Blood of my Blood

by G Lawrence

  In response she sent me treats; marchpane and sugar comfits, as well as a skirt of rich crimson satin lined with taffeta which she had made herself. There was a special design of English flowers surmounted by a thistle on it, which was pretty but gave me pause to ponder. Did she mean to indicate that the garden of England would be overtaken by the thistle of Scotland?

  Despite my concerns as to the secret meaning behind this gift, I softened towards her. I had been thinking of allowing her more exercise, something that had been restricted after her message channel had been found, but soon enough, however, there was less welcome news. Mary had also been offering pensions and bribes to people, despite having sent numerous complaints to me about having no income.

  “Where is this money coming from?” I asked Walsingham.

  “Her dower lands in France, we think, my lady,” he said. “Previously, it was paid irregularly, as the Cardinal of Lorraine had little understanding of finances, but Thomas Morgan who now handles her dower money is a more regular payer. She saves that money, and uses what you grant her for her household. Her letters to France and to certain nobles in England also suggest she has not abandoned her lust to become Queen of England.”

  “Then she will have less money from me,” I said. “Let her use her own coin to pay for spies and foes to rise against me!”

  I cut her allowance from fifty-two pounds per week to thirty. Soon, all swore they could hear the howls of the Queen of Scots from London.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Long Itchington and Kenilworth

  Warwickshire

  Summer 1575

  “One day,” I said to Blanche as we left London for progress. “I wish to see Wales. It is the land of my ancestors, where Tudor blood still runs strong.”

  “Your people of Wales would hold it a high honour,” she said. “They speak of you with great love.”

  We would not be able to go to Wales on this trip, I knew, no matter how strong the urge. Progress was always decided long ahead of time. Of course, sometimes for the sake of security we altered routes, causing unbounded chaos when we came near towns that had had little time to prepare. Thieves and prostitutes were hastened out, told to ply their trade elsewhere, streets had to be swept and housing arranged for me and the hundreds riding with me. It was no short order.

  We rode through Oxfordshire, spending one night or two with courtiers, as we made for the Midlands. We stopped at Warwick Castle, with Ambrose Dudley and his wife Anne, and were entertained well. I loved to see Anne. She was one of my ladies and always a loyal woman. When I came to the house, she presented me with two new kirtles and a French farthingale. It was customary for nobles to present gifts when I came to their house, and Anne, knowing my affection for clothes, had chosen well.

  The next day we rode for Long Itchington, taking a route passing Stratford on the way. Although only a small town, Stratford was pretty. Nestled on the north bank of the River Avon, the land was lush with trees, orchards, and gardens. Oak-framed houses, just over two hundred in all, lined the streets, their fronts plastered with bright lime. Dunghills and rank gutters, fetid as the King of Spain’s brain, plagued the roads, but the scent of sweet flowers was on the breeze, and the sound of water burbling under stone bridges was clement and pleasing.

  On our way to Long Itchington, we rode past fields of grain and hemp. I liked to see hemp, for it reminded me of my father. He had ordered every farm over sixty acres to sow at least a quarter acre of hemp, as it was used for ropes, ships, fishing nets, clothes and paper. Hemp oil was also burnt in lamps. It was a useful, but not unproblematic crop. Field workers complained of light-headedness and headaches, and it was considered by some to be a raiser of spectres. Ghosts walked in hemp fields at night, it was whispered, seeking to find a path back to the world of the living.

  Outside the houses of poor folk, I saw small bowls standing at the doorway; offerings of ale and food, left out for fairies so the Good Folk would bless these houses with good fortune. To supplement this good luck, rowan trees stood nearby, protecting people from bad witches and the forces of darkness.

  We stopped at the hall of a yeoman farmer to take some ale, and as I walked into the yard of his house, I looked up to see figures representing women on the underside of the archway. The figures were naked, holding symbols of temptation; apples and grapes. They were there to show the underside of life, the darkness of temptation, warning a traveller to keep their mind on the holy, and avoid the perils of desire.

  I did not inflict my entire entourage on the poor yeoman. Although clearly a man of some means, he could not have possessed enough ale to quench the thirst of all my ladies, Gentlemen Pensioners, Privy Council and household, and each of the lords and ladies who came with me had their own servants too. Secretaries, maids, officers, pages, ushers, grooms, chamberers, laundresses, cooks, and kitchen staff all came on progress. Sometimes, the number of people trailing behind me seemed unfathomable.

  That night, Robin treated me to a grand feast he had prepared. Of course my own cooks sent representatives with me on progress. Every part of the royal household from bakehouse to spicery sent men. It was a precaution against poisoning, but was also a badge of pride. People who served me trained and perfected their skills over years, and did not like to be outdone… Although Robin tried.

  Held in a beautiful pavilion, striped green and white, shimmering under the evening sun, the feast was spectacular. Because it was Saturday, we feasted on fish. My father had done away with the laws about eating fish on Fridays, Saturdays and through Advent and Lent because of his break with Rome, but I had restored them, although not for religious reasons. Fishing was an industry vital to the English economy, and my people would support it by eating fish on prescribed days. Besides, it was hardly a hardship. Good fish, eels, and other sea creatures were easily available in most areas, and if one could not eat from the sea, there was always freshwater fish in abundance.

  There was pottage of summer herbs and carp. Herring, mackerel and cod had been spirited from the coast through the night, kept alive in barrels of water, so they were fresh and tasty. Perch, tench and roach had been caught for the table, and salmon, roasted whole, was sweet and tender.

  What there was not, unfortunately, was a good small ale for me. It was a hot evening, and we had passed the day riding and hunting, so I was annoyed to find that this basic request was not taken care of. Robin was mortified.

  “I told them to ensure there was plenty, Majesty,” he wailed, eyes igniting with anger. His servants were going to be scolded that night.

  “It would appear they listened to you about the quantity,” I said, watching my men gulp down flagons of double beer, wine and strong ale with deep appreciation. “But not the quality.”

  Robin sent men out to search for a suitable ale for me, and one was found from a local ale-wife, who was so overcome when she heard I was to take her ale that she had to sit down.

  “Delicious,” I said when I had taken a mouthful. The ale was flavoured with local herbs, and tasted fresh as spring water. “Pass on my compliments to the ale-wife. Her brew is better than many I have sampled.”

  Robin told me later that the ale-wife’s eyes had narrowed when she heard this, seeing a business opportunity when she spied one. Within days everyone in her village wanted only her brews, since they came with the Queen’s approval.

  At eight in the evening, we mounted horse and rode seven miles from Long Itchington to Kenilworth Castle, Robin’s manor house. Kenilworth was situated on the outskirts of the town, which was inhabited by many people and boasted a fine market. The house itself had a long history. Once the seat of royalty, it had been an important military base in ancient times, but had fallen into disuse. When Robin had taken it on some eight years ago, it was in desperate need of attention.

  “I cannot wait to see what you think of my house, Majesty,” Robin said.

  I smiled. I knew he had been working hard to transform Kenilworth into both a pleasure palace an
d stronghold. “Both are necessary,” he had told me some time ago. “I wish to have a house fit for my Queen, and a defensible base, from which I may aid her in the protection of the realm.”

  There was a sense of magic in the air even before we reached the castle, with purple skies of dusk falling, and birds crying, their songs haphazard, in the trees. Guards riding along the cavalcade bore flaming torches, lighting our way, spilling dappled amber onto the roads.

  It was a bright, sultry night, and as the stars began to emerge we came into view of the house. A thunderous noise of guns firing a salute sounded over our heads and I had to stop my horse to take in a sharp breath. The castle was illuminated by thousands of torches, spilling red fire to flicker on the shadowed walls of Kenilworth. The pillars of the drawbridge held cornucopias of fruit and vines, flowing up iron chains. Bowls of live fish and fowl could be seen, swimming or flapping almost in time with music being played somewhere nearby. Musical instruments and pieces of armour, shining red and silver under the light of the torches and stars, hung, glorious under the fading light of the world.

  “Peace and safety,” Robin murmured. “That is what you bring to England, my lady. This bounty represents your duel sides, and guiding hand upon England.”

  “And you, as my knight, would lay down your life for me?” I asked, not missing the military and chivalric allusions in Robin’s imagery.

  “Without hesitation.”

  I looked to the lake as we came to the outer gatehouse. A coiling mass of more than one hundred acres, the lake was huge, wending about the castle like a lover’s arm curling about the waist of his mistress. A bridge, which must have measured six hundred foot, spilled over the water and on it were more symbols of peace, plenty and protection. But this was not what caught my eyes. The lake blazed gold in the darkness of night, not just with the torches, but as though the base were solid gold.

  As I slowed my horse to stare at this wonder, a floating island appeared from nowhere, revealed as a circle of torches swiftly caught light one after the other; rippling, brilliant flame in the darkness. On it was the Lady of the Lake and her nymphs, stepping from the myths of Arthur and his knights into our realm.

  “We welcome you, most noble Queen,” cried the Lady of the Lake, “to ancient Kenilworth, whence once Arthur rode and kept the kingdom safe. Since the great King Arthur first slept, I have waited for one worthy to take up his crown, and now she is come. We offer up this castle to you, Arthur’s true heir, for you are the Queen who holds England safe in kind hands, keeping her from harm.”

  “As far as I was aware,” I said to Hatton. “Kenilworth is mine already, is it not?”

  Hatton guffawed as the castle was, in truth, a lease I had offered to Robin, and was therefore mine indeed.

  But I did not allow Robin to hear my comment. It was, in truth, a deflection of the tang of fear I felt. Although it was usual that, when the Queen came calling, elaborate pageants would be put on, and no expense would be spared, there was something calling to me from these entertainments… something that spoke of desperation.

  “Pass on, Madame, you need no more stand,” cried the Lady of the Lake, “The Lake, the Lodge, the Lord are yours for to command!”

  We rode for the house, only to find six giants before it. Many people gasped, wondering how men could have grown so large, but as their hands lifted trumpets, I saw what Robin had done. They were false men, made of wood and straw, with mechanical arms. Standing eight foot tall, they were mightily impressive, and behind them were more men, real ones this time, blowing trumpets and operating the arms and legs. The clock, blazing blue with enamel on the turret of the keep suddenly stopped moving. When I glanced up, Robin smiled. “When you arrive, my lady,” he said, “Time itself stands still.”

  We were entertained by musicians at the castle gates, along with ten Sybils dressed head to foot in white gossamer silk, who recited verses, and proclaimed I would live a long life, bringing peace and prosperity to England. The Sybils were there to demonstrate my dynastic claim to the throne, as well as the symbiosis between sacred and dynastic aspects of kingship. At my mother’s coronation they had featured strongly, and Robin knew that whilst I spoke of her sparingly, I loved her deeply.

  A fool named Hercules the Porter came forth and performed, affecting to be annoyed when men clapped their hands and beat their feet in time with his comic routine. Then he came forwards. “Take from my hands, O gracious Queen, the keys of this castle. And with them, take all that is good and great of the castle’s custodian, the Earl of Leicester, as well as his heart, which is in your keeping, and always will be.”

  I did not need to guess Robin’s motives anymore. He may as well have presented me with a marriage contract. The offer of his house was as good as saying “with all my worldly goods I do thee endow.”

  I kept a smile on my face as we entered the base court to find Arthur’s knights waiting. To the sound of trumpets blasting, I was escorted to my chambers, newly decorated and renovated, in the three-storeyed tower Robin had named ‘Leicester’s Building’. Here, only the most favoured courtiers would be housed. As we walked in, Robin told Hatton how the house had once belonged to Henry I, how Simon de Montfort had defended it against the armies of Henry III, and how John of Gaunt had taken on the house and rebuilt much of it.

  “The great Henry V built a lakeside banqueting hall,” Robin told him, “and Her Majesty’s gracious father constructed a new set of lodgings.” He smiled as Hatton praised his arrangements. “I have worked hard on my poor house. I can only hope it pleases.”

  Poor house? It was nothing of the kind! The new tower was light and airy, but warm and sweet-scented, with huge amounts of fresh herbs and flowers strewn amongst reed mats on the floor. The blocks of lodgings for courtiers were vast and spacious, and even the servants’ quarters were handsome. There were candles in all chambers, and torches to light every hallway. Kenilworth blazed bright as day as darkness slipped over the rest of the world. There was a tilt yard, a fine gatehouse, and almost every room had glass windows.

  The result was astounding. Kenilworth managed to retain its ancient charm, whilst encompassing all that was good about new styles in architecture. It was a masterpiece, and must have cost Robin a fortune, or two.

  “I see now why you are always short of coin,” I said as we entered my chambers. “Your wealth is in the walls of your house.”

  It was a beautiful set of chambers. Oriel windows allowed the light of flaming torches outside to enter the chamber, shimmering on whitewashed walls and glistening on gold and silver threaded tapestry. Over my bed was a rich hanging claiming that Robin was Droit et loyal, and on the bed were plump cushions of crimson satin. On the floor were plush, colourful carpets, which only the exceedingly wealthy could afford, and chairs covered in crimson velvet and cloth of gold stood proud near the decorated hearth. Robin’s emblems of the bear and ragged staff were everywhere, and tapestry depicting Biblical characters like Judith and Holofernes, Jezebel, Samson and Abraham were on every wall.

  Stunning, yes, but I entered with a heavy heart.

  I stood at the window watching fireworks shoot through the darkling sky. In the distance, the lake glowed gold. Robin came to me. “You have all you require?” he asked.

  “You think of everything.”

  “You almost had more than you would want, I think,” he said, standing near me. Too near. I edged back a pace, trying to conceal it as wishing to see the fireworks better.

  “How so?”

  Robin grinned. “The man I hired to do the fireworks is an Italian, with a rather overactive imagination. He thought you would be greatly pleased if, in addition to the fireworks, he shot live cats and dogs into the air too.”

  “A rain of cats and dogs?” I asked, laughing. There was a febrile, nervous quality to my chuckle and Robin sensed it. His face took on a slight mist of confusion.

  “I do wish I could see your formal garden from my windows,” I said, abruptly changing subject. �
��I thought it beautiful as we passed. You will have to take me on a tour of the gardens in the morning, to make up for my lack of a view.”

  As I looked at Robin, I saw something pass through his eyes; doubt, only suddenly to be replaced by determination. Both frightened me.

  “I will see what I can do, Majesty.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Kenilworth

  Summer 1575

  After a restless night, worrying about what was to be done with Robin, I rose early. My ladies were still asleep in pallet beds on the floor, and rather than wake them I went to one of my ante-chambers and began to dance. Performing six or seven galliards of a morning was one of my habits. It kept my figure lithe and I often thought also cleared my head, particularly after a restless night.

  Kate Carey was first to rise, and found me in the midst of my fourth galliard. For a while, she simply watched, knowing I hated to be interrupted. I saw her smile as I completed the last leap of the dance, and stopped to ask why.

  “When you dance, Majesty, even when there is no music, I hear it.”