Jeane Westin

by The Virgin's Daughters (v5)

  “Yes. Yes. We do not doubt it. Is there a side door, where we may see without being seen?”

  “This way, Your Grace,” Edgerton replied, bobbing nervously up and down.

  Mary and Lady Anne followed Elizabeth as she was ushered into a large paneled room, a merry fire burning in an open fireplace. The queen threw off her cloak, which Mary caught, and motioned for the side door to be opened. “A little only,” she commanded in a tone much softer than her usual one of command.

  Her Majesty looked inside the bedchamber, holding to the silver door latch. Mary could just catch a glimpse of the Earl of Essex’s head on stacked pillows, his face as white as the fine Flemish lace behind the flowing russet curls. His beard had been shaved, giving him an even more impossible youth than usual, though he approached thirty and two.

  Essex turned his head slowly toward Elizabeth, and his feverish huge eyes pulled the queen toward him. She opened the door wide to allow for her skirts, walked in and shut it softly.

  Lord Worcester and Edgerton retreated to a small table across the room near to the fire to sit uneasily at a card game of primera, ready to leap up at the queen’s summons.

  Lady Anne took Mary’s arm and led her to a window looking out on the Strand, which was busy with the cries of the last of the day’s fish sellers, the peddlers with hearth brooms and old shoes and the first of the roistering tavern crowds. At the corner, apprentices on late errands for their masters loitered to watch a man juggling three torches, which cast bouncing light on the scene. The two women observed all below in silence for a few minutes.

  Lady Warwick sagged and leaned her forehead against the cold, thick leaded diamond panes, one hand squeezing high on her left arm.

  “My lady,” Mary said, alarmed, “are you ill? May I call for a chair or a little mulled wine?”

  “No, my dear, just a passing pain. I am coming on old age,” she explained with a faint smile. “I beg you, do not trouble yourself.”

  But Mary was troubled. Lady Anne’s face had gone quite pale, so the pain must have been sharp. Before Mary could think to stop herself from such a liberty, she had taken Anne’s hand in both of hers and gently chafed it.

  The countess lifted her head, her lips trembling slightly. “You are a good girl, despite your misplaced desire for that charming scoundrel John Harington.” Her strength returning, she gripped Mary’s hand. “Promise me that you will always stand by her.”

  Mary knew Lady Anne meant the queen. “Is Her Grace—”

  “No, no, but betrayal of her affection by anyone has always sent her into a deep sadness. Betrayal is the same as death to her. She still weeps for Leicester, William Cecil and Kat Ashley, her nurse, all of whom served her so well, but”—Lady Anne’s eyes sparkled with mischief—“died without royal consent when she would have had them serve her forever.” The countess was suddenly serious again. “Promise me you will not deny her wishes. I ask this only of you, not the other ladies, because I know you love her, too. She sleeps not, eats little and declines alarmingly.”

  Mary had observed these things in the queen, but before she could think fully what that promise would mean, she whispered, “I do promise to serve Her Majesty faithfully as she needs me, my lady.”

  Lady Anne closed her eyes to rest for a moment, obviously relieved.

  The door to Essex’s bedchamber swung slowly open and they all moved quickly to attend the queen.

  But the door had not been securely latched. Elizabeth remained bent over the earl’s bed, her hand in his.

  Anne Warwick barred the way inside and Lord Worcester and Edgerton returned to their card table. Both Mary and Anne looked away from the intimate inner scene, though Mary knew that she would carry a clear picture in her mind. She doubted she would ever forget the shadowy, candlelit room, the queen’s sad face matching the earl’s for pallor . . . his hand in hers, or hers in his. She could not know who had reached out to the other first.

  And who ailed more here? Mary wondered. She had seen no tears on any cheek. Perhaps both Essex and Elizabeth were beyond tears, each thinking of the other’s perfidy and yearning for a return to earlier times, when both had been headstrong without paying so great a price.

  Moments later, they followed Elizabeth through the halls and down the lantern-lit stairs. The queen spoke in a soft voice to Edgerton as they approached her barge. “My lord, we grant Lady Essex the right to visit her husband during daylight hours.”

  Lady Anne glanced at Mary with the silent message, Her heart has softened.

  Yet could even those closest to her really know the queen’s heart?

  In her barge, Elizabeth sat very straight in her high-backed chair, facing the cold, whipping wind off the wintry river not yet frozen, seabirds hovering under the lanterns on the prow, their heads under their wings, waves pounding against the oars as the bargemen pulled to the Whitehall water stairs. The queen held her sable cloak trimmed in ermine tight about her slight figure laden with jewels and lace. Resting her feet on a beautifully dyed Persian carpet, she stared into the middle distance toward the approaching shore, her face set as hard as veined marble. Then all heard her voice, above the wind, commanding, rasping out the words: “My lord Worcester, summon Cecil and Bacon to us on our return to the palace. Tomorrow, we will have our council read out in Star Chamber an account of my lord of Essex’s failures to fulfill his duties, his shameful treaty with Tyrone and his defiance of our commands. We would have our people know of his delinquencies and the cause of our just anger.”

  In the days that followed, all that the queen charged was made public and accepted by the lords and lawyers of Star Chamber. Essex stood trembling and white faced to answer and deny each charge in turn.

  Citizens were invited to attend, and the queen later checked the list of those who had witnessed the proceedings and noted those who had not, afterward counting those who refused to attend enemies of hers and friends of Essex.

  By mid-December, Lady Warwick became too ill to continue her duties, though the queen kept her in a near apartment and visited her daily. The doctors had prescribed bleeding and purging, braziers for extra heat and no unwholesome fresh air, but Anne grew weaker. She could no longer walk and her mouth drooped to one side.

  Elizabeth often spoon-fed the countess the broth she refused from other hands, and brought her green bottles of the Queen’s Own Physick, which Anne swore gave her greater ease than any other.

  Mary often accompanied the queen, heartsick to see both great ladies in such a sad state, Anne dying and the queen trying to intervene with God by willing her trusted friend back to health.

  “Majesty,” Anne whispered, “do not disturb yourself.”

  “Pish! This is nothing, Anne.”

  When Lady Warwick could swallow no longer and seemed to sleep, the queen rose and Mary followed her to the door.

  Lady Anne roused herself enough to speak scarcely understandable words. “Mary Rogers, remember your promise to me.”

  “I will remember, my lady,” Mary answered just loud enough for Lady Anne, who heard and fell back on her pillow, her eyes closed.

  Elizabeth gathered her skirts as the door was opened on her approach. “What promise, Mouse?”

  Mary blushed. “To always care for you, Your Grace.”

  “And your answer?”

  “That I would ever faithfully serve you.”

  The queen walked on, her head bowed, Mary suspected to hide unbidden tears.

  In the week following, a newcomer to the queen’s service, Lady Fitton, daughter of an earl, joined the queen’s ladies who walked out with Her Majesty of a morning and served her in the presence chamber. Lady Margaret had taken Lady Warwick’s place as mistress of the wardrobe, though no lady could take Anne’s place in the queen’s heart.

  Mary was content with her promotion to mistress of the sweet herbs. What could be better than dealing in herbs and silks and the finest Bruges lace? She thought it the best job of all. No one served the queen’s body close
r than Mary Rogers.

  Lady Fitton was the image of Her Majesty’s preference in the women who attended her, young and beautifully decorative, though perhaps not as submissive as the queen first thought. It was obvious to Mary that Lady Fitton was more of a brilliant flirt than Elizabeth realized.

  Mary tried to warn the new lady that she played a dangerous game, but Lady Fitton’s mind was so intent upon finding a grand husband that she laughed at Mary, who did not press her concerns further. How could she, when John had urged her to meet him at the Bell’s Inn on Grace Church Street, hard by Candlewick Alley, during Christmas celebrations on December twenty-ninth? He would be riding from Greenwich to Windsor to start another water closet, as the queen had ordered, and would stay in London for one day only.

  His letter, sent by private courier, was full of his love and loneliness.

  My sweet Mary,

  We are quickly coming to the year of our Lord 1600. I will not wait until a new century to see you, nor can I storm Whitehall, or risk the queen losing her temper as I have surely lost my heart to a certain lady within those walls. I will wait for you all the day and night of the twenty-ninth of December.

  At once, she stopped reading. She could not meet him. The trip from the palace into the city, though not long, would be dangerous for a richly dressed woman alone, even in full daylight. And if she bribed a yeoman to go with her, no coin would be large enough to keep him from telling such intriguing news to his comrades, news that would wend its way to the queen’s ears. How could a faithful servant seek to heap more troubles on Her Majesty when ther queen’s heart was so heavy? But how could she deny John? Or her own heart’s need?

  Mary hastened to his postscript.

  There will be a trusted friend waiting for you at the Holbein Gate. I cannot betray the name of this friend for fear this letter might fall into other hands. He will be identified by a cockade in his cap of former fashion.

  Impatiently, John

  Mary flattened the letter against her breast, holding it as close as possible. If the queen had meant for time apart to do its job, time had utterly failed. John did not sound changed, and Mary Rogers knew with all her heart that she would never change. She longed to see him, if only to tell him why it was so impossible. But if she did see him, look into his face, how could she speak any words but her love and yearning? But if she spoke them, she would be denying the queen’s express wishes. She must deny either her heart or her loyalty. God help her, she could do neither.

  Advent, 1599

  December twenty-ninth dawned with a westerly ice storm sweeping into London, rattling Whitehall’s windows and bending low the bare, pruned fruit trees in the queen’s orchard. That alone would not have kept Mary from venturing into the city. But Lord Howard had arrived the morning of the day before, and her grandfather that same evening. It would seem that God, the queen’s choice for a husband and Mary’s own family were all conspiring to keep her from John. She had even considered faking illness, but had discarded that notion, which would be a great untruth and forever shame her in her own eyes.

  Mary kept a tight hold on her anxiety, lest it show. Once that day, Lady Fitton had caught her with swimming eyes and drawn her own conclusions, taking her arm and pulling her into the hall outside the ladies’ anteroom.

  “Mistress, you are troubled at the thought of meeting your intended,” she guessed with a giggle. “I saw him arriving and think you have no worry on that score. He has belly enough, but”—she brightened—“is richly attired and yet maintains an old-fashioned codpiece.” She tried unsuccessfully to stop her amusement. “But you would have a title and a grand manor.”

  “I’m not at all troubled at meeting Lord Howard,” Mary insisted, not much liking this too forward maid, who had shown herself to be a gossip almost immediately upon entering the queen’s service and was not to be trusted.

  Lady Fitton smirked. “Our ugly old queen is too jealous to find us handsome young lords. She would keep them all for herself as tribute to her departed beauty, but I will find a lord without her.”

  Mary was shocked. “How dare you speak so of your sovereign! She is beloved of all England and—”

  “Surely not all Englishmen.” The lady giggled again. “There must be one left for me, now that you have yours. What a silly old mouse you truly are.”

  Mary broke away from Lady Fitton’s grasp. “You do not know Her Majesty’s burdens, or that I have sworn to serve her to death if that is her wish. Have a care how you speak of her in my presence.”

  Fitton looked puzzled. “Many in the court are laughing at her back.”

  Mary was shaking with rage. “Never speak to me of this again. If Lady Warwick were here, she’d have you birched and sent home in disgrace.”

  “Another old one on her deathbed. A new generation is coming to power, Mistress Rogers. When James of Scotland takes the throne, you will be left behind. Don’t you know half the courtiers are already writing to him for places in his government and sending him gifts? You will have no place with the new king, and I will.”

  “It is treason to speak of or forecast the queen’s death,” Mary said angrily. “I will not abide it.”

  Fitton laughed nervously and swung on down the hall, drawing all passing male attention.

  Late that afternoon, Mary prepared the linen the queen would wear at the grand party that night and then rushed to the dining hall to have supper with her grandfather. With storm winds rattling every window in the long gallery, she looked out, despairing of any possible way to get a message to John’s friend waiting at the Holbein Gate. What would John think when she did not come? That her love had been so pitiful it had failed her in his absence; that she had thought better and accepted a rich old lord after all? She grasped the window-sill. Would he take a tavern maid to his bed? She groaned loud enough to draw attention as she hurried on to the great dining hall.

  She caught Sir William’s eye where he sat at table and rushed to him, bowing her head for his blessing, needing some comfort.

  “Mary! Child, there is no need for tears,” he said, granting his blessing with his palm on her head and a kiss for her cheek. He looked upon her face as she sat down beside him.

  “You look well, Grandfather.”

  “You are older.”

  “By nearly a year. I have learned much, Grandfather.”

  “And yet you are sad. Why is that so, when you have gained the queen’s great affection? I was wrong to think you reached too high. You were a Somerset girl when I left you. Now you are a great lady and hold the queen’s confidence.” He stuck his knife into a lamb shank and put it into his bread bowl, spooning in broth, carrots and leeks to make a meat pie, and fell to with great appetite.

  “My affection for Her Majesty is not feigned, Grandfather.”

  “Nor is hers for you, my child. She has written to me, calling you ‘her beloved daughter’ and informing me that she has chosen her second cousin Lord Howard for you . . . once you are both free to marry. I have, of course, given my consent.” He looked up from his supper and frowned. “But you never mentioned His Lordship in your letters, and I can see in your face now that you are not pleased at the honor Her Majesty has done you and our family.”

  Mary dared look into her grandfather’s eyes, not in the least humbled. “As you love me, do not force him on me. I do not love him. Please speak against this marriage to the queen.”

  “Are you mad? Her Majesty chooses him for you, and I choose him. Can’t you see we are privileged? What of love? Love always comes after marriage, not before.” He glanced up and down the tables in the great hall. “That rogue John Harington is not in attendance, though the queen mentioned that you had formed an . . . attachment. Surely Her Grace is wrong in this. The man wagered for your honor in open court. You could never . . .”

  Since her grandfather could read her so well, she turned from him to take a little bread and soften it in a cup of ale.

  “Mary?”

  “Grandfathe
r, you do not know John.” Her voice trembled. “I did not know him. I was so wrong, so very wrong. The wager was Essex’s idea, and John repudiated it at great cost to his fortune. Later, the earl sought to ruin me by kidnap to his bed . . . but John—”

  Her grandfather put his hand on his sword. “Essex did what!”

  “Grandfather, the earl is in disgrace and perhaps dying. He no longer matters. It’s John who means everything to me. I cannot marry Lord Howard when his wife dies. But the queen thinks it best and . . .” She buried her face in her ale cup, hoping it would catch her tears.

  Sir William looked troubled. “We must talk more, Mary, but not in this place at this time. There are too many eyes and ears. Come to me tonight, after you have attended the queen at the entertainments and have met Lord Howard. Your mind will surely be altered on this subject. Come, Mary,” he said, putting his wrinkled brown hand on her smooth young one. “I am lodged in my old rooms, child.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” she agreed, bending to kiss his hand atop hers. “Now I must return to my duties.”

  “But, child, you have scarce eaten a bite. . . .”

  She heard, but quickened her step, unable to swallow more food or talk of Lord Howard.

  That night, the storm still howling outside, Whitehall was alight with lanterns and torches as Mary followed Elizabeth with all her ladies and yeomen into the great hall, which was covered with wreaths of holly and sweet-smelling fir boughs. Tinkling bells on the fools and dogs made a merry hall. Musicians gathered on the balcony played the less solemn music of William Byrd, the queen’s favorite composer. As Mary glanced about at the richly dressed courtiers, lords of both England and of Europe who’d come to bring gifts to the queen, it seemed that all the world recognized Elizabeth as their sovereign. How could she defy such a queen?

  As Mary glanced about the great hall, she could not help but try to determine which older lord fit the description of Lord Howard, but she could not. The room was full of country lords who came only to Christmas court, and all too many had bellies and had refused to give up their codpieces, no matter the change in fashion. Soon enough she would know her intended. She tried to keep her face bright, but her smile felt like a painted mask.