Queen's Pleasure

by Brandy Purdy

  I keep running, and in my haste and horror, I forget the awkward twist in the stairs where they turn, curving down toward the landing. I have not left my room in so long, I remember it too late, and then a scream—my scream!—pierces the quiet of Cumnor, and I plunge down, headfirst, almost like a child turning cartwheels in a daisy-strewn meadow, down into black-velvet darkness. The edge of one of the stone steps gashes open the back of my head; I feel the skin split. As my head strikes the floor, I hear a sickening snap, like a foot coming down on a dry branch, and I see, through the crowded haze of the dancing, drifting rainbow of specks and sparks, my rumpled skirts and my feet resting on the stairs, higher than my head, and realize to my horror that I cannot move them. I try and try, but I cannot move my legs, my feet, my fingers—or anything! I cannot move! Not even a tremor, not even a twitch! And past my feet, I see my blood glittering dark in the frail, flickering candlelight, staining the steps where my head struck; it oozes and drips down, moving like slow baby snakes, newborn and going out to explore the world, and I think my blood, which can still move, has more life left in it than I do. It is getting harder to breathe, another fireworks display bursts inside my heart, and the darkness is crowding out the sparks that dance before my eyes, driving them away, and they go, docile as a flock of sheep following their shepherd. And I feel a warm wetness beneath my head, being soaked up by the golden sponge of my hair, and a stinging, a burning, in my scalp, but I cannot reach up to touch, to feel it!

  Am I awake or dreaming? I do not know! Oh, God, help me! Oh, please, God, please let this be just another bad dream! It has to be! It has to be! I must be dreaming! The Queen is on the stairs, when I know perfectly well that she is at court and cannot truly be here at Cumnor, so it must be a dream, it must! But I see her, plain as day, standing there upon the landing, her white gown glowing bright as a sun-struck cloud, radiant, near blinding white, spangled with rubies, as if her dress were weeping tears of blood, and her hair, piled high and curled and bedecked with pearls, and her lips as red as violence-spilled blood against the stark marble white pallor of her smooth, cold, hard, emotionless face. Her eyes are canny and shrewd, dark and knowing. She is at once the most beautiful and the most terrifying woman I have ever seen. She shakes her fist, rattling the pair of ivory dice she holds within, and hurls them down the stairs straight at me. They land upon my lap, just below the point of my embroidered bodice. I cannot see the dots, but I don’t need to; her voice tells me what I already know, plain and matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion: “The winner takes all.” A map—of England, I think—unfurls upon the landing beneath her, and a jeweled scepter and a weighty orb of gold appear suddenly in her elegant white hands, and a gold and jeweled crown shines brilliantly upon her head. Then she is gone—or is it my sight that has gone?—all is darkness, the most stultifying, terrifying, breath-stealing blackness with no hint of light at all! The breath catches in my throat, as though a pair of strong, cruel, murderous hands were pressing, squeezing, hard and tight. I gasp and choke, but I cannot get my breath out! I cannot breathe! It is all slipping away from me. I cannot hold on to anything, not even my breath!

  But then the veil of darkness lifts, as if it had lain over my face and been of a sudden snatched away in one quick whisk. And I see the phantom gray friar standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at me; though my eyes still cannot pierce the darkness inside his hood, I feel his gaze upon me.

  And I realize something suddenly, as abrupt and startling as a sudden slap in the face coming unexpectedly out of the dark. Maybe I have not lost after all?

  My death will not roll out a velvet carpet leading up the aisle of Westminster Abbey to a crown and a royal bride for Robert. That dream is as dead as I soon will be! My death, just like my life, will keep Robert and Elizabeth apart forever. Each time they kiss, it will be over my tombstone. My death is my victory, not theirs! That was what she meant when she said, “The winner takes all.” Elizabeth is a survivor; she will outlive the scandal of my death, though my blood might stain her hem a little, but Robert won’t; she will keep her crown, but Robert will lose all hope of his; and my blood will stain him forever, and he will never be washed clean of it. He won and lost what he wanted all in the same moment. He wanted my death to set him free, but the world will judge my death too opportune; there has been too much talk of poison and intent to kill; Elizabeth will never marry him now. Robert isn’t worth risking her kingdom for; she will not suffer a bloodstained consort to sit on the throne beside her and try to snatch the scepter from her hand.

  The gray friar slowly starts to descend the stairs, coming toward me; then he is standing beside me, looming over me. The hands he formerly held clasped at his waist, entwined with his rosary, rise up. He lowers his hood, and, at last, I see his face, bathed in golden radiance. It is the kindest, most beautiful, compassionate face I have ever seen! He smiles as he kneels down and gathers me tenderly into his arms. As he lifts me up, I feel all the pain, the fear, the aching loneliness, the wearying weight of worry, anger, resentment, despair, tiredness, and sorrow fall away from me; it is as though I am rising, but all that stays behind, stuck down below me on the ground where it cannot touch me. I wrap my arms around his neck—I can move again! He smiles at me. And in his arms I am at peace. I feel so warm, safe, and wanted, and, most of all, loved, truly loved, more than I have ever been before. I could not have had a more easeful death.

  33

  Elizabeth

  Windsor Castle, London

  September 9–20, 1560

  I was having the most peculiar dream when a hand, rough with urgency, reached out and shook me from the land of dreams, where anything is possible.

  I raised my rumpled, sleep-befuddled head from the pillow, brushed back my hair, and blinked in surprise at the sight of Cecil standing beside my bed in his mulberry velvet dressing gown, slippers, and tasseled cap, a candlestick clutched tightly in his hand, which trembled so mightily, it caused the flame to waver and dip, casting an eerily flickering shadow upon the wall. Kat, who must have let him in, stood a few steps behind him, her once matronly plump and ample form now seemingly swamped, lost in the folds of her voluminous white nightgown, her long gray braid protruding fuzzily from beneath her white ruffled cap. She let out a little cry and—too late—clapped a blue-veined hand over her mouth to stifle it, when Cecil, with a solemn frown, announced that Amy Dudley was dead. She had died yesterday, though the news had not yet spread far; one of his informants had only just brought him word of it, wakened him from a sound sleep, and he had come at once to me. But, he continued gravely, he fully expected the news to reach London and be the talk of every tavern by nightfall, and we must be prepared to weather the storm of scandal like sailors at sea besieged by a mighty gale; we must hold on, and hold fast, and brave the wind and waves and not be swept overboard, nor let the ship of state capsize or be deluged and dragged down.

  Astonished, I sat up in bed and hugged my knees. I had known that she was very ill, beyond the power of any but God to save, but I had not expected her to die so soon, so suddenly. And after we had decided to use the rumors in our favor, against Robert, to break his accursed ambition and douse the fire that burned so hot within him to be King. Only two days ago—two days!—I had told the Spanish Ambassador that she was dead, or nearly so, and now she was. What terrible, terrible timing! I clapped a hand to my brow and shook my head. I could scarcely believe this was happening!

  “How did it happen? The cancer?” I asked softly. “Did she suffer greatly at the end?”

  “Madame”—Cecil looked at me sadly—“it was not a natural death.” I gasped, and my mouth fell open wide. “And suffer, I fear, she did,” he continued, “though I pray I am mistaken and that the end came quickly. She was found dead at the foot of the stairs, with her neck broken, the hood on her head still in place and her skirts but little disarrayed, not immodestly as one would expect after falling head over heels down a staircase. That morning she had sent away all who would g
o—even her maid, Mrs. Pirto, practically the entire household—to attend the fair at Abingdon, leaving her quite alone; they discovered her late Sunday afternoon upon their return. Mrs. Pirto was about to mount the stairs to bring her lady a gingerbread baby and some hair ribbons she had bought for her when ...” Cecil paused sadly. “... when the tragic discovery was made.”

  “Oh, no, Cecil, no, not like that!” I cried. Suddenly, I stopped, the wheels of my mind turning in a loathsome direction, and I flung my legs over the side of the bed and reached out and caught hold of his sleeve. “Look at me!” I ordered. “Look at me, Cecil, and swear to me that you had no part in this! I know you dislike Lord Robert... .”

  “Madame, I swear”—Cecil met my eyes—“I had no part, and no foreknowledge, of this dreadful deed. I am just as surprised as you are! I would not have my Sovereign’s hands stained with blood through me, nor have her live always under a pall of suspicion. And someday I must meet my Maker, and though I am not without sin, Lady Dudley’s death is not one of them.”

  I nodded. I believed him; I knew instinctively that he spoke the truth.

  “But people will think that—” I began.

  “Madame,” Cecil interrupted me, “take heart, I implore you; it is not so bad as it first appears. It is true, your reputation has suffered a blow, but it is not a fatal wound, merely a stain on your hem compared to the tar and feathers Lord Robert will wear in public opinion for the rest of his life; many will always look at him and see his wife’s blood on his hands, and such a man is not fit to be King. But you will survive; you will go on, past this; you are the phoenix that rose from the ashes of Bloody Mary’s reign, and you will rise above this too. Like you, I wished Lady Dudley a gentle end to her suffering. After all the rumors of poison, even before we staged our little drama for the Spanish Ambassador, there would have been suspicion even if she had died quietly in her bed, with the cause conclusive and indisputable, but it would have been whispered, not shouted from the rooftops and in the city streets. But, nevertheless, with this unexpected tragedy, our work is done—Robert Dudley will never be King now, and Lady Dudley, God rest her sweet soul, is past her pains and has not died in vain.”

  “But did he do it, Cecil?” I demanded. “Did he do this?”

  “Madame, in truth, I do not know,” Cecil answered. “There must be an inquest, a full investigation... .”

  “... a full and earnest searching out and trying of the truth!” I finished for him; Cecil and I understood each other so well, we could at times finish each other’s sentences. “No stone must be left unturned to discover the truth! And if it is found that he had any part in it, Cecil, he shall pay, just like any other man in my kingdom so condemned. My favor shall not save him. And that is not just idle or angry talk, Cecil. Justice will not turn a blind eye for Robert. As Dr. Bayly feared his name and medicines’ being used to cover Robert’s sin, nor shall my crown cover his crime if he has committed one. When I became Queen, I asked you, Cecil, to never spare me any truth I need hear, even if you knew it would be displeasing to or pain or anger me, and I meant it, and I still do. Though I know there have been times when I have seemed to ignore those truths and have vexed you no end, though I have been like a willful, rebellious girl determined to go her own way, that girl has grown up, Cecil, and said farewell to her dreams and the follies of her youth. Now, find me the truth, Cecil—uncover it, lay it bare and naked, cold as a corpse, before me, and do not shrink from showing me! I must know!”

  “Majesty, it shall be done,” he promised.

  “When my mother went into the Tower, she laughed when her gaoler sought to comfort her by saying that all subjects of the King have justice. In my reign, Cecil, none shall ever laugh when such words are spoken; instead, they shall know it for the truth, that even the most helpless and humble shall have justice in Elizabeth’s England. I leave all to you, Cecil. I trust you to see that all is done exactly as it should be. Keep a watchful eye on Lord Robert; he must not be allowed to interfere. I know him, Cecil. He has charm and winning ways, but he must not be allowed to use them to—”

  “Madame, we cannot stop him from trying, but we can prevent him from succeeding. Mrs. Ashley, if you would be so kind as to bring Her Majesty’s dressing gown.” Cecil spoke softly to Kat, then continued, politely turning away as I stood, clad only in my thin summer nightshift, and slipped my bare arms into the proffered gold-embroidered tawny velvet robe, “I hope Your Majesty will forgive the presumption, but time being of the essence here, I have anticipated your desire, and I have already the very man to assist us, one who has Lord Robert’s trust, whose duplicity he would never for a moment suspect; indeed, if it were even suggested to him, I think he would laugh. He waits now in your private garden, if Mrs. Ashley will open the door... .”

  “Quickly, Kat.” I nodded.

  And a few moments later an ashen-faced, wild-eyed young man with a riot of rumpled ginger curls standing up like springs upon his head, and freckles standing out starkly against his pallor, was standing before us. I recognized him at once—Thomas Blount of Kidderminster, Robert’s country cousin, the one he used so often as his courier, sending him riding back and forth across the country on one errand or another, that the lad hardly ever felt solid ground beneath his feet for long and felt ill at ease in polite society and at a loss without the body of a horse gripped between his knees.

  “A perfect choice,” with an approving nod, I murmured sotto voce to Cecil.

  Belatedly, Thomas Blount executed a hasty bow, and when his lips brushed my hand, I felt their coldness. I caught his chin in my hand and stared intently into his face. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and the still-moist tracks of tears were even then drying upon his cheeks. Cecil had already imparted the sad news, and clearly young Master Blount was much affected by it; he looked as though he might be felled by the merest touch of a feather.

  “Come sit down with us by the fire,” I said kindly, taking his arm and guiding him to a chair. And once he was settled with a goblet of wine in his hand, I began to speak softly to him. “I am told you are a great collector of tales,” and at his nod I continued. “Well, Mr. Blount, there is a damsel, sadly now departed, but when she walked this world, much distressed, for whom you can, if you will, still render a great service.”

  “Amy ... I ... I still can’t believe it.” He gulped back a sob. He looked first at me and then at Cecil. “Are you sure she’s r-really gone? She’s dead? Not just injured from her fall?”

  “Sadly, in this instance we are not mistaken,” Cecil answered. “Lady Dudley is indeed departed from this world.”

  “But”—I reached out and touched his hand—“you can still help her, Mr. Blount. And”—I gave him a long, searching look—“I think you want to.”

  “I do,” he affirmed. “Oh, yes, Your Majesty, I do! I wish I had been there. I ... But what can I do? How can I help her now?” Tears overflowed his eyes again and began pouring down over his cheeks.

  “You can help her spirit rest in peace,” I said. “You can help ensure that she has not died in vain, that her life is not a sacrifice on the altar of another’s ambition, that his purse does not tempt Justice to look away, to ignore Amy as he so often did. Let us have it plain, Mr. Blount. I know you have heard the rumors about myself and Lord Robert. Despite what they say, I never intended to marry him under any circumstances, certainly not over his wife’s dead and broken body. Lord Robert refused to believe that; he was blinded by the glare of his own ambition.”

  “But, in order to help Lady Dudley, you must be the Queen’s man first, rather than Lord Robert’s,” Cecil interjected. “I know he is your cousin, Mr. Blount; are you capable of ignoring the ties of kinship? Can you do that, Mr. Blount? Can you serve the Queen before Lord Robert? Can you serve Lady Dudley before her husband?”

  “Yes!” He swallowed hard another sob and nodded his head emphatically. “I can. I can do that—anything for Amy, anything! I ... I ...” He shook his head hard and brav
ely fought back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. “He didn’t love her like he should—I could see that. I ... I thought he was a fool. She was so ... so sweet and good, I could never believe that he wanted her dead. I thought it was just mean and idle gossip. If I had known ...”

  I nodded and sat back in my chair, letting my spine, and my hands’ grip on the arms of my chair, relax a little and dangled my gold-braided tawny velvet slipper from my toes. “I believe you, Mr. Blount. My mother once said to my father, ‘All that glitters is not gold.’ Lord Robert, for all his glittering vibrancy, his fine looks and manners, is not gold. And sometimes gold doesn’t shine as brightly as it should; sometimes its sparkle is hidden, obscured by the mud. And thus I think it was with Lady Dudley; she was like a diamond rough from the earth that lacked polish and shaping, but precious nonetheless, and I lament her loss, as I can see you do as well, Mr. Blount.”

  Thomas Blount gave me a startled look. “You didn’t know her, and yet you understand her, I think, better than he ever did. She tried so hard to please him, but ...” His words trailed off, and he shook his head, the sadness and confusion plain upon his face. It was clear that Thomas Blount would never make a good card player, but, to serve my purposes, he didn’t have to face his cousin over a card table.

  “I am a woman, Mr. Blount. Just because I am the Virgin Queen does not mean I know nothing of life; my father had six wives, and history, even one’s own, is an excellent teacher. Now, then”—I leaned forward—“here is what you are to do. Doubtlessly, as he is so accustomed to doing, Lord Robert shall send you riding to Cumnor Place quite soon, to be his eyes and ears, to discover all about this dreadful business that you can. And you shall indeed do just as he commands, but”—I held my finger up—“you shall do nothing to interfere with the workings of Justice. If Lord Robert bids you speak with the coroner and the jurors or give them money or gifts, tell him whatever nonsense you please, that the jurors are well disposed to him, that you have dined with the foreman, played cards with the coroner—write a fine story for him, Mr. Blount, one that he will believe, one that I and my Lord Cecil will think credible when we read your letters—as we indeed will—but you are not to consort with or befriend the jurors, the coroner, or anyone officially or informally associated with this case. Invent out of whole cloth or embroider on the gossip you overhear in the street and tavern to fill your letters to Lord Robert, and relate whatever you hear at Cumnor—do not lie about that, as he will be in contact with others there—but do nothing that he tells you; you are my man now, Mr. Blount, and you follow my orders, not Lord Robert’s. And do not attempt out of any cousinly loyalty to warn Lord Robert of this or to secretly carry out any orders he gives that are contrary to my own; you cannot serve us both, and you will be watched, Mr. Blount. Yours are not the only eyes observing this tragedy and awaiting its outcome, and if you do seek to put Lord Robert’s desires before Justice, I will find out. If he killed Amy or paid the hand that did, his life will be forfeit like any other murderer’s; do not become his accomplice or abettor after the fact, Mr. Blount.”