***
To my mind the Royal Stables at Hampton Court were nothing less than Heaven on Earth — a place where the finest horses in the world were bred, trained and cherished. Twas well known how the Queen loved these animals and said that even now, well past fifty years old, she still rode vigorously every day the weather allowed. The previous day, my Dutch officers uniform and my confident and commanding demeanor — perhaps my greatest feat of playacting ever — had gained me entrance to the stable environs. I was escorted by a young stablehand thro the long stone stalls that housed two hundred mounts, the training grounds and the equipment hall. This last was filled to the rafters with elegant equestrian accoutrements and ceremonial finery — high plumed helmets, colorful banners, fringed saddles of cloth of gold, solid silver bits and bridles.
I had learned from the stablehand that Lord Leicester — still Master of the Queens Horse after all these years — would make his inspection the following day — today. I felt my palms sweating under white leather gloves purchased especially for this meeting. My uniform was worn but it was as clean as I could make it. I had wished to wear something new for this occasion, something to celebrate my new life. I had paid far too much for the soft kid gloves, but was glad I was wearing them now.
As I passed the training grounds where a half dozen horses were learning the basics of manège, I felt my body trembling. Twas fear. Fear that the presentation of my claim to the Earl would be clumsy and humiliating, that words would fail me, that I would begin and be unable to finish. Or worse, that once spoken — even eloquently — my claim would be denied. After all, what reason had I to hope? Why should such a high man believe the story of a common soldier?
I commanded my self to stop, cease all ideas of defeat at once. Truth. Courage. Destiny. Only those thoughts should be allowed. I spotted the young stablehand from the previous day and strode to greet him. The boy was once again friendly and told me that I was in luck, for Lord Leicester had arrived and could be found in the stalls. I thanked him and allowing my self no further hesitation, hiked my self high, squared my shoulders and made for the long stone building.
Inside I felt my body relax at once. The dim light, the musky odors, the sight of the animals in all their strength and beauty, comforted me with their familiarity. Just ahead I could see Lord Leicester conferring with a pinchfaced officer of the Royal Guard. Whilst I knew certainly that the older of the two men must be the Earl, I found myself daunted by the cruel toll the years had taken on my boyhood idol. Tho still tall, the grace with which Lord Leicester had once moved was gone, replaced by stiff, painful jerks at his joints. A bloated face and belly marred the outline of his once spare and muscular form. But as I moved closer I could yet, despite the unhealthily florid cheeks, sagging jowls and full silver beard, recognize this man as the one I had met some fifteen years before. Then the pinchfaced officer departed, leaving Leicester alone, one hand resting on his distended belly, staring in at a stately piebald of sixteen hands.
“Lord Leicester,” I said. “Begging your pardon, Sir.”
Robin Dudley had been contemplating a visit to the stool when he heard a deep, melodious male voice addressing him. He turned to face a striking young man. Square jawed. Young, he thought, but too weathered to be green. Tall, even taller than himself, and solidly built. There was a depth to the eyes, black eyes that contrasted strangely with the pale skin and reddish-gold hair clipped short. He wore the distinctive uniform of a Dutch officer but he was, from the sound of his voice, clearly an Englishman.
Leicester felt his stomach seize again. The man looked vaguely familiar. Could he be an assassin? He had more than his share of enemies.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he fairly barked.
The young man stood his ground without flinching. He has seen battle, this one, thought Leicester suddenly — known worse than a rude reception by an ill tempered old fart in a stable.
“My name is Arthur Southern, Sir. Lately a captain in Prince William’s cavalry.”
Leicester regarded the man more closely. ’Twas a strange thing to say. William of Orange had been dead for more than a year. Arthur Southern sensed the silent question.
“It will always be his army, Sir.”
Leicester had met with William once, knew of his grace and magnetic power over men. Briefly he wondered whether he himself would ever engender such love and loyalty from his troops . . . if ever he was given an army.
“’Tis excellent news you are going to the Netherlands, my lord,” offered Arthur Southern. “The Dutch people dearly wish for your presence. ’Tis what the Prince himself wished for.”
“You knew him?”
“I did.” Arthur’s black eyes turned suddenly liquid. “I was with him when he died, Sir.”
“Why do you look familiar to me?” demanded the Earl with a touch of irritation.
Surprisingly the young man’s face exploded into a broad smile. A smile, thought Leicester, which was itself familiar.
“We have met, my lord. Many years ago the Queen and yourself — the entire Court came through my father’s estate on summer progress. Enfield Chase in Surrey.”
Leicester searched his memory. “Enfield . . . ha! A wild goose chase in a lovely greenwood. Yes, I remember.” A smile began to grow on his tired face. “A young boy performed for us on his horse that day.” He stared into Arthur’s face. “’Twas you!”
“It was, Sir.” They were both smiling delightedly. “You gave me a book, do you remember?”
Leicester searched his mind, shook his head.
“Xenophon’s The Art of Horsemanship. It changed my life.”
Finally remembering, “You learned to read Greek, then?”
“I did indeed.” Now they laughed.
It was all coming back to Dudley. “So, have you come to take me up on my offer? A position with the guard?”
“No, Sir, I have not.” Arthur had grown suddenly serious. “I have come . . . I . . . wish to tell you . . .”
Now courage failed him. Truth seemed a thousand miles away from this place. And destiny seemed nothing more than a boyhood fantasy. Leicester was staring at him expectantly, but the words simply would not come.
“Augh!” Without warning Leicester clutched at the stall door and his red cheeks paled alarmingly.
“Sir?”
The Earl’s breath was coming in short gasps. “My rooms. Help me to my rooms.”
“Lean on me,” said Arthur.
“No!” Leicester straightened, struggling to preserve his dignity. “Just walk with me. Stay close.”
“Yes, Sir. ’Tis my honor, Sir.”
***
The Earl’s lodgings were several large and comfortable rooms on the second floor of Hampton Court’s west wing. When he and Arthur entered they found the rooms excessively occupied by young men — an odd mixture of them, students poring over their books, sensitive-faced youths bent double over sheets of parchment, quill in hand, a daydreamer dreaming in a windowseat, several men browsing amongst an impressive collection of books. Around a table a group of courtiers loudly argued the merits of one of Philips Sidney’s poems versus one by another young poet, Edmund Spenser, who lived under the Earl’s roof at his famous London mansion Leicester House.
Leicester dismissed them all and cleared the room within moments, motioning only for Arthur to stay. Then he rushed behind a wicker screen to his closed stool and loosed his poisonous bowels, moaning all the while in agony and relief. When he had finished, he reappeared to find that young Southern looked surprisingly more distressed than disgusted, and quickly rang for a servant. As the valet scurried in and removed the covered pot, Leicester swallowed a mouthful of liquid from a blue glass flask. The valet returned almost immediately and smoked the room with puffs of incense and pungent herbs.
Finally they were alone.
“Are you ill, my lord?” Arthur inquired.
Leicester was moved by the apparent depth and sincerity of the young man’s caring,
and just as baffled. It suddenly occurred to him that he had, a moment ago, allowed a complete stranger to be witness to a most personal and incommodious display. There was something about him . . . a kind of comfort. Leicester suddenly recalled that the little boy who so many years ago had astonished them with his masterful performance of manège had recently been beaten bloody. The Earl had been a witness to his private disgrace. Was this then the tie?
“I would have to say . . . I am not myself,” Leicester finally answered, realizing as he did that his head was spinning. “The potion is an opiate, good for the pain, but dizzy-making. Perhaps I should lie down for a moment.”
Arthur sprang instantly to help the older man and gently eased him down on the magnificent canopied bed, boots and all. Dudley felt his leaden eyelids slowly closing, though he did not sleep. He was subtly aware of Arthur Southern’s sentrylike presence, and finally he felt the pains in his miserable body begin to abate.
He heard the knock on his door as in a dream. Then Arthur Southern was whispering in his ear. “My lord, ’tis a message from the Queen.”
Leicester forced open his eyes. The young man held out a folded parchment with Elizabeth’s seal affixed to it. He rallied himself, rose on an elbow, and ripped open the letter. “Oh, thank Christ!” he cried.
Arthur was beaming with shared pleasure, though he would never presume to inquire of the message’s nature.
“’Tis good news, Arthur, very good news indeed.” Leicester sat up in bed, blinking back tears of relief. He suddenly felt altogether well and wondered briefly if it were the opiate potion working its magic in his veins, or the news that Elizabeth had finally relented and given him leave to depart for the Netherlands at the head of her army. God be praised!
“We shall have a drink,” announced Leicester, almost leaping off his bed. He moved to a table and poured claret into two fine Venetian goblets. He handed one to Arthur. “To victory in the Netherlands,” he said, raising his glass.
“And to Prince William’s dream,” added Arthur, touching glasses with Leicester. They drank. The Earl offered his guest a seat next to his and, pulling out a carven wood pipe, filled it with tobacco. The afternoon spent itself at a slow and languorous pace, the two men smoking and drinking and laughing as if they were companions of a lifetime.
By the time the valet had come and lit the candles, set a blazing fire in the hearth, and laid a simple supper on the board, Robin Dudley and Arthur Southern were well and truly drunk.
“Do you not wonder, my lord Leicester,” began Arthur, having swallowed an enormous mouthful of red wine, “why I have come to see you today?”
“’Tis not for a post, you told me that. ’Tis not to murder me, for you would have done that long ago. Methinks you have come . . . though I do not know why . . . to befriend me.”
Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, my lord, I have not come as your friend.” Leicester sat back in his chair and stared. “I have come . . . as your son.”
Leicester regarded the younger man stupidly. “My son? No, no, my son is dead.” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “My little boy. Only four. He limped, you know. One leg shorter than the other. I had him made a tiny suit of armor. He would put it on for me and pretend” — two large tears rolled down Leicester’s ruddy cheeks — “pretend he was Saint George . . . slaying the dragon to protect me. He wanted to protect me.”
Arthur listened, thinking of little Lord Denbigh, the Earl of Leicester, Robert Southern . . . himself. And suddenly, despite the copious amount of wine he had consumed, he felt as sober and clearheaded as a Puritan preacher.
“I was born, Sir, in August of 1561. In Fulham Castle. ’Twas the night of a terrible storm.”
The Earl of Leicester was struggling to clear his muddled mind. He found he could not take his eyes from the face of the young man sitting across from him. He was speaking of things he had no business knowing, saying words he had no business saying, stirring long forgotten memories from the depths where they had been laboriously buried. That terrible night. Another dead child.
He lunged suddenly at Arthur Southern, falling on him and throttling him. “Who are you!” he shouted.
Arthur’s answer was barely audible, a harsh whisper choked from his throat, but he neither fought back nor even struggled. “Mistress Katherine Ashley . . . the lord William Cecil . . . secreted me away that night.” The force of Leicester’s grasp lessened, and he stared owl-eyed at the man beneath him. “A dead infant was shown to yourself . . . and the Queen.”
Leicester suddenly unhanded Arthur Southern as if he were made of hot metal, then sat heavily on the floor near the young man’s feet, staring into the fire. He was utterly silent as Arthur related what he had been told of his own circumstances by Robert Southern.
“Have you proof?” Leicester asked woodenly, still staring into the fire and never meeting Arthur’s eyes.
“What did you name that stillborn babe, Sir?” asked Arthur.
Leicester was silent.
“Did you not name him Arthur?”
“It means nothing,” Leicester shot back.
“Look at me, my lord.” But Leicester was still as stone, refusing stubbornly to move. “Look at me and tell me you do not see yourself . . . see my mother in me!”
“You have red hair, pale skin. So do a full quarter of the people in England.”
“I have your height. Elizabeth is tall. My grandfather Henry was —”
“Shut your mouth!” shrieked Leicester, finally turning on Arthur in a fearsome rage. “You have no right to use their names in such a way. No right to trick me! Get out, get out or I swear I will murder you with my two bare hands!”
Arthur remained calm. “Perhaps, before I leave, you should look closely at my two hands.” He unbuttoned his white kid gloves and removed them.
Leicester found himself unable to continue his attack. He simply stared at the square, callused, soldier-scarred hands, their strong fingers spread out before him. Slowly Arthur swiveled his whole left arm, thumb pointing down to the floor. Leicester blinked. Was the firelight playing tricks on his eyes, or was there in fact, protruding from the outer side of Arthur Southern’s hand, a nub of flesh and within it a bit of nail? A sixth finger?
Slowly he looked up into the young man’s eyes. All at once he knew where he had seen those infamous black and beguiling eyes before. In portraits of Elizabeth’s mother . . . Anne Boleyn.
“Dear God,” said Leicester quietly as he stared into the face of Elizabeth’s son. His son.
When he began to tremble uncontrollably, the young man slowly enfolded in his strong, muscled arms the body of the man who had given him life. Together they began to weep, first in anger for the many years wasted, the love lost . . . and finally in joy for the love found, and the great miracle that God, in His infinite mercy, had finally seen fit to bestow.
We never slept that night, my true Father and I, and before the sun rose into the misty morning he had given me his name. I was Arthur Dudley, and for that I was most proud. Tho my courage had only been achieved thro the use of strong drink I had never the less revealed the truth, and laid my foot down upon the path of my new destiny.
But more valuable than his name, this man had given me his heart — that faithful organ long battered by disappointment and scarred by the years of hatred and jealousy it had had to endure. Despite this, his was not a bitter heart, and it overflowed with love for my self.
Once he had come to accept my true birth, Lord Leicester opened himself to me — and I to him — and we spent the too short night pouring forth like two fountainheads into a common pool the stories of our lives — our loves, enemies, trials, hopes and mysteries. He spoke at length of his attempts to marry my Mother the Queen. How all had believed he pursued her solely for the advantages to his position. He owned forthrightly his ambitious nature, but swore — and I believed him — that he had loved Elizabeth passionately from the time they were young children and adored her sti
ll. He wept many times that night, but none more bitterly than when he spoke of the moment he had understood she would never be his, that the dream of marrying the woman he loved must finally and irrevocably be laid to rest. He told how hard it had been to watch Elizabeth carrying on with her publick life, knowing in some deep part of her soul she wished desperately to be tied intimately with himself. And how extraordinary a person my Mother was — singular and entirely enchanting. He quoted a poet who described her thus — “She fishes for mens souls with so sweet a bait that no man can escape her net.” Then he laughed ruefully, calling himself the biggest salmon in her sea.
He spoke of her beauty, especially in youth. Of her velvet white complexion before it had been marred by the smallpox and harsh cosmetics which ate into the flesh like deadly acid. How her long curly hair had been the color of a late afternoon sun. And how the majestic grace of her movements was itself a kind of loveliness.
He spoke, too, of the other beauty my Mother had possessed, and possessed still. The beauty of her mind. My Father confided this was the best part of her. Not simply her intellect — product of a steely mental constitution and magnificent education — but her wit, sometimes biting as a baited dog, other times sweetly rollicking, and others as raw and bawdy as a street whore.
Despite his own disappointments in matters of the heart he urged me to ever follow mine and to faithfully seek the woman I admitted I had been dreaming about since the age of fourteen. He hoped that she would possess, as my Mother did, that rare combination of beauty and strength of mind for, he cautioned, even the most delicious of cunts grows old and withered, but a great mind, like a fine wine, grows all the richer with age.
As the sun rose higher into the soggy sky we stood staring out the window towards the Thames and began talk of a more solid nature. Lord Leicester was leaving immediately for the Netherlands, so all arrangements with regard to my self would, of necessity, take place immediately. He said he had, during the past evening, considered the vagaries of our situation.
“Ah son, tis more complicated than even you can imagine. Your Mother — you know she is now forced to wage war against Spain in the Netherlands.”
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