Queen's Pleasure

by Purdy, Brandy

  I knew something had changed one day during the second year when he came to visit me. Clinging to his arm, I so happily escorted him upstairs and, proud and excited, showed him the rich new set of brocade bedclothes—coverlet, curtains, and canopy—I had had made for my—our—bed, thousands of yellow buttercups in perpetual bloom upon a ground of spring green, “as a remembrance of the day we first made love,” I explained, pressing my body against his in a way that I hoped conveyed how much I would like him to lower me onto the bed.

  With an exasperated sigh, Robert shrugged free of me and strode across the room and sat down by the fire and began to tug off his muddy boots.

  “I don’t need a remembrance, Amy!” he snarled, slamming his boot down, causing the silver spurs to rattle and bits of mud to flake off onto the fur rug, and then beginning on the other. “I am not likely to forget the seventeen-year-old boy I used to be, thinking with my cock instead of with my head! I should have just tumbled you in a haystack and been done with it, but ...” With an angry sigh he flopped back in his chair, seething like an angry bull, and closed his eyes. His hands curled tightly ’round the arms of the chair, the knuckles shaking and standing out white, as if he was fighting hard to restrain himself from some act of violence. Then he sighed deeply and opened his eyes. “You got your gold ring, Amy, so be content with that, and cease prattling to me about remembering things that are best forgotten. Incidentally, I loathe buttercups; they are such a common little flower.”

  My head felt light enough to float away, as if it were a weathercock caught in a strong and violent wind, and I couldn’t catch my breath, I felt as if he had just kicked me in the stomach. I felt icy and aflame all at the same time. And I couldn’t see! There were all these dark and colored sparks floating before my eyes, obscuring my vision, and I feared I was being struck blind by terror. But I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t tell Robert what I was feeling, what was happening to me; it was as if a door had slammed inside my throat, barring the jumble of confused words from coming out. When Robert saw my lips trembling and the tears spilling down my face, he swore loudly and snatched up his boots again and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  Later that night, alone in my bed, when I was huddled up with the covers pulled high above my head, still weeping, though my eyes and throat were a swollen, sore misery, he would come to me with kisses and a bolt of blue silk the color of a robin’s egg, and lengths of pretty, sunny yellow lace and matching embroidery silk to make a fine new gown, and tell me that he was sorry, he had only spoken out of anger over something I could never understand that was “nothing to worry your pretty head about.” And he rolled me over onto my back, covered me with kisses, and made such passionate, tender love to me that I was soon persuaded that he hadn’t really meant it and that he truly did love me, that it had been nothing more than a show of temper, he had been taking out his frustration upon the most convenient person, the one he said he trusted to see him at his worst and best, like an angry fist that I had stepped in front of and caught a blow not intended for me.

  The next morning, when I woke, he was gone, back to London, but he sent back to me a bolt of buttercup yellow brocade with the flowers I loved so figured golden in the weave, and a ring in a green velvet box—a buttercup made of sparkling yellow gems, with a note, ardently inscribed in bold black ink in my husband’s handsome script with graceful and elegant curlicues and flourishes trimming the black letters like pretty lace:

  I Love My Buttercup Bride!

  And I let myself be lulled into believing that everything really was all right, though in my heart I knew it wasn’t.

  Even though these outbursts of anger followed by tender, passionate reconciliations in bed became a disturbing refrain repeated often during his visits, I let myself believe. I shut my eyes to the truth that they really settled nothing, that they were merely a means to turn off my tears and free Robert from seeing and hearing the consequences of his temper, that they were a way to render me docile and smiling for the few days we would spend together, to make life more peaceful and pleasing for Robert until, feeling he had done his duty, he could gallop back to London again as fast as his horse could carry him.

  When I heard that his father had deeded him Saxlingham Manor near Holt, my hopes briefly surged back to life. I thought it meant a proper home for us, but Robert preferred to lease it out rather than live there, and he eventually sold it, all without my ever setting eyes upon it.

  Having the loving good grace not to say “I told you so,” Father even tried to bring him back, to keep him home with me and away from the court, so that we might settle down and have the children I longed for. He arranged to have Robert made a knight of the shire, and, now that his health was declining, shared with him his own honors—the Lieutenancy of the county and joint stewardship and constabulary of Castle Rising in Norfolk. But these rustic honors paled against being a Gentleman of King Edward’s Privy Chamber, Honorary Carver at the King’s Table, and Master of the Buckhounds, with its responsibilities of breeding, training, and tending the royal hunting hounds, organizing the hunting parties, and keeping the deer parks well stocked. None of which I could share, and so I was left alone, trying to fill up my life with things to do, all the while pining for my husband and missing him sorely.

  My lengthy stay at Stanfield Hall ended abruptly one warm April afternoon when Robert burst into the kitchen, dusty and sweating in his riding leathers, giving us all such a fright the way he rushed in. He had caught me unaware again and found me laughing and gossiping with Cook and the kitchen maids, just as if I were one of them, standing there flush-faced, with my hair carelessly pinned, my sleeves rolled up, and my apron stained with colorful splotches, surrounded by great bubbling cauldrons of jewel-colored fruits—the strawberries, apricots, cherries, both sour and sweet, gooseberries, peaches, quinces, plums, apples, currants, raspberries, and pears I had myself helped pick. We had been busy for days making the jams and jellies that would delight us all winter when sweet red strawberries smeared on a piece of bread would feel like a slice of Heaven, paradise in your mouth, as luxurious to the tongue as a length of red velvet on bare skin.

  The spoon in my hand clattered to the floor, and I, with a startled cry that quickly turned to one of pure delight, started to run to fling myself into his arms, but he froze me with a look.

  Hurt, I stopped in my tracks and self-consciously brushed back some wild wisps of hair clinging wetly to my brow and untied my apron and balled it up and thrust it at the nearest maid.

  “We were just making our jams and jellies for the winter, so we can have fruit,” I explained, nodding toward the boiling cauldrons. “Look at them, Robert—aren’t they pretty? Like liquid jewels, the colors are. Did you ever see an emerald a finer hue than our mint jelly?” I pointed to the row of jars sealed earlier that morning and lined up on the table.

  “But they are not jewels,” Robert said, with a hard, deep frown. “You cannot wear them except as unsightly stains upon your apron, and they have no value except for their taste and the pennies that could be earned should you sell them at market; therefore, any slight similarity between jewels, jellies, and jams is completely irrelevant. It is absurd you should even think it!”

  “I-I’m s-sorry, Robert,” I said softly, and I hung my head, staring down at the crude wooden and leather clogs I wore in the kitchen and outside on muddy days, shamed that I had displeased my husband and that he had rebuked me before the servants.

  “Come upstairs, Amy”—Robert started for the door—“after you have tidied yourself and made yourself look as my wife should look. Then we will talk.”

  And meekly I nodded. “Yes, Robert.”

  As I was leaving, Cook caught my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

  “Don’t you believe ’im, Miss Amy. They are pretty, whether ’is lordship thinks so or no. An’ as for m’self, I’d much rather ’ave a bit o’ bread with cherry jam slathered thick ’pon it than a ruby any winter’s day when th
e cherries aren’t there to be plucked off the trees, but a ruby, if you’ve the money an’ the use for it, is there all the year round, so I’m inclined to think the cherries more precious than the stone, even though it do sparkle pretty. And you’re beautiful just as you are, an’ we all think so!” And at her words the other servants chimed in, “Aye, that we do, Miss Amy!”

  I smiled back at her and squeezed her hand, then, smiling and nodding my thanks at them all, as my husband impatiently called to me again—“Amy, are you coming?”—I gathered up my skirts and bolted up the stairs, thus provoking him to complain about the way my clogs clattered and order me to “take those ugly things off—a woman shouldn’t clatter like a horse when she runs, not that a real lady has any cause to run at all,” and “they are not fit shoes for a gentlewoman to wear, only a peasant whose only other choice is to wrap her feet in rags or go barefoot.”

  “Yes, Robert!” I nodded breathlessly as I caught up with him on the landing.

  Obediently, I stepped out of my clogs, tripping as I did so, and I had to grab hold of the banister to keep myself from tumbling bum over pate down the stairs.

  Murmuring beneath his breath exasperated words about my clumsiness, Robert unsheathed his dagger, and my heart leapt from my breast into my throat as he came toward me. For a moment I was afraid he was going to stab me! But then, he bent over and, using the blade of his dagger, lifted first one, and then the other, of my clogs and, opening the window that let light stream onto the landing, cast them out “like the rubbish they are!” Then, as he sheathed his dagger, he asked if I had thought to tell Cook to send up hot water for me to bathe, since “a lady shouldn’t stink as though she had been slaving in a hot kitchen all day,” he said pointedly, and I shamefacedly bowed my head and hugged my arms across my breasts, tucking my fists beneath my arms and hoping he hadn’t seen the dark, damp stains blossoming beneath my armpits.

  “Yes, Robert!” I nodded, though in truth I hadn’t said a word to Cook or anyone about a bath; it just seemed wiser to agree. I would have to have a quiet word with Pirto and ask her to see to it.

  With Pirto’s help, I splashed hurriedly through my bath and anxiously doused myself with rose perfume, spilling a goodly amount from the bottle in my haste. My nerves were humming like bees whose hive has been disturbed, and I was near to tears trying to decide what gown would best please my husband. I had already been laced into one and was halfway to the door before I turned back and bade Pirto unlace me, weeping despairingly as she did so that though it was so very pretty, the dusty rose damask might displease him by reminding him of dirt and grime. I just didn’t know anymore; in my desperation to please him I sometimes felt quite silly. In the end, I finally settled on a rich cream satin embroidered with gold lovers’ knots profusely trimmed with golden lace. Then Pirto fastened a necklace of gold hearts around my neck, and I stumbled and tripped my way into a pair of gold slippers. And, with my still-damp hair caught up at the sides with ivory and amber combs, and the length of it rippling down my back to dry, I rushed breathlessly into the adjoining room to see my husband and give him a proper wifely greeting.

  When I burst in, poised to hurl myself into his arms and cover his face with kisses, Robert’s valet, Tamworth, was just helping him finish dressing, while another pair of servants were carrying a tub out, taking care to move slowly and not let the water slosh out over the sides. To my dismay, I saw that they were fresh riding clothes that my husband was wearing, and a new pair of high-polished leather boots were on his feet.

  With not one word about my improved appearance, he began, “My brother Guildford is being married in late May. It will look strange if my wife does not attend, so, no tears or arguments, Amy, to London you shall ride.”

  “A wedding! A big family wedding! Oh, Robert, how exciting! What great fun we shall have!” I cried, clasping my hands to my heart as happy memories of my own wedding came flooding back and momentarily blotted out my fear of going to the great big noisy and crowded city. “Who is the girl? Are they in love? Is she pretty? Has he known her very long?” One by one the excited questions tumbled out of me.

  Robert held up his hand to silence me.

  “The bride-to-be is the Lady Jane Grey, and she is pretty enough, I suppose, if one likes the quiet, melancholy type, though too much of a scholar in petticoats for most men’s taste, I think. Fifteen years old with pale skin, marred by freckles, brown eyes, chestnut hair, slumps her shoulders and stares at the floor unless she is corrected and told to stand up straight and hold her head up, timid and whisper-voiced, almost afraid to speak, except in the schoolroom or amongst other scholars—then she is bold enough, perhaps overly so,” he summed her up, and by his dismissive, disdainful tone, I could tell he did not like her.

  “But she is the King’s cousin and in line for the throne; that is the important thing. This is a very important marriage, Amy, and the Dudleys shall profit well by it. Who knows but one day Guildford and Jane’s children may be kings and queens. We are on the threshold of founding a new dynasty that may someday supplant the Tudors as England’s ruling family—that is what matters. Love has nothing to do with it, so do not behave like a silly goose and come to London prattling about love, Amy; no one will think well of you for it, you will only make yourself appear lowbred and ridiculous, and it will only confirm the beliefs of many that I have married beneath me. And we don’t want that, do we?”

  He held up his hand to stay me as my lips began to tremble. “I do not say these things to hurt you, Amy, only to educate you, to help you understand and acquit yourself accordingly, since you are not accustomed to the ways of the nobility and court. Love rarely has a role to play in marriage. Love is a game, a sport, the stuff of poetry, legends, and songs; it has nothing really to do with real life. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  But instead of waiting for me to answer, he nodded toward a plump purse sitting on the desk atop a book.

  “I’ve left coin enough to equip you with suitable garb, jewels too. If you need more, buy whatever is necessary and send the bill to my man Forster, and he shall take care of it, but do not bother me about fripperies and whether I like this or that; you are my wife, and no London tailor would dare make you look unworthy of that honor if he values his reputation; one word from me in the right ear, and he would be ruined forever. And choose well, cost be damned. I want everyone to see what a beautiful wife I have so that perhaps they will change their minds and think I have not done so badly after all. There must be nothing of the country bumpkin about you. To that end, I have also left you a book of etiquette; study it well.” He nodded again at the desk. “Doubtless you will find that there are many words in it that you do not understand; they are difficult to avoid, but that cannot be remedied at this late date. If you find that it is too much for you, ask Ned Flowerdew to arrange to have the schoolmaster in to help you, since your father no longer can—his age and infirmity have robbed him of his mind, so the village idiot now has more wit than the squire—or perhaps your mother can assist if it does not interfere with her lying in bed eating bonbons and complaining about her aches and pains all day. And I have arranged to have a dancing master spend a fortnight here. I expect you to profit well by his stay and practice with him all you can, every day; even when your feet hurt, remind yourself that he will not be here forever, and get up and practice some more. He will teach you all the latest dances and make sure you are up to par on the old ones; my wife must be seen to elegantly acquit herself at every dance, slow and fast, new and old; I’ll not have it said that she is only fit to leap and kick up her heels in country jigs and reels. And have a new gown made for Mrs. Pirto, plain black velvet as befits a proper lady’s maid, and tell her that if she must smile, then learn to do it with her mouth closed—her teeth are ugly. I will send a proper escort to fetch you when it’s time. A litter, I think, will be best—I don’t want you to fall off a horse and break your neck, or an arm or a leg; crooked limbs and limps are unsightly, especially in
a female; every move a lady makes should be filled with grace.”

  As he spoke these last words, he was pulling on his gloves, and Tamworth was holding out his riding crop and feathered hat to him; then, circling Robert with a brush one last time to make sure no stray hairs or dust marred the deep brown velvet and leather, he gave a nod of approval.

  “But you just arrived!” I cried. “Surely you’re not ... you can’t be ... leaving?”

  Robert brushed a brusque kiss across my cheek. “I cannot stay. My father needs me in London. There is much to be done and little time to do it in; I was merely passing by on an errand for him and thought I would stop in and tell you personally instead of sending a letter. Since you are always writing telling me how much you long to see me, I thought this would please you better. Too much perfume.” He wrinkled his nose and pulled away from me. “Go and wash, Amy—you smell like a French whore! Do not fail me, Amy; you must be perfect. Perfect! If you are not, do not look to come to London again; I will leave you here in the country for the rest of your life to rot!”