The Other Elizabeth: Royal Sagas: Tudors II

by Betty Younis

  Henrietta did not smile.

  “We will plan your wedding. Choosing a day, a dress, all of those things. The pastries alone will take weeks of planning.”

  “Not so,” replied Michael laughing, “For we have already had serious and momentous discussions about our wedding feast’s menu. That issue is, to put it mildly, already in hand.”

  And so he had left. The entire estate turned out to see Michael go, knowing that their fate rode upon his back and the backs of other men like him. Many of the aged among them crossed themselves, still oblivious to the change in religion which had caused the hostilities in the beginning. They cared not for quibbling about the will of God, hoping only that he heard their own prayers, their own private supplications for grace, for sustenance, and for forgiveness. If he saw to their needs and those of their clan, well then, it mattered not what the great powers of the world wanted. This much they knew with certainty.

  *****

  As the three-masted ship sailed into battle in the early morn of that bright August day, Michael loaded his weapon and with his shipmates sallied forth to meet the enemy. Salvo after salvo fell around them and yet they pushed forward, forcing the Spanish vessels out of formation and into chaos. He felt no fear, only exhilaration that the moment was upon them and that the great danger would finally be brought to an end. Hour after hour of choking smoke and cannon fire at last allowed them to pull within musket shot range of the armada.

  “Load and fire!” came the order.

  Michael said a quick and fervent prayer as he stepped forward and quickly steadied his gun on the rampart. Across the blue and smoke-filled waters, a young Spaniard, just turned fifteen, was ordered forward aboard a Spanish galleon and told to fire as well. Terror filled his heart and his hands shook as he lifted his musket. What was he doing here? His dark eyes filled with frightened tears and he struggled to control their flow. He wanted to go home, to see his mother and father again. Battle was not for him and he had known it all along. Only the draft, sent forth from the King himself, had forced him into such brutal service. He closed his eyes and uttered a prayer heavenward that his bullet might not find a home but might instead sail onward into harmless oblivion. He did not aim, but closed his eyes tight and pulled the trigger. The kick from the butt forced him backward and he fell on the deck with a scream.

  Michael squinted and focused on the cohort now at the Spanish galleon’s rampart. Smoke began to rise from the line as each man fired. He saw a soldier standing somewhat apart from the others and carefully put his finger on the trigger while taking aim at him. A slight hesitation: was the soldier crying? Another second of hesitation and keener focus: why, he was not a soldier but a child! And yes, he was shaking and crying. He could not…

  Perhaps God did not hear their prayers above the din of battle that afternoon in early August. Michael fell back too, but silently. His gun dropped from his hand and his eyes closed in eternal death.

  *****

  In her studio, Bess sat listlessly alone. John Dee’s words describing Coudenoure, spoken years earlier, echoed through her mind. He had said it was a place “…without sadness.” And she had believed him. What a fool she had been to think that such a thing was possible. She felt impossibly sad, and worried that perhaps she was experiencing the beginning of the same sadness that had spelled the death of Constance her mother. And where was Elizabeth? It had been a month since the news of Michael’s death. Surely the queen owed her some small pittance of acknowledgement for the sacrifice of her only son. But it seemed that now no one remembered Coudenoure. All about the kingdom celebration raged, and the queen’s name was spoken in reverence and joy. Holidays were declared, feasts celebrated and hallelujahs to God were never ending it seemed. Only Coudenoure grieved for Michael; only Coudenoure remained isolated and alone in its sorrow. Try as she might, Bess could not deny the well of anger which rose within her each time she thought of Elizabeth. Where was she now that Bess needed a friend so desperately?

  *****

  Late August 1588

  “What have you heard?” Dudley walked slowly into Cecil’s chambers at Whitehall.

  Walsingham glanced up. He was not dressed for court, but for business. Like Cecil, he preferred a longer cassock than was popular at court amongst the queen’s courtiers. He also preferred darker colors and had more than once referred to those who chose more flamboyant attire as peacocks. Dudley was one who had been so labeled by Elizabeth’s spy master. In response to Walsingham’s wry critique, he had taken to wearing a peacock’s feather in his hat. Always. He had one today which perfectly accentuated the teal of his doublet and his rose-colored, silken hose. His beard, trimmed yet full, was flecked with gray, lending him an air of statesmanship despite his choice of clothing. In other times, Walsingham would not have let such a moment pass – he would have chided and laughed at his fellow-minister. Today, however, as he turned and surveyed Dudley, he held his tongue.

  It was true that the queen’s favorite was bedecked and festooned like a royal barge but the clothing could no longer hide the man beneath. Dudley was not a well man. The beard could hide his sunken, hollow cheeks. His dark eyes still glowed with the intelligent mischief which was his hallmark but they were now circled by dark and deep shadows. His frame, once tall and muscular, was as thin as Walsingham had ever seen. His color was that of a haunt, a shade of the night with no business amongst the living. No, the man was not well. Best to address the issue at once.

  “I have heard you are taking several cures,” he said, and Burghley turned to inspect the newcomer. His friend was right – Dudley looked as though he might not make it to the chair Walsingham pushed out for him. He raised an eyebrow and waited. Dudley looked at them and gave a crooked grin.

  “’Tis the cures, I am certain. They are worse than any pain I assure you.”

  Neither Walsingham nor Cecil said anything – they continued to stare at him waiting for a serious answer about what was obviously a serious issue. After a moment, Dudley acquiesced.

  “Gentlemen, I fear my illness is more than I have admitted to. I cannot eat, nor do I care to, and I have grave pains and aches about my chest and stomach. I have taken many cures, in answer to your question, and am currently taking several new ones, but alas they seem to do no good. Perhaps they do me harm. I do not know, and some days, no – many days – I no longer care.”

  Cecil leaned back, assessing the man. Yes, he was mortally ill, there could be no doubt. He spoke kindly to Dudley.

  “Have you taken the waters? At Buxton? I understand they are quite effective and soothing. Such is perhaps what you need. That, and to leave court so that you may rest your head unfettered by such worries as still beset the kingdom. All is well in hand now.”

  “Show me.” Dudley leaned forward and Walsingham spoke, gesticulating at the map upon the table as he did so.

  “After Gravelines, as you know, Drake continued to harass and scatter the armada. With Howard blocking the southern exit from the channel, they had no choice but to sail northward. They are even now being picked off, one by one, by locals and fiefdoms alike. We have no qualms with this – should some Scottish warlord see fit to enhance his own stature by attacking Phillip’s precious ships, well then, we are obliged on all accounts.”

  “And danger?”

  Now Cecil spoke.

  “There is none to speak of.” He leaned back, crossed his hands across his considerable girth and gave a satisfied sigh. “Mary the witch is gone and now Phillip’s threat as well. England’s two greatest foes vanquished within a year. Grace to God Almighty!”

  Dudley leaned back as well, and both men noticed a catch in his breath, as though he were combating his pain only with the greatest difficulty. His next words confirmed their suspicions.

  “Well then, gentlemen, you have no immediate need of me. I will ride to Rycote this evening and from there onward to the healing waters. I shall see you anon.”

  “You will notify the queen?” asked Cecil. />
  Dudley turned back at the door and looked at them through deep and sorrowful eyes.

  “Indeed I shall,” came his sad reply.

  “Anon,” Walsingham said as the door closed. “Anon my friend.”

  The next morning, as promised, Dudley sat down to write his beloved queen. Strange, he thought, how they had managed to remain friends through the years. Two headstrong individuals, neither willing to yield, but neither willing to forsake a relationship that had lasted their entire lives. Not just lasted as though it had never been tested but one which had endured against all travails and all likelihoods. It had defined them both, for good or for ill. Strange too, he had never thought this would be his end. He had always believed he would die in battle, or perhaps through accident. Something swift so that his thoughts might not linger upon the great beyond and his utter lack of communication with God over the years. But that was not to be his lot. Nor, he realized with a jolt, had he thought he would die before Elizabeth. Since childhood, her life had been lived in a state of constant danger from within the kingdom and without. It had been a given, he now realized, that no one could survive such threats into old age. And yet she had. He grinned to himself – the old girl was her father’s daughter indeed.

  How would she take his death? What should he write to her? Should he tell her himself? He chose not to break the pattern of their world, their mold. He would put her first, as always, for she was his queen. Let others tell her of his death – she had no need to hear it from him. He picked up his quill.

  “Majesty,

  I most humbly beseech your Majesty to pardon your poor old servant to be thus bold in sending to know how my gracious Lady doth and what ease of her late pain she finds, being the chiefest thing in this world I do pray for, for her to have good health and long life.

  For my own poor case, I continue still your medicine and find it amend much better than with any other thing that hath been given me. Thus hoping to find perfect cure at the bath with the continuance of my wonted prayer for your Majesty’s most happy preservation I humbly kiss your foot, from your old lodging at Rycote this Thursday morning, ready to take on my journey, by your Majesty’s most faithful and obedient servant,

  R. Leycester”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and lovingly bade Elizabeth farewell. After a time he looked up and rose, forcing his thoughts onward towards the greatest adventure of all.

  *****

  Elizabeth could not bear the pain. Her kingdom spared, her love taken; Her people jubilant, her heart broken.

  She slipped away, that day they finally broke the news to her. In a daze, she locked the bedchamber door behind her, closing out the world and all its foibles. There was no grace to be found as she sat for hours before the fire with her eyes closed, remembering Dudley. Dudley with his ridiculous charm and manner, with his dress more stylish than her own, with his heart more true than she had ever deserved. He was her own, and she now cared not about their many raging fights through the years. Nor did she care about his marriage, for what was the man to do?

  Where did they go wrong? There, yes, that was it: the circumstances surrounding the death of Amy Robsart. Elizabeth thought back to that time and place. But if Amy had not died an unnatural death, Dudley still would not have been free to marry her for years, perhaps never. They had been doomed from the beginning, only they had not seen it until much later. And when they did, neither could accept it, and so on they had gone. Until now.

  Two days later, Cecil had the door to the bedchamber forced open. Elizabeth lay in wretched grief upon the bed, clutching the letter Dudley had written her only hours before his death. Doctors were called and ladies maids gently attended to the devastated queen. Quietly, Cecil excused himself and went quickly to his chambers. He never hesitated as he put pen to paper and as he sealed the note he rang for a courier. On the outside leaf, he wrote the name of the estate to which the note should be delivered with all haste – the one place where Elizabeth might find healing.

  Three days hence, Henrietta stood at the front of manor house with the great wide doors open behind her. She glanced up toward the ridge and noted that smoke was billowing forth from the signal watch tower Michael had built. She had ordered a young servant boy to raise a fire basket when he saw the queen’s retinue approaching. Even as she looked, a somber parade of black-clad guards appeared at the far end of the drive and slowly made their way to Henrietta, the only one there to meet the sad party. She bowed deeply as the queen stepped down from her carriage and as their eyes met, the queen’s breath jerked in her chest.

  “That will be all. Wait outside the wall, all of you.” When they were halfway down the long drive, she began to sob and threw herself into Henrietta’s arms. After a moment, she raised her head.

  “But where is Bess? And Anne and Quinn?”

  Young Henrietta was not an emotional woman. She was sensitive and kind, but her practical streak always ensured that she would act rather than allow emotions to freeze her. But today, with Elizabeth sobbing in her arms, even she could not escape the raw power of loss which had so recently swept through Coudenoure.

  “Michael.” Her voice said it all.

  “Oh dear God,” Elizabeth sobbed. “How?”

  As Henrietta collected herself and told her sovereign what they knew, she turned and pointed towards the estate’s cemetery.

  “She refuses to leave his side. That is her yonder, sitting on the bench.”

  For an instant, Elizabeth remembered her first visit to Coudenoure, when old Agnes had been sitting thus. She forgot her own grief momentarily.

  “I must go to her.”

  Henrietta’s arm held her back.

  “You should know, Elizabeth, that she is not herself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She believes she is back in Rome.”

  Elizabeth pulled her arm free and began walking towards the place of sorrow in which Bess now resided. Not herself, she thought. Who could be? She has gone to happier times. That is all. Even I am not myself these days. What loss has come upon us!

  She sat down gently next to Bess and patted her hand. Bess turned to her with a vacant stare and spoke to her in Italian.

  “Shall we go see Papa today?”

  Elizabeth wept anew.

  From the door to the manor house, Henrietta watched the two old friends as they sat upon the bench in the distance. Perhaps Elizabeth could pull her through. She felt an arm slip round her waist.

  “Oh, Anne, I did not hear you.”

  Anne laid her chin lovingly on Henrietta’s head. Her tears were spent, but a deep sadness hung over her. When the soldier had arrived with the letter telling of Michael’s death, she had watched in horror as those around her fell apart. She could not bear the destruction she was forced to witness, and all because of love. She had withdrawn to her room, taking several medieval Latin texts with her. As the days passed, she had remained there, isolated from the sorrow, occupying herself with translations of the various manuscripts. It was exacting mental work and when she felt sadness knocking upon the door of her soul, she redoubled her efforts and focus. It was never clear to her if the debacle with Marlowe at such a young age – devastating in its completeness – had forced the tendency to withdraw upon her, or whether it had always been part of her nature and only awakened by his callousness. With the deaths of Catherine and Michael, however, it had become more pronounced, and she knew in her heart that distance from such roiling emotions was her only hope of maintaining a steady peace within. Her ability to comfort others was there, but severely limited, not from a lack of caring but from an inability to cope herself.

  She raised her head and looked at Henrietta, a young woman so different from herself that some days she could hardly believe they were related. As Anne was shy and reclusive, Henrietta even at her young age was outspoken and gregarious. Anne worked hard to learn her languages and mathematics; such things seemed to come to Henrietta with no effort whatsoever. It was
as though a grand experiment had been set in motion by the fates when they were born – one child dark, serious and studious, the other fair, brilliant and gifted. How would their lives unfold? Who would go the farthest? Anne sighed, reminding herself that they had more in common than what was apparent to the eye. Each was intelligent, each was beautiful, and each had been raised at Coudenoure, an environment not conducive, but insistent, upon the expression of the individual. In the end, all that mattered was that they were blood.

  Anne roused herself from her thoughts and spoke quietly.

  “Mother will be fine, do not worry. She just must accept what has happened before she can come back to us.”

  Henrietta literally snorted.

  “I am worn thin by sorrow and grief. We must shake it off, Anne, or we will all go mad.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Anne smiled ruefully at her young niece.

  “By not indulging in such tears and anguish. And you, aunt, could learn much if you left your manuscripts upon the shelf occasionally.”

  “People must be allowed to grieve, each in her own way, Henrietta.”

  “God’s wounds, Anne, for how long? Michael is gone. Catherine, Joshua, that Dudley fellow – I never cared for him anyway.”

  “Henrietta! Do not speak ill of the dead!”

  Her niece ignored her, instead looking up towards the heavens with a searching eye.

  “It must be quite crowded up there now.”

  Anne laughed.

  “You are sacrilegious, child.”

  Again, Henrietta ignored her.

  “We need a distraction. Shall I set the house afire?”

  Anne smiled as she continued.

  “What happened to that gun powder of Papa’s? Is there any left? It makes such a lovely, such a lovely…” she searched for a word…”bang! Do you not agree?”

  “You would blow up Coudenoure?”

  “Do not be absurd.” Pause. “Only a small outbuilding.”