Queen Elizabeth's Daughter: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Barnhill, Anne Clinard

  “That I do, madam—but what if she meddles with me?” said Oxford, still smiling and staring into Mary’s eyes.

  “A gentleman would never so insult a lady, Oxford. She cannot defend herself. But if you do not take back your words, I shall defend her honor for her,” said Sir John in a low, steely voice.

  Mary took a sharp breath. Surely Sir John could not be calling Oxford to duel in front of the queen. Swordplay was strictly banished in the presence of Her Majesty and those who ignored the rule did so at their peril.

  “Enough! Oxford, apologize at once to my ward! Sir John, take your hand from the hilt of your sword!” The queen spoke so vehemently that her voice brooked no argument. Oxford mumbled an apology, then he and Pakington took their leave. Sir John was invited to sit on a cushion while he and the queen discussed a land squabble involving one of his yeomen. Mary sat, trying to calm herself. Oxford had humiliated her in front of the queen and Sir John. How gallant Sir John had been to leap to her defense. How she suddenly was filled with hatred for Oxford and how her heart burned with shame to remember the way he had handled her in the garden. How she wished she had never gone into the garden with him. Sir John must never know of that night. He would not wish to court her if he knew that Oxford had kissed her breasts and fondled her as if she were a mere kitchen wench.

  * * *

  Later, after she had helped the queen prepare for bed, Her Majesty dismissed all of her ladies but called Mary to her.

  “Come, dear Fawn, sit beside me,” said the queen as she patted the spot next to her on her bed.

  Mary obeyed and sat close to the queen, close enough to smell her perfume. The queen put her arm around Mary’s shoulders and Mary rested her head against the queen’s shoulder.

  “You are growing up, my Fawn. I see how all my courtiers admire your beauty—I do not blame them, you have grown quite lovely over the summer. One of my courtiers has asked my permission to marry you,” said the queen, very quietly.

  Mary did not speak. Could Sir John have moved so quickly? She could feel her bones reverberating as her heart thumped.

  “Did you give your leave?” said Mary, almost afraid of the queen’s answer.

  “Do you not wish to know who the man is?” said the queen, smiling.

  “Of course. Who is it?” said Mary, thinking to herself how much courage Sir John must have garnered to approach the queen.

  “My lord Oxford. He would be a fine match for you—you look well together. But his character is not so steady as I would like. I thought to get your mind on the matter before I answer him,” said the queen.

  “Oh, Your Majesty, I have no love for the Earl of Oxford. I would not wish to be wed to him. I … I thought another had made the request,” said Mary.

  The queen was silent for a moment.

  “I thought as much. I see how you look at Sir John Skydemore—and how you blush when he is near. No, say nothing. I know what I know. And I would say to you, enjoy the man! Spend time with him, dance with him, walk with him in the dusk—just do not think to marry him! For you shall never marry him! He is not fine enough for you, dear Fawn. He is no earl, no prince. You are free to delight in his company. But keep your virtue!” said the queen.

  Mary lifted her head.

  “I intend to keep my virtue, Your Majesty. But I will not play with Sir John as if he were a toy. As for marriage, I think I should have a say in what man I shall marry—I do not wish to wed some stranger from a faraway land. I would rather follow my own inclinations—as does Your Majesty,” said Mary.

  “Ha! I do not follow my own inclinations—would that I could! And you do not have any say in your marriage rights—you are mine to command. You must trust in my love for you, child. I would not set you with someone who would be unkind to you. No, I will search for a man who will love you and be able to maintain you in a fine way—you shall be a great lady,” said the queen.

  Mary was silent. She did not think this was the right moment to tell the queen she had already made an agreement of sorts with Sir John. No, she would keep her secrets, just as the queen kept hers.

  Twenty-three

  Would they not make a pretty pair? Oh, God’s blood, Parry, I mean Oxford and Mary. Ah, a man like Oxford—handsome, quick-witted, funny—so much to recommend him for our Fawn. I know he is reckless—all the more alluring for it. Nothing whets a woman’s appetite like the foolhardiness of men. I hear Oxford tarries far too long with barmaids and other low women. But if he had my beautiful Mary, he should be satisfied at home. He would no longer have need of tavern tarts, mark my words.

  Alas, she has no use for the man. I cannot say I blame her—he is not perfect. Yes, I know his eyes are weak-looking. And I agree, his mouth is a bit prissy. But he is an earl! And he does know how to turn a phrase. Well, she has made her decision—this is not a match I shall force upon her.

  Why do you mention Sir John Skydemore? What is he to our Fawn? He is nothing. No more than a poor knight who has five hungry mouths to feed. And Catholic, to boot. After the Pope’s decree, I should arrest every Catholic in the land on charges of treason. Or so my Spirit tells me. Sweet Robin agrees. But I shall not act on their suggestion. I believe in my people—even those who cling to the old religion. Let them! I am still their queen and they will not take up arms against me. You shall see, Parry. By God’s knees, my people shall remain steadfast.

  Yes, we do see that Skydemore has fine qualities—but a bit too dour for our tastes. Yes, he is handsome—those eyes! And yes, he seems in good health. Oh, I do not doubt he is ambitious—Inns of Court, is it? Parry, have you been hit by Cupid’s dart? It sounds as though you have an affection for this young man yourself!

  Twenty-four

  August 1570

  The queen and her court returned to Whitehall and to all the problems and difficulties they had left behind while on progress. As a result, the queen’s mood was no longer merry. The men on her council were filled with ideas about how to protect the queen from the Pope’s call to the Catholics of England to revolt. It seemed to Mary all they did was talk, talk, talk.

  Mary stood behind Her Majesty in the Presence Chamber while Master Cecil thundered.

  “Ma’am, what must I do to prove that Your Majesty is in danger? You must bind the Catholic citizens to yourself; they must not give any allegiance to the Pope. And if they will not sign this pledge, then you must hang them! Hang them all!” cried Master Cecil.

  “Dear Spirit, we know you mean well—we know you have our safety and the best interests of England at heart. But we will not put such a yoke around the necks of our people. As long as they attend Anglican services once a month, they shall not be required to sign anything. If they have secret Catholic services, well, let them. Soon, they will no longer be able to find enough priests to say the Mass. Catholicism will die out of its own accord,” said the queen, patiently.

  “If not new laws, then the queen must consider taking a husband to help us fight against Spain and France—for they are Catholic nations and will do as the Pope commands. He has practically ordered them to make war upon us,” said Lord Sussex, standing at attention.

  “God’s bones, man! Do you think we have not been thinking of these things? We have already opened the way for the French to press the suit of Catherine de’ Medici’s elder son, the Duke of Anjou. Though he is not much more than a boy and a rabid Catholic, the French ambassador will arrive shortly,” said the queen.

  “I am gratified to see that, as usual, Your Majesty has understood the danger and has taken action to nullify it,” said Sussex, bowing to the queen.

  “And, to show our faith in our Catholic subjects, we are releasing the Duke of Norfolk from the Tower. He has assured us he has no further interest in marrying the Scottish queen and is our loyal, obedient subject. This will send a message to the world that though the Pope has excommunicated us, we have no fear of our beloved people. We are no tyrants here. And now, gentlemen, you can tell the Pope that, as Supreme Governor of
the English Church, we excommunicate him!” said the queen.

  The men roared with laughter as the queen joined in. Mary felt a wave of admiration for her queen, amazed at how she dealt so bravely with the Pope and these men of power and prestige. She knew she would never be able to show such courage, and she would not know how to advise a royal husband if the queen found one for her. She shuddered. She did not want a royal husband. When she thought of marriage, it was Sir John’s face she saw in her mind. When she thought of the marriage bed, it was Sir John’s hands she imagined roaming her body. Such thoughts made her quiver and she could not wait to see him again.

  October 1570

  The queen was alone in her white garden, though the blooms were gone and the foliage of some of the bushes had turned russet and deep plum. She sat on a stone bench beneath a large yew tree. A couple of her Gentlemen Pensioners stood at the entrance to this small section of the gardens, waiting to escort her back to the Privy Chamber when her business here had been concluded. She heard approaching footsteps and braced herself for the act she was about to commit. She knew she would be pleasing one of her courtiers this day, and most likely making another miserable.

  The queen gazed over the grounds, pleased with the sight as always. How she loved the gardens at Hampton Court Palace! She had taken great pains to see that throughout the year, there was something beautiful to look upon, planning with her “Sweet Robin” how to best utilize the space. But, enough dreaming of happier work. The Earl of Oxford approached.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, doffing his cap and bowing low.

  “Oh, Oxford. We are glad to see you looking so well,” said the queen, indicating for him kneel at her side.

  “I hope you have good news for me,” said Oxford, smiling up at her.

  “I have seen your holdings are increasing. You have had a prosperous year,” said the queen.

  Oxford smiled, then shook his head.

  “That was not exactly the good news I was hoping for—I meant news of a more personal nature…” said Oxford.

  The queen watched as the color rose up his neck to his face. She regretted what she was about to do.

  “Love is a funny thing, my lord. It cannot be commanded; it cannot be controlled. I realize you are of an age to take a wife and I have given this matter a great deal of consideration,” said the queen.

  “I thank Your Majesty for taking the time to consider my proposal,” said Oxford quietly.

  “I fear I must disappoint you—Mistress Mary Shelton cannot be your wife,” said the queen.

  “But, Your Grace, why? Who better to raise her up than myself? I am an earl,” he said.

  “Yes, yes, I know full well what you are, my dear fellow. But it does not suit us to give our Mary away at this time,” said the queen.

  “I would be willing to wait—she is but sixteen. I could easily wait until she is eighteen or whatever age Your Majesty chooses. I—” Oxford said.

  “No, no. She is not for you. I see I shall be forced to speak plainly—she has expressed no interest in the match. She has turned you down. I am very sorry,” said the queen.

  Oxford blanched, but stayed rooted to the spot. The queen realized he wanted to leave, to hide his shame from her—no man wants an audience for his heartbreak.

  “We do, however, have some good news to give you, sir,” said the queen in her official voice.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Oxford.

  “We have found a very fine match for you—we have already spoken to the girl’s father and he is agreeable. This match will increase your wealth and your prestige,” said the queen.

  “That sounds promising. And who is this paragon of virtue you plan to toss my way?” said Oxford.

  “Do not get peevish, my lord. We are giving you Mistress Anne Cecil, daughter of my dearest friend. And this, sir, is not a request but a command,” said the queen when she saw a flash of disgust flit across his features.

  Oxford did not respond. Then, somehow resolved, he wiped his hand across his face. He bowed his head.

  “As Your Majesty commands,” he said.

  Twenty-five

  January 1571

  The fires blazed at Richmond Palace as the icy winds blew outside. Mary sat in the queen’s Privy Chamber, a warm quilt across her knees, the flames throwing out heat and light. The fire felt good on her feet and legs. She looked across the hearth at her friend Mistress Eleanor and smiled. They had the early afternoon to themselves as the queen was busy with Cecil and the other members of the council.

  “How go the plans for the wedding?” Mary said.

  Mistress Eleanor looked up from her work, an impish grin on her face.

  “My father has raised the dowry and we shall be wed at Eastertime. The queen has given her blessing,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  “Did she put up a fuss?” said Mary.

  “Well, when my father asked her, she made that little ‘pup’ sound she makes when she is not particularly pleased. But then she smiled at him and granted permission. They say she usually does so after a brief time of prating against marriage in general. But, her mood is good these days. I think it is because she is engaged in negotiations for marriage with the French duke,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  Though the Duke of Anjou had not acquiesced to any of the queen’s demands yet, negotiations continued. Elizabeth had made so many demands, no one expected him to agree to them. By asking for the impossible, it would then be easy for Elizabeth to blame Anjou if things did not work out. She would seem to be trying to marry, yet marriage itself would be avoided once again.

  “I do not think she will ever marry,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  “She loves to be wooed, that much is certain. And, for six months, she has had little to plague her—no uprisings, no attacks on her lands—she has been making merry with Lord Robert and the new man, Hatton. She likes him well enough,” said Mary, her needle working in and out quickly. She was stitching gold thread around the edge of a handkerchief and it was easy work.

  “They say it is his dancing! Lord Robert told her he could find a dance master who did a jig as well as Hatton. And she replied, ‘I will not see your man—it is his trade!’ Everyone laughed but not Lord Robert. He stomped away and danced the next three dances with Lady Douglass,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  “I am sorry to have missed such a show. But my duties as Keeper of the Queen's Clothes have kept me quite busier than usual. And, I have not enjoyed dancing as I once did,” said Mary.

  “You mean you are afraid to be around the courtiers after you refused Oxford. And now that he continues to besmirch your good name, you hide in the queen’s apartments. I wish you would come out of your shell and show him you care not a fig for his slander. Hold your head high and ignore him,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  “I shall one day soon—I will not have a choice. The queen has noticed how I absent myself from her evening activities. She has told me I must appear soon,” said Mary.

  “How does your Sir John?” said Mistress Eleanor, pulling her thread to her mouth and biting off the end.

  “He is handsome, as always—courteous and kind. He does not mind forgoing the pleasures of the evening. He says he is happier to walk in the garden with me or sing while I play the lute. Nora, I think I cannot be more in love,” whispered Mary.

  “Perhaps you should set your eyes on someone else. He has so many marks against him—the queen is not likely to promote the match of her favorite ward with a Catholic, and a poor Catholic at that,” said Mistress Eleanor.

  “I do not care about his wealth or lack thereof. He has a fine house and five sweet children. And he loves me! Surely these things count for something,” said Mary.

  The sounds of a goodly sized crowd moving toward the Privy Chamber caused the ladies to put aside their sewing and come to their feet.

  “Make way for the Queen’s Majesty! Make way!” said a Yeoman of the Guard. He stood at attention as the queen swept into the room, followed by s
ome of her ladies and courtiers.

  “Ah, Fawn, I am glad to have found you. Come here, child. And you, too, Master Cecil. I have decided, here at the year’s beginning, to honor my two faithful servants. Mistress Mary Shelton, you are now a chamberer of the Queen’s Bedchamber and shall, henceforth, be paid twenty pounds by the year,” said the queen as she handed Mary a bag of gold and allowed her to rise from the curtsy she had immediately dropped when the queen entered the room.

  “And now, Master William Cecil, it is with great pleasure that I hereby create you Baron of Burghley. Of course, a proper ceremony will follow, dear Spirit, in a fortnight, but I wanted to tell you now, in front of these do-nothings, so they would hold you in even higher esteem,” said the queen, chucking him under the chin. “Now, off to celebrate my faithful servants and their good fortune. I wish to frolic in the snow—perhaps we shall make a snow queen and snow courtiers! Come all—to the gardens!” said the queen.

  “Mary, this is wonderful! You shall be rich! Now you can buy all the silks and satins you want—and pay your gambling debts!” said Mistress Eleanor as they gathered their gloves and cloaks.

  “I am plumb amazed! I had no idea the queen was going to do such! I cannot think clear,” said Mary, tying her cloak around her neck and pulling up the hood.

  They followed the courtiers and the queen out of doors where a cold wind blew. Already, Master Nicholas had made the beginnings of a snow queen. Others began to carve and create their own statues out of snow. Mary spied Oxford with a couple of his friends, Pakington and Norfolk. She watched as they laughed, piled on snow, then laughed once again. Sir John Skydemore was walking toward the group from another direction. He smiled at Mary and waved.

  “What goes on here?” he said.

  “Have you heard? The queen has made Mary a Lady of the Bedchamber at twenty pounds a year! It is marvelous news!” said Mistress Eleanor, scraping together a small ball of snow.