The Other Elizabeth: Royal Sagas: Tudors II

by Betty Younis

  “My love, I believe they will be happy.” He tightened his arm around Bess’ waist.

  “As happy as we are, dear? Could anyone ever be?”

  Quinn turned her towards him and kissed her. Together, as always, they went back inside.

  Some weeks later, Joshua and Michael sailed for the new world aboard the Dorothy, one of Raleigh’s new world fleet. They stood once more on the tiny dock of Coudenoure and bade family farewell. Catherine, sad at her young husband’s departure, was buoyed by her new station in life.

  *****

  On September 7th, the queen’s own birthday, a child was born unto Catherine Elizabeth Janyns and Joshua Edward Hill. She lay swaddled in her mother’s arms surrounded by family, a thatch of brilliant red hair peeking above the blanket. Catherine’s labor had been difficult, and her hands shook as she held her newborn in the crook of her arm. She caught Anne’s eye as she gently wiped her face. She kissed her child one last time and indicated to Bess that she should take the infant. A faint whisper came. Anne leaned forward but missed its meaning.

  “Sister, dearest, rest, you must rest. Do not worry about anything now, for you need to rest.”

  Catherine shook her head gently. Anne began to cry, fearing what was yet to come.

  “Look after her. Promise me,” Catherine whispered.

  Anne ignored the implication. Bess was caught up with Jane, busy wrapping the newborn in warm blankets.

  “What shall we call your beautiful daughter?”

  Catherine’s small faded voice replied, “Henrietta. She shall be Henrietta Elizabeth.”

  She reached feebly for Anne’s hand.

  “Please hold my hand, sister dearest, for I am so afraid and very tired.”

  “Please do not leave, Catherine. Please do not.” Anne gripped her sister’s hand. She held it long after Catherine’s lay limp in her palm, like a melted snowflake.

  *****

  On a far away shore, a great battle was pitched. The Dorothy lay at anchor and help was on the way – their comrades could be seen scrambling into the lifeboats and rowing furiously to aid them. The landing party had been blindsided and nearly all were on the beach when a sudden roar burst forth from just beyond the tree line. Joshua grabbed his revolver and made to step out of the boat. But even as he did so, an arrow pierced his chest. He fell back. Michael abandoned his oar and reached for his friend.

  “Steady, Joshua. ’Tis only a bruise you have received.” Did God forgive lies told in the service of a friend?

  Joshua passed his hand over the wound and smiled weakly at his comrade while closing his eyes.

  “You are either dumb beyond measure or a pitiful liar, I am not certain which.”

  Michael pressed his kerchief to staunch the endless flow of blood.

  “Perhaps I am both, eh? We must consider all possibilities.”

  Joshua opened his eyes. His face was losing color now, and Michael fought back the nausea he felt.

  “Michael, you must attend my wife and child. Tell Catherine of my love for her.” He smiled faintly. “Of all the women I have known, ’tis only Catherine I think of when I am alone. Only Catherine.”

  “My sister is a fortunate woman. And to think I believed you had married her for her looks…”

  “Michael, ssshhh! Do you hear?”

  “Hear what, old friend. Stop talking.”

  “What? No, no, dear, I see you. Michael, what is Catherine doing here? I do not understand! Yes, yes love, I am coming. Do not fear, for I will be with you.”

  He died that day on the beach. In the evening, as prayers were said and sorrows put away, Michael thought of Coudenoure. It would be years before Catherine would know of Joshua’s death. Years, indeed, before he himself would see his beloved home and family.

  As days became months and seasons repeated endlessly, Michael came to have enough of the sea. He had no desire to die in a far away land amongst strangers, his body given over to the sea. He wanted home, hearth and family, just as he had known as a child. Perhaps he and his father could launch a venture of some sort together. If not, just helping the old man with his endless puttering about would be joy enough. Unconsciously, he became more cautious in his work aboard the Dorothy. In his cramped cabin, barely more than a cot and small desk, he began to keep a calendar, and he crossed off each day without fail. He was already home in spirit, but for now must bide his time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  January 1586

  The wooden step created especially for him and for Augustus, his mule, creaked wearily as Cecil put his weight upon it. For his part, Augustus waited patiently while the stable boy helped Elizabeth’s minister of state adjust himself in the saddle. The tow-headed lad took pride in being the only one the old man trusted when getting on and off the most faithful and oldest animal in the entire stable. In fact, he was uncertain which was older, man or beast, for both had been bowed and gray even when he had begun his apprenticeship some years earlier. But age was not the stable boy’s primary concern, for aged or not, both rider and mule were capable of inflicting serious damage upon him.

  Cecil’s assaults were the easier to manage in the short run – the old codger was given to tongue lashings on all manner of subjects, most of which pertained to a perceived lack of various and sundry virtues in his staff. Early on, these vituperative, rambling homilies had produced tears and agony in the boy. Eventually, however, he noticed that all servants were subject to the master’s stern warnings, but only he, the stable boy, seemed to take them to heart. He quickly adjusted his attitude and had been the happier for it ever since.

  But the other old codger, Augustus, was an entirely different matter. He could be equally vicious but was also moody, making his rebukes – in the form of kicks and bites – wildly unpredictable. The sun could be shining, the old mule could be enjoying the pleasures of a summer pasture, have a full stomach and a clean stall to which to retire and yet, if the spirit moved, might well bite the very hand that had helped him attain such a paradise. Screaming and name calling would get you nowhere, for Augustus was regal not just in name but also in temperament. He could have cared less what those around him thought of him. Except, of course, for one: Cecil. Like a sovereign who bows in wary and fearful acknowledgement before his one true god, Augustus treated Cecil with differential and distinct respect. He clearly knew the one person who could take away his happiness in this life and he patterned his behavior accordingly. All others need take care.

  Cecil and Augustus had ridden together so long that the calluses on Augustus’ swayed back exactly matched the warp of the saddle, which was also of an ancient heritage. As always, Cecil declined to change into appropriate riding gear, preferring to remain in his ecclesiastically-oriented cassock with the deep burgundy sash at the waist and a round, pillbox of a cap to finish the look. A worn cloak, obviously a favorite for some years, was pulled securely across his shoulders. As the older man grunted and strained to sit comfortably, the stable boy struggled to keep his face blank and focused. He had once thought it polite to make a small joke about his master’s efforts in this area, but after Cecil had explained things to him in scathing tones, he kept such jokes to himself. The cassock’s skirt rode up Cecil’s legs, revealing patched stockings and shoes from another era. As he pulled his cape forward to cover his exposure, he caught the servant boy’s stare and chortled.

  “You would do well, young sir, not to waste your money on such niceties as those that no one will see. ’Tis extravagant, and if you do so despite my warning, you will never inspect your own palace such as this.”

  He looked over the grounds before him and clicked his tongue at Augustus as he loosed the reins slightly. The old mule lurched off in grudging compliance. For days it had threatened rain or even snow but today was clear and Cecil had decided to ride up country and inspect his new estate. The trip had been uneventful, and the message he had sent ahead ensured that Augustus was saddled and waiting. He rode slowly up the makeshift drive, noting
with satisfaction the ruts and holes which now graced its gravel surface – so the work was continuing apace. Augustus was slower than usual this morning and in a fit of mercy, Cecil leaned forward and patted his neck.

  “We are all moving a bit slower these days, are we not, old friend? Um? ’Tis particularly difficult in the cold, do you not agree?” Augustus snorted as though appreciating the sentiment and ambled on towards the main construction area.

  It had been twenty-six long years since the death of Mary and the accession of Elizabeth. Cecil sighed as he considered the toll those years had taken on him, on them all really – himself, Walsingham, Dudley – England had survived and peace had prevailed across the land, but at what cost? So many plots against the queen had been uncovered during that time that he had been forced to hire someone to deal with them and manage them en toto, one Francis Walsingham. A better spy master could not be had, and Cecil frequently congratulated himself on what had proven to be a brilliant move on his part. He knew how much they owed the twisted man who kept his own secrets even while exposing those of others, particularly of those who might do Elizabeth harm. Yes, a fine hire for an ugly, sometimes desperate job. Why, just last year the man had prevented one of the more carefully planned attacks upon England and the queen that had been seen in recent years, the wicked plot devised by the Throckmorton brothers. Cecil shuddered as he briefly contemplated what the outcome would have been had it not been for the faithful Walsingham. He pulled his cloak tighter against a rising breeze while his thoughts continued to wander about in the past. After a moment, they settled upon Robert Dudley.

  Robert Dudley, the famous Earl of Leicester. Never far from the queen’s side, nor her thoughts. Cecil turned back to the early years, when his greatest fear had been the queen’s apparent and passionate love for that peacock of a man. He chuckled, causing Augustus to slow and turn an inquiring eye in his direction. A click of the spurs and he plodded on. How could he know that the knave would marry in secret? How could anyone have guessed that the man was an idiot in the first degree? It was true that Elizabeth had worn it hard for some time, but once he was sure she would recover emotionally, he had not thought of it again. And he had not cared when Dudley had reappeared at court, for there was no question now that Elizabeth was out of danger. But inevitably when he thought of Dudley, he had to admit to a grudging admiration for the courtier.

  Over the years, the preening nit had proven himself far more loyal than any of Elizabeth’s other subjects. Again and again, he proved his steady and deep love for her through various acts and mechanisms. Over time, he had become the confidant that he, Cecil, could never be, for Cecil was first and foremost the queen’s servant, while Dudley was first and foremost her closest friend. Both he and Walsingham had come to trust the man despite a hearty dislike for his temperament. He served the realm and its sovereign in his own way, as did they – what more could be asked?

  Augustus rounded a corner in the rutted road and there before them lay Burghley House. A long, satisfied sigh escaped Cecil’s lips and he pulled the mule to a halt in order to enjoy what lay before him.

  In 1571, Elizabeth had rewarded his efforts on her behalf and those of the kingdom with a barony. Despite continuing on in the administration of her rule, he was henceforth the first Baron of Burghley. It had taken years for his methodical mind to determine how best to outwardly express his growing wealth and display his very own title. In the end, he had chosen this place to do so. The estate which was slowly rising was built on the ruins of a medieval settlement. Each time he visited profound thoughts on the continuity of the English peoples washed over him in deep, almost primordial waves of pride. His kind were ancient, and his home would be built upon a base established by them in the distant ages of long ago. Heraldry was Cecil’s abiding passion and great care went into the design of his own crest – a blue and white shield beneath the Tudor crown.

  True to his desire, the architect had laid out his estate in the shape of an E, for all he was he owed to Elizabeth. He was fond of the privy quarters at Richmond palace and his own home would bear more than a passing resemblance to their structure and layout. The sun came out from behind a cloud as he sat upon Augustus and admired the rounded turrets and ongoing work along the northernmost wing. Altogether, the house exuded an almost ethereal lightness and cheer, a sense enhanced by the pale limestone he had chosen for its outer walls. There would go his great gardens, he thought lovingly, while there, in that small wing, would be his very own library, fit for a man such as he. Of course, that library at that small manor house the queen insisted upon loving, that place known as Coudenoure, had quite a head start on him, but he would soon catch them. Perhaps, if he were lucky, his own collection might one day surpass that of Quinn and his brood.

  As his eyes scanned the landscape, he was surprised to see a fine steed tied to a low-hanging branch near the house. He was even more surprised to see its owner step from the shadows. He urged Augustus forward.

  “Forgive me if I do not dismount,” he spoke lightly, “…for I have no stool upon which to stand as my usual aid.”

  The other man quickly mounted his horse.

  “Then we shall walk our beasts as we speak.”

  “Fine. And a good day to you, Walsingham. What brings you to the beginnings of my humble estate?”

  Francis Walsingham snorted. He was a tall, lean man with deep-set, hooded eyes which took in everything. Today, he was dressed as a simple traveler upon a long journey might be, belying his powerful status and role in the kingdom.

  “Lord Cecil,” he began, “Your house is neither humble, nor is it in the early stages, or, if it is, then it will not be finished until it reaches London. And ’tis a fine place, by the by.”

  “Indeed,” came the reply, “And I will be moving my family in shortly.”

  “Ah, and how many little ones now? Ten? Fifteen?”

  Cecil shot him a look – for reasons which eluded him, Walsingham was fond of pretending that Cecil had unbridled passions in the bedroom. He suspected its origins were in his somewhat short stature. He ignored the remark and continued on.

  “You did not ride to this place to involve yourself in my domestic affairs, nor to admire my new estate. What brings you to Burghley House, my lord?”

  “The woman.”

  “Ah.”

  They rode in silence.

  “News?” Cecil asked after a bit.

  “You know, of course, that the bastard Jesuit John Ballard has several times been abroad in our land this past year. He seems to be gathering a network about him, a network centered on Mary.”

  Cecil grunted in disgust and cried out in frustration.

  “Always Queen of the Scots. Why will Elizabeth do nothing? Why?”

  Walsingham ignored the outburst. His work was to leave emotion out of the equation.

  “The plan is to assassinate our royal highness Elizabeth and put Mary upon the throne.”

  “’Tis always the plan, Walsingham. You rode this far to tell me what I have known for years?”

  “No, I did not. I rode to tell you that young Anthony Babington is at the heart of it on the English side.”

  Again, thoughtful silence. Finally, Cecil continued the conversation.

  “What is your plan?”

  “I have a young genius working for me now who decodes the messages which are being sent between Mary and her believers. His name is Phelippes and he is quite valuable.”

  “How are they smuggling messages to her? How? I believed our plans to keep Mary isolated were impenetrable.”

  Walsingham laughed.

  “Nothing is impenetrable, my friend – that is why you hired me. We have a man up north, an agent whom they believe faithful to themselves and their cause. He smuggles the coded messages in and out in the wine caskets which come and go from the kitchens. In turn, they are deciphered by Phelippes before being sent on.”

  “Clever. And the goal? Can you get something from that witch in writing? For
Elizabeth will do nothing unless Mary implicates herself in her own hand.”

  “It may take some time, but yes, that is my goal. In the meantime, however, security must be tightened around our sovereign, for should they see a chance, they may forsake their own plans and seize the moment.”

  “Still, why did you ride here to tell me? Could it not have waited?”

  “Just as we watch them, Cecil, they have set a watch upon us. They must not hear whispers in the wind, for if they do they may well cease their activity, and I swear upon all that is holy, if we can keep them in the dark about our knowledge, we shall have her head this time.”

  Cecil nodded in understanding.

  “Was a palace ever built that had not a thousand listening posts?”

  “Not in England,” came Walsingham’s jaundiced reply. “I will go now, and what words we have will be in unexpected places.”

  He left Cecil as he found him, plodding along, deep in thought, on the old mule Augustus.

  *****

  “God’s wounds,” Elizabeth said to no one in particular, “Where has the time gone? How can I be fifty-three? I am still the same person I was at twenty, yet my unkind looking glass tells me a different story.”

  She stood before the mirror in her bedchamber, arms outstretched so that the sleeves of her dress might be fastened. It was a new gown, and she thought back again to her youth.

  “Perhaps not quite the same person – at twenty, I would have been elated to wear such a bejeweled creation! And the colors! How do you suppose they saturate them to such a deep hue, um? These burgundies – never have I seen velvet of such abiding beauty. And these teals! Magnificent! And yet my heart does not sing as it did when I was twenty!”