Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  “Good enough.” I nodded. “We make for the palace. You will bring the game to the kitchens?”

  Osbern bowed, his hands holding a flopping, dead mallard. “Of course, Majesty.”

  I glanced sideways at Robin. “Are you tired of wagers, my lord?” I asked. “Or shall we bet which of us will reach Eltham first?”

  He narrowed his eyes at the terrain ahead, and then cast them over my horse, evaluating both mounts and the weights they carried. “I am always ready to win, Majesty. It is a foolish man who gives up when he does not at first succeed. To my mind, the only true failure lies in not trying for what we want in life.”

  I sighed inwardly. It was another point, made with such careless ease, to let me know he was not about to give up. As I had done so many times of late, I decided to ignore Robin. It was easier, in some ways, but such pretence was not helping the friction between us. With a great cry, I urged my horse on, digging my heels into his sides. He needed little encouragement. As I tore through the fields, back to Eltham, I could hear the panting of Robin’s horse hard behind me. We rode like creatures possessed. He beat me back to Eltham, and I gave him my best falcon. It was the least I could do, since I could not give him what he truly desired.

  *

  When I arrived back from the hunt, my cheeks cherry-pink from racing, Cecil relayed the message that Master Robert Jones, secretary of Ambassador Throckmorton in France, had arrived at court. He had already been to Cecil to give his news, and now sought an audience with me. As my ladies stripped my riding clothes from me, I wished I could avoid meeting with Jones. Throckmorton sent endless missives from the French Court, all warning me about marriage with Robin, that was, when they were not dripping with slavish adoration for my cousin, Mary Stewart, Queen of France. I had no doubt Jones had been sent with more of the same. There are only so many times that one can hear the twitter of an unwelcome bird without wanting to wring its neck. That was how I felt about my ambassador in France. If I had to listen to one more warning, or another lecture on the apparently never-ending parade of virtues possessed by the Queen of France, I believed I might lose my mind. But I had small choice in the matter. Rulers may be the masters of their people, but they are subject to them as well.

  “Allow Jones into the Privy Chamber.” Kat was making final adjustments to my gown of gold and red velvet. Her mouth full of pins, she narrowed her eyes critically at the set of the dress, making sure it was perfect. “But have some route ready for me, Kat, in case I need to escape the man.”

  Her mouth twitched at my plaintive tone and she removed the pins from between her lips. “I will have a most urgent emergency ready for you to attend to, Your Majesty,” she agreed solemnly. Her voice fell to a whisper as she leaned in. “Fear not, my lady, I have your back.”

  I put my fingers against each other and cracked them back to the knuckles, making Kat wince. She said the noise made her bones shudder. “Send him in,” I commanded, taking my place on my chair.

  In walked Robert Jones. A man of average height and below-average intelligence, I had often thought. He served Throckmorton in France ably enough, but was not a man of much imagination. Perhaps that served my ambassador well, for he always sent Jones as his mouthpiece. Throckmorton was an intelligent and able man, but often spoke, and wrote, in a patronising manner I resented. No one, especially a queen, enjoys being looked down upon. Throckmorton had never got over the idea that his sovereign was a woman, and an unmarried one at that. Mary Stewart had his undying admiration because, in his mind, she was everything a queen should be; beautiful, powerful, yet obedient to her husband, gracious, modest and sweet. He did not understand me. He thought of me as an infant, requiring constant guidance. It was vexing. At times I wanted to order him home just so I could box his ears. But he was a useful ambassador, skilled in finding out all the gossip and information I wanted from the French.

  “Your Majesty.” Jones bowed low and as he did, one foot faltered, making him stumble. Not the most auspicious of beginnings, I thought.

  “Master Jones.” I played with a bright pin that had come loose from my gown, twirling it in my fingertips. “You have news for me?”

  “My master sends his love and undying respect and adoration, Your Majesty,” Jones said, in such a flat tone I wondered he even made the effort to speak. “And he sends me with important news, of a most delicate nature.”

  His pomposity made me want to chuckle, but I restrained myself. “Indeed?” I asked coolly. “Then do relay all to me, Master Jones. I am quite breathless with anticipation, as you see.” Jones stared up with a startled expression, hearing sardonic acid thick upon my tongue. I waved a hand. “Do get on with it, Jones!” I commanded. “We have much to prepare before the feast arranged by Lord Dudley this evening. With your dithering, I shall miss out on my evening meal entirely.”

  “It is of Lord Dudley, madam, that I have come to speak,” Jones replied stiffly.

  “What a surprise,” I murmured to myself and then raised my voice. “What does my ambassador have to say this time? I would have thought, with all the missives I have had from Throckmorton about Lord Robin Dudley, I would have heard all there was to know… You should advise Throckmorton to write a book on his favourite topic, Master Jones, for he appears to be a true authority on Robin Dudley.” Jones coughed and shuffled his foot. “God’s Blood! Do get on with it!” I swore, handing the stray pin to Kat. “My time is a precious commodity and you are carelessly throwing it to the winds.”

  Jones stepped forward with a piece of rolled parchment in his hands. Offering the scroll to Kat, who handed it to me, Jones finally got to the point. “The Queen of France was speaking about the recent death of Lord Robin’s wife, Majesty,” he said. “And made a comment of which my master believed you should know.”

  I glanced at the parchment. It said that Mary Stewart had exclaimed, whilst laughing, that “the Queen’s Majesty would marry her horse master.” Although irritating, and insulting, it was not the first time the little Scots strumpet had said such words. It was hardly news at all. I rolled up the parchment. “And?” I asked, frowning.

  Jones blinked with surprise. “And… my master thought you would want to know… Majesty. Spanish and Venetian ambassadors are spreading rumours at the French Court that you will marry Robert Dudley.”

  “And?” I asked again. Not waiting for an answer I continued. “Ambassadors spread rumour, Master Jones. That is what they are sent to foreign courts to do… to gather information, and to gossip like old men in the ale house.” I frowned deeper. “By my troth, I believed this was why Throckmorton had sent you, but it would have been better to keep you in France!” I laughed suddenly at this ridiculousness. To send a man all the way from France only to tell me what I already knew? What a high estimation Throckmorton had of his opinion! Jones stared at me as though I had taken leave of my senses; obviously his dire warnings were being lost on such simple a creature as I…

  “But, there is danger here, madam,” Jones went on, the colour of his cheeks and throat rising as he grew angry at my inability to take him seriously. “There are many accusations against your favourite, Majesty, both abroad and at home. Dudley’s sudden rise at your court… the mysterious death of his wife and the rumours that you will marry him…”

  Anger flared within me. I held up a hand and Jones stumbled to a halt. “I have heard all this before,” I said. “And I am not so dull of wits, Master Jones, that I require it repeating. You might remind your master that his job is to discover new news for me, not to repeat the old until my ears bleed.”

  “But…” Jones lurched on, causing me to lift an eyebrow at his audacity. “My master’s concern for Your Majesty is so deep, he feels bound by the reins of duty to inform you of anything which might threaten you.” Jones burbled on like a brook swollen by the spring thaw. “And to tell you about these rumours in person, rather than leaving them to seep unheeded into the minds and mouths of your people.”

  “I am grateful to have
such a diligent servant,” I said coldly. “But once more, Master Jones, try to understand I have a mind within this skull, and do not require being told a piece of information more than once to understand it. Lord Dudley is my friend. That is all. His wife’s death was a terrible accident, as has now been proved, and the court, and our country has sorrowed with him.”

  “But… Your Majesty tarries with him so long and often that it causes much scandal!” Jones continued, his eyes black and agitated like a nervous hen. “And his past and family history only adds to such rumours and troubles, Majesty. He is twice descended from traitors! Why, during your brother’s reign, Dudley’s father, Northumberland, hated you even more than he did your sister!”

  Angry though I was, that made me laugh. What a thought, indeed! For someone to hate me more than my poor sister? Perish the notion! Such bizarre arguments my people resorted to, to try to make me abandon Robin. What would Northumberland’s feelings, the feelings of a dead traitor, mean to me now? Seeing Jones’s face contort with amazement only made me want to laugh harder. I twisted my face away from him, trying to hide my mirth behind my hand and a handkerchief. Kat and Blanche, standing just behind me, both had tears welling in their eyes as they tried not to splutter with amusement. As Jones’s face grew darker, I thought my sides might tear in two. It never does to try to deny mirth; he will only tickle you more if you try to resist him.

  Finally I turned to Jones and wiped my eyes. “The matter has been tried, Master Jones, and found to be contrary to what was suspected. Lord Robin is innocent, he was then at court and had nothing to do with the attempt at his wife’s house.”

  “Attempt… Majesty?” Jones asked, his eyes widening.

  All mirth disappeared in a trice. “Accident,” I quickly corrected. “I misspoke, Master Jones. It is not usual that I use the wrong word, but I did here.” It was not really the wrong word though. The inquiry had found that Amy had died accidentally, but I did not believe it. I knew not who was behind her death, but I was sure it had been done on purpose, either to ensure that I could never marry Robin, or so that if I did marry him, it would make my people rise against me, and bring about my destruction.

  The word, “attempt” had slipped out, but it was what I believed had happened. Not an accident, but an attempt on Amy’s life, and one which had succeeded. As for who had really killed her? They had covered themselves too well, and who would believe the truth if they were found? If I produced a murderer now, all would say I had created him to pin the blame on another so I could marry Robin. Sometimes it does not matter who is guilty and who is innocent… Sometimes the truth is decided in people’s minds, and they will never believe otherwise. The only way I could prove our innocence, was to never wed Robin. He was the only man I had ever considered marrying. I had no wish to hand my power to another, to promise to obey a husband, and lose my control over England, and over my life. Robin was the only one I had believed I could trust not to abuse the rights of a husband. If I could not marry him, I would never marry at all.

  Jones was watching me with his wary, chicken-eyes. I cursed the slip of my tongue. “Tell your master I am aware of the danger,” I said, my tone dull and flat. “These rumours are false and will not become truer the more they are repeated. Time will prove me right on this score. You will tell your master I deny all such rumours that I am to wed Lord Dudley, and have no mind to marry at all unless there is a worthy suitor presented who will have England and her best interests in his heart, as I do.” I breathed in deeply through my nose. “Now,” I said. “Tell me of the rumours spread by the ambassadors, and I will give you answer for each. Then you must be away, Jones.”

  With a face still ruddy with shock, anger and confusion, Jones told me the rumours about Robin and me. Each one was worse than the last. According to gossip, I was a murderous strumpet, and Robin was a demon-lord sent to seduce me into sin and England into ruination. By the time I sent Jones away so I could dress for the feast, all humour had left me.

  “Will this never end, Kat?” I asked as my ladies dressed me. They stripped me of the red and gold gown and started to pin me into my costume for the feast. My gown was new, made of gold and silver cloth combined with white silk and velvet, lined with green silk and embroidered with serpents and doves. These beasts and birds symbolised wisdom and kindness. Two qualities I wanted to possess, and wondered if I did. I did not feel I was being wise or kind towards Robin at the moment.

  “It has only been a matter of months, Majesty,” Kat consoled. “In time, it will all be forgot.”

  “It feels as though eons have passed.”

  “Pleasures cause time to pass fleetingly, as troubles make it stagnant,” said my poetic Blanche, ducking under my arm to attach my new sleeves. “But as Mistress Ashley says, Majesty, it will pass.”

  “You are telling me to be patient,” I grumbled. “It seems that is the advice you have been offering me since I was a child.”

  Blanche smiled. “It was the advice you more often offered us, my lady,” she said. “Remember? When we were in danger from your sister? Watch and wait, you said… and all will be well.”

  “I am not sure I ever said all would be well, Blanche.” I patted her cheek. “But perhaps there is something in what you say.”

  I stared at the fire, blazing away, consuming the dark sea coal in its belly. “Patience,” I mouthed at my reflection in the large copper mirror over the fireplace. “Patience, Elizabeth…”

  Chapter Six

  Eltham Palace

  Winter 1560

  That night, we gathered for Robin’s entertainment in the great hall. The ornately carved ceiling of dark wood hung over our heads, and outside was the still calm which settles after a fresh fall of snow. The stars were bright in the heavens, and the air in the hall was thick with warmth and the smell of good food.

  As I entered the great hall, with my cousin, Margaret Clifford, now Lady Strange, at my side, I breathed in the savoury scents and felt the heated air seep into my bones. I smiled at Margaret. Unlike my other cousin of the same name, Margaret Lennox, I held affection for Lady Strange. She was a great-granddaughter of Henry VII, and her grandparents had been Charles Brandon and Mary Tudor. Placed in the succession after the Greys, Margaret was a more obscure heir to the throne, and perhaps her distance from my throne made me feel safer in her company than in the presence of other cousins. Although she had pushed for recognition of her title during the reign of my sister, under my rule Lady Strange seemed content to remain as she was; a high-ranking and noble lady of the royal bloodline, but without aspirations for the throne… unlike our Grey and Lennox cousins. There were many Protestants who wanted Katherine Grey named as my heir, and Margaret Lennox, who would have loved to push her suit forwards for the same position, was favoured by Catholics. I was glad, therefore, that at least one cousin of royal blood was not as demonstrative as these other women, or their supporters.

  Lady Strange and Kat accompanied me to the head of the great hall, where I took welcome rest upon a purple cushion on my grand chair as Robin called on his troop of players to produce a short piece for us. When their comedy ended, there came musicians, their flutes, drums and pipes filling the great hall with the sound of glorious music. Eltham, being an older palace, had a hall the like of which the ancient kings of England would have known. Although such chambers were dying out of fashion, there was something grand and proud about Eltham’s great hall. The voices of my ancestors echoed here… Once they would have gathered on tables set about a huge, central fire, gazing over their thanes and barons, wondering which was set on murdering them for possession of the throne. Whilst I did not worry too much, on a day to day basis, about being slain by my own men, I wondered how much had really changed. The position of monarch is a slippery post we of the blood royal scramble upon; sliding down, clambering up… never quite managing to remain in one position. It was staying upon the pole, however, which mattered.

  Robin came to me before the feast began, and I to
ld him of my meeting with Jones. “The man was quite impertinent,” I said. “I wonder that Throckmorton holds him in such esteem, for I would not keep such a servant.”

  Robin’s face was still, but his eyes were sharp with anger. “And the Queen of France, Majesty, called me your horse master?”

  I put a hand on his russet sleeve. “She seeks to insult me by insulting you, Rob.” I spoke with care, for Robin’s pride was fragile. “Do not pay heed. Mary Stewart has always wanted to be Queen of England, and thinks she might gain my throne by dishonouring me. It was a slur made for politics, and not something to be taken to heart.”

  Although there was only a slight difference in the terms horse master, and Master of Horse, there was a vast disparity in meaning. To be a Master of Horse was a position of authority, nobility, favour and power. A horse master was little better than a vagabond. My cousin was more than aware of the distinction. She had not made a slip in her speech. Her words were intended to insult. Mary Stewart believed I was a bastard, and she was the true Queen of England. I was happy enough to acknowledge she was my cousin, and was descended, as I was, from Henry VII, but Queen of England she was not, nor ever would be, if I had anything to do with it. My words of comfort, however, did not make any impression on Robin’s sour expression.