The Queen's Secret

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘I knew you would be pleased at this news,’ Elizabeth told her, leaning forward to allow her pillows to be rearranged. In the sunlight Lettice saw a cold satisfaction in the Queen’s face. ‘I have insisted in my letter that your husband should be back on English soil before the end of the autumn – indeed, as soon as he may be excused from his duties.’

  ‘You are too kind to your humble servant, Your Majesty.’

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘Nonetheless, Your Majesty does us too much honour,’ Lettice murmured, her voice lacking all emotion. She sank once more to the floorboards in a deep curtsey, wondering with a final flicker of hatred if her cousin was indeed pregnant by Robert, and how that state of affairs would be managed by the Council. It would certainly be open knowledge by the time they came to be married. ‘I should like to write this good news at once to my daughter Penelope. The poor girl quite pines for her father. If Your Majesty would consent to excuse me?’

  ‘As you wish.’ The Queen nodded her permission, but added, from behind the languidly flickering ostrich fan, ‘Pray do not remove yourself too long from our presence, though. I would watch you carefully, Lady Essex, to be sure that you are recovered from this mysterious “sickness” of yours. I will not have it said that we neglect the ladies of our court.’

  ‘I am quite well now, I assure Your Majesty.’

  ‘And I have said I am glad to hear it.’ Elizabeth’s smile did not reach her eyes. ‘But you will stay within the royal apartments, if you please, where you will find most comfort. What would your husband Essex say if he were to come back from Ireland to find you confined to your bed?’

  Lettice swallowed, hearing the sharp double meaning behind her cousin’s question. She bowed her head. ‘I will not leave, Your Majesty. Indeed, I am most grateful for Your Majesty’s solicitude.’

  Curtseying herself backwards from the Royal Bedchamber, Lettice made her way through the crowded Privy Chamber with as much dignity as she could muster, feeling unfriendly eyes upon her the entire way. Many at court must now suspect the dangerous lie of the land between her and the Queen, and would be drawing away from Lettice for fear of being seen in the wrong company. Robert himself, of course, was nowhere in evidence.

  If only she were not so light-headed. This heat …

  ‘Your ladyship?’ The servant she had summoned bowed to hear her bidding.

  ‘Fetch me pen, ink and paper.’ She raised her voice for the benefit of the courtiers nearby, indicating a table near the window. ‘Bring them to me there, and a cup of strong wine. Do not delay. I have good news from the Queen to send to my daughter.’

  Then, slipping calmly out of the door, she passed through the guards unchallenged and hurried down to the women’s quarters on the floor below. There was no one in the sunlit chamber. Searching swiftly through her travelling chest, Lettice found the glass vial she had been keeping for just such a terrible moment. She pulled out the stopper with only the briefest of hesitations.

  The vile stink of the slimy black liquid made her gag, but she put the tiny bottle to her lips and tilted back her head to receive the contents. Tears were running freely down her cheeks. She swallowed and nearly retched, controlling the impulse with an effort. It had to be held down.

  Lettice hid the empty glass vial in her chest and closed the lid. Dizziness struck her as she straightened, and she stood a moment, sick and swaying. One hand at her belly, she gave a wild little sob. His unborn child! Yet what choice did she have?

  Thirty-eight

  ‘WHAT’S THIS?’ ELIZABETH asked, peering over the black-masked heads of the morris dancers as they lunged and leapt with their thick, ribboned poles.

  The Queen had come back from divine service that Sunday the long way, stopping to speak to cottagers along the road and promising to lay on hands tomorrow, for those afflicted with a wasting palsy. The people called it the king’s evil. She was not convinced, however, that the laying on of her hands would make any difference to those unfortunate souls. The commoners seemed to relish the ceremony though, and since Cecil had finally returned from home she knew that he would make her go through with it. Well, let them have their superstitions. There were some she held to herself, after all – though astrology had been proven a science now, not a superstition.

  ‘A bridal, Your Majesty,’ Robert said, stepping on to the dais.

  The court had been herded into the narrow tiltyard after church, where a high-backed, richly cushioned seat had been set for her, and cushions strewn for her ladies to sit at her feet. Above their heads the gold canopy had been erected once again, its fringed shade welcome now that the dull weather of the past few days had broken once more into sunshine and deep summer heat.

  He bent to her ear. ‘This is a local bride and bridegroom, Jack and Bess, who were married in the village church earlier today and wish to celebrate their bridal before you and the court. Will you permit them to approach?’

  This was better than laying on hands for the sick. Elizabeth beckoned to those leading the bridal procession, addressing the court. ‘There is nothing pleasanter than a summer bridal. Let the wedding guests come before us and make their bows to the court. I shall speak to the bride myself. For though I have never been a wife, I understand a woman’s duty to her husband, which is not unlike a prince’s duty to his country.’

  A party of groomsmen and bridesmaids came first, the men dragging off their caps at the sight of Queen and court, the girls pretty enough, their hair dressed simply with flowers, giggling as they led the bride forward to the dais.

  The bride herself seemed oddly reluctant to be presented to the Queen. She came shuffling forward, whispering fervent denials to her new husband. She even held up a posy of rosebuds and sweet williams to hide her face. Perhaps she was worried that her wedding gown, clean but of a rough, green-dyed cloth, and plain except for the festive ribbons they had attached to her sleeves and waist, was not expensive enough to be worn before the Queen and court.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Bess,’ the Queen encouraged her, leaning forward, her tone as reassuring as she could make it. ‘You are my namesake and so are doubly welcome. Have a little courage, there’s no need to hang your head. Bring your husband with you and let me bless your marriage before the court.’

  What was wrong with the foolish girl? She was a little on the dumpy side, it was true, and perhaps older than Elizabeth had thought at first, but that was nothing to be ashamed of.

  Then the bride straightened, flushed and anxious, a nervous smile on her lips, and her face was plainly seen. Elizabeth sat back with a stifled gasp, not knowing where to look. She felt every eye in the court must be turned towards her, watching for her reaction.

  This local bride was no girl, but a woman of some thirty-five years – maybe older. Her face showed wrinkles, deep set about her mouth and brow, her nose plain as a pickle, her jaw sturdy and overlong, more like that of a horse than a woman, and as she smiled, it was clear she had lost most of her teeth. Facing her directly now, Elizabeth could see how thick-set this bride was, with no neck to speak of but a squat trunk on short legs, no waist for her new husband to grasp but hips broad as a doorway, and breasts so large she might almost have been ready to suckle her firstborn.

  It would not have surprised Elizabeth to learn that this creature had given birth to several brats already, born out of wedlock, and each to a different man.

  And her name was Bess?

  Seeing the Queen’s gaze upon her, the matron-like bride simpered and smiled, lips drawn back to display her few remaining teeth, for all the world like a mare cropping at a thistle.

  Struggling to hide her fury at this affront, though her hands trembled and her face felt as stiff as a mask, Elizabeth signalled Robert to bend closer.

  ‘Is this one of your ill-devised jests?’

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘This creature is named Bess?’ she hissed, for his ears only. ‘This ancient, toothless bride is named for your queen, and presented in front
of the whole court …?’

  Elizabeth could not finish her thought but swore viciously under her breath, her vision a dark red haze.

  ‘By God, I shall not stand for such mockery!’

  Robert was staring at her, his smile fading as he realized the extent of her fury. Behind her, Throckmorton cleared his throat and looked pointedly in the opposite direction, while Lord Burghley appeared bemused, as though he did not understand what the problem was. Some of the other courtiers were smiling behind raised hands and fans, none of them quite daring to laugh out loud but whispering to their neighbours instead.

  Elizabeth stiffened. ‘Remove her at once!’

  Robert glanced swiftly across at Cecil, one of the few courtiers not smiling at this public humiliation of his queen, and a look passed between them.

  Elizabeth waited, tapping her fingers on the arms of her high-backed seat. The court was eager to see which path Robert would take, the easy or the hard. The Queen was probably the only one there to understand what nerve it took for Robert not to obey her at once.

  He bent again to her ear, his whisper urgent. ‘Your Majesty has promised to bless their union. If it is not done—’

  ‘Enough!’

  He was right. Of course he was right. But now that he had spoken, it was vital that it must seem like her decision, not one her favourite had prompted. She waved him aside and raised a gloved hand, sketching the sign of the cross swiftly in the air before they could see she was shaking.

  ‘May your union be blessed with good health, a long life and many children, God willing.’

  Robert snapped his fingers as Elizabeth subsided into her seat, her face rigid, and the bridal procession moved on with a flurry of pipes and drums. The bride and groom glanced uncertainly at each other, but the young bridesmaids laughed again, flushed and excited at having been presented before the Queen.

  Cecil was suddenly on her other side, sombre in his neat black suit and modest ruff. Elizabeth would have given much to know if he agreed with her on this public humiliation, but his face remained carefully neutral as ever.

  ‘Will you stay to watch the bridal games, Your Majesty? There will be tilting between the groomsmen, I am led to understand, and a country dance to follow. And later the Coventry players will present a tragedy to the court. Or possibly a history.’ He paused, looking carefully over her head at Robert. ‘My lord Leicester will be able to correct me on this point, I imagine, for it is he who engaged the troupe.’

  ‘I cannot recall—’ Robert began in a ragged tone, but Elizabeth interrupted him, raising her hand.

  ‘I shall stay to watch the tilt and the country dancing. Then the court will retire indoors to eat. Afterwards, the players may still perform their piece, but I shall watch from my window. For it is too hot to be outside in the afternoon heat.’

  Eagerly, she gestured Cecil forward to her seat. ‘I am glad you have returned to us, Cecil. I missed the wise counsel of my treasurer this past week. You have always been a true and loyal friend to your queen.’ Deliberately intending to sting Robert, she smiled into the silence that followed, satisfied that her barbs were hitting home. ‘How is your wife? Is your son Thomas here with you for his knighthood?’

  ‘Indeed, Your Majesty. He is preparing himself for tomorrow’s ceremony. And Mildred is in much better health, I thank you, though I fear she found the journey up here a little wearing.’

  ‘Well, I shall be glad to honour your son tomorrow. He has done excellent service to his country, it is a pleasure to have such men about me. But where is Signor Massetti, where is Philip Sidney?’

  Still furious with Robert, Elizabeth ignored his bruising stare and waved her fan, summoning the young Massetti to her left side and Philip Sidney to her right.

  Massetti came wreathed in smiles, a swift Italian compliment ready on his lips, and she motioned him to kneel beside her. It entertained her to have Walsingham’s new dog by her side, if only to see her spymaster frown at their extravagant conversation.

  Lean, muscular and imposing in a silver-sable doublet and hose, Philip bowed and approached his queen with only the tiniest hint of a smile. It was clear he knew which way the wind blew, clever, discreet boy that he was. She took his hand in hers and patted it, fixing her gaze on his handsome young face as though there were no other man worth speaking to.

  ‘Come, Pip, sit beside me a while. You know how I love to hear you tease the meaning out of everything.’ She laughed, and made sure her laughter was heard by everyone on the dais. ‘What did you think of the newly wedded couple there? I have been told you are quite the philosopher these days. Tell me, is virtue more important in a bride than beauty?’

  Young Philip Sidney answered her questions with studied seriousness, launching into an intellectual debate on the comparison of virtue with beauty. Yet although Elizabeth smiled and nodded in all the right places, her attention was busy elsewhere. Her gaze followed the stiff back of her favourite as he stepped down from the dais and strode away into the castle.

  She was incredulous, then suddenly furious again. How dare her host walk away before being dismissed? Robert had left the royal presence without asking permission, without so much as the respectful bow due to his queen. Was this to punish her for calling Massetti and young Pip Sidney to her side instead of him? She would grant him a peevish dislike of the smooth-cheeked Italian newcomer, but to become enraged that she had favoured his own nephew …

  Oh, such boyish jealousy did not become an earl.

  Pleased and piqued at the same time by his arrogant behaviour, Elizabeth considered sending after him to return to the dais, to humiliate him in revenge for this travesty of a bridal. But then she caught Cecil’s eye.

  No, her cautious-minded secretary was right. Better to chastise Robert in private, where heated words could be more easily exchanged without fear of being overheard. Besides, to call further attention to their quarrel now might be to suggest some odious comparison between herself and that ancient, toothless bride – a comparison she wished to avoid.

  As Robert was about to pass through the shaded gateway into Kenilworth’s outer court, she saw him halt, suddenly bending to speak to the young Moorish girl, Lucy. It was only the briefest of exchanges, just long enough to whisper a few words in her ear. Then he was gone, striding away beneath the shadowy arch of the gate.

  ‘No, don’t stop,’ Elizabeth insisted, turning to smile flatteringly at Pip Sidney. He had paused in his speech, looking hurt that she had not replied to a question. ‘I am all ears, my young Socrates.’

  Thirty-nine

  LUCY SHIELDED HER eyes to look up at the Queen, seated under her gold canopy high on the wooden dais. She felt ridiculously hot in the stiff ruff and heavy-skirted gown they had given her to dance in, the thick row of stitches itchy where it had been altered to fit her broader shoulders. The court gown might be expensively embroidered, with a fine lace trim fit for a proper lady, but it was not as comfortable as the simple gowns she had brought from London. If it had not been so warm when she rose that morning, she would have worn a shift dress underneath. But after yesterday’s thunderstorms, this fresh heat was almost unbearable, the wide blue sky above the tiltyard dazzling, and her gown was so tight at the waist she could hardly breathe. To have put more layers on underneath would have been to invite the embarrassment of a fainting fit, and she could tell from the Queen’s sharp stare that such weakness would not go unnoticed.

  The tilt games finally came to an end, with the victor being crowned with laurels by the Queen herself, and after a short pause a simple country dance began.

  Lucy watched the dancers with a thundering heart, constantly dwelling on her own trial to come, her palms moist with sweat as she clapped to the beat. She had been told to change her gown and attend the Queen after Mass. The thought of having to dance before so many courtiers and commoners made her stomach knot with terror. Even though she had foolishly hoped to be called up on to the dais to perform again before the Queen and court, sh
e feared it almost as much as death itself.

  Glancing about her, she caught a glimpse of Tom’s dark head and leather-clad back near the gateway into the outer court. He was leading a bay horse slowly back towards the stables; it appeared to be lame. As she stared, desperate for him to turn round and see her, Tom glanced back over his shoulder for a brief moment, as though he had felt the touch of her gaze. But the crowd was dense about the Queen’s dais and she knew herself to be invisible. Then Tom turned away into the outer court. He could not have seen her. Nonetheless, Lucy felt a new confidence at the sight of him and straightened, shaking out her gown.

  The dance finished, and the Queen called her name.

  Stepping lightly out of the crowd, Lucy climbed the steps on to the covered royal dais, not entirely displeased by the way the courtiers parted to let her through, some of them whispering about her, staring greedily at this strange new favourite of the Queen.

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  She sank into a low curtsey under the cool of the shaded canopy, listening to the click and rustle of the courtiers’ feathered fans, and remained there until the Queen told her to rise. Indeed, she did not wish to look Her Majesty in the eye.

  Her heart sickened, waiting for what she felt must be the inevitable question. If asked, she must either tell the truth and betray the charming Lord Leicester, or lie and betray her queen. But which should it be? His lordship had spoken to her as he left the tiltyard, and begged her not to tell the Queen of his secret meeting with Lettice.

  ‘I’m told you have prepared a new dance for us, child.’

  The Queen was watching her closely, her cheeks flushed even under the white foundation she always wore, a slightly wild look to her face. Her red wig had been dressed simply with a single circlet of gold, echoed by a gold chain about her waist from which an elaborate gold and ruby pendant hung.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Show us then. We have had enough of country dancing today and would like to see something with a little more skill. And mind you do not mar your steps, Lucy Morgan, for I shall be watching closely and am accounted a good judge in such matters.’