Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  Under England’s skies, my feet planted on her soil, my hands lifted in benediction, something started to rise inside me; a strand of the old Elizabeth which still lived within my shattered soul. When I felt that thread of hope flutter within me, it was as though I had not lost the girl I had once been; that girl who had endured so much, and yet had never lost sense of herself. As though my soul was not dead and buried with Kat.

  Sometimes, I spoke to God as I stood there. I tried not to berate Him for taking Kat into His Kingdom. I asked Him to watch over her. I tried to remember that all men are mortal; that there is a better place waiting for us when we die. I tried to remember these things… Some days I had more success than others.

  We would return to the palace and I went about the business of ruling a nation. But I was not at peace within the palace walls. It was within England that I was whole. My daily rides gave me the strength to continue. The constant exercise allowed me to sleep at night. I dropped into dreamless slumber, waking feeling bleary-eyed and restless. I found peace with England. She was my comfort. She was the place where I believed I could find my soul again.

  *

  Heneage returned to court, and that autumn, my cousin, Thomas Butler, the Earl of Ormonde, Lord Treasurer of Ireland visited court. Both were handsome and keen to impress, and I walked out with Heneage and ‘Black Tom’ as my Butler cousin was known. Despite this favour shown to others, Robin did not seek to flirt with Lettice as he had done so openly before and I did not flirt with my men. Robin and I were treating each other gently. He understood he had hurt me, and I knew what I had done to him. Robin even intervened when the Archbishop of York criticised me for my friendship with Black Tom, telling the man that it was the Queen’s business alone whom she spent time with, and he was to leave me well alone.

  At times, I started to feel like myself again. Having Robin back helped. Losing Kat had almost broken me and having him abandon me at the same time had almost made me lose all sense of myself. My appetite improved, and I started to look healthier, although I still found no pleasure in eating. Blanche nodded with approval as I resumed dancing my six galliards of a morning. My laugh was heard about court at times. My ladies sighed with relief to find my temper restored. I was not whole, not yet. I was fragile still. I became more talented at hiding the sorrow within me, but there were moments when I missed Kat so much it was difficult to breathe. Having Robin with me, protecting me, was sweet to my soul and other friends tried to offer me strength as well. My rides through England brought me the solace I so desperately needed and armed me to face the court, as a queen must. I carried a part of England inside me; a breath of her winds, a drop of her rain, a slither of her sunlight. I drew upon her immortal strength to bolster my mortal weakness. Others noted the restoration of my spirits, too, for one afternoon as I strolled with de Silva through the golden-brown avenues of the gardens, my friend decided to play a trick on me.

  “Do you think the Archduke will visit soon, my lord?” I asked de Silva. There was a band of his servants behind us. I always tried to make it appear I was interested in the Archduke when others were around us.

  “Perhaps sooner than you think, Majesty.” I looked sharply at de Silva. He was wearing an impish expression.

  “What do you mean, my lord?”

  “Have you not noted a new face amongst my servants, Majesty?” He spoke teasingly, but I was unsure if he was actually serious. Did he mean the Archduke was in England, and was concealed somewhere in the milling crowd at my back?

  I looked behind me, startled and rather worried that the Archduke was actually here! I glanced back and forth between de Silva and his servants, my heart thumping in panic. His twinkling eyes did not reveal his secrets. The crowd behind us stopped, baffled by my darting eyes and horrified expression. Eventually, de Silva burst into gales of laughter. “Fear not, Majesty!” he crowed, delighted to have duped me. “You are safe! My master is safe and sound in his own lands, I promise you!”

  His laugh was infectious, and I started to chuckle. Then I started to laugh. Then I could not speak for I was so weak in the chest and knees. Tears rolled down my cheeks. “You are a bad man!” I slapped de Silva with my lace fan. “You had me believing that my suitor was here! At my very elbow! You are a rascal, de Silva!”

  De Silva leaned against a marble urn, gasping for breath. “Majesty… you should have seen your face!”

  “You know, de Silva, it would not be such a bad way to meet the Archduke after all,” I mentioned when we had recovered ourselves and continued walking. “To meet in secret, without knowing each other… then it could be said whether a true attraction was felt.”

  “I will mention the idea to my master, Majesty, but I fear he would not engage in such secrecy.”

  “A great shame for him,” I said, thinking of the day I had dressed as a servant. “There is something freeing in the notion of no one knowing who you are.”

  “Only to those who are known,” de Silva replied. “To those who are of no importance, becoming known is their greatest desire.”

  “We all want most what we do not have,” I agreed. “But you must promise not to play such a trick on me again, my friend… You made my heart stop!”

  “Perhaps Your Majesty will concede it was only payment in return for the times you have played tricks yourself,” he said cheekily.

  “You know all my secrets, ambassador.”

  “Unlike many others in my position, Majesty,” de Silva assured me with genuine warmth. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “Unlike all others in your position, my friend,” I said. “I believe you.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Windsor Castle

  Autumn 1565

  With the falling leaves of the autumn, storms carried quick and swift over England. Rain fell, hail arrived. The winds keened, wailing about the walls of Windsor, shrieking to waken slumberous minds. As we faced storms in England, my cousin was riding a tempest of her own in Scotland. Moray and the other rebels were still at large, but Mary was ready to face all that came with courage and vivacity.

  Whilst waiting for Bothwell to reach her, Mary rode out to meet the threat of Moray. Darnley at her side, and a pistol on her hip, my cousin embarked on what was to become known as the ‘Chase-about Raids’ for Mary hunted her brother through Scotland. Mary cut a gallant figure in her determination and guile in those days. She was a force to be reckoned with. Clashes occurred outside of Edinburgh and beyond and my cousin was ever at the heels of the rebels, gnawing at their ankles. When Bothwell arrived he rode out to join her. Restoring him to her Privy Council, Mary put her trust and faith in this adventurer. She relied heavily on Bothwell, much to the disgust of her new husband, for Darnley believed he should be the one to lead the raids and take Mary’s forces into battle. His complete lack of experience did not worry him, but that is ever the way with people who know nothing; they believe they know everything. For the sake of peace, Mary made Darnley’s father one of her commanders and talked with her new husband often on tactics and plans. By the 8th of October, Mary’s army had swelled to twelve thousand men, and they marched out of Edinburgh. Mary petitioned for English forces to come and support hers. I dallied with the idea, but none on my Privy Council would support it. Believing our intervention would only lead to us being sucked into Scottish affairs, and still bristling with resentment about Mary’s marriage, the request was denied. But it stopped her not. She went out to meet Moray, with the might of Scotland at her back.

  Then, in one of those great anti-climaxes of history, the battle did not happen. Hearing of Mary’s superior force, Moray and his allies fled and headed across the border, to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. With Moray and his followers on the run, Mary emerged victorious, and without spilling a drop of blood. She had never been as powerful, or as popular as she was then. Even the presence of her detestable husband could not prevent her people from turning to her with love and adoration.

  I was proud of her and sent a messag
e asking that we set aside our old quarrels. Although I did not mention her husband, I suggested we talk anew of friendship and peace. But Mary, in her triumph, was careless. She sent a strongly worded letter back, saying that whilst she would be pleased to be my friend, she would suffer no further “interference” from foreign monarchs. Mary was riding high and thought she had no further need of my support or friendship. I read her letter with great annoyance, and found myself fuming on her words for days. “So she has a husband now and needs no more a cousin and good sister!” I exclaimed to Blanche as she and Katherine Knollys dressed me. “My cousin will regret that she did not choose to open talks anew with me, of that you may be assured!”

  But if she had prevailed over the rebels in her country, Mary had problems of a more domestic nature rising swiftly take their place. Marital bliss for my Mary fell along with the last leaves of the trees. As expected, her marriage was a disaster. The rift over command of her armies intensified and the couple were seen sparring in public. Randolph reported that Darnley was perpetually drunk and often abusive to his wife, even in front of her court. There were stories of explosive rows behind bedchamber doors. Tales spread of Darnley’s arrogance, his constant demands to be made King, and his blatant disrespect for Mary’s lords. He was possessive and jealous, easily roused to rage, and when drunk, he was a demon. Randolph told us that Mary was low in spirits, despite her recent triumph. She floated about her court, a wraith of her former self. And every night, Darnley came to her bedchamber, demanding his rights as a husband.

  Even though she was a queen, even though she was powerful, even though she despised him, Mary had sworn oaths in marriage and Darnley forced his rights upon her. There were times we heard of when her Maries stepped in, or when Bothwell was called to remove the drunken, swearing, staggering oaf from Mary’s chambers by force. I am sure there were many more occasions when she was forced to suffer his desires. Having limited power over her as Queen, he sought to impress his power over her as a husband. Darnley was becoming universally despised. No one in Scotland wanted him named King and princes of other nations tried to distance themselves from any association with him. Darnley was gaining enemies fast. I pitied Mary, despite my irritation at her. Cecil felt quite differently. He was disgustingly merry.

  “Now she has only to make him King, and Scotland will be in a fine mess,” he gloated, making my lip curl.

  “If she was going to make him King, Cecil, she would have done so already. My cousin is no dullard, Cecil, unlike that parasite she is married to. She will not give him more power. All she needs from him now is his seed. Mary will keep him as powerless as possible, and she will win through, I am sure of it.”

  “I believed you to be altered in your good opinion of Mary of Scots,” he said, looking surprised. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “I judge her to be more shrewd and quick than you do, Cecil, that is all. Mary has Tudor blood in her veins. She will not lie down and allow Darnley to rule her country. The only thing she will lie down for now is for his seed, and as soon as she has what she requires, she needs him no longer.”

  I had no idea how prophetic my words would later seem.

  *

  We were distracted from events in Scotland by the arrival of a most remarkable woman. Princess Cecilia of Sweden, sister of King Erik, came to further her brother’s suit for my hand. I, however, wondered if her true reason for visiting England was to get me to marry her brother. Cecilia thirsted for adventure, and this voyage, made when she was heavily pregnant, was certainly an exciting exploit.

  “I have heard so much about you, Your Majesty,” she said as we were introduced. “From both my beloved brothers. I just had to see you for myself.”

  Cecilia giggled prettily, tossing her frizzed fair hair. She was an attractive woman. She wore her hair in an odd style; fluffed up with combs and hot irons, it was laid over her head in a tall, swaying pile. But she wore it with such grace that only a day passed before maids at court arrived with their hair done in “Sweden style”. Some attempts to ape Cecilia were more successful than others. It was not an easy effect to achieve; many women arrived at court looking like they wished to emulate haystacks. But fashion keeps no company with sense. Soon everyone was wearing their hair “Sweden style”. I had a few wigs made in that style myself.

  Cecilia was not merely pretty, but merry too. Her gowns were glorious, plumped with rich cloth and smothered with glittering jewels, but it was her adventurous spirit I enjoyed the most. She reminded me of her brother. “How is your brother, Duke Johan, Your Highness?” I asked as we walked through the gardens together on the first day of her visit. “He was a great favourite of mine. You must tell him to write more often, for I miss his companionship.”

  “He speaks most highly of you, Your Majesty,” she told me, stopping to run her hands over a perfumed bush of rosemary. She rubbed the leaves into her hands and inhaled the fragrance. “He always says there is no woman to compare to you, both for your spirit and wit. I will admonish him sharply for not writing to you, Majesty, but you know how men are...”

  I smiled, thinking that Cecilia would know how men were, indeed. She had caused many scandals at her brother’s court. At the wedding of her older sister, Catherine, for example, a man had been spotted scaling the palace walls and entering Cecilia’s rooms. When her brother’s guards investigated, the brother of the bridegroom was found in Cecilia’s chambers, half-naked and grasping at a bed sheet to cover his modesty. The man was thrown in gaol, and rumour had it her brother had taken his manhood for seeking to make love to Cecilia, but even this did not stop her. There had been rumours of other lovers until she was married to Christopher II, Margrave of Baden-Rodemachern. She and her husband had journeyed for more than a year, passing through many countries and apparently happily adventuring along the way. When she arrived, Cecilia was in the last stages of pregnancy. Her first babe would be born on English soil.

  I envied her freedom and wildness of spirit. Her husband clearly adored her, and would do anything to please her. I gave her Bedford House in London for her stay and furnished it for her. Four days after her arrival, she went into labour and produced a baby boy, who she named Edward, after my brother, to please me. We held his christening at Westminster Abbey, and the whole court turned out to see this utterly remarkable woman. Cecilia became a regular visitor at court, spent her money with undisciplined abandon, and made many friends. Amongst her ladies was a rare beauty named Mistress Helena Snakenborg. Born to an ancient, and noble yet impoverished family, Helena was about sixteen when she came to England. It quickly became apparent that whilst Cecilia was exciting, Helena was the true new star of the court.

  Helena was tall, willowy, with a fair bosom and a complexion of pink rose petals and white silk. Her hair was as red as mine and curled naturally. Helena’s eyes were large, brown and warm and if you looked closely, you could see flecks of gold within them. And many did seek to get close. She gained a horde of admirers who hung on her every word, and yet, unlike many other beautiful women of my acquaintance, Helena had made up her mind to be useful and capable, rather than solely relying on her looks to make her way in life.

  The poorly-concealed, simmering rage of my cousin Lettice only added to my enjoyment of Helena. Lettice had been the greatest beauty of my court, and now there was a girl of at least equal loveliness, and with a gentle, beguiling temper, who had come to take her place. And since Helena was new to court, and people tend to value the new over the old, Lettice rapidly found her admirers draining away, heading for Helena. Since I had not forgiven Lettice for flirting with Robin, I found ways to make Helena prominent in entertainments and dances. It was ever so satisfying to see Lettice boiling away in her own skin. She was bad at hiding her jealousy.

  William Parr suddenly became a most regular attendant at court. Although Helena had many admirers, my good uncle was clearly besotted with the girl. He had thirty-five years to her sixteen, but think not that he was the one with the power
in this attraction, oh no! He would have done anything for her. Luckily for him, Helena was not one to use the affections of men for ill-purpose.

  “That is good to see, do you not think, Blanche?” I asked as we watched Parr and Helena walking down another path in the gardens, deep in conversation.

  “It is pleasing to see his broken heart mending under the affection of a good woman,” Blanche said, narrowing her eyes, which were growing weak with age. “Bess would have approved of this lady, Majesty. She would not have wanted William to be as sorrowful and lost as he has been since her death.”

  “I think you speak the truth, Blanche,” I agreed. “Bess was always concerned for the happiness of my uncle. She would be pleased to know he has found love again.” I sighed, thinking of Bess. Thinking of Parry, Jane Seymour, St Loe and Kat, of course. For a moment, I struggled with sorrow, but watching Helena and Parr made me feel better. Kat had said the only way to thwart Death was to live fully, and when is a person more alive than when they dare to love? Love is the greatest enemy of Death. We forget Death exists, when we give ourselves up to love.