“I could never have hated you,” I said, taking her hand. “We have lost a great deal of time between us, but just know, Mother …” The word caught in my throat. “Know that from here after you are ever, ever beloved by me till I die.”
We embraced once more, but then she pushed me to arms length and said, “There is something we must speak of now, something urgent.” She looked away from me as tho, despite all that had passed between us she could not now look me in the eye. “I have never yet named my successor… .”
“Your Majesty,” I began as if to silence her, for suddenly I was seized by the most terrible misgivings. I had come here seeking my Parents and never seeking the Crown.
“You are the only natural child of my body,” she continued, ignoring my interruption, “and therefore rightful heir to the Throne of England.”
I did not wish her to go on, but she now turned, emboldened by her own words spoken, and silenced me with her eyes.
“I am the Queen and so I shall continue while I have breath left in my body. But I am prepared to acknowledge you as my successor, come what may, and from this day forward begin the education you will need to prepare you to rule.”
I fell wholly silent, without even the attempt of a reply. For whilst such a notion had, of course, occurred to me since learning of my lineage, it had never once seemed even remotely plausible. I, King of England …
She must have taken my silence as assent because she began then to enumerate the course of my studies — the understanding of warfare on a grand scale, diplomacy, currency and taxation issues, the workings of Parliament, the problem of state religion, the personalities of each of her Privy Councillors, the management of her many households.
But as she went on describing the myriad skills I must needs master, the etiquettes and protocols I must learn, and the limits — no, the obliteration — of my very privacy, I felt the blood pounding in my head until finally I could be silent no longer.
“Forgive me, Mother!” I blurted.
The Queen, in midsentence, was taken aback to be interrupted so rudely, but she stopped and waited for me to continue, with a look of parental indulgence that bordered on bemusement.
“I … I do not wish … the Throne.”
“You do not wish the Throne,” she repeated mildly, as if the meaning of the words had not yet impressed themselves on her. Then her white face and painted eyebrows knitted into a frown. “You say you do not wish to succeed me, to become King of England?”
“Yes.”
Her laugh was a high bark. Then she grew silent as she sought comprehension of the idea. Finally she said, “Pray explain your self, Arthur, for I have no way to understand this.”
“For these past days,” I began, “I have heard the story of your life and of Fathers, of the Court and especially of your Royal upbringing and circumstance. And I have reviewed my own life as well. And I cannot help but think — with all due respect, Madame — that I prefer my own.”
Her arched eyebrows rose even higher, but I forged on.
“Since I was a boy I have loved adventuring. I dreamt of it when I was too small to leave home, but soon as I was able I rode out seeking it. And oh, I found it. In towns. In wooded glades. On storm tossed ships, in foreign lands, on battlefields. In the company of great men, brave women, matchless horses. I have seen marvels and mysteries, beauty, misery. I have been tested again and again. I have known freedom, Mother …”
I could see she was listening intently, but still seemed unconvinced. I went on. “Then I looked round me at this courtly life. It feels so small to me, yet dangerous in a way I fear I could not endure. You were born a Princess, and it brought you very low. When you became Queen, people wished to murder you.”
She began nodding in agreement with my words, her eyes faraway, as if remembering those occasions.
“And this life has been cruel to my Father as well. I know he is not a blameless man. He freely admits to the sin of ambition. The lengths to which he went to win your hand … even I might call them scurrilous. But we both know Lord Leicester is a good man and loved you faithfully, Mother.”
“That he did,” she agreed with a small smile.
“Tis my belief that he was so reviled only for the faithful love you bore him in turn, and the rewards you heaped upon him, and not for any real evil in him. There were no bounds to the jealousy those petty courtiers felt, knowing you loved him best, knowing you could never be steered from your course of devotion to him.”
My Mothers lips began to tremble then, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. I put my hand on hers.
“I recall,” she said, “another monarch and the love for which he moved many mountains. And the jealousy which brought his lover down. But go on. I think I have not heard the best part of this explanation yet.”
“If I were acknowledged Prince of Wales tomorrow,” I said, “then all of my wanderings would come swiftly to an end. I would be stuffed into the clothing of a dandy and expected to assume an array of fine manners. My person would be diligently guarded, every ache and pain discussed. I would never again be free to don disguises, assume false names, nor just ride out into the countryside by my self for the sheer pleasure of it. I would have the fate of nations hanging on me! You were brought up on a diet of such responsibilities, and you craved to rule. I crave adventure!”
I stopped then, for I wondered if what I would say next might lay well or ill with the Queen. She skewered me with her eyes, allowing me no escape from finishing what I had started.
“There is a woman …” I began.
“Ah.” That was all my Mother said, though every harsh line of her face suddenly softened.
“I had sought her my whole life. I found her not so long ago. She consumes my every thought and emotion.”
“Then you should have her,” said the Queen quickly. “I, of all people, could never ask you to sacrifice love for a political marriage.”
“You do not understand, Mother. She is a Spaniard. A widow with two children. This life, Court life, would only ruin her.”
The Queens smile began to fade.
“And she is a Jew.”
“A Jew!” she cried. This last revelation had been altogether unexpected. She stared at me with such a look of confoundment that I thought she had finally reached the boundaries of her patience and understanding. Then she said, “Good Christ, Arthur, you have gone to great lengths to excuse yourself from taking this throne.”
I sagged with relief. “Then … then you understand?”
“I think I have no choice. Are you sure you cannot live without her?”
I laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not sure I can even find her again. She and her family are running from the Inquisition, still one step ahead, I pray.”
“So,” said my Mother with the sound of finality, “my only son would willingly give up the Crown of England for a woman and a life of adventuring.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“No, I do not forgive you. This displeases me in the extreme. But you are young still. And I am not very old. I shall reign for a good many more years, and in that time you may grow weary of your adventuring — tho if you are anything like your Father,” she added with a wry smile, “you may never grow weary of your woman. I shall not give up hope that you might change your mind. I shall therefore continue refusing to name my successor. I think my men have all ceased to expect it anyway.”
With that she gave me her blessings, and a good purse to go on with, and promise of all the monies I should ever need my whole life long. Before she gave me leave to go she stood and walked to a large carven chest at the foot of her bed. Kneeling before it she dug deep into it and removed a worn old book. Its red leather cover was faded, and the gilt trim round its edges was nearly faded away. She held it to her heart for a long time before thrusting it into my hands.
“This is for your eyes only, Arthur. And you must guard it diligently. Promise me.”
“I promise, on my honor.”<
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“Go now,” she said with a sharpness that liked to cover the tenderest heart. “Go find your love.”
I knelt and kissed her hand, holding it to my cheek. She said no more, not even goodbye.
When I first found a moment of privacy I opened the book to its first page. Twas not a printed volume as I had expected, but instead was written in an old fashioned hand. Its title “The Diary of Anne Boleyn” startled me altogether. I had never before read a journal, tho I knew such things existed. To be in possession of my ancestresses history thrilled me beyond measure.
So, I mused, I had been gifted with books of great import by both my Mother and my Father. Perhaps twas that thought which has led me to the writing of my own life. In any event that very night, by candlelight, I began to read my Grandmothers secret diary.
Fifty-eight
Robin Dudley gazed across the bubbling stream at his brother Ambrose struggling with gouty fingers to bait his line, and thought with more resignation than bitterness that the body’s aging was perhaps the most unredeemable curse of life. There were some joys in growing old, and death was many times a blessing. But the inexorable march of decrepitude on the human form seemed wholly cruel to him. His once handsome and vigorous brother was now stooped, and he wheezed when he walked. The war wound of his younger days had never ceased to plague him, and in the last years had given him excruciating pain in the chill of winter. Leicester himself was not much better off, with his malarial fevers and constant dyspepsia. And then there was vanity. He would be lying if he did not admit that the sight of his bloated and discolored old flesh repulsed him. He could barely look at the portraits of himself as a vital young man which hung in his many residences. Perhaps, he considered, he should have them all removed.
“Have you given more thought to speaking to the Queen on James Croft’s behalf?” called Ambrose as he cast out his line in a graceful arc across the water. The salmon had so far evaded them both this day.
“He’s a devious, scheming old bugger,” Leicester called back. “On King Philip’s payroll in ’82. Last year making Parma offers to return Dutch cities to him on no one’s authority but his own. … And when Elizabeth has him thrown in the Tower for his actions, he cries foul.”
“He does. And he blames you.”
“As does everyone for everything. I have become used to it by now.”
“His son Edward is fit to be tied. Murderous against you. He vows revenge.”
“Ah well, what can he do to me that time has not already begun? Listen, do you know of a lawyer in Buxton?”
“A man called Doughtry,” replied Ambrose. “What for?”
“I am thinking to change my will.”
“Cutting me out of it, are you?”
Leicester laughed good-naturedly. He’d said nothing about Arthur to his brother. He and Elizabeth had concluded that revealing their son’s existence for the present would serve no good purpose. But he would make sure that the boy was remembered in his will. He could imply the mother was dead. Arthur would be just another acknowledged bastard, as his son Robert was.
Dudley threw his own line into the sparkling water with a fisherman’s prayer. He would savor a fine salmon for supper tonight. The warm sun beating down on his shoulders, and the sound of rushing water a balm to his soul, he suddenly realized that aside from his annoying and unalterable decrepitude, he felt more contented with his life than ever before. This golden summer had seen England’s glorious victory, had seen him drawn back into the warmth of Elizabeth’s love, and delivered to them their long lost son.
He was so proud of the boy, saw how well he pleased his mother. Surely they would spend good time together in the coming years. Leicester smiled a private smile. Arthur would be a comfort to him in his old age. Not only for the beauty and fullness of his person, but as a sweet and constant reminder of his long and blessed presence in the life of a great queen.
He felt the salmon strike and cried out in excitement. Ambrose turned to watch his brother tug to set the hook and begin the fight. Suddenly the great fish shot skyward, twisting energetically, its silver scales glittering in the sun. Both men shouted with the size of him, his power, and the joy of the struggle. And in that moment, it seemed to Robin Dudley that no man’s life could ever have been so fine.
Young Essex gave the Queen a leg up onto the chestnut gelding. Nothing was more satisfying, thought Elizabeth settling herself in the saddle outside the royal stables, than to find a handsome new riding partner. Though she loathed the mother, Lady Leicester, the Queen could not help her unreserved enjoyment of the son. She had moved him into his stepfather’s apartments adjoining her own, and tongues had begun wagging immediately. She cared not a whit. She simply wished the tall, dark-haired young man to attend her, and attend her often. Essex. She would see to his future.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, “but my horse seems to be lame. I shall be a few minutes more.” He bowed with that particular combination of grace and masculinity which she found utterly irresistible, and strode away into the stalls.
A few moments to spare. She had tucked the note from Robin in her bodice and now took it out to reread. In the strong September sunlight the words were clear, even without her spectacles. ’Twas a short thing, written from Robin’s rooms at Rycote as he made his way to Buxton Baths, inquiring after her own aches and pains in his familiar and affectionate way, and praying for her good health and long life. I continue still the medicine you so kindly proffered on our last meeting, and find that it amends me much better than any the doctors have prescribed. That foul brew! thought Elizabeth, amused. The revolting tincture that had elicited so much giddiness and laughter. Thus hoping to find a perfect cure at the baths, and ready to continue on my journey there, I pray continually for your happy preservation, and most humbly kiss your foot. By Your Majestys faithful and obedient servant. R. Leicester.
“I humbly kiss your foot,” she repeated in a whisper. Dear Robin. There was no one like him. Not Raleigh, not Drake, not this new young stallion.
A page hurried across the gravel yard just as Essex returned with a fit horse. The boy looked at the Queen and then at the young lord as if he did not know whom first to address.
Well, what is it?” demanded Elizabeth impatiently.
“Lord … Lord …” he stammered. “Lord Leicester is dead. At Cornbury.”
“He is not dead,” said Elizabeth matter-of-factly. “I have a letter from him.” She waved the note in the air as proof.
The page shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. ’Twas a sudden fever took him, though there is some talk of … murder.”
Elizabeth had become very still. Essex, who had not yet spoken, pulled the messenger to face him. “Where is my mother?”
“With her husband, my lord. She was with him when he” — the boy looked quickly at the Queen and then away — “died.”
“Madame.” Essex turned to Elizabeth in confusion. For a moment neither of them spoke.
“My deepest condolences, Lord Essex,” she finally uttered. Nothing but her lips had moved.
“And mine to you, Your Majesty. May I … would you … ?”
“You have leave to go to your mother immediately.”
Altogether shaken, Essex rushed away. Elizabeth waved the page to follow him. She sat quite still in the saddle, gazing round her at the stables, St. James’s Palace, the river beyond.
The world has suddenly changed, she thought simply. Altogether changed.
The horse moved beneath her, eager to begin their ride. But she felt odd. Hollow, like a long metal pipe. If someone had struck her now, she thought, she might chime like some discordant bell. He was dead. It was over.
I humbly kiss your foot.
Elizabeth hooked her knee round the horn and tapped the gelding’s side with her boot. He knew somehow to go gentle with the woman on his back. She rode slowly from the gravel yard toward the yellowing heath. Her back was straight as a rod
, her chin high, eyes dry.
Robin.
Christopher Hatton and Robert Cecil had had the locked door of the Queen’s bedchamber broken down on the third day after the Earl of Leicester’s death. She lay still on her bed, fully clothed, though she had loosened her stays, and one sleeve hung off her bodice by a single lace. She wore no wig, and her grey-red hair clung to her ghostly skull. In her hand was clutched a small folded parchment on which she had written in her own hand the words “His last letter.” She gazed with glassy eyes at the men who stood fussing and clucking over her, but did not quite see them, for she was elsewhere.
Fulham House of a stormy evening in late summer. She had given birth and lay encircled in Robin Dudley’s strong arms. The newborn babe lay snug between them, mewling and squirming, his face even now losing its angry red for a sweet, pale pink. Their son, Arthur, lived. He lived! Robin leaned down and kissed the boy, looked up, kissed Elizabeth’s damp cheek. She smiled at her lover and her beautiful son with immeasurable serenity, for here was a child of her body, of Tudor blood. The world, at last, was full and altogether perfect.
Fifty-nine
Few mourned my Fathers lonely death. His wife wasted no time in marrying her young lover, and even the writers and poets on whom he had bestowed his faithful patronage and who had lauded him in his life, were silent. Only one, Edmund Spenser, dedicated this verse.
He now is dead and all his glory gone
And all his greatness vapoured to naught,
That as a glass upon the water shone
Which vanished quite soon as it was sought
His name is worn already out of thought.
My Mother, who did mourn him deeply, was soon called back to her duties and could not refuse them. The Spanish threat to England was ended, but only for the briefest moment, and it was evident that there would be no real peace whilst Philip still lived and breathed.
I returned to the south of Spain for Constanza, only to find her, with her Father and children, gone. The saddle factory had been boarded up, the Lorca residence inhabited by a local Bishop. The family, he told me, had decided to emigrate to the New World. The wealthy conquistadors, soldiers and caballeros were numerous, and Don Ramón believed he could grow very rich. They had gone under a grant from King Philip to Nuevo León, a great tract of land in northern Mexico, its Governor General a distinguished hidalgo named Carvajal. Nothing more was known.
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