by G Lawrence
“With all respect, Majesty, that is a lie.” He grinned. “You are not a pack-horse, but a moonlit owl. I see how hard you work each day and night for England. I see what you sacrifice for your people. And if, when we are in London, you take no rest, when we are on progress you should.” He ran a hand through his beard. “Once, I thought progress no more than a showy extravagance at best, and a peril to your life at worst, but having been on a few now, I see it is not so.”
“So what do you think progress is now?”
“A space in time for you to set aside concerns. It is a bath for your mind, wherein you may release strain, and return to work refreshed.”
“Most people would say progress is simply a means for me to save money, by inflicting the cost of my court on nobles.”
“I am sure there is a pinch of truth in that, too.”
“But your assessment is not awry either,” I said, picking up the first piece of parchment.
“An hour, Majesty, then I release you to your mind-bath once more.”
With a quiet chuckle, I settled in a plush chair of green velvet, reading through matters which required attention, with Walsingham there, watching in silence.
*
“God’s Death!” I exclaimed the next day when I woke to the sound of rain hammering the roof. “Is it to rain all cursed, God-forsaken summer?”
My ladies, accustomed to me swearing in the morning, bowed their heads and scurried away. I was often not my best in the morning. If my sleep was disturbed, as it often was, I was not a morning woman, or at least, not a clement one.
Donning a gown of black velvet with fur trimmings, and taking a small bowl of beer and some fish for breakfast, I called for Walsingham. “We may as well continue with work,” I said. “For there is no play to be had on such a day.”
Walsingham and Robin sat with me, and all that day Robin irritated me with his martial ambitions. “Take Holland and Zeeland as yours, my Queen,” he said, cheeks and eyes afire with lust for war. “Aid our brothers in faith.”
“Brothers in faith they may be,” I replied. “But blood comes first, Robin. I must make my own people my first care, not those of other nations.”
“Many men of other nations now reside in England, fearing their own countries,” Walsingham pointed out.
“And those who are here are our adopted blood. Men of other lands must look to their own anointed Kings, not to me.”
Robin and Walsingham went away disappointed, but Robin did not consider the matter closed. His pageants, when not about love, were all about war.
Love and war, I thought. Why can men not see they are opposing forces? Where one would heal, the other would murder. Where one would destroy, the other would build. Robin thought they were as one, but they were not.
By the afternoon Robin, perhaps seeing he was only vexing me, brought about an entertainment. Dancing in the great hall went on all afternoon, into the night. As I paused from the dance, breathless after keeping pace with Hatton, I found my ill humour had departed. I felt fresh and calm.
That night we feasted on venison caught only days before, roasted well, with asparagus and artichokes to accompany it. Although I was enjoying myself, I could not help but note all the dishes served were foods supposed to inflame lust. Asparagus was one, honey another, and many foods were laced with rosemary, for remembrance. Robin wanted me to fall into the past, remember my all-consuming love for him, and wed him.
I chattered away to Hatton instead, and found myself laughing so hard I thought I would break my sides. Hatton had a merry wit, and with him, I could ignore Robin’s hints and ploys.
Were it not for swift-stolen glances passing betwixt Robin and Lettice, I might have been a soul entire in happiness that night.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kenilworth
Summer 1575
“Thank the Lord!” I cried when the shutters were taken down. “Sunshine!”
Two days of rain and thunder had passed, leaving the meek sun, apologetic for having deserted us, peeking from behind fluffy clouds of dense white, floating over brilliant skies of pale, powder blue. It was Sunday, so there would be no hunting, but Robin had told me we were to attend a local service and then a wedding feast. One of his yeoman farmers was getting married, and had been overcome to hear that I and the court would be attending.
Although this might seem innocent, I knew it was not. This was another nudge.
But the bride and her groom had been told I would attend, and I did not want to disappoint them. This would be a story of pride, handed down from generation to generation. Were I to fail to attend, it would become a tale of disappointment, also handed down, marking me as a queen careless of the affection of her people.
I rose and dressed. We attended a service in the local church, and afterwards made our way to the tiltyard where the wedding feast was to be held and bride-ale served. The groom arrived limping. I was told he had taken part in a game of football between his village and another, which had seen him end the game with a broken leg. Clearly, it must have had time to heal, otherwise he would have been carried to the altar. He was dressed in a borrowed doublet of tawny hue, and oddly, was wearing a quill and inkhorn on his back. I was told this was to make himself appear bookish.
“If he wanted that, he had no need to buy a quill,” I said to Cecil. “He should have simply copied you, and poured a pot of ink on his fingers.”
Cecil smiled bashfully. His fingers were always stained.
The learned groom and his friends played quintain whilst tables were set up, and as we waited, some told me of the wedding. Sunday was always a favoured day for a wedding, as it was considered lucky. At the church porch the banns had been read three times, and the dower was displayed and exchanged. The bride, standing on the left side of the groom, to demonstrate how Eve had been crafted of Adam’s left rib, took hands with her groom to symbolise their betrothal. In the porch, the priest had blessed them and the ring with holy water, then the groom had taken the ring and placed it on his bride’s thumb, and first three fingers in turn, saying, “In nomine Patris, in nominee Filii, in nomine Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”
The ring was left on the fourth digit, as the vein in that finger ran straight to the heart, bonding their legal promise to one of love. The nuptial Mass had been sung as they knelt at the altar wearing care cloths on their heads to ward off demons. The bride wore also a ceremonial dagger on her girdle, there to defend her virginity from all but her husband.
When they reached us at the tiltyard, dancing went on and we watched a pageant performed by players of Coventry. They enacted a scene of King Ethelred battling the Danes. They meant it to be serious, but it became more of a farce. I found this doubling amusing. Watching from the window of a nearby house, I enjoyed the performance so greatly that I asked it be performed again in two days. The players were most flattered, although somewhat confused by my raucous laughter.
We watched Morris-dancing and afterwards spice cakes were handed around, along with the bride-ale. Borne in a great cup by the local fool, it was handed to each guest so we could bless the marriage.
The bride was past thirty years of age, perhaps another pointed reference to my own situation. She was also a touch pungent. Clearly washing well for the marriage bed was not a priority for this bride. She seemed rather overcome by the honour of having her Queen at her feast, and carted herself about with airs more at home on a marquess than a country maid, but I did not mind. Some made remarks behind their sleeves, snorting that she thought herself as attractive as her bridesmaids, which she clearly was not, but I refrained from such cruelty. If a woman cannot think herself the star attraction on her own wedding day, this world is in a sorry state.
I often think it unfair that women are judged by appearance more so than men. True, all people were judged for their clothing, but women were always judged by beauty, and because this bride was not as pretty as she might be, people put her down. But what is the body, and what is beauty? Both a
re transient. We are beings of light and fire, and should not be judged on the sorry meat sacks of our bodies. What were the looks of her face or shine of her hair to her mind? Perhaps the groom wanted her for her spirit, courage or humour. There are many beauties to be found if people would look below the surface of the skin.
People laughed about her, and I turned away, sometimes offering a curt remark to show I disliked the abuse they offered this poor bride. Women are often abused in this world, but to mock them for wanting a home life, security and love is unjust. Most people want those things. It is unfair to find a woman comedic because she desires security and safety, the comfort of someone to live with and have children by.
Although I rejected these normal concerns, that did not mean I did not think of them. Many times I had thought I would like a child of my own, but I had put aside such ambitions and replaced them with others. But just because I had other ambitions did not mean I did not dream from time to time. This woman was putting her dreams into action, making them reality.
And just because she was not pretty did not mean she had any less right to those dreams than a beautiful woman.
I wandered, talking and greeting local dignitaries and merchants. Robin had invited many, and all were keen to take a turn in talking to their Queen. Many men of Stratford had come, since it was only twelve miles away, and when one complimented my gloves, I stopped to talk to him.
“You must be an expert in the trade,” I said to Master John Shakespeare. After we had talked for a while and he had offered tips on the care and rejuvenation of gloves, he had told me he was a glove maker. “I hope you will take a while to speak to my Mistress of the Robes, for the care and longevity of my clothes is something of high concern to me.”
“I will certainly, Your Majesty,” he said.
“And your sons.” I glanced down at two young boys at his side. “Will they follow your trade?”
“I am a man with a few trades, Your Majesty,” he said. “But I hope they will follow one of them.” He smiled, placing a hand on the shoulder of the older boy. “Young Will, here,” he went on. “May yet follow a path I have not taken, for he seems rather enamoured of the pageants we have seen, those of the Earl of Leicester’s Men especially.”
“You enjoy a play, young Master Shakespeare?” The boy looked up with bright eyes to nod shyly at me. “Fear not to speak to me. I like to hear young voices. Your generation will forge England’s future, Master Shakespeare. Do not fear to speak or be heard. England cherishes her people, and all who have something of worth to say will be heard.”
The lad was eleven or twelve years old, and his brother, Gilbert, perhaps nine or ten. Young Will was a keen-eyed lad with a sense of energy about him. It sung, restless in his blood.
“I did enjoy the plays, Your Majesty,” he said.
“And would you like to be a player?”
“One day, perhaps, if my father could spare me.”
“Do you like the stories, words, or is it the magic of becoming another person, even for a short while, you admire?”
The lad thought for a moment. “I like to see something I know made new, Your Majesty.”
I smiled at his father. “Your son and I have much in common.”
Our pleasant conversation was interrupted as Sussex whispered in my ear that John Shakespeare was a known recusant, and I should be perhaps less friendly to him. I turned and stared hard at my advisor. Sussex left.
John, who heard the whisper, went bright red in the face and his eyes became frightened, but as I continued to speak as though nothing had been said, he relaxed and started to stare at me with eyes that were frank with admiration.
John had brought gloves for the newly married couple, a traditional gift, and one he was easily able to offer. I admired them, and he was pleased. As I made to leave, I paused.
“Please do speak to my Mistress of the Robes on the matter of gloves, Master Shakespeare. I would have you tell her how to conceal stains so they might pass unnoticed. It is my belief that which we cannot see does no harm to our reputation and does not detract from the unity of the whole.”
I smiled, leaning in to his ear. “Some would say that it matters what is seen,” I murmured. “But I think only what is obvious a problem. Keep that in mind, good Master Shakespeare, and know that your Queen loves you, and all like you, who are loyal to me in your hearts.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” John looked quite astounded. I knew he had understood my meaning.
“And you two,” I said to the boys. “Gilbert, if you follow your father’s trade, I say well done and good fortune to you, for this land was built on tradition and it is good to have men who uphold it.” Turning to the elder, I continued, “And as for you, Will, I wish you good fortune too, for seeking to make what is old become new, and bring pleasure to people is a gift none can measure. May you both prosper.”
That evening back at Kenilworth, a banquet of sweet delights was produced. Tables sparkled with a thousand pieces of glass and silver, and two hundred dishes were served by two hundred gentlemen. Sweet marmalade was served in slices upon sugared wafers, candied peel of oranges and lemons glittered beside gilded gingerbread. There were bears crafted from sugar, flowers preserved in hard, sweet syrup, almond macaroons, fruit tarts and sweetmeats spiced with aniseed, caraway, and coriander. Everything was presented on plates of sugar, which could be eaten too, and sugar goblets held hippocras.
For the last course, kissing comfits were handed about as Spanish paps, little mounds of sweet cream resembling breasts, were dished out. Subtleties were brought forth to amaze us, including a huge gingerbread and sugar sculpture of Kenilworth Castle, complete with a little me at the gatehouse with a little Robin kneeling at my side.
But my ill humour had returned. This food was an effort on Robin’s part to shove marriage and love down my throat once again. I picked at food. I was miserable. As Walsingham had astutely pointed out, progress was a time I was supposed to enjoy myself. What Robin failed to understand was that in attempting to make himself happy, he was making me dismal.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kenilworth
Summer 1575
On Monday I surrendered to ancient custom and knighted five gentlemen, including Cecil’s son, Thomas. I went on to horrify Walsingham by touching for the King’s Evil. Nine afflicted people came to be healed by me. It was an ancient custom, and many thought it superstitious and popish, but to me it was the continuation of a tradition which demonstrated the sovereign was the servant and instrument of God.
I knelt in prayer, and rose to wash my hands in a basin held by one of my women. Putting my hands to lumps, sores and ulcers on the necks of the afflicted, I held them there for some time before making the sign of the cross over them. My hands, so beautiful, slender and purest white, were thought by many to possess magic. I was aging, but my hands appeared as fresh and pretty as on the day I took my throne.
I did not flinch from oozing sores, but pressed my hands down with a firm touch. I took the ceremony seriously, and sometimes would not touch if I felt divine inspiration was not with me that day. When in the midst of my monthly courses, I also did not touch. It was common thought this natural process made a woman unclean, but I knew could not reach God then, not because I was tainted, but because my mind was often not at rest. I performed the ceremony often though, on each Sunday and any feast day. Many of my men did not support me, Cecil because it brought me into close contact with unwashed, therefore potentially disease-carrying people, and Walsingham because he thought the tradition popish.
But it had uses beyond healing.
It was said my healing powers were a sign that Rome’s excommunication of me was ungodly and erroneous. If I was able to cure people, and I actually had a notable success rate, then clearly the Almighty was guiding me. It was a sign of my bond with God, and a symbol of my royal power.
It was also something I enjoyed. To see people lining up, with hope in their eyes that they might be d
elivered of sickness, was a magical moment for me. My people were my children. All parents wish to spare their offspring any suffering.
After the ceremony, it was so hot that I could not bear to be out in the shimmering air, so took to my chambers. By late afternoon, the air felt cooler and I emerged to go hunting.
Upon my return I found a new water pageant had been put together, and this swung into its performance as we rode near.
We were called there by the God Triton blowing a mighty horn. As we came to the banks of the lake, my ladies giggling at what wonder they would see this time, Arion appeared, riding a twenty-five-foot dolphin across the waters of the lake. Music drifted from the belly of this creature, and I knew Robin had concealed musicians inside, playing sweetly as their craft bobbed across the water. A mermaid, eighteen foot long in all, sat on the shore of the island. The Lady of the Lake walked out with Triton, as a villainous knight called Sir Bruce sans Pitee emerged from behind the crowds.
