by Betty Younis
“Oh, ’tis the queen? Oh, Majesty, have mercy upon me for I have the pox!”
The men closest to her moved away. Elizabeth watched her intently, her face betraying nothing.
“Please, good and rightly queen, touch my sores s that I may be healed through your grace! I will show you my pustules…”
“Child! Fear not, for I will say a prayer over your blistering body, but you may not disrobe before these men – what are you? A wild animal?”
A chuckle went round the group and Elizabeth motioned Bess to follow her to the rear of the entourage. They dismounted. Bess was careful to shield them with the broadsides of their mounts.
“Oh, Majesty,” she screeched, “…Save me!” Her voice lowered to an urgent, frantic whisper.
“You are in great danger – these men plan to assassinate you and put Mary on the throne.”
A cough from one of the men ensued.
“Child, I cannot see through your undershirt – yet I smell your sore!” Elizabeth shouted.
Bess spoke again.
“Give me your cloak and your hat.”
Elizabeth looked at her, fear written across her face.
“Give them to me now.” The queen did as she was told.
Bess frantically donned the garments, pulling the cloak’s hood over the hat. Elizabeth spoke loudly, calling upon God and all the saints to heal the child before her.
“Go to London, to Whitehall. Dudley and Cecil are marshalling troops. Take my horse and I will take yours. They will see me as you, and Auntie, you must ride hard, for the thing is most urgent and the time short.”
“Oh, Bess! Bess!”
Bess pulled Elizabeth’s hat low across her brow, and turned into the crowd of men. She gave the animal a vicious kick and yanked the reins tightly, causing it to rear violently. Elizabeth mounted the other horse and was gone in the night. Bess rode wildly through the men and they closed around her and swiftly disappeared in the opposite direction from Elizabeth. She soon outpaced her escorts, though none of them seemed to mind. Mile after mile she rode, putting all the distance she could between Elizabeth and danger. Her luck held until a sudden, sharp bend in the road forced her mount to rear once again. The cloak’s hood fell back, taking Elizabeth’s hat with it. The horse turned and Bess faced the assassins.
Their gasp of disbelief and fury gave her the little time she needed.
“You, grab that wench!”
“And you! Turn back and capture the queen!”
Amid the chaos and panic, Bess turned her horse into the thicket which enshrouded the side of the road. Her mount never hesitated, and she rode frantically, trying to orient herself to where she might be. A hundred yards on the briars and undergrowth disappeared, and she recognized the field abutting Coudenoure’s great ridge. She was almost home. But the heavy hooves behind her sounded ever louder. Again and again Bess kicked her steed into a furious gallop towards safety. She cornered the base of the ridge tightly, knowing the small path which would allow her to cut across it as it sloped down to the river. It bought her time, and as she reached Coudenoure Norman appeared where the gates leading to the estate should have been.
“Bess, you must hurry on to Tyche! We have concealed the gates to Coudenoure with brush. You will ride to Tyche and they will not know the difference – they will believe it to be Coudenoure!”
“But Quinn’s servants! His estate!”
“Quickly child – we have told them everything and they have seen to the master’s most treasured belongings. We are all now at Coudenoure. Go! And once the men have turned in there, take the back route home – we have laid an ambush!”
Bess did as she was told, barely fifty yards in front of the wild and furious rebels who rode behind. One mile further on, she turned up the curved and narrow drive of Tyche. She knew the way by heart and expertly guided Elizabeth’s horse onward. But so intent was she on reaching the house and the backway to Coudenoure she failed to see the two men who stepped in front of the horse. The animal reared and one of them reached high and dragged her from the saddle. They had cut through the woods to arrive ahead of her once she had turned onto the graveled drive of Quinn’s home.
*****
“Madame, I know you, do I not?”
The man who spoke was short with a stocky build. His green eyes glowed eerily in the candlelight of Quinn’s great hall, like those of a cat on its midnight prowl. His hair, blonde and unfashionably long, hung around his oval, red face. While his English was perfect, it was nevertheless of a dialect completely unfamiliar to Bess. He smiled at her wickedly.
“Oh, aye, I do indeed know you! ’Tis coming back to me now! It was you walking at Hampton Court that day, was it not?”
Bess’ mind had been dulled by the repeated blows which came her way each time she refused to give them the answers they wanted; dulled, but not useless.
“I have never been to Hampton Court, sir, as I have told you repeatedly. I am a simple country maid…”
“Enough!” The man leaned close and slapped her again viciously. “A simple country maid out for an evening’s ride on a moonless night, is that it? A simple country maid who happens to know that bastard queen Elizabeth?”
Bess arranged her face into an innocent mask.
“I know nothing, sir. She led me into the sheltered conversation we had and forced me to take her clothes.”
The man stood, paced, and then consulted with the three others who had made the ride with him. Bess waited, trying desperately to control her rising panic. She had believed herself to be in the clear until the moment the rebels had pulled her from the queen’s horse. She had not prepared a story, much less one responsive to the queries she knew would rain down upon her. With no one to help her, she had turned to the only rational thought she still possessed: she must buy time. However, wherever, through whatever lie or tale, buy time.
The plan had initially worked and Bess calculated that Elizabeth’s men must surely be abroad in her defense by now. The clock at the far end of the room somberly tolled the hour for Matins. Please God, she prayed silently in rhythm with its heavy strokes, let them come for me soon. Even now, she thought, Dee and Quinn were riding to Coudenoure. If she could just hold on, just hold on.
The man returned to the seat he had occupied for the past several hours, a chair drawn up directly in front of the one in which she sat.
“This is your last chance,” he spoke softly. “Either tell us who you are and how you came to know we would be on Greenwich Road tonight, or pay for your silence with your life.”
Bess bowed her head, but not before she gave him an answer.
“You may go to hell.”
“I thought you might say that, for you are a crude woman – why, just look at your plain frock, your simple shoes.”
From the darkness beyond the great hall’s door a voice spoke, clearly and simply.
“You heard the woman: go to hell.”
The man in front of her jerked his head to peer through the darkened doorway. His companions drew their swords and all three banded together in the middle of the room.
“Who said that?”
Silence.
“A coward are you? Else you would come forward – show yourself!”
The ringing of a crossbow was his only answer. The arrow it released flew neatly past them and wedged its steel tip in a far wall. It missed them by at least two feet, but as they first ducked then turned to see its path, Bess seized the moment. She ran into the darkness screaming as she did so.
“Quinn! I told you to practice your aim!”
Quinn’s face appeared from the shadows and he looked at her with an exasperated expression.
“Bess, I have come to save you! Now, stand aside – I cannot believe I missed the vermin.” Quinn reset the bow and another arrow blazed forth.
“Damn,” he declared as it too thudded into the wall behind the men, “… You know, my love, I believe this bow to be defective. It seems to shoot…”
> Bess grabbed him as a heavy sword slice the air where only seconds earlier he had stood.
As they tumbled together to the floor, the giant oaken doors of Tyche flew open and Dudley roared past with the queen’s men.
“I am here!” Quinn called gallantly and scrambled to his feet as a mighty clang of swords began to reverberate throughout the room. He glanced at his quiver, threw it aside, and began beating the nearest man viciously about the head with his crossbow. It broke almost immediately, and Bess in turn began passing him various weapons – vases, bowls, candlesticks – which he hurled at them with as much success as he had seen with his arrows.
“I came to rescue you, my love!”
He wanted her to know.
“And I love you for it, Quinn! Oh, quick, the vase!” He broke it neatly over the last man’s head as Dudley skewered the traitor from the other side. It was over almost before it began. Quinn had the last word.
“I believe that bow…”
*****
Elizabeth had never ridden so hard in her life. She was unaccustomed to Bess’ horse and its unwillingness to do as it was told. The animal wanted to turn for home and it was a struggle to keep it pointed towards London. After several miles, however, it seemed to give up the fight and from then on ran pell-mell as though enjoying the freedom of a night on the open road.
Elizabeth struggled with the knowledge and events of the past few hours. She had progressed to Whitehall, happy to leave Hampton Court behind after so many weeks there convalescing. It felt good to be out in the city, dressed as the queen and seen and acknowledged by all her subjects. When news of her survival had broken beyond the gates of Hampton Court, church bells in all of England’s parishes had pealed the good news. A feast holiday was declared with great tables set and laid in town squares across the land – all at the crown’s expense. It had seemed that for the second time, God had spared her life for some purpose yet to be revealed; otherwise, surely her sister Mary would have gone further than just imprisoning her in the tower – she would have taken the final step which Henry had shown her mother. But no, she had been spared then as she was now.
The thought had made her happy, and her courtiers reveled in her positive and optimistic mood at court. She awoke in the mornings grateful for her life and fortune, grateful to be alive. Food smelled better, the birds sang with greater clarity, the sun shone brighter – she could feel the beauty of the earth in every pore. When she had been approached that evening, then, about a matter at Greenwich Palace, the thought of treachery had not even entered her mind.
“A birthday surprise for our own Lady Jane!” she had exclaimed laughing. “How wonderful! And who are these?”
“They will accompany us, for the ride will be after sunset,” came the smooth explanation from a guard she did not recognize.
“Then let us make haste, for we will have fun this evening! Imagine the good woman’s surprise!”
She was in love with life – the feeling of rejuvenation after such a close brush with death was still with her, and she rode out in the joyous knowledge that her kingdom loved her and had rejoiced at the news of her recovery. So intense was her exuberance with life restored that she never noticed the guards had already saddled her favorite mare. Likewise, she failed to notice the absence of familiar faces amongst those escorting her, or the furtive glances thrown between them. It was not until Bess had appeared that she realized something was amiss.
Curse them. Curse them all, she thought, half-angry and half-terrified. She rode on through the night. As the lights of London grew in the distance, she slowed her panting steed to a walk. Keeping her head down, she made her way through the dimly lit streets and alleys to Whitehall. Should she go in? Should she ride for safety to some unknown place where she would be secure? There was no one to help her and no one to give her an answer. She steeled herself and approached the gate.
“Halt!” The guards pointed their lances menacingly in her direction. “This is no night to be abroad – go home and bolt your door.”
One of them, however, suddenly gave her a keen look.
“Open the gate! Open the gate! ’Tis our Queen, her Majesty!”
As the gate rolled slowly back a great shout arose from within.
“Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!”
Elizabeth breathed deeply to keep from sobbing and collapsing before such a display of loyalty and love. As she rode through the gate, throngs of guards, servants, courtiers and administrators greeted her, blocking her path, touching her gown. She reached out to them, feeling the warmth from the many loving hands.
“Back I say! Get back!” It was Cecil pushing through the crowd.
“You – we must get her safely inside. Bar the gate, do you hear?” He took the reins of her horse and led her up the drive.
“You are safe Majesty – the rebels were few and have been captured. They will be dealt with as we all feel, nay the entire kingdom feels, they should be. Rest, for the kingdom is in your hands and you are safe.”
She maintained a regal posture as she made her way through the palace grounds to her own chambers. Once there, she demanded solitude. As she closed the door upon the last ladies maid and Cecil, she slid down its smooth surface to the floor, cradled her face and sobbed.
Far to the south, a ship of unknown origin weighed anchor at Woolwich and turned for France.
Chapter Fifteen
Christmas 1562
Elizabeth di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, child of the great artist Michelangelo and Constance de Gray of Coudenoure, and Quinntius Robert Janyns of Tyche, were married on the third Sunday following the third crying of the banns announcing their betrothal. They married at sunset, amid the ruins of the ancient chapel which rose on the grounds of Coudenoure. The outcry over their choice of an outdoor wedding in December was immediate and prolonged.
“Outside? What? I have come all this way to stand in the cold?” being the most common comment.
Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, had appeared at Coudenoure the evening prior to Bess and Quinn’s nuptials. Quinn had opened the heavy door. A lone hiccough escaped his lips.
“Quinn, my good man, are you ready?” Dudley had asked cheerfully. His cloak was emerald green velvet with a deep brown satin lining. His silk hose were of the same green and, for his trunk hose and doublet, Dudley had again chosen emerald green but accentuated by cream panels sewn in. The colors were vivid and Quinn seemed dazzled, particularly when Dudley flourished the cloak and removed his cap.
“I say, are you ready?”
Another hiccough. Quinn took a deep draught of wassail from the cup he held and continued to stare while reaching out to touch the fine cloth. Another hiccough.
Prudence appeared, took Quinn’s cup and gave a nod to Dudley.
“I see the Christmas season is already upon us,” he observed as he watched Quinn disappear down the great hall and into the library.
“Do not encourage him,” Prudence demanded. “We are a happy household, Sir Robert, but should Sir Quinn become much happier, he will pay on the morrow at his wedding.”
Dudley chucked Prudence under the chin, laughing as he spoke.
“Every man should drink before his wedding! You know, even old maids may find a mate at such a happy time!”
She slapped his hand.
“Go on, you nit, and see that you look after that young man. Drink is the devil’s brew.”
“Poured from an angel’s cup,” Dudley observed, moving quickly to avoid the lecture which was sure to follow Prudence’s glare and finger pointing. He joined the small group of revelers who had collected at Coudenoure for the wedding.
“Sir Robert!” John Dee tore himself away from his inspection of the library’s great collection. “Tell these people they must be married in a proper church, particularly in December!”
“Why particularly in December?” Dudley helped himself to a cup of wassail.
“You do not know?”
Dudley to
ok a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged his shoulders with a quizzical look. Father Michael from the local parish church filled him in. His cassock of deepest black wool was stretched quite tight across his chest, and the red silk sash which adorned his waist had clear markings of having been tied further and further along its length as the years had passed. He popped a wine-soaked fig in his mouth and spoke while he chewed.
“Sir, they say they will be married in the ruins of the Coudenoure monastery’s chapel! Out of doors in December! ’Tis impossible!“
“Outside? What? I have come all this way to stand in the cold?”
Before Quinn and Bess could respond, Elizabeth swept into the room. She, too, had arrived at Coudenoure that evening with a greatly reduced court. Only a handful of her favorites had been allowed to accompany her, and she had banished them to the upper quarters for the evening. She wanted nothing but family and cheer this night. All rose and bowed before continuing.
“What is the conversation?” She inquired. “I heard good Father Michael complaining I believe as I entered.”
“Majesty,” chirped Bess happily, “They disagree with our plan to be married in the chapel ruins. They cannot see the romance and beauty of the place.”
“Not in December!” A chorus sang out.
Prudence entered and gave Elizabeth a cup. She sipped thoughtfully before responding.
“Tell me again, Bess, whose wedding is it?”
A great cry went up and round the room. Elizabeth waved and grinned.
“Prudence, have the musicians come in, for I believe we shall dance.”
The evening was bright and Elizabeth noted every moment of it. She wanted to remember it forever, for she knew that the morrow changed everything. Bess was leaving court forever. The uprising of the previous month had never manifested itself beyond the craven acts of that one evening, and Cecil had refused to give it credence. He refused to mention it in the court records, and stubbornly did not pursue the matter further.