Strands of My Winding Cloth

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Strands of My Winding Cloth Page 5

by G Lawrence


  I patted his arm. “We are gathered here for celebration, my lord,” I reminded him. “And I see you must be of a mind with me on this, for you are no longer in widower’s weeds.” Robin was wearing a new tunic of russet silk lined with silver cloth, and matching velvet breeches with ribbons of silver. His hose were tight, showing his legs’ fine shape, and his tunic was snug against his muscular chest. I gazed on him, wondering if there could ever be another man as handsome as my Robin.

  “I thought it was time,” he murmured, staring down at his new clothes with a downcast expression. It pained me to see his merriment had been stolen by my foolish cousin. “To let Amy go… to let all this be a thing of the past.” He looked up, his eyes dull. “But I wonder if that will ever be possible, Majesty.”

  “We must allow time for people to forget. None have true cause to doubt you, Robin,” I assured him. “And if they do then such suspicion is based on jealousy, not on the truth. Now, fret not, my bear.” I made reference to his family’s heraldic emblems of the bear and ragged staff as I teased him. “For bears are made for dancing, not for worrying.”

  “And for baiting, Majesty,” Robin replied smoothly, his old mischief creeping back into his eyes. “Something you never fail to do to me.”

  “Then ask for my hand for the first dance, Robin, and I will cease to bait you.”

  “When the feast is done, Majesty, I will claim you.”

  I chuckled as I watched him go to check on his preparations. Robin had taken over Eltham in his enthusiasm to put on a good show for me and the court. Many nobles thought Robin overstepped his boundaries, but I indulged him for I wanted everyone to see he had my trust. As the servers began to bring out the feast, I saw Arundel was sitting with Norfolk and Pembroke. What a combination! The three most disaffected men of court all sat together; a sure recipe for a disastrous meal. Arundel had been unhappy since last year, when I had politely turned down his marriage proposal. Norfolk just plain detested Robin, mainly out of jealousy… And Pembroke? He was increasingly thick with both Arundel and Norfolk, but I liked Pembroke. He was a hardy, hot-headed man, but he had a great deal of charm. I was less pleased, however, with the company he chose to keep.

  The feast began to emerge from behind the screen which sheltered the passageway to the kitchen blocks. Since this was the last feast before the fast of Advent began, Robin was determined we would remember it. Row by row of servers, their tunics green and white for the colours of the Tudor dynasty, entered the hall. Marching in twos, their hands were full of delicious smelling food. There were steaming pottages of venison in bruet with frumenty, rich stews of mallard, goose and pigeon, as well as eel pottage, and hippocras jelly. Roasted pheasant, venison, mutton, capon, and peacock in ginger sauce were brought out next. Mortress of fish with piles of boiled crayfish emerged, along with shrimp, tiny crabs and succulent fried whiting. Boiled onions, buttered worts, and brawn with nutmeg, peppercorns, and white wine jostled for position on the tables. Then came smothered rabbit covered with raisins and cabbage, and leek doused with cinnamon. Cheese tarts, saffron tarts, egg tarts, apple tarts and great pies stuffed with close-clustered songbirds, decorated with falcons, lions, hounds and Tudor roses were sliced into hefty portions.

  Robin had paid particular attention to the banquet of sweets after, for he knew this was my favourite part of any meal. There were pippin fritters, glistening with fat and sparkling with sprinkled sugar powder. Golden tarts of preserved strawberries, apricots, plums and peaches came along with prunes swimming in claret syrup. Succades of sharp-sweet lemon, quince jelly with crisp wafer biscuits, kissing comfits and white gingerbread were eagerly pounced upon. To much applause, sticks made of cinnamon and sugar, made for dipping into wine and crafted to look like the bare branches of trees were brought out, finishing the sweet course.

  Although my appetite had been spare lately, I indulged in the banquet of sweets. I had to eat enough so that people would not notice my abstinence and think it an insult to Robin. Besides, he had always known how to best appeal to my senses. Sweet delicacies tempted me that night where many other dishes could not. I ate well enough, although not enough to appease Kat. I could almost hear her disgruntled thoughts as she cleared my plates away. I was going to receive another lecture that night, I could sense it.

  But the beggars will eat well this night, even if their Queen did not, I thought, knowing what food remained at the end of the feast would go to poor people who came begging at the palace gates.

  At the end of the banquet, Robin stood and lifted a hand; four servants entered, carrying the largest work in sugar I had ever seen. It was a traditional end to any court feast, to have a clever sugar-work paraded before the company. Even though I had seen many such creations in my life, I could not help but gasp as they brought this one out. It was St Paul’s Cathedral. I walked around it, marvelling at the tiny details. It must have taken weeks to construct, and so much care and attention that it seemed a shame to eat it. Such artistry, for such a swift-passing pleasure. Robin was watching me carefully. I knew he was pleased by the wonder in my eyes.

  “It is a work of beauty, Robin,” I said. “You must tell me which of your servants has such an eye, and then I will steal him from you.” People around me tittered, but I was serious. Like my father before me, I was a keen thief of useful servants.

  “I will bring him to you, Majesty.” Robin was beaming, pleased with himself. “And I will grant his service to you as part of my New Year’s gift, along with these…” Robin took a parcel wrapped in dark green velvet from a servant hovering behind him. It was tied with a blood-red ribbon. I walked over to him. Although the hall was filled with people, we might have been alone for all the attention I paid to anyone else.

  I touched the cloth. “But it is not New Year’s yet, my lord.”

  “I thought you might want these for the Christmas celebrations, my lady, and I have something else to offer at the New Year.”

  I took the parcel and sat down with it. Opening it I found a pair of stockings, made of sheer, exquisite black silk. The finest I had ever seen. Stockings of this kind were not made in England, and they cost more than twenty times the price of the normal stockings that even I, as Queen, wore. I ran my fingertips over the smooth, cool silk. It whispered against my skin. “They are stunning, Robin,” I breathed. “Even more than the last pair you found for me.”

  “These are of even better quality and workmanship, Majesty,” he boasted, leaning towards me, his voice dropping to a murmur. “The finest I could have made for your pretty legs.”

  I flushed. “You are always thinking of me, Robin,” I said. My guilty heart shuddered. I wished I could be honest with him. “Never think that it goes unnoticed.” I looked up, realising the whole hall was staring at us. “Command the servants to clear the hall and prepare to dance, my lord.” I smiled at him. “For I remember a bear promising to dance the first with me this night.”

  Robin bowed. “I am yours, Majesty, always…”

  Chapter Seven

  Westminster Palace

  Winter 1560

  As Christmas approached, the men of my court seemed determined to introduce chaos and trouble where there should only have been peace and goodwill. Thinking the matters Jones had brought up were done with, I was unpleasantly surprised to find Robin had decided otherwise. At a meal held at the Scottish ambassador’s residence, Robin left early, only to send a message back that he wanted to talk with Jones, who was still at the table with the ambassador and Cecil. Cecil did not allow talk of state and business at the dinner table, preferring to speak of merry and light matters when he was in company, and also so that he did not inadvertently become embroiled in giving away state secrets. Outside the chamber, Robin confronted Jones about Mary Stewart’s insult. Barely able to contain his annoyance at the derogatory title of horse master, Robin peppered Jones with questions. Cornered, and not wishing to further insult Robin, Jones resorted to lying, pretending he had never said such a thing. Robin
did not believe him. Eventually Robin let Jones go, but asked Jones not to inform Cecil that he had accosted him. Not wishing to become caught up in a struggle between Robin and Cecil, Jones promised he would not. He then had the audacity to write to Throckmorton, and accuse me of having set Robin on him, as I learned when Cecil intercepted his letters.

  “Why does Robin suspect you, Cecil?” I asked my Secretary of State. “I thought the two of you were friends now?”

  Cecil was wearing a baffled, slightly pained expression. “I know not, Majesty,” he admitted. “I had thought my recent support for Lord Dudley in the matter of his wife’s death would mean something, but it would seem…”

  “It would seem Robin still does not trust you entirely, Spirit,” I finished for him. “He must have some reason to not want Jones to tell you about their conversation.”

  “Will you warn Lord Dudley against these little infractions, Majesty?”

  “Lord Dudley is at liberty to talk with whomsoever he wishes, Cecil,” I said. “But I will ask him to be more moderate.” I glanced up as Kat entered to inform us Sir Thomas Parry was waiting. “Send Parry in, Kat, there is nothing said here that he may not hear.” I looked at Cecil. “I will speak to Robin, but you must do your part, too, Cecil. If Robin does not trust you perhaps there is still work to be done in your friendship.”

  “For the sake of peace, Majesty, I will do all that I can.”

  Parry entered. I noted with dissatisfaction that his face was pale. He had lost more weight over the winter, and his doublet hung off him. “You are still unwell, Parry,” I scolded, wondering when my voice had begun to sound so like Kat’s whenever I berated someone. Perhaps it is only natural that we begin to sound like those who raised us. “You are taking the pills and potions my doctors prescribed for you?”

  Parry smiled at my chiding. “Your Majesty’s concern is the best tonic,” he said. “But I promise, I have taken their advice and taken all the foul things they have inflicted on me. My appetite is better, and I assure you, my wife scolds me whenever my Queen does not. I am well looked after.”

  I laughed. “It is a good thing when women scold men, Parry, for then you know we love you.”

  “Then I must be the best loved man in the whole kingdom of England,” Parry replied dryly. “And I thank the Lord for such, I assure you.”

  “You were ever a sensible man,” I said. “What have you brought me?”

  “Just the latest dispatches from Sweden, Majesty. King Erik is still as much in love with you as ever, and has written to me to ask that I intervene on his behalf.”

  “And does he offer you coin to do so?”

  Parry dipped his head. “An offer of a pension, which I shall refuse, if you wish, Majesty.”

  “Take the money, Parry, if you will. I know you will deal with me honestly and not become Erik’s creature for the sake of a few coins.”

  “I will always be your man, my lady.”

  “Good, Parry, for I still have much for you to do… Now, gentlemen, let us attend to the business of the day.”

  *

  One afternoon, a few days later, as mushy sleet fell slopping from the clouds above, I was wandering the halls with my ladies. I had wanted to go for a ride, but the weather was being uncooperative. Robin had gone to the stables, and I had found sitting in my chambers dull. The usual battalion of guards trooped behind us, swords at their sides and eyes alert for danger. Cecil, and my captain of the guard, William St Loe, never allowed me to go anywhere unless it was with a company of well-armed men. There had been many plots against my life uncovered in the short years I had been on the throne. I had many enemies. My conversion of England to a Protestant state meant Catholic leaders in Europe regarded me with suspicion and even hatred. Phillip of Spain was one. He claimed to be my friend and good brother, but I knew he would dearly love to see me stumble into an early grave. And there were many more who believed I had no right to the throne; either because of my sex, or because of the still-questioned legality of my parents’ marriage. It would be easy to fall into thinking every shadow was an assassin, and every noise was a killer come to get me, but I ignored the threats to my life on a daily basis, thrusting them resolutely to one side. One cannot enjoy life with Death perpetually hanging over one’s shoulder, after all.

  Although I allowed my men to do all they wished to protect me, I often became irritable with my guards. It was not their fault, of course, but I resented giving up so much of my already sparse freedom, simply for the bluster of my enemies.

  I came across Bess, Lady St Loe, standing alone. Her eyes were locked on one of the portraits which hung in this part of the palace. She was lost in her thoughts and hardly noticed my approach. Suddenly realising I was there, Bess dropped to an elegant curtsey. I was fond of Bess, now the wife of Sir William St Loe. I had approved their marriage the year before, and looked with satisfaction on it ever since, for they were a happy couple, much devoted to one another. St Loe was a favourite of mine. A quiet giant of a man, he had been with me for a long time, and served me well and loyally. I had rewarded the couple, upon their marriage, by giving Bess one of the few, coveted positions in my Royal Bedchamber. I found her a pleasant spirit, more than able to carry out her tasks with ease and offer lively company.

  “What has you so captivated, Lady St Loe?” I asked, looking up to see what she had been staring at. It was my coronation portrait. I had many copies of the original, which hung in places of prominence in my palaces. It was beneficial to remind my subjects of my constant presence in their lives. My father had once ordered little people to be carved of wood and placed in the eaves at Hampton Court. These ‘eavesdroppers’, as they came to be called, were there to remind courtiers that all they did was watched over and heard. A warning, if you will. For the same reason, my portraits lined the walls of my palaces, reminding my subjects that whatever they got up to, I had my eye on them.

  I gazed up into the stylised face. The portrait was done in an antiquated style, and was not, in fact, a true representation of my face. It held similarities, of course, but it was not like gazing into a mirror. There I sat, with the crown on my head, my red hair loose and flowing over my shoulders, the sceptre in my right hand, and the orb in my left. The ermine-lined robe of cloth of gold I wore swept about over my lap on the left side. My waist was thin, and my hips had been enlarged by the artist, so that I looked like a most elegant, royal wasp. I wondered why Bess was so taken with it, for surely, she had seen it before?

  “Majesty…” She turned her eyes to another portrait on the other side of the corridor. My ladies walked on. “It was just… I had never noted how similar your portrait here is, Majesty, to that of King Richard II.” Bess pointed to the portrait which hung opposite. “Am I wrong, Majesty? Is there not a similarity?”

  “You have keen eyes, Bess. It was done on purpose. I asked for my coronation portrait to be modelled on that of Richard II. It was no accident.”

  I glanced over at Richard. He was seated in his portrait, wearing the robes of estate gathered and lying over his lap, just as I did in my portrait. His right hand held the sceptre and his left, the orb, creating a perfect mirror image of my coronation portrait. Although his clothing, under the robes, was different to mine, his fingers were shown as long and tapering, just as mine were. Even our faces were similar. I knew all the portraits of my ancestors, of course I did, for I had grown up with them staring down on me. It was a deliberate act on my part to order that my coronation portrait should echo Richard’s, for I had reasons for believing we were similar souls.

  “He was the last of his house to hold an unquestioned, God-given right to the throne,” I said. “He lived a chaste life, never lying with the queens he was granted in marriage. He wished for peace, even though peace was not always possible, and sought to end war between France and England.”

  “And that is why Your Majesty styled your own portrait in his image?”

  “I feel I have a simpatico with him,” I agreed. “H
e came to his throne young, Bess, just as I did, and made his court a place of art, culture and music. He walked away from the war-like machinations of his forebears and crossed his arms with the emblems of Edward the Confessor to show his love of peace. He set aside the joys that children might have brought, and instead united himself with his country in marriage. He was a celibate monarch, Bess, a chaste prince of peace; something I have long believed I was also destined to be.”

  “But eventually, Majesty, was he not betrayed and deposed?” she asked in a cautious whisper. Bess did not want to insult me, but she was curious. I was not displeased. Too many people are surprisingly un-curious, and therefore learn little. To be curious is to invite learning, and hopefully wisdom, into one’s mind.

  “A warning, to myself, perhaps,” I agreed. “No sovereign can allow themselves to become complacent. There is always danger...” I gestured to the guards behind me. “… As your beloved husband is more than aware, and therefore sends me everywhere surrounded by his men.” I turned back to her and smiled, and then my brow creased at her uneasy expression. “I was only teasing,” I said quickly. “I did not mean to worry you, Bess. Be assured I am well looked after by my good St Loe. I could not do without him.”

 

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