by Betty Younis
“But you, Bess. If you contract the pox, you too will be scarred.”
“Pish,” she said with disdain. “What do I care? Quinn loves me regardless, and even if he did not, I will still stay with you till it passes.”
“You must leave, now, child, for the queen must rest.” Huicke spoke with authority.
“No, I will stay.”
Elizabeth nodded her consent.
“Bring in an extra bed for the tutor – she will read Dante to me in Italian while I fight this battle.”
Huicke passed a concerned look over Bess but seeing her defiant gaze he shrugged and directed the servants to their tasks. Great swaths of red cloth were hung over the windows and the fire stoked even higher. Red cloth was placed over the queen’s bed and the canopy frame as well.
While the doctor oversaw the changes and monitored his patient, Bess wrote a quick note to Quinn.
As the char boy tended the fire, she approached him.
“You, William is it not?”
The child smiled shyly.
“Tell me, do you know Catherine in the kitchen? The undercook?”
Again he smiled shyly.
“Leave the fire, and take this to her. Tell her that Bess begs her to see that it goes to Coudenoure at once.”
“Couden-what?”
Bess quickly wrote the word on the outside of the packet.
“Here, tell Catherine she must get this to this place immediately.” She pointed at the word. William nodded and ran quickly from the room.
Bess gazed out the window while the doctor finished his ministrations. She thought of Quinn, of Coudenoure, of the marble upon which she worked when she was home. She thought of Prudence still baking Henry’s favorite cakes in the great medieval hearth in the kitchen.
Would she ever see them again?
Chapter Eleven
Quinn Janyns liked to putter in his garden. His passion for the natural world had begun as a child, when he would collect beetles and give them all names, his favorites being the Johns. He had discovered early on that not all beetles cared for captivity and he had grown tired of the frequent need to remember new names. Accordingly, all June beetles were Johns; he favored Edward for crickets, and the lovely caterpillars – whom the Johns and Edwards courted in his make-believe world – were Lady Blossom.
Robert Janyns, his doting father, suspected the names stemmed from being an only child on an isolated estate with no other children nearby, but since there was scant he could do to alter the situation, he had left him be in that regard. His own obsession with architecture had been passed on to Quinn and the older Janyns took great pride in his son’s mathematical abilities. Their time together was spent in endless discussions of geometry and planes, arches and aesthetics until eventually, the language of architecture became the language they used to communicate with one another regardless of the topic at hand. It was an easy childhood, and Quinn was quite old before he realized that the name of his constant companion was loneliness. But Bess had changed all that.
Today, he was collecting seed heads from the meadow near his house when the ground shook beneath him. He turned to see a rider thundering furiously in his direction. The horse reared, the rider threw himself off and ran the rest of the way.
“My Lord,” he said panting, “You must come at once to Coudenoure. Prudence says it is Lady Bess.”
Quinn dropped the seed sack, commandeered the horse and gave it full rein. Prudence was waiting for him on the drive of Coudenoure.
“Young Janyns, come quickly, for I have had a message from Bess.” She was frantically waving a small piece of paper.
Quinn grabbed it and without bothering to answer her or go indoors read quickly aloud.
“Dearest Quinn,
Our great sovereign has been visited with smallpox. She is feverish but mercifully the spots have not appeared. We must pray for her recovery.
Stay well clear of Hampton Court and its environs. Do not allow those who have visited the court recently to set foot upon either Coudenoure or Tyche. Above all, protect yourself and Prudence for you well know I have no other family.”
“My love, I shall remain here and care for the queen. Should I be scarred, I hope you will see past it. Should you not be able to, I will forgive you but never forget you. Should I die, pray care for Prudence as she has done for me and mine.”
I am always yours,
Bess”
Quinn began pacing furiously back and forth before the heavy doors of Coudenoure. He was seldom faced with the need for immediate decisions and such urgency always made him queasy. But Bess’ face rose in his mind. He remembered the last time he saw her and the flutter the touch of her hand had created within him. There was no hesitation.
He remounted the sweating horse and spoke quickly to Prudence.
“I go to her now.”
“But young Janyns, you put yourself in danger should you do so. Better to do as she asked.”
He smiled as he turned the horse.
“No, you see I cannot, for if she is scarred, then I too will be scarred. If she dies, I die too – for I cannot live without her.”
He left Prudence staring after him, crossing herself as she called upon Jesus, God and Mary to save them all.
Chapter Twelve
The news spread through court like fire in a tinderbox: the queen had smallpox.
It was said that when Cecil heard the news at Whitehall, he fainted. He had suffered from the pox as a child and was immune now. As Elizabeth’s courtiers fled to the farthest corners of the kingdom, Cecil had ridden post-haste to Hampton Court and now danced worried attendance on Elizabeth every thirty minutes. His reason, he always stated, was the business of the realm, and in proof of that he carried countless folders and papers. But his true purpose was revealed in the worried looks and glances with which he inspected Elizabeth with each visit. And with each visit, as Elizabeth’s condition worsened and Bess’ refusal to leave her side became more apparent, Cecil’s curiosity about the young girl began to grow.
“So how is Majesty?” he asked officiously.
“Since your last visit? Eh? Not an hour earlier?”
Cecil ignored the tone and turned to Bess.
“And Lady Bess? How is your humor?”
Bess curtsied sweetly and retired to a chair by the fire. She began embroidering and pretended not to listen.
“Majesty, these are the letters from Scotland and the northern territories. They require your attention.”
Elizabeth waved her hand to indicate her lack of interest. Bess had kept a steady watch upon the sovereign, but she could not attend to the many duties required to nurse the queen alone, and Robert Dudley’s sister, Lady Mary Sidney, had joined her as a helpmate and nurse.
*****
The following day, Bess stood at the window in Elizabeth’s room and watched the mass exodus of lords and ladies fleeing the pestilence. Gone was any pretense of courtly or stately manners in their bearing. Instead they ran pell-mell, screaming at servants, carrying their precious objet d’art and clothing in their arms as they threw it all in their carriages and sped away to places yet untouched by the disease.
Bess regaled Elizabeth with a blow by blow description of the tumult taking place on the drive below.
“Ah, here comes Sir Edward Belknap – by god, the man must have arms of steel – he is carrying his entire silver plate and cutlery service by himself.”
“What does he think will happen to it should he leave it behind?” Elizabeth asked weakly.
“Oh, who knows – when panic sets in people do strange things.”
“They do strange things always,” Elizabeth remarked. Bess stepped momentarily from the window to insist she take a sip of hot chicken broth.
“Tell me,” she asked between coughs, “Has there been any sign of Lord Fitzwater? He is a fastidious little twerp who washes himself at least three times a day. Smallpox must surely make him quake.”
Bess returned to the wi
ndow.
“No, but here is Lord Hastings and Sir Nicholas Weston. Ah, and Lady Anne Herbert – I did not know she could move so fast. And just behind her Lady Jane Withering with that crimson damask gown you gave her last year.”
Elizabeth sat up.
“I did not give that gown to her! I gave it to her cousin, Lady Margaret!”
“Yes, but Lady Margaret traded it for Lady Jane’s pearl earrings – she says that with her white silk gown – the one with the bell sleeves – they make her fine alabaster bosoms appear more desirable.” Bess pitched her voice on the last words, doing a fair mimic of Lady Margaret.
“Harlot.” Elizabeth laughed. “Although I believe she is correct on that point.”
She had given her courtiers permission to decamp from Hampton Court until the smallpox ran its course. Only Bess and Mary Sidney had demanded to stay on and see her through the course of the disease. And in truth, this suited Elizabeth – the rumors of her demise and the jockeying for her throne made her more than tired and even before Bess and Lady Mary had volunteered, she had determined to keep only the faithful near her. It was the third day since she had been diagnosed and thus far no spots had appeared on her body. She assumed a cavalier attitude towards the ravages which might yet come, but at night, when Mary and Huicke had departed and only Bess kept vigil, she could not hide her fear.
“It may not be untoward, Bess, but I prefer death to pox scars – how will I face my court? My Dudley?”
There was no easy answer, and Bess lay beside the woman, her sovereign, as the fever raged and the fears grew. She cradled her and stroked her hair as a mother would. There were no easy words to be given, but she tried to fill the void with tender care and love.
It was during the final flight of the stragglers, those who were not content to carry their pelf in their arms but felt obligated to pack before they deserted the court, that Bess caught sight of a familiar figure fighting its way through the steady stream of departures. Elizabeth caught the look of concern on her face as she stopped mid-sentence.
“What is it, Bess?”
“’Tis Quinn, he has come despite my orders.”
Elizabeth’s laugh caused a hacking spell, and when she had recovered, she spoke.
“As far as I know, niece, I am the only one in this kingdom allowed to give such orders.”
There sounded a sharp rap on the door and Quinn blew into the room and Bess spoke.
“No, Majesty, any one may give them, but apparently yours are the only ones that are followed.”
Quinn removed his hat and bowed to Elizabeth.
“I am here.” He appeared nervous, tired and satisfied. In that order.
Bess seemed more concerned than grateful.
“How did you get in?”
“I uttered a simple sentence.”
They looked at him.
“I have smallpox.”
He was caught off guard by the look on their faces.
“No, no – I do not have smallpox – I only said I have smallpox. The sea of noblemen parted as though I were Moses on the shore of the Red Sea.”
“Young Janyns,” Elizabeth preferred Prudence’s name for him, “Exactly why are you here? You have entered your sovereign’s bed chamber and exposed yourself to smallpox.”
Quinn drew himself up. He was shaking but spoke anyway.
“Beloved queen, my beloved is here with her beloved queen, and because my beloved loves her beloved queen I do as well because she is my beloved queen as well and so if anything were to happen to my, well, my two beloveds I could not go on and so I am here.”
Elizabeth turned to Bess.
“You are right, dear. I have no right to call a man who can make such a heartfelt speech a nit. From now on I will cease and desist.”
It was easier said than done.
“But of course, you must needs instruct him in sentence structure at your earliest possible moment.”
“Majesty, of course but I was trying to express my deep love for my…”
“Let me guess,” came the half-reply, half-retort, “…your beloveds? Bess, he is entertaining but I am tired. See that your young man has a room here in the court, for I declare that the two of you be the only subjects willing to risk it all with me.”
Bess escorted him to the kitchen for food and then on to chambers. As she prepared to leave, she turned back.
“Quinn,” she said shyly, “I am very happy you came.”
“I would never not.”
Her smile said it all as she pulled the door behind her. He was a happy man, for he needed Bess as the rain needs a rainbow, and it comforted him to know she missed him as well. He threw himself on the bed, grinning from ear to ear.
As Bess crossed the courtyard leading back to Elizabeth’s quarters, William Cecil appeared from a side chamber.
“Ah, Bess. We never seem to have a moment to speak quietly together.”
Bess began an excuse but Cecil would have none of it. His dark robes and darker yet cap made him a forbidding figure. He motioned her into the room from which he had just come while rubbing his hands together in a most satisfied manner.
“Now tell me, child, your heritage.”
Bess stared.
“Come, come. Do not be shy. You see, our sovereign is ill – very ill indeed.”
Still silence. Cecil began to tap his fingers lightly on the table at which they sat. His eyes narrowed as he realized that this was no simple country maid but a sophisticated intelligent woman who would say no more than she chose.
“Bess, I am an officer of the crown. As such, you must answer…”
“Why do you wish to know my background, Lord Cecil? It must tiresome indeed if you must do so for every maid at court.”
A sour smile crossed his lips.
“Bess, I have heard chatter. If there be a relative of the queen’s of which I am unaware, a close relative, I must know that. Surely you understand. Our Majesty is very, very ill. And I hear many rumors.”
“I hear them constantly,” she replied, “Do you know any good ones?”
She rose and before he could block the door she was gone. She turned at the first available corner and ran lightly down hall after hall seeking nothing but relief from Cecil’s prying eyes. The palace was strangely empty and she found it eerily disconcerting. She finally paused to catch her breath but hearing footsteps behind her, she ducked quickly through an ancient, inset door. She pulled it behind her, listening carefully to the sounds beyond. The footsteps paused, then continued on until they faded completely. Only then did she turn. For a moment, she believed herself back in Rome, in the galleries, workshops and homes of the people she knew there. Not just artists but all sorts forced to live on the edge. They or their pursuits such as science or alchemy were frowned upon and so restricted to their own abodes. Magellan may have proved the earth round when he circumnavigated it in 1519 for the Spanish, but science was not accepted. Almost inevitably, such men and women maintained very private spaces similar to the one in which she now stood.
The room was large, but not spacious. Carpets of a high quality graced the many tables scattered about and various tools lay upon them. Collections of flower petals and insects and seeds and rocks were everywhere and reminded Bess of Quinn’s own room at his estate, his constant work at mathematics and the universe. She loved him for his art, but she loved him more for his originality. Watching him always took her back to Rome, made her feel her childhood. She strolled slowly around the room, stopping at a large crystal prism which stood a full two feet high on a nearby table; she ran her fingers over its cold, sparkling surface – she wanted to bring Quinn here for she knew he would love it as he did his home. As she looked around she began to wonder who might inhabit such an unexpectedly strange place. But before she could pursue the thought she became aware of a vast niche filled with books and manuscripts. It was not apparent upon entering the main space and she ventured closer. As she ran her fingers across the volumes, she came upon a
shelf with no books or writings of any kind. It held only a simple carving of a woman and young girl. The girl leaned against the seated woman as a child would its mother. The carving, exquisite in its detail, even captured the loving gaze of the mother as she her hand rested lightly on the girl’s shoulder. Bess gasped aloud, for she had seen the beautiful sculpture before, but not here, not in England. She had seen it in her father’s workshop in Italy. As she ran loving fingers over it, a memory floated free from her subconscious and came to her. She looked up at nothing, still rubbing the piece and remembering.
“Eleezabeth, be still. Constance, can you not make her still?” she smiled in fond remembrance of the moment. . . Michelangelo struggling with his art against the fidgety will of a small child. A flood of emotion welled up within her, for since her mother’s death, she found herself in odd moments turning again and again to her past. This was one such moment.
But what was this piece doing here, in a little known corner of Hampton Palace? She looked about and suddenly realized she was not alone. In a dark corner, unmoving, sat a man. She turned quickly, unsure of herself, but it was obvious he was not a threat. He was old, with a great white beard which he stroked as he watched her in silence. As she approached him, he rose from the stool upon which he had been sitting. His eyes were intelligent, his face kind.
“Lady Elizabeth?”
She paused, curtsied deeply and remained silent.
“Daughter, I believe, of my good friend Michelangelo.”
A slight tilt of her head indicated acknowledgement.
“And you are, good sir?”
As he bowed deeply, his long white beard looked as it might touch the floor.
“I am John Dee, madam, and I am your servant.”
He indicated a nearby chair and she sat.
“I imagine you are here avoiding our good Lord Cecil, are you not?” He smiled and she noticed the deep dimples which creased his cheeks and a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“You and our Majesty are prescient, I believe, when it comes to my circumstances.”