“Oh!” she cried, hands on hips, in an unconscious imitation of her father. “I think I know very well what you would do! Unless there are no more cousins of mine for you to marry!”
Robert did not rise to the bait; he only looked at her sorrowfully and said, “It is far too dangerous for Your Grace to risk bearing a child. England needs you.” He lowered his eyes and whispered, “I need you.”
But for the first time in her life, his words, his looks, failed to move her. “That’s as may be,” she said. “You have my leave to retire.”
There was nothing more to be said; Robert bowed himself from her presence and was gone.
###
The night was warm and sultry; the very air felt like velvet. Elizabeth believed that if she could have touched the darkness with her fingertips, it would have been like velvet, soft and yielding to the touch. Boats and barges bobbed haphazardly all over the river, each one lit by torches that made them resemble so many fireflies. She idly strummed her lute; other sounds of music and voices raised in song wafted on the gentle breeze. It was a magical evening, just past twilight; stars pricked the midnight blue of the sky if one looked to the west, but in the east, a delicate apple green could still be perceived on the distant horizon.
“Your Grace plays like an angel,” said Alençon.
Elizabeth smiled; all her life she had been susceptible to flattery, while recognizing it for what it was, even as she heard it fall from the lips of the flatterer. But truth was truth; she played well and she knew it. So there was no reason to deny or to disbelieve Alençon’s words. And there was something else; something quite remarkable in her estimation. While it was true that Monsieur certainly knew how to turn a flowery phrase, he was after all, a Frenchman, never before had she experienced such accord with another human being in terms of the sincerity inherent in their effusive expressions of love. Comparisons were odious, to be sure, but there was no denying the fact that she found that she and Alençon shared a love of poetic expression that could not be rivalled even by Robert or Hatton. Both men, her admirers, her loves, had written extravagant verse or ardent letters to her in their time, but nothing could equal the expressions of love that she shared with her dear François. It was a feeling that they shared, and that they knew they shared, but that could not be adequately explained to an outsider.
Yes, in such a remarkably short time, he had become very dear to her. How incredible that seemed! When they were alone, they said all of the things that lovers say; “when did you first...” and “I thought never to find…” It was love and affection on a different plane, from a different place than she had ever before experienced.
Simier was plucking grapes from a bunch that spilled forth over the edge of a golden bowl filled with summer fruits. He tossed up each purple orb, one at a time, attempting to catch it in his mouth, laughing helplessly each time he missed and the fruit went awry. Elizabeth and Alençon regarded his antics with the indulgent smiles one might afford an impish child.
Alençon turned to her and said, “Your Grace, I have a gift for you.” As always when he addressed her, there was that fleeting look of uncertainty in his eyes, as if he half-expected to awaken to find that none of it was real, that it had all been nothing more than a pleasant dream.
Elizabeth shared many traits with her august father, and one of them was a love of giving and receiving gifts. “Oh!” she exclaimed in delight. “What is it?”
Alençon shyly reached into his doublet and pulled out a small velvet pouch. He handed it to her wordlessly, that same expression of vulnerability hiding behind his eyes.
She took the pouch, drew the strings and upended it into her hand. “Oh!” she exclaimed again. “How beautiful!” Perched in her alabaster palm was a golden leaf, so intricately carved that if not for its golden color, might have been real. In the center of the leaf sat a bejeweled frog; it was studded with emeralds, and had tiny ruby eyes. Tears filled her eyes. “It is perfect,” she said on a sob. “My dear, dear frog!” She reached out her hand and grasped his.
“I am so happy that you like it,” he said. “I…”
By this time it was full dark. Suddenly, with an incredibly loud bang, the fireworks began. The occupants of the boats and barges let loose with a collective “Ah!” as each beautiful, sparkling display soared overhead with a shrill whistle and exploded in the sky above. Each missile burst into a million stars that trailed what resembled sparkling diamonds down to the earth. Boom after resounding boom sounded in their ears; so much so that when the bullet ripped through the oarsman’s arms and wedged itself into the wood of the barge not an inch from her head, everyone, including Elizabeth, was uncertain of exactly what had happened.
There was a shocked silence, and then the screams began. Her ladies were sitting further forward in the barge, closer to the oarsmen; so it was they who first witnessed the blood spraying in an arc through the air, they who watched in horror as the white of the oarsman’s shirt slowly turned to red. The oarsman collapsed, almost in slow motion, as the blood spread in a widening pool on the wooden deck of the barge.
Elizabeth had felt rather than heard the dull thud that the bullet made as it lodged itself beside her head. She turned to see it protruding from the backboard where moments before she had been playing her lute and bantering with Simier and Alençon. It was the same bullet that had passed through the oarsman’s arm; it was smeared with blood. Blood! The coppery smell of fresh blood filled her nostrils. The shock of it still held her in its grip. Alençon was unharmed (Thank God!) But his face was a study in disbelief as he beheld the bullet. Simier patted his doublet, his mouth a round “O” of shocked disbelief. He too, thankfully, was unhurt.
Elizabeth had seen the oarsman topple from his place on the bench, and at first had attributed it to an attempt to avoid injury, but she quickly perceived that it was he from whom the blood gushed. The first to collect herself, she stood up, whipped the scarf from about her neck, and shouted, “Somebody help that man!” The oarsmen lifted the man and placed him onto the very bench upon which Elizabeth had been sitting. She staunched his wound with her scarf, but still the blood seeped; she quickly realized that the bullet that had so narrowly missed her had passed through not one but both of the poor man’s arms. He recovered from his swoon to see the queen herself peering anxiously down at him.
“Master Jones, is it not?” she asked. Elizabeth prided herself on knowing the names of all her servants.
“Aye, Your Grace,” he gasped. “Indeed, tis so.” He tried to move his arms, but found that he could not. “Oh, Your Grace,” he cried. “How shall I ever be able to row for you now?”
“My good man,” she said, laying a soothing hand upon his brow. “We shall soon see you whole again, do not fear. And you are not to worry. You shall never want for anything whilst I am Queen of England!” The man had taken a bullet for her; it was the least she could do. Still the lifeblood seeped and oozed.
“You, Lady Cobham!” she cried. “Your scarf!”
Lady Cobham dislodged her scarf and handed it to the queen, who tied it around Master Jones’ other arm.
All had been confusion at first, but now other boats began to approach the royal barge. Cecil, Robert, and others of her Council were all talking at once.
“The doer of this vile deed shall be hung, drawn and quartered!” exclaimed Robert in his agitation. For just a moment, he felt vindicated; the people of England hated the idea of their queen marrying Alençon as much as he did; so much so that they were willing to see him dead. For he had no doubt that the bullet had been meant for the duc, or perhaps once again, for Simier. But the bullet could very well have found Elizabeth instead, and for that the culprit must die.
Cecil stumped about the deck clucking his tongue and waving an admonitory finger at the queen. “This is what comes of seeking foreign interference in English affairs!” he cried.
The implication of his words was not lost on Elizabeth. “How dare you say such a thing?” hissed th
e queen. “I tell you this; I will believe nothing of any Englishman that I would not believe of my own child!”
Another boat pulled up alongside the royal barge. Between two men of the Royal Guard a miserable-looking youth hung his head.
“This knave,” said one of the guards, “carelessly fired the shot, Your Grace, whilst shooting at teal along the riverbank.”
Elizabeth looked up from her ministrations. “Shooting at teal, you say?” she asked, the bloody scarf she had been using to staunch Master Jones’ wound suspended in air. “So this was not an attempt on my life, or that of my guests?”
“Never!” shouted the boy, at which expostulation one of the guards fetched him a clout.
“Let him speak,” said the queen. The implication was lost on no one; if it was an attempt on the queen’s life, the boy was guilty of treason.
“Your Grace, I swear on me life that I meant no harm! I were only shootin’ at me supper!” he cried.
Elizabeth regarded the youth. A less likely assassin she had never laid eyes on. “Be more careful in future,” she said. She cocked her head at the guards, who immediately released their hold on the boy.
Everyone knew better than to argue with the queen. The youth was released and the barge rowed back to the wharf. Word had spread quickly about the incident; when the royal barge finally reached the watersteps at the palace, a sizeable crowd had gathered.
“God save the queen!” they shouted over and over again. Elizabeth smiled and waved, assuring everyone that she was whole and unharmed. There were even some half-hearted cheers for Simier and Alençon.
The English temperament was one that tended to love its enemies and that revered the underdog. But all the same, the men of the Council who were against the French match exchanged worried glances. It was time; things had gone too far. Something must be done.
Dover, August 1579
The tide waited for no man, nor woman; not even for a queen. And so it was barely four of the clock on a clear morning when Elizabeth stood with Alençon and Simier on the wharf at Dover. A stiff wind from the northwest blew the freshness of the salt air over the trio, who stood huddled in the dark before the massive vessel that would bear Alençon back across the water to France. Elizabeth was glad of the early hour and the dark; it would not be seemly for anyone to see her tears. For she knew with certainty that when the moment came for François to board the ship and sail away, she would not be able to hold them back.
The moon was setting, casting a ghostly white glow upon the scene, and drawing an undulating path across the water to the distant shores where lay the land that was Alençon’s home. With every breaking wave, the moment drew nearer when she must bid her little frog farewell. In her heart of hearts, she had a feeling that she would never see him again, despite their mutual love and desire for the match. For the first time in her life, she realized the impact that close physical proximity could have on the way one viewed things. While Alençon had been simply a writer of passionate letters, an amorphous concept, little more than an abstract political notion, it had been easy to dismiss the idea that he was real. But now that she had seen him, touched him, come to know him, he was much, much more. What an unpredictable thing the flesh was!
The canvas of the massive sails snapped in the wind; somewhere nearby a ship’s bell rang to mark the hour. It was time. Elizabeth could see Blanche, Lady Parry, standing a discreet distance away, huddled in her shawls against the wind. Simier was addressing the ship’s captain about some issue to do with the duc’s comfort on the voyage. The men who were lading the ship were dark shapes that moved against the larger dark shape of the ship. There were other people around them, but it seemed as if she and Alençon were alone in the world, on that knife edge of time.
Suddenly a wave of utter desolation swept over her. It was, she knew, a harbinger of the difficult days to come, when she would recall with fondness the precious moments spent in her frog’s gracious company. Silently, she held out her hand, and he took it in both of his.
“Remember me,” he whispered. His words rode the wind and were gone.
“I shall,” Elizabeth replied. “I shall treasure every moment we shared, dear, dear François. Oh, please do not forget me, either!” she cried on a sob.
“Oh, my dear lady,” he said. “How can one forget the sun?”
“You must write,” she cried. “As shall I.”
Alençon’s eyes filled with tears. He recalled the times years before when he and Simier had composed ardent letters to the Queen of England in hopes of effecting a royal marriage that would free him from the yoke of his brother’s rule in France. Those missives had been passionate enough to set fire to water, and yet they had been written without knowledge of the recipient, beyond that she was a queen rumored to be susceptible to flattery and wooing. He realized now how wrong that had been. Now when he lifted his quill, he would write with the utmost sincerity.
“Of course I shall write,” he said. “I have the bitterest envy of the letters I shall send to Your Grace; for they shall reach your hand, whilst I must be across the water and starved of your presence.”
Elizabeth reached out with her other hand and clasped both of his, and so they stood, clutching each other on the windy dock. A strong gust whipped at her cloak and made it fly out behind her, but she stood her ground.
“My love of you,” she said, “is like my shadow in the sun; it follows me, flying when I pursue it, and yet it stands by me, and lives within me. Oh, let me live with some sweet content, or die, and so forget what love ever meant!”
“Elizabeth,” he said, searching her eyes in the pale, waning light of the setting moon. “Do not despair. We shall find a way.”
It was best to smile; best to pretend. “Yes,” she said through her tears. “Yes, we shall find a way.”
The Captain had moments before walked purposefully up the ramp and boarded the ship. The lading was complete and the hold battened and secured. There must be no more delay.
There was nothing left to do except to share one last double kiss and say goodbye. As though in a dream, Elizabeth and Alençon kissed cheeks and made to part, but still their hands stayed clasped. Finally, Alençon released his grasp, but Elizabeth still held her hands out before her, as if reaching for him. Their fingers disentwined and the distance between them grew as Alençon backed up the ramp.
Simier was to stay behind to finalize the marriage treaty; together he and Elizabeth stood side by side as Alençon disappeared into the darkness. Both were silent; there was nothing more to say.
The walk back to the castle was up a very steep hill; neither Elizabeth nor Simier spoke as they ascended the rise. Usually exercise settled her mind and calmed her nerves, but by the time they reached the outer ramparts, she was breathless. She stopped and leaned on the parapet, looking out at the wharf, where the massive ship now appeared perplexingly small.
Simier stole a glance at her; he could see the tears flowing down her cheeks. He knew that there was nothing he could say that would soothe her, so silence was best. Short of the marriage treaty being signed and sealed, he had accomplished his mission; Alençon and the queen believed themselves in love. But looking at her now, he felt a creeping finger of uneasiness touch his spine. Had he gone too far? Had he meddled in something that should not be interfered with? Without meeting his gaze, Elizabeth reached out to him; they clasped hands for a moment, and then she walked away, Lady Parry following in her wake.
Once back in her chamber, Elizabeth walked to the window. During the short space of time between when she left Simier on the parapet and her arrival in her rooms, Alençon’s ship had set sail. How tiny, how vulnerable it seemed on the vast stretch of water! Just then the sun peeked up over the horizon, flooding the gray waters with pale yellow light and making them sparkle and glow. There were no clouds in the sky; that was a blessing. The winds were stiff but not overly so; he should have a swift, smooth crossing.
Suddenly she felt as if her heart might bur
st open in her chest. Many times in her early life she had known great misery, anguish and the pain of dejection. But never, even when she had been distressed over Robert’s affair with Douglass, and later, over his marriage to Lettice, had she felt such utter devastation. In the ten days that Alençon had spent with her, she had become so attached to him, that to accept that he had gone away filled her with an inexplicable despondency, a hopelessness, such that it almost floored her where she stood.
Where she stood…a memory assailed her at that moment of her sister Mary, standing in this very place, at this very window, looking down at another ship, watching Philip depart all those years ago. Mary had stood there crying the slow, silent tears of utter and complete wretchedness. Mary had loved Philip more than her own life, more than her crown, more than England. His going had plunged her into such a profound melancholy that she had never really emerged from it. How could she have known that would one day she would be standing in the same place, thinking the same thoughts?
Was there no end to this torment, she wondered? Would she ever be free of this mind-gripping grief? The only answer for her, she knew, was work, and more work. Part of that work would be convincing her Council and the Parliament that the match with Alençon must be made. Not only was her happiness at stake; but it seemed, in that sorrowful moment, that her very sanity was as well.
As she stood at the window watching the ship that was bearing Alençon away from her growing smaller and smaller, she recalled a thought she had once entertained before he had come to England; that she would go through the charade of the French royal visit and then say a tearful goodbye and close the chapter on Alençon for good. How could she have known then that her tears would be real and that the heartbreak of his departure would affect her so?
Westminster Palace, October 1579
Elizabeth sat at the council table with folded hands and a stern expression on her face. She appeared outwardly calm, but inside, she was seething with fury at this cadre of recalcitrant men. Why could they not see that the match with Alençon was her last chance at happiness, of providing an heir for England? Did they not realize that if they let this opportunity slip through their fingers, that it would be the King of Scots when she was gone? The very thought of it made her livid with anger. That the son of Mary Stuart should inherit the throne of England, that the Tudor dynasty should be no more, not only galled her, it was enough to send her into a violent rage the likes of which none of them had yet seen or experienced.
In High Places Page 80
