Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  He gazed at me evenly, and then I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. “I do love you,” he said. “I have never loved another. In whatever way you wish me, Elizabeth, I am yours until the end of my days.”

  I smiled and reached across to take his hand. He pulled it from his carved leather glove and took hold of my fingers. “Let us talk no more of the end of days, Robin,” I said to him gently. “Let us speak no more of death. There has been enough loss. For once, I would that we could think only of the present, and enjoy all that we have together. For what use is the present, if we cannot live and love within its hours? If we do not live as we are supposed to… fully and well, our friends gathered about us, and our hearts made merry by their love?”

  “Then race me to the next hillock, Majesty,” Robin said, releasing my hand. “And let the feel of the wind on our cheeks steal us from resting on sorrows.”

  I turned my face to my England and breathed in her air. The sunshine was warm and pleasant. The scent of new leaves and flowers was on the breeze. There would be matters to worry on, my cousin not least of them, when I returned to the palace, but here, lost in England, I was a free soul riding at the side of the man I loved. And more than loved. He had become my soft comfort and my steady friend. My place of peace; my place to come when I was tired and sickened by the world. We had found a new way to be with each other… No longer fired by restless desire and unsated dreams, but bound by a deeper tie, in friendship, in honesty, and in love.

  I clicked my tongue at my horse and sped down the hill with Robin’s horse thundering at my side. “Ride on,” I shouted over the rushing winds. “Ride on and let Death feel grief at our pleasure!”

  For the first time in years, I felt free of the shroud that had covered me. Katherine Grey, Mary Grey, Margaret Lennox, Mary of Scots… the strands of my winding cloth would be set aside as I ceased to feel their fluttering threads against my cheek, and found joy in living, in loving, in the present day. Life was not perfect, and never would it be so. But I had much for which to be thankful. I had Robin. I was in control of my country, and my people loved me. I had lost much, and the loss of those I loved would never cease to hurt me, but there was much in life to make up for the grief I carried inside.

  Those I had loved would never leave me. They were within me, every hour and every day that I lived. And when I spoke their names, they lived on anew, breathing life from the life within me; living in my memories of them. Time does not lessen grief, we do; by accepting that death is a part of life, by understanding the grace of having known great souls and in remembering to be grateful that they touched our lives. In these ways, do we lessen grief. In knowing them, in having had the honour of knowing them, I could not grieve. My life had been blessed by them. And in knowing love for them, for Robin, I was only more alive.

  This is how we thwart Death… To know however imperfect we may be, that we are loved. To never spite the love we are offered, and to give love in return to those who deserve it. Then, even when Death comes, He has not won over us. If we have lived our lives well, and full, then He takes not a reluctant soul desperate to cling to life, but a friend, whom He may take hands with and but lead on, to the next adventure.

  “You were right, Kat,” I whispered as we stopped at the next hill. “This is the way to beat Death…”

  “Shall we ride on, Majesty?” Robin asked, not hearing my soft words. I inclined my head and we started down the hill.

  The scent of lavender rose from a cottage nearby where it grew by the garden gate. Kat’s scent. It flew in the air, upon the breeze, as free and sweet as her soul. I lifted my nose and breathed it in. I feared the memory of her no longer. I welcomed it. I had a sense, then, that Kat had heard me. That she had heard my words and come to me to let me know she approved of my resolve.

  Kat was keeping her promise. She would never leave me. She never had left me, for she lived within my soul.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Richmond Palace

  February 1603

  Death does not look pleased. It makes me want to chuckle.

  He has listened to my tale. He had thought it would be one about His victory over me, as the last one was. Now He finds that I was not broken by His work, was not vanquished by His thievery. He is disappointed.

  He has no cause to feel this though, not when I will join Him soon enough. But fear Him, I no longer do. With age they say wisdom comes. I know not if this is truth, or if the old simply have lived long enough to have experienced that which others have not. The appearance of wisdom is easy enough to create. With age, with Death drawing near, though, I feel I have learned something. I have learned to look on Him and know that this is not the end. I have learned to see Him as a welcome friend, who will lead me out of pain, and take me to join those I have loved.

  From behind Him there steps a figure. One I know only too well. How many times have I believed her to be at my side over the years since she left? I would know her form anywhere.

  Kat stands, with Parry, Bess and St Loe behind her. Death does not seek to take her hand and make her dance; He knows better than to dare such a thing. She does not come to prance about me, to dance as Amy’s ghost did. Kat just looks on me with her warm brown eyes. She smiles and holds out her hand.

  I cannot take it yet and perhaps she knows this, for she smiles wider and brushes down her skirts, nodding at me. There are still words to be said, tales to be told.

  We are creatures of stories, we humans. Bound since the first days of our existence to tell tales, to bring heroes to life, and life to our words. Over the years, the stories have grown, and there will never be enough to sate our appetite. We grow strong with their telling, just as the stories draw life from us.

  There is much left to be told, as the hours go on, as the shadows and shades of my past come to gather about me. But I fear not to see them, not now. I am reminded of all that I lost, and yet here I find them all… not lost, not gone, simply waiting for me to join them when I am ready.

  Death spreads His hands, and waits for me to continue.

  Epilogue

  Workington

  The Mouth of the River Derwent

  Cumberland

  16th May 1568

  It was seven of the evening.

  Walkers taking the evening air of the Sabbath noted a small craft bobbing on the horizon of the water that lapped at the shores of their small fishing village of Workington. It was unusual to see such a craft on this day, when all work was meant to be set aside, for it was a small boat made for fishing from the shore, or transporting coal and lime across the Solway Firth. As the craft drew near, travelling through the light summer mist that hovered over the small port, it became clear that the people in this boat, sixteen in all, were not fishermen, nor were they traders, but people of consequence and wealth.

  Bedraggled, they were; stained with splattered mud and sticking soil which spoke of travelling in haste. Weary, both in their eyes and in their movements, they came ashore. Amongst their numbers was a woman, taller than any that the people of Workington had ever seen. Full as high as a man, she stood with a dark velvet cowl covering chestnut hair which held a trace of red in its tresses. Although the common people gained only glimpses of her face, it was said widely that she was the most beautiful creature any had beheld. As she stepped ashore, this tall beauty stumbled, and all who travelled with her rushed to aid her, speaking words of love and comfort as they lifted her to her feet. The people who saw her said she seemed sadder than any woman they had ever seen, and yet was gracious to all who spoke to her and offered aid. There was something fragile about this lady. A ghost of sadness drifted from her, spilling out like the mist over the waters, speaking of the sorrow and hardness that she had endured.

  The party who arrived that day sought beds for the night in Workington Hall, home of a man who travelled with them, and spoke for them, John Maxwell, Lord Herries. Herries said to any who enquired that he had carried off an heiress whom he hoped to marry to a
friend of his son’s… but by the time twilight fell, many had guessed at the truth.

  Rumour spread through the village, and women gossiped in the streets. Whispers grew. The local inns and ale houses were full of those trading stories of the mysterious beauty that had emerged from the foggy waters. A retainer of Lord Herries, a native of France, recognised the woman as soon as he saw her. And why should he not? He asked the men who whispered with him in the ale house later… For once she had been a Dauphine of his own beloved France… Once, she had been his Queen.

  The events which had brought her there were not secret. All had heard of the troubles in her land. All knew of the mysterious death of her husband, the revolt which had risen when she married her husband’s suspected killer. She had fought to keep her throne, and she had failed. She had been held captive… But what she was doing here, upon the shores of England, was another question.

  Had she come for aid, from her cousin, the Queen? Had she come to seek sanctuary from the evils which chased her? The troubles which travelled in her wake, haunting her steps? None knew, but many suspected.

  But one truth was certain, on the lips and tongues of all who had seen this tall beauty arrive. This was no kidnapped heiress. This was no ordinary traveller.

  Mary, Dowager Queen of France, deposed Queen of Scotland, had landed in England.

  This is the end of Strands of My Winding Cloth.

  In the next book of the Elizabeth of England Chronicles, Treason in Trust, Elizabeth struggles with troubles from without her realm, as well as from within…

  Author’s Thanks

  This book is dedicated to two women, without whom, I often consider, I would never have become a writer; Terry Tyler and Sue Cooper-Bridgewater. When I first started writing and publishing on Wattpad, it was Sue who read my stories and encouraged me to continue writing. At the time I was rather lacking in confidence, but with her encouragement and that of others, I began to have a little faith. Terry, I had the good fortune to meet on Twitter. When I first started to send out sample chapters to agents, and was politely rejected, I talked to Terry on Twitter. It was she who encouraged me to turn to independent publishing rather than traditional. Without both of these fine ladies cheering me on, I might still be in my previous job, and might never have published a single book. In addition then, to the thanks I must give to my editor, Brook Aldrich, and my proof-reader, Julia Gibbs, and all that I owe to my family, my patient partner, Matthew Nott and to all my friends, I offer up my thanks to these two women. Both marvellous authors themselves, they allowed me to keep my laptop and my imagination open, and begin a career as an author.

  I have never met either, in person, but via email, Twitter and Wattpad, have found two great souls, and am fortunate to have them in my life.

  My thanks, ladies, for all you have done for me.

  Gemma Lawrence

  2017

  About The Author

  I find people talking about themselves in the third person to be entirely unsettling, so, since this section is written by me, I will use my own voice rather than try to make you believe that another person is writing about me to make me sound terribly important.

  I am an independent author, publishing my books by myself, with the help of my lovely editor. I left my day job last year (2016) and am now a fully-fledged, full time author, and very proud to be so!

  My passion for history, in particular perhaps the era of the Tudors, began early in life. As a child I lived in Croydon, near London, and my schools were lucky enough to be close to such glorious places as Hampton Court and the Tower of London to mean that field trips often took us to those castles. I think it’s hard not to find characters from history infectious when you hear their stories, especially when surrounded by the bricks and mortar they built their reigns and legends within. There is heroism and scandal, betrayal and belief, politics and passion and a seemingly never-ending cast list of truly fascinating people. So when I sat down to start writing, I could think of no better place to start than a time and place I loved and was slightly obsessed with.

  Expect many books from me, but do not necessarily expect them all to be of one era. I write as many of you read, I suspect; in many genres. My own bookshelves are weighted down with historical volumes and biographies, but they also contain dystopias, sci-fi, horror, humour, children’s books, fairy tales, romance and adventure. I can’t promise I’ll manage to write in all the areas I’ve mentioned there, but I’d love to give it a go. If anything I’ve published isn’t your thing, that’s fine, I just hope you like the ones I write which are your thing!

  The majority of my books are historical fiction, however, so I hope that if you liked this volume you will give the others in this series (and perhaps not in this series), a look. I want to divert you as readers, to please you with my writing and to have you join me on these adventures.

  A book is nothing without a reader.

  As to the rest of me; I am in my thirties and live in Cornwall with a rescued dog, a rescued cat and my partner (who wasn’t rescued, but may well have rescued me). I studied Literature at University after I fell in love with books as a small child. When I was little I could often be found nestled halfway up the stairs with a pile of books in my lap and my head lost in another world. There is nothing more satisfying to me than finding a new book I adore, to place next to the multitudes I own and love… and nothing more disappointing to me to find a book I am willing to never open again. I do hope that this book was not a disappointment to you; I loved writing it and I hope that showed through the pages.

  This is only one of a large selection of titles coming to you on Amazon. I hope you will try the others.

  If you would like to contact me, please do so.

  On Twitter, I am @TudorTweep and am more than happy to follow back and reply to any and all messages. I may avoid you if you decide to say anything worrying or anything abusive, but I figure that’s acceptable.

  Via email, I am tudortweep@gmail.com a dedicated email account for my readers to reach me on. I’ll try and reply within a few days.

  I publish some first drafts and short stories on Wattpad where I can be found at www.wattpad.com/user/GemmaLawrence31 . Wattpad was the first place I ever showed my stories, to anyone, and in many ways its readers and their response to my works were the influence which pushed me into self-publishing. If you have never been on the site I recommend you try it out. It’s free, it’s fun and it’s chock-full of real emerging talent. I love Wattpad because its members and their encouragement gave me the boost I needed as a fearful waif to get some confidence in myself and make a go of a life as a real, published writer.

  Thank you for taking a risk with an unknown author and reading my book. I do hope now that you’ve read one you’ll want to read more. If you’d like to leave me a review, that would be very much appreciated also!

  Gemma Lawrence

  Cornwall

  2017