by Alexa Schnee
“Wear it, my love, won’t you?”
The ring glinted in the candlelight. The gold band shone and winked like a flirtatious courtier. I hesitated before I took it, but Henry waited expectantly for me and I did not know what else to do. I slipped it on my finger.
Now it was official. I was his mistress. It took some time to force myself to do so, but I wrapped my arm around his. I glanced at his profile. His nose was quite prominent—a trait of his royal lineage.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and the next thing I knew, Frances and I were being escorted back to our chambers by two maids. Margaret had apparently worried about us and sent them to keep us from making fools of ourselves. I can only imagine what she thought when she saw the state Frances was in. She smelled of wine and perfume, a disgusting combination of smells that repulsed me in my sober state, and her hair was disheveled from a frisky kiss with one of the courtiers. She hiccuped uncontrollably and laughed whenever one erupted.
“Go to bed,” Margaret demanded. “Now.”
I nodded and started to turn to go to my pallet. I should have been watching Frances more carefully rather than worrying about Henry Carey.
Frances crossed her arms across her chest. She refused to go to bed or to listen to Margaret.
“I was having fun.” Her words were slurred.
“That’s apparent,” Margaret scolded. “The men can wassail all they wish, but we are ladies, and we shall act that way.”
Frances agreed, but only because she was too wobbly to make her way back to the Great Hall. We both went to our mattresses, Frances swaying as she walked, with thoughts of wine and handsome men likely still on her mind.
THINGS AT COURT QUIETED down after the madness of Shrove Tuesday and Twelfth Night, and in the calm, rumors began to fly about the queen. Mostly they were rumors about war with Spain.
“They say the queen has broken his heart,” Lady Bess whispered over her sewing one night at Greenwich Palace. She was referring to the king of Spain, Philip II. “She should not have refused his marriage proposal so many years ago. Spain waits with its armada. There’s not a chance we could survive if they were to attack.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Frances said. “I’m tired of hearing of such things.” She did not sit with the other ladies and sew. Instead, she sat a bit away, near the window, so she could look out into the courtyard.
“I have not heard any of this,” I insisted. I moved myself closer to Lady Bess.
“They are simply stories, Emilia,” Margaret said from the other side of the room. She sat in her favorite chair with the roses embroidered on the arms.
When people have nothing to occupy their minds, they turn to things that will. The queen was the subject of other kinds of rumors too, ones involving Sir Walter Raleigh, the captain of our armada. I didn’t know what to believe. I myself had never seen him enter her chambers or come close to her at important dinners, but others knew better than I. After all, I was a newcomer to the world the queen commanded.
I WORE HIS RING, but even two weeks after Shrove Tuesday, Henry Carey still hadn’t called for me. He sent small gifts, mostly necklaces and rings, but I began to hope he would change his mind. Margaret wasn’t so sure.
“He will call for you,” she said. “It won’t be long.”
I hoped she was wrong, but I continued to receive his gifts. I pulled the ruby ring from Shrove Tuesday off and on again, over and over.
I learned some new songs to play on my harp, and that kept my mind at ease. Whenever I worried about Henry Carey, I would simply focus on making music and writing. The simple country melodies and my pen scratching across the parchment reminded me of less complicated times at the home of the Countess of Kent.
I thought of my parents and how they had done so little for me before their deaths. The only loving thing they had done was to send me to the home of the countess, where I could be raised as a lady. I might have always lived in a cottage and worried where my next meal would come from if they had not sent me away to be educated. But even if I hadn’t come to court, I still would not have been free. I would still have been forced to marry. I still would not have had a choice.
I had just finished pinning up my hair for the night when I heard a knock on the door. Frances answered it and told the maid yes, I would come. The ladies-in-waiting rushed around me all at once. Margaret pushed them away to reach me. She instantly began unpinning my hard work.
“Tonight you shall go to him as you are. A young, beautiful virgin.”
My hair fell to my waist. It was shiny and healthy. For once, I liked how dark I was. I looked mysterious. I had never looked so beautiful, and I hated that I had to waste it on this man.
I felt a tear run down my cheek. I hadn’t known I was crying. I wished I could be in the countess’s arms once again, back when I was a child, before she first told me what awaited me at court. I had never wanted this.
Life was not fair to the young. The old had it better. They could choose who they wanted. It was even better to be the queen. She had the power to choose her lovers, and to choose lovers for others. A simple lady like me had to do what others told her. I couldn’t do anything but hug Margaret and Frances, wishing things could be different.
“Good luck,” Margaret whispered in my ear.
I squeezed her hand in thanks. Frances ran a hand through my loose hair.
“What a shame,” I heard her say quietly.
I followed the maid down the hall. The only light came from a maid’s candle and from the brilliant moon, which shone through the stained-glass windows. Silver shields and weapons glinted off the walls. I felt as though I was doing something terribly wrong, even though I was doing my queen’s will. She was sovereign. Appointed by God. If she commanded it, it was right. My soft footsteps sent tiny echoes through the empty halls.
We were all ants serving the great queen. We were doing her will for the good of our home, the good of England. Whether I wanted to bed Henry that night or not did not matter. If the queen thought it was the best, it was what I would do.
We stopped in front of a large wooden door. I knew Henry Carey would be waiting inside. For the first time in my life, I did not like Her Majesty.
THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN Henry Carey left me to watch the sunlight dancing on the chamber floor, I dressed, opened the well-built door, padded down the ornate hallways, and went to the bath. I passed by Frances, snoring and tossing. Margaret slept peacefully, and I tried not to awaken her as I made my way to the bath chamber adjoining our rooms.
I fetched my own water. It was no use calling the handmaidens at this hour, and I did not wish for anyone to know I was back yet. I was not ready for questions. I could do the task by myself. I stripped off my nightgown, dropped it onto the floor, and dipped a cloth into the basin where I had poured the water. I placed it on my skin. The warm water burned, and I felt clean. The previous night would never go away, but I tried to forget as the warmth from the cloth engulfed me.
I wiped down every inch of my skin, trying to rid myself of Henry Carey, but he was now a part of me. Men had it so lucky. They could have however many women they wanted and still feel free. I felt nothing but disdain for him, and I wished I had worked up the courage to refuse him. Was it such a terrible thing if I did not get married? It wasn’t as though I were Frances or Margaret. I was a musician’s daughter with no purse at all. Would it be such a crime if I didn’t agree to matrimony?
I found myself twisting the ruby ring until it was entirely off my finger. What if I dropped it into the water and left it? When he asked where the ring was, I could say I gave it to a poet who visited our chambers that afternoon. That would keep Henry Carey away from me.
I ran my hand across my stomach. Could I be with child? If I became pregnant, I would be free of Henry. I thought of the other mistresses who had been assigned to older men at court. They had found freedom once they discovered they were expecting. I could raise the child with my husband, and we would be supported by the
baron for the rest of our lives. He was rich enough to give us a handsome sum. There must be a child in my belly. There just had to be. If there was, I could leave the old man behind forever.
HENRY WAS A BUSY man. He had a wife at his estate, whom he visited often, and he was the queen’s first cousin and one of her favorite companions. In addition to being a direct relative of Her Majesty, he was also an honored war hero. He sat near the queen at most events, and he sat in Parliament. We had not been together long when he received the honor of becoming Lord Chamberlain—a patron of the arts. His loyalty had won him the honor of overseeing all the entertainment that came to court.
We sat in his lavish chambers at times. My master liked to have me there when he worked. I did not often say anything and only spoke when addressed. I spent hours buried deep in his velvet-covered chairs. This day, however, I had brought a pen and a piece of parchment to write upon. As my scribbling added to his, Henry’s head shot up.
“What are you doing, love?”
I hesitated before answering. “Only writing.”
He stood up, and I shrank back. My father had done the same when I was but a child. I would write while hidden in the barn and in nooks and crannies of the house, away from sharp eyes, but he always found me. Even though my hands stung when he took the stick to them, the longing to write had not disappeared.
“Proper ladies do not write.” Henry grabbed a corner of my page.
“The queen writes verses.” I struggled to keep the paper in my hands, even though his hold on it was stronger.
He smiled. “Yes, but Her Majesty is our sovereign, my dear. She can do whatever it is that pleases her. You”—he glared at me, but somehow gently, like he did not really wish to say this—“are only a lady.”
I dropped the paper and let him take it away from me. What use was it to fight the order of things? He locked my page in his desk with a firm thud then turned back to his work.
In the silence, I began to think of my father. I thought of the hours I had spent in the elegant homes of dukes and earls, traveling with his company in the bitter winters. The company was still active after his death, but I had heard they were limited on funds.
It was several hours before I found the courage to address Henry again.
“My lord?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
He looked up. “Yes?”
I laced my words with honey. “I have heard that you have been presented the honor of becoming Lord Chamberlain. I have an idea, if you are willing to hear me.”
I had been thinking about this request since I’d heard the news but had only just built up the courage to ask. He stood up from his desk again. Making his way over to the matching chair, he nodded and motioned with his hand for me to continue.
“As you know, my father was a musician. After his death, his company decided to continue to perform around the countryside, but without the queen’s favor—which my father had earned—they have not been invited back to court. Would you be willing to ask them to court?”
Henry stroked his chin. His foot tapped to an unheard melody. Would he reprimand me and scold, or would he consider my desire?
“I like the idea. I would be happy to support your father’s company, my lady. We will do so in honor of your father, Baptista Bassano. Who knows? If it is successful, I might even think of investing in some kind of other amusement for Her Majesty. A theatre company, as well, perhaps? An excellent thought, my dear.”
He kissed me on the forehead before dismissing me from his study. I couldn’t help but smile as I navigated the halls of the palace. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I had done something good.
HENRY CAREY VISITED ONE afternoon in early February. He was wearing a fine doublet, so I knew he had been in session with Parliament. He brought news of the queen. Her cousin, the queen of Scotland, was said to have conjured a plan to have Elizabeth killed.
Margaret had run past our pallets in the middle of the night to Her Majesty’s chambers. Her robes flew behind her while she rushed toward the sound of the loud cries. During the day she would have dark circles under her eyes—almost as black as the queen’s.
They were accusing the Queen of Scots of treason, and Queen Elizabeth, by law, would have to sentence her cousin to death. Yet she was hesitant. We knew she was troubled. It was hard for any of us to sleep because of the noises from the queen’s chambers, and we knew that for both political and personal reasons, she was having a difficult time deciding the fate of her kin.
And then, one afternoon, she chose.
“It is official,” Henry said. “The Queen of Scots is to be executed.”
We sat alone in the chambers; Margaret and Frances had let us be. Snow hit lightly against the windows as we talked, creating a steady rhythm.
“Mary was Elizabeth’s heir,” Henry said. “Now she will be forced to proclaim James, Mary’s son, as the future king.” He shook his head. “More Scottish blood vying for the English throne.”
“Are there any other options?” I asked, biting my lower lip.
“A few.” He shrugged his shoulders. “There are relatives, but there aren’t as many as you might think. I myself am under consideration.”
I stared at him. I couldn’t imagine this man on the throne. He was a good baron and Lord Chamberlain, yes, but could he hold England together like his cousin had?
“Scotland won’t be happy if it is refused the throne,” I said.
Henry scoffed.
“They hardly deserve it. They are a bunch of barbarians. I hear they still worship the old gods with fires and obscene acts.”
I ran my hands over the arms of the chair I sat in.
“Still,” I argued, “Scotland would be a part of England and civilization if young James was to inherit them. That would be some improvement over what they are now.”
Henry’s face looked as if he was thinking over my argument. He smiled a little.
“My dear, you grow more and more like my aunt every day. She had a way of twisting things to make herself always seem right.”
I did not want to be compared to Anne Boleyn anymore. I prayed often and shunned the Catholic pope. The only sin I committed was with Henry, but that had been my queen’s wish, so it was not a sin. I was pure, but Anne Boleyn had been clouded with treason and adultery. I was doing the will of Her Majesty, while she had only thought of her own goals. I hated being considered similar to that witch.
The large clock in the chamber chimed.
“Is it two already?” Henry asked, pushing himself to his feet. “I’d best be getting back to Parliament.”
Henry excused himself and left. I was once again alone. Silence was my companion as I thought over what he said. If there was no heir, the queen might be forced to take a husband, something she had refused since her coronation. If she were to bear a son, then her legacy would continue. If she didn’t, she might have to give her throne to the Scots, and that was unthinkable.
THE NEXT DAY, FRANCES and I decided to take a walk in the freshly fallen snow. We bundled up in our furs and coats and went out against Margaret’s insistence that our hems would become soaked if we journeyed into the cold. Snow covered the ground evenly, hiding the brown earth. I felt like a child, picking my way through. The queen’s favorite oak tree was bent over from the weight of the snow.
“Have you heard that the Queen of Scots has proclaimed her innocence?” Frances loved gossip, and she smiled as she passed this on. “That’s a death sentence for certain.”
“Frances.” She was right, of course, but it was nothing to laugh at.
“Maybe your old toad will take the throne after all,” she said, her eyes bright. “He’s been under Elizabeth’s influence for a long time, and with him being the queen’s brother—”
“Cousin,” I reminded her.
Frances’s eyes lit up. She was delighted to have another piece of gossip to tell me. “There are many who say he is actually King Henry the Eighth’s son.”
; “How could that be possible?” I said. “I thought Henry’s only mistress was Anne Boleyn.”
Frances laughed.
“King Henry is as infamous for having as many mistresses as he had wives, if not more. Henry is the son of Mary Boleyn, Anne’s sister. She was married to William Carey at the time, but she was the king’s mistress first and foremost. Everyone knows she spent more time in his bed than her husband’s.”
“So Henry Carey is the king’s son?”
She nodded and then rolled her eyes. The Countess of Kent had never been much for court gossip, so I hadn’t known much about life at court until recently.
I wondered about my master. The queen’s brother. No wonder he was in such a high position to take the throne.
But surely he wouldn’t take the position. He was the kind of man who would only want the responsibilities he chose. I didn’t think he would choose to become king.
Suddenly Frances let out a shriek.
“What’s the matter?” I exclaimed.
“I have just thought of something amazing.” She looked me in the eyes. “You could be the queen.”
“What?” I stopped walking.
What could she be thinking? I was not related to the queen. I had only known her for a few weeks.
“Listen.” She sighed. “Henry Carey’s wife is getting old and could die at any time. If she died or is pushed aside, then you would be an obvious choice to replace her. Or if you could bear him a child, then your child would be in line for the throne. It would even be better if you bore him a son…” She trailed off.
“You mean to say my child could become a king?” I asked.
Frances began to dance in the snow, kicking some up on her dress.
“If you would accept his hand in marriage….”
“I wouldn’t,” I stopped her.
Frances stopped dancing.
“What?” It was now her turn to look confounded. She stared at me with a mixture of confusion and disdain.