by G Lawrence
Sir Bruce, another of Robin’s players bearing a striking resemblance to Phillip of Spain, rode out over the bridge to the island, intending to ravish the Lady of the Lake. The lady was saved, of course, by a noble knight, played by Robin himself, who rode in, fought a skirmish with Sir Bruce, saw him off with ease and swept the lady onto his horse. She, apparently forgetting her near-brush with rape, and unconcerned another stranger was spiriting her away, recited poetry as Robin rode over the bridge.
“Would it not make a good story if the damsel were to rescue herself?” I asked Kate Carey and Blanche as we listened to the Lady of the Lake extol the virtues of marriage and faithful knights. “When I was a princess trapped in a tower, no knight came for me. In fact, if I remember rightly, the man who would portray himself as my rescuer now was a prisoner in the same tower.”
My women laughed and some courtiers, watching the pageant, turned, their faces confused.
“Fantasies of love are all very well,” I went on. “But we would do better to teach our daughters, and sons, that help does not come simply because one wishes for it. Relying on knights tripped from the imagination is hardly sensible, and more likely to see a damsel dead than rescued.” I smiled as my ladies chuckled. “No… Let us rescue ourselves.”
Kate smiled. “But then, Majesty, what would the poor men do with themselves?”
“Perhaps they need to be rescued from dreams more than us,” I said, glancing at Robin.
*
“We will leave a few days ahead of schedule,” I told Robin. Looking away from his crestfallen face, I continued, “We need to be back in London sooner, Robin, that is all. If we leave Kenilworth a little earlier, we will reach each new destination earlier too, and thereby arrive back in London when I need us to.”
It was not only for this reason. I did want to be back in London earlier, and could not stand many more days of ridiculous pageants, but there was another reason; I was utterly sick of watching Robin with Lettice.
I reasoned his flirtation was but another part of this plan to make me marry him, but Kate and Blanche had told me some of the maids were whispering that he had been to her chamber at night. If Robin had started a physical affair with Lettice, I was not about to stay in his house, the whole court whispering I was a blind fool behind my back.
It made this elongated proposal all the more false, too. How could he offer himself to me, swearing I was in his heart, and share his bed with another woman that same night? That she looked like me, albeit prettier and younger, was also hurtful. I was being traded for a younger mare.
“People will see it as a slight, Majesty,” he said.
Good, I thought.
Aloud, I said, “I hardly think it could be seen as a slight. I have spent nineteen days here, Robin, and every day of it in your company.”
“I had so much planned,” he mourned.
“We have seen wonders the like of which will never again be seen,” I said, fanning myself. It was hot again. “And the whole court will be talking of them for generations.” I stuck a false smile on my face. “At least I may save you a little coin, my friend. This visit must have cost a great deal. I was not expecting so great a show.”
In truth his coffers never regained full strength. But that which he sought, he could not buy. My heart was not for sale.
As it was, I was left unsure if I still loved him at all.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kenilworth
Summer 1575
“It is the same play?” I asked Kate Carey, who had just imparted unwelcome news.
“With a few small changes, madam.”
Kate had just told me that the play planned for the climax of our stay on the morrow was the same one I had told Robin I did not want performed.
I knew not why each time Robin got marriage in his head he started to act like a warlord. Rather than woo me, or still better, show honest affection, he entered like a charging knight throwing himself into the fray. This militaristic approach to marriage was not about to win me over, and the fact that Robin, in doing so, proved what kind of husband he would be, only made me more determined never to wed and inflict that Robin on myself.
That stranger I had thought banished had returned. There was another man wearing Robin’s face. I did not like him.
Let there be a way out of this cursed play! I thought as I walked to my chamber that night.
God took pity on me, for the next morning the land was soaked by a tempestuous downpour. I felt quite safe to announce I would not travel to the pavilion Robin had erected three miles away, and intended to spend my last day at Kenilworth in my chambers, reading.
“I have no wish to sit in a cold, damp tent, Robin,” I said tartly when he came rushing to protest. “Besides, I have had quite enough of plays for now.”
I spent the day reading at the fire, eating comfits. My ladies joined me, playing cards or sewing, glad to have a calm day before we set out for the road again. Each day at Kenilworth had been filled with marvels and magic, it was true, but too much of anything becomes tiring.
I did attend the farewell feast. I could not disappoint Robin there, for if I failed to attend everyone would notice and his enemies would fall upon him. We feasted on steaming pottages, thick stews, roasted venison and boar, capon, hare and pies of songbirds. Finishing with custards, possets and syllabubs, it was a fine meal, and I spoke warm words to Robin at the close, thanking him for amazing us with his entertainments. Fortunately, Lettice had gone ahead, to her estate at Chartley, our next stop, so I did not have to endure watching her and Robin.
We left the next day, heading for Chartley. It was raining again. The skies were iron grey, and winds rippled through them, whipping clouds to scurry across the heavens. Birds curled and twisted in the air, trying to keep their course as they were buffered by the wind. We stood before the house as I thanked Robin again, and I did not stint, even though my ladies were pulling cloaks about them with miserable faces, wind and rain pelting their heads.
I touched his hand as my speech came to an end. “You have always been, and will always be, my greatest friend,” I said.
As we rode away, Robin fell back. He said he had to check the horses, but I knew that was not the reason. My final declaration of friendship had offered him the answer he sought. If this show of chivalry and romance at Kenilworth had, indeed, been his last attempt to woo me, it had failed. Robin knew where he stood now, and although it pained me that I had hurt him again, I could not offer more.
As we rode from the house, George Gascoigne appeared again, dressed as Sylvanus, the wild god of the woods. I stopped my horse to hear what I thought would be a few lines of farewell. He likened the rain to the teardrops of the gods, sorrowing that I was leaving. “Live here, good Queen, live here,” he said. “You are amongst your friends. Their comfort comes when you approach, and when you part it ends.”
I smiled, making ready to move on, but the man continued, launching into the tale of Zabeta and Diana. I realised what was going on. Robin was going to force me to hear the play I had said many times I had no wish to.
I rode on, but the bold man chased me, saying he was ready to race at my side for twenty miles in order that I might hear the verse. Gascoigne started to tell me how cruel Zabeta had transformed the men who adored her into trees, and from ahead of us, a holly bush started to sing, “Command again, this castle and the knight, which keeps the same for you,” the bush sang, going on to speak of how deep desire could not be dissuaded by delay, time, disgrace, water, or by death.
How about by the wishes of the poor woman in question? I thought. You think your desire grants you ownership of me, Robin?
“Oh, stay, stay, your hasty steps,” sang the infernal holly bush. “O Queen without compare. Live here, good Queen, live here…”
“I have my own palaces in which to live,” I muttered, thrusting my heels into the sides of my palfrey.
I spurred on my horse, galloping away on the wet road, leaving Gascoi
gne behind, a forlorn expression on his face, but still resolutely screaming poetry at me.
God’s Death! I thought as my Gentlemen Pensioners galloped to catch up. If I never see Kenilworth again, I might die a happy woman!
That went for the irritating owner, too.
In trying to force us closer, Robin had driven us apart.
Chapter Forty
Chartley
Summer 1575
“Lettice,” I said with relief. “We are glad to be with you. The road was long in this inclement weather.”
I was indeed relieved to get to Chartley. We had stopped at Lichfield, heading further into leafy Staffordshire the next day, but the roads had been waterlogged and muddy, making riding hard, and the vexations upon my mind, put there by Robin, had hardly aided my rumpled spirits.
Not that I could get away from Robin. I had urged him to stay at Kenilworth for a day or two and join us later, citing the cleansing of his house and dismantling all the wonders he had built as just reasons to tarry, but he had refused.
“My place is at your side,” he had said.
Truth be told, I would have welcomed a little distance between my Master of Horse and me. It might have aided my temper. But to send him back or order him to stay would be noted, and despite my annoyance, I did not want men using my irritation to abuse Robin. He and Phillip Sidney rode at my side to Chartley. As we entered, and Robin greeted Lettice, I saw a flash of both anger and desire in his eyes.
Essex was still in Ireland, so it was up to Lettice to play host. She brought her children to me when I had changed into warm, dry clothes, and I greeted them with pleasure. They were a handsome collection, these young cousins of mine. The eldest, Penelope, also my goddaughter, was a striking girl of twelve boasting thick, pretty red curls and bright, dark eyes.
“You are the image of your mother,” I said, which all knew was a fine compliment.
Her sister, Dorothy, was not quite as beautiful, but far more handsome than other girls of eleven, and their brother Walter, although only five, recited a little poem, which I found frankly charming. Robert, the heir, was ten, and bowed with a fluid grace and boldness I admired.
By God, I thought as I looked upon the boy. I see now why some suspect he is Robin’s son.
Although just a snap of a boy, with the fat of babyhood still clinging to his cheeks, he was the image of Robin. There were elements of Walter Devereux there… the fresh, almost maiden-like complexion and the red hint in his hair… and they were enough to cause doubt in my mind as to the identity of his father, but Lettice was a red-head, so those features might have come from her. Yet not from her had he got that air, one Robin alone possessed, of confidence, magnetism and mischief.
It was also his eyes. There was good reason I had granted Robin his pet name. He was in possession of the path to my soul, which was one reason, but his dark eyes were also one of the most captivating elements to his form, and I saw them, or thought I did, in young Robert Devereux.
“You are blessed, cousin,” I said, feeling a tug at my heart. If it had been possible, I would have wanted children like hers.
“I am, Majesty,” Lettice said. “If you are not too tired, the children have prepared little pageants for you?”
I was not too tired, and truth be told Chartley had little else to offer in the way of entertainment, so I listened as Penelope sang with Dorothy accompanying her on the virginals, watched as Walter recited his poem again, and Robert gave a performance of fencing. I clapped my hands and admired each in turn.
Lettice was an excellent hostess, but I saw the burning gazes between her and Robin, and knew that in irritation with me, he would turn to her.
At least we are only staying one night, I thought as we went to dinner.
*
“Tear up this letter of phlegm,” I said. “And rewrite in the spirit of choler, its opposite humour.”
Walsingham and the Council were shocked. We were on the road to Worcester, having said farewell to Lettice the day before. Stopping at the house of one of the Privy Council, we were talking about violence on the Scots’ border, and Regent Morton’s rough handling of it. The Council wanted me to handle the matter with sensitivity, afraid to create breaches in the peace between our countries, but I would have none of that.
“The Regent has affronted my royal honour,” I said. “And that will be made perfectly clear to him.” I was in no humour to appease men. Robin had seen to that.
“Majesty,” Walsingham said. “It would be wise to be cautious. Scotland is almost at peace, and could be a strong ally.”
“So we should roll over, playing the weak hound to his strong?” I asked. “I think not. Rewrite, Walsingham. Do as I say.”
Walsingham later told Cecil that he had penned few letters with worse spirits than that one, but he did as I commanded. But if Walsingham knew which battles to surrender, Robin clearly had no idea.
“If you take Holland and Zeeland under England’s protection it would greatly aid trade and the security of the nation,” he said. “And to raise an army, under my command, to fight against Spain would bring only good.”
Something inside me lifted a dagger to plunge into Robin’s heart. How many times had he said the same damned thing? All those pageants have infected his seething mind, I thought.
“Why do you hear nothing I say?” I gazed at him with abject dislike. “Perhaps the wishes of your heart are more important to you than those of your Queen?”
“My wish is only for England to prosper, and be safe,” he said in a sullen tone.
“Then you should wish me merry,” I retorted. “For I am England. We are one and the same creature, my lord Earl. Forget that not.”
“What else is there for us to deal with today?” I asked, turning my eyes from Robin.
“The Queen of Scots has been attempting to ingratiate herself with her Guise kin,” Walsingham said.
“We thought she would,” I said. “But her most important allies, were she to gain their support, are not listening to her.” King Henri and his mother were resolutely ignoring her existence.
“She has asked if she might use a coach, instead of riding, to get some exercise,” Walsingham said. “She says her swollen legs are too painful to ride.”
“Then she will have to stay indoors. I am not ready to trust her with a coach.”
“Will you use yours on the morrow, Majesty?” Walsingham asked. “We thought you might, for they say rain will come again, but I know you dislike them.”
I smiled. I did, it was true, but the good offices of my coachman, William Boonen, a native of the Low Countries, and my coachmaker, William Rippon, had gone a long way to altering that. Boonen drove well, calming my fears about the speed at which carriages went, and Rippon had constructed more comfortable coaches, and seats. My carriages now had timber bases with iron frames forming the belly. There were seats of leather decorated with brightly coloured cerecloth, and locking doors, there to keep me safe from assassins who might think to leap inside. When I travelled by carriage, there was always a spare in case the first broke down, and a third, which carried a portable privy, for the use of my ladies and myself. The number of carriages and coaches on the roads had increased of late, mainly due to immigrants. On the Continent, carriages had long been popular for the wealthy, and craftsmen from the Low Countries and France had brought the skills to build them to England. The cost of carriages had fallen sharply, for a new one cost around thirty-five pounds and a second-hand one about eight. This did not include the horses, or the feed that kept them pulling strong and fast, but still, coaches were more affordable. They were, in general terms, considered more suitable for ladies. Some thought the carriage a rather feminine contraption, and insecure men who were affected by this strain of thought kept to horses. Once I had despised this method of travel, but I was warming to it.
But if granted a choice, I would always take a horse over a carriage. “I will ride into Worcester,” I said. “I am not frightened o
f a little rain.”
Chapter Forty-One
Worcester
Summer 1575
I spoke too soon, I thought, pulling at my hood in a vain attempt to quieten the pounding of rain upon it. We were close to Worcester and I knew the city was somewhere up ahead, yet I could see nothing but the rider directly in front of me.
The air was grey, wind howled and rain fell in a ceaseless deluge upon us. By the time we reached the city, I was soaked. A rat fallen into the sea could not have been more sodden. Through creeping mist I could see that the city gates had been newly painted, with the arms of England emblazoned upon a seat of grey. All houses along our route had been freshly whitewashed with lime. It was a shame the weather had decided to attempt to mask all this effort with endless rain.
I set a bright look on my face in defiance of the skies, and was greeted by choirs of children and delegates reciting verse for me as rain poured on their heads, dripping from the sodden canvas they stood under, running down their faces. Bits of hay swirled mournfully in puddles and cascading streams of muddy water raced down cobbled streets. In spite of this, masses had trooped out to spend the day cheering me.
