As the light faded, Henry sighed. “I shalt miss the old beauty.”
“I pray no injuries or deaths result,” Cath added. She shivered and Henry put his arm around her.
The wind began to howl, a spattering of rain hitting the window panes. Anne clenched her fists. What began as a lark and a way to prove their time travel story had turned ominous and depressing.
A flash of lightning lit the sky, then the world plunged back into darkness.
Several seconds passed before Anne heard the rumble.
It’s still a long way off.
More flashes. More thunder. Each time the separation of light and sound diminished as Anne mentally counted the seconds.
A massive bolt slashed the sky directly in front of them. It seemed to tear at the very fabric of the air, crackling, ripping. Anne smelled something that reminded her of burned toast and then the boom struck, knocking her breathless. With a gasp, she watched electricity coil down the main mast of a ship at anchor on the Thames. It ended with a burst of sparks, and she heard shouting from within the inn, and perhaps outside as well.
Jon pulled her close. “Watch now,” he said, his voice tight with expectation.
She looked at the dark, angry clouds overhead, then back to where she thought St. Paul’s still stood.
Nothing but distant rumbles and flashes. Had the storm passed by? Spared St. Paul’s? Had she and Jonathan somehow changed history by being here—weather history? But how could that possibly be—?
Another flash. Eyes riveted on the jagged bolts, Anne saw the timbers of St. Paul’s spire fly outward in all directions, flames leaping into the night. Oh my God!
They didn’t need the lightning to see what was going on anymore—the fire provided ample clarity.
“’Tis not just the spire. Why, the whole church is ablaze!” Henry shouted. He turned to Jonathan and took him by the shoulders. “By Christ, man, will the fire spread?”
Jon caught Anne’s gaze. “No, greater London will not be lost this night, only St. Paul’s.”
“London won’t burn until the Great Fire of 1666,” Anne said quietly.
Cath gaped, while Henry said, “Oh Lord, you do know the future.”
Chapter Two
9 June, 1561, Hatfield House, England
Robert Dudley smiled and shook his head. “Thou art incorrigible, my queen.”
And thou art brazen, my love. Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow at him, placed the stirrup of her crossbow on the ground, and deftly spanned the string back to the catch. “Dost thou think my limbs too weak to support the crossbow? I used to wield my father’s, and ’twas twice the weight.”
Dudley swept his hand before him and dropped into a deep bow. “Nay, my lady, thou art strong beyond measure in every aspect.”
Elizabeth placed the stout bolt into the channel, raised her arms, positioned the butt of the crossbow on her shoulder, and took aim at the straw target set up at thirty paces. She settled her mind, blew out a steadying breath, and squeezed. The bolt launched, sailed in a graceful arc, and missed dead center by the width of a fist.
Dissatisfied with her first effort, she reloaded. “The power of a crossbow is so much more than a shot from a regular bow. I couldst take down a bear with one shot if I hunted with this.”
“I concur, although I doubt very much William Cecil wouldst approve if thou took to hunting bear, regardless of thy choice of weaponry.”
She scowled. Her secretary of state rankled her overmuch of late with his endless demands. “Cecil wouldst have me ever upon the throne weighing requests for my hand in marriage. I must needs take mine ease now and then.”
“Thou knowest I hold no deep love for the man, although I acknowledge he wouldst see both thine own royal person and the realm secure in every respect.”
“I see no security in marriage, Robin. The moment I wed I become at best a co-ruler to my husband, the king. I cannot, shalt not yield my person or my realm to any other.”
Dudley flushed and turned his gaze away, and Elizabeth wasn’t surprised. For all the love she knew he bore her, the Crown and its power loomed larger still. Even for him.
Elizabeth huffed and took a second shot. This one went wider than the first.
Dudley placed a hand over his sudden smile, but Elizabeth wasn’t deterred. She flashed him a look of warning, reloaded, and shot a third time. Once again, the shot went wide.
“I am out of practice, ’tis all there is to it,” she declared, and shoved the crossbow into Dudley’s hands. “Methinks Cecil may have a point, withal. ’Tis no weapon for hunting bear. Let us return to sit with the ladies beneath the tree.”
As she strode across the expanse of lawn, she let her gaze wander over Hatfield House, her dearest treasure. How she loved it here. It had been her childhood home, ever her refuge. She sighed with contentment as she took in the idyllic scene. Her beloved Kat Ashley sat in the grass stitching an exquisite floral pattern on the cuffs of a new chemise. Lettice Knollys read from her book of Psalms. Some of her other ladies-in-waiting dozed on cushions in the unusual warmth of the early summer afternoon.
In contrast to this fine weather, violent storms had wreaked havoc of late, resulting in extensive damage across her realm. Her gaze returned to Hatfield House, and she was glad it and the surrounding lands had been spared.
Stopping several paces from the group, she spoke to Dudley in a hushed voice, “’Tis a terrible thing, the destruction of St. Paul’s. Thank God the fire didn’t spread to all of London. I feel a sense of guilt that we were safe and Hatfield untouched.”
“Thy subjects know their queen puts their well-being before her own,” Dudley said. “Even though they feel great sorrow over the church’s ruin, they are thankful the city was left whole, unscathed.”
Worried, Elizabeth chewed on her lip. “But still...the destruction. I’m told the metal of the bells in the spire melted and flowed as lava.” She put a hand on his arm. “Dost thou think it a sign, Robin? Is God displeased by my rule or mayhap my refusal to wed?”
His answer didn’t come as swiftly as she would have liked, and she glanced at him to make sure he’d heard.
He looked into her eyes with earnest and shook his head. “Lightning oft searches out the tallest objects in an area when it wishes to strike. Church steeples are frequent targets and this time, seeking to do damage in London, it chose the spire of St. Paul’s, by chance only, as ’tis surely the highest point in the region.”
She considered his reply, then heaved a sigh and nodded. “At first news of the tragedy, I sent monies to help in the reconstruction. The archbishop of Canterbury shalt oversee it, but I am more and more convinced I must needs go to St. Paul’s, so that my voice shalt be heard and the people witness my concern.”
“An excellent idea, my queen.”
She patted his arm, then turned and greeted her ladies with a smile. She sat upon a cushion set out for her and took a cool drink of malmsey offered by a servant.
Dudley leaned the crossbow against the old oak and lay down beside her, one arm over his eyes to block the rays of sunshine that managed to penetrate the leafy cover. He seemed to settle in for a nap.
Elizabeth grew quiet, picked up some stitching that awaited her attention, and minutes passed with only a gentle breeze to stir her thoughts. After a time, she paused to gaze down at his handsome face. He looked tranquil, and yet he’d seen as much turmoil in his life as she. Well, almost. And he’d never wavered in his love, nor in his steadfast support for her.
A puff of air kissed her skin, and she dared push an unruly curl away from his forehead. He shifted, peeked at her from beneath his arm, and smiled up at her. His eyes were beautiful, brown with little flecks of gold around the pupils.
“Sir Two Eyes,” she whispered. “My dearest Robin, we’ve struggled enough, loved enough to fill a lifetime already, haven’t we?”
“Aye, we have, and I am glad there is still much left...to experience. ’Twas months ago we last—”
&
nbsp; Elizabeth put a finger to his lips. “Shhh! Even my closest friends wouldst not abide such open familiarity. And if word got back to Cecil...”
“But,” he twisted and looked about, “thy ladies sleep, and thy servants have all gone off to the house to await thy bidding. Who willst know, if we keep our voices low?”
Elizabeth followed his glance and realized Kat and Lettice had indeed both nodded off like the others, and she and Robin were, for all intents and purposes, alone.
“I have missed thee, missed us, but I dare not…” he hesitated, seemingly at a rare loss for words. “I wouldst not have thou think I no longer desire… But after the calamity that befell thee—”
“When I lost our babe and nearly died of it,” Elizabeth ended his sentence for him, a shadow of grief touching her heart anew. “Dearest love, Dr. Brandon assured me I am healed and healthy, and we may yet try again.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. “And should we be blessed with a living babe, then we will have solved the problem of succession, although the details of how the child shalt be made legitimate must be considered with the utmost care. As for our future, I can make no promises. Thou knowest I cannot.”
Dudley dipped his head in acquiescence. “The good of the realm before love, even ours.”
“Aye,” she said quietly. “Perhaps the time to love comes again for us, and methinks there couldst be no better place to renew it than here at Hatfield.”
Dudley took her hand and kissed the palm as she cupped his dear face. A companionable silence followed, and Elizabeth let her mind wander once again, recalling so many events from her past, their shared past, that had happened in this very spot.
“Dost thou remember our attempts at tennis out here?” she asked.
“Aye. We played quoits as well, and methinks I excelled above all others in tossing the disks, even besting thee. ’Tis one of thy few failings.” Dudley winked.
“Thou misremembers.”
Dudley chuckled and let the comment pass without contradiction. “’Twas one moment in particular I shalt never forget.”
Elizabeth nodded, thoughtful. After a pause, she added, “A Dominum factum est illud, et est mirabile inoculis notris.”
“’Tis the Lord’s doing, and ’tis marvelous in our eyes,” Dudley translated.
She recalled that startling moment—however anticipated due to Queen Mary’s decline—when her steadfast Robin hastened to her side, knelt before her beneath this very tree, and offered the hilt of his sword, uttering the terrifyingly glorious words, “This day do I render homage and fealty to my Sovereign Lady.”
So many things to comprehend. Her sorrow over the death of her beloved sister, Mary, however troubled and misguided her reign and their relationship. That moment saw the passing of a turbulent and grievous era, and the beginning of a new one.
Hers.
Such a heavy mantle to accept. The life for which she had been destined. The life for which she was forged. By fear, by the constant threat of being condemned for treason, and by the relentless, agonizing education in all its most wondrous and frightening forms—including keeping one’s head upon one’s shoulders. By God. Aye, by God she had been forged to bear this magnificent burden.
Elizabeth drew in a long, slow breath and smiled, remembering something that caused goose bumps to rise even now. It happened the previous summer during the Smithfield Fair when Anne Howard burst into her life. She could still feel the horror of nearly choking to death on a miscreant morsel of food when Anne leapt into the royal box.
The bold miss.
That action alone would have seen her slain had Elizabeth’s courtiers and guards not been frantic with shock and worry their queen might die without succor. Then Anne defied all holy law and protocol when she gripped Elizabeth’s royal person and jolted her body upwards, thus dislodging the morsel. Once things calmed down, Anne uttered words that resonated to Elizabeth and seemed somehow prescient, “You’ve still got far too much to do.”
Elizabeth nodded. Whatever brought those words to Anne’s mind, she’d been correct. I do still have much to accomplish. Indeed, I do.
* * *
Elizabeth rose from her bed and looked about. The moon was nearly full this night, filling her room with a soft glow. Her ladies slept upon beds scattered here and there about her room, their peaceful faces a counterpoint to her own racing heart.
She thought about the plan she’d made with her Robin and moved toward the door that led to a hidden passageway and away from prying eyes.
Lettice stirred, then sat up. “Might I be of assistance?”
Elizabeth laid a hand on her shoulder. “Nay. I am restless, ’tis all, and I wouldst rather be alone with mine own thoughts. Thou hast leave to put the others at ease shouldst they awaken to my absence.”
Lettice nodded, then rose and took a book to a window seat bathed in moonlight.
Elizabeth made her way out of the room into the shadowy passageway. “Where art thou?” she whispered.
“Here,” a voice replied, the tone low and tense, desperate with need.
She smiled. “Sir Two Eyes.”
“Come in.” He opened the door wider and moonlight spilled from his room into the hallway. He stood there naked, magnificent in his masculine beauty.
Words fled, desire overwhelmed. Elizabeth trembled as he placed his hands on her unbound waist, only the thin fabric of her night chemise separating them. Her heart leapt at his touch, his breath soft upon her cheek.
“My greatest wish,” he said as he kissed a sensitive spot beneath her ear, “wouldst be to spend long, languid hours pleasing thee, sharing our time with no one else.” He drew her in and closed the door behind her. “But that is not possible, so we must share well what few moments we may, and savor their memories. In the coming days, I shalt endeavor to find more moments such as these, so that we may make love again and again.”
He brushed his lips along her jaw, then slipped her chemise off her shoulder and ran a palm over her naked breast.
She throbbed in want of him, his hands scorching her skin.
“Thou art beautiful, Eliza.”
“Sweet Robin.” She touched her lips to his ever so gently and made the tiniest kissing sounds, to tease and please him. She began to move down his throat, then lower onto his chest, nipping and kissing, but before she could reach her goal he took hold of her shoulders and brought her up.
“Torment me not, woman,” he said in a husky tone.
This was new, and she felt a thrill in hearing his command. Even in their private, secret world, he’d never spoken to her thus, but she decided she would allow this play. He was, after all, the only man she loved, the only one who could slake her body’s deepest desires.
“My lord, what is thy will?” she whispered back in the most humble tone she could muster.
He stared into her eyes, his gaze narrowed by lust—even hinting danger—and she felt her knees grow weak in anticipation of his thrusts, her own breath gone ragged with yearning.
“Eliza,” he said, then pulled her close and put his mouth on hers, deepening his kiss with a groan.
She felt the strength of his ardor press against her, and she moaned aloud, her body roused in wondrous agony.
“Eliza, oh Eliza,” he repeated over and over as he kissed her throat, her breasts.
Then, drawing back, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed.
Chapter Three
8 July, 1561, England
It was just past dawn when Jonathan quietly opened the door for Anne, and she entered their bedroom, located in what was once the Lady Chapel at St. Bart’s. The stained glass windows remained, bathing the room in soft rainbow light.
With the greatest care, she transferred her sleeping baby from the cradle into the travel basket, then tucked a blanket around her. They were to take a boat up the Thames to Richmond Palace, where they would spend two days with Her Majesty, have Rose baptized, and come home before Elizabeth began her Royal Progress. Ov
er the next few months, the queen would visit with her nobles and subjects in town and countryside.
Anne shook her head in awe. So much planning had gone into fitting the christening into the complex schedule. While working on the details of Rose’s ceremony, she’d gleaned bits and pieces about Elizabeth’s upcoming journey from members of her Privy Chamber. After the christening, the queen would return to London for stays at the grand homes of Lord North and her secretary of state, William Cecil. Next she would travel on to manors and towns throughout Essex and Suffolk, finishing up at Hatfield House toward the end of September.
And Rose was the prelude to all of this. Anne and Jon felt quite honored that Elizabeth insisted the christening be performed beforehand. The queen’s lady in waiting, Lettice Knollys, wrote.
Her Majesty doth insist a most wondrous ceremony shalt take place in the Chapel Royal at Richmond, saying ’tis just the spot for the baptism of her newest goddaughter.
It was still hard to believe this was going to happen. Anne gazed down at her baby’s beautiful face, so innocent and sweet. The only thing that could make this time more perfect would be to share it with her family. I wish they could see you, little Rose.
With a sigh, she gently kissed her daughter’s pudgy cheek. Satisfied she would continue sleeping for the time being, Anne swept aside her regret, determined to focus on all the wonderful things in her life.
She whispered to Jon, “Lettice says the queen is delighted to act as godmother.”
“It certainly is a terrific honor for us,” he replied as he stuffed a final few items into his travel bag.
Anne nodded. “Amazing. It will be interesting to see Richmond Palace. I visited it on a tour in the nineties. The descriptions I read back then made it sound incredible, but there wasn’t much of it left, actually, and you couldn’t really get a sense of it.”
Jonathan shook his head with a smile. “The nineties. I still find it so very difficult to imagine that far in the future.”
Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3) Page 2