the giggling newlyweds ran hand in hand through the kitchen to the outer door. Catherine, with her blonde rippling curls flowing nearly to her waist put her finger to her lips and gave them an angelic smile as Joshua tugged her forward and past them. Such happiness brought joy to the hearts of all who were fortunate enough to witness it.
Bess and Quinn had also tired of the dancing and revelry and stood outside the heavy front doors of their estate in comfortable marital bliss. While they stood arm in arm their reverie was interrupted by Catherine’s peals of laughter as she and Joshua ran from behind the manor house and across the meadow to their new home. Fernwood was gaily lit with a thousand candles so that their way might be clear both to their front door and throughout their lives. Quinn smiled as the laughter floated across the still air. Through the candlelight they watched as Joshua threw Catherine over his shoulder, smacked her bottom as she squealed and giggled with delight – and disappeared through their new front door. It closed behind them, and Quinn and Bess were once more alone in the night.
