We were of the same family. Was there anything, anything I had inherited that she might value? Mary Boleyn . . . I did have the Boleyn B necklace. She had given it to my mother; after my mother died I had kept it in memory of her but never worn it.
I had never known my grandmother Mary Boleyn. She had died the summer before I was born. I was said to be very like her in looks and temperament. I knew that, like me, she had married a younger man after her husband died, and it had caused a bit of a scandal—not because he was young but because he had no rank. Well, I knew all about that: two earls as husbands, then a plain gentleman, turned into a “Sir” only by my previous husband knighting him.
I remembered her young husband, though—William Stafford. He had come with us to Geneva when we fled England during Queen Mary’s reign. There he had died, unfortunately just before it was safe to return. What an unhappy life my whole family had had. We seemed to be under some sort of indictment. It was only through my son that we had a chance at going down in history. The rest of us would be forgotten, lying in forgotten graves.
I kept my grandmother’s necklace in a stout table chest with brass bindings. I had not opened the little box inside, containing the necklace, in many years. The hinge was stuck, and for a moment it refused to open. I did not want to break it, but I kept prying the tiny lids apart and slowly it gave way. Inside lay the initial B pendant with three pearls hanging from it, suspended on a gold chain. Carefully I drew it out, held it in the palm of my hand. The gold was undimmed, but the pearls had clouded a bit, their luster filmed over. It had been many years since it had hung on a woman’s neck. Someone told me once that pearls should be worn next to the skin to keep them shining, and that the best way to do that was to have a kitchen maid wear them when she worked. That seemed a good way to lose them to thievery, so I had never tried it. But the pearls needed moisture. I would rub some olive oil on them.
A world lay in that necklace—the vanished hopes of the Boleyns. Truly, dull though they might be, these were pearls of great price. I had said no pearls, but these were different. They came trailing a lost world, the one from which we both sprang.
As the days wore on, we awaited the royal summons. Robert assured me that she would be issuing it shortly; she planned her schedule only a few days ahead.
“Assassins,” he said. “They must not know her whereabouts in advance.”
I carefully selected my clothes for the forthcoming occasion. I would dress plainly, soberly, and keep my red hair, still my best feature, neatly tucked under a cap. But most important, what would I say? And what would be the setting to say it in? She would receive me in a great public ceremony, as she did everyone she wished formally to recognize. That would be in the presence chamber, before the entire court. But afterward ... would she invite me to supper? Or to sit beside her at a musical performance, where we could talk privately?
What would I tell her? Should I leap backward over the troubled years, back to our youth, when we were both Protestants under threat? Once we had been friends; I had looked up to her, my decade-older cousin, admired her, wished to be like her. She always seemed so sure of herself, so circumspect, so self-contained. I never saw her make a mistake, take a false step, whether in games or in speech. Later I came to resent it as a standard I could never attain. I made mistake after mistake, spoke when I should have kept silent, misread motives, wanted things too fiercely for my own good. It had taken me a lifetime to learn what Elizabeth was seemingly born knowing. But now that I had, wearily, come more or less to the same place, I was ready to make peace, yes, even to bow to her as the wise one, the victor.
I would tell her how grateful I was to be received again ... how sad the years away had been ... how fine she looked ... how I had longed to embrace my dear cousin and to enter into her life again.
I would not ask her forgiveness because I had committed no crime—beyond wounding her vanity. Best to leave that unsaid. But what I wanted to say—and never could, of course—was that Leicester was not worth it. In the years since his death, it had become obvious that he left no memory or legacy; he had been all presence and no substance. Even his supposed friend, Edmund Spenser, wrote:
He now is dead, and all his glories gone.
And all his greatness vapoured to nought.
His name is worn already out of thought,
Ne any poet seeks him to revive.
“Vapoured to nought” ... Yes, he had completely disappeared from memory, from history. There had been nothing there, or it could not have vanished so instantly and completely. Even a beloved hound lingers longer in the memory of its owner than Leicester had done in the country’s consciousness.
Leicester should come between us no longer. Let him keep to his grave.
January gave way to February, and still no summons. More and more nervous, I kept questioning Robert about her mood, her health. Was she well? Keeping to her chamber?
Quite well, he said. Attending plays and enjoying them. Playing her virginals regularly, dancing with her ladies.
Could he not remind her of her promised invitation?
He laughed. “Mother, you have forgotten her nature. To remind her of anything is to rebuke her, and she does not take that kindly. Lately it is worse, as she actually does forget things and is fiercely sensitive about it. In the past, her ‘forgetting’ was politic, a way to make people dance to her tune. Now it is real.”
What if she had truly forgotten? I had not reckoned on that. “Do you mean ... Is she becoming senile?”
“Only selectively,” he said. “With her, it is hard to tell.”
“Can you not whisper a hint to her?”
“That might be dangerous,” he said. “One does not want to anger the tyrant.”
“I assume you mean that as a general principle, not that she is a tyrant?”
He shrugged. “What was the definition of a tyrant in ancient times? A ruler who behaved capriciously and unpredictably, with absolute power. She has long done so, excusing it by her ‘sexly weakness’—blaming it on being a woman. But a tyrant in petticoats is just as much a tyrant as one in breeches.”
“You should try to put those thoughts out of your mind and be in love with her again,” I warned him. “For politics’ sake.”
At last the invitation was delivered. The Countess of Leicester was bidden to Whitehall on February 28, to come to Her Majesty’s privy chamber.
I clasped the letter to my bosom. This was my deliverance; this was my reward for years of patient waiting and for the pain of recognizing my own part in our estrangement. A biblical phrase came to me (we never forget our childhood drills) that in its beauty and peace was like a caress from God: “And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.” God can actually restore time, a Geneva preacher had said. Others can restore the goods, but only God can restore time.
My time would be restored, and Elizabeth and I would be young cousins again.
I waited nervously in the privy chamber, standing with a group of courtiers who were expecting her to emerge from her inner rooms at any moment. It was ten in the morning, and soon she would be going to dinner, passing through the chamber. Suddenly my dress felt too tight; I had trouble taking a good breath. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. She must be coming. But moments passed and nothing happened. At length a guard announced that Her Majesty would not be coming through the privy chamber; she had taken the private door from her apartments.
She had deliberately done this! I could hardly grasp her meanness in inviting me for a specific time and then avoiding it. I was insulted, shocked, disappointed beyond words. And more important: What should I do now?
Robert had a suggestion: He could ensure an invitation for me to a private banquet that she would attend.
An invitation to a great dinner party given by a rich noble, Lady Shandos, was procured, and I took myself to it, again wearing what I called my modesty outfit. Lady Shandos made a fuss about welcoming me and gave me a seat high in ranking
.
And when would the Queen arrive? Her carriage was reportedly ready outside the royal apartments, waiting for her departure.
It waited and waited, and the voices at the banquet table grew tired and hushed. Then came a message for Lady Shandos: Her Majesty would not be coming.
I clutched at Robert’s doublet, back in the privacy of Essex House. My fingers made welts on it, stigmata of desperation. “What is happening?” I cried. “Why is she doing this?”
“The woman’s name is whimsy,” he said. “It extends from something like a sudden change of dinner venue to aborting military plans at the last minute. Can you count the number of times she has sent me on a mission only to try to cancel it after I am on my way? I’ve lost count. That’s why I always try to get far away from court as quickly as I can, before she changes her mind. Once she tried to pull me back from Plymouth as we were waiting to embark for the Lisbon raid. She even sent a ship after me!”
“It’s too much to be a coincidence,” I said. “It has happened twice now.”
“Twice? Twice is nothing to her!”
“Do you hate her?” I suddenly asked. “For your words are venomous.”
He seriously considered my question, as if he had never examined the possibility. “Hate her? Not her, but ... what she is becoming. Her mind is growing as crooked as her carcass!”
“Robert!” What if someone heard? “Have a caution!”
“We’ve no spies here,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
“Do you truly think ... ,” I whispered, “that she is failing?”
“No, not failing, but growing more devious and obstructive. She goes less and less in a straight line to anywhere, that’s what I meant by ‘crooked.’ ”
“If so, then we must figure out a way to cross her path as she ducks and dodges.” Even as I said it, I realized that meant I had let go of the hope we could come to a true meeting of the minds. That saddened me.
“We will waylay her outside her private chambers—‘run into’ her in the private passage outside the royal apartments. Remember, I have access to them,” he said.
“I don’t like the idea of it,” I said. It would hardly be conducive to a pleasant meeting.
“It’s this or nothing,” he said. “She gives us no other choice. Now make yours.”
With great misgivings, I decided to try it. I disliked everything about the method, but perhaps the surprise element would work in my favor. She would be caught off guard and might drop her hostility. Surely she had soft feelings for me somewhere in her memory.
The modesty outfit was getting a bit worn, considering it had never actually been seen by the Queen. I carried the beautifully wrapped Boleyn necklace, ready to present it and make my speech. Your Majesty, I wish you to have this, which belonged to your aunt, my grandmother, in token of the ties between us. Or something like that. I was careful not to rehearse it overmuch, fearing to rob it of spontaneity and sincerity.
It was midafternoon, and the Queen would be returning to her rooms after dinner and some conferences. Robert knew the way she took, coming in from the gardens to avoid traversing the suite of public rooms and the gallery. He stationed himself at one doorway and motioned me to stand directly in front of it. As we waited, at first I felt shaky with wondering what she would do when she saw us. Then that worry passed and changed to wondering if she might outwit us once again and avoid the private passageway. Finally it all dropped away and I just wanted to get it over with. I could not stand another moment of this.
Just then I heard voices down the passageway; several women swept down it together. Then the Queen, with two attendants, rounded the corner. She stopped when she saw me, hesitating. She was puzzling whether to proceed or turn abruptly and go back. But this passed through her mind in an instant and the hesitation was almost unnoticeable. Squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up—where was this crooked carcass Robert had described?—she came slowly toward us. Her face was blank, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure.
As she came closer, I saw that the French ambassador had been right: Her face had aged. I would not describe it as “very” aged, though. Her posture was perfect and the clothes she wore—a green afternoon dress with a tawny collar—flattered her and showed off her small waist.
Robert leaped out from behind the doorway and startled them. The other ladies I knew from our days in the royal chambers together: Marjorie Norris, gone gray now, and Catherine Carey Howard, my cousin. They looked timidly welcoming but awaited Elizabeth’s reaction.
“Why, my Lord Essex,” said Elizabeth. “You loiter inside on such a bracing day?”
“Once my feet resounded in these passageways at Your Majesty’s bidding,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand. “You have only to call again and I will fly to you for indoor amusements.”
She raised him up and looked at me, showing no recognition. “And who have you brought?”
She knew very well! What was she doing?
“My most beloved mother, whom you said you would receive,” he said.
Before she could demur, I stepped forward and curtsied so low my knee hit the floor. “I am Your Majesty’s most loyal subject.”
Silence. Then she said, “You may rise.”
I did, and said, “And your most loyal cousin.” I kissed her hand, and leaned forward to kiss her breast. Rotely, she returned the kiss on my cheek. I handed her the box. “I wish you to have this in token of the love between our families.” I knew better than to say “between us.”
She took it, then started to hand it to Marjorie, unopened. Robert grabbed it away and said, “Nay, but you and the ladies must see it. It is most rare!” He flipped the lid open and showed the B necklace lying on its velvet pad.
“It belonged to my grandmother, your aunt Mary Boleyn,” I said. “It has always been my greatest treasure, and I want you to have it.”
Her keen black eyes examined it. Was there a flicker of a smile on her thin lips? She handed the box back to me. “I already have one,” she said. “An identical one that belonged to my mother.”
Then she walked around us, leaving us standing in the passageway.
54
ELIZABETH
May 1598
I am touched,” I told John Whitgift, and I was.
The archbishop merely nodded, but I could see in his dark eyes how pleased he was. “I was only hoping that Your Majesty would come here before the roses faded.”
“Mine, or theirs?” I asked, but seeing that John took the jest as a true question, I quickly added, “Yours will bloom anew every year.”
My Archbishop of Canterbury had planted a sunken rose garden, a tribute to my royal house and my own private taste in flowers, at his riverside episcopal palace. Its centerpiece was a trellis of entwined red and white bushes, since even his skilled gardeners could not re-create the actual Tudor badge of both red and white petals on one flower. Around the borders he had set masses of eglantine roses—my favorite. Musk roses filled in the spaces between them.
“You have created a rose heaven,” I said. Their distinctive scent, made sharper by a morning rain, enveloped us. If only roses could bloom all summer instead of so fleetingly. Their quick vanishing makes us see them more keenly while they are still visible.
“When we go to heaven, there will be more than just roses to greet us,” he said.
Heaven. There were now a great many people waiting there for me; more than were still here on earth with me. Perhaps life is like an hourglass, with dear ones the sand that slips from the upper glass—the earth—into the second—eternity. The bottom one is ever filling, the upper one forever draining.
“I still like to think of heaven as a garden,” I said. “Pray, show me the rest of yours.”
It had been a hard winter, making the sight of flowers doubly welcome. There had been times, when the sleet dashed and slid against my windows, that I thought warmth would never return. But this May had been exuberant, as if offering apologies for the lon
g, cold months. Now I glided along as John led me up the stairs to the raised walkway above the long garden terrace that divided the privy garden from the orchard. On the left side were four neat quadrangles of flower beds, their plantings making a mosaic of color; on the right, the frothy white of a large orchard in full bloom. If I looked closely, I could discern variations in the white treetops, and even some pale pink.
“What trees are in your orchard?” I asked.
“Plum—but that’s finished blooming now—cherry, pear, apple, apricot. I’ve had success with the apricots; you know how difficult they can be.”
My father had first had them brought over from Italy. At the time, it was thought they would never survive here, but by catering to their delicate needs, some gardeners had been lucky with them.
Striding along the walkway, seeing the gentle flowers and swaying, flower-laden branches and beyond them the stately curve of the river, it was easy to think my realm a sun-lapped, well-tended garden. But the winter had been difficult not only weatherwise but also politically. The lord lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Burgh, Black Jack Norris’s hated commander, had died suddenly, the victim, some said, of poisoning. The rebels had corrupted the inner circle of English command, it was rumored, so that they could do away with the leader. I had appointed deputies to temporary command, but for now my forces there were without a true commander, and the void was telling. The rebel forces, under The O’Neill and O’Donnell, were making steady gains, uniting traditionally quarreling Ulster, a deadly development. There were even reports that Grace O’Malley was joining them on the western side of the island. I had been remiss in recalling the repressive Richard Bingham from her area, and now I reaped the consequence. Grace was not a woman to brook insult or inaction any more than I was.
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