The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  Now the image that peered back from the looking glass was a sight better than before. My red hair shone and my eyes had cleared of tears. In fact they glinted like obsidian in the sun. The blue velvet doublet hugged my slender torso perfectly. Finally I slipped on my best leather gauntlet to cover my deformed hand. The picture was almost right … but something was missing still. A smile. I knew that children should be sober, but I wished now to be dashing. And the Queen had smiled. I could smile too. I thought myself a fine and handsome boy and fit for any challenge. But when I turned from the mirror pain shot through my body in every direction. I gulped a breath, found my courage and moved to the nursery door.

  I could hear below me a quiet crowd, the end of my sisters duet, and enthusiastic applause. Then my Mother announced they were all welcomed into the Great Hall where a light repast would be served immediately. Twas dangerous, I concluded, to descend the stairs, so moved to the nursery window and without a second thought climbed out. I had many times escaped down the ancient ivy trellis, and only a few bored footmen and drivers now were there to witness my descent.

  I was on the ground in moments and running pell mell to the safety of the stables. The grooms and stablehands greeted me with their normal friendliness, mixed with amazement, for I had but lately left them as my Mothers piteous and terrified prisoner. Now I looked a fine young gentleman, and I added to their incredulity by bowing to each and every one of them with an exaggerated and haughty bow which made them laugh and jibe goodnaturedly.

  But there was little time to lose. I went quickly to Charger in his stall and he greeted me with a series of soft nickers and an approving stamp of his hoof. Taking care not to soil my clothing I finished grooming him and braided his glossy tail, then bridled him, saddled him and led him from his stall.

  The stablehands all occupied with last minute arrangements for the hunt which would succeed the dinner, stopt their work and stared as I led proud Charger down the aisle. Each of them as I passed, dipped their head in silent respect to me. One came forward and gave me a leg up. As I took the saddle I felt the pain but as tho from a distance. There would be, I thought to my self, time enough tomorrow for pain, but this day for Charger and me would all be for glory. We rode out into the perfect day, for Old Sol had banished the clouds entirely. With a click of my tongue and the slightest pressure of my thighs to his sides, Charger sped from the stableyard in a great and defiant cloud of dust.

  I waited hidden behind the kitchen, the front door of the manor house in my line of sight. The Queens party had decided that to take full advantage of the parkland they would forgo a stationary hunt, shooting from a blind. They would instead follow the hounds for stag and end with a wild goose chase. The noonday meal was therefore light and rather brief, yet the wait seemed interminable. As it came the hour the Royal carriages were driven away and our stablemen came leading our finest horses into the yard all dressed for the ride. Our dog keeper released the pack of yapping hounds into their midst, so the great and joyful racket of the hunt began. My heart began to gallop, and I lay down on Chargers comfortable neck, whispering encouragement in his ear. He seemed to understand, remaining so calm and still, and this helped to quiet my own senses.

  Finally the door opened. Her Majesty and the Earl of Leicester were first out, followed by the lords and ladies of the Court all thrumming with excitement for the coming hunt and laying down wagers and side bets, no doubt on their horses performance but on the wild goose chase as well. They had changed into riding clothes, the Queen in a violet velvet gown of narrow measure, simple and with no frills that I could see. They moved directly to the mounts to examine and comment on the fine horseflesh. Then I saw my family follow the hunting party out the door, but they looked none too happy. My Father was quietly rating my Mother, she staring straight ahead refusing to meet his eye. My brother and sisters were giving each other sideways looks, and I knew Father was demanding to know my whereabouts. But he had not time to pursue this for everyone was choosing their mounts and twas my Fathers duty to be in the forefront. He strode to the Queen and Leicester and began horse talk with them so that they might decide which to ride on the hunt that day.

  This was my moment, before they departed for the chase. I sat up tall in the saddle and urging Charger with the merest signal, raced from my hiding spot out into the manor yard. The suddenness of our approach took them all by surprise and when Charger lifted his fore-hands into a grande levade, he let out a loud enthusiastic neigh which seemed to speak for us both. As we began the program of elegant manège, progressing from one intricate maneuver to another, I chanced looks at the Queen and her Horsemaster. She was smiling again, her eyes glowing with delight, and the Earl was nodding with silent encouragement, for he knew very well the difficulty of our movements. Charger barely needed direction. The lightest tap of my crop near his eye caused an immediate half turn and levade. We executed a tight and perfect figure of eight, and followed immediately with curvet and pirouette. He pranced daintily on his hindquarters for a full half minute turning round and round, pawing the air like a dancer. The grand finale — the “airs above ground”— was a spectacular series of high leaps and sharp kicks which elicited even louder shouts of encouragement and excited applause. As we descended from the last capriole Charger turned round to face the Queen, knelt and dipped his nose to the ground in a graceful bow which provoked shouts and more clapping. With this I leapt from Chargers back and breathless with exertion made my own courtly bow to Her Majesty.

  I rose to see the Queen laughing with delight. She was flanked by Leicester and my Father, who was beside himself with happiness at my surprise appearance.

  “May I present … my son Arthur, Your Majesty.” His voice trembled with passion as he spoke, and I stood a little higher in my boots.

  “Is this the child who is ill?” the Queen asked incredulously. When my Father stuttered his reply she went on. “For if he is thus when he is ill, I should be very glad to know him when he is well. Tell me, Arthur,” she said fixing me with her eyes, “what is the name of this magnificent beast?”

  “Charger, Your Majesty.” I blurted the word so loud and quickly that I worried I had blundered. But then she smiled again and repeated his name. Coming from her lips it sounded a blessing, and I suddenly thought it fitting that the first word I should speak to my Queen was the name of my horse … and my very best friend.

  I felt a sudden arm clap round my shoulder and turned to see it was the Earl of Leicester.

  “Well done, my boy. You are very young but I see you already speak the language of the horse.”

  I found myself entirely overcome, hearing from my hero the greatest praise he could ever have offered me.

  “Ride next to us on the hunt,” he added, referring to himself and the Queen, then gracefully mounted a white stallion from my Fathers stable.

  “May I, my lord?” I stammered, overcome and hardly believing the honor.

  “I command it,” said the Queen. She was looking down from her mount, and I saw to my amazement she was seated astride and not sidesaddle as the other ladies were.

  Twas my Father who gave me a leg up onto Charger again, and it was then he noticed the caked blood on my breeches. He ground his teeth together with a grim look but said nothing, only grasped my hand tightly for a brief moment before turning and mounting his own horse.

  That summers afternoon was the best of my young life. There I rode, flanking the Queen with Lord Leicester as we pounded thro the park, dogs ecstatic voices echoing in the green groves. Knowing the woodland trails well as the back of my hand I sometimes took the lead to show Her Majesty a short cut and give her the advantage. Other times I saw her riding against me and so I met her challenge, galloping fast and tough, and with slips and turns foiled her, only afterwards remembering I had bested my Queen. The Earl was a hand-some sight mounted — strong and supple in the saddle, as great a horseman as his reputation allowed. I saw how, on a horse strange to himself, Leicester managed the beast
as surely as if the two were dear old friends.

  When after several hours the arrow pierced stag had fallen, and twould seem the hunt was done, my Fathers stouthearted long-winded horses, goaded by these nobles with undying appetite, began in earnest the wild goose chase after a hare. We rode then cross country in Follow My Leader fashion. The Queen or Leicester always led the chase and I, not far behind, could see the game they played most joyfully, one with the other, as tho many times they had played it before. She would take the fore, holding a hard hand on her horse, making him gallop softly at great ease. But then the Earl would advance from behind and ride so close that his mounts head would touch the buttock of the Queens mount attempting to overtake her, at which sight she would spur her horses side and wheel him suddenly half about on her right hand to foil the attempt. Later she would easily let him slip by her and lead the chase.

  By the hour we returned for my Mothers feast the mounts were well spent and could barely set one foot before the other. But I knew these animals, knew how well their keeper my Father had fed and exercised them, and how in two or three hours time they would be as fresh and courageous as if they had never been labored thus. My Mother in a different new gown, greeted her guests at the manor door, and all the lords and ladies of the Court, drunk with the pleasure of exertion, dismounted and went inside. Still on Chargers back, I could feel my Mothers eyes upon me angry and threatening. But then I saw my Father gaze upon me — a look of pure triumph in my honor — before they both turned and went indoors.

  The Queen too had gone in and the stablehands now led the horses two by two from the emptying yard. All that was left was the Earl of Leicester who stood talking quietly to Barlington whilst gratefully patting the neck of the mount he had ridden. He saw me then and walked to me. So as not to be higher than such a high lord I was forced to dismount, but that was not easily accomplished, for my wounds which until now had been forgotten, suddenly made themselves all too apparent. The pain and stiffness of my hindquarters caused me to tumble gracelessly out of the saddle, and had not the Earls strong arms caught me I would have fallen sprawling in the dust at his feet.

  He could not help but see the agony in my expression but he graciously refrained from inquiring of its source, instead regaling me with praise for my skills, claiming that in his own estimation I had “won my spurs”. He could not have known what such words meant to me, that more than my hideous pain those words were close to bringing tears to my eyes. Leicester went on to tell me his thoughts on the moral virtues of horsemanship. Twas the foremost way to employ the mind, form the body and add grace and strength to activity and character. Men, he said, were better when riding, more just and understanding, more alert and at ease with themselves, and that close knowledge of horses proved a balm for the health of the man and his soul.

  I must have looked a dunce, staring up at that great man with nothing of my own to add, but then he asked me of my education and I found myself, worse than silent, stuttering. I could not lie. I told him I was a poor student, not for lack of understanding but lack of desire to learn the bookish lessons. All but horses bored me silly.

  He laughed then, which much surprised and horrified me, for I believed he was laughing at me. But he saw by my face what I thought and quickly returned, “Arthur, listen to me. I was once eight years old and hated my schoolwork and only wished to spend my time riding. Like you, twas the only thing I loved. But I was of such a family and position that it was required of me to do my labors in the classroom. And I was blessed with good tutors. One of them was the same that taught the Queen herself. And so I learnt my Greek and Latin grudgingly, mathematics with somewhat more joy. Twas a test of courage as much as learning with a horse to leap hurdles …” He looked away. “… or persevering in battle when badly wounded.” When he looked back at me his eyes were shining as if with a new idea. In deed, he suddenly patted my arm and said to wait where I stood.

  I saw the Earl stride to a cart which was piled high with the Queens baggage. He located a large carven chest, opened it and rooted thro the belongings therein so casually that I determined the chest was his own and not the Queens. He slammed it shut and with a smile approached me once again, now holding a smallish volume.

  When he thrust it at me I could see it was old and very well worn in deed. But the words on the cover were writ in Greek letters.

  “Do you know enough to read the title?” he demanded.

  I squinted at the book and tried my best. “The …” was as far as I got.

  “Well, that is something,” said Leicester archly.

  “No, no,” I cried, “this word, is it not ‘art’?”

  “It is,” he agreed.

  “The Art … of …” I could not make out the final word. My Greek was appalling.

  “Horsemanship,” the Earl finished for me.

  “The Art of Horsemanship?” I echoed stupidly.

  “Composed by a Greek cavalry general named Xenophon, nineteen hundred years ago. Tis the finest book on equitation ever writ.” I had opened it and was staring in wonder at the meaningless words on its pages when he added, “I am giving it to you.”

  I looked up at him, and so enormous was my gratitude and equal bewilderment that he laughed again.

  “Right! You shall have to learn Greek in order to read it.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” I finally managed to say. “I will. I shall learn Greek and Latin and mathematics …”

  “Gently now,” he teased. “I would not want you to ignore your horses.”

  “No Sir, that I will never do!”

  Leicesters face softened then, more than I imagined such a masculine man could do. “Go and tend to your injuries, Arthur. Your presence will be missed at supper, but I shall make your excuses to the Queen for you. She will understand.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “And thank you for the book.”

  He had made for the door, then turned back and called to me, “When you are a grown man come and see me if you like. I shall find a place for you in the Queens mounted guard.” Before I could reply, if in deed I could have found the words to do so, he had disappeared inside. I sagged back against Charger, then turned to him laying my head against his warm muzzle and wept with joy.

  What followed that evening made the sweetness of the day only sweeter still. I had taken my horse back to the stables to groom him after his exertions but Barlington seeing my exhaustion and pain, offered to settle him for the night, which offer I gratefully accepted. I stumbled up the stairs hearing the commotion of the feast under way in the Great Hall and took my self to the nursery. Quite alone, as all the servants attended below, I carefully peeled my blood caked breeches from my tortured flesh, trying not to cry again for there had been, I thought, quite enough crying for one day, no matter what the cause. Naked from the waist down and having no strength left to tend to my wounds, even had I been able to reach them, I lay face down on my bed and fell instantly asleep.

  I do not know how much time had passed before I was awakened by a gentle hand pulling the hair back from my brow. I hazily thought it was my sister Meg. But when my sight cleared I saw my Father sitting on the bed near me, his sad eyes fixed upon my flayed buttocks.

  “I am so very proud of you, Arthur,” he said quietly. “And I have been a coward. Forgive me, son. Forgive me my weakness. Your Mother …” He stopped at the word, a peculiar unsettled look in his eyes. “She will never touch you again, Arthur. Never. By Jesus I swear it.”

  Maud’s feast had gone splendidly, she in her glory as hostess, seated at the groaning board by the Queen and Leicester. The music and jugglers she had provided for entertainment seemed to please her guests well enough. Robert Southern, at the Queen’s right hand, observed his wife, haughty chin lifted as she flicked her fingers to call for servers as if she had been a grand lady her whole life through.

  He saw the high spirits and clarity of mind slip away as the final courses of sweets and savories were ser
ved and the departure of the royal party inexorably approached. When the Queen stood, thanking her hosts for a day of most excellent sport and amusement, Robert could see an odd mixture of pride and panic in his wife’s eyes. But he was unmoved by her discomfiture. He led the lords and ladies from his hall, bidding them adieu and Godspeed on their progress.

  In the torchlit courtyard they were helped back to their waiting carriages, and Robert watched as one by one they rumbled out through the gate. He was therefore startled to find William Cecil standing quietly beside him.

  “My lord,” said Robert, “I thought that you had already gone.”

  “I have not,” he replied. “I wish to speak with you privately.” There was a strange tentativeness about the Queen’s secretary which Southern marveled at, for this was one of the highest men in the kingdom, newly raised to the peerage.

  “Let us move to a quieter place,” offered Robert, and led Cecil to the far end of the manor and round its corner. There were no torches there, and in the moonless night they were blanketed by darkness, though the commotion of the departing Court still could be heard where they stood.

  “My condolences on the loss of your dear old friend Kat Ashley,” Cecil began.