The Tudor Heritage

by The Tudor Heritage (retail) (epub)

  In the courtyard below an unruly mob of three hundred of Essex’s supporters milled about. At last the gates were opened and they surged forward—still without a clear objective. Essex—quite carried away by their enthusiasm—appeared crying, “To the City! To the City!”

  They marched out and on up the Strand with Sir Christopher Blount and Essex at their head and entered the City through Ludgate but the citizens had been warned and the streets were silent and deserted.

  At midday they reached St. Paul’s where Essex had intended to rally the citizens at the Cross but his cries of “Treason! Save the Queen’s Grace from the Spaniard!” fell upon deaf ears. His voice echoed in empty streets and lanes.

  His defiance crumbled. The sweat stood out upon his brow, cold fear clutched at his heart and his face contorted with horror as he finally realised what he had done. He had taken up arms against his Queen and that he knew was treason! There was nothing left to do but to return to Essex House.

  Defeated and broken he stumbled back towards Ludgate only to find it blocked. Sir Christopher Blount made a desperate charge but was wounded. A boy was killed and many of the insurgents were wounded as the citizens and hastily summoned militia drove them back.

  Essex fled to Wanstead by way of the river to find that the Councillors had escaped. Frantically burning all his papers he gave orders for barricades to be erected but it was all in vain for artillery and soldiers under Lord Howard soon encircled the house and the Earl and the remnants of his force surrendered.

  He was tried, found guilty of high treason and condemned to death.

  Elizabeth signed the death warrant and on the 23rd February, Robert Devereux took the short path that led to the scaffold.

  * * *

  She had suffered torments of indecision and agony of mind before she had finally signed the warrant for the execution of Mary Stuart but this time there was no indecision.

  She told herself woodenly that there should have been procrastination, sorrow and remorse—for had she not loved him? Then she remembered his outbursts and his cruel remarks.

  “I would not have borne it from your father’s hands!” he had once shouted at her. He would not have reached the age of manhood in her father’s day—he would have been viciously cut down like the Earl of Surrey, she thought. Had she become as vindictive as Henry? How many times had she proclaimed with pride that she was her father’s daughter? Had she now proved herself to be a cruel, vindictive tyrant?

  Essex was wilful, head-strong, ambitious and a little wild but he was also handsome, endearing, poetic, gallant and she had loved him—once.

  Suddenly and with awful irony she realised that she was sending him to his death for the very qualities that her own mother had possessed and for which she also had died.

  Then she remembered what Kat Ashley had told her of Anne’s death when she—as a child of eight—had begged of Kat the truth. At last the tears started to flow; sorrow and remorse filled her heart—but for Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, it was too late.

  Seventeen

  The last golden days of autumn were passing slowly. The sun had lost its fiery heat and bathed the gardens in a soft, golden light. The leaves had turned to gold, russet and red and lay in a thick carpet upon the ground and the Michaelmas Daisies alone raised their purple heads to the dying warmth.

  The river lay peaceful: gently lapping the water steps as Jane Allgrave eased herself into a rustic seat beneath a leafless oak. Twelve years had passed since the great Armada had set sail and in that time she had seen all her children marry and was the grandmother of four boys and two girls.

  Time had dealt kindly with Jane for her skin was as clear and as fresh as a young girl’s and there were no grey hairs amongst the brown. Her eyes, which had always looked out upon the world with tranquillity, were still the same and time had not dimmed their lustre.

  Beth and Martin both lacked that driving urge which drove her youngest son for Martin was happy upon his estates in Gloucestershire with his wife and son, while Beth’s life was devoted to her husband and her two small daughters.

  Jane was so wrapped up in her memories that she did not hear the running footsteps on the path until a tiny bundle hurled itself onto her lap.

  “Grandma, are you asleep?” a pert voice enquired.

  Jane laughed, kissing the rosy, little cheek.

  “No. I was not asleep, Joanne, just dreaming.”

  “Do you always dream with your eyes open?”

  “Yes, little moppet. Always,” Jane confided.

  “Joanne, what have you come to say especially to your Grandmother?” her mother prompted as she sat down beside Jane, her baby daughter of six months sleeping peacefully in her arms.

  “Happy Birthday and God Bless!” the little girl recited.

  Jane and Beth laughed.

  “She has been practising it all day. Happy Birthday, mother,” Beth added, kissing Jane upon the cheek.

  Joanne suddenly remembered that birthdays usually meant presents and brightly remarked upon the fact.

  “After supper,” her mother replied.

  “We are having a party tonight and if you are a very good girl you may stay up.” Turning to Beth she went on, “Your brothers will both be here shortly. It seems so long since I have had you home.”

  “Father is well?”

  “He is much better but you know your father, Beth, he does not take kindly to enforced rest and he refuses to admit that he is not as young as he once was.”

  Jane watched silently as Joanne played with a small, frisky puppy. “Time passes so quickly. It seems but yesterday when you played upon this same lawn and I sat here with your grandmother.”

  “Mother, you are becoming morbid. Look at you. There is not a grey hair in your head,” Beth chided.

  Jane smiled.

  “Look at the Queen,” Beth continued, “sixty-nine last month and she still hunts and dances every day and her brain is as active as it ever was!”

  “She is a remarkable woman.”

  They both fell silent, their thoughts occupied by the enigma that was their Sovereign.

  The mellowed, red-brick house on the banks of the Thames blazed with light. Torches burnt brightly in the courtyard while inside the house the Great Hall and the Long Gallery were as bright as day with the hundreds of candles which burnt in their sconces upon the walls and branches upon tables and cupboards.

  The windows had been flung open and the faint smell of leaves pervaded the rooms and the sounds of laughter and music filtered out across the still gardens.

  Edward and Jane stood just inside the Hall surrounded by their family as they greeted their guests, amongst whom were many illustrious faces. For Jane the occasion was a success due to the fact that she had all her children around her once more and her husband at her side. The musicians played a popular, haunting ballad from their perch high up in the gallery that ran the length of the far wall. The servants passed goblets of the finest wines and trays of comfits to the guests. A long, trestle table covered with a fine linen cloth, was set against the wall where the windows looked out across the gardens. This was set out with roasted and jellied meats. Capon, venison, wild fowl and peacock and wild boar. Manchets of fine, white bread and cheeses were piled upon gilded dishes and huge jellies and confections of sugar in fantastic forms of birds and beasts took up a great deal of the table space.

  “I think your mother is satisfied,” Edward remarked to Beth who was trying, unsuccessfully, to restrain her small daughter from eating a whole dish of marchpane. She nodded. Her father glanced at the watch which hung in a golden case from the belt of his doublet. “It is nearly time. I must go and see that all is ready at the water steps,” he whispered. “Try and detach your mother from old Lady Neston and steer her towards the door.”

  Beth consigned Joanne to the care of her nurse and on the pretext of an urgent message, rescued her mother from the incessant torrent of reminiscences which issued from the lips of the old lady. />
  “How that woman does talk!” Beth said when they were safely out of earshot.

  “Poor soul, she has very little opportunity of talking to anyone. One day, Beth, you too will grow old and will welcome a willing listener.”

  “If Joanne continues to chatter as she does now, I will welcome the solitude.”

  “What is so important? What does your father want to discuss with me, can it not wait?”

  Beth did not reply but smilingly made her way towards the door.

  “Edward, what is the matter?” Jane asked as they finally reached the carved doorway.

  He smiled and put a finger to his lips. Jane was irritated and stared first at Edward and then at Beth.

  “Will no one tell me what all this is about?” she asked sharply.

  “I shall, Lady Allgrave,” a voice informed her and Jane sank into a deep curtsy, overcome with confusion, for in the doorway stood Elizabeth.

  Edward bowed low and kissed the hand proffered to him. “Your Majesty does us a great honour by attending our humble celebration.”

  “By my troth, sir, it does not appear to be so humble!” Elizabeth replied as her sharp eyes took in the great quantities of food and wine and the rich plate. “This has cost a pretty penny!” she thought.

  “We wish you great happiness, Lady Allgrave. Your family has served us well,” she said amiably to the still kneeling and flustered Jane.

  “Your Majesty, I can find no words to express my thanks at the honour bestowed upon me.”

  Elizabeth smiled and gestured Jane to rise. “Come, escort me and introduce me to your guests,” she commanded as she passed slowly down the ranks of kneeling guests to the place on the dais which had been prepared for her.

  Jane Allgrave’s face glowed with pride and happiness. She had been content that her family had given her this reception in honour of her birthday but that the Queen herself had deigned to accept Edward’s invitation was the crowning moment of the evening.

  The reception was a great success for Elizabeth complimented her upon her fine taste and had presented her with a richly wrought purse and a beautiful ivory fan. She had even danced and had been loudly applauded by her hosts and for once little Joanne’s incessant chatter had been stilled when Elizabeth had kissed the golden head affectionately, for the Queen had always had a great fondness for children.

  At last when all the guests had departed and their children and grandchildren had retired, Jane turned to Edward. “Thank you. I could not have wished for a better gift.”

  “I kept it a surprise for otherwise you would have worried and fretted yourself to a shadow and I would have been plagued nigh unto death!” he answered, affectionately kissing the top of her head.

  She put her arms around him and held him close.

  “Edward, we have been so fortunate. God has been good to us,” she whispered. “We have come safely through all perils.” She raised her head and looked up at the portraits of Margaret and Richard that hung above the massive fireplace. “I wish she could have been here. She would have been so proud.”

  “Yes, Elizabeth showed her great compassion in many ways,” he replied, his gaze travelling to the beautiful miniature of his sister that hung just below the portraits of his parents. “Beneath that forbidding exterior beats a kind and compassionate heart. Come to bed, Jane. You are exhausted,” he said tenderly, placing his arm around the still slender waist.

  Together they climbed the wide, carved staircase. The failing light of the guttering candles threw deep shadows across their faces as wearily, but contentedly, they reached the gallery.

  * * *

  As the barge carrying her moved quietly over the inky surface of the river Elizabeth sat lost in thought. During the evening she, too, had glanced up at the portraits of Richard and Margaret Allgrave and she wished now that she had not attended the reception. Moods of deep depression and melancholy came upon her often, especially at night when she lay alone in her carved and gilded bed. Faces and voices from the past reminded her that she was becoming older with each passing day. Friends were leaving the troubles of this world for a happier place while she was left to struggle on—carrying the heavy burden that she had carried for so long.

  One by one they had gone, like shadows in the night. Walsingham had been the first, worn out with faithful service to his country and his Queen. Burghley, too, devoted to her to the end. Dear William, who had been with her from the first days of her accession. Kat, too, was dead. Kat who had loved her, cherished her and fought alongside her in the stormy days of her youth.

  All her suitors were now dead, even her old enemy Philip. The defeat of his Armada had placed the cold finger of death upon his ailing, rotting body.

  Of her gallant Captains who had saved her country from the invader only Lord Howard and Raleigh remained. Drake and Hawkins were both dead—Drake of a fever off the coast of Panama and Hawkins a week earlier off the island of Puerto Rico.

  Even the gallant little Revenge had gone in a burst of glory. With two hundred men (eighty of whom were ill) she had for fifteen hours battled alone against fifteen galleons of Spain. She had sunk two and heavily damaged many others before her powder had run out and she was captured. The great admiration for the bravery of their opponents was expressed by the Spanish captain as he personally attended the mortally wounded Grenville.

  Throughout her life she had loved but one man. But her dearest Robin had been dead these twelve years. She had tried to recapture for a brief time the days of her golden youth with his young stepson Essex, but Essex had been a wilful, over-ambitious young man who had flaunted her time and time again

  A tear slid down the withered cheek, raddling the heavy paint. She had wept but she had signed the warrant for his execution. That night a haunting desolation had settled upon her and had continued to visit her each night as the shadows lengthened and the darkness descended.

  She raised a hand to brush away her tears and the dim light from the spluttering torch caught the fire which danced in the huge diamond upon her finger. She stretched out her hand and gazed in disgust at the shrivelled, claw-like object. Once it had been so beautiful for her hands had been her finest feature. They had been soft and white with long, tapering fingers. The pink nails a perfect oval and polished until they shone. She touched the sagging, wizened skin at her throat and bosom and pain and despair twisted in her heart. She was a hag! A raddled, old hag! Oh, those ambitious young men who surrounded her praised her eternal beauty to the skies and she desperately tried to believe them. But she knew. In her heart she knew the truth. She touched her face; beneath the layers of paint her skin was as yellow, faded and wrinkled as old parchment. The once fiery halo of curls was reduced to a few wisps of straggling, grey hair which was covered by a variety of wigs.

  Once, long ago, a head had fallen in the Great Hall of Fotheringay; a head covered by a chestnut wig which once removed had revealed the shorn, grey locks of Mary Stuart. Even in death she had dealt Mary the final indignity. Would death be as cruel to her, revealing in all its stark horror her withered carcase?

  She sank back upon the cushions but the high, wired ruff dug into her neck. Her clothes were very rich but grotesque. The wheel farthingale with its circular frill stuck out like a drum. The gown was of white silk embroidered all over with huge pearls and festooned with green and red bows of satin ribbon. The grossly padded sleeves were also decorated with tiny bows and the huge, stiffened ruff rose high at the back of her head and extended down the sides of the low neckline of the gown. Six long ropes of pearls hung around her neck and she felt swamped and suffocated by the finery as she remembered, with nostalgia, the simple gowns she had worn as a girl and the comfortable French hood, then so fashionable.

  The magnificent barge moved slowly downriver as the moon shed its light upon the spires and towers of the city. Gently it glided on over the silver-splashed waters, carrying a lonely old woman who feared the darkness for the memories of lost youth and love that tore at her hear
t with cruel talons and which refused to let her sleep.

  Eighteen

  Christmas passed with its attendant festivities and the New Year of 1603 was ushered in by fierce, biting winds and sleet. The bare trees bent and creaked before the icy blasts and many a beggar crouched shivering, wrapped in rags upon the doorsteps of the churches and in the filthy hovels, lanes and alleyways of London.

  The wind howled around the palace of Richmond, shaking the casements and lifting the heavy draperies and sending chilling draughts along the galleries. The palace was strangely hushed but an undercurrent of anxiety and fear held everyone in its grasp. Elizabeth was ill.

  On the 12th January she had first felt unwell.

  “’Tis naught but a cold in the head,” she had informed those persons anxiously enquiring after her health and on the 14th she had moved to Richmond which compared to Whitehall and Westminster—which were deathly cold and almost impossible to heat to any comfortable degree—was reasonably warm. The change of air seemed for a little while to give her strength but on the 28th February she became worse.

  The news of her illness spread like wildfire throughout the land and once again prayers were offered up in every church for her recovery. Her subjects could not envisage a life in England without Elizabeth and there were many who had never known another Sovereign. This time their prayers could avail her little for she felt the cold hands of death upon her.

  During the past year she had become so weary of life. She was alone, surrounded by young people whose very youth and vivacity irked her for everyone had gone and only she was left and the terrible depression overwhelmed her for longer and longer periods. She hardly slept at all for as soon as she closed her eyes the ghosts of the past came trooping back. Her father in all his bluff, cruel glory. Her mother with her raven hair and sorrowful eyes. Her sister Mary and Edward, her brother and all her old friends and associates. She would press her fists hard against her closed lids to blot out the mocking face of Mary Stuart and the bitter-sweet, reproachful countenance of Essex until finally she would rise from her bed and sit huddled in a chair, alone in the darkness—save for her memories.