by Brandy Purdy
But that was the last I saw of my little friends. They were borne off by the guard, kicking and screaming, to be questioned by the Constable of the Tower, Sir John Gage, instead of the genial and understanding Lieutenant, Sir John Bridges, and given a stern rebuking. Henceforth, they were forbidden to come near the garden during my daily walks. Sir John Gage, that beastly man who would do his best to curtail my few liberties, had threatened to “flay the skin off their bums” if they ever dared speak to me again.
But bold little Christopher was still my brave knight, and the next day, when my guard was distracted, guffawing over the antics of a pair of the Tower’s ravens bickering over a worm, brave little Christopher crept up to the gate, caught my eye, and whispered, “I can bring you no more flowers, Princess,” as he stealthily tucked a folded paper into the flowering hedge that bloomed fragrant and pink beside the gate, then crept away as silently as he had come.
Casually, I stooped down to sniff the flowers and discreetly palmed the square of paper.
Dine with me tonight at nine o’clock.
I have arranged all with Sir John Bridges.
He will bring you to me.
—Your Gypsy
Oh how my heart soared at those words! For the first time since I had walked, an unwilling prisoner, through Traitor’s Gate, I felt alive, truly alive! And, like any woman with a shred of vanity, I began planning what I would wear, considering each gown I had brought with me to the Tower and weighing its merits. Oh to see Robin again! I felt as if my impatiently thumping heart would burst clean out of my chest and gallop straight to his door, defying all locks and stone walls to be with him, the one I had always called my best friend.
I spent over an hour fussing before my mirror, trying on first one gown and then another, nearly driving Kat and Blanche to distraction, before finally settling on a gown of lion’s mane tawny embellished with gold tassels and braid.
For some reason I couldn’t quite understand, I did not want to go to Robin wearing virgin white. Perhaps it was merely because I was pale enough from imprisonment and worry, or perhaps it was something more. Perhaps some part of me wanted him to see me as a flesh-and-blood woman and not a plaster saint evoking chastity. I do not pretend to know or understand, I only know that, that night, I could not bear to wear white.
I trembled with nervous anticipation as I followed Sir John along the cold and clammy torch-lit corridors until he paused before a door and took the keys from his belt and unlocked it.
I did not even hear the door close behind me, or the key turning in the lock. I flew like a falcon, diving in for the kill, straight and true into Robin’s arms, nearly knocking him off his feet with the fervor of my embrace. Oh how we clung! Neither one of us ever wanted to let go. He clutched me tight and covered my face with kisses. It was as if we had never been apart—the distance that had been between us instantly dwindled away to nothing. It was as if we had been together each and every day of our lives.
Wordlessly, hand in hand, we went to sit on a pile of red velvet cushions laid out before the fire. Robin’s nimble fingers lifted the French hood from my head and rippled through the flaming waves that streamed down over my shoulders. And with a blissful sigh I went into his arms, laid my head against his strong chest, closed my eyes, and let the rhythm of his heart soothe me.
Though Robin had spent extravagantly from his paltry purse to provide us with a fine supper, we touched not a morsel though we did partake freely of the malmsey. I felt it go straight to my head, to make me smile and giggle, and the room seem to glow, but I didn’t care. That night I wanted to be free of all prisons, including the cage I had constructed around my heart, so every time Robin filled my cup I drank it down.
We sat thus for I know not how long, drinking and holding hands, gazing deep into each other’s eyes, then Robin drew me to him again, enfolding me in his arms, and our lips met.
Though we had never shared such intimacies before, here in the Tower, where so many had died before us, with the shadow of the ax always looming above us, never knowing if each day would be our last, the day that a warrant would arrive signed by the Queen sealing our fate, it seemed only natural that we should grasp at what might be our last chance at happiness.
I sank back against the cushions, and drew Robin down with me, my legs rising to wrap around him, even as my arms rose and went round his neck. And then, as his lips moved down my throat, leaving a trail of hot kisses, and his hands reached beneath my petticoats, I felt a sudden inexplicable chill. My eyes shot open wide, and a silent scream filled my lungs, for over Robin’s shoulder I saw the grinning ghost of Tom Seymour.
A frost instantly killed my reborn passion, which I had convinced myself was stone-cold dead, but Robin’s kisses, the wine, and the threat of the ax had reawakened it with a new, vibrant intensity that made me want to grasp, fully experience, and hold tighter than ever to life.
I struggled free of him, hampered by my heavy skirts, stumbling and tripping, as I ran to the window and flung it wide, hanging over the sill and drinking in great gulps of the cool night air.
Robin came softly to my side, his brow furrowed with concern, and gently stroked my back, the way he would gentle a frightened mare.
“Frightened, my brave Bess?” he asked, his voice gentle and surprised. “This is not like you; you were always so fearless. Tell me, what has wrought this change in you?”
“Life,” I stammered, “and Death.”
I pulled away from him and went to the table and, with an unsteady hand that shook as if with palsy, poured myself another cup of malmsey and gulped it down. I spilled a goodly portion down the front of my gown, ruining the beautiful velvet, but I didn’t care. I wanted the wine to chase away the vision that still haunted me, Tom Seymour standing there, leering at me over Robin’s shoulder, as another man mounted me and my body gave in to the passion surging up inside me that I had tried so hard to kill. And over Robin’s shoulder Tom smiled knowingly, as if he had known all along that I would never be free—passion’s ghost would forever haunt me.
Again, Robin came to me, but I put out my hand to stop him, keeping him at arm’s length, shaking my head at his murmured words, the concern vying with the curiosity on his face, and turned my back on him and went to the door and pounded on it as I called loudly for Sir John.
In silence, I followed him back to my cell. I waved off Kat’s questions and stood in silent stillness as she undressed me, clucking dolefully over the wine stains on my gown. Then, with an absently murmured “good night,” I climbed into bed even though I knew it was no use; even behind the drawn bedcurtains, I could not hide from my private demons and the salacious ghost of Thomas Seymour. Would I never be free of them, I wondered as I tossed restlessly upon my pillows, haunted by the ghost of an ambitious fool’s caresses and the newer, fresher memory of the kisses of a tender, loving friend, even as the urgent, adamant “Never surrender!” rang like an alarm bell inside my brain. I felt as if I were a woman torn apart by wild horses, forever at war between the burning desires of my body, the crypt-cold reason that ruled my head, and the icy fear that came with the red-hot passion of surrender. I could not reconcile them all, and I knew deep down that I never would. I would always be a soul in conflict, torn between weak and blissful womanly surrender and absolute control. I could never win, because even when to all the world it would seem that I had triumphed, a part of me would always feel the loser.
And as I drifted off to sleep I heard a phantom voice softly sing, imbuing each word with such intimacy it was like a lover’s caress gliding over my body:
I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,
I gave her Sack and Sherry;
I kist her once and I kist her twice,
And we were wondrous merry!
I gave her Beads and Bracelets fine,
I gave her Gold down derry.
I thought she was afear’d till she stroked my Beard
And we were wondrous merry!
Merry my He
art, merry my Cock,
Merry my Spright.
Merry my hey down derry.
I kist her once and I kist her twice,
And we were wondrous merry!
I bolted out of bed, snatched up the nearest cloak, and went to spend the rest of the night sitting by the low-burning fire. Did I only imagine it, or did the glowing embers truly resemble burning hearts?
The next afternoon, my eyes dark-shadowed, I went to walk, with my guard trailing after me, upon the wall-walk instead of in the garden. Robin, followed by his own guard, was already there, lost in thought, the wind running playful fingers through his curly black locks and tugging at his black cloak as if to say “pay attention to me!”
I started to turn away, but he saw me and called to me.
“Don’t go!” he pleaded. “Stay. Walk with me.” He held out his hand entreatingly.
I silently fell into step with him. After what had happened the night before I found it hard to meet his eyes.
“I do not pretend to know what has happened to you, Bess,” Robin said at last, after we had walked in silence for a time. “I see a fear in you where there was none before; a fear to let anyone get too close to you. I have a suspicion it has to do with the Lord Admiral, but,” he added hastily when I made a sudden move as if I meant to bolt, “we shall not discuss it, for it really has nothing to do with us. I have a plan, Bess; would you like to hear it?” I nodded, and he moved to stand directly before me, keeping a distance of a little more than arm’s length between our two bodies. “If I stay with you, Bess, being your friend as I have always been, making no sudden moves, never pouncing on or pawing you, patiently nurturing your friendship, winning your trust, then, perhaps, after a time, one day when I stand before you like this, and hold out my hand to you, like this”—he reached out his hand to me—“perhaps, you will come to me.”
“You would gentle me as you would a wild horse, my gypsy?” I smiled and said soft and teasingly.
“I want your trust, Bess, and to be able to touch you, to hold you, without seeing fear in your eyes,” he said seriously.
I closed my eyes and sighed at the thought of being able to let down my guard again, to be able to trust someone, to feel so safe in his company that I could let all my defenses crumble and just be me for a while, not a princess, watchful and alert, or the even greater vigilance and wariness that would come with the crown if I ever inherited it, to just be myself, to just be I, Elizabeth.
“Perhaps,” I whispered, “someday, my Robin, perhaps . . .” And with those words of possibility hanging between us, I turned, glancing back at him over my shoulder and, with a smile and a gentle jerk of my head, indicating that he should walk beside me.
Robin’s lips spread in a wide smile and he bounded over to take my arm, and as the ravens circled overhead and our cloaks billowed about us, flapping like dark wings themselves, we continued to walk along the Tower walls, gazing out at the city, but trying never to look down to where the Lady Jane’s scaffold still stood upon the green.
Robin glanced up at the ravens and squeezed my hand and smiled at me. “Have patience, Bess. Someday, we too shall soar and fly free as the birds in the sky.”
His voice was so confident and reassuring, I could not help but believe him, and in my heart a part of me recognized the truth in his words and aimed for it, like a falcon going in for the kill, determined to prevail.
33
Mary
Sometimes I thought they were all against me. Though I gave them assurances aplenty that they had nothing to fear from my marriage to Prince Philip—only good could come of it, including the blessing of an heir—my people still continued to protest, as did the members of my Council.
Even my dear old friend, Reginald Pole, now a great learned and esteemed Cardinal serving His Holiness in Rome. The son of my beloved governess, he had fled abroad to avoid Father’s wrath when he spoke out against his infatuation with The Great Whore and callous treatment of my mother; even he put pen to paper and wrote cruel and stinging words to me. “You will fall into the power and become the slave of your husband,” he warned. “And at your advanced age,” he said with cruel bluntness, “you cannot hope to bear children without peril to your life.” How could he be so mean and hateful? I wept over his letter until my tears broke through the paper.
Even the children were against me! When the weather warmed and the grass was green, dozens of them turned out to play a game they called “Queen and Wyatt.” When I found out that the most popular part of the game was when the Prince of Spain was captured and hanged, it made my blood boil. I ordered the little offenders whipped and, despite their youth, sent briefly to prison to teach them a lesson lest they, as they gained in years, turn rebels for real and become an even greater threat to my beloved. I could not bear that the children of my kingdom might grow up harboring thoughts of harming my beloved. Indeed the reports said that so enthusiastically did they play at hanging the Spanish Prince that some of the boys enacting his role had been strangled almost to the point of death. I could not have it! I simply could not have it! They must never play “Queen and Wyatt” again! For weeks I lived in terror that Philip would learn of it and the antics of those beastly children would prevent his coming even after on my knees I assured the Spanish Ambassador that I would lay down my life if need be to keep Philip safe. “I would rather not have been born at all than that any harm should befall His Highness!” I threw myself down and sobbed at Renard’s feet.
But it was even worse. Ragged gangs of dirty barefoot street boys gathered outside the Spanish Embassy to pelt any who entered or exited, including dear Ambassador Renard, with rocks and offal, chanting, “We’ll have no Spaniard for our King!” and “Spaniards go home!”
And when I heard that even the ladies of the court were protesting my bridegroom’s arrival with the very garments on their backs, favoring gowns the color of sun-bronzed skin and calling the shade “Dead Spaniard,” my heart broke and I could not stop the torrent of weeping it unloosed. I took to my bed, unable to sleep or eat, and the flesh began to melt away from my bones, while the doctors stood over me and shook their heads, at a loss of what to do.
“Only Prince Philip can cure me!” I told them repeatedly, waving aside their leeches and lancets. “He must come to me if I am to live, otherwise I shall most assuredly perish!”
And still Ambassador Renard continued to shake his head, and express his and the Emperor’s fears for Philip’s safety on English soil and concerns about Elizabeth. She must go the way of Jane to pave the way for my beloved’s safe arrival. But my Council held fast—they would not allow me to condemn her without absolute, indisputable proof of her guilt. She was too popular with the people and they feared they would rise en masse to save her, and the traitor Wyatt had gone to his death swearing from the scaffold that she had played no part in his rebellion. Furthermore, it was unjust to keep an innocent person imprisoned, my Council claimed, and the people clamored night and day for the release of “Our Princess.” That was what they called her: “Our Princess.” Even from her prison cell Elizabeth was still able to exert the witchlike wiles she had inherited from The Great Whore and turn my people against me.
I wept and felt torn apart inside. I loved Philip so much, and longed for him more than I had ever imagined possible, yet a part of me still remembered the baby sister I had loved and cared for, the little red-haired girl I had held on my lap, dressed, bathed, sung lullabies to, and rocked to sleep, and pretended was my very own child. I had horrible nightmares in which I would see myself guiding that tiny tot by her leading strings up the thirteen steps of the black-draped scaffold and I would start awake with a scream upon my lips, my face bathed in tears, and my heart pounding as if it were about to shoot like a cannonball out of my heaving breast. I just could not do it; I could not sign her death warrant. Finally, after one such dream, in which I stood calmly by as that dainty red-haired tot knelt in the straw staring defiantly, despite the fearful quiver of her
chin, at the scarred wooden block while the tall menacing figure of the headsman in his black hood towered over her with his ax held high, I bolted from my bed, ran to my desk, and ripped the death warrant into shreds.
At last, fearing for my life, the Emperor gave in, and Ambassador Renard came to my bedside to deliver the happy news that Philip was preparing to depart. But, as a precaution against poison, he stipulated, he would be bringing his own cooks, apothecaries, and physicians.
It was as if God Himself had laid hands on me to effect my cure. The moment I heard those words I was cured. Heedless of the immodesty of appearing before the Imperial Ambassador in my nightgown and bare feet, with my graying and faded hair hanging down my back in a long, limp and bedraggled braid, I sprang from my bed. I laughed from sheer joy and leapt and clapped my bare heels together in the air. I grabbed my startled doctors and Susan and Jane by their hands and danced round in circles with them, ignoring the physicians’ warnings about my pulse and heart. Then, laughing, I broke free, leaving them staggering dizzy and startled, amazed at my behavior and sudden, miraculous recovery, and began to rush about, hither and yon, summoning servants and palace officials, issuing orders to prepare for my bridegroom’s arrival. Everything must be perfect! There was so much to do and so little time!
I ordered that beneath every canopy of estate in every palace a second throne must be erected beside mine. And I began to name courtiers to serve in his household—there must be 350, and not one less, and they must all be made to swear an oath of loyalty and allegiance to My Prince; the Earl of Arundel should have the honor of presiding over them all as Lord High Steward. And I must send a deputation of noblemen to Spain to escort him, and a fleet of ships to patrol the coast to alert us when his ship was in sight and to shepherd it safety into the harbor. A hundred-gun salute must be fired the moment his ship was sighted. I wanted it to feel as if the very earth shook the way my knees did at the thought of him. The Earl of Arundel himself must row out on a golden barge to greet him and kneel at My Prince’s feet and fasten a specially made Order of the Garter, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and pearls, about his calf, then invite him to partake of a fine banquet on the barge and, standing proxy for me, drink a loving cup with him. Welcoming speeches, songs, and poems in his honor must be composed, and a children’s choir assembled to greet him with their angelic voices on the docks of Southampton. And he must have guards to keep him safe; with this in mind, I began to select the best men from my personal guard, skilled archers who were also adept in foreign tongues so language would pose no barrier, men who could be counted on to keep my beloved safe. And a splendid horse must be procured as a gift for him, a mount fit for a prince. It should be white as snow and caparisoned in crimson velvet embroidered with golden thistles, with rubies sparkling on its reins, and Philip should have a pair of golden spurs set with rubies; the goldsmith should see to it without delay. Sir Anthony Browne should lead the horse to Philip when he disembarked, so that he would not have to suffer the indignity of walking through the crowd of slack-jawed, craning-necked people who would no doubt gather to catch a glimpse of him. I would not have my beloved being stared at like a freak in a country fair! So Sir Anthony would gently boost my beloved into the saddle, then kneel and humbly, reverently, as if it were a holy relic, kiss his stirrup and inform him that he did so in proxy for me. Then he must kiss Philip’s hand and place upon his finger a magnificent diamond ring set in a golden nest of acanthus leaves and pin a brooch crafted like a great golden lovers’ knot upon his shoulder, explaining that both were love-tokens from me. Only then would he take the ruby-studded bridle in his hand and lead my beloved in stately progress through the streets of Southampton to the Church of the Holy Rood for a Mass of thanksgiving for his safe arrival, then on to the Lord Mayor’s palace, where he was to lodge. His rooms there should be hung with tapestries depicting the might and majesty of the Tudor dynasty and my Spanish forebears, the great Catholic sovereigns Ferdinand and Isabella. And he must be presented with the keys to the city, of course. The Lord Mayor, decked out in his ceremonial robes, should meet him before he formally entered the city.