The Other Elizabeth: Royal Sagas: Tudors II

by Betty Younis

  Her ladies ignored the remark and continued dressing the sovereign. Her mood had improved considerably since the return of Dudley from the Netherlands’ campaign, but even he could not turn back the clock for the queen. Her figure, once slim and lithe, had slowly become frail and thin. Her strength was still with her, but not the vibrancy of youth. She knew this, and her ladies knew that she knew. It was a subject best left alone, however, for the moment one of them spoke of it in an effort to bring cheer to the queen’s heart, the queen would turn on her as if she spoke a curse in the devil’s own tongue. No. ’Twas infinitely best to let Elizabeth have the conversation alone with her looking glass.

  “I shall have tea now,” she said as a rope of heavy, tear-shaped pearls was draped about her neck. “Tell them to bring me some honey as well – I have come to esteem the combination.”

  As they bowed and picked up the gowns not chosen for the day’s attire, Elizabeth snapped her fingers.

  “And, are you listening? Tell them to fetch John Dee. I wish to speak to the man.”

  “Majesty, I do not know if he…”

  “He is here,” Elizabeth said firmly, “For I saw him skitter across the drive yesterday, chasing some hapless winged creature. Tell him the queen has need of his services. I shall see him in my privy hall.”

  The tea was duly delivered and she sat by the window, thinking of the past. She smiled as she remembered Bess describing the pell-mell exit of courtiers during her bout with smallpox. Bess, too, was getting older. On sudden impulse, she collected writing materials and commenced drafting a note to her niece.

  “My dearest Bess,

  I sit now in the window of my bedchamber at Hampton Court, remembering your time here. How jolly and irreverent you were! I wish you were here now, and that time were not our enemy. What a silly wish, when my kingdom seems to be in daily peril. Better I should wish for success against the legions who now seem to come against me, and yet, in my heart, I wish for simpler times, times when you and I were still ignorant about the vicissitudes of the future.

  Listen to such dreadful sadness! When I was young, I believed that the throne was the solution to all my problems, that all difficulties would melt away if I could only have my heart’s desire and be crowned. What a silliness!

  Dudley has arrived from the Netherlands. He says he needed to see England, that his time away from her precious shores was too difficult to bear. I suspect otherwise, that Cecil and Walsingham had need of his council, for they creep around in the shadows these days, seeing assassins and usurpers behind every pillar. Perhaps they are right and I should take care. We agree that if there be plots, they derive from my northern cousin, that witch of a woman. Oh Bess, what shall happen? If I do as they wish, I shall have an eternal stain upon my hands and if I do not, I shall spend the rest of my days in grave danger. And England, what would become of her?

  I miss the quiet certitude of time at Coudenoure: I am sure Quinn’s clothes are on fire or some new alchemy has taken hold of his thoughts; I am sure that Anne is busy in the library, cataloguing and buying, for she asks for a steady stream of coins for the purchase of ever more rare books and manuscripts – what a library you have! I tell you, ’tis the envy of all bibliophiles at my court! I believe they are tempted to take it for themselves should no one be looking!

  And Henrietta. How is my little darling? She sends lessons and work for me weekly, along with corrected versions of my responses! ’Tis too sweet for words. In her tiny script, she writes stern messages as to how I should complete each assignment. Occasionally, I achieve a laudatory note in the margin, but the child is a born general. With this letter I send along my latest work for her consideration – this week, she has chosen to help me with my Greek and French.

  Cecil and Walsingham fear that should I visit Coudenoure, the assassins would seize the opportunity to do my person harm – they say Coudenoure is remote and unguarded and indeed, they are correct. For me, I believe I would be putting you and our kin in unnecessary and grave danger, for no other reason than I long to see you all. And so for now, I must content myself with memories and epistles.

  Elizabeth R.

  She passed the sealed letter to her maid with delivery instructions, and went in search of Dee.

  *****

  “I want to know the future.”

  “As do I, Majesty.”

  John Dee was not one to mince words. He tended to deliver sharp, pithy comments while gently twirling strands of his long white beard and staring mystically off into space. He did so now.

  “Dee, I am surrounded …”

  He raised his hand to stop her, the only person on earth allowed to do so. After a moment he spoke.

  “I do not need to be a seer of secret things yet to pass, or a practitioner of magic to understand you, Majesty. You are surrounded by men fearful of coming events, but while ’tis true that they fear the unknown, ’tis more true that they fear the known.”

  “Holy Mary, say what you mean, just once.”

  Dee turned his deep, serene eyes upon her.

  “Is Mary plotting your demise? Majesty, yes! Of course she is. She has been imprisoned by your hand some many years now. She is jealous of you upon the English throne, jealous of your power and jealous of all who are free to walk abroad in this land.”

  “Go on.”

  “The question you wish answered is not a vague prediction of future events, but the outcome of one event in particular.”

  Elizabeth nodded and spoke.

  “Will she be successful, Dee, in my assassination?”

  “No, she will not. You have taken care to hire able ministers who shall see to your safety and the safety of your kingdom. But Majesty, you must prepare for her execution, for if you do not, you will not live to old age.”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “Well, you are wrong there, sir, for my knees already ache when I rise from prayers and my face has more lines than…”

  Again he cut her off.

  “Mary is not your biggest problem. The continent is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Spain has amassed great wealth from its new world ventures, and even now is amassing a vast armada to come against you whether Mary is successful or not.”

  “I know this. Drake and Raleigh are building a fleet for England as fast as timbers may be hammered and sealed.”

  “They must move faster.”

  “Dee, they cannot!”

  “They must, for Spain plans to sail against you in two summers’ time.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Dee smiled and rose.

  “I am a seer, Majesty, the last of the Merlins. Now, I bid you good day.” He bowed and left Elizabeth sitting alone, wondering how to face so many threats from so many quarters. She began to pace as she considered the few options open to her. After a bit, she strode from the hall in search of her friend.

  *****

  “My queen, why do you always call me to walk with you on such cold and dreary days? Is it not enough for us to sip some of that tea you love beside a warm fire? Hampton Court is full of such luxuries we need hardly to ever step outside. Let us admire its tapestries and paintings and walk its warm halls.”

  “Mary is causing trouble and must be dealt with.”

  Dudley laughed. Elizabeth had sought him out in his quarters and found him deep in conversation with Cecil. They had looked up with guilty faces as they rose and bowed. But Cecil was not invited on the queen’s walk.

  “Mary, your cousin, is causing trouble? Why, Majesty! What a surprise!”

  “Stop it, Robert, or I shall scream. I am fearful of what I must do for England to be rid of the threat of her.”

  “But if you had it in that witch’s own hand that she intended extreme treason against you, you would have no choice, would you?”

  “No, I would not, but the woman is of my blood – she is clever and she will not indict herself by doing something so stupid. How many plots has Walsingham un
covered only to find that while they all lead back to her, no trace may be found of her direct involvement. Ooohhhh, that woman is clever indeed, and she will have my throne and England will be no more if she is successful.”

  “She will not be successful.”

  “Are you Dee, now? A seer of future things?”

  “That old twaddle is about as prescient as Terrence, the lizard that eats cook’s lettuces at Coudenoure.”

  Elizabeth laughed in spite of her concerns.

  “Dear Quinn paid a king’s fortune for two more of the creatures, did you not know? And now there are little Terrences and little Elizabeths running amok in the glass house.”

  “Elizabeths?”

  “Henrietta did me the great honor. She adores me and I adore her. When last I was there she had dressed them for a wedding. Jane sewed the gowns – the hats were particularly jaunty. I understand Cook was apoplectic, for they served her best lettuce at the wedding feast.”

  Dudley smiled and changed the subject.

  “Walsingham is onto something, my queen. He has uncovered a great sin and conspiracy but has cleverly concealed his knowledge of the treasonous plans. This time, she shall spin her web upon herself and be caught.”

  They walked on, and spoke as old friends do, of nothing in particular. Feeling better, she dismissed him and continued in the bright cold sun alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  February 7, 1587

  Elizabeth awoke in a cold sweat. As she had almost every night for the past month, she dreamt of her mother. The dreams were nonsensical, with no clear end or beginning. Sometimes Elizabeth was running through a forest, panicked that she was late for some event she could not remember; other times, she was at Hatfield, frightened by a heavy, demanding knocking on the door; in still other dreams her mother was whispering in her ear, but try as she might she could not make out the words. Yet she knew they were frantic, urgent and terrified. The disturbed sleep patterns and the dreams themselves left her weary and desperately afraid. In her rational self-deliberations she assured herself that her conscience was clear and that suppressed guilt had nothing to do with these dreams. In her heart, however, she knew better. And differently.

  All through the previous summer, she had refused to believe the mounting evidence against her cousin, Mary. She dismissed Babington as an isolated idiot until even she could no longer believe her own words. And the letters. God in heaven! She had lashed out at Walsingham, at Cecil, at anyone she could, for she felt the net closing in around her.

  But Walsingham, damn his soul, had anticipated her every move. You do not believe your cousin would write such treasonous words, that she would not write of your own overthrow? Here, Majesty, here is the letter. And look, Majesty, she encoded her own writing, lest someone find her out. Babington is too great an idiot to plot such devilry? Here, oh Queen, here is his confession and those who counseled with him in the dark and evil alleyways of sin. You must act, Majesty, you must act.

  Over and over again: you must act, you must act. She felt her whole court whispered the words and watched her as she went about her days and evenings. She had nowhere to turn, no time to think. All through the fall as Mary’s trial progressed, she found herself unable to focus on anything, unable to bring herself to the conclusion that everyone around her had reached months earlier: Mary was guilty of high treason. On the day the verdict was read aloud, only she seemed to feel any sadness, any remorse. Only she still struggled with what she knew must come.

  *****

  February 8, 1587

  The sky was overcast, bleeding gray despair onto the earth below. When news reached her of the execution, she raged for hours, claiming her ministers had deceived her, that her understanding was that the death warrant would not be sent forward until her final word. But in her heart, she knew better. And differently. As she had now for months and months. Bouts of nausea assailed her even so, and she took to her bed, eating nothing, seeing no one until finally, she was forced to confront directly the tightly coiled knowledge with which she would have to live the rest of her life and answer for upon judgment day. She turned the ring on her finger endlessly, opening and closing it almost mindlessly as the words echoed through her head.

  As her father had done to her mother, so she had done to Mary. Amen and amen, and may Christ have mercy on our souls.

  It was done and there was no undoing it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  June 1587

  Quinn Janyns’ meadow at Coudenoure was at its finest in the spring. He was a strange man, but strange men often had beautiful sight and Quinn’s vision of what this meadow should be had come to full fruition over the years. Whether it was his early training as an architect or simply a gift, his ability to translate complex mental images into ethereal objects of great physical beauty was astounding. As the winter snows melted away, his meadow sprang to life. Almost instantly, it was transformed by thousands upon thousands of purple crocuses into a soft low carpet of color. Even as they began to recede, yellow daffodils pushed upward and bloomed seemingly overnight, spreading their exquisite spring fragrance on the wind. As they finished their tour new flowers sprang forward to take their place, making an ever-changing and beautiful kaleidoscope of shape, color, smell and texture.

  Elizabeth had ridden out early from Greenwich Palace, ducking her usual escort of courtiers and guards. The rampant conspiracy theories which always circulated at her court had lessened somewhat since Mary’s execution, allowing all concerned with her well-being to take a deep breath and relax to some extent. On this particular morning, only Cecil knew her whereabouts. She nodded in silent affirmation to her guards at each gate she cleared until finally, the high road to London was all that stood between her and Greenwich Wood beyond. She waved away the guards shrill attempts to halt traffic for her crossing, preferring instead to disappear into the woods without fanfare, in anonymity. The musty smell of the forest floor rose to meet her – complex, strong, heavy. Only the high call of an occasional hawk on the wing and the soft hoof-beat of her mount interrupted the heavenly silence. No one called her name; no one threw themselves prostrate before her as she walked along, wanting things she could not give; no one tugged at her sleeve or begged alms. Peace. She gave rein to her horse and as so many times in years gone by, it began picking its way along the ancient trail used by her father on his own visits.

  Coudenoure. Elizabeth had not visited the small manor and its eccentric inhabitants for some time. As she cleared the wood the high ridge of the place came into sight and she urged her mount forward. Once past the meadow the horse made for the banks of the Thames. The old road which abutted its muddy shore and lead to the front gate had not improved with time. It snaked and wound its way around obstacles which no longer existed, or had never existed in the first place. Perhaps it had followed some ancient border between neighboring plots or farms. Perhaps the Roman soldiers who settled the land had travelled its treaded ruts as she did now. The tiny dock of Coudenoure came into view and a sharp turn brought her to the perimeter gate of Bess and Quinn’s estate. She rode in silence up the long drive. Suddenly, a small figure popped up in the meadow. Dressed in a bright linen frock with a knitted overlay the child came bouncing towards her, crying out in delight. Long auburn hair flew behind her and despite the obvious efforts to tame it with braids and ribbons it lent a wild and unkempt yet strangely charming aura to the little girl.

  “Lizzie! My Lizzie!”

  Elizabeth fairly jumped from her mount and ran to meet Henrietta. Of all the personalities she had ever encountered, none came close to Henrietta. The child was a marvel of nature. Physically tall for her age, she was lithe and well-proportioned. Her Tudor lineage was unmistakable – it was there in her auburn hair, in her gray-blue eyes, in her square jaw. But unlike Henry or even Elizabeth, Henrietta’s face was not just intelligent and interesting, but undeniably beautiful. Her high cheekbones, prominent even now, gave great promise. But all of that was naught compared to
the child’s temperament and intellect.

  Henrietta had begun walking early, talking early and reading early. Her facility for languages was remarkable. She had begun with the English alphabet, moved on to Greek, and from there had even conquered the strange orthography of the Moormen. Her vocabulary had soon outstripped that of others in the household and she reveled in learning new words, rolling them off her tongue with evident enthusiasm. Elizabeth loved the child for all these reasons, but there was another, more profound one which caused her to smile whenever she saw the child: Henrietta loved Elizabeth unreservedly, without purpose or cause, without artifice. It was true that the child’s aunt, Anne, also loved Elizabeth without reserve, but Henrietta had somehow managed to endear herself to Elizabeth in a way that pulled the sovereign out of herself. Each time the child engaged with her Elizabeth felt the veil which had always separated her from those around her rise, as though it were a curtain on a stage. Smells became more acute, sights more interesting, life grander and finer. The child showed the woman things long forgotten or buried by time and age. They were alike, Henrietta and the queen. But Henrietta exuded a personal magnetism and charm that overwhelmed those around her for seemingly no reason. She did not use this gift to gain favors, but accepted the attention which rained down upon her without question. Her confidence was magical.

  Spring was in the air and Elizabeth laughed as Henrietta closed the gap between them and threw herself into her arms. Round and round they swirled, Elizabeth free, both of them joyous.

  “Where have you been? I have waited for you almost every day!”

  “Almost?” cried Elizabeth in mock dismay.