“I see, I see. It’s plain as old Nowell’s preaching—you hold me dear in your heart. I confess, mistress, I would not have guessed it—you have kept such feelings buried deep—but now that I am recovered from my surprise, I admit to a certain inevitability about your love. I am, after all, a bit older and wiser—I am by nature more intelligent. No, no, do not try to concur—I know already. It is said by the serving wenches that I am the handsomest of all the wards and, I daresay, when I look into the glass, I am not unhappy with what I see…” said Tom, smiling down at her.
“This goes beyond the Pale, sir! You have tormented me for years. It was not for love I named my dog after you—it was so I could call your name and be obeyed. So I could scold you and swear horrible oaths using your name! Say all the things I wanted to say, like ‘Hush, Tom, quiet!’ Or ‘Sit, Tom!’ Or ‘No, Tom!’ And now, you think I admire you! Your head is bigger than that cloud and more full of airs as well. The serving wenches may think you pretty, but one of my breeding and station does not look at you twice! I am the queen’s cousin—and you? You are the ward no one will purchase because of your insufferable arrogance!” said Mary, leashing her dog once more and heading toward the castle. A ward was a child who had lost his father; his lands and any monies collected reverted to the queen at the time of the father’s death. The queen was then able to sell or give away the wardship as she desired.
Tom followed her, grabbed her arm, and spun her around.
“What do you mean, the ward no one will purchase? Has the queen been made offers? Have I been denied? In truth?” said Tom, his face suddenly pale and his grip tight.
“God’s blood, let me go! Yes, there have been offers, but not one has come to anything. No one wants you!” said Mary. She watched as his face filled with sorrow. He looked as if he might cry. Mary’s heart moved at the odd sight. She suddenly hoped to assuage the hurt she’d caused.
“Perhaps the reason has more to do with where your lands lie. If the queen had wished to give your wardship to one of her men as an honor, if your lands lie too far, he might request a different gift,” said Mary.
“Do not try to soften it, Mary. I am unwanted. My own mother has not been to London to visit me in all these years; at Christmastide, I get a letter filled with the news of the year and all the records of my holdings. She does not send kisses or warm wishes. Truly, my flaws must be manifest if my own mother detests me,” said Tom.
Mary watched him and their eyes met. She was overcome with sympathy. After all, she was a most fortunate girl—the queen loved her, Mistress Blanche loved her, Kat Ashley had loved her before her death—and this boy, this poor, stupid boy, was all alone in the world. He had no one.
Mary continued to stare into his cool blue eyes until she could not tear her gaze away. He was handsome and had grown tall and straight. She thought of how strong his grip had been on her arm. She wanted to soothe the hurt she had done him. Before she quite knew what was happening, she reached up to him, caressed his cheek with her hand, and pulled him to her.
They kissed, a very soft, gentle touching of the lips, brief as a candle flicker.
“Do you seek to strike, then kiss away the hurt, mistress? That is a perversion of love … and to tarry with one so far beneath you—that, too, marks a cruel mistress. But come, let us kiss again, for I have many wounds that need soothing,” said Tom, his arm still encircling her waist.
“I am not cruel. Let me go! I will not kiss you again, though truly, I did not mean to hurt you. If you would allow your gentle side to peep out once in a while, it would be as welcome as the sun shining through the clouds … You should try it more often,” said Mary as she disengaged herself and continued to walk toward the castle.
Tom swept the cap off his head and bowed to her backside.
“For you, mistress, I shall endeavor to do so,” he said, watching her go.
* * *
“Oh, Eleanor, I was stunned by the kiss! I have never even liked Tom Wotton—he has tormented me all these years. He has hated me and I, him. I am not even sure how the kiss came about!” said Mary, sitting on a pillow near the window in the queen’s private chambers. She held an embroidery hoop in her hands and pulled the bright blue thread up and through, up and through. The flowers Tom had given her lay at her side, slowly wilting.
“That is often the way with kisses—I have no idea what overtook Sir Anthony when we walked in the gardens one evening. I was pointing out the beauty of the moon that night, and before I knew what had happened, I was in his arms. Perhaps Tom has loved you all this time. You know how boys are—they tease because they do not yet know the language of love. Once they learn that silent speech, the teasing becomes something else,” said Eleanor Brydges, newly appointed lady of the Privy Chamber.
“Perhaps … I cannot rid my mind of the feel of his arms … so strong. And his mouth, so soft. His are the first lips to touch mine—I shall never forget this day!” said Mary, putting down her sewing and picking up the small bouquet. Mary walked to the queen’s bed, reached under it, and pulled out a box. She carefully placed the flowers Tom had given her within, then closed the lid and returned the box to its hiding place.
“What in the name of heaven is that?” said Mistress Eleanor.
“My treasure box—Lord Robert gave it to me when I was but a child. Yet, even now I keep my dearest things in there, but please do not tell anyone. I would be ashamed, for some items are childish—a pretty rock from the river, a butterfly wing. The others would laugh at such trifles,” said Mary.
“Have no fear—we are friends. I shall keep any secrets you tell me, if you will do the same for me,” said Mistress Eleanor. “Even though you keep his flowers, you must blot Master Wotton from your mind. Have you forgotten our most recent lecture from Her Majesty? ‘My ladies are to be above reproach. You represent me, and as my representatives, you will be chaste and guard your honor with your life. The unmarried state is best. However, if your carnal lusts force you to coupling, be certain you do so after I have given my blessing to your marriage. Anything otherwise is treason!’” said Eleanor, mimicking the queen’s pose and facial expressions.
“Oh, stop! You are making me laugh and I shall ruin my stitches,” said Mary, shaking and wiping tears from her eyes.
“‘I know full well the temptations to be found at court—young ganders prancing around in their finery! But you, my ladies, are not geese! You serve the queen, who remains married to England. I have found this a most satisfactory union—give your allegiance to me and I shall find you all good husbands, those of you foolish enough to want them!’” continued Eleanor, now strutting with long, authoritative steps, moving exactly as the queen did.
Both young women were giggling so loudly in their corner they did not hear Mistress Blanche approach.
“What in heaven’s name are you two laughing at? Have you nothing better to do?” said Mistress Blanche as she stood before them.
“We … er, we … we are sewing, Mistress Blanche. As the queen instructs … putting our talents to good use,” stammered Eleanor.
“I could have sworn you were putting your acting talents to use. I cannot imagine two young women of the court, girls who serve the queen and are at her mercy, to have been mocking Her Majesty. Such a thing could not be possible … Especially you, Mary. You who have enjoyed the queen’s love for most of your life,” said Mistress Blanche. She shook her finger at the girls.
“Take this as fair warning—the queen is in no mood for jokes these days! The poor woman is hounded on all sides, and for the two of you to amuse yourselves at Her Majesty’s expense— Well, I’m confounded, just confounded…” said Mistress Blanche, her voice rising higher and higher.
“Do not upset yourself. We do the queen no dishonor. We were merely talking about Master Tom Wotton and somehow we got carried away,” said Mary.
“Why on earth would you be discussing Master Wotton? Isn’t he the boy who has played the devil with you in your studies?” said Mistr
ess Blanche.
“Yes. That’s what we were talking about … oh, Mistress Blanche … Master Tom kissed me in the field today!” said Mary.
“Ah. Well, that explains a great deal! Sit down, child, and tell Parry all about it,” said Mistress Blanche.
Three
June 1569
Given the warm breezes, the gillyflowers and roses in full bloom, the court preparing for summer progress, Mary could not contain the fullness in her heart, a joy that threatened to burst out for all to see. It was no surprise she found herself consumed with love, dreaming about Tom Wotton, imagining herself in fantasies with him so often she lost all track of time. She’d pricked her finger more than once while sewing, her mind distracted by remembering the feel of his lips, his strong arms. She had met him many times since they had exchanged that first kiss and now fancied herself in love with him. If anyone noticed how often she walked her dog, no one mentioned it. As long as she was there of an evening when Elizabeth seemed to need her, she could count many of her afternoons free.
On this day, she had met Tom in the palace gardens and, as usual, he began kissing her, his large hands trying to rove over her body. Thus far, she had not allowed such touches. But then he had surprised her, asking her to leave their familiar haunts for a ride in the country.
“I cannot. Her Majesty’s mood is so grim these days, I fear to do anything that might upset her—if she asks for me and I am not there, there would be the devil to pay!” said Mary, her back against the scratchy hedgerow that both shaded them and provided privacy.
“Think what fun we could have! I can secure a couple of horses … we could ride into the countryside, smell the fresh air, and remove ourselves from this odious place,” said Tom, standing in front of her, his body close.
“I would love to go, Tom, you know I would. I dare not,” said Mary. She placed her hand on his chest and could feel the thumping of his heart.
“If you love me as you say you do, you’ll find a way. If you love the queen better than you love me, well, I might as well return to my own lands—I shall be of age soon enough to take charge of them. Do you not see what that means, Mary? When I come of age, we can be wed in a very little time,” said Tom, enclosing her hand with his own.
“God’s blood! I have not given you an answer, Tom. And you have not yet spoken to the queen. Or your mother. You know how Her Majesty feels about marriage, especially my marriage. I do not believe she will give her permission,” said Mary.
“If we are already wed, there will not be much she can do about it. If we run away, she will come around. You’ll see,” said Tom.
Mary broke away from him and peeked around the hedge.
“She’s coming! Go! I shall send word to you later! Go, now!” said Mary in a whisper.
Tom crept through a small gap in the hedges, disappearing quickly. Mary straightened her hair and smoothed her dress. She planned to rejoin the queen’s ladies as they walked by. She stood stock-still as she heard the queen approach, her voice loud.
* * *
“God’s death! You are telling me the Duke of Norfolk, the premier lord in all the land, is planning to marry the Queen of Scots! Mistress Eleanor, are you certain of this?” said the queen.
“I have only said what has been said to me, Majesty. I know not the truth of it,” said Mistress Eleanor.
“Tut-tut. I’ll warrant there is truth to it—what a match they would be against me! He a Catholic, she likewise. He a duke and she a queen! If they marry, it would not be four months before I was in the Tower,” said the queen. “Oh, how am I to manage this monstrous woman, this cousin of mine! Would she were as easy as my other dear cousin, Mary. Mary, where are you?” said the queen as she walked on, impervious to all but her own cares.
Mary hurried from behind the hedge and joined the last of the ladies-in-waiting.
“Here, Your Grace. Here!” Mary shouted as she made her way through the women to catch up with the queen.
“Where have you been?” said the queen, not breaking her stride.
“I have been here, walking with Your Majesty,” said Mary, her face coloring.
“Do you think I do not know what goes on beneath my own nose? You were not here—you scurried behind yon hedge, most likely to meet that Wotton boy with whom you seem besotted. Do you deny it?” said the queen, rounding on Mary, facing her.
Mary had the look of a coney caught in a trap. She had seen how frantic a captured rabbit could become and she felt just that way. Her face paled and she looked all around, anywhere but into the queen’s own eyes. She said nothing.
“God’s blood, as if I do not have enough to vex me! My very own girl, my darling Mary, betraying me for a callow youth! Yes, yes, child—I know all about it. But it is easily solved,” said the queen, a strange smile playing across her mouth.
Mary dared not move. She had observed what could happen when the queen caught lovers making plans behind her back. To the Tower! They were sent to the Tower!
“I shall have the boy return to his lands. When he arrives at Yorkshire, he shall have a wedding feast,” said the queen, staring at Mary.
“You … will send him away?” said Mary, barely able to speak. She could not look at the queen. She could not think what to do or say. All she could feel was the queasiness in the pit of her guts and the pumping blood that coursed through her veins, a blood that called for release of the rage she felt in that moment. She raised her head and gazed at the queen.
The queen was smiling, a cruel little curl of her lips. Her black eyes had a proud look about them.
“He shall leave on the morrow. You shall never see him again, I fear. Yorkshire is far from London and I intend to keep a much closer eye on you, young woman. Have a care! You are my creature to marry at my discretion! You do not make any choices on your own!” screamed the queen, her face now turning red and her body shaking with anger.
“I am God’s creature! You are my queen, not my jailer! Just because you find no happiness in love now that your ‘Sweet Robin’ has found a roost with the Lady Essex, you have no right to ruin my happiness! God’s bones, I will never forgive you for this! I loathe you!” said Mary, running from the queen onto the brick pathway that led to the doors of the castle. The ladies surrounding the queen had become quiet; they had seen such skirmishes between Mary and the queen before and knew better than to utter a sound.
“I have not excused you! You do not have my permission to leave!” the queen shouted. Then, just as suddenly as the storm arose, the waters were calm again and the queen motioned for Mistress Blanche.
“Oh Parry, I mishandled that, I fear. Go to her. Try to explain. I shall speak with her later in the bedchamber. And, dear Parry, be gentle, as I was not,” said the queen.
* * *
Mary stood in disbelief in the empty bedchamber. She hadn’t realized tears were streaming down her face. She’d been oblivious to them, startled to find her cheeks wet, much the same way she had astonished herself when she raised her voice to the queen. Such passions always took her by surprise. She and the queen had argued before, many times, but nothing like today. Mary had shown her temper in full bloom, raised her voice to the queen, said awful things to the one who had been like a mother to her.
To scream wicked words to the Queen of England! Mary’s insides began to quiver. Soon, the shivering rattled up and down her very bones. She could not tell if this quaking came from anger at what the queen had done, or if it was from fear of what the queen would do now. The queen! She had told the queen she loathed her. She had rubbed the queen’s nose in the fact her Sweet Robin had been giving his attentions to Lady Essex, the former Lettice Knollys, another cousin to the queen. Lettice had returned to court while her husband served in Ireland and she gave Lord Robert her hand at every opportunity. The whole court was abuzz about their supposed “secret” romance. But no one had dared mention it in the queen’s presence. No one except Mary.
Mary had left the queen’s presence without per
mission and turned her back on Her Majesty! She would be in the Tower by nightfall. But she didn’t care! She had told the queen what was in her heart, let her see the hurt and anger. She had done so since she’d first come to Elizabeth, though, of late, the queen seemed less than pleased by such outbursts.
She must run away! That was the only way to save herself—run to Shelton Hall, her childhood home. Surely they would take her in. Her brother, Ralph, who had inherited the lands when their father passed on, would be forced to give her the small parcel of land her father had left for her. They would have to take her in—they were her blood! Mary glanced around the bedchamber. Her eyes lit on a small casket on the floor near the queen’s wardrobe. She could pack her few valuables in there, grab food and drink from the royal kitchens. She quickly tossed a clean shift, two pairs of her favorite sleeves, a kirtle, and a pair of woolen hose into the casket and was closing the lid when she remembered her treasure box. She pulled it from beneath the queen’s bed and put it in the bottom of the casket. She didn’t want anyone to find it; she would never leave it behind. It meant everything to her.
Perhaps one of the stable boys would give her a pony to ride. She ticked off a list of other items she would need to make the long journey as she reached for a bodice from the queen’s wardrobe.
“Mary, dearest, what are you doing?” said Mistress Blanche.
“Leaving! I must! The queen will have my head!” said Mary, running into Mistress Blanche’s outstretched arms.
“Come, come, child. Her Majesty has sent me to speak gentle words of comfort. She will not send you to the Tower, dearie. She only wishes you to know how very much she loves you. She is concerned for your welfare, as she has been these eleven years since you came to us,” said Mistress Blanche.
“How could she! How could she send Tom away—he’s done nothing wrong! He has kissed me a few times, nothing more. He wanted me to marry him—and I was going to say yes before the queen ruined it all. How did she know?” said Mary.
Queen Elizabeth's Daughter: A Novel of Elizabeth I Page 2