The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  We laid my Father out on a simple bier in the Great Hall and in the following days, all the family friends and neighbors streamed thro to pay their respects. I was meanwhile introduced to my young nieces and nephews, each of whom I saw as thro a gauze curtain, for I knew they were — like their parents — tho dear to me, not my own flesh and blood. I strove to be strong, to celebrate my Fathers long Godly life and peaceful death, but my heart and mind raged with dreadful turmoil.

  Go to them.

  Lord Leicester my true Father. The Queen of England my Mother. Twas unbelievable, unthinkable.

  We buried Robert Southern in the heart of the greenwood, and as the final shovelfull of earth was packt upon his grave, I broke. Tears blinded me. I somehow found my mount, leapt into the saddle and rode off at a gallop. Happy to lose my self in the deepest part of the forest I thundered along the narrow trails, branches whipping my face. I had ridden so many times in this wood on a hunt, but today I had no heart to kill any living thing. I had seen too much killing. Too much blood. Had lost the lust for soldiering. Lost two Fathers — William, Robert. Lost a familiar world. What was I to do?

  Go to them.

  How could I do such a thing? Face Elizabeth and Leicester, convince them I was their child? How could I convince my self? Finally I reined in my mount. Climbed down, sat, my back against a tree and tried to think clearly, devise a plan. My mind grew muddled at once. She was the Virgin Queen. Beloved. Revered. I tried to remember their visit to Enfield Chase. I was too young to understand such things really. Yet they had been known as lovers. There had always been rumors of bastard children. But surely they had been false rumors, and people had been punished for gossipmongering.

  For a moment I tried to fit the idea on to my self, as I would a new boot. I was illegitimate, a bastard. The Queens bastard. Royal blood ran in my veins. The blood of Henry Tudor who had taken the crown from King Richard. The blood of the great and terrible Henry VIII. I was his grandson.

  No. Impossible. Quite impossible.

  I remembered my Fathers deathbed confession. The story of my birth on a stormy night, the switching of a dead child for my self. Kat Ashley. William Cecil. I held my left hand out in front of my face, stared down at the sixth finger. Anne Boleyn had had six fingers on her left hand. Elizabeths Mother. My Grandmother.

  Go to them.

  I had been a soldier, faced my enemies, proven my strength and mettle on the battlefield. Now suddenly I cowered at the thought of speaking to the two people who had given me life. I rose, mounted my horse and rode for Enfield Manor. I would say goodbye to my family once again and ride to London to confront Elizabeth and Leicester. There was nothing else to be done.

  Thirty-four

  London. My first sight of it from a small wooden rowboat on the Thames was its pointed church steeples spiking up thro a thick haze of river fog. So many of them, I thought. If there were so many churches, how many thousands of people must reside there? As the oarsmen had rowed upriver, farm and pasture land had given way to village clusters growing closer and closer together, till now the shore was a solid mass of buildings and quays. The traffic of large sailing vessels, wherries and skiffs had multiplied, till now all round us was water commerce in every shape and form.

  A sun browned ferryman who sat facing me, his rowing arms the size of tree limbs, jerked his chin in my direction. “First time going in to the City, Sir?”

  “Am I so obviously green?” I said, feeling a flush rise from neck to cheeks.

  “Can always tell by the eyes,” he answered. “The bigger they are on first sight of the place, the fewer the times they have seen it. Yours are the size of saucers.” He smiled in a friendly way.

  I told him I had been abroad fighting in the Netherlands.

  “Well,” he said, “more may soon be going, for the Queen is mustering an army, she is. Oi, look there.” He pointed, again with his chin, to the south bank of the river, showing me the two greatest places of amusement in London, the bearbaiting theatre and the playhouse — which, he added, were much the same in his mind.

  Thankfully the fog was burning away in the morning sun so I could see the sprawl of the city — almost unimaginable — and the lights sparkling so bright on the water I could pretend not to see the brown filth of its surface.

  “The Tower?” I inquired of a massive stone fortress at the waters edge.

  “Aye, and a place I hope never to see the inside of, my self,” he offered. “They say the ghost of Henrys whore still walks inside its halls.”

  The ghost of Henrys whore. The most infamous inhabitant of that infamous tower. My Grandmother. How many others of my family had colored the yard with their traitorous blood? I wrenched my self from such thoughts, for I knew if I allowed my self to dwell too long on such things I should never ever go thro with my plan.

  “Now out in front of you,” announced the boatman, never turning round to see it himself, “is the glory of London. That there is surely one of the great wonders of the world.”

  I stared goggle eyed as a huge wall spanning the river loomed before me. Twas like no bridge I had ever seen. Not simply enormous, of great stone blocks, thick piers and narrow arches, but built from end to end with high houses, and only a single drawbridge at the centre to let pass the tall masted ships. My first thought on sight of London Bridge was the stuff of childhood nightmares — the severed heads and quartered bodies said to be stuck up on poles on either end of it. And I was not disappointed, tho I could barely see the gruesome parts for the masses of blackbirds feasting and fighting over them.

  “You had best be hanging on, Sir,” said the ferryman. “The current is a bit rough underneath the arches.”

  For the next moments my talkative friend and the other oarsman were silent and concentrating hard as we approached the bridge. Then suddenly our boat was sucked into the swift waters below the dark and moldy arches. The craft rocked and lurched dangerously, the oarsmens oaths and grunting nearly drowned out by the echoing crash and churn beneath us. As I clutched the seat white knuckled I remembered my fear of the water and cursed my self for not riding on horseback into London. Then, just as suddenly as we had entered the rapids we were back out in the sunlight, the river placid once again. My friendly guide pointed out Fishmongers Hall and its wide dock on which were sold all manner of wet fish, but once past the bridge my eyes were caught and held by one sight alone, and I stopped the boatman in his chatter to ask him of the massive edifice some distance back from the north shore.

  “Aye, Saint Pauls. If you want to be learning the lay of the land in this city — all manner of business, legal or otherwise — tis there you will be heading, Sir.”

  Landing at Three Cranes I was finally on dry ground again, and altogether thankful for it. I began my first walk — no doubt looking saucer eyed and stupid — thro the most amazing place in all of the wide world. I thought how like night and day were London and the cities of the Netherlands. Streets and lanes filthy, dark, winding where the Dutch ones were spotless, orderly and fresh. Here, on both sides of me were endless shops and company halls. There was a constant racket of clattering horses and carts. Citizens bawled their greetings to each other, bold merchants cried out their divers wares, and others simply called to anyone who passed, “What do you lack!” There were numerous tobacco shops — something I had not seen in Holland. Here smoke was the rage, tho the leaf was dear — five shillings an ounce. I had shared a common pipe of it at a tavern the night before and liked the rich taste very well, but I did not stop, for I wished to make Saint Pauls before the day was spent.

  Twas a sight, this Cathedral. It towered over the city like a great stone behemoth and all round it, and streaming in and out thro its mighty portals, were all meet and measure of humanity — high lords and lowly beggars. Men, women, children. Clerics in their sober garb. Prostitutes with their bare breasts exposed. I saw a dozen shapes of beards, and mens hair crimped and curled as often as womens.

  I entered the cavernous hall
to behold a scene I could never in my wildest dreams have imagined. Here in Gods house was nothing less than a street fair. Whilst a preacher stood in the pulpit trying to shout above the din, hundreds of people congregated in pews and naves and aisles, conducting business of every sort. There were gaggles of ladies gossiping, lovers trysting. I passed lawyers advising clients, gentlemens valets touting their services to prospective masters, and merchants using the tombs of ancient Kings as counters over which they sold beer and bread and cheese.

  Outside in the churchyard were still more crowds. There were stalls selling books, oysters, marzipan and marrow on toast. I even saw horses being bought and sold!

  I stopped a moment and forced my mind to quiet. I was there for a purpose, and I must not be getting waylaid by the hubbub. I stepped back inside the Cathedral and my eyes fell on a group of young men who, by their posture and manner and fancy dress of velvets and ruffs and lace, I took to be courtiers. I moved to their clutch and insinuated my self quietly amongst them, becoming all ears.

  There was some talk of the plot recently discovered by Secretary Walsingham made against our Queen by the Scots Queen and an Englishman named Throckmorton. How Elizabeth had, in a rage, sent the Spanish ambassador Mendoza — himself involved in the plot — packing for home, and had authorized the hanging and quartering of several guilty priests, most probably those I had seen on Tower Bridge. But these gentlemen found more interest in, and steered their conversation to, the prospect of our official engagement in the Netherlands War. Antwerp had, since my return to England, fallen to Parma — a great disaster for the Protestant cause.

  “He is a brilliant soldier, Parma,” pronounced a gentleman with a starched ruff as big as a cheese wheel, and every man in the group nodded in grave agreement.

  “If you ask me, he is part sorcerer,” offered a man with a pointy waxed beard, “the way he persuades his enemies to hand over their cities with nary a fight.”

  I wished to object, to defend the honor of the courageous Dutch and their numerous fights to the death. To cry out that I had never seen nor heard tell of any band of English women turned warriors to defend their beloved city. But I held my tongue, knowing these gentlemen would speak more forthrightly without my bumpkinly intrusion.

  “Parma may be a sorcerer, but King Philip is the Devil himself. Only the northern Netherlands is left to conquer, and after that we all know who is next.”

  “Thank Christ the Queen has finally moved against him.” Starched Ruff referred to a force of 6,000 troops, 2,000 of which had already sailed for Brill and Flushing — a true English army, no longer volunteers.

  “About time too, tho I hear our Bess rages at the very thought of our being drawn into the fight with Spain. She still avers a peace can be negotiated.”

  They all laughed uproariously, as tho such a thought were utterly ridiculous. Some of these young dandies bragged of their own commissions and seemed, in their naivete, to seek war as an amusement, a diversion from their otherwise tame existence. I thought, but did not say, how hard and bloody would be their future.

  Then I heard the name of Lord Leicester spoke. That he had been chosen by Elizabeth to lead the army into Holland! My heart fairly leapt from my chest, part in joy, part in fear. Joy, for I knew how fervently the Dutch — Prince William particularly — had prayed for Leicesters helping hand. Fear that he had already set sail, and I had missed him.

  My mind wandering, I was brought up short by renewed shouts of raucous laughter. When I put my ear to the conversation I found a derisive limerick was in the process of being devised in honor of my Fathers wife. The men were having trouble with the second line which rhymed with “There once was a Lady named Leicester,” tho they had already written the final three which went, “She was known as a cunt, and fucked Christopher Blount, and for that Queen Elizabeth blessed her.”

  As several of the gentlemen continued their poetic anticks, I skirted behind the group to hear several others discussing Lord and Lady Leicester more seriously. I learnt that he had been made a cuckold by his wife and young Lord Blount, a man half her age. I learnt too that Leicesters only son by that marriage — the four year old Lord Denbigh — had recently died. What shocked me most profoundly, and for which I was entirely unprepared, was the hatred and contempt in which all of these gentlemen seemed to hold my Father. I had known him only as a hero. The greatest lord of the land. A horseman of great renown. Loyal friend of the Crown and lover of the Queen. Here now was a far uglier portrait. A greedy, selfish man consumed with ambition — one who fully deserved his horrible shrew of a wife, his cuckolding, and the death of his son. Apparently a pamphlet was circulating London, vicious and satirical, purporting the “truth” about Lord Leicester. That he was a voluptuary who needed Italian potions and salves to keep him erect, that he had embezzled money from the Queen and harassed her night and day. Worse, that he was not truly of noble blood, and worse still, that he was a murderer many times over. The pamphlet even claimed that Leicester had poisoned his own son because the boy had the falling sickness and one leg shorter than the other, and that the Earl could not brook a crippled child.

  I was staggered on my feet, not solely to hear the slanderous words about the man I would soon claim as my Father, but to know that these gentlemen, every one, clearly believed them to be true. Suddenly I found the air too thick to breathe — a rich brew of human sweat, perfume, food odors, beer and piss. I backed away from the group, pushed thro the crowded aisle and stumbled out the doors.

  As I gulped in the cool air I determined to gather my good spirits and wits, and dispel any doubts cast on Lord Leicester by a pack of jealous courtiers. I knew the man my self. He had been kind and concerned for me, and had set my mind towards education — an unequalled blessing. God blast what others thought! Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and Robert Dudley and I were joined in our destiny. I was not a religious man, but now perceived God as the dealer of this mystical hand. We were a Queen of Diamonds and two Jacks. To my mind only one card was lacking — my own Queen of Hearts.

  Robin Dudley’s belly was paining him. As he moved round the royal stables on his regular inspection he found himself attempting to mask the cramps and rumbling gut with a veneer of brusqueness. He knew the stablehands would be unperturbed by his manner. They knew him well and he always dealt fairly with them, but he did hope to be spared the indignity of a headlong rush to the jakes.

  He’d not been right since God had taken his son. The poor, sweet child. As he brought to mind the face of little Lord Denbigh another pain, sharp as a dagger, threatened to breach his composure. Twas harder and harder every day, thought Leicester miserably, to refrain from the habit of self-pity, for it seemed the world was falling down around his ears. His only heir, a gorgeous boy who had adored him and whom he had loved to distraction, was a dead and moldering corpse. So were his dear sister Mary Sidney and her husband Henry. So much death, so much death . . .

  Having finally relinquished any hope of marrying Elizabeth, he had, perhaps unable to give up all pretensions to royal connections, attempted to arrange a marriage between his wife’s daughter and the King of Scotland himself. When Elizabeth had discovered it she was livid, calling Lettice a “she wolf” and claiming she would rather see King James dead than married to Lady Leicester’s bitch. The plan had of course come to naught.

  His great enemy, Lord Sussex, had died, but the nobleman’s deathbed utterance about Leicester to the Queen — “Beware of the Gypsy. He will be too hard on you all” — had soured any rejoicing Dudley might have felt to be rid of him.

  And though he had long ago lost any real love for Lettice, the careless publicity with which she was conducting her affair with the young upstart Blount galled him. Too, there was the matter of the libelous pamphlet about him, calling him a murderer. . . . Even the great enjoyment of riding had, with the excruciating ache in his joints, become little more than a chore. Still, these were only domestic problems and somehow manageable.

  But Mary
Queen of Scots and her damnable plots continued to bedevil the Privy Council. The nephew of Elizabeth’s trusted ambassador, Throckmorton, had been executed for his part in a Scottish-Spanish-Jesuit plot to overthrow Elizabeth. And with known assassins afoot she stubbornly scoffed at Leicester’s concerns for her safety and continued to ride about in crowds or stride through Richmond Park on foot. Many a night he wakened in the cold sweat of a nightmare — the Queen murdered as he stood by watching helplessly.

  But there was worse still. Elizabeth, with all the anguish of a prisoner having her fingernails ripped out by the roots, had finally consented to sending aid to the Netherlands, and had named him commander of the entire expedition. It was perhaps the greatest honor she had ever bestowed upon him, a vote of confidence in his talents, and a sign that she had forgiven him for marrying Lettice. But his joy was short-lived, for the moment the first two thousand troops had sailed for the Low Countries, the Queen had been seized by remorse and indecision. She was sure she would, by her actions, bring the full fury of Spain down upon England’s head. She would make paupers of all her subjects and they would come to hate her. And she suddenly could not bear the thought of sending her Robin so far away from herself.

  She had forbidden him to go.

  Mercifully, only a handful of her councillors and his few friends — Walsingham, Hatton, Clinton, and Shrewsbury — knew that Elizabeth had called off the mustering of the remaining four thousand troops. Appearances had been maintained that all was going ahead as scheduled. But no amount of reasoning, cajoling, or badgering had yet moved Elizabeth to reconsider. Though Leicester had, over the years, acquired a thick hide, he felt — and his aching belly was the visceral proof — that he could simply not endure the humiliation of having this splendid commission rescinded.