by Brandy Purdy
“It’s all right, don’t be afraid, I will not harm you,” he said softly in his rich, velvety voice. As he spoke, he untied his red velvet cloak and wrapped it around me. And then he lifted me, oh, so gently, as if he were afraid I might break, and carried me back to the coach and put me back inside just as he had found me.
He settled me against the cushions and adjusted his cloak about me, drawing its folds closer, like a warm red velvet cocoon. Then he reached inside his shirt and took from about his neck what looked to be a miniature painted on ivory in a gold filigree frame dangling from a delicate gold and pearl chain. He pressed it to his lips, then, after one long, last look at it, draped it over my head and settled it ’round my neck, so that it lay over my diseased breast.
“This is Sainte-Agathe—St. Agatha—she belonged to someone who was very, very dear to me. I loved her with all my heart—she was my heart—but ... I lost her.” He paused to swallow down his tears. “Women with your malady sometimes find comfort in praying to Sainte-Agathe. Please, you pray to her too, and I will pray that she will work a miracle for you.”
I looked down at the painting and saw that it was of a lovely young woman with a halo about her golden hair and a beautiful smile upon her serene face. She was robed in red and white accented with gold, and in her hands she held a tray upon which lay what I, at first glance, thought were two cherry-topped cakes before I realized that they were actually her breasts, which had been cut off when she was tortured to try to force her to forsake her Christian faith.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I was still shaking so hard, my voice trembled.
He reached out and stroked my face. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Amy,” I answered.
“Ah!” His face broke into a smile. “Aimee—beloved! It suits you well; such a name is always given from the heart by one who knows they have just received the greatest gift of all.”
Then he leaned forward, pressed the most tender, lingering kiss I had ever received onto my brow, murmured some French words, which I just knew to be the most heartfelt blessing, and then he was gone, calling to his men, and I heard horses galloping away.
The coachman spared not a moment and cracked the whip, and the coach lurched forward, and we were on our way again. Through the open window I heard the coachman say in an awed voice to the man on the box beside him that we had just met Red Jack, Jacques Rouge, Bloody Jack, and by some miracle survived the encounter without so much as a scratch—“not a drop o’ blood spilt, a skirt lifted, or a purse pilfered! God was watchin’ out for us this day, ’e was!” he declared, cracking his whip and urging the horses to go faster. “I don’t care if it rattles e’ery tooth in me ’ead loose, we’ll see London before nightfall!” he vowed, cracking the whip again.
Once in London, I did not want to face my cousins in Camberwell. I knew they would have heard all the gossip about Robert and the Queen and would—whether they regarded me with pity or contempt—have much to say that would make me feel as if I were tied and bound and being spun ’round and roasted upon a spit, so I bade the coachman take me to a reputable inn instead. There I fell exhausted into bed and slept for two days straight. I didn’t wake up until well past noon of the third, when a beam of sunlight, like a prodding, poking finger, penetrated a crack in the bedcurtains and made me stir myself.
As I halfheartedly pecked at a roll and sipped my breakfast ale, I lay back, near tears, against the pillows Pirto piled behind my back as I listened to the serving woman who had come in to tidy the room chatter on about the latest gossip from the court.
“Word ’as it that Lord Robert ’as given the Queen a fine, quilted red petticoat to ’ide the child they ’ave been a-makin’. And,” she added, pausing to give me a nod and a knowing look, “I ’ave it direct from a groom at the palace that the Queen never goes on ’er Summer Progress but to be delivered. Some say she’s ’ad five children by Lord Robert, the first bein’ a bastard made when they was in the Tower t’get’er—’tis as good a way to pass the time as any, I trow, them both bein’ prisoners an’ not knowing if they was to live or die—but I think ’tis more like two, or per’aps three. ’Tis a right pity too, for I ’ear tell that ’e ’as a very beautiful wife waitin’ at ’ome, pinin’ fer ’im, but ’e doesn’t live with ’er and visits ’er but seldom. Rumor ’as it that ’e ’as sent to poison ’er so ’e will be free to marry the Queen. May God preserve Our Gracious Majesty! ’E’s a cad, Lord Robert is. ’Andsome is as ’andsome does, I always say, an’ any man what would murder ’is wife to marry ’is mistress, even if she is Queen o’ England, ’tis no man I want to share my bed an’ board with! But bein’ a queen doesn’t save a woman from bein’ a fool o’er a man; they say she ne’er lets ’im leave ’er an’ visits ’im in ’is chambers day and night—right next to ’ers with a door connectin’, they are. I saw the Queen once, I did.” She patted her chest and nodded proudly, beaming wide to show the blackened stumps of her teeth. “Ridin’ by on ’er coronation day. I ran out an’ offered ’er a sprig o’ rosemary, I did, an’ she took it from me with ’er own white ’and an’ tucked it inside the Bible she was ’oldin’ on ’er lap an’ thanked me right kindly for it an’ said she would keep it forever to remind ’er of ‘this glorious day!’ Now, that’s true majesty, it is, an’ if it ain’t, I don’t know what is!”
The tears were pouring down my face by then, and, Pirto, seeing my distress, hurriedly pressed a coin into the woman’s palm and shooed her out as I buried my face in the pillows and sobbed my heart out. So it was true about the poison, and Robert had known all along. Richard Verney had only been following orders! My husband wanted me dead! That was why the spices he sent only made me sicker, and why he had taken my unicorn’s horn away; he didn’t want me to get better!
I cried and cried as the last of my illusions died. But I knew I could not waste the whole day in weeping. I still had to see Robert. Even knowing what I knew, I had to find a way to dissuade him from this murderous course. I needed to get away from Compton Verney, to be somewhere pleasant and safe, where I could stop fearing what malice and evil lurked in the shadows and rest in peace for what little time I had left to live. Robert and his minions would not steal what was left of my life away with poison. I was fully on guard now, and I would not let them!
I forced myself to dry my tears and rise from my bed and give myself over to Pirto’s ministrations.
“Please,” I implored her, “help me; I need to look my best today. I need him to see at least a glimmer of the Amy he fell in love with. Help me be that girl again, Pirto.”
“Time changes us all, love,” Pirto said sadly, “but ’twas him a-changin’ that made you change, broke your heart and made you sadder.”
She applied salve and a fresh dressing to my breast and rose perfume to try to mask the fetid odor of the seeping discharge and helped me into a fine gown of buttercup yellow damask trimmed with seed pearls and frills of golden lace. She arranged my hair in shining curls, long, loose, harvest gold ringlets to remind Robert of the girl he had fallen in love with and been wild to wed and bed, instead of the wife he no longer wanted, with the wealth of her hair pinned up and hidden beneath her gold-bordered hood as becomes a respectable matron. And around my neck I fastened the black silk cord of the amber heart Robert had given me. “Here is my heart,” he had said at the time. “Let this token stand as surety for my eternal, undying love.” I wanted him to see it; I wanted him to remember that he had once given this most precious gift to me, not the amber heart, but the flesh and blood one beating within his chest and the love that it stood symbol for.
“God, give me strength!” I prayed. “Please, if I am to die, let God take my life, not Robert, or one of his or the Queen’s minions. If he cannot love me like he once did, then let him like me enough to stay the poisoner’s hand and let this cancer follow its course, and let me die a natural death.”
Then I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and set out to confront Robert.
Hoping to meet him privately, rather than before the curious, scandal-hungry eyes of the court, I went first to the Dairy House at Kew, the small but stately milk white riverside mansion the Queen had given him, where the lawn sprawled emerald green and white peacocks paraded proudly amongst classical-style marble urns overflowing with meadow daisies, marigolds, pinks, cowslips, and gillyflowers, white marble statues of dairy cows, and chairs carved like wooden milk pails where two lovers might sit, embrace, hold hands, and converse most intimately. The whiteness of it all was so glaringly bright, I had to squint and shield my eyes. Like staring into the sun, it hurt just to look at it.
The housekeeper, a pleasant, moon-faced woman almost as round as she was tall, greeted me at the door and introduced herself as Mrs. Margery Dowe. I asked if my husband were at home. To her credit, she tried to veil her astonishment. She fast recovered her wits and, though it was with a blush, averted eyes, and a stammer, she answered me, “N-No, M-My Lady, he ... he ... he is at ... at ... he is at court!” she at last blurted out. Then, as if rushing onward and changing the subject would make me forget her answer, she asked if I would like a piece of fresh-baked mincemeat pie or, she added, as my husband had just reestablished the dairy, she could offer me some of his cheese or butter spread onto some bread that had also been baked fresh that morning. “Or per’aps some sweet cream slathered on a sugar biscuit would be more to m’lady’s liking?” she asked, most anxious to please.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Dowe,” I said softly as I stood there in the stately entrance hall, gazing down at the highly polished oak floor peeking around a narrow carpet of red velvet, lest its luster be lost to admiring eyes. Slowly, I turned in a circle, taking it all in. The carved and gilded ceiling and gleaming oak wall paneling were all acorns and oak leaves and bears holding ragged staves standing ankle-deep in red and white painted Tudor roses, and there were carved cameo portraits in profile of Robert and the Queen, their oval frames supported by cherubs and garlanded in roses, acorns, and oak leaves, everywhere with their initials—RD and ER—for Robert Dudley and Elizabeth Regina. And, if I looked straight ahead, where a beam of sunlight that poured in through a round clear and ruby red stained glass window set like a jewel above the front door was pointing, my eyes were led to a life-sized portrait of she who ruled here, the mistress of the realm and this house, its gold frame all a-blossom with a garden of red and white enameled Tudor roses.
I went to stand directly before it, to better scrutinize my rival. She was so regal and proud, within her confidence seemed to reign supreme. Her face, neck, breasts, and hands were as white as marble. She was like a statue all dressed up, like the statues in the churches in bygone Catholic days were sometimes given wigs of real hair and dressed up in embroidered robes with jewels to adorn them. The Protestant religion had banished the Holy Virgin from England’s altars, and now Elizabeth was giving her subjects another virgin queen, this one of earth instead of Heaven, to venerate and adore. She was gowned in scarlet and white, all a-sparkle with ruby and diamond hearts—on her dress, at her wrists, ears, and throat, and in her vivid hair, like flames tamed to be docile and hold the jeweled hearts. Her head was tilted downward to contemplate something in her hand. It was a heart-shaped locket, attached to a long diamond chain she wore about her neck, with the golden halves open so she could gaze down upon the two faces inside. I stood on tiptoe and peered closer, squinting my eyes, the paintings within the painting were so tiny. And then, with a little thud, I sank down heavily onto my heels again, feeling altogether defeated, as if my errand today, though only just begun, was already a lost cause. Surely these two dainty likenesses were Lavinia’s tiniest work—I knew they were hers by the telltale azure backgrounds. Each in one half of a golden heart, Robert and Elizabeth faced each other, so that when the halves were closed, their painted lips would meet.
“The Queen of Hearts and the Knave of Hearts,” I said softly.
“Beg pardon, m’lady?” Mrs. Dowe, now at my side, inquired.
“Nothing of any importance, Mrs. Dowe.” I feigned a smile. “I was just thinking aloud. I apologize for coming unannounced, but I wanted to surprise Robert.”
Mrs. Dowe’s expression told me that, sure enough, had he been at home, Robert would have been surprised, and not in a very pleasant way, but she was too kind to say so.
“Would you—that is, if your time permits, of course—would you show me around? I would like very much to see the house. Robert has told me about it in his letters,” I lied, “but—being a woman, I know you will understand—men don’t always describe the details well enough for one to picture them, the way a lady likes to.”
Mrs. Dowe’s lips spread in a wide smile, and she nodded vigorously. “Aye, m’lady, I know just what you mean, I do! Sometimes it’s like pullin’ teeth, it is, to get an answer out o’ my ’Arry! ’E saw the Queen once, an’ when I asked ’im what she ’ad on, ’e said, ‘A dress,’ Just that—‘a dress’! ’Ad ’is own life been at stake, ’e couldn’t ’ave told me the cut or color of it or what kind o’ trimmin’s it ’ad! So I know just what you mean! Now, if you’ll come this way, m’lady, I’ll show you the best parlor first. You came at just the right time, you did; the murals were just ’ung up t’other day.”
But at the door, with her hand hovering over the ornate gilded handle shaped like a naked nymph with long, flowing hair, she hesitated once more. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but are you sure you want to see?” She jerked her head back at the portrait of the Queen. “There’s more o’ that sort o’ thing, if you take my meanin’.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Dowe.” I gave a comforting pat to her arm. “I assure you, I am well aware of my husband’s friendship with the Queen.” The look on Mrs. Dowe’s face told me that she knew just as well as I did that friendship was not the best word for it, and, to reassure her further, I amended, “I mean, of course, his intimate friendship with Her Majesty. Now, please, if you would be so kind, I am most eager to see what my husband has done with the house.”
Mrs. Dowe nodded and gave a little shrug. “As you will, m’lady, this way,” she said, and she turned the door handle, though I had the distinct impression that she thought I was only torturing myself and better that I go to the Tower and have myself racked rather than explore Robert’s house any farther.
The best parlor was a sizable room, “the largest in the ’ole ’ouse, m’lady, there not bein’ a Great ’All,” Mrs. Dowe explained. The curtains and upholstery were done in a rich deep brown velvet trimmed with gold fringe and tassels, and the floor was carpeted entirely in a brown carpet woven in gold, tawny, and various shades of green with a pattern of acorns and oak leaves. I was amazed to see it. I had seen, and even owned, smaller squares of Turkey carpet, but never one such as this that covered the whole floor, reaching from wall to wall. What it had cost Robert I could not even begin to imagine. The candles rose out of gilded sconces and candelabra shaped like wreaths of oak leaves and acorns, and the carved oak ceiling and wall paneling continued the same pattern. But it was the murals covering every wall that took my breath away and left me reeling, groping behind me for a chair—and not a moment too soon—as my knees gave way.
In the common clothes of a milkmaid and her gallant swain, the Queen and Robert cavorted through a series of bucolic, pastoral tableaux. In the first they shared a kiss over the back of a cow Elizabeth had apparently just finished milking, as its pink teats still dribbled drops of white milk into the wooden pail still sitting beneath, which a sly tabby cat eyed longingly. In the second, Robert lifted her over a stile, swinging her in such a way that her trim ankles and shapely calves showed. Next he crouched by the river, peeping through the reeds, to spy on her as she bathed, her nakedness barely veiled by the blue water and waves of long, rippling red hair. In the fourth mural they held hands and stared longingly at each other as they herded a flock of geese. And in the next, as a shepherd and shepherdess, they stole a kiss while minding the sheep. Then they progress
ed to lying together, embracing, in a haystack. And in the seventh—the one that tore at my heart most—they stood together beneath a mighty oak tree, gazing upon the ruins of a sprawling manor house where sheep grazed upon the overgrown grass and thistles as a rainbow spread over it all; from the looks on their faces, they were dreaming of the future and making plans. And in the eighth, and final, painting, they danced high-spiritedly together at their wedding, Robert lifting Elizabeth high in a white gown embroidered with golden flowers, surrounded by smiling faces and bountifully laden tables.
Lest I break down and fall weeping onto Mrs. Dowe’s shoulder, I sprang from my chair and hurried out.
“And now the other rooms please, Mrs. Dowe,” I said quickly in a miraculously steady voice.
Each successive room was like a shrine to Elizabeth, with her portrait prominently displayed.
In a yellow room decorated with gilded suns, she wore a golden gown with her hair like a sunburst rippling about her shoulders. In the next room, done in midnight blue adorned with pearly white moons and silvery stars, she was gowned in the same colors and emblems within a silver gilt frame, as chaste Diana with a silver crescent moon and diamond stars and ropes of pearls entwined in her elaborately styled hair, all coils and plaits and cascading curls, falling past bare shoulders as white as alabaster.