Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Sandra Byrd

  “Is that all, my lady?”

  “Yes, Clemence. And please rest assured that I will hold to faith anything you say to me. I shall not share what I learn with others, nor speak of our talk.”

  She relaxed then and smiled at me before helping me polish my skin with a paste of ground almonds and water.

  • • •

  In August William left with the Earl of Sussex to Austria, to present the Order of the Garter to the emperor; in truth, they were also going to offer the queen’s hand to the archduke. Within months came a response to Her Majesty that while the archduke was eager to marry Her Majesty, he could not in good conscience agree to forgo his Catholicism and embrace Protestantism, a requirement she was not willing to negotiate. With regret, the discussions concluded without good fruit. Her Majesty sorrowed for days and I noticed her occasionally stroking her stomacher, as if mourning a lost child not yet conceived, perhaps an heir.

  William returned home, and we hosted an evening at his manor in London. The queen attended, as did most of the nobility. I had been in England for better than two years, but had not yet eaten of the lingonberries that my sister had pressed on me as I’d left Sweden. I instructed William’s cooks to prepare them into a compote with sugar and water. They, like my life in England, were a mixture of sweet and bitter.

  Although everyone was unfailingly gracious, few offered me a hand or a smile of friendship, save the queen. She sampled the lingonberries after the others had passed them by. “These are delightful, Lady von Snakenborg!” she declared. “I shall have a second serving.” She turned to His Grace the Duke of Norfolk. “Have you eaten of these, Norfolk?”

  Norfolk had not, of course, but at that point he had little recourse but to eat them and declare them to his liking. Several other ladies did likewise, and while I appreciated the assistance Her Majesty sought to offer, I found compulsory compliments and feigned affection sharp in my ears. Lady Eleanor Brydges was the only person to offer genuine warmth to me. I made cheerful talk with her and sent some specially prepared comfit cake back to her lodging hoping that would be the flint to a friendship. I wondered aloud that night, to William, if things might be different if I were his wife. He promised to press the matter again.

  Before Christmas, final word came that there was no prospect of annulment. William was legally married until death did them part.

  I was shocked. I sorrowed. In my rooms at court, I angrily packed up all the gowns and jewels he had given me into a large casket to return to him and shouted in German, and then in Swedish, which I knew no one could understand. Clemence, ten years older than I and familiar with tempers, wisely absented herself.

  William should have told me this at the outset! And now here I was, alone, adrift, unprotected.

  Later I unpacked them all again. He had acted in good faith. He was kind and noble. He had treated me with affection and dignity. But I would need to think upon this in a different manner now. I would not speak to him of it until my thoughts were clear and a decision made. What would I do should I remain in England an unmarried maid? I did not mind serving the queen, and I appreciated her friendship, but I would never have chosen an unmarried life.

  William bought me a magnificent horse as a Christmas gift and a fine necklace of emeralds set in gold, and I bought him some falcons that I arranged to have sent from St. Botolph’s fair in Lincolnshire. But our inability to marry was a devastating blow to both of us. Letters still made their way irregularly, and I prayed that I would not hear from my mother and be forced to respond with this ill news. I did not wish to give her information to pass along to Princess Cecelia for her evening’s amusement.

  • • •

  In January the Spanish ambassador reported to Her Majesty that Philip of Spain, husband to the queen’s dead sister, Mary, had arrested his own son, Don Carlos, and thrown him into prison for treason. Don Carlos starved himself in retaliation. We ladies were gathered in the Privy Chamber, where I sat mending one of the queen’s delicate ruffs, when Lady Knollys delivered yet more strange news.

  “Lady Katherine Grey Seymour is also refusing to eat, Majesty. She is said to be near death, and in fact, those waiting upon her have said she speaks of going toward God as quickly as she can and begs you to care for her sons.”

  My heart pained at this tender sentiment from a young wife who had been exiled and separated from her husband these many years—four years, I thought, before I arrived on these shores. She had married for love, but Lady Katherine had also married in folly. She had not only forgone the queen’s permission, a penal offense for those closely related to the queen and with a claim to the throne, but had admitted to the Archbishop of Canterbury that she and her husband had purposed to deceive Her Majesty. Worse, there was no proof of her wedding, as the only witness had died and the priest who had performed the ceremony could not be located. Her husband was found guilty of seducing a virgin of the blood royal, and when Lady Katherine bore a second son after trysts in the Tower, she and her husband were permanently separated.

  Bad fortune had certainly chased down the ladies Grey, but if the truth be told, it was the queen’s brother King Edward and Jane Grey’s father-in-law, John Dudley, who’d set loose the hounds on the sisters by illegally bypassing Henry’s daughters for the legal succession.

  “We are sorry for her ill health,” the queen stated before turning back to the manuscript she was lettering in her own hand. “But we can in no way force our good cousin to eat.”

  Lady Knollys, also Her Majesty’s cousin as the daughter of Mary Boleyn, was ever reluctant to find fault with Her Grace. But even she looked shamed at this seeming lack of compassion. The lesson was clear: no courtier, nor cousin, nor lady should undertake marriage without the queen’s permission.

  Another cousin, stronger and more dangerous, arrived on Her Majesty’s shores that May. Mary of Scots, fleeing the rebel lords in her own land, applied to her “good sister” the queen of England to help her back upon her throne. A pamphlet was circulated, Defense of the Honor of Queen Mary, which forcefully claimed Mary’s right to Elizabeth’s throne, as many English Catholics believed. The author was anonymous but the queen’s advisors widely believed it to be John Lesley, Bishop of Ross, and Mary’s ambassador to Elizabeth’s court, and were not afraid to say so publicly.

  “Mary’s a plague upon this realm,” William told me one night as we dined together. “She murdered her husband and carries with her the vapor of death. The only question yet to be settled is whom shall the death she brings strike down.”

  • • •

  Lady Knollys’s husband, Sir Francis, was to meet the Queen of Scots and accompany her, with guards to protect his and her safety, to the castle in the north. Our queen had decided Mary was to be her “guest” while the matter of Mary’s involvement in her husband’s death was investigated. The queen could not send troops into Scotland to restore a tainted Catholic monarch to that staunchly Protestant nation, even if she were so inclined, which she was not.

  Neither could she send Mary to France, which would be happy to receive her. France looked upon Catholic Mary as the rightful queen of England and would be only too eager to assist her in regaining the Scottish, and perhaps the coveted English, thrones. For Mary to stay in England was discomfiting as well. There were Catholic subjects in England who still regarded Her Majesty as illegitimate because they had not accepted King Henry’s marriage to the queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn, as valid. Instead, they held that of the king’s children, only Mary, born of King Henry’s Catholic first wife, Katherine of Aragon, and then Edward, born after Katherine of Aragon was dead, were legitimate heirs. The king’s will set had forth the order of succession: Edward, Mary, and then Elizabeth. After them came the descendants of his sister Mary. But he deliberately barred from succession the descendants of his sister Margaret, among whom was Mary, Queen of Scots. In some ways, I felt compassion for Queen Mary, exiled from her home in a land that was not quite welcoming to her, unable to act of fre
e will in either place.

  Lady Knollys approached the queen in the Privy Chamber. They spoke softly, and yet all could still hear.

  “Sir Francis has asked if I may accompany him to Lord Scrope’s to carry out your instructions, Majesty,” she said. It was clear by the pleading look on her face and the tone of voice she used that she wished to accompany her husband. All understood why her husband desired the happy company of his wife while carrying out such an unwelcome duty.

  “I value your companionship above all women, Katherine,” the queen said gently. “I cannot do without your comfort and presence just now.”

  Lady Knollys bowed her head in acceptance, but her eyes, already deeply shadowed, showed her pain. I wondered if her husband or her children resented the many years she attended the queen to their benign neglect. Lady Devereux, whom I’d seen flirting with Lord Robert, bore little love for the queen and the queen for her. I, who understood the competition between sisters over the love of a mother, considered whether their ill feelings may have long centered around the division of Lady Knollys’s time and affections, and not first Lord Robert.

  The queen patted Lady Knollys’s hand fondly and rewarded her soon thereafter with the fees from a license for selling worsted cloth reverted to the crown after its owner had displeased the queen. I wondered if Sir Francis was warmed by these fees during his long, lonely journey to and stay at Carlisle Castle. That decision made it hard for me to serve the queen with anything approaching enthusiasm for several days, though I’m certain I hid it well.

  Some months later, Lord Robert approached the queen in her Presence Chamber to speak to her of what had been discovered regarding the Queen of Scots.

  “Come, Robin.” The queen beckoned him to her side. He drew near her, near enough to kiss, which he did not, but also near enough to share breath, and I thought that, perhaps, they did.

  “They have found letters between Mary and Bothwell declaring their love, describing their physical intimacy, and slandering Lord Darnley, all dated from before Darnley’s death,” Dudley said after moving back and sitting beside her.

  “Why have we not heard of this, Robin?” the queen marveled. “We instructed Norfolk to learn what he will and report back to us.”

  Robert shrugged. “I’ve heard it said that Norfolk is particularly keen to keep this quiet, thus protecting Mary’s reputation from those who might otherwise be abhorred by her shameful conduct.”

  At this, the queen sat up. I took the goblet from her hand; she handed it to me without acknowledging my presence. There was only one reason that Norfolk, who was rumored to be secretly practicing Catholicism while acting outwardly Protestant, had to protect Mary. He was plotting on her behalf.

  “We will have the next meeting of the council here, at Westminster,” she declared. “And then Cecil will attend as well. We will not condemn a crowned queen based on hearsay.”

  We women looked at one another, all thinking, perhaps, of Elizabeth’s mother, Queen Anne Boleyn, convicted and beheaded on whispers and a lone, pitiful, racked confession.

  “I shall look upon this evidence myself,” she finished. Within weeks, she did, as did many of her courtiers, all of whom were shocked by the unsavory contents. To those gathered the queen sadly pronounced, “The letters contained many matters that cannot be repeated before honest ears, and may be easily drawn to be clear proof against the queen.”

  She looked tired. In light of the findings, there was no way to receive Mary at court, but the queen did send clothing and finances and promised to underwrite her household expenses, which was no mean amount. It didn’t please her vanity, either, when her own courtiers seemed taken with the much younger Mary’s beauty and charm. After returning from a visit to Carlisle, one of Elizabeth’s courtiers told Cecil, when he was unaware that we ladies were nearby, “Mary has an alluring grace, a pretty Scottish accent, and a searching wit, clouded with mildness. Fame might move some to relieve her of her miseries,” he finished, “and glory might stir others to risk much for her sake.”

  William told me that Norfolk had asked to take some of William’s birds on a hawking expedition he was undertaking with Maitland, who had once been secretary to Mary, Queen of Scots, but was now an emissary on behalf of the new Scottish government.

  “Do you doubt Maitland?” I asked.

  “I doubt him not at all,” William replied. “I am certain he is in the employ of the Scots queen and arranging with Norfolk for marriage between them, and then from there to rule England. Norfolk has already pressed the Privy Council to agree that Mary will be freed if she is safely married to an English lord. I’m certain he has just such a lord in mind.”

  We talked for some time and then I grew weary. “Good night, William,” I softly said, preparing to leave for my own chamber. I’d felt increasingly odd kissing him knowing that he was still married, even though his “wife” had not spoken to him for decades and had left him for another man, and so I didn’t. He respected that but I know it pained him. He continued to treat me with the utmost respect and affection, and we spent time together at court, hawking, dancing, and studying Italian, but we’d grown distant. I sorrowed that, but I could not give my heart to a man I knew was not mine.

  “Good night, Helena,” he replied.

  We were in ginnungugap, the Nordic place of void and in-between. I finally determined that, should another suitor appear while William’s wife still lived, I was free to consider him. I had acted charitably and in good faith, but I couldn’t allow feelings for a married man to grow, nor set aside my own life forever.

  SIX

  Year of Our Lord 1569

  The Palace of Whitehall

  Just after the new year, Lady Knollys, who had been unwell, grew fainter and more ill. She was confined to her bed and the queen visited her daily, often more than once. The queen was sore vexed and could scarce think of anything else but Lady Knollys and her illness. As I was serving her I noticed that her hands, of which she was inordinately proud, were red from wringing.

  “Your Grace, may I apply a salve upon your hands, and some gloves, for your comfort?” I asked.

  The queen silently nodded. I rubbed them with a lightly herbed ointment and slipped a pair of the gloves she was known for over her hands. The next day, she called me aside. “We thank you, Lady von Snakenborg, as our hands are less tender and raw.”

  “I shall salve them each evening, madam,” I said.

  Within days, Lady Knollys died. Her Majesty could not be consoled for a week or more; her eyes were red-rimmed and every conversation turned to good Lady Knollys. Sir Francis was recalled. When I saw him, I was shocked. He’d aged more than ten years and his gaunt face was stone struck with grief. Blanche Parry asked me to assemble into trunks Lady Knollys’s belongings, and to care for Her Majesty’s birds, which had been Lady Knollys’s responsibility. I readily agreed.

  To my shame, I read, while packing, portions of Sir Francis’s final letter to his wife. In it he pleaded for her to consider a quieter manner of life, to retire from service and live a poor country life with him.

  It was too late for that.

  • • •

  Several days later I was salving Her Majesty’s hands before she retired for the evening when I noticed her shoulders were hunched. “You are Atlas, my lady, carrying the weight of the heavens on your shoulders,” I said. “Let me rub some valerian ointment into them, as we would do in Sweden.”

  She agreed, and for the first time since Lady Knollys’s death, I saw her uncoil. “You do well,” she said. “Tell me, have you been reading about Atlas of late?”

  I shook my head. “Not of late, Majesty. I love stories and have plucked some from your library. I must say, your library is rich with myths and tales of Greece and Rome; however, there are no stories in them of the myths from the north. There is much to learn from our legends, too.”

  The queen smiled, and as she did, the others in the room put themselves at ease.

  “Tell us ab
out one of them, Helena,” Anne Russell Dudley urged. No hint of the lady’s bedstraw awkwardness remained . . . at least between us two. “Her Majesty loves a story!”

  I knew Anne was hoping to brighten the queen’s gloom, so I eagerly sought a story to do that. I indicated that Eleanor Brydges should come near, and I whispered into her ear. She smiled and took her leave. No one asked where she was going; they expected that we were to amuse the queen and let her go, relishing the suspense.

  “I shall tell you of our legendary Idun,” I said, continuing to knead the knots from Her Majesty’s neck and shoulders. “She is most beloved, the goddess of youth and spring and rebirth, and she lives in Asgard, the mythological home of the gods.”

  Anne Dudley clapped and bid me continue. She smiled in my direction, confirming that I had chosen the right tale for Her Majesty.

  “Because Norse gods are not immortal of their own accord, they need to eat of extraordinary apples, protected by Idun, in order to retain their immortality. One day, the evil trickster Loki was captured by a giant, Thiassi. The giant refused to free Loki until he brought Idun and her apples to him as a ransom. Loki, readily turncoat, agreed.”

  The room was quiet and Her Majesty began to relax. I stopped for a moment and she spoke up. “Do proceed, Lady von Snakenborg!”

  “Loki sped back to Asgard, and because Idun was trusting and kind, she believed Loki when he told her that he had found better apples that could be of help to both Idun and the other gods. He urged her to trust him and she did, following him into the woods. Once there, Thiassi, who had disguised himself in the form of an honorable eagle, swooped down and dug his talons into well-believing Idun and her basket of apples, and carried her away.

  “Without Idun and her magic apples, the story goes, the other gods grew gray, feeble, and old. They gathered together and confronted Loki, demanding that he return Idun and her apples or they would banish him from Asgard. Loki, who had no pride and was willing to barter with either side, agreed. He turned into a falcon, flew to Thiassi, and once there, changed Idun into a nut. He clasped her in his claws and flew back to Asgard, furiously chased by Thiassi, who disguised himself in the form of an eagle once more.