by Betty Younis
Elizabeth looked at Bess. Bess looked at Elizabeth. The sorrow, the lack of sleep, the odd situation, Quinn doing his kind best to aid the person he believed to be a touched stranger in their midst, all of it came to a point and the two of them began to laugh hysterically through their tears. Quinn rubbed his forehead, for the situation confirmed him in his beliefs about women and their utterly enigmatic ways.
Through her tears and laughter, Bess explained that Elizabeth was indeed Elizabeth R. Quinn, now thoroughly confused, bowed deeply. Once again, he forgot his cap. Bess and Elizabeth broke out in fresh peals of laughter.
“Fetch some tea, young Janyns. I must talk to Bess and Prudence.”
She dismissed him curtly and she, Prudence and Bess sat before the fire together, remembering Constance and Agnes. The conversation was short, however, for Elizabeth had already determined what would happen next.
“You will come with me to court, child,” she demanded.
“No, Aunt, Coudenoure is my home – I cannot allow anything to happen to it.”
Prudence patted her hand.
“I am here, Bess, I will see to the place.”
“But my work, my library…”
“Nothing will be touched, but a young maid cannot live alone.”
“And I know nothing of the ways of court, absolutely nothing! And further, I do not care to learn the ways of the place!”
Elizabeth knew Bess spoke the truth. While she was mannered and aristocratic, her particular ways were not those of the court, and she would stand out not so much as a ruby but as a quaint artefact from another place and time. Prudence provided the answer.
“Bess, hear me – do you not speak as many languages as God? Do you not paint like a master? You may go to court and continue your work there until you are old enough to return to Coudenoure. You may be a tutor to the young women in her Majesty’s retinue!”
“Prudence you are clever,” Elizabeth smiled at the old woman. “Indeed, I see why my father felt it as well.”
“And he loved my spice cakes too.” Prudence shook her head proudly with a satisfied air.
Quinn returned, clearly unhappy delivering tea. Before the new plan could be spoken of he drew himself up and declared himself with authority.
“We shall have to sell Coudenoure, Bess, for what good will it be when we are married? Of course, this library will fetch…”
A wave of feminine will smacked him as three women cut him off as one.
“I live here Master Quinn,” protested Prudence, “and will always do so!”
“No – ’tis my home!”, said Bess with distinct resolution.
“Silence, idiot! Nothing will be touched at this estate, for it was a favorite of my father’s and is now a favorite of mine. Do you understand?” The queen’s words left no room for further discussion.
Quinn felt his face flush and his knees weaken. What he learned of women that day would stay with him. Bess pulled a chair and invited him to sit. He looked at Elizabeth and began bowing and mumbling incoherently. Elizabeth was not accustomed to holding her tongue.
“For the love of God, man, just sit. And remain silent.”
He did not need to be told again.
*****
The day after Constance and Agnes were laid to rest in the ancient cemetery, Bess moved to court with Elizabeth. She was introduced as an artist from Rome whose role it would be to teach the young ladies of the court Italian and painting so that they could entertain Elizabeth with learned talk.
The evening prior to her departure, she and Quinn had discussed it at length in her studio.
“My hat! She thinks I am a clod!” Quinn spoke through wounded vanity.
“My love, she is the queen…”
“Yes, and you never told me that, Bess. I thought we had no secrets!”
“’Twas a secret but not,” Bess hedged. “No harm was done.”
Quinn scratched his head and looked at her keenly.
“What is this interest she has in you and Coudenoure? I do not understand.”
Bess gave the answer she had rehearsed many times in her mind.
“Coudenoure was King Henry’s favorite estate…”
Quinn cut her off.
“Yes, but her interest extends to you, personally. Why? Is there a connection there I know not of?”
Bess winced internally and spoke even as she prayed for forgiveness for the lie.
“What connection could there be? I have only just returned from Rome…”
“Yes, but your mother grew up here. Is there a reason the queen shows you such favor, a reason beyond Coudenoure being an estate she enjoys from time to time?”
Bess looked him in eye.
“No, Quinn, there is no reason.”
She left for the court the following morning.
Chapter Nine
Fall 1561
Like her father before her Elizabeth loved spectacle and understood its use as a tool of power and authority. Intrigues, parties, balls, art – all of it swirled about Elizabeth as she moved from palace to palace. Her court consisted of layer upon layer of courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, servants, administrators, ambassadors and clergy. In turn, each of those came and went with their own small stables of staff and friends and family. The gates of her palaces swarmed with vendors, stockmen, the poor and every ilk of the simply curious hoping for a glimpse of their young queen. For every person around Elizabeth there was a separate story, an individual thread woven through the fabric of the court. The tapestry was rich and layered and gave an optimistic view of England’s future. After all, Mary was gone.
Queen Mary’s rule had mirrored the end of Henry’s with its deathly fears and arbitrary dictates. One had never known from one minute to the next who would survive. She had wielded her power as a blunt instrument of death; commoners and noblemen alike had shuttered their lives against her prying eyes and those of her watchful minions. Her marriage and false pregnancy had only exacerbated her suspicious mind. The Spanish influence at her court ran deep and Englishmen of all stations quaked when she turned her wrath upon them, knowing that even a sure and innocent step could spell death and ruin.
But with Elizabeth now on the throne, the very air they breathed seemed imbued with youth and openness. The young queen was every inch King Henry’s daughter and as she paraded daily through the streets of London and its environs the people turned out in droves to inspect her and admire her. The old were astonished at the physical similarity between the two while the young commented upon her fine clothes and regal bearing. She stopped frequently to talk to her subjects and proved herself able to relate to commoners in meaningful ways – with each exchange, a love of her kingdom and its people bled through her entire speech and manner and seeped into the fabric of all England.
Elizabeth did not just employ pomp and spectacle as a necessary evil – she truly loved it. Her morning ritual of spending time in her private rooms and picking over which dress to wear and with whom to hold state became the part of her day which allowed her to order the remainder. Cecil never understood this and their clashes over the loss of so much time were nitpicky but constant. She ignored them.
As she had relied upon Constance as an outlet for her private thoughts, so now she relied upon Bess. Under the guise of consulting about the weekly progress of Bess’ pupils, they would walk and talk. Elizabeth was careful to stage these meeting in the open grounds about her palaces, for even hedges and trees seemed to hide those who would know her innermost thoughts and spread them abroad. When she had discovered Bess’ ability to keep a secret – after all, she had never even told her beloved Quinn of their shared heritage – she knew instinctively she could trust her niece.
“So how is Dudley?” Bess frequently referred to the courtier by his last name.
“Sir Robert is fine as is the mill which grinds the gossip about him.”
Bess laughed.
“Will you ever marry the man?”
Elizabeth smiled and passe
d the end of her walking stick over the tops of nearby flowers.
“I cannot, Bess, for his wife’s death has changed everything. The queen can hardly marry a man suspected of murdering his wife.”
“The coroner’s report found him innocent of wrong doing.”
“Yes, well, I am sure there are those who felt Brutus had done no wrong.”
“And yet he still…” Bess searched for the right word, “…hovers.”
“Indeed”, came the thoughtful reply. “I rather like Sir Robert’s hovering, and now that the door to marriage has been locked and sealed, I see no harm in it. Let the court prattle on – there will be no wedding and therefore I shall continue to enjoy his company.”
They walked on in amiable silence.
“And your young man? Quinn? Is he still the nit he once was?”
“He is still awkward around women – I do not believe that trait will ever leave him.”
“What thinks he of your time at court?”
“He thinks it unnecessary. Since he is older than I, he feels he would be my good shepherd should I marry young.”
Elizabeth snorted and pulled her wrap about her.
“Indeed. Why do men always feel we need shepherding? And that they are just the ones to do the shepherding?”
Bess giggled.
“I do not know, for truth be told Quinn is in desperate need of…not so much shepherding as organizing.”
“I suspect you are the stronger of the two, are you not?”
“Yes, but do not think that I do not need him too, Aunt.”
“In what way do you need him? It seems not that way to me at all.”
Bess thought for a moment.
“He understands me, but that does not create my need. It comes from his ability to anticipate with intuition what I am thinking and feeling. He is an artist who attempts to understand nature, not just to paint it or to build upon it or to portray it somehow. He…”
“You know, Bess, each time I ask you about Quinn your words never end. Perhaps it is just best to say, ‘I know not why I love him but I do, um?’”
She held up her hand as Bess tried to start again, and laughed wryly.
“Men.”
After a time, Bess glanced up at the sky, gauging the time by the sun.
“I must go,” she begged, “For I am to give your ladies a lesson in Italian this afternoon.”
“Ah, yes – and tell me, how do they progress?”
“Majesty, I hesitate to answer that question.”
Silence.
Bess knew that Elizabeth could wait her out – she had never been able to best her on remaining silent until an answer was forthcoming.
“You see, Majesty, some of them are clever. Very clever indeed. And some of them are almost clever which is close enough in most cases.”
“And the rest?”
“Donkey brains.”
Elizabeth roared with laughter.
“You cannot say that, Bess. You have been brought here to tutor these young women…”
“I thought I was brought here to alleviate your concern over my being alone at Coudenoure with nothing but my grief.”
“It was not you being alone with your grief that worried me – you are young and will survive. No indeed. It was you being alone with that young man of yours. That is why you are here. And of course to teach languages to my ladies and to instruct them in the fine arts.”
“I promise you, Majesty, for some of them that instruction must begin with which end of the brush it is one paints with. And by the by, who is it that puts those ridiculous partridge feathers on her bodices…”
They had completed the rectangle of Hampton Court’s outer yard and Bess knew she must hurry. She bowed and traipsed lightly across the lawn. Elizabeth watched, amused by her niece and her utter refusal to fit into the court. Bess had not changed her way of dressing when she left Coudenoure. The simple plain frocks and kerchiefs for her hair allowed her to roam the halls and backways of Elizabeth’s palaces almost unnoticed. Her anonymity reminded her of her days in Rome when she had wandered the streets in boy’s clothing soaking up all the city had to offer. She had no inclination to make friends with those around her for she considered her life at Coudenoure far superior. She served her aunt and no one and nothing else and her reserve in all matters of the court eventually assured her invisibility even amongst the ladies who were her pupils. Above stairs, she walked in the shadows of the great halls, taking her meals alone or with Quinn when he was able to visit. Unseen. She had made friends with the kitchen staff for she missed Prudence’s cooking and the camaraderie which existed below stairs. Over time, she came and went seamlessly between the two worlds.
Bess was now late for the afternoon lesson in Italian and had prepared nothing for the class. She felt frantically for her book in the small pocket of her apron and drew up behind a tall, marble support pillar to collect her thoughts before entering the room where she would instruct. As she flipped through the pages of the Italian grammar she intended to use, a whispered male voice, barely audible, caught her attention.
“You have it?”
“Oui, but she has not seen nor approved the plan.”
“Then ride north.”
The conversation was in French and clearly intended to be private. Bess heard the clicking of heels receding and waited until they were gone before stepping out. She saw no one.
She wondered momentarily about the conversation but she still had no lesson plan for her pupils that afternoon. She tucked the knowledge away intending to revisit it and walked on towards her class.
Chapter Ten
October 1562
“Majesty.”
No response.
“Majesty, we need an answer, madam.”
Lord Cecil’s tone was weary and carried a note of frustration. He sat at a table to her right, plume in hand ready to record her answer and begin the drafting of a response. Elizabeth sat upon her morning throne, the large, heavily carved and bejeweled chair she had inherited from her grandfather and father before her. She presided over morning court – the time she chose to deal with the more mundane issues of her reign – under an elaborate canopy of Flemish tapestries. A raised dais elevated the chair and Cecil’s table, thus allowing the queen to see and be seen.
All morning, Elizabeth had ducked and dodged giving answers to any of the myriad problems laid out before her on that particular day. She had drunk too much the night before with Robert Dudley, and as a result her head ached dreadfully, particularly when she turned it. She felt scratchy, as though she were somehow off kilter with the world by several degrees and the friction thus created made even the slightest irritation monumentally annoying. Moreover, she decided ,her dress was too tight.
She wore a flounced blue silk with white panels of damask. The tailored bodice, also blue, rose from a pronounced v-shape at her waist and extended to a large, white ruff of a collar which covered her throat. The entire business made it difficult to breath. A necklace of pearls and large rubies hung in multiple strands around her neck and draped the front of her gown, but rather than making her feel regal and queenly, they clicked together each time she drew a tortured breath and the dull aching in her head had now developed a rhythmic pulse which beat merrily along to each click of the jewels. As an additional misery, her feet rested only minimally on the floor -the throne had been made for her father and his father, men who were obviously much larger than she. To have it cut down to size would make her appear less than they. As a result, she could not lean back but had to sit forward in order not to look like a child sitting in an adult’s chair with legs and feet dangling. She longed to close her eyes if only for a moment, but she also knew that such a thing would lead to napping, something not done during morning business, not even by the queen.
“Majesty.” It was Cecil again. She floated briefly back into the moment, answered his question, then promptly turned back to her own thoughts.
Mary, her cousin, had arr
ived in Scotland the previous year. Mary’s grandmother was Elizabeth’s own aunt, Margaret, Henry’s elder sister. The woman had spent her life primarily at the French court, but when her husband had died – killed in a jousting tournament – she had immediately begun to meddle in Scottish affairs. Elizabeth had been forced to make peace with her through the Treaty of Edinburgh but to Elizabeth’s horror, Mary refused to sign the treaty, signaling her belief that not only the Scottish throne but Elizabeth’s English one as well were both rightfully hers. Elizabeth was apoplectic, but beneath her public fury lay the old nagging fears of her childhood.
She would be queen or she would be dead: her heritage did not allow alternatives to that reality of stark alternatives. There could be no retiring from public life for her. She was Henry’s daughter and even if she abdicated her throne, moved to Cathay and joined a convent there they would seek her out, use her to play games for their own ends, use her until her usefulness had passed. Then they would kill her as they had killed her mother. This was the dark side of power. She secretly laughed at her courtiers as they jockeyed and danced for her favors and her throne. They did not know what they were about, for only the one who ruled could ever understand the perils and nightmares which accompanied power: behind every conversation, every sunrise and every event she clearly saw the horsemen of death, their white steeds chomping furiously at their bits, eager to get on with it. Only to the strong goeth the crown? She smiled inwardly. No. Only to the one with absolutely no other choice save death. She knew her cousin Mary felt the steeds’ hot breath as well, and guessed that her cousin’s behavior was calculated based upon the same sure and certain foreboding as her own.
She sighed and rose. Perhaps it was not the wine causing her fatigue and ill-feeling. Perhaps it was her worry over Mary in her northern kingdom. Or, perhaps it was the sudden progress from Whitehall two days earlier. Smallpox had begun to settle in upon London and Cecil had insisted that she decamp to Hampton Court for safety. Perhaps the suddenness of that move had affected her condition somehow? It made no sense, but then neither did her increasing sense of fevered short-temperedness.