The Manner of Amy's Death

by Mackrodt, Carol

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Compton Verney

  No we didn’t argue with Blount and Verney. Or demand to see written proof that we were to go with them. We simply got into the carriage like two obedient well dressed dolls and set off for Warwickshire.

  It was a three day journey, largely spent in silence. When we could be sure that no one could overhear there were short attempts at stilted conversation conducted in a monotone on Amy’s part.

  “She swears, you know, and uses oaths.” I don’t need to ask who is the subject of Amy’s thoughts.

  “Does she?”

  “Yes. Robert always used to correct me if my speech was not completely dignified. He didn’t like any imperfection in me, not even if I, quite rightly, criticised the way a woman was dressed or complained about any of our gentlewomen companions.”

  “Well, that’s men for you. They expect their wives to be beyond reproach.”

  “They say she lies in her bed and then walks around in her shift all morning. They say even passers-by can see her breasts when she leans out of the window. How can a woman behave in such a slovenly way? I can’t imagine what Robert sees in her.”

  I can. She’s the Queen and he’s ambitious.

  When we reach Compton Verney we’re greeted very cordially and are pleasantly surprised. Warwickshire is a beautiful county and the manor house is large and well appointed. All the local gentlewomen are waiting to welcome our arrival and Amy is feted as if she were a royal personage. She’s very surprised!

  Unfortunately everyone, from the lowliest servant to the highest ranking lady, is talking about Amy’s husband and some of the talk is not what Amy wanted to hear.

  “We hear that, on the progress, the Queen so requires your husband’s opinion on all things that he is never far from her ….. day and night.”

  “Is it true, Lady Dudley, that the Queen is as good at hunting as any man and that your husband is hard pressed to find horses fast enough for her?”

  “Yes, my Lady, they say she hunts all day and none of the courtiers can keep up with her, except your husband. She must have great courage and be an excellent horsewoman.”

  “Apparently at the castle of the Earl of Arundel the Queen and Sir Robert sit at banquets side by side and laugh and dance until it is time for bed.”

  And so on and so on. Amy smiles around as all the questions and comments are fired in her direction and is lost for words. Finally I have to put an end to the chatter.

  “I am sure there’ll be time to talk to my Lady Amy in the days to come and meanwhile shall we all go into the Great Hall? I heard someone say that dinner is about to be served and we are weary with travelling and would like to go to our beds early.”

  The dinner is a huge banquet but not on the scale of the one that the Queen and Amy’s husband will be enjoying at the expense of the Earl of Arundel. All the gossip points to the fact that Elizabeth and Robert are in the middle of one long party and having a wonderful time. Amy has heard the rumours and is quiet and thoughtful throughout the meal.

  “I hope that all this rumour and scandal will stop soon,” Amy says resignedly when we go up to bed. “You would think that people would be more tactful towards me. And Robert’s obviously making a fool of himself. She can’t marry him and is thus using him as her plaything until she finds someone more suitable. Dear Jesus, Kat! If this is what they are saying in the Warwickshire countryside what will they be saying in the courts of Europe?”

  What indeed!

  The weeks pass by and the Royal Progress is over. Amy half expects her husband to join her at Compton Verney but she receives a letter from him stating that the Queen is ill again and he cannot leave her side. Elizabeth, he says, has few friends she can depend upon at such times and has asked him not to leave her. Amy quietly tears the note into tiny pieces and, later that evening, throws it onto the fire.

  Amy’s very careful about what she eats at Compton Verney. She chooses only the food that others have taken first from the same platter. And we never eat alone. Richard Verney is as insultingly obsequious as ever and we spend as little time in his company as is possible, given that he is our host. The chattering women, seeing that they cannot persuade Amy to make any comment on the subject of her husband, soon realise that they have nothing to gain by waiting on us at Compton Verney and we are mercifully left to our own devices.

  Then another letter arrives from Lord Robert. He has been made Lord Lieutenant of Warwickshire along with a local man, Sir Ambrose Cave, and Amy’s half brother, John Appleyard, has been made Sheriff of Norfolk by the Queen, much to the annoyance of the Duke of Norfolk who thought that the appointment should have been under his control and who detests Robert Dudley! Amy’s both delighted and puzzled. This is an unexpected honour for her brother but she doesn’t dwell on it too much as, reading further, she’s pleased to learn that Robert would now like to buy a manor house in Warwickshire since it was his family seat in days gone by.

  But I’m puzzled over her brother’s sudden catapult to fame in Norfolk. Why would Elizabeth favour Amy’s kin?

  My suspicious mind harbours thought that I can’t mention. If Robert is planning to divorce Amy, which he could well do since, after almost ten years of marriage, they have no children, then winning Amy’s brothers over to his side would well suit his purpose. If this is the case then Amy’s truly alone.

  Verney’s men do not spare Amy’s feelings as they discuss Robert and Elizabeth’s relationship within her earshot. The latest piece of gossip is that the two of them have played a huge joke on the Imperial Ambassador and have used Robert’s sister, Mary Sidney, as their unsuspecting accomplice. Apparently Mary was furious when she discovered how she had been used by them both and is now not speaking to Robert.

  The story goes that, fearing an attack from the French and their newly crowned king and queen, Francis and Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth called Mary Sidney to the presence chamber and told her to go to Bruener, the Imperial Ambassador, and tell him that she was ready to consider a marriage with the Archduke Charles, son of the Holy Roman Emperor. Mary believed Elizabeth and did this in all good faith. When Bruener tried to broach the subject with Elizabeth, she, the Queen, merely played for time by wavering in her resolve to marry and, when the threat from the French had passed, Elizabeth was downright rude in her dismissal of the Ambassador.

  “She’s like that,” says Amy when we discuss this latest piece of news for the sixth time. “She thinks she can do what she likes.”

  “Well – she can, can’t she? She’s the queen and no one can tell her what to do.” I have no advice to offer my friend.

  “She’ll have to be careful. She’ll have the reputation of being the whore of the continent soon, as her mother did.” There’s grim satisfaction in Amy’s voice.

  We both look round hastily to see if anyone has been listening. It’s nearly the end of November and the wind is howling around Compton Verney but we’re completely alone. “Where’s Richard Verney?” asks Amy suddenly.

  I have no information to provide on that subject either. We haven’t seen him for four days now, not since he learned that the position of constable of Warwick Castle, which he had asked Lord Robert to give to him, had been given to someone else, someone whom Robert had evidently decided was more suitable. Before he left we found the little dove that came to take bread crumbs from Amy’s hand lying outside the dove-cote with its neck broken. It was, as Verney would have put it, a ‘casual thing’, meaning that he considered its death to be of no consequence, but for us it was a little joy in this sad world that had been taken away. And God knows that Amy has little joy these days.

  Almost as if Amy had had a premonition, there’s the sound of horsemen in the courtyard. Looking through the window we can see the stable lads helping Verney and his men to dismount. As they lead the sweating horses to the stable, the men follow Verney as he strides into the house ripping off his riding gauntlets. He’s clearly in a bad mood.

  Amy
starts to shake visibly at the sound of boots on the wooden stair and gives me a frightened look. The door’s flung open and Sir Richard marches over to Amy who cowers before him. But at the table he stops and flings down a letter.

  “From ‘Milord Robert’,” he sneers. “I take it that you’ve not been very happy during your stay here, despite my generous hospitality.”

  Amy shakes her head in denial; she’s bewildered.

  “Anyway,” continues Verney, “You will soon be rid of my loathsome presence. Your Lord has been made Lieutenant of Windsor Castle and wishes you and your family to move to the house of a friend of his in Oxfordshire so that you’ll be closer together - like two turtle doves,” he adds with another sneer. His men laugh.

  When they’ve left, Amy turns to me and says, “When have I ever said that I’m not happy here, Kat? Who has said this? Richard Verney must be guessing that I’ve written to Lord Robert and yet I haven’t.”

  I’m just as puzzled. It’s true that Sir Ambrose Cave and his wife, with whom we’ve sometimes dined, have remarked on the fact that Amy is pale and unhappy but we’ve never complained to anyone. And who is this friend in Oxfordshire to whose house we are to be removed, bag and baggage. Secretly I rejoice as I’ve never trusted Sir Richard Verney and it seems that Robert is now sending out a message that he wants his wife closer to him. Maybe his affair with the Queen is cooling down which is good news for Amy.

  My friend is busy reading Robert’s letter with a delighted expression. We are, she tells me, going to Cumnor Place, a manor house near Abingdon which is rented by a well respected local man named Sir John Forster. We’re to depart the following day.

  As we prepare for the journey one of the grooms from the stable comes in with a serious and apologetic demeanor. Pavane, Amy’s beloved mare now fifteen years old, has been found dead on the floor of her stall in the stable. It is not a good omen.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Cumnor Place

  We’re clopping along a road that goes past Oxford and thinking black thoughts. It’s late November and already there are flurries of snow in the cold wind which whistles round our carriage. This is no time for exploring the city, not that we’d want to do so. It’s only three years since the dreadful burnings of Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer at the instigation of Queen Mary. Amy has a horror of viewing the site where they were burned, the ditch outside the city, and won’t even look in that direction. Besides she’s lost in her own thoughts again and wears a worried frown. The sooner we reach Cumnor, the better.

  “She was old I suppose.”

  “Who? Pavane?” I know where her thoughts lie.

  “Yes. She was fifteen. She was five years old when Robert gave her to me as a present, all those years ago when we were happy and about to be married. And yet,” she continues, “She was in good health and father had horses at Syderstone and Stanfield that were twenty and still working well.”

  Amy ponders this and then gives a long sigh. “It’s no use. I expect we’ll never know. It was a pity we had to leave James behind at Mr Hyde’s house. He was a good groom, when he was sober, and would have looked after her properly if he’d been with us. At least he would have told me if he’d seen she was ill and I would have had a chance to say goodbye to her.” A tear rolls down her face. “She was always so kind to me. She never put a foot wrong. She looked after me and I would have liked to say goodbye.”

  The tears are flowing fast now. This little mare had been devoted to Amy and she was the only connection to her husband and the once happy life they had. Now all that, the romance, the happiness and anxieties, the despair and the hope for the future are just a memory. Amy’s in a state of nothingness, neither married nor unmarried, and all the time knowing that her once loving husband now has thoughts for no one except the Queen. I put my hand over hers; there’s no consolation I can offer, either for the loss of her horse or for the loss of her husband.

  “Do you think animals go to heaven, Kat? Everyone says they have no soul and cannot go.”

  “All I can say, Amy, is that heaven wouldn’t be heaven for me without animals there. Not fighting animals like the pitiful bears that are prized only for their ability to tear at the poor dogs that are set against them in the pits - but a place where we can all live together in peace and safety.”

  “That’s a very unusual idea, Kat. I don’t think the church would agree with you and it’s a good thing that Mary’s not still alive. She would have had you burned as a witch with your animal familiars.”

  “Oh they aren’t familiars. They don’t talk to me and tell me what to do. It’s the devil who puts wicked thoughts into people’s minds not animals. I just think that they are so much like us, and we like them.”

  “Hush, Kat. Such talk may be construed as heresy. Say no more. You don’t know who’s listening.” Amy drops her voice to a whisper.

  The wind around the carriage blows even more ferociously making conversation difficult. It seems to me that the weather’s getting worse. Winter starts early and goes on until well into the spring and we have rain all summer long. During Mary’s reign the people blamed the bad weather and the harvest failures on Mary’s burnings and many wished her dead. Elizabeth was a breath of fresh air for some. Well she’s reigned for a year now and we hear that many at court find her behaviour disappointing. Rumour and gossip surround her and her favourite courtier, Robert Dudley. The worst is that Amy’s husband and the Queen have adjoining bed chambers and visit each other day and night. It’s common talk throughout the land and Amy must surely have heard such tittle-tattle.

  The horses plough on through the wind and sleet and we pull our cloaks around us and huddle together. Then we begin to climb a hill and eventually someone shouts, “There it is!” and we both look up, eager to see our new dwelling place.

  New! It’s hardly that! An austere stone building lies ahead of us, completely unlike the pretty brick and timbered buildings of leafy Warwickshire. I have a feeling that Cumnor Manor, nesting in the lee of a ridge and facing towards Abingdon to the south, will be windy and bleak even in the height of summer. We’ve been told that it was once used by the monks in nearby Oxford as a summer residence, before King Henry’s time when there were still monasteries. That is to say – before he met Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn. Now it’s a private dwelling place, owned by a Mr Owen, who was once a royal physician. The manor house is leased from him by Sir Anthony Forster, so our driver tells us. It’s a strange place. There’s no obvious front door!

  The road winds up past a little church and along the north side of the building and, just as we’re wondering where we will enter and who will be on hand to receive us, the driver guides the horses from the outer courtyard, under an archway in the building and into a central courtyard where a group of people are assembled, shivering in the cold. We guess that they haven’t waited there all afternoon; a servant will have spotted our approach from an upper window.

  A gentleman steps forward from the group and takes Amy’s hand.

  “My dear Lady Dudley – what a pleasure this is. Welcome to Cumnor and let us please go in, out of this cold wind.”

  “Thank you, Sir Anthony, I do hope that you’ve not been standing outside for long, waiting for me in such bad weather.”

  “No my dear lady, we came out when we saw your carriage approaching. I would like to show you round Cumnor but the weather will not allow it today ….. maybe one day when the wind is not so strong and cold.”

  We’re ushered towards the Great Hall while the servants step forwards to take the baggage. The steaming, sweaty horses will be taken to the stables to be rubbed down with straw as no one wants them to get a chill and, as our driver manoeuvres them round the courtyard, we hear the sound of the remainder of our baggage train arriving on the road outside.

  Inside the Hall there’s a roaring fire piled high with logs and a long table spread with plates of all kinds of hot and freshly carved meat and the best manchet bread. Even Elizabeth will not f
are better this evening and I secretly hope that Sir Anthony has not used a quarter of our winter rations on this extravagant display of hospitality. A servant pours huge cups of warm spiced wine. It’s very sweet and welcoming and just to Amy’s liking. Someone must have told Sir Anthony what my friend’s food preferences are!

  Our host then introduces us to the other occupants of Cumnor Place, starting with his wife, a shy and gentle lady. Then there is a Mrs Owen who is the mother of the man from whom Sir Anthony leases the house and another woman who is younger than the elderly Mrs Owen but older than Amy and me, a Mrs Odingsells. She is a gentlewoman companion to Mrs Owen. All the women are friendly and welcoming. Sir Anthony then summons a man called Bowes from the group of servants standing a little way off and tells Amy that this man will be her principal servant here and will attend to any errands for commodities she may require and will also take letters to and from her dear Lord, Sir Robert.

  Finally Sir Anthony beams as he shows Amy the presents that Robert has sent to Cumnor to welcome her arrival, a jewelled looking glass and many yards of the finest blue sewing silk. Amy radiates pleasure to think that Robert has been so attentive to her needs and turns to the assembled women, including her servant Mrs Picto.

  “What pleasant times we’ll all have with our conversation and embroidery over the long winter months when we cannot walk outside in the garden. Thank you all for the welcome you have given me. I’m sure I will be very happy here.”

  The ladies are all pleased with the arrival of this new and eminent personage. Lady Dudley is going to be a welcome companion in the isolated little community of Cumnor.