by G Lawrence
Robin must have sensed my nervousness, for he did not look at me. He gazed at the river, where boats shipped passengers back and forth. Behind us my ladies walked, chatting to my guards about preparations for winter progress, and the entertainments to be held this season at court. Their voices were merry, carefree. I wished my heart were as light as theirs.
“It is too soon, Robin,” I said in a low tone. “Your wife’s death is still fresh in the mind and on the lips of England. Whilst the scandal lives, nothing more will be said on the subject.”
“You do still love me, Elizabeth, do you not?” Still he did not look at me. He was afraid of my answer.
“I do,” I murmured, and those words at least were honest. “But you must understand the situation, Robin. I cannot gamble with the love of my people. You do see that, don’t you? We must wait.”
He breathed in sharply, betraying his frustration. Clearly, he did not see. Robin believed that I, as Queen, could do as I wished no matter what people thought or said. I knew differently. I would lose my people’s love if I married him, and Robin would earn their hatred. I could not bring war to England, in seeking love for myself. It was never going to be, but I could not tell him that. I could not bear the thought of losing him. For another woman to sleep in his bed, rest her head upon his naked shoulder, talk with him through the night… It pained me to play him false, but I was caught up in fear. It made me a coward.
I had lied many times, for survival. This was but survival of another kind. That was what I told myself then, as I lied to the man I loved. I fed Robin false hope; a broth that begins with such heady flavour and ends in a bitter aftertaste.
“We will talk of it again in the summer, Robin.” We rounded a corner and walked towards the palace. Hampton’s red bricks glimmered with frost and melting ice, glorious against the grey, imposing skies. Snow started to fall, and there would be deeper showers that night. But by then we would all be tucked safe and warm inside, dancing, as outside the world frosted and froze.
“In the summer.” Robin’s voice was flat. I hated to hear that tone. I wanted to return to the time before we spoke of marriage, where all was exciting and amusing, when we had flirted and danced… Now, everything was different. We were frozen like the gardens. We had become the ice-covered twigs on the trees, waiting for spring’s thaw. We talked no more, but left the chilled grounds. Snow floated down, landing on the short grass and silver paths, settling and sparkling against the falling light. I shook my head as I entered my apartments. I had bought time from Robin, I hoped. But Time is a slippery creature. Sometimes he creeps, sometimes he races. And sometimes he flies by so fast that we have only to blink, to find our world has altered beyond all comprehension.
Chapter Four
Greenwich Palace
Winter 1560
That winter came in with bitter winds and driving storms. The coast was lashed by the sea, and rain fell from the skies in endless, stinging showers. Great waves crested, spiked against blackened skies. Tempests of hail and snow followed in their wake, freezing the sodden land and making the earth sparkle. Shivering rooks held council in the bare trees, as finches and magpies hopped along the ground seeking hidden seeds or tasty flesh of frost-slain beasts. Under the snow, primroses and violet shoots hid, waiting for the thaw. The wild wind brayed at night, flouncing about the palace walls and creeping in through crack and nook. Fires blazed in every hearth, their golden light trying to hold back the chill. Even in the palaces and castles, we could feel the wrath of that winter.
I had decided to take a winter progress; we had visited Whitehall, my lovely warm box, as I called it, then Greenwich and from here we would make for Eltham Palace. There was a fine park in its vast lands, with good hunting, and it was the place where my siblings and I had been sent to live together when we were young. Perhaps it was sentimental, but I felt their spirits beside me in ancient Eltham. My father’s presence was strong there, too. The walls were filled with his maps, and corridors clicked and ticked with clocks he had collected and loved. Sometimes it was strange to me that a man of such rampant energy as my father could have loved something as steady and regular as a clock. But perhaps his enthusiasm was born from a lack of such steadiness in his life. Perhaps he had needed to place his hand upon the regular, sound, ticking pulse of life, and feel constancy reverberate in his blood and bone.
Cecil loved Eltham. It gave him a chance to indulge one of his favourite pastimes; maps. Oftentimes, I would find Cecil with his nose stuck so deep in a map I believed he might emerge with whole continents stuck up his nostrils. My father’s collection was particularly fascinating, and since much of this was housed at Eltham, Eltham was where I often lost Cecil. It was amusing to see him, for once, restless in Council meetings, eager to be released so he could lose himself in those maps. I did not mind. It was pleasing to have at least a few hours each day, whilst Cecil pored over his beloved charts, to escape into the wilds of England.
This time, we were to make for Eltham primarily because Robin wanted to put on an entertainment for me there. There was to be a feast, a dance, and days of hunting. Robin was seeking to demonstrate he could be a fine husband, a great consort… if only I would agree to wed him. He did not know all such efforts were useless.
On the day we were to leave, Mistress Jane Seymour requested to speak with me. I liked Jane. She was the sister of Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, and daughter of the late Protector Seymour who had been executed in the reign of my brother. Whilst I liked Jane, I was never sure about the company she chose to keep. Jane was friends with my cousin, Lady Katherine Grey, now one of my ladies of the Privy Chamber. Katherine Grey was popular at court and many, including Cecil, believed she was the natural choice for my heir. She was a female, which was not in her favour, but she was Protestant, which was. And she was English, making her instantly preferable to my cousin of Scots to many in England. Although some might view Katherine as a worthy choice for the throne, I did not. The girl was of much diluted royal blood, hailed from a traitorous family, and she was a halfwit! What good would it do England to have a queen such as her?
Despite the many voices which called me to do so, I was not about to name an heir. I had lived that position when I was a princess, and was only too aware of how dangerous it was. The heir to the throne can become a force, a focal point, for any who oppose the current sovereign. I had no wish to offer a figurehead to foes who desired my downfall.
I had made Katherine one of my highest ranking attendants, but I despised the girl. I had only promoted her because Ambassador de Quadra and his Spanish master, King Phillip of Spain, were noted taking too vested an interest in her. Last year, a plot had emerged. Phillip and his cronies were intending on kidnapping Katherine so they could marry her off to Phillip’s unhinged son, Don Carlos. Once they had Katherine, they could stake a claim to my throne and there had been rumours of invasion, and assassination. I doubted Katherine had had much to do with the plot, if she had even known of it, but it had unnerved me enough to pull her close. I disliked having to do this, for spending time each day with one whom many believed should succeed to my throne when I was dead was like walking about with a sword at my throat. I did not want to be reminded of my mortality, who would? And besides, the girl was infuriatingly dense…
Jane, however, was different to her friend. She was pale of face and hair, but bright of spirit. She always had a ready smile and a titbit of gossip to share, and despite her delicate health, she was always merry. I liked such qualities. Being around miserable people is wearisome after a while. I preferred to associate with those who found joy in life. God only knows, I needed some happiness. So when she came to me with an unusually worried expression quivering on her brow, I gave her my attention.
“What is it, Jane?” I asked, watching Kat and Blanche fold and pack my gowns into oaken chests, working together to ensure my gorgeous wardrobe was not damaged en route to Eltham. They sprinkled dried lavender and the preserved heads of yellow-flowered l
adies bedstraw into the trunks to ward off fleas and hungry moths. Packing to go on progress was like preparing to march an army to war; the organization often dictates the outcome.
“It is Lady Katherine, Majesty,” said Jane, standing from her curtsey. “She is unwell, and asks permission to remain behind.”
“What is wrong with my cousin?”
“A grievous pain in her teeth and jaw, Majesty, and her face has swollen up. She fears the cold air of the journey to Eltham will only make her sicker.”
“Why did Katherine not come herself and ask permission to remain behind?” I watched as Katherine Knollys and Lady Bess St Loe walked in behind servants heaving a chest of slippers and shoes over to join the main packing efforts. Bess Parr appeared behind them with a pile of linen over her arm. I glanced at Bess with concern. She had been ill of late, and whilst she seemed hale enough today, I knew she had concerns about a lump in her breast and a pain in her arm. I had sent her my doctors, who prescribed a change in her diet and bled her to restore her humours, but their ministrations had not rid her of the pain, nor the growth. We all knew such cankers could be dangerous and I hoped that, in time, the efforts of my doctors would see her restored to health.
“Katherine feared if her ailment was catching, Majesty, she might place you in danger,” Jane said, drawing my attention back to her.
I doubted whether my falling ill would upset Katherine. When I first elevated her, I had treated her as though she were my own daughter to ensure Phillip of Spain understood I was watching her closely. Of late, however, it appeared Katherine had deduced my affections were but a show. If she had realised this, it would have been the first indication that I could credit her with for intelligence. I waved my hand at Jane. “Very well,” I said. “Tell her that she can remain behind.”
“May I stay and care for her, Majesty?”
“If you must,” I agreed with grudging reluctance. “But when she is well I want the two of you back in my chambers. Positions in my household are few and precious, as well you know, Jane. Give me no cause to consider granting them to others instead of you.”
“Of course, Majesty,” Jane said, looking aghast. “I would never wish to lose my place at your side, not for anything in the world.”
“Well,” I said, feeling a little mollified. She appeared genuine. “Have done then, Jane.”
“I hope you have a lovely visit, Majesty.” She bobbed a curtsey and strode out.
Kat walked past and I stopped her, putting a hand on her sleeve. “Did you notice Katherine Grey in any pain recently, Kat?”
Kat stared up at the decorated gilt ceiling as she thought. “She was holding her face yesterday, Majesty, and groaned through Mass in the morning. She was making a bit of a show of it, if you ask me.”
“She has asked to stay behind because of a pain in her teeth and jaw.”
“It may be that is the truth,” Kat said, pursing her lips. “I thought her a little over the top, but then some are skilled at handling pain and others are not.”
I nodded. “Well, let us get on.” I gazed about at the spectacular mess which always seemed to somehow knit itself into order through the ministrations of Kat and Blanche whenever we moved. “I want to be at Eltham in good time.” I thought no more on the absence of Katherine Grey and Jane Seymour as the chests were packed onto the wagons and our horses clattered along the roads and out of the city.
There came a time, a little later, when I would curse my lack of inquisitiveness that day.
Chapter Five
Eltham Palace
Winter 1560
On a crisp morning in late November, we rode out into Eltham’s park. At my side were Katherine Knollys, Kat, Blanche and Mary Grey, their cheeks flushed with the cold air and the excitement of the day. Robin led my huntsmen and noblemen, taking us to marshy fields where we would fly the fine hawks and falcons of my royal mews.
My falconers were superstitious men. They had a great many small, strange rituals, and spoke prayers over their birds before hunting. I did not reprimand them for these rituals, which to many spoke of popery; of times past, when we English were consumed by the need to sanctify everything with superstitious rites. Although I doubted God was ever so freed from all His tasks that He would intervene to aid me in the hunt, I allowed my men their rituals. What harm did it do? Besides, I liked to hear them mumble prayers in Latin over my falcons. My father had always done the same before he went hunting. He had been a superstitious man.
We rode through ice-blanketed fields, past small patches of woodland, reaching the marshy ground where my falcons could fly best, and where wild ducks would be plentiful. Frost clung, poised on the edges of leaves as it melted, dripping in the pale sunlight. The skies were bright and cold. The frozen earth under my horse’s hooves cracked and splintered as his weight broke through the lining of frozen water. Spaniels, their long, pink tongues steaming in the cold air, valiantly attempted to stand still, and failed. Their legs, restless with anticipation, bounced upon the frozen ground willing us to begin, so they could charge over the fields and through the shrubs, to retrieve our kills. As the Master of Hounds told them to sit and wait, the sound of their tails wagging, thumping on the wet earth, rose up like a drum-beat through the silver-streaked skies.
Beaters, their numbers swollen with local children keen to earn a coin for a morning’s work, walked towards the bushes. Long sticks in their hands, they would flush game from the undergrowth. At their side was my Moorish drummer, Peter, newly arrived from Spain. Thumping a steady, ringing refrain on his skin drum, he set the pace. I took up my falcon, a fine black, grey and almost blue-feathered bird. Stroking his head, as he pranced on my thick leather glove, I glanced at the Master Falconer. “Shall we let fly together, Master Osbern?” I asked. The man bowed, sensible of the honour. The beaters entered the reeds as we lifted our hands, releasing the birds simultaneously into the air, up and into the clouds.
As the beaters continued, swiping through reed-bed and grass, mallards flapped out with raucous shouts of alarm. They flew up, heading straight into the path of the swift falcons. I saw mine swoop, his blue-grey feathers shadowy against the sky as he plummeted down upon a fleeing duck. Talons outstretched, a scream of triumph shrieking from his beak, he plunged and caught a fine, fat duck. The duck cried out, helplessly, as it fell and was pinned to the ground by my falcon. The kill was met with a heavy burst of applause from those around me, and as I looked up again, I saw the Master Falconer’s bird swoop, her brown-gold feathers glittering as she stretched her talons wide and pierced deep into living flesh.
Robin pulled his horse close to mine as I complimented Osbern. “A fine strike, Majesty,” he observed. I noticed creases around his eyes I had not seen before. I suppose we were all growing older. I was twenty-seven now, and Robin was the same age, but I knew that the strain he had suffered after his wife’s death was also to blame.
“Think you, my lord, that you can beat my score this day?” A smile hovered at my lips, but I remained staring at the skies, as though I were impervious to his presence. Nothing could have been further from the truth. When Robin was near me, I was alive.
“A challenge!” he exclaimed, sitting upright on his saddle. “I’ll wager the finest hawk in my own mews, Majesty, against that of yours, should I best you this day.”
Grinning, I twisted in my saddle and held out my hand in its decorated leather glove. Etched deep into its brown-black covering were the badges of the Tudor rose, and my mother’s crowned white falcon emblem. Robin took my hand, and a jolt passed through me at his touch, like the cracking spit of coal dust in the air above a fire’s flames. “Done, Rob,” I agreed. I waved him forward, along with Mary Grey. “Time to try your luck, my lord,” I teased.
Robin’s face was ruddy with excitement as he and Mary flew their birds. We continued on through the morning, watching each fly their bird, and counting the spoils of our hunt. When the final count came, I had won. “Ill-luck, my lord,” I commiserated
without sympathy, grinning wolfishly.
“Ill-luck is my constant companion at the moment,” Robin said. “But I have hope, Majesty, that one day this will alter.”
“Nothing stays the same, Robin,” I observed. “Except for me. Semper Eadem… It has ever been my motto, just as it was once my mother’s.”
“In some matters, Majesty.” Robin’s tone grew more pressing. “I would you could consider the virtues of sometimes changing your mind.”
“And perhaps I will, someday,” I agreed. Wishing to head Robin off before he could speak of marriage, I turned to the falconers. They were collecting the game into bags, twisting the necks of still-living birds, and counting the falcons and hawks. “Any lost, this day, gentlemen?” I asked. Losing birds during the hunt was always a problem. No matter how well-trained they were, oftentimes a saker, or a hawk would catch sight of something and fly for it, causing my men to spend hours recovering them.
“Two, Majesty,” replied Master Osbern. “I have sent lads to find them, but the birds wear the royal jesses and bells. If they are found by common folk they will be returned for the standard reward.”