Jeane Westin

by The Virgin's Daughters (v5)

  Elizabeth opened her fan and raised it before her face to hide any emotion that might have surfaced, and he retreated, not looking at Mary, though he knew she had seen most everything and guessed the rest.

  After the queen was dressed in fresh linen and abed, Mary came to his cottage that night, knocking softly on the door. Her agitation was apparent. “John, what are you about? The queen will surely send you from court and not allow you to return.”

  “I have done nothing but give her the honesty she expects.”

  “She needs only a sudden whim.” Mary bit her lip. “At every turn you remind her of all that she denied herself for the sake of her throne.”

  “The queen has said this?”

  “No, she doesn’t speak it, but it is always there on her face and in the way she opens her ivory treasure box and sits with it in her hands more often now. There is something precious to her inside. And she struggles with Essex’s absence. He did know exactly how to make her feel young and loved again.”

  John pulled Mary over the threshold and into his arms, kissing her over and over and yet another time, all the hot, searching kisses he had saved for months, the ones he’d dreamed and the ones he’d suppressed to give his body some ease from desire.

  He broke away first, leaving Mary panting, her arms dangling by her sides, useless without him to hold. “I thought you would never return,” she said, catching her breath. “When I saw you in the privy garden this morning, I—”

  “You what, sweetest?”

  He had set her to aching in a most dangerous way. But Lady Fitton’s fate swiftly came to her mind. “John, we must take great care,” she whispered, hoping to borrow strength from wisdom.

  He retreated to stoke the sea coal fire in the small fireplace. “That is what I am doing,” he said, his voice steadier than his hands, which he hoped were well hidden from her.

  She choked out the next words. “Then you must double the care you take, for I am no longer able to . . .” She stopped, her body leaning toward his of its own will. “Oh, John, these past months have seemed a long, moonless night.”

  He came to her and led her to the only chair before the fire, then sat on the straw-matted floor, the fire lighting his face, yet not so near that they could touch. Touching held too many obvious dangers.

  He looked up, his face holding that same roguish smile that at first had angered her, but now thrilled her. “We could take ship to the Sugar Islands, where we would always be warm,” he said, watching to see her reaction.

  “Warmer than we are now?” she said boldly.

  He grinned. “That might not be possible.”

  “John, you have no wanderlust and I have no stomach for voyaging,” she said, smiling to show she did not take the idea seriously.

  A rueful expression crossed his face as he turned to Mary, his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hand. “You are too wise for your youth.”

  “Not so wise, John, or I wouldn’t be here, tempting—”

  “Me?”

  “Myself.”

  “West country honesty again.”

  She sighed. “I have no other.”

  John stood in one movement. “Then it is home to my manor of Kelston in Somerset for us.”

  “I pray so . . . if that time ever comes.” She looked down to her hands twisting in her lap.

  John lifted her from the chair and held her head gently against his shoulder.

  “He is coming soon . . . Lord Howard,” Mary said finally.

  John retreated to arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “Yes, for the hunting. The queen told me. You will give the man no encouragement.”

  “He needs none.”

  “Your indifference might discourage him.”

  “The thought of the salt revenues will hearten him.”

  John closed the space between them and took her in his arms again. “Mary, the queen has always used marriages to cement alliances. She sees him as her ally against the northern lords who long for a king. He longs for one, too, but is wise enough not to put his wishes on paper, where Cecil can read them.” A bit of sea coal rolled from the grate and flared on the hearth. He left her and kicked it back where it belonged

  She held out her arms, begging for his return. He obeyed.

  “You know that I must attend my estate soon,” he said. “I have been too long gone from those duties. The queen is right about that.”

  Mary was silent for a time, watching the renewed fire as it filled the tiny cottage with warmth and flickering light.

  John whispered against her cheek, “Do not despair. God is not so cruel as to grant us this feeling, only to take it away.”

  “That is my fear. God will leave us with this emotion and no way . . .” A dull pain filled Mary’s chest. “Never forget Elizabeth rules here, John.”

  His hands swept up her back, gripping her hard. “She rules the kingdom, but not our hearts. She will change her mind. She must. I will find a way. Trust me,” he said, pressing her closer, and she raised her lips, holding fast to him for a moment to keep from falling; then she fled back across the quadrangle and into the hunting lodge.

  Lord Howard arrived in late June with an impressive entourage of one hundred twenty knights and men-at-arms, bringing presents of furs and jewels that the queen loved, especially an exquisite ivory brooch carved with the likeness of Diana, the Greek goddess of the hunt, surrounded by perfect rubies. “Majesty,” he said, kneeling, his hand on his heart, “I bring you these loyal men to show you how I am able to protect your northern interests.”

  “We thank you, my lord Howard,” she answered, obviously pleased. “You must hunt with us on the morrow. But tell us, how rests your good lady?”

  He bowed his head. “Feebly, Majesty. She does not recognize her own children most days.”

  “Pray God she is soon easier, my lord.”

  “Amen,” said Lord Howard, raising his eyes devoutly, though they swept across Mary’s breasts on their way to heaven.

  The next day dawned dry, but with a ground fog that rapidly became swirling wisps as the sun rose. The hunting party was off early, Lord Howard in an honored place at the queen’s side. Mary and the queen’s ladies who could ride well enough to stay with the queen followed. John rode to one side of the queen on his best hunter, following the beaters.

  By midmorning the queen had shot at a doe with her bow and arrow, but, only wounded, the doe escaped, putting the queen in a sour mood.

  Toward eleven of the morning, as they grew close to an open meadow where dinner was being laid on trestles, they came upon a magnificent stag of a most rare thirty points, a true horned tree atop its head. It looked like a king standing on a slight rise at the edge of the forest. The queen gasped in admiration. “We must have that stag.”

  Mary watched as John drew his horse in closer. What was he doing? He dared not shoot first.

  Elizabeth signaled for her crossbow, which reached her hands with a loaded quarrel. She cocked the weapon and, taking aim, she shot, her eyes for hunting undimmed. The deer staggered from the impact, blood showing on its chest, but it did not go down. Instead, it shook its huge head as if—like Elizabeth herself—to deny any hurt and leapt to escape into the open.

  Elizabeth’s anguished cry rang out. “My noble beast!”

  “What a pity, Majesty,” Lord Howard called.

  Mary could not believe what happened next. John dug in his spurs and raced after the stag now thundering into the open meadow. He drew alongside, his horse matching the stag stride for stride. Was he trying to run it to death? “Take care, John!” she shouted before she thought.

  John heard her as he wound his reins about his saddle horn and kicked out of his stirrups, tensing his thigh muscles for the leap. He landed not as square as he would have liked, but, grabbing the stag’s rack, he righted himself and wrenched the beast’s head gradually about, sensing that great heart was heaving. A mist of blood and sweat flowed back over him as he turned the huge deer,
his weight slowing its speed.

  John’s arms were numb with wrestling that giant bone rack while trying not to be stabbed by one of its far-arching points. His knees ached from their strong pressure to stay on the bounding back not made for riding.

  The animal staggered as it approached the queen’s party arrayed in a line across the field, the beaters frantically waving and shouting. Mary had dismounted to stand by the queen’s side.

  John hauled back on the horns with all his strength, the air whistling through the stag’s flared nostrils as it gave up life unwillingly. With one last, long shudder, the beast stumbled and dropped dead not a man’s length from an astonished Elizabeth, the light leaving its eyes as she stared into them.

  At the last second, as the stag reeled, John leapt from its back. He dropped to his knees in utter exhaustion before the queen. Reaching for a cap that was no longer on his head, he said, “Your stag, Majesty.”

  At that moment, Lord Howard rushed now to the queen’s side, pushing Mary away. “Majesty, my horse stumbled, or I would have been here by—”

  If the queen heard him, she gave no notice. She raised John, bloodying her own hands. “Sir Knight, we name you henceforth Queen’s Champion.”

  Mary wrenched her gaze away from John, covered with blood, but glorious in his near collapse, to the astonished faces in the crowd. Essex had been champion. She knew the appointment honored John and would keep him much at court, but it would bring him the Earl of Essex and his friends’ enmity . . . not to mention Lord Howard’s.

  And now, oh, how could the queen deny her champion’s dearest wish?

  The next day, amidst the fast-spreading, excited talk of John’s riding the huge stag, heard in the court and in all London, the glorious thirty-point rack was mounted in Her Majesty’s privy chamber. She was not so grateful to her champion as to give up her prize.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Those who touch the scepters of princes deserve no pity.”

  —Elizabeth Regina

  Michaelmas

  September 29, 1600

  John Harington cantered up to Essex House on a bright fall morning, crushing the fallen leaves between the cobbles. He found the courtyard and anterooms filled with as many disgruntled men as could crowd within them.

  He dismounted and shouldered his way through the throng, seeing severe Puritans in their black garb who did not think Elizabeth had taken the Church of England far enough from Catholicism. They stood chockablock with Catholics openly wearing their gold crosses, who longed for a return of their ancient religion. Roughly dressed, heavily armed members of the earl’s Irish army completed the throng, loyal captains and sergeants who thought their leader ill-treated and hoped to gain by their loyalty.

  Essex sat on a dais in a large chamber looking like a king holding court, with the Earl of Southampton and Sir Christopher Blount in fawning attendance.

  John tensed, determined to watch his back. He did not bring good news from the queen. “My lord,” John said, bowing, “I would speak to you in private.”

  “Ah, the queen’s new champion. What say you, champion? We are all of a mind and dear friends here. What does the queen send to tell her most faithful subject?” There was laughter at that, and John gripped the hilt of his French thrusting sword, lighter than his old slashing weapon and made for closer fighting.

  “My lord Earl of Essex,” he said formally, “the queen has decided in council not to renew your monopoly on sweet wines at this time. She will return those revenues to the Crown.” There, it was out in the open. He steeled himself for the anger that was certain to follow.

  John sensed from the instant hush that everyone waited for the earl to react. He waited, too, although he had spared Essex the rest of what the queen had said, but he had no doubt that it would eventually reach him: “An unruly beast must have his resources stopped,” she had announced to Cecil and Raleigh, shocking words that soon echoed throughout the palace, since many of the lords relied on the queen’s generosity to pay the debts they incurred serving her.

  Essex did not speak. Did not move. His face was unreadable, although the blue vein at his temple throbbed. The crowd’s voice behind John slowly rose from a hum to a roar, and treasonous shouts urging the earl to rebellion erupted about him. Men drew their swords half from their scabbards, and John saw that a few even wore breastplates. This was a group bent on rebellion.

  Essex raised his hand for quiet. “You lie, champion.” He chopped his words into harsh syllables. “The queen never removed my monopoly on sweet wines. It is all Cecil and Raleigh’s doing. They are planning to beggar me . . . then murder me!”

  At that, Essex’s men cried out, some now waving their swords aloft.

  The earl stared at John, his eyes haunted by doubt, defeat and self-delusion, as he fought on. “I will not believe such an insult unless I hear the words from Her Majesty’s mouth. I will go to her at once.”

  “My lord,” John said, more alarmed than he wished known, “you are allowed abroad from this place, but denied the palace.” He raised his voice. “On my honor, the queen removed the monopoly of her own will. It is hers to give or take, and her word is now law.”

  Essex, losing any caution he had remaining, rose, towering over everyone. He choked out angry words that seemed to ring around the room: “Denied the palace! The monopoly on wine seized! If she would beggar me, then her laws are as crooked as her carcass!”

  John knew that unforgivable slur would echo across the Thames and into Whitehall to the foot of the throne, perhaps before he could return to soften the blow, if such were possible.

  “I take leave of you for the last time, my lord.” John turned and pushed through to the door and to his horse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool breeze. The air was charged with panic and insurrection, and their weight bore down on him.

  At Whitehall, Mary waited for him to dismount in the privy gardens near the royal mews, pretending to search out a bouquet. They had not met alone since his recent return from his western estate and her return from attending the queen on her summer progress.

  “John . . . dearest,” Mary said when he approached. She stretched a trembling hand to him, wanting to touch him and make him real. But when he reached for her, she warned, “Have a care.” She nodded toward the gallery windows overlooking the garden.

  “You ask too much,” he said, kissing her hand. “If I cannot hold you ...”

  She had to stop him and herself from open disobedience to the queen’s will. “I love you, John.”

  “Love is a word,” he said, bowing his head, lest she see his face unmanned. “Mark me, sweetest, my need is greater than ever.”

  “And mine, John.” She wanted to take the two small steps that would bring her to rest inside his arms, but she could not, so she moved away and bent to pick a flower. His face was tanned from a summer in the sun. “You look well, Sir Knight.”

  Regaining his humor, he answered, “I am now.”

  She smiled. “You haven’t changed.” She straightened and grew serious. “When I heard you were sent to Essex, I was so worried for you. They say he is a mad mixture of sweet regret and frantic rebellion.”

  John bowed again. “I saw nothing sweet this day,” he said. “Essex gravely insulted the queen.”

  “Sweet Jesus! What did he say?”

  When John repeated the ugly words, Mary was astonished. “If all his adoring letters are false, the ones she has kept and reads again by her fire at night, she will truly never forgive him.”

  “I should have challenged him on the spot.”

  “You couldn’t challenge a mob!”

  “As Queen’s Champion, it was my duty—”

  “—to return to her whole . . . and to me, John.” The last words were whispered.

  They were standing too close now, fueling court gossip, but he could not help but bend toward her. He was using all his strength to keep even a small distance from her lips. “When can we be alone? Tonight?”
>
  “The queen has commanded me to sleep in her chamber tonight. Tomorrow, John. I will come to you as soon as I can.”

  “I saw your grandfather on my way back to London.”

  He had surprised her.

  “Why? What did—”

  He grinned. “As you said, Mistress Mary, we must both wait until tomorrow to gain what we want now.” She looked so disappointed that his humor softened. “Have hope,” he said.

  “Hope falters.”

  He came so close his breath warmed her cheek. “But it always returns, sweetheart.”

  He was right. Sometimes she tried to shake it off, yet hope crept back into her heart unbidden. Encouraged, she said, “I will attempt to take my supper in the great hall today.”

  He winked. “But I am hungry now.”

  She curtsied, unable to hide her delight in him, which she feared shone like a beacon for all to see. Though she did not look up at the palace windows behind her, she suspected they held eyes that saw and mouths that would gabble all they suspected. John walked on toward the entrance to the stone gallery, and she stopped to pick another small bunch of yellow tansies, proving this was the errand she had always intended.

  Mary was delayed in the royal kitchens below, ordering the light dinner of broth, bread and marzipan fruit the queen preferred. When she reached the royal apartment, Her Majesty was playing her lute and her ladies were singing. Mary knew the tune and words were the queen’s own and sung when melancholy was heavy on her. Had hurtful news of Essex’s personal insult flown to her faster than a high tide?

  As a child, Mary had overheard Katherine Grey say that Elizabeth needed the constant flattering adoration of young and handsome men, who declared her the beauty of their hearts as well as of the realm. Mary had not understood the import of those words, but now remembered and understood. At this time of the queen’s old age, although she had banished mirrors for two decades, Mary knew the queen could not bear to suspect that those treasured words were now false, or had ever been.