The Other Elizabeth: Royal Sagas: Tudors II

by Betty Younis

  She repeated her question to the girl.

  “’Tis a man, M’lady, ’tis a very short, but a not so round man.”

  Bess smiled despite herself.

  “What else?” She was hoping for a name.

  Thoughtful silence.

  “Well, I must say, M’lady, he has a lovely hat. All nice and tall but not too tall. More round really.”

  Jane’s voice faded as Bess walked to the manor house shaking her head. She tucked her hair haphazardly into its caul and opened the library door.

  “Lord Burghley!” she exclaimed and bowed.

  William Cecil turned from the window and smiled. His face had aged considerably since her time at court. His hooded eyes seemed darker but wiser somehow. He still wore his dark robes and ecclesiastical sash – Bess suddenly realized she had never seen him in anything but. He moved slowly from the window towards her and Bess noticed he favored one leg.

  “Ah, yes, young Bess, you see my knee is quite stiff these days.”

  “Young Bess,” Bess smiled and indicated a chair, “I have not been called young Bess in many a year.”

  “You are surprised to see me here?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Madame, I have come on serious business.”

  Bess called for tea and scones and they settled in before the fire to wait. A few minutes later Jane appeared, placing a tea tray on the table between them. She stared at Cecil’s hat in a fixed manner.

  “That will be all, Jane,” Bess repeated before the child collected herself and left.

  “Bess, the queen is most upset.”

  Bess waited. She had heard a rumor from Margaret who had heard it from the cook at Greenwich Palace in the market, but she could not believe it. Cecil confirmed her worst thoughts.

  “Lord Robert Dudley has seen fit to marry Lettice Knollys.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Madame!”

  Bess looked him squarely in the eye.

  “He has courted her all these years and now he leaves her? What is that except base behavior of the worst kind? Hmm? The most egregious form of devilry and for our Majesty to have to suffer it publicly at her own court, well…”

  Cecil had to talk over her to gain a toehold in the conversation.

  “Yes, yes, Bess, we all agree, but that is not the problem. The problem is that our Majesty has suffered a blow and it has brought her quite low. So low in fact that she is not herself.”

  More tea.

  “You see, I believe a change of scenery would do her all the good in the world. But she mopes about, refuses to look at many items of important business, and does not enjoy her own exercise or meals. I am very worried.”

  “She must come here.” Bess spoke more to herself than to Cecil. “Yes, here where she is beloved and can gain some respite.”

  “She will not, for I have given her the same advice.”

  Bess smiled.

  “I am glad you thought of us.”

  Cecil sighed as he looked around the library.

  “A brilliant library, a tiny estate, artistic children that babble artistic gibberish in six languages, an odd husband if there ever was one, servants who stare at my hat-“

  “Yes, she was quite taken with it.”

  “What is there not to love about Coudenoure?”

  “The Yuletide is upon us,” declared Bess, “Let us, you and I, arrange a Christmas feast in her honor. We shall invite those who love her, Cecil, and who are sure to bring cheer to her sad heart.”

  “’Tis a fine idea,” Cecil agreed, “And I shall also choose out those who will entertain – Frobisher is recently returned from one of his infernal and catastrophically expensive voyages – I am also certain he feeds his crew money rather than actual food. Did I tell you…”

  Bess cut him off politely.

  “The ball, Cecil, the ball.”

  “Ah, yes, well, I believe Drake is in country as well. There is also a young playwright recently trying to attain entry to court, one Christopher Marlowe – yes, ’tis a splendid idea, Bess.”

  “And musicians, Cecil, for dancing is a great remedy for a broken heart.”

  Cecil agreed, rubbing his hands together as though a great weight had been lifted from him. Bess poured more tea and they spent the next hour gossiping like old friends, for time had erased any differences they may once have had, and now bound them together in common cause. A sudden noise, not quite a scraping nor yet a knock, stopped Cecil mid-sentence. Bess smiled, put down her cup and moved to the door. The noise stopped suddenly and she returned to her seat.

  “The children have learned of the listening post,” she explained. “A piece of loose mortar in the wall yon,” she pointed to the stone wall dividing the library from the main hall, “when removed, it allows one to listen to conversations here in the library.”

  Cecil smiled as she continued in a light vein.

  “I know it has been employed since the time of my great grandfather Thomas. I shall leave them to believe they are the first to make its discovery.”

  That evening, the mince pie arrived on the dining table in a pastry shell exactly the size and shape of William Cecil’s hat. But as either a fashion commentary upon what she believed Cecil’s cap was in need of, or from pure artistic whimsy, Jane had added a lone, long peacock feather which rose and waved majestically from her creation. Catherine promptly grabbed it, shaved off the end originally in the pie, and put it in her hair.

  “We shall have a ball and I will meet many courtiers who will fall at my feet.” She waved her head gently to make the feather sway majestically.

  “They will fall at your feet, sister, if you trip them. Perhaps that is your plan?” Michael spoke in answer to Catherine’s remark but his eyes remained on Jane as she disappeared into the kitchen, only to reappear with yet another meat pie, this one in the shape of a ship, complete with stick masts and pastry sails. Even Quinn, in the middle of a lengthy explanation to Bess as to the rightfulness of the placement of bee’s wings, paused and stared.

  As she placed her work mid-table, she caught Michael’s mesmerized gaze, blushed and retreated yet again. He sighed. He would be off to apprentice soon and if he did not find the courage to speak to her the moment might pass. Anne saw his look and squeezed his hand under the table.

  “Courage, Michael, you must have courage. She is but a simple maid.” She smiled at him, and as always, he took heart in her words. Catherine was not so kind.

  “She made a meat pie in the shape of a ship, you nit. Do you think it was for Anne, or perhaps me? Um? You need not courage but a kick in the pants.”

  Bess looked at her sternly. Catherine smiled and bobbed her head again, enjoying the feel of the peacock feather as it waved gaily.

  “Will the queen give us gowns? I have none suitable for such an affair.”

  “You have plenty, dear, as the queen has blessed you with many gowns already.”

  “But if I am to impress my future husband…”

  “Put that peacock feather in your hair – that should tell him your measure.” Michael laughed at his own joke. Jane listened at the door and smiled. He was such an interesting man. And such lovely hair, all thick and dark and curly.

  While Anne, Michael and Catherine spoke of Yuletide events, Elizabeth continued listening to Quinn’s talk about his latest project and the upcoming monograph which he planned to print and publish himself: The Wily Bumble Bee and Why He Sees Fit to Buzz. She patted his hand and smiled at him encouragingly as he waxed poetic about bee’s legs and insect wings, but even the children’s excited chatter and Quinn’s earnest talk could not distract her from the afternoon conversation she had had with Cecil. Her heart ached for Elizabeth.

  Bess looked at her beloved husband as he rattled on and tried to imagine her life should he suddenly decide to leave. Perhaps he would live once again at Tyche, or follow his heart to the new world and find there a new woman. Just the thought produced a terrified melancholy and she put it quickly fr
om her mind. For Elizabeth, the devastation must have been near complete. Dudley had likewise been her companion since childhood. And he had not the courage to tell her himself.

  “Mother, why are you so quiet?”

  It was Anne, always alert to the feelings and moods of others. Always compassionate. Her resemblance to her great grandmother, Henry’s beloved Elizabeth, obvious since childhood, had never left her, the dark eyes and raven hair most particularly.

  “She is wondering how she and Papa may best defend me against so many suitors at the ball.” Catherine, with her quick wit and sharp tongue, was always at the ready. With her blond curls and blue eyes, she was beautiful by any standard and she knew it.

  Bess almost snorted.

  “Child, do you think of nothing but gowns and marriage and men?”

  Catherine pretended to consider the question seriously before giving her reply.

  “No. I do not believe I do.” More head waving with eyes turned upwards.

  That night, as she lay next to Quinn, Bess reached out and held his hand under the covers.

  “We are so fortunate, you and I,” she whispered.

  “I know it, my love.”

  “And Dudley did not even tell her – what a churl.”

  “Girl?”

  “Churl.”

  “What is a burl?”

  “Churl, Quinn! Churl!”

  “Curl? Dudley is a curl?”

  The soft shaking of the covers gave him away as Quinn stifled a laugh.

  “Your wit – ’tis not what you think it to be,” Bess smiled in the dark.

  “Nit? Are you calling me a nit? Or a pit? Or a…”

  Bess rolled over and Quinn threw his arm comfortably around her, pulling her close.

  “Sit! You want me to sit? Or knit perhaps?”

  Still smiling, Bess drifted easily into a deep sleep.

  *****

  They were awakened by a hammering coming from Bess’ studio.

  “Tell your daughter to stop, please!” Quinn’s voice was thick with sleep.

  Bess rubbed her foot against his leg before pushing it, albeit gently, towards the edge.

  “My daughter! You were the one who told her that she had no talent for painting! Get up, man, and go tell her yourself.”

  “I do not understand – she is not painting, she is taking a marvelous piece of God’s own creation and turning it into an abomination!”

  They both giggled – Anne’s decision to take up sculpting too had produced large piles of chips and flakes, a lopsided jagged stone which for some weeks she had insisted was “coming along”, but not much else.

  “Her talents lie elsewhere,” Bess giggled again.

  “Let us hope she finds them shortly.”

  And so began the day of the ball. Anne was still hammering away when Catherine joined her mid-morning. The two girls were as unlike as the sun and the moon, but fiercely protective of one another on a deep and invisible level. On a more superficial one, they could not have seemed to have cared less.

  “Ah, I begin to see,” Catherin opined as she walked round Anne’s work space, carefully inspecting the stone and the artist at work.

  “Yes?” Anne said excitedly. “It was just a matter of time, you see, before I understood the full scope of the project. Mother always says that one must see the art locked within the marble.”

  “Indeed, I do see. All of this time we have been thinking that the marble block was to be transformed – a figure released from it! From the confines in which it has lain for centuries. But no, sister! Clearly, you are focused on a pile of chips as art! That is the purpose of your work! How could we have missed it?”

  Anne chuckled as she pushed a stray hair from her face. Silently, she raised an eyebrow and passed her mallet and spike to Catherine. In turn, Catherine raised her hands and backed away.

  “I paint. That is what I do, not this. If mother and father insist that we all develop our creative talents…”

  “If?” laughed Anne. “Sister, they are not normal, those two. I fear for our futures, I truly do. What man will want women who speak a thousand tongues and spend their days at such folly as this?”

  She swept her arm to include the entire studio while Catherine nodded.

  “’Tis why the queen helps us so much, I am certain – she feels sympathy for our plight. We are not even allowed to go to court by mother and papa. ’Tis shameful!”

  Anne looked at her speculatively.

  “Catherine, you have pronounced a problem which has troubled me for some time.”

  Catherine was pleased. Too often, she felt, she was viewed as flighty and inconsequential by her family. She knew that she was not, but understood that her rare good looks and timely wit frequently blinded even those closest to her true nature, which, in her opinion, was simply too complex and deep for almost anyone else to understand. She smiled happily as Anne continued.

  “Why does the queen take such an interest in us? Hmm? She does not roam England, Catherine, seeking out maids with obscure titles and estates in order to give them gowns and tutors and royal attention.”

  “I suppose not,” Catherine opened her eyes to Anne’s pursuit of the mystery. “Why, just last summer she sat with you for hours as you practiced your writing.”

  “Exactly,” Anne concurred, “And the two of us always discuss the library.”

  “Ah, well that. ’Tis because you love it so much and she sees that.”

  “But sister, think. I do indeed enjoy it. I love cataloguing the books and reading them. I hope one day to write of our vast collection. But why would the queen care about that?”

  They remained silent, each turning their new enigma over in her mind.

  “And something else,” Catherine added quietly, “Why would the highest minister in the land call upon mother and ask her for advice about the queen and her mood? Why would it even be appropriate for Coudenoure to host a ball?”

  Anne ran her finger over the rough surface of her marble without answering. Catherine soon tired – she knew her sister to be thoughtfully moody, and when such affliction (as Catherine saw it) came upon her, it was pointless to attempt further conversation. She left to seek out Michael. Perhaps he needed further advisement concerning his budding besottedness with Jane, though what he saw in a mere kitchen maid was not clear to her at all.

  Absently, Anne picked up a nearby pumice stone and began gently rubbing the edge of her work. Catherine’s departure did nothing to quell her speculation.

  “Why indeed does the highest minister in the land come to Coudenoure?” she mumbled to herself. “And why the queen?”

  Her childhood at Coudenoure had been played out against a vast, rhythmic and seemingly eternal backdrop. The fields and meadows, the high hills and ridges, the darkly wooded forests – the very essence of eternity. The slow awakening of each day as the estate came to life – the workers in the fields, the miller with his oxen, papa with his endless fascinations, mother holding it all together somehow in a steady weave across the loom – this was her world, punctuated only by the quiet progression of the seasons as they rolled gently past. It was an isolated, idyllic childhood, one in which only books and the occasional visitor gave a glimpse of the world beyond. There was nothing of note about the estate save its calm and steady presence in the world. And yet Elizabeth visited. The queen of all the realm visited this particular backwater estate. Why?

  She could not remember a time when Queen Elizabeth did not make regular appearances. Indeed, these visits stood out against the estate’s fabric all the more for the simple reason that hardly anyone else of note from the outside world ever bothered to come to Coudenoure. Certainly Papa had his fellow madmen, men who dreamed of other worlds and of changing this one, too, but they seldom engaged with the family, choosing instead to disappear into Papa’s workshop for days on end. It was only as Anne had come of age that she began to realize the distinctive nature of Elizabeth’s visits. It had begun when she was old enough to
notice the deference paid the queen by those who attended upon her. When she arrived by barge, accompanied usually by a not-so-small flotilla of guardsmen, Anne began to notice the bowing, scraping, and the immediate response paid to the Elizabeth’s slightest whim or order.

  On occasion, Elizabeth appeared at Coudenoure with a handful of courtiers – most prominent among them one Robert Dudley. Even though he was clearly her favorite, and even though they clearly enjoyed a deep and meaningful friendship, nevertheless, he too danced to her wishes. When she was serious, he offered statesman-like advice and counsel; when she was sad, he entertained her with gossip and laughter; when tired, consolation and simple companionship.

  But while Anne could surely map the strangeness of it all, she could not see a reason for it. Occasionally, she was almost certain that she caught furtive glances pass between her parents when Elizabeth’s name came up in a conversation. But try as she might, she could not ascertain their reason – the looks seemed tethered neither to any particular topic nor to any one visit. They seemed random to her, and it was this randomness that she had patiently stored away with the other mounting evidence that there was some unknown tie between Coudenoure and the queen. But what? As she stood rubbing the marble before her, a sudden reflection from the past caught in the folds of her conscious mind and she stopped and raised her head, staring at nothing and everything. There it was.

  Without bidding, an ancient memory of Prudence rose in her mind. She, Anne, was sitting in the old woman’s lap in the kitchen. She knew it to be Prudence, for the woolen dress she always wore – a pale blue with a gray apron – never seemed to have quite made it through the fulling process. The result was a blend of aromas and streaks which Anne always and only associated with Prudence. That smell was part of what she was now recalling. And Bess. Yes, her mother was nearby – was she sitting across the table from them? Or reaching down to stroke her hair as she spoke? As far back as her memories went, Bess’ hands were rough and slightly gnarled, the result of the endless hard work she performed in her studio. Anne unconsciously touched her face as the memory came upon her. Yes, it was her mother’s hand. But all of that was backdrop to the few words which had come forward with the memory.