His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  “Sweet Robin, help me . . . help me to remember my royal self,” she whispered, her voice ragged as she pushed feebly against his doublet. “We cannot be seen like this.”

  “How can I help you, Bess, when I cannot help myself?”

  She took in a deep breath, lest she faint. “I am not as other women. I can’t—”

  “No, not as others, but a woman nonetheless, Bess, and you know it. . . . You feel it.”

  “Majesty,” shouted one of her gentlemen, stopping upon the knoll looking for the queen, “word comes from my lord Cecil and your council that an emissary of Sweden’s Prince Eric has arrived in court with presents, eager to beg for your hand.”

  “Robin, we must go.”

  He helped her scramble to her feet and she quickly brushed leaves and twigs from her gown and his doublet while he stood patiently, looking with soft eyes at her face.

  They strolled calmly out of the woods with their horses, as far apart as the trees would allow. Robin knelt to help her into the saddle. She tugged the reins hastily to move her horse away just as all her ladies and gentlemen pensioners broke out of the woods and into the open.

  She did not dare to look at Robin, for she would look at him as a woman, heated beyond hiding by his lips.

  But as queen, she threw back her head and laughed. “Ho! Put spurs to your horses, my lords and ladies!” She shouted the words gaily to the courtiers, who could see her flaming cheeks, and she hoped they assumed it was from the excitement of a prince’s courtship. “We cannot wait all the day. We have at least ten other ambassadors at court seeking our hand for their princes. Shall we have a tournament to choose the winner?” She laughed and, with her golden net hanging from the pommel, raced them all back to the palace. Elizabeth did not look over her shoulder at Robin, following her closely as her Master of Horse should, though she heard him call to her on the wind. She knew what she would see in his dark face and she did not want to see it. She had a royal marriage game to play and she would not stop it, even for Robin.

  Elizabeth turned her face toward the palace, hoping to cool it as she neared the great gardens her father had built for her mother, near the tennis court where her father had played. She saw her duty and the snares that lay in her path, Robin being the chief one. She could not help the satisfaction she felt at being courted by so many of the greatest men in Europe, but she could not allow Robin to see it, lest he think he rather than the prince of Sweden had put the contentment there. And, Jesu Christo, he would be right to think it!

  A prince of Sweden now sends an ambassador to woo me to his cold country. She laughed aloud now, not caring whether she was heard. This offer would drive Philip of Spain mad when his ambassador wrote the news, which Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, was probably doing at this very moment. A Protestant alliance with Europe was Philip’s great fear, one that had compelled him to offer the queen of England his own hand, fearing all the while that he could be denied and humiliated before all Catholic Europe by his former sister-in-law, a heretic woman . . . girl, really, daughter of a witchy-whore. She laughed again. The news that Sweden courted Elizabeth, as did the Earl of Arran from Scotland and a prince of France, would bring a flood of jeweled presents from Philip, whose treasure fleets brought him all the precious gold and silver of New Spain for his coffers.

  Cecil had intercepted Philip’s letters and she knew all his fears. Satisfaction filled her. A few months ago, less than a year, she was buried deep in the countryside, exiled from all state affairs and from her people. Her jealous sister, Queen Mary, on her deathbed mourned King Philip of Spain, a husband who had ruled with her but never loved her. What would Mary think now that Elizabeth had taken her throne and could, if she wanted, take her husband? She could admit to some satisfaction, since Mary had wanted her younger half sister dead.

  Mary Tudor had thought she needed a man’s help to rule, but Elizabeth Tudor knew that she needed no husband to rule, nor would she ever be ruled by a husband, for she would never marry. She had decided that long ago. Childbirth was likely death. And with a king for a husband, a queen’s will meant nothing.

  She shivered at the thought of her mother standing below Henry’s window, holding her babe aloft, begging for her life so that she could care for Elizabeth. She saw Henry turning away from both mother and child, plotting to take the mother’s head, another wife already chosen and in his bed.

  No! No! The mastery of men that marriage brought to a woman was not for her. Yet she must give all such suitors hope, juggling their princely offers for as long as she could, keeping the Catholic rulers of Europe always wondering and jealous of one another, keeping them in hope and England safe.

  As for Robin . . . The sound of his horse’s hooves right behind her warned her not to turn to him, lest she lose her resolve to play her game of marriage hoodman-blind, first rejecting one prince, and then with a sweet, tempting smile engaging another.

  Robin was not pleased that her court was full of marriage offers, but this marriage dance was a part of her reign, would always be a part of it, and to quiet her council, Parliament and people, she must dance the dance while keeping Robin at her side. She could not lose him. No—she squeezed her eyes tight and bit her lip—she could never lose him. She did not need him to rule, but she must keep him to breathe.

  This very day Robin would have a new manor or some new office to show him her true favor. There was no other way she could calm him . . . no other way without the great risk she knew she faced every day and night whenever he went to his bed and she longed to follow. And sometimes . . . almost . . .

  As she dismounted, Elizabeth set her mouth in a firm line, though she saw him stop behind her and fling himself from the saddle, throwing his reins to a groom. She could not send him from her sight and she could not hide what she felt when he was beside her. So let the court talk. She was queen and she would rule as the king her father had done, totally. But unlike Henry VIII, she would rule with her court’s love and only a little of their fear.

  Yet let them dare try to deny her Robin, the only joy she’d known in her twenty-six years, and they would receive a blow such as they had never felt.

  Her ladies holding tight to their gowns rushed after her as Elizabeth entered Hampton Court through the tiltyard, sweeping past gathered courtiers, her mouth set, her chin high, remembering how she had vowed at her coronation that she would be more than a woman. Elizabeth of England would not pay a price for the love of a man, as her mother and her sister had paid. She felt the strength of her conviction aid her spine. She would resist them all. Resist Robin. Resist herself!

  That night the queen, followed by her ladies and ushers, arrived at her great hall to greet the Swedish emissary with all the ambassadors of other princes looking on, trying to catch her eye from across the great hall. She could see Prince Eric’s envoy’s admiration when she entered and he turned to bow from his position near her throne. As she had expected.

  Elizabeth had dressed in a splendor to match any European court, first choosing pearl-encrusted oversleeves, then ruby-studded ones over a marigold gown and yellow stomacher of embroidered gold, which pushed her breasts higher. With her red hair loose as a maiden’s about her white shoulders, she knew by the admiring glances she received that she had outdone herself.

  Eric’s emissary, Ambassador Guildenstern, tall and blond with an arrogant nose and eyes but a meek chin, bowed low. His prince was said to look like a Viking, but be easily led and more apt to spend his days in reading the Bible than in ruling. At least the Swedish prince was better favored by his portrait than the pox-ridden French princes, each one madder than the next, the oldest recently dead after awakening in a pool of his own blood to die screaming. Elizabeth was not enchanted with such a family, although Catherine de’ Medici had many sons and would no doubt offer them up to Elizabeth one after another, since she was determined to unite France and England. And Elizabeth was just as determined the other way.

  As courtiers knelt on both si
des, Robin did not look up at her, but kept his head low. He was in a sulk, which she could no more allow than open defiance. “My lord,” she said, stopping before him, her words shrill with displeasure, “do you not like to look upon your queen?”

  “Majesty, I shall always adore to look upon England’s queen, but never Sweden’s.”

  She slapped her fan against his cheek, a stinging blow, which others could judge playful or not, as they willed.

  Robin leaped to his feet, his dark face flushed, his Gypsy eyes like midnight on her. He turned on his heel to leave the great hall.

  How dared he defy her by rising and leaving without permission before all the court and foreign ambassadors? She called after him in a voice that penetrated to the farthest corners, “You will remain here, my lord, until I give you leave, or you will have a quick river voyage to the Tower!”

  He strode back to her, a hand on his hip, as haughty as any prince. “Majesty,” he said, his face now heavy with memory, “I have lodged there before at your sister’s displeasure. If it is your will that I be so caged again, at least let me know what action of mine merits such extreme censure. If you would imprison all your subjects who like not a marriage to foreign princes, then the Tower will not hold them all.”

  She glanced toward the Swedish ambassador, who pretended not to notice and perhaps did not understand such rapid English.

  Now, her voice was almost a whisper, not meant for the ears of all those staring courtiers looking from her to him. “Robin, do not do this. Your open defiance will leave me no way to avoid your imprisonment.”

  For once, she saw with relief, he held back his rash spirit and knelt, offering her his proud, bare neck. She longed to put out her hand and touch his hair, weave it around her fingers. Instead, she signaled her ladies and walked on to her throne, head high, smiling and nodding on either side.

  As her musicians played softly in the gallery, Elizabeth received Prince Eric’s gifts, some exquisite ermine furs, sparkling diamonds hidden in their folds, with apparent delight.

  “Majesty,” the emissary said in Latin, “I bring you ardent greetings from my prince, who is very much in love with your portrait.”

  “My lord, why did not Prince Eric come himself ?”

  “That’s impossible, Majesty, lest he be rejected.”

  “If your prince is not enough in love with me to come and try his luck, even if he is doubtful of his success, I do not care very much.”

  Eric’s man seemed at a loss for more words; then his face brightened and he found enough English: “We have heard much of your delightful English country dances. Will you teach me?”

  The queen smiled her agreement, and answered in Latin, the common diplomatic language, loving to show her knowledge to her court. “To please the Swedish ambassador we shall dance the petticoat wag,” she announced, looking toward Robin, who leaned against a pillar, seeming uninterested. She would soon change that!

  It was not a difficult dance, but one lively and very much as its name implied, a skipping, leaping dance where gowns were raised above the ankles and waggled temptingly back and forth to great laughter.

  The Swede made a halfhearted effort, looking politely interested and bored at the same time as only a man from a cold climate could do.

  Elizabeth leaped in front of him, waggling her gown. “You seem not greatly amused, my lord emissary.”

  “But it is charming,” he objected, “and I see that you like it very much. When Prince Eric and you are married, he will order the court musicians to play it often.” His mouth smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  Elizabeth’s liking for the dance ceased as he spoke the words. Her eyes had caught sight of Robin leading out one of her ladies . . . her cousin and lady-of-the-bedchamber Lettice Knollys . . . that slut with her hands all over him, her full lips taunting him, using his desire that she, Elizabeth, had aroused. And had not satisfied.

  “I am more in need of rest from my long morning ride than I thought,” she said, and the relieved Swedish emissary led her back to the throne, where she signaled the music to stop.

  Immediately, she told her ladies that she would return to her chambers and walked out quickly without greeting all the bowing ambassadors who wished to promote their own princes. Some held out jewels of every hue on pillows to tempt her, but she ignored them.

  In her privy inner chamber, Elizabeth called for her ladies to undress her and freshen her with rose water. “Lady Lettice,” she ordered, “bring my green robe and satin slippers.” She would enjoy that minx groveling at her feet. She would keep her to the ladies’ chamber tonight. She would not frisk and hey about with any man, especially not Robin.

  Though she and Lettice were cousins of Boleyn and Tudor blood, and Lettice’s father, Sir Francis, was a council member, Elizabeth could not abide her cousin. It was true, they both had King Henry’s red-gold hair and the Boleyns’ slanting dark blue eyes, but there the resemblance ended. Lettice had larger breasts, and thus they were too large and vulgar. Younger and wanton, Lettice would have a big belly soon, if a husband were not quickly found.

  Although Elizabeth encouraged her ladies to emulate her virgin state, at that moment she determined to find a lord for Lettice and ship the hoyden off to some country house, nevermore to be seen in court.

  Elizabeth called for wine and sank into a chair near the fireplace. Hampton Court was a warm palace, but she was cold, shivering.

  “Bess,” said Kat Ashley, “if you would dine more heartily, your flesh would keep you warm. Bones never will.”

  “Yes, yes, Nurse,” Elizabeth said, looking fondly on the buxom woman who had been her only friend in childhood, caring for her, cooing over her as if the young Bess were her own babe. Although sometimes foolish and much too free with her advice, Kat truly loved her and had loved her when she was disgraced and living in the country without hopes for a throne. Elizabeth knew that truth as she knew the sun rose each morning.

  “Bess,” Kat said softly with her familiar Devon burr, taking the queen’s hand as only she could without permission. She knelt before the queen’s high-backed chair. “For the love of God, I beseech you not to utterly throw yourself away.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “What talk is this, Nurse?”

  Kat’s lips quivered. “They are saying that you and my lord Robert Dudley are thinking of destroying Amy Dudley and that you are already with his child.”

  Elizabeth sat up, rigid. “Who would say such things? Tell me and the truth will be racked out of him!”

  “Bess . . . Bess, it is no one person, but common gossip throughout your court.” Tears tumbled down Kat’s wrinkled cheeks.

  The queen gathered her old nurse to her breast and soothed her. “Kat, you should not listen to such low talk, surely coming from servants.”

  Kat shook her head vigorously. “Nay, Bess, ’tis on every lord’s lips as well and I suspect even your councilors wonder if—”

  Elizabeth stood suddenly, though careful not to overturn Kat. She began to pace, which always calmed her. “You know, my old friend, that you are the only one who could speak so to me.”

  “That is why I speak, because you are in danger,” Kat said, struggling up on her short legs.

  “You worry for naught,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep from showing Kat how upsetting her words had been. “You of all people must know that Lord Robert would have no hope of being my husband if his wife died under suspicion. He knows this; I know this. Do the rogues think me without wits!”

  Kat grabbed the queen’s arm as she had when the child Bess had rushed headlong toward some folly, her voice pleading: “But, Your Majesty, don’t you see that Lord Dudley’s enemies—and he has many because of his traitorous family and your favor—can’t you see his enemies know that, too? How many are plotting to entrap him into losing your favor with his wife’s sudden death?” Kat was finally out of breath.

  “You mean others would kill her, hoping for Robin’s downfall?” Elizabeth didn
’t await her nurse’s answer, but pulled away, the truth of what Kat said all too distressingly plain. She must warn Robin.

  With a final embrace, Elizabeth spoke in Kat’s ear. “Go now, Nurse. I would be alone this night. No one is to come to me.”

  “But, Majesty . . .”

  “Ka-at . . .” The queen used her stern tone, one she rarely used with her old friend, but one which was not to be denied.

  When Kat had retired to the adjoining large chamber occupied by the beds of the queen’s ladies, Elizabeth locked that door; then she locked the one to her antechamber, first telling the gentleman pensioners: “We will brook no disturbance this night.”

  Eagerly, she stepped into her linen closet to its very end. Within the large cabinet was a hidden latch that opened to a narrow corridor. She hesitated, closing her eyes tight. She had resisted Robin all the day, and for all the years of days and nights before that. Surely, there must be a reward for such restraint. Not for Queen Elizabeth, who would never lift the latch. But for Bess, the woman, who would. The woman whose fondest memory of childhood was of playing games upon the Greenwich greensward with a boy named Robin. That woman would be rewarded.

  The narrow opening revealed a large door leading to a wider hall. The door had to have been large to accommodate her father, who kept his current mistress in the apartment next to his own. Henry had shown it to her as a young girl, whether to warn her with his power or brag of his man’s prowess, she did not know. Probably both.

  She blessed the generous door. Although she did not wear a wide Spanish farthingale, her heavily brocaded gown was not narrow and clinging, but had a train that was regal and flowing. She had to walk sidewise, swiping away cobwebs that the palace spiders had been weaving since her father’s time. Were these webs the first set trap of her rule? She shook her head, refusing to admit that her loyal spiders had evil intent.