Queen's Pleasure

by Brandy Purdy

  And in a room of deep forest green velvet and dark wooden paneling, with a plaster ceiling painted with hawks swooping after sparrows and other small birds, and wildflowers blooming on a Turkey carpet beneath my feet, she was mounted, regal and proud, a commanding presence, sidesaddle upon a handsome bay hunter in a flowing-skirted green velvet riding habit and feathered cap, with a hawk on her wrist.

  The next room was the library, lined with shelves of leather-bound books with the Dudley coat-of-arms gilded on every one; they were a bewildering assortment of works on mathematics, cartography, navigation, astrology, astronomy, alchemy, history, warfare, and geography. Even the ones in English seemed writ in a foreign language to me—I could scarce understand a word of them. And, presiding over it all, was a portrait of Elizabeth in a buff-colored gown trimmed with gold and russet silk braid with a wide ruff edged in gold cushioning her chin, and a feathered hat set at a rakish tilt. In her leather-gloved hand she held the chain of a trained bear that stood up on his hind legs beside her, his paws reaching out as if he wanted to embrace her. It was as though Elizabeth’s slim figure had replaced the ragged staff clutched in the Dudleys’ bear’s claws. On each side of the portrait hung a large framed chart, an intricate and elaborate horoscope, beautifully embellished with stars and other symbols. One was for Elizabeth; the other was, of course, for Robert. But I noticed one glaring error—upon each chart the date of birth was given as September 7, 1533, when I knew very well that my husband had been born in the same month and year as myself, though some days afterward, on June 24, 1532. Had he spun a tale for Elizabeth about it being written in the stars that they were destined to be together? “We two are one—it was written in the stars at the hour of our birth.” Truly I could almost hear him saying those very words, in a hot, velvety voice whispered into an all too willing ear that was eager to hear them. It was easy to imagine, because that had once been me, lapping it all up like a cat does cream.

  Robert’s desk sat in the center of the room, and I saw that a letter lay upon it, as if Robert had been called away while writing it. Curious, I picked it up and read these words addressed to Elizabeth:

  I am your Ursus Major, your great bear, and forever shall remain in the bond-chain of dutiful servitude, fastened to you above all others by benefits past and your daily goodness continually showered upon me.

  I let it fall from my hands.

  “Shall we go upstairs now, m’lady?” Mrs. Dowe asked anxiously, peeking curiously over my shoulder at the letter I had just dropped back onto the desk, and I nodded readily.

  “There was a large portrait painted of me in my wedding gown,” I said suddenly, turning to Mrs. Dowe as we mounted the stairs, the posts carved to depict Robert and Elizabeth as various classical gods and goddesses, “with a goose beside me and a big bouquet of buttercups—my favorite flower—in my hand.”

  “Is that so, m’lady?” said Mrs. Dowe. “Why, that sounds charming! Just charming! I ’ope to see it ’ung ’ere someday. Perhaps Lord Robert will ’ave it ’ung in the yellow room downstairs, with the buttercups you mentioned—it would look just grand down there, it would!”

  “Perhaps he will,” I said, though I would not have risked a penny bet upon it now that I knew for certain that there was no room for me in Robert’s life anymore, not even for my portrait in his house. There weren’t even any buttercups—my flower—amongst the country blossoms blooming in his white marble urns. Heaven only knew what had happened to that portrait; I hadn’t seen it in ever so long. I hadn’t even been allowed to pack my own things when I moved first to the Hydes’ house and then to Compton Verney. Had it been lost along the way somewhere, or did it languish forgotten in some musty attic, or had Robert ordered it destroyed because he did not wish to be reminded of me and our marriage and how happy, how much in love, we had once been? Did it even really exist, or had I only dreamt it? That radiant, happy bride I had been seemed so lost and distant these days, sometimes I thought she was only a figure in a fairy tale, a happily ever after story, not someone who ever actually lived and breathed. If only I could see that portrait again, if only I could take Robert’s arm and lead him to stand before it ... that portrait was the proof—the proof that it had not all been just a dream!

  In a sky blue sitting room adjoining the master bedchamber silver-framed portraits of Robert and Elizabeth, both clad in that heavenly hue, faced each other from opposite walls.

  I hardly dared set foot in the bedchamber for fear of what I would find there, but I forced myself and crossed the threshold to behold a massive bed clothed in regal purple velvet edged with deep bands of ermine and sewn with pearls and embroidered with golden crowns set with tiny ruby, sapphire, and diamond brilliants. Draped over the back of a purple-cushioned and ornately carved and gilded fireside chair, which more than a little resembled a throne, was a red velvet dressing gown bordered with ermine, very like royal robes to be worn for some lofty state ceremony, and a gold-embroidered nightcap made in such a way that it mimicked a jeweled crown set with diamond and ruby brilliants. And, dominating the room, from over the mantelpiece, was a portrait of Elizabeth in her bejeweled gold and silver brocade and ermine coronation robes holding the scepter and orb in her hands with the crown atop her flowing hair.

  There was another door, and I crossed quickly to it and flung it wide and immediately wished I hadn’t. A startled cry broke from me, my knees buckled, and I almost fell. Clinging to the doorjamb like a cluster of quivering grapes, I regarded what was obviously the nursery.

  Robert and Elizabeth stood side by side in a portrait hanging over the mantel, smiling down upon a gilded cradle swathed in purple velvet and topped by a radiant golden crown that glittered blindingly when the sun poured in through the window and struck it. An ermine blanket was already turned back as if a prince would at any moment be laid down there for a nap. And there were shelves filled with all a child might desire and need, from cups and bowls to piles of linen napkins and a vast array of toys, including gold and silver rattles, some of them set with gems, that mimicked scepters in their shape. And there were chests—I defied the pain that pierced my heart and opened one—filled with swaddling bands and beautiful little garments—exquisite tiny gowns, coats, and caps—embroidered with gold and silver threads and trimmed with the finest lace, and silk ribbons, and a magnificent christening robe of crimson velvet furred with ermine and trimmed with bands of gold. I let the lid bang shut and, with a hasty “thank you” to Mrs. Dowe, I sped down the stairs, crying out in all my anguish, babbling hysterically: “He means to be rid of me, by divorce or death, he means to be rid of me, to have his minions poison me, murder me, so he can make her his wife! He will kill me to be King!” I rushed out the door, slamming it behind me, fleeing the house that was a monument to my husband’s regal ambitions and the woman who was all he desired, and I flung myself into the carriage, calling to the driver to “take me away from here. I don’t care where, just go! Go! Go! Go!” I screamed, pounding my fists and stamping my feet. “Drive!”

  He took me back to the inn, but when he came to open the carriage door for me, I had composed myself sufficiently and stubbornly shook my head and sat up straight, like the lady Robert always wanted me to be.

  “Take me to my husband; take me to court,” I said grandly, in a calm, level voice. “Wherever the Queen is in residence, that is where my husband will be.”

  “Very well, m’lady, but you might ’ave said so before; your ’usband’s ’ouse is right near Richmond Palace, it is,” he said, heaving a sigh of weary exasperation as he closed the door and climbed back up onto his box, mumbling something about the minds of females being as stubborn and contrary as mules.

  He drove me to Richmond Palace, and I stood for a moment stark still, gape-jawed and gazing up at the vast profusion of golden turrets, pinnacles, and towers shining in the September sun. When I heard someone laugh and turned to see them pointing at me, I hurried inside, flush-faced and flustered at having shown myself such a count
ry bumpkin the first time I ever saw up close a palace. In truth, I cannot remember very much about it now, I was so frightened, except the urgent press and constant babble of the crowd within. There were so many of them—tradesfolk, commoners, and all those waiting to present petitions to the Queen, servants in a rainbow of varied liveries, black-gowned scholars, and statesmen with great golden chains hung about their necks, ambassadors from foreign lands chattering in foreign tongues and bearing gifts for Her Majesty, and the ladies and gentlemen of the court all dressed like colorful birds of paradise—all chattering and squawking as if the palace were a giant gilded cage full of parrots. I walked like one in a trance, dazed, befuddled, and terrified by all the constant and confusing color and clamor, overwhelmed by the grandeur, all of it blurring together, trying and failing to make sense of it all, and feeling like running away and bursting into tears the whole time.

  A beautiful young lady with high-piled auburn hair, dressed in an ornate gold-embroidered gown of vivid, brazen pink, with her bodice cut daringly low, detached herself from a group of gorgeously appareled ladies and gentlemen and gently tapped my arm with her feathered fan and asked if she might be of some service. Up close, I was startled to see how young she really was beneath all the paint—surely not more than sixteen or seventeen.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find my husband?” I asked timorously, adding quickly so she would know whom I meant amongst the many gentlemen at court, “I am Lady Amy Dudley—Lord Robert’s wife.”

  “Ah! So Lord Robert’s wife is not a phantom after all! She really does exist!” the bold young redhead trilled, seizing my arm and pulling me over to those she had been conversing with. “This,” she announced, “is Lady Amy Dudley—Lord Robert’s wife!”

  “Well done, Lettice!” a golden-haired girl in gold-spangled spinach green and turquoise blue applauded. “I was well-nigh certain Lord Robert’s wife was imaginary, a figure of fantasy he had invented to keep the ladies at bay! Well, most of the ladies,” she hastily amended, darting a knowing glance at a portrait of the Queen that hung high upon the wall as if she were looking down, watching over us all.

  “Why, she isn’t sun-browned at all!” another exclaimed, eyeing me up and down with amazement. “She’s as pale as I am! I was expecting a nut brown wench, sturdy and broad as a plough horse!”

  They all looked at me as if I were a freak in a fair. They made me so nervous, the way they stared and put their heads together and whispered and tittered behind their fans, that I wondered in horror if I might have some unsightly blemish upon my face. I even glanced down at my gown to make sure it had not become stained, torn, or wrinkled. Could they smell the stink of my bandaged breast? I wondered fearfully and nearly raised my arms and hugged them over my chest, but at the last moment I caught myself, fearing that would lead their eyes exactly where I wished they wouldn’t go. I found it very hard to meet anyone’s eyes and timidly touched the auburn-haired girl’s sleeve and asked, “Please, do you know where I might find my husband? I have come to London expressly to see him.”

  “Of course! Forgive me. You have come a long way and are impatient, and I can see how tired you are.” She smiled, showing teeth that were a little too sharp to be reassuring, and ... there was just something about her that made me suddenly doubt her sincerity. “Come this way,” she beckoned. “Follow me.” And, being surrounded by strangers, I had no choice but to obey.

  She led me through a lavish suite of rooms and out into a small walled garden.

  “This”—she leaned in close and confided in a whisper—“is the Queen’s private pleasure garden,” placing a lascivious emphasis upon the words that called to mind startlingly vivid and lewd imaginings of Robert and the Queen romping and cavorting nude, frolicking with wild, wanton abandon amongst the flowers and trees like Adam and Eve. And my mind hurtled back to Hemsby, and the free and wanton way we had loved and played upon the beach, and it made my heart ache to think that he would share such pleasures with another.

  It was then that I heard voices, a man and a woman’s mingled laughter, and my memory bounced back to Robert and Mollie the milkmaid in the stable. My escort drew back, but with a wink and a mischievous waggling motion of her fingers, urged me onward. And, like iron shavings drawn to a magnet, being pulled ever forward, unable to resist the urgent, insistent tug, I followed the flower-lined path until I saw them sitting together on the grass beneath a shade tree.

  They were in each other’s arms. Robert’s head was in the crook of her neck, kissing it ardently, while she, with eyes closed and lips parted ecstatically, clasped his dark head. Her hair was in disarray—somehow I just knew he had plucked the pearl- and diamond-tipped pins from it and left them where they lay, scattered on the grass—and her gown hung down, exposing one shoulder, so white against the black velvet of her bodice, it might have been carved of marble. To my horror, I saw that she wore a heavy, quilted crimson velvet petticoat thickly encrusted with pearls, diamonds, and silver embroidery, just as the gossipy serving woman had described.

  Was it true, then? Had he given her a child? A child that should have been mine, as a balm against my loneliness, to fill my world now that he had left me, forsaken me for another. He had given her everything! Everything!

  At my hurt, tearful gasp her eyes shot open wide, and she thrust Robert from her.

  He whirled ’round to face me, and I saw the fury blaze up in his eyes as he leapt up and lunged at me.

  I jumped back, away from him, and reached up and, without bothering to undo the clasp, ripped the amber heart from my neck and flung it onto the Queen’s lap.

  “Here is his heart, the one he gave to me! But you might as well take it too; you’ve taken everything else!” I cried, a sob mangling the last word.

  I didn’t look at her face. I couldn’t bear to. I didn’t want to see the laughter in her eyes, gloating and mocking me because I had failed at the only thing that mattered.

  Then I spun ’round, only to see the brazen, pink-clad beauty called Lettice bent nearly double, laughing at me, cradling her ribs as if they ached within the tightly laced confines of her stays, with a giggling, dark-haired girl in milk-and-water silk beside her.

  “Poor Robert!” Lettice blurted through her laughter. “She’s so far beneath him!”

  The brunette nodded, her dark ringlets bobbing in agreement, and added, “Even if she stood on tiptoe on the highest mountaintop, she still could not hope to even brush her fingertips against the soles of his boots!”

  “Oh, how low can a man go?” Lettice crowed.

  “For shame, Lettice!” The blonde in turquoise and spinach green approached and slapped her arm reprovingly with her fan. “And you too, Frances! I think you’re being awfully mean to her!”

  “Oh, Douglass!” What a curious name for a woman, I thought! Lettice groaned and rolled her eyes. “You were ever a tender-heart!”

  “I sometimes think my sister is too soft a creature for court,” Frances agreed. And that was all I heard as I rushed past them.

  Blinded by tears, I ran on and on, pushing and shoving my way through the palace, not caring whom I blundered into or whose toes I trod upon, until I burst out the door and hurled myself back into the carriage, screaming at the coachman to “Go! Hurry! Take me away from here, back to the inn, at once! Now!”

  I don’t know how he found me, but Robert came to me later that day. The pain went so deep that I was almost numb. He said that I had made a fool of myself, and him, that I had embarrassed him and made of him a laughingstock. That was what this was really about, not his betrayal of me and our marriage vows, and his dalliance with the Queen—upon that subject he had nothing to say.

  “Do you hear me?” Robert grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me so hard and fast, it was all I could do not to be sick upon his shoes. “You have offended the Queen! You fool, do you know how serious this is for me? I am the most important man at court. I am the Queen’s Master of the Horse. Everything to do with
the horses and transportation of the court is my responsibility. I am in sole charge of buying, stabling, training, breeding, and physicking every horse in the royal stables. I personally select the horses the Queen and courtiers and foreign visitors ride for leisure, hunting, and travel. I make sure each person has a mount perfectly suited to them, gentle palfreys for the timid, aged, or inexperienced riders, and fast, spirited animals for those who prefer and can handle them. I choose the packhorses and mules for when the court travels. I plan the processions and organize the routes and stopping points—all of that is entrusted entirely to me, and I have full responsibility for planning all the court entertainments—the pageants, tournaments, masques, banquets, and balls. It is my duty to be there whenever the Queen rides out, to ride immediately behind her, and to be there to help her mount and dismount. No one but me is to do it, no one! And now my wife has offended the Queen!”

  “You mean by existing.” I nodded knowingly. “I offend Elizabeth by the mere fact that I live and breathe and wear your ring upon my finger! It is easier to wrong a woman when she is buried alive in the country—out of sight, out of mind, as the old song says! For how can you hurt, how can you wrong, someone who doesn’t even exist as far as you both are concerned and who doesn’t know what is going on? I would imagine her conscience suffers fewer pangs that way, since she cannot see with her own eyes the pain she causes! Since I am not welcome at court and we live apart, far easier to pretend that we are estranged, so she can use that too as an excuse to steal my husband! And doubtlessly you lead her to believe that it is true! That we have parted amicably and willingly gone our separate ways, to each his own! Do you lie to her too, Robert? Do you tell her that I don’t love you, that I am well content with my lonely state and don’t want or need you? Do you lie to her as well as with her?”