I chose my path, which until that instant I had not known. I threw the dice. I chose truth, defiant or not.
I knelt and took his hand. ‘Dearest father, my heart, not philosophy, tells me that you feel lost. As we all feel lost. But only you can lead us out of darkness…’
He gasped, flung off my hands so violently that I fell. He rose to his feet, forgetting his gouty foot, stepped on it, stumbled. ‘… Aiee! Shit!’ He hobbled two painful steps to catch his balance.
I scrambled to my feet.
He turned on me, unleashing his rage. ‘How dare ye?’ he shouted. ‘Who are you to dare counsel me? A smock! A vixen! Who are ye, t’think you know anything of what England needs?’
‘I’ve learned a little while standing all those times like a prize heifer on show!’ I shouted back, jutting my chin just as fiercely as he did. ‘I’ve got eyes and ears! I’ve learned that I’m treaties and trade agreements and military alliances! I know enough to know that!’
I held out my hands and wiggled my fingers. ‘I’ve learned that these are worth gold coins!’ I pointed to my right elbow, bruised by my fall. ‘Silver ingot… And here’s another.’ I pointed to my left elbow.
I kicked a foot out under the hem of my skirt. ‘Worth Baltic oak.’ My eyes? I pointed. ‘Diamonds.’ My teeth? ‘Pearls.’ I thumped my skull. ‘D’you think I’ve nothing in here but dried peas?’
‘And what about that little royal cunny? What’s the value of that?’
This question, from a father, snatched the breath from me.
He nodded, pleased with his effect on me. ‘Aren’t ye glad you didn’t challenge me before the whole court? There’s none here now but the fish down there in the river to see ye go as red as a swollen cock.’
I recovered at last. ‘Aren’t you glad I’ve got a royal cunny? And that you’ll be putting the price on it, not me?’
He didn’t even blink. ‘Why weren’t ye the first born…’ For an instant, he disappeared into a private thought. ‘And if you were a boy as well…’ He tilted his head to one side in mock appraisal.
‘But as I’m not a boy…’ I began, giddy with that faint, extraordinary whiff of praise.
‘Don’t let kind words go to your head.’ He took off his hat. The diamond flared in the sun, a deep pool of cold tiny fires, the size of a bantam’s egg.
‘Don’t try to tell me your worth,’ he said in impeccable London English, not a trace of Scots in his voice now. ‘Do you imagine that I hold anything in this world to be priceless? Least of all, you?’
He straightened and seemed to grow taller. ‘Bessie, your heart may well tell you all manner of nonsense. But my heart is as cold as this stone…’ He paused as if listening to the echo of his words. ‘Some plodding poetaster must have written that.’
He wiggled the hat to make the diamond flash until it seemed that a whole constellation of stars had been caught and compressed into its depths. ‘I’ll tell you what I truly feel. Nothing matters to me but to be entertained every minute until I die. In both flesh and in wit. When everyone else fails me, as they must, I amuse myself. You have just entertained me, but that moment is already passing.’
If I were a boy, I wanted to say, I wouldn’t need a keen wit to entertain you.
‘Those pious clack-tongues in Westminster call me greedy for wealth. Here’s how I answer them…’ He ripped the diamond from the hat, pushed open the window and threw the gem into the Thames.
Mouth open, I saw the flashing fall and the little splash where the price of a year’s maintenance for an army sank into the water.
For a moment we both stared down at the opaque muddy water below the window. The king wore a slightly startledexpression, as if he had taken himself by surprise as much as me. Then he slammed the window shut.
‘That’s how much I care for wealth. Or anything else, including you and your advice. The true value of wealth lies in other men’s greed for it and how pliable their hunger makes them.’
All smiles now, the rex victor clamped his hands onto my shoulders and pulled me forward to plant a sloppy kiss on my forehead.
‘There’s a good lassie. Just don’t think you can ever outwit your old dad. We think too much alike but my wits will always be sharper.’ He lifted his hands and dropped them on my shoulders again, half blow, half caress. ‘I’m glad I never had you educated. You might have been dangerous. Run along now and leave me to rule England. And you.’
Leaving the king’s lodgings, I passed Frederick, again a helpless captive amongst the king’s other waiting gentlemen in the great reception chamber. I caught his eye and raised my shoulders. I did not know what I had achieved, if anything.
As soon as I was clear of the king’s lodgings, I wiped from my forehead the kiss of a father I suspected of murdering my brother.
Just then, I was grateful that I had escaped arrest. Later, sitting silent among my ladies while they gambled with dice, I felt the full damage of that meeting with my father. It was a clean wound, as I imagined a sword slice would feel. Almost unnoticeable at the time it lands. Only afterwards, when the sinews no longer connect, and the blood drains away, and the pain sets in, do you understand that the blow may have been mortal.
I kept seeing the diamond disappear into the water, as worthless as I was.
He was willing to throw me away, as valueless, except for what I could extract in return for other men’s greed. No father has ever made himself more extravagantly clear about his paternal feelings. Why had I dared to hope for anything else?
I wanted to drop my head into my hands. Instead, I stiffened my neck and accepted the little leather cup of dice to throw in my turn. I had to decide whether my father had thrown away Henry in another fit of half-thinking rage. If he would have his own heir poisoned out of fear, I could think of no reason he would spare a mere daughter.
I set one of my grooms to watch all night on the Privy Stairs. ‘Come at once to report any activity you see.’
Near midnight, the boy came to my elbow as I sat still dicing with a sleepy Anne.
‘Your grace,’ he said. ‘The tide is out, and the king has his men dredging the river by torchlight.’
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Beneath his bedchamber window.’
‘Please go to bed, Anne,’ I said. ‘This boy will accompany me. I want a walk in the open air.’
I had to see this for myself.
69
I never learned whether it was Bacon’s advice that prevailed. Or my plea. Or Frederick’s charm. It might have been any or all of them together, or perhaps no more than the king’s own perverse, changeable nature.
The announcement was made and the news cried in the streets. Letters flew in all directions over England. Messengers of foreign envoys sprinted for their ships. The king had chosen his son-in-law.
Though lacking in true power, wealth or large territorial possessions, the Palsgrave Frederick, the Elector Palatine, was now, in the respect owed to him, the premier Protestant prince of Europe. In the interests of preserving the balance of his via media, the king of England wished to confirm his friendship with the anti-Hapsburg forces on the Continent by giving his only daughter to the Palatine. However, as counter-balance, Prince Charles, the new heir to the throne, would marry in Catholic Spain. On the 27th of December, three weeks after Prince Henry’s funeral, the king’s daughter, Elizabeth Stuart was to be betrothed. Thames would marry Rhine.
70
WHITEHALL, DECEMBER 1612
On the twenty-seventh of December, a dense crowd waited in the Banqueting House, packed into the long space, jammed between the columns, hanging from the secured boxes. Some of the younger men even balanced on the narrow plinths of the columns.
I had not expected so many people. The court was still in mourning for my brother. Many Catholics at court disapproved of this union that demonstrated the king’s support for the Protestant League in Europe. My mother’s displeasure infected those who followed her. Frederick’s hugger-
mugger Gartering had been lost in the general distraction of grief.
Perhaps, as I had told my father, everyone – like my father himself – yearned to forget the heaviness that sucked at their hearts. But in their mourning clothes, they made a field of purple and black, reminding us all of our grief when I should have rejoiced. Gloomy winter daylight fell from the tall windows, partly obscured by the columns marching down each side of the hall. Black silks, black taffetas, shiny black satins, with the darker pools of black velvets, blended into a single sombre shifting mass.
The hall had been designed for the performance of masques. My father sat on the royal dais near one end, under a canopy, with Carr’s fair head close at his right side.
My mother had refused to attend. Gout, she had said by way of excuse. Her empty space sat beside my father, as vivid as a ghost.
I looked away from the other empty space where Henry should have sat.
Where was my beloved Hal? I still did not believe that he had gone. In my imagination, he had gone to the Americas with Tallie, to achieve his dream of being crowned in his other kingdom. He would have found a golden princess, a dorada, a golden girl. They would plight their troth as we did. The four of us, with Tallie in attendance, would…
I felt Frederick’s grip tighten on my hand. He was gazing at me with concern. I smiled and winked. I straightened my back.
We walked forwards. Frederick in purple velvet and a cloak lined in cloth-of-gold. I in my black satin, joining the field of black. All that black must taunt my father with his loss, though his grief did not show today. His fingers darted and probed. He shifted his weight as if sitting on sharp stones, frowning at the colonnades, turning his head sharply towards a sudden movement at the side of his eye.
You’ll soon be rid of us both, as you’ve always wished, I thought. You’re already rid of Henry.
It was a thought from the devil, but I could not stop it. A deep trembling lurked in my bones, though I believed that I felt only determination and the will to joy.
I curtsied. The white feathers in my hair fluttered softly at the top of my vision as I straightened, before they sprang stiffly upright again. I heard the rustling of Frederick’s clothing at my side as he, too, made a reverence. I saw Sir Francis Bacon and his mirthless courtier’s smile at my father’s other side.
I heard murmurs of admiration for my gown, my carriage, my jewels, my glowing youth. But I knew that many herewould praise me even if I were a whey-faced ninny, just because I was the king’s daughter.
I also heard unguarded surprise that Frederick presented such a brave appearance. The story of his fright at the gun salute from the Tower on his way upriver would not die. Nor would tales of my mother’s snub and her ‘Goody Palsgrave’ shop-keeper jibes. Even my rescue of him when he arrived. None showed him in a brave light. I revelled now in the response to his splendour and dignity.
‘Not tall, but a fine figure nonetheless …’
‘Oh, yes! And able to amuse the king.’
I was still braced for a coarse jest from my father, or a shout announcing that he had been toying with us and would not permit the betrothal after all. That Spain had made him a better offer at the final moment.
He kissed us both and gave us his blessing.
Hand in hand, Frederick and I walked to the middle of the vast Turkey carpet in the centre of the hall where the Archbishop waited with Sir Thomas Lake. We stopped.
Sir Thomas raised the parchment he held and began to read in a sonorous voice.
‘Chairs bee-in aymays,’ he began.
I frowned, then exchanged glances with Frederick. What language was the man speaking? Frederick widened his eyes in bewilderment.
Then I realised. It was Lake’s mangled rendering of ‘Dearly beloved…’
‘Chères bien-aimés…’ the man had been trying to say.
The Archbishop had not warned me that Sir Thomas Lake had undertaken to translate the betrothal vows into French, as a compliment to Frederick, and meant also to read them himself.
I hid my smile. Frederick gave my hand a tiny squeeze. How had this man come to read our vows when so many at court spoke perfect French?
‘Desire charnel… ’ Sir Thomas was saying, struggling with his French translation of ‘carnal lust'.
In the edge of my glance, I saw smiles being suppressed among the crowd. The trembling in my bones grew more intense. I could not see my father without turning my head. Was it possible that he had arranged this travesty to humiliate me? Cecil would never have allowed it. He would have seen the risks, on all sides.
Sir Thomas now entered into mortal combat with the causes for which matrimony was ordained. He survived the Frenchifying of ‘procreation of children’ but was unhorsed by ‘avoidance of fornication'.
I snatched a breath, not quite a snort, closed my eyes and tried to control myself. I could see my black satin sleeve trembling with suppressed mirth.
Sweet Lord, help me through this, I begged. Help us both. How much more? I raised my eyes to the gilded festoons and spread-winged angels high above my head. What are we to do when we must repeat his words?
Sir Thomas now addressed himself to Frederick’s repetition of his vows.
‘Jew view prends,’ read Sir Thomas, landing heavily on the ‘d'.
Frederick gave me a wild look. What is he saying?
Je vous prends, I mouthed. I take you…
‘Jew view prends,’ prompted Lake, a little more loudly and slowly.
Frederick inhaled.
If he corrected the man’s execrable French, it would be insulting. And by nature, Frederick was civil. If he repeated exactly what Lake had said, I would explode into laughter. It might also discredit the ceremony.
Frederick’s purple velvet sleeve was trembling like my black satin one. The Archbishop seemed to study the carpet.
Then Frederick spoke his part in faultless French.
I heard a faint rustle as looks were exchanged among the spectators.
‘Voter feem est oon raisin soor la vigny…’ Sir Thomas battled on. ‘Your wife is a grape on the vine…'.
Poor fruit of the vine, I thought. Reduced by this mangling voice to a single wee grape. A wee grape in jewelled mourning. I had never before been called a grape. Nor a ‘feem'. I could no longer control myself. I snorted.
Sir Thomas faltered. He frowned at my odd behaviour and resumed with resolution.
‘… oon raisin,’ he repeated.
Grape again. I gave a tiny squeak.
I gasped. I sucked in my lips and clamped down hard. It was no use. The demon laughter had possessed me just as weeping had possessed me after losing Belle. I fought it until tears came to my eyes. I tried not to breathe. I gasped again and heard the sound of a giggle escape. And another.
Then Frederick giggled. He tried to hold his breath, then giggled again. Then Anne snorted and ducked her head to hide her face. The silver lace on my dress now quivered visibly with the force of my held-in laughter. I could hear the mirth spreading, a contagion of giggles and suppressed snorts. At any moment, the entire crowd would explode into laughter.
My father sat rigid, fingers clamped onto the arms of his chair. He stared at us with frozen fury.
Lord help us! I thought. Lake is not his doing after all. He will stand up and stop the ceremony. He will cut off the contract to punish us!
But my terror only made the suppressed laughter worse.
‘Voolay voo posseday cet feem…? The sonorous mangling continued. Will you possess this woman…?
Make the man stop! I begged.
The Archbishop was giving me a stern look.
But I felt a relief like the letting-go of a long held-in piss.
I remembered the last time I had wet myself as a child. Helpless. Shamed, but also relieved. I had held on too long, to too many things.
I’m a grape! I thought giddily. I’m a ‘feem'.
If I stopped giggling, I would burst into uncontrolled sobs again.
Frederick’s grip threatened to crack the bones of my hand. His arm shook. Mirth raced between us, still building.
The Archbishop gave us another stern look. I gazed back beseechingly.
Help us! I begged. I saw disaster.
The Archbishop stepped forwards. He cut across Sir Thomas, raised his hands and began the Benediction, far too soon.
‘God be merciful unto us.’ His stern voice beat down the last words from Sir Thomas, sounding so like my own thoughts that I was confused for a moment.
‘And shew us the light of His countenance,’ the Archbishop went on smoothly.
His oration still unfinished, Sir Thomas lowered his parchment and stepped back with dignity.
‘Your feathers,’ Anne later murmured in my ear. ‘I could contain myself until I saw your feathers – how they quivered! By tomorrow, there won’t be a white feather left in the markets. Every woman in Whitehall will be wearing them.’
I smiled. But I did not mean to marry and leave England as an amusing story whispered out of the hearing of the king. I had seen my father watching Frederick and me after the betrothal, with his lower lip stuck out, pulling on it absently. I remembered Bacon’s over-obsequious bow as I left.
I must not let our first progress unravel.
Then Lucy told me that Robert Carr had approved the choice of Sir Thomas Lake. And Sir Francis Bacon had agreed.
The thought of a possible alliance between Bacon and Carr set a heavy stone in my belly. Even now, I feared that one or the other of them, or, indeed, my mother, had clerks hard at work sniffing out lost proof that Frederick and I were kin and forbidden to marry by the laws of affinity. Or else that someone would unearth a law against laughter, decreeing that any religious ceremonies thus interrupted were void.
We must not let it happen again. The wedding itself must defy any who might ever challenge it.
71
Frederick and I practised the English Wedding ceremony every moment we could snatch. After breakfast, seated before the fire in my chamber, while Anne prompted. And after dinner. And after supper.
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