The Virgin Elizabeth

by Robin Maxwell

  The thought, once realized, plunged the boy into immediate despair. This was lunacy He could never have Elizabeth. He was legally betrothed to Amy Robsart. Elizabeth was second in line for succession to the throne of England. A pig would fly before she would marry a man such as himself, and grandson of a traitor at that. He must put such insanity out of his mind. He was here this day on a sacred mission. He and his family owed their lives and their fortunes to the Tudors. It was his bounden duty to protect his sovereigns kin from all harm. This he would do as an upstanding and loyal servant of the Crown. He would. He would! If only, thought Robin Dudley morosely, he could banish Elizabeth’s pale and splendid face from his mind’s eye.

  Amy He would force himself to think of Amy.

  The Admiral, some five hours after Robin had begun his vigil, finally rode out through his gates alone on horseback and clattered down the cobbled Strand, heading into the heart of London. Thomas rode well and knew his way through the winding, cluttered, and filthy streets of the city. He was, Robin learned as he followed, a popular figure in town, calling friendly greetings to men, women, and children of every rank and occupation. And as each of them called back to him, Seymour sat taller and prouder in the saddle, as though such fame and popularity enlarged him. Such support could, Dudley realized, mean the difference between the Admiral’s rebellion succeeding and failing, and from the look of it, the common people were on his side.

  Robin’s quarry made directly for St. Paul’s, riding into the cathedral’s courtyard. Far from being a sedate cloister, the place was a seething marketplace of booksellers and peddlers, food stalls and auctions of horseflesh. Robin did as Seymour had done, paying a groom to take his mount, and followed the Admiral into the nave of the great cathedral, London’s most outrageous meeting place. Here was a preacher in the pulpit shouting his sermon over a mass of Londoners engaged in anything but prayer. The aisles and pews teemed with courtiers, merchants, and prostitutes. Lovers shamelessly embraced in shadows along the walls, and victuals were hawked and purchased over the marble-topped tombs of England’s kings and queens.

  Robin watched Seymour as he moved through the crush, here attempting to appear less conspicuous than on the streets and clearly scanning the faces to find his assignation. Even before Seymour was aware, Robin Dudley noticed a small, rough man wearing a strange array of once fine but now filthy clothing making straight for the Admiral. To his surprise the man grabbed Seymour in midstride and whipped him round by the arm to face him. Instantly Seymour’s hand found his blade and the blade found his attacker’s throat, poised for the cut. Short though he was next to Seymour, the man bristled with contempt and showed no fear whatsoever. Some folks round the pair were momentarily taken aback by the sudden contretemps, but most, mired in their own business, ignored it altogether.

  Robin pushed through the crowd to be privy to the next action. He arrived within earshot just as the stranger uttered the words “Black Jack” and Seymour, still bristling at the stranger’s rude introduction, sheathed the dagger and released the man from his grip. Keeping well behind an effeminate courtier taking great pains to choose the perfect leather gauntlets from the dozen pairs spread out before him on the tomb of King Ethelred, Robin Dudley was able to hear Seymour’s entire exchange with his companion, who, it was now apparent, was a pirate. The man was angry and spoke with surprising impudence, thought Robin, to so high a nobleman.

  “I tell ye, they’re harrying our bloody ships again, and me captain don’t take it too kindly, what with yer fine promises of safe conduct an’ all.”

  Seymour looked genuinely alarmed at the news. “You’re sure they’re naval vessels and not private ships?”

  “D’ye think we’re idiots, sir? We know a naval vessel when we sees it.”

  “And the names of the ships?” Seymour demanded.

  “The Princess Mary and the Avenger were two that I remember.”

  Robin could see the Admiral’s forehead crease as he strove to put a captains name to a ship.

  “I’ll see to it,” he said finally.

  “And how’ll ye ‘see to it,’ Admiral?”

  The man’s impertinence, Robin could see, was starting to grate on Seymour’s implacable reserve. “I will have the captains arrested and replaced with more … tolerant men, men who know how to obey my orders. You tell your captain that.”

  “Aye.”

  The pirate abruptly turned to go but Seymour pulled him roughly back by the collar till they were nose to nose. The little man’s feet dangled off the ground. “And you tell Captain Thompson I will not wait much longer for an accounting of what’s mine. If it is short, God help him.” He dropped the man’s shirt and his feet hit the ground.

  “I’ll gladly tell him of yer threat, Admiral,” was his derisive retort.

  “Do that, you scurvy piece of scum.”

  The pirate spit dangerously close to Seymour’s boot and, with a final defiant look, turned and disappeared into the throng. As soon as he was gone he was forgotten, and Thomas resumed his original search.

  The man he sought waited half hidden behind one of the cathedral’s massive columns, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. He was of middling age, florid faced, dressed in a doublet all black but of the richest fabric and finest cut. It was a man young Dudley did not readily recognize. The two men were quite apart from the crowd and, maddeningly, Robin could get no closer than twenty feet without appearing suspicious. He therefore was able to hear only snatches of their conversation. Fuses, artillery, light cannon — they were speaking of Thomas Seymour’s armory!

  Robin doubled back and disappeared into a nearby group of gossiping courtiers and emerged into the open space near Seymour and his conspirator as close as he dared. He walked slowly, as though he himself were looking for someone, and overheard Seymour in an urgent voice saying, “Half the purse now and the rest only if you take delivery on the powder before Wednesday next.”

  The next words were drowned out as a gentleman shouted loudly that a pickpocket had robbed him. A scrambling chase ensued down the central aisle, knocking over half a dozen clerics and a chestnut vendor. By the time Robin could resume his eavesdropping, Seymour was saying, “A penny a day per soldier, and ten thousand troops. Who knows how long —?”

  The Admiral grew suddenly silent. Robin felt Seymour’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He was forced to move on. Blast it! He had lost his opportunity to discover the armory’s whereabouts. Robin lost himself in the crowd again but turned back in time to see Thomas placing a heavy purse in the gentleman’s hand. The two men parted, leaving in separate directions.

  Seymour, happily for Robin, did not leave the cathedral but joined a group of nobles engaged in a noisy debate about enclosures. Meanwhile, however, his coconspirator was heading for the door. Who was he? Robin had never seen the man at court, though that meant nothing. He could follow the stranger, but this meant losing the trail of Seymour today, and that would never do. By the sound of it, the rebellion was imminent. The man might or might not lead him to the armory. All he needed was a name.

  Blessed Jesus! The black-suited gentleman had stopped to speak with a whore whom Robin estimated to be no older than Elizabeth. An idea struck him suddenly, and he moved directly to a trio of prostitutes sharing a bawdy laugh near the cathedral door. When they saw the tall, handsome boy approaching, they began to hoot and throw kisses his way. The prettiest one quite brazenly tugged at her bodice till a rosy nipple popped out. The sudden sight of it left him momentarily speechless before the women.

  “Ew, such a pretty young gentleman,” said one.

  “Why, ‘e’s blushin’,” said another.

  “Makes ‘im all the prettier, I think.”

  They cackled lasciviously.

  “Well then, young gent,” said the oldest of the whores, “what 'ave you in mind? All three of us at once?”

  Robin was smiling now despite his urgent mission and said playfully, “I may look green to you, ladies �
��”

  “Ew, now were ladies, says ‘e.”

  “— but I wager I’m man enough to take you on one after the other.”

  They shrieked with raucous delight.

  “A letch at your age,” said the youngest. “Why, good sir, you ought to be ashamed. Should ‘e not be ashamed?” she asked her cohorts.

  “Please, come close. I have a favor to ask,” he whispered suddenly and pulled them round him. They were baffled but highly intrigued, and so they waited in silence to hear his request. “See that gentleman all in black with the sweet young woman by the door?”

  “Slag Maggie, you mean?” asked the oldest whore, pointing with her chin at Seymour’s liaison and his prostitute.

  “The very one. I’ll let you have everything in my purse if you tell me his name.”

  “’Ow do we know you’ve anything in your purse worth ’avin’?” asked the middle whore.

  Robin removed the pouch from the waist of his doublet and discreetly displayed its contents.

  “A rich young lad, as well as ’andsome,” observed the youngest with growing interest.

  “Why, that’s Lord Brockhurst,” announced the oldest whore with great authority.

  “I know Lord Brockhurst,” said Robin, withdrawing his purse, disappointed, “and that is not him. I thank you for your time, ladies,” he said and turned to go.

  “I ain’t ’ad ’im,” he heard the youngest say as he moved away.

  “Nor I,” added the middle whore.

  Robin grew alarmed to see Slag Maggie taking the arm of the black-suited gentleman and the pair making for the door. Thankfully the crowd was slowing their progress, and the man would stop occasionally to greet someone he knew.

  “Wait!” cried the middle prostitute to Robin. “We’ll find out ‘is name, just you wait.” She pulled her friends to her and whispered to them. “Stay ‘ere,” she ordered Robin, “and don’t spend the contents of that purse o’ yours, year.”

  A moment later the whores had dispersed into the crowd. He watched them assail, one by one, every unengaged prostitute under the roof, some that were in midtransaction, and even a few gentlemen who Robin supposed had at one time employed them, and point questioningly to the man in black. Sometimes the women would be forced to drag their source to a place from which they could see the gentleman better. Robin watched with amusement as the youngest girl hoisted herself up onto a pew seat for a better view. Within moments she had returned, breathless and bursting with her intelligence, but Robin put a finger to his lips to still her until the others had returned. They both did so a few minutes later, and none too soon. The man in black and Slag Maggie were disappearing out the great cathedral doors.

  “All right, ladies, at the count of three. Pray for consensus or you’ll not have your purse.” They gave each other a hopeful look. “One, two, three,” he counted.

  “Lord Kendall!” they all cried at once, then screamed with delight, falling upon Robin with hugs and kisses.

  Finally he pulled from their embraces smeared with face paint and dusted with powder. He smiled and held out his leather pouch. “That was a brilliant bit of espionage, ladies.”

  “Don’t underestimate a whore who can make a week’s wages without spreadin’ ‘er legs,” said the middle girl, plucking the purse from Robin’s hand.

  “And what might our benefactors name be, then?” asked the oldest prostitute.

  “Robert Dudley, son of John Dudley, Lord Warwick.”

  “Warwick? Never ‘eard of ’im, never ’ad ’im,” she said. The other two concurred. “Must be a right upstandin’ gent, ‘cause between the three of us, we’ve