As I stepped outside into the late-afternoon sun, to show myself to my people in full royal regalia, with the crown on my head and the scepter and orb in my hands, the blare of the trumpets, the tolling of the bells, and the jubilant cries and cheering of my people nigh deafened my ears, and I knew this joyful noise would ring forever in my heart. Whenever I felt weak or weary, this memory would give me the strength to go on.
As I walked slowly toward Westminster Hall, where my coronation banquet would be celebrated, treading upon the few stray, straggling threads that covered the cold ground where once a blue carpet had been, my people fell to their knees and reverently reached out fingertips to touch my skirts and trailing robe, and behind me, as I briefly glanced back, I saw many bow their heads down and kiss where my feet had touched the ground, and tears welled in my eyes, blinding me so that I saw all as a colorful moving blur through a wavering, watery curtain. God help me to be the Queen they deserve! I prayed with all my heart.
“Remember old King Henry the Eighth!” an old man in the crowd cried, and my lips spread in a broad smile. I was my father’s daughter, and I vowed that when I was an old woman whose Tudor red tresses had faded to gray and the time came for me to close my eyes on the world forever, I would leave behind an England greater than my father had ever known. Poor, weak, little Edward, and mad, deluded, lovelorn, and brainsick Mary had each failed to be a worthy successor to our father’s throne and memory, and now it was my turn, and, with God’s grace, I, the last Tudor, the princess who had sorely disappointed our father by not being a prince, would show the world that disappointment had been misplaced, that here, in this frail female form, was Great Harry’s true and worthy successor, and, through me, my mother would also be redeemed. Though she had given birth to a daughter instead of a son, time would reveal that she had not failed; I would prove that what many thought was her greatest failure was instead her greatest triumph.
Though the banquet, one continuous, dizzying round of delicious dishes, music, and dancing, lasted until dawn, shortly after midnight I rose from my chair at the high table, beneath the canopy of estate, and toasted my nobility, wishing them good health and thanking them for the pains they had taken on my behalf, and then withdrew to my bedchamber.
I dismissed my ladies. I told them to go, dance and make merry, or to sleep in their beds; I wanted to be alone. But I wasn’t alone. And I knew I wouldn’t be. Robert was there, waiting for me. I let him undress me, luxuriating in his touch, as he bared my skin, setting it free from my grand but heavy, cumbersome raiments, sighing under his hands as he rubbed the red marks my stays had left. I let him carry me, naked, to the great purple velvet and gold-fringed bed, its canopy supported by great, fierce, carved and gilded lions, claws and fangs bared, poised ready to pounce on us, and there ease me with his lips and hands. But when he took my hand and placed it on his bulging codpiece, I merely smiled, gave it a pat, and told him to go home to his wife.
“Leave me. I am tired and wish to sleep,” I said, and I rolled over onto my side and pulled the covers up and shut my eyes. I smiled at the sound of his footsteps and the curses he muttered beneath his breath and the slam of the door behind him, and I drifted off to sleep, intoxicated by my power to control men, those who thought God and Nature had decreed that it should be the other way around.
18
Amy Robsart Dudley
London
Sunday, January 15, 1559
Robert wrote and bade me come to London for Elizabeth’s coronation, to the grand town house owned by his uncle; he said I would be more comfortable there than with him at court or lodging with my cousins, the Scotts, in Camberwell. Nothing I could say would persuade him that I would rather be with him. He would not change his mind and let me come to court; he said he was too busy and hadn’t time to play nursemaid to my nerves or schoolmaster to correct my backward, blundering ways. So I packed up the magnificent purple tinsel and silver lace gown I had intended for my presentation to Queen Mary, reasoning that it would do just as well for her sister’s coronation, and sat down with Cook and painstakingly wrote out our recipe for strawberry jam, which Robert had most urgently requested for his own cook, cautioning me not to dare to come to London without it, and then to London I went.
I was in my bedchamber, with Pirto and my tailor, dear Mr. Edney, and his apprentice, when my husband walked in.
“No, No, No!” Robert bellowed, stamping his feet, his hands going up as if to tear the hair from his head. “That is the Spanish style! Do you want to proclaim to the whole world that you are Catholic and true to the memory of Mary?”
“But, Robert, I am not a Catholic. I was only pretending when you told me to!” I crinkled my brow at his outburst and glanced down at my gown, trying to discover what was so wrong with it. “I am not wearing a crucifix or rosary, and this is the grandest gown I own, and, I thought, since it was made to wear for one queen, it would do just as well for another. And the fashions have not changed so drastically that—”
“You!” Ignoring me, Robert pointed at Mr. Edney. “Make her presentable, or I promise, no one of any means will ever hire you even to make their shroud—you’ll end your days sewing shifts and shirts for the poor.” And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
“Oh, Mr. Edney!” I wailed with tears filling my eyes as I turned to him. “He should not have been so unkind to you—I am so sorry! The dress is beautiful, really. I ... I am sorry my husband does not like it! It is my fault ... I should have realized ... I should have known that it would not do and ordered something new, and now ...” I sank down sobbing onto the side of my bed. “Now it is too late—the coronation is tomorrow!”
“There, there, sweeting, don’t you worry.” Mr. Edney knelt before me and with his own handkerchief dried my tears. “We’ll fix it! Just a snip here and a tuck there, and no one will ever know it was made in the Spanish fashion. Yours is not the first angry husband I’ve encountered, and I daresay he will not be the last. And with being appointed Her Majesty’s Master of the Horse—a great and grave responsibility that is indeed—it is only natural that his lordship’s nerves should be a-fraying at the seams. But with your beauty and my needle we’ll give him a sight to make him proud! Come now.” He raised me to my feet and led me to a small stool positioned before the full-length looking glass. “Step up here, and let me see how best to work my magic!”
By the time Robert returned later that evening, Mr. Edney had transformed the gown, and there was not a trace of Spain about it, and it was still the most magnificent I had ever owned, and I felt confident that I could hold my own amongst all the grand, highborn ladies of the court on the morrow when I took my seat in Westminster Abbey. Robert was delighted; he was all smiles and compliments as he twirled me around so he could fully admire my gown. To my immense delight—and relief—he could not find a single fault with it.
He took me in his arms and danced me all around the room in a lively galliard, sweeping me up in his arms, lifting me high, my skirts swaying like a ringing bell, as he spun me ’round and ’round. I smiled and laughed and clung to him. I felt happy and alive. Dancing in my husband’s arms, I felt like one returned from the grave to the land of the living. It had been so very long since we had danced together and I had felt such joy, I had almost forgotten what it was like.
Like a cockerel strutting to impress me, Robert performed a series of leaps and turns, and I threw back my head and, laughing and carefree, began to circle the room from the opposite end, spinning ’round and ’round, doing spirited leaps and kicks of my own, until we met, and I was in his arms again, crushed tightly against his chest, as he showered me with praise and kisses and lifted me high in the air and spun me as I laughed in dizzy joy. Then Mr. Edney, familiar with the ways of the court, held a big yellow silk tassel up high for Robert to display his skill at high kicks. I clapped my hands and called “Bravo!” each time the toe of Robert’s boot made the tassel bounce and sway. Then Robert caught me up in his arms agai
n and spun me until we collapsed together, dizzy and laughing, on the bed.
My husband kissed me then with a passion I thought long dead. As he bent his head to plant a kiss onto each of my breasts, flushed and heaving above the low-cut bodice, he bade Mr. Edney, his apprentice, and Pirto to withdraw and leave us. Even as the door closed behind them, he gently rolled me over onto my stomach and unlaced my gown, then lifted my skirts and untied and drew the stiffened farthingale and layered taffeta petticoats down over my hips. He turned me ’round and kissed me again as he carefully eased away my gown, taking great care not to crumple or tear it. He even rose and went to drape it over the back of a chair. Then he was back on the bed with me, and I was in his arms again. He made such tender, passionate, gentle yet ardent love to me that I was reminded of the days we spent at Hemsby-by-the-Sea when we were newly wed. I gloried in the warmth and weight of his body over mine, skin against skin, and the feel of his lips and hands that assured me I was wanted and admired, and the hot skin that told me that my husband was on fire with desire for me. I clung to him and cried out my passion and love for him; it was so intense, I felt likely to die of it. And as I fell asleep with my head on his chest, my ear to his heart, listening to it beat, like a love song and a lullaby in my ear, just for me, I prayed fervently that this would be a new beginning for us.
But it turned out that my gown would be wasted yet again. I would only glimpse the coronation procession from afar and would not set foot in Westminster Abbey at all and thus see nothing of the crowning ceremony. I would watch what little of it I could see leaning from my window high above, not seated with the noble and privileged guests as Robert had promised me.
When I came downstairs, smiling and ready in my shimmering purple gown, the color like frosted lilacs, with my shoulders and face framed with stiffened silver lace, Robert took my hand and led me into the parlor. Sitting side by side, facing each other on the fireside settle, he quietly told me that I would be watching the procession from my bedchamber window; he feared that the crush inside the abbey and the press of the crowd outside, all the shouting and grasping hands, would be too much for me. I was not accustomed to such spectacles, he said, and his active role in the ceremony and organizing the pageantry would not allow him to be at my side to comfort and protect me, and Pirto alone, he judged, would not be sufficient, and he could not spare any of his men—not even one—to guard and escort me. He assured me that I wouldn’t be missing much; indeed many would think me the more fortunate, as the ceremony inside the abbey would be lengthy and drawn out and dreadfully dull. The procession, he insisted, was the best part, and I would have a wonderful view of that, far better than being pressed and jostled by the masses behind the barricades on the crowded streets, having my toes trod upon and the rabble shouting from all sides around me, and the cutpurses were sure to be out in vast numbers preying on the distracted revelers. And, taking me in his arms again and holding me close just like he had the night before, and lavishing my lips and throat with kisses, he promised that as he passed below my window, he would look up and blow a kiss to me.
Looking from a window above—that was the third time I saw Elizabeth Tudor. Surrounded on all sides by public jubilation, heartfelt cheers, adoration, and the fanfare of gleaming golden trumpets, she was majestically gowned in opulent gold brocade with an ornate raised pattern of silver and cloaked in ermine as befits a queen, and laden with sapphires, rubies, and pearls, with her flame-hued hair flowing free like a virgin’s as she was carried through the streets in a magnificent golden litter borne by footmen clad in crimson liveries. The people wept and cried and reached out their hands as if they longed to touch and embrace her; some even broke from behind the barricades and ran to present her with humble offerings, simple little gifts, which she accepted as if they were the most precious things in the world to her, worth far more than jewels and furs.
Robert rode behind her, richly clad, like a king himself, in crimson velvet and ermine, mounted upon a regal, high-stepping ebony steed, and behind him, just like the day when he galloped off to Hatfield, was the white horse, a spirited, prancing, milk white beauty who showed not a sign of nervousness that I, from my high perch, could discern at being in the midst of all this bright, noisy, crowded pageantry. My husband carried himself just like a king; all that was missing was a gold and bejeweled crown upon his head.
The whole time I had him in my sights, as the procession passed slowly beneath my window, he never took his eyes off her. Once, he even presumed to ride forward to take her hand, lean over it, and press it to his lips, letting them linger long against the pale white flesh. I felt then the most overwhelming sense of dread and panic; it made me dizzy and faint, and I found it very hard to breathe. Panting, trying to draw a deep enough breath in my tightly laced, stiffly boned bodice, I grasped hard the windowsill, feeling the rough, gritty bite of the stone against my palms, fearing that I might pitch forward, toppling over it, into the street below, to lie broken and crumpled in the new Queen’s path, to be crushed and trampled by the horses.
I prayed with all my heart that he would remember his promise and look up and blow a kiss to me. But he never did. He had eyes and kisses only for Elizabeth, and none to spare for me, his loyal and loving wife. I was nothing compared to her.
All about me people were rejoicing, shouting and singing out their love for Elizabeth, blessing her, wishing her a long life, and thanking God for bringing her to the throne, but I alone, I think, hated her. When she had all this love showered upon her, why must she also have Robert’s? I needed him more!
What had seemed like a new beginning was actually the end. Robert was no longer mine; he belonged to another now, one with whom I could never compete, one whose wishes, commands, and capricious whims would always come first, one to whom he would never say no. Elizabeth could give him the world, make all his dreams come true, but all I could give him was my love, and that was not enough. What was my love compared to the glittering gold temptation of a crown? I already knew the answer—nothing!
I sat up all night in my glittering purple and silver gown waiting for him. But he never came. As the sun set, I thought of him making merry at the coronation banquet, to which I had not been invited. I pictured him seated at the Queen’s side and dancing the night away with her, holding her close, boldly caressing her bodice when he lifted her high during the volta, and perhaps even daring to let his lips graze her neck as he lowered her, her body pressed tightly against his until her feet touched the ground again, and, even then, lingering for a moment or two longer.
I watched the sun rise through the diamond-shaped panes of my window and wondered where he was and on whose pillow he had laid his head that night. I didn’t touch the breakfast tray Pirto brought for me and shook my head at her attempts to coax me to change into something more comfortable, or to at least let her unleash my hair from the silver net sewn with amethysts and pearls and to loosen my armor-stiff stays. But I wanted Robert to see me again in the gown that had reawakened his long-dormant passion. I wanted it to happen again, to be the woman he wanted, not just one whose conveniently available body he made use of from time to time.
It was well past noon when I finally heard his boots upon the stairs. He had barely crossed the threshold before I was there, kneeling at his feet like a supplicant, grasping his hands, looking up at him with tears spangling my lashes, begging him not to abandon and forsake me.
Robert raised me to my feet and gathered me up in his arms and carried me to the big velvet-cushioned chair beside the fire. With me nestled upon his lap, clinging tightly to him, begging him like a child, nearly incoherent with tears and fears, to never let me go, Robert tried his best to calm me. He said I was tired—we both were—and should go to bed, but first, he would like to read a story to me, just the way he used to do.
“Oh, yes, oh, thank you, Robert, I would like that so much!” I cried, smiling through my tears, which were already starting to dry at the memory of the many times during the
early days of our marriage when we would curl up together with a book and my husband would read me tales like Guy of Warwick, or stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men, bawdy Italian tales which he translated for me himself, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Which one would it be this time? My mind was dancing, awhirl with tales of adventure and romance.
“First we must make ready for bed,” Robert said as his skillful fingers swiftly divested me of my gown, stripping me down to nothing but my cobweb lawn shift. He removed my dainty silver slippers, untied my purple satin garters, and rolled down my stockings, and I held my breath for a moment and trembled for fear that he would be repulsed by the roughness and callouses that were the unattractive result of the pleasure of going barefoot every spring and summer of my life, but he said nothing of them. Then he plucked the pins from my hair, cast aside the net, and combed his fingers through the harvest gold waves as they flowed down past my hips. Then it was my turn to undress him, though my fingers were nervous and clumsy and fumbled overlong over the golden buttons and aiglets and laces until, at last, he stood before me clad in only his gold-bordered white shirt. He took my hand, kissed it, and led me to bed.
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