by David Elias
“My family has asked that we take our vows in the Abbey,” said Lady Anne, “but I have made no promises.”
“Of course you shall go to London,” I said.
“And you shall travel with us?”
“I’m afraid not.” I spoke without looking at Frederick. “I am even now not yet recovered from my last journey,” I lied, “but I will see to it there shall be a grand celebration upon your return.”
“Very well.” Lady Anne eyed me closely, the relief obvious on her face. “We shall look forward to it.”
It was but one of the many ironies that royalty were not free to partake of just any occasion they might desire to attend. My presence at Lady Anne’s wedding would have turned it into an unwieldy spectacle, not to mention saddling her family with unnecessary and burdensome expenses. That I might have harboured selfish reasons for not wanting to return to London and the very people who had forsaken me was another matter entirely.
***
It seemed no time at all before the happy couple had taken their leave to sail for England, and finding myself unprepared for how much I missed Lady Anne, I busied myself with the matter of the Hortus Palatinus, the gardens I had promised to build in honour of my brother’s memory. Salomon de Caus, in consultation with my brother, had drawn them up for the grounds at St. James’s Palace, but now I was determined to see them brought to completion in Heidelberg. The greatest challenge rested with the landscape. The castle lay nestled too close to the side of the mountain which rose up behind, and left little room for such an ambitious project. The dimensions of the garden called for a great tract of level ground many hundreds of feet in length and breadth.
“I fail to see,” Monsieur de Caus had already cautioned me, “how these plans can be made to work. We will have to make extensive modifications, and the whole project will have to be scaled down immensely.”
“There will be no scaling down,” I told him. We were out on the grounds behind the castle, the plans he had brought from England laid out on a table before us. “We shall build it precisely as large as these plans call for.”
“But look you there, Your Highness” — Monsieur de Caus pointed — “where a mountain rests in the place you would see your brother’s garden created.”
“My brother would not have allowed himself to be so easily defeated. Look.” I took him by the arm. “You say you see nothing but rocks and trees, but I see orchards and lawns, fountains and shrubbery to rival any found in Italy or Spain. Picture there a great black marble fountain in the very centre, just as the plans call for, with four walkways leading away in different directions, and alongside each of them hedges, and in behind pavilions with trellises and arches, arbours and bowers. Now look over there. It shall be the place where we build a great grotto within which Henry’s portrait shall be mounted. I tell you, it will happen because we will make it so.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, I do not see how it can be accomplished.”
“If the mountain will not see fit to allow for this garden, then we must insist that it withdraw.”
“Your Highness . . .”
“It will have to be removed, some portion of it at any rate.”
“But such an undertaking is hardly possible. The task is too great.”
“Monsieur de Caus, it was my brother’s dream to travel the world,” I said. “More than any other place, he wished to visit Italy, for there he had heard how the families of the Medici and Borghese saw fit to cultivate a great flourishing of art and culture, architecture and music. He was determined that if my father should not allow him to see it for himself, some semblance of it be brought to England. These plans are the embodiment of that intent. You will see to it.”
“But how?”
“A portion of the mountain will have to be taken away, but only as much as is needed to allow for the construction.”
“But Highness, a great dense forest covers the mountainside.”
“It will have to be cleared.”
“And then what? Beneath lies naught but a great mass of granite rock.”
“Then smash it up and cart it away.”
“That will take an army of quarrymen, and even then it would mean cutting out a rock face a hundred feet high. Impossible.”
“Very well, how be it we carve out a series of flat surfaces, one set above the other, with stone steps leading from one level to the next?”
“A set of terraces.” Salomon de Caus put a hand to his chin as though we were working something out in his head. “Laid one against the other, up the side of the mountain.”
“Just so.”
He gave me a long look. “It will be a daunting challenge, but by such method might the Hortus Palatinus yet be accomplished.”
“Then you had better get busy.”
And so it was that a corps of men set to work cutting down trees to clear away the forest, slicing into the rock, and hewing off great slabs to haul away, along with endless carts of rubble and stone. Hour after hour they laboured, day after day, until they had created a set of five terraces, each one several hundreds of feet in length and breadth. When the day came at last that Monsieur de Caus took me to see the result, there before me was a huge tract of land where only the side of a mountain had been, a series of terraces each as smooth and flat as an enormous table. I took him about, pointing here and there, telling him in intricate and enthusiastic detail where everything was going to go and how it was going to look.
“And this,” I pointed, “is where a grove of full-grown orange tress shall be planted. I have already seen to their procurement as well as to the construction of wooden walls and roof so that each year they are protected from the weather in the cold months. And that is only the beginning. We shall have a water works such as no garden, even in the southern countries, has ever boasted of. My brother had plans for a water organ to be built from a design he discovered in an early Roman text. The water, he told me, would flow out of one fountain and into another, from one terrace down to the next, each one adorned with statues of nymphs, satyrs, gods, and all the noble creatures of the earth that move about, nearer and farther to the viewer, all while spouting streams of water. Can you do it?”
Before Monsieur de Caus could answer I carried on.
“And there,” I indicated, “a set of double convex stairways shall lead from one terrace to the next. There we will have beds of flowers in endless variety, such as he has specified were to his taste and liking, and in the midst of it all a labyrinth cut out of hedges at the centre of which shall be an arrangement of fountains. Oh, and there beyond the orange grove, set into the side of the mountain, an elaborate grotto adorned with Venus fountains where fish move about the water and mechanical birds flutter their wings and sing while the water bubbles and frolics and plays about them. And within the grotto, a special alcove where a portrait of Henry shall hang.”
Salomon de Caus weighed every idea, and rather than pronounce judgment upon them, nodded politely at each one. So it was that by degrees the Hortus Palatinus blossomed into fruition, until the day came that Frederick and I led Lady Anne and the Count, newly returned from England, through the elaborate gate he had erected for me, and into the gardens.
“They are far from completed,” I cautioned, “but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to show someone.”
“It’s going to be magnificent,” said Lady Anne.
“It already is,” added Count Schomberg.
We walked along one of the many paths, past flowers and fountains, until we reached the orange grove, where the setting sun had turned the blossoms a shimmering golden yellow. Lady Anne and Count Schomberg walked ahead of us, arm in arm.
Upon their arrival back in Heidelberg they had been greeted with celebration and good wishes, and it was not until they had taken a few days to settle into their new living quarters in the English Wing that Lady Anne and I found o
urselves at last alone in my privy chamber of an evening. I wanted to ask her about the wedding, and to hear details of the journey, which she gave over freely, but it seemed to me there was something of an edge in her recollections and I wondered what it was.
“I can hardly imagine what it should have been like to travel back to London and see the place for myself again. Tell me, do the lords and ladies still play Pall Mall along St. James’s Square?”
“I never thought you cared for the game.”
“I don’t, but Henry loved to play at it for hours on end. And when it wasn’t that, there was tennis and golf and tilting. I suppose it is not so much London I miss as my brother. But what news is there? Surely you can catch me up on some spicy scandal or other.”
“Madam, that has ever been the very thing you profess to disdain. You cannot be so changed in the short time I have been away.”
“But there is some news. I see it in your eyes. Does it concern my mother and father?”
“They write to you, do they not?”
“My mother only wants to brag after some masque she has plans to mount, my father to make enquiries after matters of state. Other than that, their letters could hardly be more perfunctory. There’s little in them of any import. They will not even deign to ask me so much as a single question about my life here. The lion’s share of our correspondence is a paltry façade of empty pleasantries. The truth is, I really have nothing to say to them. But enough about that, what’s the latest news from the Tower? Surely you must have heard something. Sir Raleigh languishes there yet, no doubt. And Lady Arabella?”
I saw immediately in Lady Anne’s expression that I had at last hit upon the cause of her reticence. She looked down into her hands, then back up at me. “I heard something of her, though I put it down to no more than rumours, which are always in generous supply.”
“I would know it.”
“I cannot attest to the truth of it.”
“You can’t mean she is freed. Lord Seymour managed to rescue her! Oh, that would be such sweetness. Perhaps they may see fit to make their way here. It may be that very subject she would have broached with me had I but given her private audience. She could not write it in a letter. It would give me great satisfaction to harbour them here. I’m sure Frederick would have seen his way to allow it.”
“It is not that which I have heard,” Lady Anne cautioned, “nor any such.”
“Then what? Tell me.”
“That she gave birth to a child.”
My thoughts fell back at once to the last letter Arabella had written to me.
September 2, 1615
Dear Elizabeth,
I have never been one to give up, but these days a vermin gnaws at my spirit, and I despair. Already the chilling breezes have begun to blow in through my cell here at the Tower. Winter is coming for me and I dare not be here when it arrives!
My appetite has left me. Who can hunger for food such as this? I have chosen to forego my meals of late, which having been brought to me, I dutifully accept, but after the Yeoman has gone throw out through the bars of my small window and down into the courtyard below. There the waiting ravens enter into conspiracy with me and immediately swoop down to gobble up the evidence as quickly as I throw it down to them. The last upon the scene is always Arthur, that same bird with one eye and crooked beak that is soon chased off by the others. But we have made an arrangement that sees him sneak back later to perch on my sill, where I have held back a small portion just for him.
A growing weariness runs deep through my body. Thankfully such hunger and cold as I may experience are mitigated by sleep, which I do a great deal of. I am writing because I want you to know, Elizabeth, and I hope you can understand, that I have come to the point where there is simply nothing more to be done. My only comfort is that I shall take everlasting consolation in knowing of a place where a young life waxes even as mine wanes.
If you should hear aught of me, know it was not by bloody dagger, nor poison, nor any such as these by which I took my leave, but rather those peaceful means you are now privy to.
Yours with undying affection and regret that we may not be reunited,
Arabella Stuart
“‘A young life waxes even as mine wanes . . .’” I recited.
“Madam?”
“It was something Arabella said. Now I understand.”
“The baby was born in good health they say,” Lady Anne assured me, “a miracle, considering the conditions, but no sooner had it managed a lungful of air than it was torn from her and brought away to be taken by ship across the channel.”
“And Arabella?”
“They say she has since fallen into a state of deep distress and melancholy, at which she refuses all food and drink, but lies upon her cold bed day and night without word or sound.”
“If this be so, it can hardly be sadder. If I were yet in London I should go and see for myself no matter the risk.”
“It may only be hearsay.”
“I must find a way to reach her.”
“There are always stories coming out of the Tower, many wildly inaccurate.”
“I grant it is hard to believe, but just the same I would know for certain. We will celebrate your nuptials for the present, and thereafter I must see to a means of learning the truth.”
“I hope you would not go to much trouble for my part. The Count and I have had our fill of revelry.”
“There shall be some festivities just the same. I won’t hear otherwise.”
Why, I wondered, did I so often have need to engage in feigned merriment even as my heart lay elsewhere, far from such frivolous pursuits?
***
I held a reception for them in the Hortus Palatinus, next to the fountain of Father Rhine near Henry’s Grotto. So blissful was the couple’s demeanour that it could not help but rub off on the guests, who drank in their pure happiness with their wine, swallowed it down with their food, English and Bohemian alike willing to set aside their petty differences for one evening and join in the merriment. Lady Anne fairly glowed. I had never seen her so happy. How many brides had I witnessed, exhausted by the day’s effort, receiving guests, their inner misgivings thinly veiled by their outward ebullience, and yet here was Lady Anne utterly devoid of such pretense, bubbling over with pure joy.
The way her eyes fell upon her new husband, the way I had never looked at Frederick and never could, brought me up short against a harsh reality. My own wedding had taken place while I was still numb with grief, sick with disquiet, and hardly in a position to care that I was marrying a man I did not love. But what could I say of myself now?
“Quite rare, don’t you think?” The Countess Juliana had come to stand next to me and I was a little taken aback.
“Madam?”
“That two people can make each other so happy.” I had not expected her to attend the reception and her sudden appearance surprised me.
“Indeed,” I replied. “They make a charming couple.”
Lady Anne and Count Schomberg were making their way among the guests, exchanging kisses and handshakes with one party after another.
“If only every wedding couple were so blissful,” I said.
“Too often one party must supply the passion for both. But when you see it like this . . .”
“And yours?” I asked.
“Mine?” The Countess stared back at me wide-eyed, clearly unsettled by my question.
“Your wedding, how did it fare against this?” From time to time, attendant to my affliction, I would descend into a state of raw emotion that gave me to feel my centre compromised, at which my reaction would be that of unexpected boldness.
“I didn’t marry for love, if that’s what you mean. But then, I think you know something of that.”
“And so you saw fit to content yourself with civility and other niceties of matrimonia
l affection.”
“There were certain benefits to be had from a position of neutrality,” said the Countess.
“You would couch the matter in the language of nation states.”
“The matter? And just what is the matter you speak of?”
“There are always elements of sovereignty in any marriage,” I offered.
“A husband’s unrequited love for his wife puts him at a disadvantage if he seeks but to please her and never succeeds.”
“And sees fit to keep on trying nevertheless,” I added.
“By such means may a wife enjoy the stronger position, even in matters of considerable import.”
“Indeed love is blind, so I’ve heard it said.”
“Some will say as much of ambition. My son is going to need someone with a level head to see him through this business of the Bohemian crown.”
“You fear he is not up to it.”
“Of more importance may be whether you are.”
“How so?”
“He has little to benefit from your ambition, but much from your faith.”
“He is more able than you deem,” I said sternly.
“The Holy Roman Emperor shall have something to say about it, you can be sure.”
“There are many who would stand to defend your son’s reign.”
“And what if those allies prove insufficient, or worse yet, unwilling? Then what fate awaits us? You have a son of your own to think of now. Or perhaps the prospect that he should one day be king is what drives you on.”
“King Henry. It has a nice ring to it.”
“I say it is wise to temper ambition with humility.”
We fell into a silence thereafter, stood and watched together as Lady Anne and Count Schomberg moved through the crowd, smiling as they accepted congratulations, making sure always to stay within arm’s reach of each other. That familiar gloom which had been my acquaintance for too long lifted a little, for here before me shone irrefutable proof that happiness could well and truly exist in the world. It was only a matter of finding it. Perhaps it was wrong of me to deride my life so eagerly in the face of such a testament to how good it could be. What had my derision accomplished? For just a moment I allowed myself to believe things would get better.
