I was growing weary of this familiar ritual of provocative remarks and rejoinders; Bess was not the worst of companions but her conversation had become depressingly predictable, and in truth I suppose mine had too.
I got up from my bench and walked to the hearth, then to the long high windows with their beautiful orchard view. The sky was beginning to fill with gray clouds coming in from the west, as often happened in the afternoons. In my many months of confinement I had learned the habit of watching the weather, appreciating the sweep of wind and cloud, the rising of warmth and the sudden sensation of a chill in the air. Bess too was like this: her tempests were swift to arise though they did not always come from the same quarter, and her shifts of mood, from warmth to chill and back again, were as sudden and as quicksilver as the ever-changing weather.
“Speaking of rings, as we were, I’m sure you have noticed that I always wear two of them: the duke’s diamond and the one my cousin Elizabeth sent me as a token of her love and regard.” I held out my hand to display the sparkling ring the queen had sent me a few years earlier, with its large heart-shaped diamond. I kissed it fondly.
“She has shown me so many marks of her affection and good will—the plate and furnishings she sent me to use while in this house, her graciousness in agreeing to serve as godmother to my son James, and the costly christening font she sent him, her messages conveyed by officials of her court. I have received many such signs of her love and esteem over the years.”
Bess said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows slightly.
“Indeed I often wonder,” I went on, “whether she has used and enjoyed the gifts I sent her in return. The five strong hawks from Orkney, for example. Has she ever mentioned them?”
“I don’t think so. She likes to ride, especially with her Robin, but she leaves the hawking to her fewterers.”
Bess loved gossip, and it gave her pleasure to allude to the queen’s closeness—many said intimacy—with Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, whom she called her “Sweet Robin.”
“I wouldn’t count too much on her affection,” Bess was saying as she fanned herself—overeating invariably made her hot—“as she has sent men she loves and regards highly to the executioner’s block more than once. Though as it comes to that, her sister killed many more men than our good queen Elizabeth could ever contemplate doing away with.”
Bess’s loud voice trailed off as her husband George came into the room through the high double doors, rubbing his hands together briskly, his whole body aquiver with agitation, the deep lines in his forehead and between his eyes a clear sign of his anxiety. “My love, my love,” he said, coming over to Bess and giving her a quick kiss on her plump cheek, “where is that balm the peddler brought us? I need it today. Whenever the weather changes, you know—”
“I lent it to my groom, for the lame mare,” Bess said.
“You gave my medicine to a horse? Don’t you know that it is made with larks’ tongues, and each pot we buy costs a fortune?”
“The peddler cheats you. He knows you are in pain, and that you will pay whatever he charges.”
“But not so that the precious stuff can be wasted on nags and hacks!”
“Carlotta is my favorite mare.”
“She’s the only one strong enough to carry you,” I heard George Talbot grumble.
“What was that you said?”
“Never mind. We bore our guest with our quarrels.” He smiled at me, an innocent, kindly smile with no hint of the lechery I so often saw in the smiles of men.
“I should like to walk amid the blossoms before the rain comes,” I said. “I will leave you to talk.”
“Wait for your escort.” Bess went out into the corridor and summoned the phalanx of guards who accompanied me whenever I left the manor.
“Bring our guest’s cloak,” she said, addressing no one and everyone of servant rank in the room. “And make certain she does not catch a chill.”
“Sir George,” I began while waiting for my cloak to be brought to me, “I need to speak to you about the furnishings supplied to me here and certain other matters. I must have a cloth of state over my chair. I was promised one months ago at my last lodging but so far none has been provided. I also require horses and grooms for riding. I have only ten now, and need at least twenty. And I wish to send my son James in Scotland a pony and saddle. He is nearly three years old and I have not been able to see him or send him letters or even send someone to tell him I love him and have not forgotten him. Surely, as a mother, I must be allowed to do all those things.”
George shook his head and continued to rub his hands together.
“I must get permission,” he said, without looking at me, “and that is likely to be very difficult. My lord Cecil—”
“Will say no,” Bess interrupted. “He says no to everything we ask.”
“He is a hard man, an uncompromising man,” George agreed. “But then, his aim is to protect his royal mistress. As it should be.”
“And he sees me as representing a danger to her.”
“Which you do,” Bess said. “You covet her throne, and you could be very useful to her enemies—I mean the Spanish and French—should they decide to invade us.”
“And as long as we are speaking frankly,” I put in, “it is no secret that my birth is legitimate and my cousin’s is not. Therefore my claim to the English throne is legitimate and hers is not.”
“Ah now, my girls, let us have none of this!” George Talbot put up his hand and stood between us. “Lady Mary, you must guard your tongue, for I am duty bound to report your words to the queen. And my dearest Bess, you too must be slow to argue, and quick to mend any quarrel that may arise. Let your words be made of honey, not gall.”
“I’ll speak my mind, when and where I choose,” Bess asserted with a snort. “And I won’t have any mollycoddle old man telling me when to speak and when to be silent!”
Sensing the onset of further quarreling, I slipped on the cloak I was handed by Bess’s tirewoman and went out for my walk.
In the pear orchard, the air was brisk for May, but the sun warmed me and it was a pleasure to make my way along, my spirits lifted by the beauty of the blossoming trees and the vigor of my walking. I put aside my worries as best I could and turned my mind to the fresh grass under my feet, the rich sweet scents in the air, the bright green leaves above me and the drift of white petals that floated on the wind.
The gray clouds I had seen earlier had gone. A good omen, I thought, as I crested a low hill, my escort close behind me. From the top of the little rise I could see the narrow road that led from the nearby village to the manor. There was a man on the road, his clothes dusty, wearing a soft hat with a broad brim. He had a thick walking stick in his hand and a large pack on his back. Wanting a rest, I stood where I was and watched him approach.
As he came nearer I thought there was something familiar about him. His gait, his muscular body, the ruddy beard I glimpsed beneath the low brim of his hat . . .
Could it be? How could it be? I stared. I held my breath.
He came closer, and lifting his head, caught sight of me, and of the soldiers standing around behind me.
I could tell that he took in the sight of us in the briefest of glimpses, then lowered his head again.
I swallowed hard. I forced my muscles to stay rigid. I did not let myself shout for joy. But I knew. And I thought my heart would burst from my chest.
Jamie! It was Jamie! My own dearest. My love.
“Good sirs,” he said to the soldiers when he reached us, “can you direct me to Wingfield Manor? I am a peddler of apothecary goods, come from Oakerthorpe with remedies for milord of Shrewsbury, to ease his aches and pains.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jamie was made very welcome in the manor house as Holp the peddler, supplier of balms and potions, and in no time he had won George Talbot’s trust for providing him with his much needed larks’-tongue balm. Bess too was won over when she saw that the peddler coul
d keep her supplied with cosmetics to redden her aging sallow cheeks and when he offered her a pretty cap sewn with lavender flowers which, he said, would prevent the headaches that often caused her agony.
“I have a terrible pain in my side,” I told the peddler once he had satisfied George. “Have you anything that might ease it?”
He turned limpid eyes on me. “Have you consulted a physician?” he asked in his most professional tone—always aware, of course, that Bess and George were overhearing every word, and listening for every nuance.
“Yes. In Scotland. But he wasn’t able to help me at all. The pain comes and goes. Sometimes it is so sharp I cannot sleep at all.”
“If you would permit a brief examination, perhaps with your tirewoman present?”
I looked over at Bess, who appeared skeptical at first, searching our faces, but finding nothing suspicious, dropped her reluctance and shrugged. “Why not?” she said. “What harm can a dirty peddler do?”
A guardsman accompanied Jamie and me to my bedchamber where he left us, with Margaret Hargatt as chaperone. As soon as he had gone Margaret, smiling, retired to a small antechamber, leaving us alone.
At once we came into each other’s arms with such fervor that we might have been apart for a hundred years, and not just one.
I had not thought that I had such kisses in me, or such deepgoing need for Jamie’s mouth and arms and hands—for every muscular inch of him. Knowing that we dared not take too much time to assuage our passion, and that at any moment we might be interrupted by the guard or my wardens, only made us more fervent.
But at length, in response to Margaret’s discreet knock, we had to let each other go and do our best to recover our self-control.
“We will meet again, and very soon. I need to talk to you urgently,” Jamie said. “I will find a way. There are many Catholics in Oakerthorpe who support you and are sympathetic to you. I will be staying there. You’ll see me again before you can miss me, I promise!”
And then, straightening our clothes and composing our flushed faces, we returned together, along with the guard, to where Bess was waiting. I held my side (which in truth did often give me pain) and Jamie went on about how I needed to use the oil of vetiver he provided and take long walks as often as possible and avoid draughts. Then, with a bow to me and another to Bess (George having left during our absence), he strapped on his heavy pack and took his leave.
I could hardly sleep that night—not because of the pain in my side, but from excitement. He had come to me! He would see me again—and soon. Elizabeth would restore me to my throne, and Jamie would be near me, where he belonged. Yet Elizabeth wanted me to marry Thomas. And the Scots, or at least the current ruling group of them, had banished Jamie from the country.
Oh, the complications! How would I ever find my way through them? I didn’t think it would be possible to regain my throne without the armed might of Elizabeth’s soldiers. Yet I did not want England to conquer my realm of Scotland, and place me on its throne as a mere puppet of my cousin.
If only I had an army of my own again, a loyal, stalwart army that would not melt away when attacked but stand and fight, and prevail.
I went for a long walk that afternoon, following Jamie’s advice and hoping that once again my guards and I would meet him coming along the road from Oakerthorpe. But we did not see him, nor did he find a way to send me a message. I ate my supper in dejection, went to bed early and tried to sleep.
I was awakened in the middle of the night by Margaret, wearing her nightdress and holding a candle.
“Milady! It is—it is Holp the peddler again”—I had made Margaret swear never to refer to Jamie by his real name or title, or as my husband. “He is in the still room, waiting for you.”
The large, dark still room of Wingfield Manor, where flowers were preserved to be made into perfume and fruit was made into jam and grains were fermented, was adjacent to my apartments. I hurried there without being seen or stopped (the guards being notably inactive at night) and found Jamie, crouched against the wall that separated the still room from my antechamber, scraping at the old bricks with his knife.
“How did you get in?” I asked him. The manor stood on a steep hill, the cliffs sloping sharply away on all sides, and the apartments Bess and George lived in were directly above the wide arched entryway. Everyone who came in and went out of the manor could be seen from their vantage point, or so it was assumed.
Jamie turned toward me and smiled. “The Master of the Household likes his cards and dice,” he said. “I challenged him to a game. He let me in through the trap door to the old dungeon. He says they used to keep witches and heretics there, in the days of Henry V. Or was it Henry VI?”
“Never mind, one Henry is the same as another.”
“At any rate, the dungeon has a passageway to the kitchens, and from the kitchens it is only a few steps and a stairwell to the main house. The master brought me up here, to the still room. This is where they play cards after the household goes to bed. No one uses the still room at night.” He went on scraping at the bricks as he spoke, the aged mortar crumbling and falling to the floor as he chipped away at it. Presently he stood up and put the knife back in his belt, wiping his hands on his vest.
He grinned and came over to me.
“Imagine this, Orange Blossom,” he said, cupping my face in his hands, his voice low. “The still room has a cupboard for curing meat. In the cupboard is a place where we can take our ease.”
He kissed me and, taking his candle, let me into the dark cupboard. Wooden tubs took up much of the space, but there was room for a straw mattress and blankets.
“Now,” he said, “no one will disturb us here. Of that I’m certain. The meat in these tubs won’t be cured until Michaelmas.”
We lay on the soft yielding straw, wrapped in each other’s arms, for the whole of that happy night, the sharp scent of salt in our nostrils and the sweet familiar warmth of our bodies balm to our lonely hearts.
THIRTY-NINE
The jennet Thomas sent me was as sweet-tempered a horse as I had ever ridden. She arrived one day, brought to Wingfield Manor by two messengers wearing the Norfolk livery of green and silver.
All the grooms and stable boys gathered around to admire her, stroking her velvety coat, rubbing her nose, admiring the way her tail was braided, remarking over her hooves, which were striped black and white.
She was small, a woman’s riding horse rather than a man’s, and she seemed to favor me as I approached her and held out my hand. She nuzzled me and made soft snuffling sounds. I could not wait to ride her.
I had ridden many horses, but had not had a favorite since my dear Bravane had grown old and broken a fetlock and had to be shot. How I had mourned him that day! Now, I thought, here is another favorite to love.
Presently my warders George and Bess came out into the courtyard.
“Another gift from your admirer,” Bess said, glancing at the messengers in their Norfolk liveries and then down at my hand to assure herself that I was wearing Thomas’s diamond ring.
“A fine jennet,” the earl remarked, his eyes agleam, taking in at a glance the little horse’s pinto coloration, her mostly white body and brown legs, her deep chest and broad, muscular loins, her beautiful proportions and quiet disposition.
“She comes from the Asturias,” one of the messengers said. “Her blood line goes back twenty-seven generations.”
“And has she foaled?” Bess wanted to know.
“I believe so. She belonged to the duke’s late wife.”
Hearing this I felt a twinge. Did Thomas imagine that if and when we married, I would inherit his late wife’s possessions—not only her jennet but her servants, her jewels, her wardrobe? And, of course, her husband? Was that how he saw me, as a mere replacement?
Dismissing these unpleasant thoughts, I continued to pet the horse’s soft muzzle.
“Bring a saddle,” I said to the grooms. “I must try her out.”
�
��Yes, do,” George urged. “The sooner the better.”
The horse was promptly saddled and I put on my riding boots and gloves and mounted her. She stood quietly while I mounted, but responded with instant spirit when I urged her forward. In no time at all we were out of the broad stonework gateway and onto the old wooden bridge that spanned the moat, then off down the dusty road that led to the orchards and the patches of woodland beyond them.
I shall never forget that first ride on Mignonne, the name I decided to give her that very afternoon. Her gait was smooth and rhythmic, she cantered beautifully and had a swift gallop that I longed to measure against one of Jamie’s horses—until I remembered that Jamie no longer had a stable of his own, but was a mere peddler riding a bony nag with a drooping tail.
We flew along, leading my soldier escort a merry chase, Mignonne remaining surefooted even when we crossed streams and rode along narrow, rock-strewn paths where less careful mounts might have stumbled.
After half an hour’s ride I paused by a little brook to let the horse drink, and to stretch and catch my breath, the soldiers coming alongside and joining me in my respite.
Before long, the sound of pounding hoofbeats made me alert, and I saw, in the distance, a group of riders approaching. As they came closer I realized that the rider in the forefront was Thomas, gorgeously plumed as usual in a scarlet riding coat and velvet cap with a long white feather; even when out for an afternoon’s ride, I noticed, he wore diamond buckles and had the shine of gold at his neck and lace-covered wrists.
On second thought, remembering how Earl George had urged me to try out my new horse, I realized that my meeting with Thomas was no coincidence, and that in fact he had arranged this meeting and had dressed more elaborately than usual because he knew he would be seeing me.
Thomas looked his best on horseback; once he dismounted his short stature and small frame diminished him and reminded me of poor Francis, my ill-fated first husband, except that Thomas was better looking and much more purposeful in everything he did and said.
The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots: A Novel Page 17
