The first meeting of the Queen and the Privy Council since her illness had been a brilliant success. Elizabeth had praised her men effusively for the triumph of Edinburgh and, to their surprise, had shown an uncommon decisiveness in the matter of a new tax. There had been a certain camaraderie this day, much easy bantering and some hearty laughter, which Elizabeth found especially delightful. She had charmed them entirely, she thought, and put their minds at ease of her. Even Lord Cecil was in good cheer, though his thin edge of perpetual reserve was a sign that he had not forgotten his ultimatum. And she had not pressed the issue of Robin’s patent creating him Earl. There would be time for that….
The afternoon sun angled in low through the leaded glass as the councillors chatted amicably and gathered up their papers to go. Elizabeth was first to notice the nervous young messenger enter and fall to his knees waiting to be acknowledged. She bade him rise and, as if all sensed the importance of the man’s mission, the councillors fell silent. The boy cleared his throat not once but twice and then began to speak.
“Your Majesty. I am come from Cumnor House in Devon.”
Elizabeth’s stomach pitched like a boat in a heavy swell at the mention of Robin Dudley’s home manor. She suddenly wished that the young man would disappear as in a conjurer’s puff of smoke. But he continued.
“Lady Amy Dudley is dead. She was found at the bottom of the stair by her servants when they came home from the fair. Her neck…” The boy faltered over the words. “Her neck was broken, but her death seemed not from the fall. Her headdress was never disarranged. They are calling it murder.”
Elizabeth heard the councillors explode with angry oaths and frantic whispering. She struggled for composure.
“Has Lord Robert Dudley been informed?” she demanded.
“Yes, Majesty. A moment ago in the stables.”
“Very good.” Elizabeth was determined to meet none of her men’s eyes, nor allow them to see her cheeks which burned hot and red.
“Someone pay him,” she called without turning back to the council, and strode through the double doors.
They know! thought Elizabeth as she waved away the small contingent of ladies who stood waiting to accompany her from the Privy Chamber back to her apartments. She could not at this terrible moment bear their sly glances and false deference. She had to travel what seemed like miles of corridors and hundreds of stairs passing courtiers, guards, and yeomen all of whom, she was convinced, were smirking at her.
When finally Elizabeth entered her Presence Chamber she was shaken to find it fairly crammed with ladies and gendemen all of whom were strangely reserved and not, as she might have expected under the circumstances, abuzz with gossip. The reason for their reserve, she discovered, was standing in the far corner with his sister, Mary Sidney.
Robin looked pale, his normal robustness now shrunken with palpable fear.
“Out!” cried Elizabeth. “Everyone out!” The room cleared within seconds, so fierce was the Queen’s directive. Even Kat, who had been inside the royal bedchamber, now emerged and, knowing better than to ask if she were an exception to the command, followed the others. Only Robin stood alone and very still in the fading afternoon. It was dim, for in the commotion of the moment no one had remembered to light the candles.
Elizabeth moved past Dudley into her bedchamber and he followed silendy, closing the heavy door behind him. She prayed that each slow breath she drew into her body would calm her, steady her, allow her a measure of sanity, for she was on the brink of exploding.
“Why?” she said, finally breaking the terrible silence.
“Elizabeth…”
“She was dying, Robin. Could you not have waited?”
Dudley moved toward Elizabeth with his arms outstretched to hold her, but she backed away from his embrace.
“How can you think this of me, Elizabeth? There is no proof she was murdered. Only strange circumstances.”
Elizabeth watched Dudley closely. She observed every movement of every muscle in his face, the texture of his voice, the tilt of his shoulders. But as desperately as she tried she could not discern the truth or lie of his words.
“Amy was found at the bottom of the stairs. Her neck was probably broken in the fall.”
“And now you are suspected,” said Elizabeth. “I” am suspected. Do you not see how this appears? The Queen of England is being swived by her horsemaster. They wish his wife to no longer be impediment to their scandalous affair. The wife is found conveniendy dead.”
“I did not murder my wife, I swear.”
“And do you swear you did not have her murdered? Do you swear you did not plant the idea in your trusted servants’ minds that you wished above all to be free of her?”
“I will say again. I did not murder Amy. But I will not lie to you. I am glad that she is dead.”
“Robin!”
Dudley’s last words caused the room to spin and blur around Elizabeth, so that for a brief moment it was no longer her lover that stood before her but her bloated father Henry. The beast. Henry who, dressed in gaudy yellow, mourned her mother’s execution by next day marrying Mistress Seymour. He, too, was glad his wife was dead.
The treachery of men.
“Speak truthfully, Elizabeth.” Dudley’s face reappeared, supplanting her father’s ghasdy apparition. “You wished her dead, too.”
“I will grant I wanted you for myself, but I never wished another woman’s blood on my hands.”
“I love you, Elizabeth. With all my heart and soul. Be it God or the fates, but they have seen fit to clear my way … and I am free to marry.”
“No!” Elizabeth clapped her hands over her ears. “Do not say such things!” It was her father’s voice again. Glad she’s dead … free to marry … glad she’s dead…
“Elizabeth.” Dudley reached out to the Queen. Her whole body was quaking with cold emotion.
“Please no. Do not touch me.” She tried to calm herself, regain her reason. “Just go now, Robin. I think you must retire from Court for a time. There will be an inquest and you’ll be found innocent of any wrongdoing.” She searched his eyes. “You will be found innocent, will you not?”
“Yes, I will”
“Good. Then go to Kew.” Elizabeth’s mind was racing ahead. “Stay there quietly until you are sent for. Speak to no one of this save Lord Cecil whom I will send with my communications.”
“Will you write? If I must be kept in exile from your body, my love, I cannot bear to be far from your thoughts as well.” “I will write.”
Dudley fell to his knees before Elizabeth and laid his head amongst the folds of her skirt. She placed her hands on either side of his face and brushed away the tears that fell from his eyes. In this way they stayed for some time until she bade him rise. He stood and, tenderly kissing her fingers, Robert Dudley begged his Queen’s leave and backed, trembling, out of her bedchamber.
As brittle as Venetian glass Elizabeth Tudor laid herself down upon the royal bed and commenced to weep. She wept for her mother, her father, for Robin and Amy, for love, for death and all her sweet impossible dreams lost forever.
17 May 1536
Diary,
The King has once again been merciful. My friends and brother have been spared the agony of a slow slaughter. But they are all yet dead, heads severed of their bodies, their once precious blood now only fit to wash an executioners boots. I could not see the scaffold from my prison window, so I bid Lady Kingston take me to a place to see this monstrous occasion, that which my folly had wrought.
Great crowds gathered for the days events — whole families carrying picnicks, government officials high and low, foreign dignitaries, merchants who had closed their shops in celebration. The scaffold had been built high for all to witness the brutality, and so one by one Norris, Weston, Breyerton and Smeaton took their places. I could not from my parapet hear the final words that these brave men spoke, but learned later none of them betrayed me, only asked for Gods mercy and that the
y should die well.
As George, my dearest brother, came next to the scaffold all quiet went the crowd. Women pulled their children close from sight of the incestuous fiend. A fat man leered at George and licked his greasy fingers, perhaps recalling his sister or his daughter squirming under his repulsive weight. I saw a young gentleman, a green and callow hopeful to the royal Court who, with haunted eyes, watched still as stone. Fear was surely coursing thro his veins, for he saw too clearly the mortal danger in his new profession.
I wished desperately to catch my brothers eye ere he laid down his head, to send him the greatest measure of my love and receive the same in kind to brighten our dark journeys. But his eyes were fixed before him, each movement fraught with dignity, each spare word chosen carefully so that his final act of living might be long remembered as fine and most courageous. Farewells spoke he paused, lifted up his head to see the stark blue sky with great clouds like sailing ships floating by. I was reminded of the blustery day I saw him off on Dover shore to France. I saw again the graceful gesture as his nimble fingers snatched to grab his wind blown cap. Ah, that day had been a happy one with many hopes before us.
My own eyes looking skyward, I had not seen him kneel before the headsman, only heard the sickening thump, the cheers of that rude congregation. So I turned, for I had no wish to see the fountain of my brothers blood wasted on Tower Green.
Lady Kingston watched at my prison door for me, her eyes merciless, her tight mouth a slash between a bulbous nose and thickening chin. Overcome with all the cruelty I had witnessed, and fearing so for my Elizabeth that she might suffer such a fate on my account, I spoke to her beseechingly. I grovelled and repented of the treatment I had shown the Lady Mary, hoping she would take some pity on her tiny half sister, just an innocent with no other friends in life to claim. My gaoler, though cold as stone, agreed to take my protestations in their wholeness to the woman she called Princess Mary. I felt the steel band round my heart loosen its terrible hold and I breathed more easy.
For my death which comes tomorrow in the morning, I must prepare. Jesu, give me strength.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
18 May 1536
Diary,
They have delayed my death another day and tho I think they mean to torture me with small cruelties as this, I am happy for the time which shall be well spent. For today I mean to write to Elizabeth from my deepest heart and for her eyes only. I shall give this book into the keeping of Lady Sommerville, who has promised me that when the time is right she will put it in my daughters hands.
You have been a true and patient secret sister, Diary. I have writ the whole of my life onto your empty pages. Thro these many years I came to see you as a kind eyed, highborn Lady of a certain age, rich with wit and great intelligence. There you sat, or so I oft imagined, in a sunny window seat poring o’er each new passage, as one friend will read with eagerness a missive from another.
Tho no reply was ever sent from you, I yet received a wealth of invisible riches. As quill met paper some strange alchemy occurred. My Diary worked as Philosopher’s Stone to take my memories, dreams, conversations, hopes, fears and scattered thoughts — like some base metals — and turn them into gold. This gold was, I believe, my own mind’s enlargement, my soul’s enhancement. And for that gift I do thank you with all my heart. Let me leave you, friend, with my last verses.
O death rock me asleep,
Bring on my quiet rest,
Let pass my very guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Ring out the doleful knell,
Let its sound my death tell;
For I must die,
There is no remedy,
For now I die….
Defiled is my name full sore
Thro cruel spite and false report,
That I may say for evermore
Farewell to joy, adieu to comfort.
For wrongfully you judge of me
Unto my fame a mortal wound,
Say what ye will, it may not be,
Ye seek for what shall not be found.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
My darling Elizabeth,
When last I laid my eyes upon your sweet self you were not yet three years old. More beautiful than a painted doll you were, and as toward and gentle of condition as any child I have ever known. I remember that day, for the spring sun streamed blindingly bright thro the nursery windows, and your tiny red satin gown seemed afire in the light as you toddled toward me, arms outstretched. Perhaps you have no memory of those early years but I can truly say, Elizabeth that tho our times together were sadly few, you knew me and you loved me. Loved me with a fierce possessiveness that all thought was strange for such a small child. My lap was your throne and I your only subject. Whilst there ensconced you did demand my full attention, and allowed no interference to our intercourse. You commanded me of which songs to sing, which tales to tell, which places on your neck and ears and feet to kiss and tickle. I so cherished those rare, enchanted hours and hope you have some memory of them, because I must die knowing I leave you a motherless child in a cruel and dangerous world.
All signs say you will never wear the crown of England. Mary may reign and Jane Seymours issue will surely take precedence, but if I am to die well I must believe that you will one day be Queen. ‘Tis not the Nun of Kent’s prophecy tells me this, tho I do believe she saw the future truly ‘fore she came to be the pawn of powerful men. But I see how the fates have such strange ways of turning suddenly and violently beyond our control. I see you one day ruling England for you have besides my determined blood, your Fathers royal lineage behind you.
Tomorrow I die because I lusted not for flesh, but to command my own destiny. This is not a womanly act, I know, but I have oft thought that in this way my spirit is much the same as a man’s. In this world a woman is born with one master who is her Father. He rules her life until he hands her to a husband, who rules it till death. Many preachers preach that women have no souls. But some perverse twisting in my self has always kept me from obedience to men. I was but a girl when first I counted my self their worthy opponent. I defied them all — Father, Cardinal Wolsey, Henry. Held my ground like some knighted soldier on a battle ground. Mustered my forces, advanced, retreated, fought many skirmishes, practiced diplomacy, won some great battles. And lost the war.
But except for pain of leaving you, my child, I have no regrets. For I have truly lived as few women are privileged. I have known true love, fought for and won a crown, treated with Kings and Queens and Cardinals. Borne a child. Some say I was a witch, but you have read this diary and know my power came not from Satan.
Methinks my heart first hardened and so grew stronger with the loss of my first love, Henry Percy. I might have withered from that terrible misfortune but instead, like some torn and bleeding bear chained and baited by howling mastiffs in the pit, my ire roused I struck out again and again and lived to fight another day.
Tho I loved my Father faithfully and two Henrys passionately and they did betray me, I will not tell you that all men are betrayers. Some I have known — your Uncle George, Thomas Wyatt, Norris, Weston, Breyerton were good men and true. And I forgive your Father, Elizabeth, and think I understand the strangeness of his mind. For men love that which they cannot have, and hate that which they cannot control, t was both to Henry.
So, daughter, tho I have suffered and shall soon die for this selfish need to rule my fate, I beg of you to do the same. Let no man be your master. Love, lust, marry if you will, but hold apart from all men a piece of your spirit. ‘Tis thus that I shall grasp the headsman’s block with no regrets and never be afraid of death. And tho before receiving sacrament I shall swear on damnation of my soul that I am innocent of all crimes charged to me, for your sake I shall yield my self humbly to the Kings will and ask his forgiveness.
I soon shall die yet I rejoice, for in you a part of me lives on. My diary, which is your ancestral histor
y, is my only legacy. But be assured that this mother’s heart is filled with love for you, Elizabeth, and know truly that whilst in Heaven I shall watch tenderly o’er your self your whole life long. Adieu, sweet girl, adieu.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
WILLLAM CECIL LOOKED UP to see the Queen as she entered the Council Chamber. The sun had barely risen and most of the court was still asleep. But he was an early riser and now he sat alone, lost in quiet contemplation just behind the door, so Elizabeth did not immediately see him. Her unusual demeanor — a kind of determined stillness of the soul, he thought — deterred him from breaking the silence and announcing his presence.
He watched as she moved direcdy to her desk where lay a pile of state documents and letters, and began thumbing through them till she found the one she sought and held it up before her.
It was then he saw the blade clutched in her long ivory fingers, the glint of steel flashing in the morning sun. She raised the dagger and with short punctuating strokes slashed at the parchment once, twice … perhaps a dozen times till it lay in ribbons on the polished wooden floor. When she turned to go she saw her trusted advisor.
It seemed to Cecil in that moment Elizabeth pulled herself yet further erect than her normally proud carriage. She did not smile at him nor did she impale him with an icy expression. She merely acknowledged him with a reserved nod as she passed him on her way out the door.
When some minutes were past Cecil stood and walked to the document lying in tatters on the floor. He bent and lifted the pieces in his hands and laid them on the desk. It only took a few moments to reassemble the page, that which had been destroyed by the Queen’s displeasure. It was the patent creating Robert Dudley an Earl.
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 29