Jeane Westin

by The Virgin's Daughters (v5)

  St. Gregory the Great’s Day

  March 12, 1599

  Mary climbed the stairs at Richmond Palace immediately behind the queen, who trailed her scent of Tudor rose and musk. The queen’s ermine-trimmed silver gown was splendid with a black silk shift pulled through slashed oversleeves. A mass of seed pearls covered every inch, making it so heavy that the queen seemed to have trouble lifting it, but Mary dared not offer help unless it was asked for. She remained surprised to have been singled out alone of all the ladies to follow immediately behind Her Majesty to the council chamber. The queen usually did not leave her apartment without a large and regal retinue and every possible display of her royal dignity.

  Outside, Mary heard an early spring storm sweeping in from the west, thunder rattling the sturdy old towers.

  “Pish! Pish!”

  With a concealed smile, Mary thought a storm about to break under those towers as well. “Majesty?”

  The queen didn’t answer, but gave sure signs of being displeased about something. Mary thought she knew the source of that anger. Not Essex this time.

  After numerous begging but proud letters filled with tributes to the queen’s beauty, jeweled gifts and petitions from his friends, he had finally returned to court, although not quite to his former favor with Elizabeth. Mary had heard her mutter after reading one of the earl’s letters, “I mean to stand upon my importance as he has stood upon his pride.”

  She flirted and jested with Essex almost as before, but there was a distance between them, and she often took occasion to chastise him for mischief she would formerly have tolerated as youthful high spirits. All her ladies remarked that the queen no longer called him her Wild Horse. So far, he had been careful not to repeat the disastrous behavior that had propelled him forcibly from court. Lady Warwick thought they were reconciled, but Mary was not so sure, and sensed that the queen watched and waited. Her Majesty had spent a lifetime watching and waiting and knew well how to bide her time.

  Elizabeth climbed slowly up the staircase and Mary measured her steps to the queen’s, wondering if Elizabeth’s current displeasure was caused by John’s pamphlet “A New Discourse on a Stale Subject,” his novel plan for a better jakes. He had not resisted including jests with double meaning. The pamphlet was thought indecent by the queen, who was careful to monitor the reputation of her court . . . though she had ordered the installation of the clever device next to her privy chamber.

  “How does Boy Jack’s invention work?” The queen sent the question back over her shoulder. John had explained the device to the queen and shown his drawings to her several times. Was Her Majesty becoming forgetful? “Come up to us,” Elizabeth said, impatiently waving Mary forward.

  “Your Grace, Sir John is installing a water cistern which flushes the closestool, wherein a stopper prevents foul odors rising from the pit.”

  “A water closet? He was always a clever boy . . .” Elizabeth said, but her voice swayed with her body and she took Mary’s arm to steady herself. “You spend too much time with Boy Jack, mistress.”

  “Majesty, I must attend to my duties as your mistress of the closestool.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, yes. We grant he is a charming rogue, but do not think to marry him.”

  Mary tensed and the queen sensed it. “When the time comes, daughter, we will provide a better husband for your good service to us. Someone of fortune and good name. An older man, we think, to balance impetuous youth.”

  “My thanks to Your Majesty.” What else could she say when offered what every lady of little rank and small fortune was said to want? And why should such high regard sadden her when any courtier would think her fortunate? The queen had noticed her work, after all. But of what future time was Elizabeth speaking? Her death? She didn’t release her ladies easily . . . unless they were pregnant and unwed. Then she drove them away, sometimes with blows, and always in disgrace. Mary took a deep breath. “Your Majesty, I have no desire to wed.”

  “So you have told us, but we have eyes, mistress.”

  What had the queen seen? Surely Mary had shown no outward favor toward John. Or had her strict caution been as telling? She could not know. She hardly knew her own mind. John had been much with her these past months, and gradually she had become less guarded with him, finding him . . . well, good company. And, she reluctantly admitted, good to look upon. And thoughtful.

  He had sent her a gift of his translation of Ariosto with an inscription: Books give not wisdom where none was before. But where some is, there reading makes it more. She thought of those words often, because they were so like him: a bit arrogant, but engaging despite her every effort not to be charmed.

  At first, she had kept a good distance, but when he made no ungentlemanly move, she had relaxed. Still he had not approached, until the game reversed almost without her knowing it. She put herself in his way, only to make him more careful. Perhaps he believed she was still angry, though she’d given every indication that she was not. Maybe not every indication.

  Courtiers bowed on either side of the council antechamber and seemed not to notice the queen’s wavering step, though Mary knew they did. The entire court was on a death watch in this, the queen’s sixty-fifth year. And the queen knew it, battling age at every turn. When her doctors advised her to stop riding out or walking in her gardens on windy or rainy mornings, she had scoffed: “We have buried six doctors and will live to bury you and all your physicks, plasters and purges!”

  Did the queen think herself immortal after all? She had purchased an elixir of perpetual youth from the famous Dutch alchemist Cornelius Lannoy. It was foul to taste and costly, so highly recommended. But as wrinkles were added to Elizabeth’s pale cheeks, the man had been sent to the Tower before he could escape the country. Fooling the queen was treason.

  Her Majesty stopped before her council’s high doors, waiting for them to be opened, which they were immediately. “Attend us, Mistress Mouse.”

  Mary moved forward, bearing some of the queen’s weight on her arm. Lady Katherine Grey had told Mary of attending the queen in council. A lady’s job was to pretend to hear nothing of council business and to speak not a word of it later, no matter who asked or offered expensive gifts.

  The council rose. Young Robert Cecil, the son of William Cecil, Elizabeth’s late well-beloved adviser, stood from his father’s seat opposite Elizabeth. Now the Secretary of State, he was short and crook-backed, with a bland expression that revealed nothing of his clever brain. A large pile of state papers lay before him on the tapestry-laden table.

  Mary knew that Elizabeth called him her Pygmy. Such nicknames were a sign of her favor, so everyone had said. Mary doubted Robert Cecil liked his favor much more than she liked Mouse, though she was the only woman to have been honored with a special name. Why? Was it jest or endearment?

  The queen’s older councilors, along with Sir Walter Raleigh, sat on one side of the long carved table. Essex, the Earl of Southampton and other younger council members sat across from them, spoiling for war. Essex acknowledged Mary with a frown.

  “Sir Walter,” the queen said, wrinkling her nose, “you have been at the pipe again. We like not your weed.”

  Raleigh bowed, his hand upon his heart. “My humble pardon, Majesty.”

  Impatient, Elizabeth sat and the council was seated, scraping their chairs forward. “That other isle is always troubling,” the queen announced, squinting hard at the map on the opposite wall. She refused to use the perspective glass her doctors had provided. “That traitorous villain the Earl of Tyrone has risen again in Ireland, destroyed our army, and is now scheming with the Spanish to send another armada against us. Ireland is England’s back door; we cannot allow it. We are minded to dispatch Lord Mountjoy as our Lord Lieutenant with a new army.”

  Mary moved a step to one side of the queen’s high-backed chair to better watch the discussion. Essex was clearly angered by the appointment. Robert Cecil showed nothing, but Mary was convinced he weighed every wo
rd.

  Essex spoke and for once kept good control of his tongue. “Your Grace, this expedition needs a military man of vast experience, a noble who has commanded an army in battle.”

  Cecil spoke softly. “My lord, that description points to you. Do you propose yourself?”

  Ignoring Cecil, Essex bowed to the queen where he sat. “Trust me, Majesty. I will hand to you an Ireland on its knees.”

  Contemplating her hand, holding a quill to sign the warrant, the queen muttered, “We have seen treason in trust.”

  Mary saw red rise up Essex’s neck to his cheeks, deepening the color of his russet beard.

  The queen shrugged. “Yet let it be so ordered.” She signed the warrant with her elaborate swirling signature more quickly than usual.

  Surprised at Elizabeth’s quick change of mind, Mary wondered if the wily old queen had maneuvered Essex into a trap where he could either redeem himself or lose her favor and the people’s adoration forever. Did Elizabeth know in advance that he could never allow another man to have the honor of leading an English army, needing military glory as most men needed breath? Putting together what Katherine Grey had taught her about the queen with what she had learned in the past two months, she wondered if Elizabeth had indeed been devious. But why would she be so, when she so obviously loved him? Was this one time when the queen did not know her own mind, or was this a test where Essex could redeem or sink himself and she would bear no blame?

  As Mary watched, she saw triumph rise in Essex, quickly followed by doubt. Ireland had been the sinkhole of more than one courtier’s career, trapping English armies for centuries in its impenetrable bogs. But Essex must know he could not refuse without losing what status he’d regained. She saw triumph on more than one face at the council table. Robert Devereaux, the Earl of Essex, was a man whose pride and scheming had made him many enemies, even among those who could have been his friends.

  He quickly regained his composure. He smiled at Elizabeth, his tousled hair and unlined face looking younger than his more than thirty years. “Majesty, I would have my lord of Southampton at my side and . . . Sir John Harington as my master of horse.” He glanced at Mary.

  Mary was startled. Why had Essex insisted on John to accompany him? The two men had not regained their old friendship, since John was seen by most in the court to have behaved more honorably, if surprisingly. Did Essex seek to keep John close as someone who might gain in influence while he was gone, or was he simply the best man and Essex knew it? Mary had many questions and no answers.

  The queen stood, signaling an end to her patience and the meeting. “You may have Boy Jack when he has completed his work for us.”

  “Majesty,” Essex said, also standing, “surely this great venture has more importance—”

  “We yet rule here, my lord Essex, and we decide where importance lies. It will be as we will it.”

  The queen swept from the chamber, everyone bowing behind her except Essex, whose youthful face was dark with anger. His friend Southampton had a grip on his straining shoulders.

  Trumpeters, drummers, yeomen guards and some courtiers were assembled outside to escort the queen to her presence chamber, where she would hold an audience for petitioners.

  As soon as the queen was seated under her domed throne, Polish ambassadors approached in long black velvet robes and presented petitions in Latin from their king. The Polish king demanded that the English queen stop interfering with his shipping trade. Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, the queen’s sea dogs, roved the sea-lanes, while the queen looked the other way . . . and accepted a third of their captured treasure.

  Elizabeth heard the ambassadors out, her eyes flashing and dark with anger, then stood and spoke her mind in the elegant Latin of diplomacy. Mary knew the queen’s Latin was graceful, though she caught only a phrase here and there. The arrogant ambassadors dropped to their knees in rapt astonishment before the royal onslaught.

  Finally, smiling with satisfaction as Cecil stepped forward to offer his hand, the queen announced, “We are well pleased, my Lord Secretary, that we have this occasion to use our rusty Latin.”

  Mary bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud. The queen studied her Latin every day and had since she was a girl. It was about as rusty as her crown. At that moment, Mary lost the last of her fear of the irascible old queen. From childhood, Mary had admired this ruler, who had taken the small island nation her father left her and made it a world power. Who would not long to serve her in her brilliant court, at the center of all England? Now Mary felt something much more than pride of position. She could not help but love Elizabeth. It was a love not unlike Mary’s love for her grandfather, indebted and tender. And wholly accepting.

  One afternoon, while the queen met with her councilors in the royal apartment’s inner chamber, objecting loudly to the costs they projected for the Irish venture, Mary went to inspect the progress on John’s new water closet. The workers were at their supper, and John was not there or in the old closestool chamber.

  Aimlessly, she walked back to the ladies’ antechamber.

  “Mary, the queen is having only a little watered wine for her supper today. If you would dine,” Lady Warwick offered, “the great hall will provide.”

  With a curtsy, Mary left to join the other ladies. The passages were emptier than usual, or contained straggling cooks carrying sugar plates and other confections. She was very late for the meat dishes and bread, which would be cold from the icy drafts sweeping through the old palace, though Richmond was considered the warmest of all the queen’s residences. Since Mary had no taste for a sweet meal, she turned down another hall to circle back to the queen’s apartments.

  A door opened and a liveried servant stepped into her path. She backed away, but an unseen man who followed behind him caught her arm. She was trapped.

  “My lord of Essex requests you attend him, mistress,” said one, not bothering to hide a leer.

  “Give His Lordship my regrets, but I am on a duty for the queen.”

  “His Lordship will not require much time,” one servant said as they each gripped an arm.

  She was inside the apartment and being propelled toward a back chamber before she could scream. And who would hear her loudest protests? Outside, the wind howled and the rain pounded against windows, with rolling thunderclaps intermingled.

  Mary was pushed through the doorway, the thick doors closing behind her. She heard a heavy lock click into place.

  The room was lit from a large fireplace roaring its defiance to the storm. She straightened her shoulders and stiffened her back. This lord, so much in disfavor, would be mad to molest one of the queen’s ladies who was unwilling to suffer his attentions. This would be a great disrespect to the queen’s authority and he must know it, unless he was a little mad. Perhaps more than a little mad.

  She determined to keep her calm, pretend that a mistake had been made. She would not be a frightened child. She suspected that would only please Essex, embolden him, since she marked him as a noble bully.

  Essex appeared from an inner closet in shirt and breeches, his feet bare, the better to feel his plush Persian carpets, she was sure. “Ah, you have accepted our invitation at last, Mistress Mary.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he turned away to punch at the fire. Without his padded court clothes, he was slender as well as very tall, taller even than the queen’s father, who had been considered a giant in his time. It was no wonder that he had so many women begging for his attention, even if she would not be one of them.

  “My lord earl, what means this? Surely, your servants took me for another.” Her voice was haughty, and she recognized some of Elizabeth’s tone, which would have made her smile at any other time.

  He did not turn to her, or answer. Perhaps he only wanted to frighten her, thinking he could, not knowing her at all.

  His bed was hung with tapestries and the room held every evidence of royal favor, including the queen’s coronation portrait. Her soft, pretty
young face stared out from under her crown. Her lovely hands, pushing from under her robes, held the orb and scepter of England. Mary had heard these rooms had once been Robert Dudley’s, who had loved the queen at the moment the artist had put his brush to paint. Essex had proved a poor replacement for Dudley in every way. From all Mary knew about the queen’s first love, Robin would never have needed to waylay a woman to win her.

  The earl edged toward her and mistook her look of wonder and observation. “Gaze your fill upon me, mistress, and count your good fortune that I am not your enemy . . . though I am near to it, unless you choose to make me a . . . friend.”

  Mary curtsied, determined to keep to stiff formalities. “I am happy to hear it, my lord . . . yet I think you are in error if you do not allow me to continue on the queen’s business. As you know, Her Majesty does not abide waiting.”

  He laughed. “You aren’t very clever, after all. Don’t you see how it is with the old queen? She won’t admit to it, but she is miserable when I’m away and happy to have me back.”

  Mary stared at him, thinking his overconfidence almost unbelievable. In all his years at court, he did not know Elizabeth as well as he thought.

  “Nonetheless, mistress, I must say that many have sought to turn her affections from me. Robert Cecil and Raleigh and perhaps even your Boy Jack. Oh, yes, I have seen how he dreams over you.” He almost spit. “But I will win over all, Elizabeth and you, mistress. Watch my triumph when I return with Tyrone on the point of my sword.”

  Now Mary was astounded, for she saw into him as she had never seen before. He blamed himself for nothing and twisted his mind from suspicion to certainty to grandiosity. She realized that he was self-deluding, far worse than mad. That thought took away her fragile composure and she moved toward the door. “All that may well be true, but I will take my leave now. Unlock the door, my lord.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “Remember, I am under Her Majesty’s protection.” She neared the door, but he reached it earlier and barred her way. “My lord Essex,” she said, her voice shaking with anger under which she hid her alarm, “Sir John is more gentleman than you.”