The Other Elizabeth: Royal Sagas: Tudors II

by Betty Younis

  The

  Other Elizabeth

  Betty Younis

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portion thereof, in any form. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

  Copyright © 2016 Betty Younis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1533394245

  ISBN-13: 978-1533394248

  For MTC

  Chapter One

  Winter 1536

  She heard her mother’s footsteps running frantically towards the house even as her horse reared, snorted and broke free of the shallow light provided by the stable’s rag lamps. Like a beast possessed by all the demons of hell, the proud animal raced into the shroud of dank and silken darkness which cloaked the moonless night. Uncertainty and fear rendered the familiar terrain bleak and terrifying in its shifting monotones of gray and ebony, but even as her way became less known and her mount slowed to cope with the deepening void, her heart raced with the thrill of what would be her own adventure. Her own life. Yes, finally it could begin, removed from the shackles placed upon it by those who came before her. No more would she be bound by codes of silence, imprisoned by Coudenoure and all its hidden layers and meanings. She was free.

  Her mount felt its way forward and even in the dark sensed the upcoming low stone break in the perimeter wall which kept the world apart from Coudenoure and Coudenoure separate from all else. It gathered sudden speed and leapt to clear the hurdle in a single bound. On and on it galloped into the night, taking her deeper and deeper into an unknown world until at last a faint light shown through the darkness ahead. She slowed and finally stopped, patting her ride gently on its side, hearing its heaving ragged breaths and feelings its muscles twitch beneath the saddle. Yes, it was the main road. Ahead she could make out a procession of stately persons, some nobleman no doubt, was en route to Greenwich, the royal palace which abutted the grounds of Coudenoure. Great torches mounted on sturdy poles were carried by horsemen at each corner of the entourage. An additional one walked slowly some paces ahead while another brought up the rear an equal number of paces behind. Between these light posts were armed men in a livery of silver and blue whose function was to deter the marauders who frequented such roads at night. The effect was a resplendent show of light but also of power, for no one save the truly wealthy had either the men or the torches for such a heavily guarded evening ride. She watched from a distance, hidden by the dark, as a high lord and his lady passed on. She noted the flowing crimson robe of the woman, the elaborate and bejeweled caul which held back her hair and wondered briefly who she was. In the end, however, her thoughts returned once more to her own situation, and she let the party pass well on before gently nudging her mount into the road some distance behind them. She could follow this group safely all the way to Greenwich, and beyond that she was certain she could ride undetected and unmolested. There would be no one to come after her until the morning. And by then…by then she would be securely away, acting on the plans laid down years earlier by her mother, the Lady Elizabeth.

  The scheme was a good one she hoped, and as the last torchman passed under the great monolithic arch of the outer battlements of Greenwich Palace proper, she kicked her horse into a steady gallop. It was long past Matins when she reached Woolwich. A lone torch lit the quay and she pulled her reins taut, wrapping their whip ends around her left hand while reaching behind her with her right to pull forward the bundle secured there. The horse settled, and she quickly opened the outer bag. Three items met her probing fingers: a hard, stone object; a bag of coinage, and a folded paper. She opened the paper and began reading by the flickering light of the low torch. She looked up after a moment, confused. Again she read the note and looking about her, tried with growing desperation to orient herself in a way that would fit the directions she was being given by the letter. Giving rein to her horse she trotted to the end of the quay, looking for a house with a blue door. Quietly and determinedly she examined each in turn until finally, she pulled to an abrupt halt. She dismounted and knocked quietly on the door. Silence. Once again, a quiet knock.

  After what seemed an eternity, the door creaked and an old man with a stubby candle appeared. A woman’s face could be seen over his shoulder. The man peered at her through the dark, keenly eyeing the quay as he did so.

  “What is it, child? Who are you?”

  She paused. Would they remember Elizabeth and her careful plan for her daughter’s safety? And if they should remember, had they been recompensed adequately to see it through?

  “I am Constance.” She spoke simply. “And I am here at my mother Elizabeth’s demand. She has directed me to say the word, “Bucephalus” in order that you might know ’tis time to aid her daughter.”

  The old woman drew a sharp breath but never hesitated. She stepped forward into the flickering light.

  “Come, Constance, we must hurry if we are to defeat that evil witch and see you safely gone.”

  She pulled the younger woman through the door. The man glanced guardedly once more at the dark quay beyond. He passed the candle to Constance, and pulling the door behind him, stepped out into the dark, gathering the reins of her horse in his hand. Silently, he walked the sweating beast into the ebony gloom and away from their door.

  *****

  The sun was almost upon the horizon by the time Constance stood at the prow of the ship, feeling the salty sea air beat against her face as the wind pushed the vessel ever farther from England and danger. She held tightly to a heavy object with both hands, feeling her tears mix with the spray until she was one with the misty, rosy pre-dawn. She held the object up and placed its bottom on the prow’s railing in order to stabilize it and stare at it.

  Carved from the most flawless white marble she had ever seen was the face of a woman turned slightly away from the viewer. Her hair flowed out behind her in a great wave, and her right hand, so delicately carved that a single breath might cause it harm, reached gently out towards the viewer. The beautiful face, carved in such exquisite detail as to be almost ephemeral, caused her tears to flow anew, for it was that of her mother, Elizabeth de Grey of Coudenoure.

  Chapter Two

  September 12, 1560

  But it was not Hatfield. Queen Elizabeth lay in the bed chamber which formerly belonged to her father. She lay beneath the same soft down covers and looked out the same window upon the same great lawn of Greenwich Palace. The branches of a giant tree, perhaps an elm, occasionally scraped noisily against the leaded diamond panes of her window. Someone would need to trim that, she thought lazily. Pulling the covers higher she sank deeper into the warmth they offered and sighed. Greenwich was lovely and palatial and majestic but it was not home. It was not Hatfield.

  She studied the grand bas reliefs which decorated the canopy frame of the bed. Had her father really been that obsessed with the Lancaster and York feud? She doubted it. The more she looked at the carvings of Tudor roses and battle scenes from Bosworth, the more convinced she became that her father had inherited the bed from his father, Henry VII. The carving was blunt and marshal, not at all what she had come to yearn for from her Henry. Her Henry – what a strange appellation for one’s own father, particularly a father barely known! Her mind drifted back in time, to an era when Henry was still alive. As always, she struggled to find memories of him that were not of the king but of the man. She knew the king well enough – from his political machinations to his religious designs to the fateful decision that had denied her the warmth and presence of her own mother. Yes, she knew that king as did everyone else in h
er realm. But the man…was there anyone left who had known Henry and could tell her of him? What were his private thoughts on love? On music? What was his favorite color? His favorite pastime? She had inherited his flaming red hair and his famous temper, but really, what else? Perhaps her love of language? Or perhaps her insatiable appetite for sweets? As always, the line between what she might have inherited and what she had nurtured within her own soul just to please him became blurred. Likely, as with her mother, she would never know.

  She threw back the covers and rose for the day. Immediately, three lady’s maids appeared from the shadows. As if some silent cue had gone out through the stillness of the morning, a young boy began stoking the fire. A side door opened and Elizabeth saw two bowing and scraping scullery domestics pass a tray of morning food to yet another of her maids. A robe was laid across her shoulders and as one of the women tightened its sash around Elizabeth’s slim waist, a brusque knock could be heard on the main door. Without further notice, two men entered her chamber.

  “Majesty, you must hurry. The French ambassador wishes a word.” William Cecil spoke harshly as he noted she was still dishabille. He could never move past the young queen’s habit of spending, in his mind, an inordinate amount of time dressing in the mornings. Maids were filing in and out, each holding a gown draped over her person so that Elizabeth might choose her attire for the day. She ignored Cecil and spoke directly to them.

  “Something to ride in – I wish to exercise before I meet that tiresome ambassador.”

  Before Cecil could speak she continued.

  “He is here to discuss my cousin’s approaching journey and her settling in Scotland. But Sir William, he is uncouth and makes it clear he does not appreciate having to discuss such state matters with a woman. Where is that delicious Monsieur de Castelnau, um? We will gladly meet with him anytime.”

  A wave of giggles passed over her maids, for the man she mentioned was the antithesis of uncouth and deeply appreciative of women. Cecil shifted on his feet and ignored her question.

  “Madame, the ambassador is not uncouth. And as for his disdain of women, well, I say all the more reason, Majesty, to see him in a timely fashion, for to keep him waiting…”

  “To keep him waiting, Sir William, is what we shall do. Send him a pretty maid, one with whom he may flirt, and a tray of scones – that will have to suffice until I am ready.”

  She smiled her peculiarly winning smile at him before finishing.

  “Now if you and your young charge there do not mind…” she motioned at the young man who had accompanied Cecil into the room, “…I will be dressed and will see you anon.”

  “But Majesty, that is not at all what the ambassador wishes to discuss. He heard yesterday of Lady Amy’s…”

  Elizabeth turned on him in a fury, holding her hand up in a demand for his silence.

  “Nothing! Do you hear me? We will not speak of it!”

  She strode imperiously from the room, leaving Cecil shaking his head.

  Not long after being suitable attired, Elizabeth found herself mounted on her favorite bay and with a retinue of courtiers, ladies, guards and horsemen she began making her way from the palace proper towards the inner gate of the palace. Both Greenwich and its fortifying walls were of ancient heritage and as she walked her bay she was caught by the timelessness of the place and scene, despite the constant building which had been its lot for centuries.

  Whatever architectural scheme had dictated its original structure had long since been overrun by each generation’s tinkering with its basic forms to suit their own needs. The result had been organic rather than planned growth and was reflected in the myriad wings and towers which seemed to have been added willy-nilly to any available free wall of the palace. Her own father had attempted to bring order out of the chaos but even he had only been somewhat successful. But as one moved from the walls of the palace itself to the interior wall of the great yard, a more stable view was met. The high-arched gateway set a more organized, patterned layout for the grand palace. As she passed through that gate the principal fortifications came into view. Beyond that, the high road to London and the woods.

  The guardsmen who travelled with her had alerted their brethren at the gate, and they stood stiffly at attention as her entourage moved past. She nodded approvingly at the heraldic crest they wore – a yellow phoenix, mighty and lion-like, rising from the red flames of her kingdom’s past. It had been of her own choosing and clearly represented her own past and trajectory as well. She had held on through the muddled politics of first Jane Gray, then Edward and then her sister Mary. The tide of religious fanaticism and continental intrigue which had engulfed England upon Henry’s death was only now beginning to settle. Glancing up, the pennants which waved gaily in the autumn breeze made her smile – the Tudor Rose, with its delicate, red petals surrounding four simple white ones, always brought back memories of her youth, a time before the death of her father. She must remember to tell Lord Cecil about her pleasure with them, for knowing that her chief minister was passionate about English heraldry it would please him no end.

  They reached the outer gate of Greenwich Palace, set within the heavily fortified and turreted defensive wall of the grounds. On the other side lay the main road from the Thames estuary and the ports it supported to London and beyond. The arrangement meant that crossing into the Queen’s Woods opposite required a stoppage of all traffic along the road so that the queen could pass unhindered. A great cheer arose when Elizabeth appeared and an almost circus-like atmosphere developed. Small children appeared from nowhere asking for alms; the heraldic horns, sounded to signify her approach and crossing, blew loudly and sweetly; the brave among the common came forward to bow and speak. Through it all, she smiled and spoke as though one of them – another trait inherited from her father, perhaps, for he too had the common touch.

  With a final wave, she slipped into the dark quiet wood beyond. This was her respite, her temple sanctuary – the utter silence of the forest. No one clawing at her for answers or solutions to problems she barely understood. She raised her hand and immediately her retinue shuffled to a stop.

  “I wish to ride ahead some ways.” She waved away the concerned comments which came at her.

  “You may accompany me, I did not say otherwise. But you will keep a distance. I wish to think.”

  She leaned forward and patted the neck of her horse while loosening her hold somewhat on the reins. It was their silent language, and she felt the great bay relax as it understood the signal and fell into a slow walk through the woods. Autumn had set in. The dank smell of rotting leaves mixed with the fresh, dry odors of those just fallen created a pleasant aroma which could only ever be autumnal. It floated upon the breeze, almost within reach but never quite. Elizabeth breathed deeply, enjoying the raw nature which provided such a refreshing change from the humanity of court. Her mount seemed to sense her need for meditative contemplation and was content to pick its way carefully along, past fallen trees and undergrowth. Try as she might, however, Elizabeth could not stay focused on the primordial beauty all about her. Her thoughts were clouded by Cecil’s morning message and again and again her mind circled back, refusing to release it.

  So even the French ambassador had heard. How quickly such tales got about – if only, she thought wryly, her intelligence service were half as adroit at ferreting out information and passing it on!

  Amy Robsart was dead. Word of the tragedy had reached Elizabeth at Windsor Castle two days previously as she was readying for progress to Greenwich. The woman had fallen down a flight of stairs at Cumnor Estate in Oxfordshire. Her husband, Robert Dudley, was with Elizabeth at Windsor when the news was delivered. But the matter was not simple, and everyone, it seemed, including the French ambassador, knew that. Dudley was her favorite. With his roguish charms, dark hair and eyes and exquisite manners, he had long since captured her heart, and her entire court was aware of his special standing. On the very day of her accession to the throne, he
had travelled to Hatfield and witnessed the conference to her of the Great Seal of England. She had immediately named him her Master of the Horse, a greatly influential position at court due to its ease of access to the queen.

  Tongues prattled on relentlessly about their relationship, but neither she nor Cecil had given much thought to the gossip – it was court, and there would always be rumors and innuendo. She was a virgin queen and it was only a matter of time before she would take a husband, so everyone said, but it would not be Dudley, for, though his wife seldom appeared at court, he was already married. This was a key assurance to her courtiers, to the foreign ambassadors who served their own continental masters, and to the country at large, for Dudley was not a popular man. He wore his ambition on his sleeve and had it been embroidered there in plain words it could not have been more evident: the man wanted the throne. And no one save him and possibly Elizabeth wanted him to have it. But now, Amy Robsart’s sudden death put a new and alarming twist on the matter, for without her, Dudley was a free man, and with that freedom came everything that no one had ever had to consider seriously before.

  When the messenger had delivered the news, Elizabeth had instantaneously understood its implications. But when the messenger had provided details of the death, Elizabeth had gasped. It seems the staircase down which Amy fell was shallow with few treads. Additionally, the treads themselves were deep, allowing the entire foot to rest comfortably on the step; how she had fallen, then, was a curiosity. But there was more. According to the coroner’s initial report, the cause of death was a broken neck. Again, the angle, length and make-up of the staircase seemed to make such a fall well-nigh impossible. Finally, the coroner reported that there were two wounds of unknown cause on Amy’s head. Elizabeth had barely had time to take in the news herself before it was being discussed by all levels of her court.