The Lost Duchess

by Jenny Barden

  The Queen seemed not to notice. She sat, head bowed, deep in conversation with Sir Christopher Hatton.

  ‘She denies it?’ Emme overheard her ask him.

  ‘She does,’ Sir Christopher said in a low voice. ‘But her letter is proof of her complicity. She is guilty,’ he added with an edge enough for Emme to hear the word clearly. ‘Guilty.’

  The Queen shook her head, and Emme’s heart went out to her. They must have been talking about Mary of Scots, who was such a treacherous danger even in captivity. Mary had plotted to kill her, not once but several times, and now she was proven guilty in Anthony Babington’s conspiracy. What could the Queen do? If she showed mercy she would never be safe – Spain would never stop scheming to have a Catholic on the throne. But if she had Mary executed then Spain would surely declare war, and could she pronounce the death sentence on a queen of her own blood?

  Emme watched the great mansions as they came into view, with their lions rampant guarding elegant river steps, and clipped lawns beyond graceful willows rising to patterned knots of box and yew. She found it hard to believe that in the midst of such tranquil grandeur there were dark forces at work that would see everything destroyed, bring down the Queen and the new Church of England, unleash the terror of persecution afresh, and see free England made a vassal to Spain. But at least the danger had receded for a while. A fresh roar of jubilation rang out and the Queen patted Sir Christopher’s hand.

  ‘Babington’s wealth will be forfeit. Some good will come of that.’

  Then she smiled as the barge slowed, and raised her eyes to a white turret beyond a high crenelated wall and Emme knew they had reached their destination; they had arrived at Durham Place.

  Cloaked and hooded, the Queen was ushered up steps, through private apartments and across a rising court to an entrance by a carriageway leading uphill to the Strand. Beyond marble pillars, Emme saw the traffic of London passing by: horses, carts and carriages, and streams of people, some of them bunching together, singing and shouting. The hubbub was overwhelming after the peace of Richmond and the river. The clatter of hooves and iron-rimmed cartwheels echoed over cobbles and around paved courtyards; the hammer of construction, the baying of livestock and the cries of hawkers all added to the din. A sewer stench drifted down from the street, and she saw an effigy tied to a hurdle that bystanders were pelting with rubbish and stones. When Emme followed the Queen up a creaking staircase to an airy gallery a floor above, she was glad to pause by an open window and take a deep breath.

  The steward knocked at a double door but the Queen waved him aside.

  ‘No announcement. We shall enter.’

  She strode in as the door opened to reveal a group of men around a long table, silhouetted against high windows overlooking the Strand. One of the men stood immediately and approached to greet her: Sir Walter Raleigh, tall and proud, with his dark hair curling around his strong, sensitive face and the hair of his chest just visible beyond the neck-strings of his shirt. He should never have received the Queen in such a state, but she had surprised him, the day was hot and neither of them seemed much to care. With alacrity and grace he knelt before the Queen, kissed her hand and, keeping his almond eyes upon her, gave her a dazzling smile.

  ‘Your Majesty. Your servant is honoured. We were discussing the land named for you in the New World. How fortunate that you are here!’

  He is in thrall to her, Emme thought; in his gaze was pure devotion. She glanced at Sir Christopher and saw him flinch and raise his chin. He was jealous, Emme realised. Loyal, charming Sir Christopher, who had kept by the Queen’s side, aged with her and never wed, was as envious of Sir Walter as a rival for a maid. They both loved her. Though the Queen had lost the flame of youthful beauty, she had the hearts of these men racing at the slightest sign of favour. Emme watched and felt as insignificant as a speck upon the wall. She saw Mariner Kit amongst those assembled, and his look acknowledged her, yet his expression remained impassive. Why should he pay her any attention? He had obviously forgotten her since their talk at the palace. She clearly meant nothing to him. He bowed to the Queen, and she noticed that his long fair hair was tied back behind his neck, and that his leather jerkin accentuated the width of his shoulders and upper arms. His features were so strikingly well-formed it was hard for her to look away, but she swallowed and concentrated on Master Manteo beside him, because she could feel a hot blush rising over her throat.

  The Indian wore a loose russet smock that revealed a chevron of tattoos and the fang of a large animal on a thong over his chest. Raw physicality oozed from him, just as it did from Kit and Sir Walter; the faint smell of male sweat hung like musk in the air. The windows were shut against the noise outside, and Emme had a sense that she had stumbled upon something forbidden, yet the Queen seemed to relax. She took off her cloak, and spoke warmly to those present, from Kit to Manteo, to Masters Harriot and White and the other men with them; she greeted them all one by one. Meanwhile Sir Walter sauntered over to the ladies, took Emme by the hand and welcomed her graciously. Then he stopped before Bess and gave her a flourishing bow. His look was intense as he met her eye, and she basked in his attention, turning herself like a flower to the sunshine of his gaze.

  The Queen’s back was towards them. Sir Walter did not look away, and when Bess finally moved aside, Emme saw Sir Walter’s eyes continue to follow her. That he wanted her was clear, though probably no-else was aware of it. Sir Walter, the Queen’s favourite, had a yearning for another – and heaven help both him and Bess if ever that desire was given its head. Emme sensed a charge in the air like the tension before a thunderstorm. She glanced back at Kit but he was looking down at a map. No one was interested in her; she felt as if she was shrinking.

  Sir Walter stepped closer to the Queen and lightly placed his hand upon her waist, guiding her to look at the map that Kit spread open over the table.

  ‘Come and share a dream with me,’ he murmured.

  ‘Of what?’ The Queen tipped her face to his.

  ‘Our Virginia.’ He bent in answering until their lips almost touched. ‘I dream of another England here.’ He gestured to the map and glided around the Queen as he spoke, all his movements drawing her to him and to the map beneath his graceful fingers. ‘I see this land settled for all time with English families bringing enlightenment to the gentle natives and acting as a beacon to the World: an England in the wilderness, but a wilderness that is an Eden. Can you see it too?’ His eyes shone with passion. ‘A Virginia to glorify your name evermore!’

  The Queen gave a wry smile and tapped his chest with her fan. ‘That is a pretty dream, but alas it would seem that General Lane has woken from it. The natives are not so gentle and the Eden is hellish.’

  ‘Sweet Majesty, difficulties may have arisen here at Roanoke.’ He stabbed a finger on an island between the mainland of America and a long ribbon of land around what looked to Emme like a vast estuarine lake. ‘But we can learn from that and make a fresh start.’ He raised his finger before the Queen could object. ‘Thirty leagues to the north in the land of the Chesapeake,’ he said as he swept his hand over a large bay unmarked by any name, ‘the people are as friendly as children and the region is like a garden.’ He gave a nod to Harriot and White. ‘As these intrepid men will testify – fruit, animals and fish abound. Our colonists could thrive there. I would like to see English farmers till the soil in this place, and English artisans build houses for English wives and children. I envisage a city founded in godliness, following the best principles of good governance, a city of peace and prosperity in which toil is rewarded and all are treated fairly.’

  The Queen smiled and gave a small shake of her head. ‘You speak of Utopia; it cannot exist on this Earth.’

  ‘It can,’ Sir Walter countered. ‘We can build such a city with enough ships and provisions and good Englishfolk who share this vision. It might be costly but …’

  ‘The cost would be enormous, and have you not already invested a fortune?’
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br />   He looked pained for an instant as if checked by a blow. ‘I have,’ he said quietly with his head bowed and his fingers resting on the map below the English coat of arms, ‘for the honour of England and my sovereign.’

  The Queen touched his hand gently and looked upon him with such tenderness that Emme felt a pang in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘We will always reward loyalty,’ the Queen said softly. ‘What traitors lose, faithful champions will gain. So let us suppose you have estates and revenues enough to ease the burden of embarking on this new enterprise, where will you find the colonists of the kind you have described: adventurers ready to farm and lay bricks? Women prepared to risk their lives to make homes in the wild? I doubt that many of General Lane’s veterans will be prepared to go back to Virginia again. I hear they have been spreading tales of woe about their experiences.’

  ‘Soldiers make poor settlers, and those who complain about hardship are not the kind we want as citizens. These are the gentlemen upon whom our Virginia will be founded.’ He indicated the men around the table with a sweep of his hand. ‘I would lead the expedition myself if …’

  ‘No! I forbid it.’ The Queen clutched at his shoulder, and Emme could see the force with which her fingers dug into his flesh through his thin muslin shirt. ‘Sit,’ she commanded.

  He did, and turned his head to her hand still gripping his shoulder, then he raised his eyes to her face.

  ‘You will stay,’ she said softly. ‘If Spain declares war I shall need you here to protect us.’

  He laid his hand over hers.

  ‘I will stay, just as the Earth always stays with the Moon. I will never be far from you and I will never fail you.’

  She sighed, squeezed his shoulder, closed her eyes for a moment and let go.

  ‘Then who will lead this bold venture.’

  ‘Master White, here, has put forward his name as Governor.’ Sir Walter motioned to the limner who inclined his shaggy head. ‘He is well acquainted with the region having surveyed it for this chart.’ He gestured to the map. ‘Master Simon Ferdinando will act as pilot for the next expedition just as he did for the last.’ Sir Walter turned to the Indian, Manteo. ‘Our good ally, Manteo, will assist us from his island of Croatoan.’ He pointed to another island, near Roanoke, along the thin line between the huge lake and the sea. ‘Others at this table have already volunteered.’ He looked round as Kit stood.

  ‘I offer my skills as a Boatswain who has circumnavigated the globe with Sir Francis Drake.’ Kit bowed to the Queen. ‘It will be a privilege to serve.’

  ‘And I will join as a settler,’ another man said as he rose.

  ‘Aye,’ said another, ‘I also.’

  Emme watched Kit standing there and bit back the urge to shout that she would go too. She yearned to tell them all she was prepared to leave everything and risk her life for the chance to start afresh in the land of promise; she could be as brave as any of them for that. But she did not need to make an idiot of herself to know that the reaction would be derision. She would never be taken seriously if she spoke up like a man, so she held her tongue as the Queen spread her arms.

  ‘I applaud you,’ she said, clapping lightly before turning to Sir Walter. ‘You may have the rootstock, but you will need more than this to plant a whole colony.’

  Emme looked from the half-dozen men standing to those still sitting down, Master Harriot amongst them. Perhaps his skills were too great to risk on another voyage. Who else would go? Where would the families come from that Sir Walter had spoken of? In the silence that followed within the hall, the sound of cheering outside seemed to grow louder.

  Sir Walter got to his feet, walked over to one of the windows, opened it and leaned out.

  A great roar swelled up from the street. He waved and beckoned for the Queen to stand by him and as she moved closer the noise became a crescendo.

  ‘There,’ he said to her. ‘There are the people we need: the salt of the earth.’

  A lump rose in Emme’s throat. The venture was so courageous it made her want to weep, but there was no place in it for her. She stepped back feeling excluded, wanting the shadows to swallow her. Then she flinched from the touch of something against her hand.

  She looked round to see Master Kit by her side. His hand enveloped hers, and as he turned to her he smiled.

  Without thinking, she pulled away.

  At the first opportunity before leaving Durham Place, Emme visited the garderobe and washed her hands. She locked the door, used the close stool of necessity, then poured water into a bowl from the silver ewer provided, worked a block of fine white Castile soap around her hands, and used a bristle brush to scrub at her fingers. She wept as she rubbed without knowing why, perhaps because she’d reacted absurdly to Kit’s gentle touch, recoiling from the very man for whom she had some real regard. What would Kit think of her now? He must have felt she wanted nothing to do with him, probably that she was aloof and conceited and considered herself superior without any cause. Then what was she doing? She should have been treasuring the affection implicit in his gesture, not trying to wash it away as hard as she could. But she felt unclean. Kit’s contact with her had been a shock; she had not anticipated it at all. He had touched her unexpectedly and she’d connected it with Lord Hertford driving his fingers into her.

  O me, not that. She hung her head in mortification and rubbed with the brush until her fingers were raw. She felt as if she would never be clean again. In the bowl was her world: the light from a tiny window in a high stone wall and the shadow of her reflection in a greasy film of dirty suds. Her tears plopped onto the surface one by one. She plunged in her hands and inadvertently splashed her skirts. She felt dizzy, not helped by the heady smell of violets in the confined space together with a lingering odour from the privy drain. She longed to escape. She did not know what to do. She no longer understood her own mind. What did she hope to achieve by scouring her hands?

  A sharp rapping on the door made her look up.

  ‘Emme?’ Bess called softly. ‘Are you in there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, more brightly than she felt. ‘I’ll be out in a moment.’

  She wiped her eyes and her hands on a napkin, looked out of the little window and saw the river far below. Then she picked up the bowl and threw the water outside.

  4

  Knowledge

  ‘Knowledge is never too dear.’

  —Favourite maxim of Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State and chief intelligencer to Queen Elizabeth I

  ‘I did not order that Babington was to be tortured in execution.’ The Queen’s voice rose to a shout. ‘Defiled and butchered!’

  ‘You told my Lord Burghley that hanging was not terrible enough,’ Sir Francis Walsingham remarked quietly.

  ‘I said that the populace should see and learn from the just punishment of traitors, not that they should be left fainting and retching. This report says that the man’s privities were sliced off before his eyes and his innards were drawn out while he was still alive.’

  Bess gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Emme stopped sewing in the act of pulling a stitch tight, conscious that her needle was trembling in her hand. They both leant closer together on their cushions in the corner of the Presence Room. Through the damask of her friend’s sleeve, Emme could feel Bess shivering.

  The Queen tossed a sheet of paper on the table before Secretary Walsingham and slammed her palm down on top. ‘This sickens me.’

  ‘It is done,’ he said, clasping his hands within his sleeves. ‘The quarters of the first seven traitors are displayed at St Giles and their heads are on London Bridge as an example to all.’

  ‘Make sure the next seven are dead before they are cut open.’ The Queen picked up a late September plum from a silver plate and turned to face the magnificent view from Greenwich Palace over the Thames. ‘What does my cousin Mary say now?’

  Walsingham stood behind her. ‘She feigns unconcern and says she will answer to no on
e but God.’

  ‘Pah!’ The Queen brought the plum to her mouth, held it close to her lips, then took it slowly away and proffered it to Walsingham.

  He held his palm open. ‘She must stand trial,’ he said gently. ‘The evidence is overwhelming.’

  To Emme, watching from the corner, Walsingham looked ink black against the light while the Queen shimmered like a fiery ember capable at any moment of bursting into flame.

  ‘Yours,’ said the Queen, letting the plum drop into his hand. She folded his fingers around the fruit and pressed them into the flesh until a glistening drop of juice dripped from his fist to the floor.

  When she turned to leave, her mouth was closed tight as a sprung trap.

  Emme remained motionless for a moment until she shook herself into action. Then she took Bess by the hand and they left, Walsingham louring like a dark cloud at their backs.

  Emme looked round and saw him walking slowly behind, head bowed. She knew he would want to speak with her and inwardly sighed.

  ‘You go on,’ she murmured to Bess. ‘I shall not be long.’

  She drifted casually back and offered the Secretary of State a small curtsey, making as if to pass him.

  He nodded and turned to walk with her. They proceeded as far as the library where he ordered the yeoman guard to stand outside, beckoned her in and shut the door.

  The room smelt of paper and leather, refreshingly pleasant after the stink of the jakes at Richmond which had become so foul, after weeks of use by the hundreds in the royal household, that a change of palace had been deemed necessary. She was still adjusting to the new surroundings, taking delight in the long halls and galleries overlooking the river, her spirits uplifted by a private fantasy, one that had grown and strengthened in the six days since her visit to Durham Place. But Secretary Walsingham’s manifest gloom was a warning to her to hide the new-born eagerness she felt inside. She watched him prop his elbow on a high sideboard, rub his brow and close his eyes. Was he ill? Emme guessed he was suffering from one of the migraines that frequently pained him, especially when there was any tension in his relations with the Queen. She almost felt sorry for him, though wariness curbed her sympathy.