Queen's Pleasure

by Brandy Purdy

  I nodded in agreement; that was my assessment of the reason behind the lengthy separations during their marriage as well.

  “I am Queen of this realm, Cecil, and I have many champions, but Amy Dudley hasn’t any, so I, as Queen, mother and sworn protector of all my people, must enter the field on her behalf. Robert’s ambition shall not be the sword that slays her!”

  “Turn that sword on him then, Madame,” Cecil advised. “Let the sword of Lord Robert’s ambition that would cut down any who stood between him and his desires, including his innocent and ailing wife, puncture his dreams instead; his ambition shall bleed out, but not his life’s blood. Let the rumors of his murderous intentions murder his ambitions instead of Lady Dudley!”

  “Yes!” I breathed. “Icarus shall burn himself. He already has the wings—we need only supply a breeze to help him soar!”

  Cecil and I sat up late into the night, and by the time the sun had replaced the moon, we knew what we would do.

  “I thought he was safe, Cecil, because he is married. I thought, here is a man, a dear old friend from childhood, with whom I can laugh and play and never have to worry about his wanting more than I am willing to give. I can have the best of both worlds, passion and male company without the commitment and control of matrimony, without surrendering my independence or rule. I thought he was safe, and yet he has turned out to be the most dangerous of all; he has put both my reputation and my crown at risk. And I cannot allow matters to go on as they are. It has to stop, and stop now. This is the end, Cecil, my last summer of folly. I have been playing Blindman’s Buff with the truth, trying to evade it for too long. Now I must stop and unbind my eyes and confront it before it destroys me.”

  Like a kind father, Cecil patted my arm. “You are young, Madame, and love often confounds our hearts and heads. But hearts heal, heads clear and grow wiser, and it is my daily and nightly prayer that God shall soon send Your Majesty a good husband, one who is worthy of you, who will give you children to safeguard the succession.”

  I glanced down at the weighty gold and onyx coronation ring glittering in the morning sun upon my left hand and shook my head. “No, Cecil, I am already bound unto a husband—England—and I want, nor shall I have, no other. As for children, every person, young or old, male or female, with English blood coursing through their veins is my child. And for me, that is enough. When the stonemasons come to carve my tomb, let them write that Elizabeth, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin.”

  I knew what I had to do. Things had gone too far for me to escape unscathed. I would suffer the stains of suspicion and scandal—there was no help for it—and that would be my penance. But I would survive—that was the important thing. I had done it before, and I could do it again, but for Robert, it would be a different story.

  “Dear, are you quite sure you wish to hunt today?” Kat asked, alarmed, as she helped lace me into my buff and russet riding clothes, fussing with the gold frogs, bugles, and aiglets that adorned the sleeves and bodice. “You’re so pale!” She pressed a worried hand to my brow to check for fever. “You look as though you haven’t slept at all!” As indeed I hadn’t, but I forced a smile and assured Kat that all was well.

  Cecil was waiting for me when I emerged from my chamber, pulling on my gloves, the plumes on my hat bouncing as we strode briskly toward the stairs on my way to the stables to meet Robert.

  “I know what I have to do,” I assured him. “I don’t like it, but ...”

  “Remember,” he said as we paused and faced each other at the top of the stairs, “Lady Dudley is going to die. You cannot save her, and neither can any doctor or medicine known to man—no one but God Himself can save her. The words we are each this day to speak shall do her no greater harm than the London gossips and Lord Robert have done already. For the little blemish that will, unavoidably, mar Your Majesty’s reputation, you prevent a greater evil from taking place—the murder of a dying woman—and thwart her husband’s ambition to be King—you put the knave back in his place. Lord Robert would not serve England well, as he will always put his own interests first.”

  “I know,” I sighed, “and never fear, Cecil, I shall not fail to play my part well. There is Ambassador de Quadra now.” I nodded down at the approaching dark-clad figure of Don Alvaro de Quadra, who had succeeded the Comte de Feria as our Spanish Ambassador. “You go ahead, Cecil, and speak your lines. I have, as we rehearsed, forgotten my riding crop.”

  As I turned and walked slowly back to my room to retrieve it, I knew the words Cecil would be speaking. In an anguished voice, accompanied by wringing hands, he would, in a seemingly unguarded manner, let spill some rash words that de Quadra would eagerly lap up, venting his despair for me and England, blaming Robert for keeping me from affairs of state, his own feelings of defeat. He would point the finger of blame right at Robert, accusing him of making himself “lord of all affairs, and of the Queen’s person, to the extreme injury of the whole kingdom,” claiming I cared only for pleasure and the company of my handsome horsemaster, who “leads her to spend all day hunting and all night dancing with much danger to her life and health.” And in hushed tones he would confide that he was considering retiring from public life to live quietly in the country with his beloved wife, Mildred, as “it is a bad sailor who, on seeing a great storm brewing, does not seek a safe harbor while he can.” Then, the coup de grâce, his eyes darting about to make sure no one was near enough to overhear, he would grasp de Quadra’s arm and draw him nearer as his voice dropped to an even lower, barely audible, whisper, and confide: “He intends to murder his wife. He has given out that she is very ill, with a malady of her breast, when in truth she is not, and on the contrary is quite well. She has completely recovered from the malady of the breast that did afflict her, and, having heard the rumors, takes all precautions to protect herself from poison. But God would never permit that any good could ever result from so great and evil a business!”

  When I reappeared at the top of the stairs, I took a deep breath and steeled myself. Then, like an actor stepping from the wings onto the stage to play before an audience, I became who I needed to be, letting the real Elizabeth sink below the surface of the giddy, heedless, frivolous, and light-minded young woman I must pretend to be for Ambassador de Quadra. Smiling, twirling my riding crop, and humming a love song, merry as a young girl on her way to meet her swain, I skipped down the stairs toward where Cecil and de Quadra stood with their heads together, conversing still. They broke apart, like a pair of guilty schoolboys caught at some mischief, but then Cecil leaned in again and whispered urgently into de Quadra’s ear. I knew he would be imploring him to, with all due tact and discretion, speak to me, “for the love of God, warn her of these dangers, and persuade her to be watchful and wary and not to ruin herself and her kingdom! Lord Robert would be better off in Paradise than here!”

  “You two look as thick as thieves!” I declared, inserting myself between them, to link my arms with theirs, like a trio of old friends, before Cecil made his excuses, disengaged his arm from mine, and left me alone with the Ambassador.

  As we walked toward the stables, de Quadra wished me a happy birthday. I was seven-and-twenty that day, and it was time for me to put aside childish things and grow up and fully become the Queen I was meant to be. The time to play had passed, and there was no use mourning it—no good could come of it, only fond, bittersweet memories. And there would be diversions from time to time, many entertainments to please even the most capricious monarch, and pastimes with good company such as my father enjoyed and wrote of in his famous song by that name, and I could, and would, be content with that; it would be enough. Fleeting youth had passed, almost overnight, rushing breathlessly past in the blink of an eye, and now, on the morning of my twenty-seventh birthday, I was wide awake and saw clearly what I had to do. I smiled and gave my full attention to Ambassador de Quadra walking beside me. He was saying that he had brought me many fine gifts from Philip, my erstwhile brother-in-law, who
, though he had since forsaken my hand to marry another, still loved me like a brother and remembered me with great and most tender fondness.

  I could not suppress a smile at those words, for I knew quite well what memories Philip cherished of me—of the spy-hole he had drilled in my wall, through which he might watch me dress and bathe, and of the kisses and bold caresses we had shared, when I had thrown back my head as his hot kisses traveled down my throat to my breasts as I rapturously sighed, “¡Algún día, Philip, algún día! Someday, Philip, someday!” and clutched tightly his head, the jeweled rings he had given me glittering amidst the thick waves of his burnished gold hair—back in the days when I had needed his protection against my sister’s jealousy and madness, when the passion of a Spanish prince stood between my life and the scaffold.

  “Have you heard about Lady Dudley?” I asked casually as we stepped outside, slapping my riding crop against my skirts as we approached the stables where Robert awaited me. “Is it not sad? She is only a year older than I am. She is dead—or nearly so—but, please, don’t say anything; you know how people delight in gossiping. Ah, there is my Sweet Robin now! Robin!” I called gaily, waving my riding crop in the air, and I slipped my arm from de Quadra’s and ran to meet him, lingering, clinging, a moment too long in his arms as I let him lift me into the saddle, before he swung himself up onto his own mount, gesturing to me and calling out to de Quadra, “Our Queen has such a passion for riding, she is mad for speed, and she says the geldings I provide for her are too tame and wants them while they are still wild and barely broken!” Then we rode out to spend yet another day riding in the Great Park followed by another mad and merry night dancing together. But, for me, it was tinged with sorrow, for only I knew that it was the end, that we could not go on this way. Somehow I knew that the summer that, despite the cold and foul weather, I would always remember as golden had ended and would never come again. This was the last breath of that summer, and I was determined to breathe it in as deeply as I could and savor it before I exhaled and let it go forever.

  32

  Amy Robsart Dudley

  Cumnor Place, Berkshire, near Oxford

  Sunday, September 8, 1560

  Now here I lie upon my bed in Cumnor Place, perhaps or perhaps not drinking Death from a bottle meant to lull and soothe me, to dull and diminish my pain, and let my soul float away on the calm waters of sweet rest.

  The house is cathedral-quiet with all the servants away at the fair, and I smile at the thought of apple cider, cinnamon cakes, and gingerbread babies—I can almost smell and taste them, and this time, strangely, it doesn’t make me even the least bit sick—jugglers, acrobats, morris dancers, puppet shows, and fortune-tellers, performing horses, dancing bears, and learned pigs who know their sums and letters better than I, and a whole rainbow of silk hair ribbons billowing out from the peddler’s booth, flapping and streaming in the breeze to catch the eye of a passing maiden and say, “Come hither!”

  My mind is not at peace, and it hasn’t been for a very long time, but my body can rest, and my mind can think in peace. By sending everyone away, I have made sure of it, by giving them a day of fun and merrymaking, I have bought myself one day of solitude and silent, undisturbed contemplation. I can try to make sense of it all, puzzle it all out, put the pieces into their proper places, and see them in the right light, and decide what to do, whether to fight for a life I am not sure is worth living anymore. I want to believe it is, that every life is worth living, that there might still be something to look forward to, and yet I cannot; I fear I would only be deceiving myself with false hope, dashing my own hopes the way Robert always used to do for me.

  The angels and demons in my head pull me every which way until I feel like I am playing Blindman’s Buff with myself, while the demons laugh to see such fun and the angels sigh, shake their heads, and weep. One moment I want life, the next I desire death, and all the time I pray to God to deliver me from my desperation. I am so tired, so very, very tired. I’m tired of fighting, of being confused and afraid, of the hopelessness and despair, of every day feeling the sharp-fanged bite of the pain that saps the strength out of me, of not knowing whom to trust or what to do, of fearing poison or an assassin lurking in the shadows, and of loving and hating Robert, and knowing that he and his royal mistress are impatient and tired of waiting for me to die. I’m tired of it all, so very tired.

  I reach out and lovingly caress the cracked leather cover of Father’s old prayer book, lying on the table by my bed. I open it, and let my fingers trace over the words written on the day of my birth: Amy Robsart, beloved daughter of John Robsart, knight, was born on the 7th day of June in the Blessed Year of Our Lord 1532. I hope, wherever he is, that Father cannot see me now, and what I have become. He would be so sad and, I am afraid, ashamed to see me so wasted and worn, with all my hopes dashed to nothing, my dreams dead, and my spirit gone, I who used to be so exuberant, so full of life, as busy as a bee from morn till night, bustling about the manor, with a smile always on my lips, and often a song, and a kind word for everyone, taking care of everything. But now ... My days are like a shadow that declineth; and I am withered like grass. I raise the bottle to my lips and drink deeply, swallowing hard, the way I used to my husband’s lies and his seed, and I let my head fall back again onto the cloud-soft goosedown pillows as the comforting warmth seeps slowly through me, spreading from my head to my toes, making me feel almost as though I am awake and asleep at the same time, and I float further away from all the disasters and dilemmas that overwhelm each moment of my life, making it more Hell than anything remotely near a Heaven.

  Dreams beckon to me, enticing and inviting me to sail away from it all to find something better. My eyelids grow heavy, and I let myself drowse.

  Yesterday was the Queen’s birthday. I see her in a pink gown dancing a smoldering volta with Robert. As the music pulses and thrums like blood within veins, he lifts her high, and her full skirts bunch up to show off her red stockings. I used to wear red stockings too. As he holds her high, lust hangs hot and heavy in the air, mingling with Elizabeth’s rose perfume; sweat glazes their flushed faces; and her red hair slips its pins, falling down to tickle his face; and as he lowers her, oh, so slowly, her body presses and slides sensuously against his. Their desire for each other is so blatant, it is as though they are making love on the dance floor for all to see. And then the scene changes. I am on the beach with Robert; he brandishes a stick at a blue green crab that nips at our bare toes. But then the crab starts to grow until it is enormous, bigger than both of us. Robert drops the stick and runs, but I stand there, petrified, staring after him as he flees without a single thought of me. I feel a sharp pinch in my left breast and turn to see it spouting blood. In a fury, I launch myself at the crab, mockingly prancing on its many spindly little legs that seem too delicate to support the giant creature, and snapping its big fiendish claws in the air like a Spanish dancer’s castanets, pummeling its hard shell with my angry fists, kicking and screaming at it, futilely pounding my fists upon the great pinching claw that closes around my waist with a pain that makes me feel as if I am about to snap in half. “Let go of me!” I scream as I feel my bones break. “This is my life; it’s mine, give it back! I don’t want to die!” Suddenly the claw opens, and I fall, breathless and shaken, to lie, huddled and gasping, on the wet sand. In the distance before me I see my father standing in an apple orchard, ringed in hazy gold and rosy mist and light, and the sweet scent of apple blossoms fills the air, and I breathe it in deeply and feel stronger for it. He smiles broadly, all wiry gray curls and apple cheeks, his eyes filled with love, just the way he used to be, as he stands in a shower of apple blossoms and beckons to me, “Come home, lass, come home!”

  Suddenly my eyes snap open, and I am wide awake, alert and on guard, with such a tense, wary feeling, as though danger infuses the shadows that are crowding in on me as the sun sets. Someone is watching me! I feel the cold prickle of fear, like icy fingers, up and down my spine,
and the relentless, unwavering pain. I want to run as fast and as far as I can, to outdistance it and leave it gasping and panting in the distance, to stop and laugh and wave back at it and go on my merry way, free at last from this most irksome and unwelcome companion. From the corner of my eye I spy a movement. Was it a sound I heard that awoke me? A footstep? A rustle of garments? A scrape of metal as of a dagger being unsheathed? Or am I being silly, letting my imagination and fear get the better of me again. Was it merely Custard or Onyx after a mouse? Frozen by fear, I am almost too afraid to turn my head and look, but I have to, even though the motion of my head moving makes me dizzy and I feel that strange sensation of there being a delay between my mind telling my body what to do and my head complying. I gasp and whimper as a pain, like a sharp crick in my neck, makes me instantly regret the movement.

  There is a man, a dark man standing in the shadows! I see him! His nose like a knife in profile! Sir Richard Verney! He takes a step toward me. Robert has sent him to Cumnor to kill me! Poison has failed, so now he will use a knife or his bare hands!

  I ignore the pain, even as it explodes like fireworks within me, filling and burning every part of me, as though my heart were dry tinder lit by the falling sparks, blinding me with a dizzying burst of colored stars obscuring my sight, as the instinct to preserve life impels me to bolt from my bed and run, just run, heedless of direction, as fast as I can, to escape Death at the hands of Richard Verney. I fly, as though I had wings on my heels, out my door, and down the Long Gallery to the stairs. I feel fur brush my ankle, and I stumble as an outraged Meow! reaches my ears. But I cannot stop, I keep going, I glance back over my shoulder so swiftly, I cannot tell if he is coming in pursuit of me, though I know that he is, I feel it, though I cannot see through the dense dazzle of colored sparks that crowds out my vision, making me feel as if I am staring down a long, dark tunnel, straining to see what is at the end, but if there is even a pinprick of light there, I cannot see it. As I turn my head, I hear a pop! At the same time as I feel it, a pain in the side of my neck, like that which comes from forcing it to turn suddenly and hard whilst there is a terrible, aching crick in it, that makes me gasp and my hand fly up, even as I try to glance back over my shoulder.