Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

FOURTEEN

Years of Our Lord 1578, 1579, 1580

Blackfriars

The Palace of Whitehall

Hampton Court Palace

Our daughter was christened on June 4 at St. Dunstan’s in the West by the very man who had married us not a year before. The queen gave us a double bowl of gilded silver in which the child was baptized, and then rejoined us at our small home to celebrate. I could not say for certain, but I think Thomas was slightly disconcerted by the size of our home because he brought up the topic of the ramshackle manor at Langford several times over the course of the evening. The queen, gracious as always, told him she felt perfectly at home right where she was.

I had not yet been churched after my daughter’s birth, and therefore had not yet reappeared in public, when the queen left for Progress. She made a special trip to Blackfriars to see me and to ensure that I would join her midway.

“Yes, Majesty, of course. Perhaps I should oversee the effort to secure more sugar to be brought midway through the Progress.”

She feigned annoyance. “Are you saying that we are as a poor-quality wine, and can only be tolerated when well sugared?”

I laughed aloud, which she, like anyone who posits a jest, enjoyed. “No, no, Majesty. All know that you care not at all for the oysters, veal, mutton, anchovies, and eggs that are certain to be served to you as long as your confectionary course is well stocked.”

She smirked. “I shall see you shortly and in fine health, my good lady marquess.”

I settled back on my bed after she left, content that our friendship had been fully restored.

• • •

We were near the end of Progress, in August, when Sussex wrote again to the queen. One could not fault the man for his earnest devotion, and the queen credited that and much love to him, but he did not know when to leave a topic lie.

“Mary,” the queen asked. “Would you please read to us the letter from your brother while I am gowned and my hair done?”

Mary nodded and Catherine Carey, the Countess of Nottingham, assisted Her Majesty into her gown.

“ ‘To marry Anjou, who is a most noble and worthy partner to yourself,’ ” she read, “ ‘would be to secure an heir from your own body, which is precious to all in your kingdom. It will also assist you as you seek to gainsay the Spanish and their continued attacks against the Protestants in the Netherlands.’ ”

The queen nodded for Mary to continue.

“ ‘You shall have a husband as a defender of all your causes present.’ ” None of us dared smile, but the thought of twenty-three-year-old Anjou protecting Elizabeth was one that, in another venue, would have brought loud, merry mirth.

“Well, then, it’s settled,” the queen said. “I’m to be married!”

I did not know if she jested, and by the discomfort in the room I suspected no one else did, either.

“There is more, Majesty,” Mary said. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes, please do.”

“ ‘There are, of course, a few disadvantages. Your own mislike of marriage, and the general mislike which Englishmen have to be governed by a stranger.’ ” He went on to convey that a popular pamphlet had begun to circulate in London, declaring, with admiration and affection, that Elizabeth was “a prince of no mingled blood, of Spaniard or stranger, but born mere English here amongst us.”

The queen did not dismiss pamphleteers; she knew they spoke truth she was unlikely to hear in the gilded galleries of Whitehall.

Within a month of our return to court, the palace hummed with the news that Lord Robert had married his mistress, Lettice Knollys Devereux, at his house in Wanstead, two years after her husband Essex died, and three years after the queen had told him, with finality, that she would not marry him. Lettice’s father, Sir Francis Knollys, was the unshakable witness. None dared tell the queen, and who wanted to be within arm’s or ear’s reach when she learned of it? And yet she would certainly find out.

The queen had sent Thomas abroad, to the Netherlands, as an emissary, and I sat companionably sewing by the fire with Mary Radcliffe one November night.

“My brother . . . ,” she started.

“What is it?” I asked, handing a fresh needle to her. We both loved him well but knew his occasional intemperance of speech.

“He told the French ambassador of Lord Robert’s marriage.”

I set down my work. “I know he loves Lord Robert not, but the queen?” I marveled.

She nodded. “He believes it to be in Her Majesty’s best interests,” she said with a sigh. “Of course with Simier coming from France at the new year, well, it shan’t be long till the queen hears of it. And we’ll all be here as witnesses.”

New Year’s was the one time of year when all courtiers were expected to be present at court unless they were ill unto death or delivering a child. That meant Lettice would have to be there, too.

• • •

As I was to take charge and then manage all gifts presented to Her Majesty, I was near her elbow and throne each New Year’s, and therefore was close at hand when Lettice presented her gift to the queen at the beginning of 1579. The air between them was always disturbed, as they liked one another not, but as Lettice came forward and presented Elizabeth with a great chain of gold and amber with a small diamond, I detected no thunder in the clouds surrounding Frigga, so perhaps she did not yet know.

Elizabeth took the gift in hand and thanked her cousin graciously. “How does your family?” she asked.

Lettice looked perhaps a bit surprised. “My children are well, Majesty,” she answered smoothly. She held her gaze equal with the queen, whereas most of us made sure our gaze was tipped slightly floorward. “My young earl studies well, and my daughters are thinking ahead toward marriage.”

“Ah, yes, marriage,” the queen answered. “We will take an especial interest in assuring that they marry in security, so please make certain we hear of their plans from their guardian, Lord Huntingdon, as soon as a possibility may be raised.”

For those who cared to listen, there was a warning.

That year, as in many others, the queen received many gifts of gowns, fabrics, and other expensive clothing. Anne Dudley and I looked at one another with pleased satisfaction for the young maids of honor who would also benefit from this largesse. When the queen had to pay less for her own clothing, she presented more to her ladies and maids, many of whom served at their own expense, throughout the following year. Lady Mary Radcliffe, with little money of her own, almost always received a valuable piece or two of the queen’s gifted jewelry.

Within weeks the d’Anjous’ envoy, Simier, arrived at court. He was light of heart and step and had pretty words and tokens for all of us. As master of the duke’s wardrobe as well as his “chief darling,” he was authorized to speak freely on behalf of his master. After a year of tension, fear, and dull wit, I must say that whether or not one was in favor of the marriage, it was a pleasant diversion to have Simier at court.

“My master,” he said to Her Majesty, “he is so very far away in France, and yet his heart, Majesty, is right here with you. May I send him a word, and perhaps a token, of your affection, something you yourself have touched?”

The queen, always engaged by courtly flirtation and wit, smiled and agreed. “A portrait of ourself?” she suggested.

“Non, non, madame, that will not do. Of course, he has already seen of your beauty. But perhaps something that you have kissed and cherished and held dear?”

I was finishing the lace detail on one of the queen’s handkerchiefs and I raised it slightly. She glanced at me and nodded. I finished off the edge and brought it to her. “Our perfume?” she said to me. I went to the lacquered box—which was now securely locked—and took out a crystal vial of the vanilla and rose scent she now favored.

“Majesty?” I held it out toward her and she unstoppered it, sprinkled the new handkerchief with a few spare drops and then kissed the linen before handing it over to Simier.

“Oui, oui, c’est parfait!” he exclaimed, bowing. And then, before any could stop him, he dashed into the next room, which was the queen’s private bedchamber.

Alarmed, two of the men stationed at the door moved forward, but the queen lifted her hand to stop them. Within a minute, Simier came out with one of her lace bed caps in his hand.

“Monsieur Simier, what is the meaning of this?” she asked.

“I am sure that my master would like to have something not only close to your heart but close to your bed!” he insisted.

At that the queen laughed, pleased, I was certain, to be found attractive and desirable by a man twenty years younger than she. And perhaps, the jesting and acting were leavening in a court that often felt weighty and wearying.

Soon she had nicknamed Simier her “monkey.” I looked at Mary Radcliffe, wondering, perhaps, if the queen was recalling the fable of virgins being forced to marry apes in Hell. Mary held back what seemed to be a tart retort as she responded to my glance, so I knew it was on her mind, too.

“May I always be numbered among your beasts!” Simier responded with diplomatic aplomb.

The courting soon turned to negotiations, however, and the forecast was not quite so bright. I heard Simier and Her Majesty discussing d’Anjou’s terms, much more pointed than his compliments, as I was tending to her jewels with Mary.

“He must be crowned king immediately after the marriage,” Simier insisted. “And he needs a generous allowance, as befits his position, paid annually throughout his life and which will be irrevocable.”

The queen grew quiet before answering in flawless French that she would speak to her council on the matter.

Although Sussex and Cecil were strongly for the marriage, even they would not agree to those terms. Her other councilors, including Lord Robert and Walsingham, were strongly against it. Philip Sidney represented most Englishmen when he said the proposal would be unacceptable to her people regardless of the terms because d’Anjou was the “son of the Jezebel of our age,” Catherine de’ Medici.

The next Sunday the queen was forced to march out of the service given by her own minister, in her own chapel, who proclaimed, “Marriages with foreigners would only result in ruin to the country.”

Thomas was back from his travels and greatly desired my companionship, but the queen was on edge and required it, too. That eve, before she retired, I rubbed her neck and shoulders with ointment of rose and valerian. By the time I returned to our chamber, having purposed to rub his shoulders as well, he was fast asleep.

I sat there, herbs nearby for a few moments, then quietly put them away. I slipped on my sleeping gown and, while he stirred some, he did not wake when I joined him in bed. I ran my hands over the back of his neck, craving his touch and, finding none, offering mine instead.

• • •

In September of that year John Stubbs published The Discovery of a Gaping Gulf, Whereunto England Is Like to Be Swallowed by Another French Marriage, If the Lord Forbid Not the Banns by Letting Her Majesty See the Sin and Punishment Thereof. Stubbs was rare in that he spoke for the common man but was also educated, in his case, at Trinity College, Cambridge.

When Elizabeth found out about this pamphlet, she demanded that both Stubbs and his publisher have their right hands cleaved off, and this was done, publicly, even after the book was banned.

After the bloody deed was accomplished, Stubbs was said to have raised his hat with his left hand and call out, “God save the queen!” before falling in a faint upon the platform.

The crowd watched in silent horror, but Clemence, who had attended the spectacle, told me that there were great murmurings of malcontent and unhappiness with Her Majesty afterward. I admit to wavering between admiration for her strength and revulsion toward the deed.

“The people, perhaps she does not know that their hearts can turn,” Clemence told me.

Elizabeth knew.

Later that fall the council, still divided as to whether the marriage was good for queen and country, told her that, as they were split, they could make no recommendation at all.

We ladies loitered just outside the council chamber as was our duty, waiting for her to emerge, but we could, of course, hear the proceedings. Being closest to the door, I could see in as well.

Every man present looked down at the table as she began to cry and complain that she had expected them to support her marriage choice as a “surety to her and her realm . . . to have her marry and have a child of her own body to inherit, and so to continue the line of Henry the Eighth.”

Sir Francis Knollys spoke up. “Majesty, there are none present, nor in your kingdom, who could desire less than perfect happiness for you and issue of your own body. But it is our learned view, and that of Walsingham, who has long resided in France and who is in communication with those across the Continent, that this marriage would enslave England to France.”

“This is a fine way to show your attachment to us, who might desire, like others, to have children,” she rebuked him.

Francis said nothing but, having been both a husband and a father to daughters, bowed his head in understanding. He deserved better; he had given his life, and his wife’s, to the queen’s service. The queen fled the room in tears and did not allow but a few into her presence for some days. I retired to Blackfriars, as I was near to giving birth to our second child.

Once at our small home, I relished being with my child, Elizabeth, for many hours during the day. She gurgled at me and shook her tiny fist as she walked across the floor with her small ball in her hand, holding it up to me to play with. I kissed those hands, her cheeks, her head, which had fine downy hair that would soon be twisted into curls. I took over many of the nurse’s duties and enjoyed planning and ordering her wardrobe myself. We sat on my bed and I told her stories in Swedish and German, which she was learning to speak, though not well. They were rare hours that we spent together and I cherished them.

Thomas returned from court one afternoon much earlier than anticipated. He gently handed Elizabeth back to her nurse and then closed the doors to our reception room.

“Simier was sent back to France with the quiet understanding that if the queen’s people did disapprove of the French marriage, she would not go forward with it. Simier, being no fool, knew that the English would never accept the duke. So, before he left, he insured that the queen had heard of Lord Robert’s marriage.”

“Oh . . .” I exhaled.

“Oh, indeed,” Thomas said. “The queen has banished Lettice and Lord Robert from court. She’s threatening to send Lord Robert to the Tower.”

Nothing needed to be said to prompt our own memory of my banishment and Thomas’s stay in the Tower. However, should Lord Robert be sent to the Tower, he was unlikely to enjoy a brief stay, as the wound his marriage would inflict upon the queen would be nearly mortal.

“What happened?”

“The queen called Lettice to stand before her. Lettice, of course, did not come humbly nor did she bow, ask forgiveness, or in any way abject herself. Instead she held her head high and came much nearer to the queen than was meet . . . or wise.”

I shook my head. Foolish. There was a time for pride. This was not one of them. “She lashed out at her.”

Thomas nodded. “Indeed. She boxed her on the ear and said, ‘As but one sun lightened the earth, she would have but one queen in England.’ She shouted to her men to remove the ‘flouting wench’ from her presence and said she’d never set eyes on that ‘she-wolf’ again. Then she sent for men to remove Lord Robert from court, back to one of his properties, where he may await her decisions. Word is that she intends to strip him of his lands and titles rather than see them benefit Lettice. And then imprison them so they may not meet.”

“This is ill news, indeed,” I said.

“And yet, it is not unreasonable that the man may want a son of his own to carry his name, and a wife of his own to companion him,” Thomas finished. That was true, it was not unreasonable for Lord Robert to want such a thing; perhaps, as Lettice was the softer, younger version of her cousin the queen, he sought someone who favored her looks. My heart was entombed, I admit, from sympathy for Lettice. With a hundred or more men from whom she could have chosen, could she have settled upon any other?

Then my thoughts turned to poor Katherine Grey Seymour, separated from her husband, too, after marrying without permission.

A kingdom was complicated; a heart more so.

I ran my hand over my belly, which had begun to contract. “Quickly send to my Lord Sussex,” I said. “He was able to speak wisely to her after she’d banished me and imprisoned you.”

“Sussex?” Thomas asked. “He is no friend to Lord Robert.”

“Which is precisely why Elizabeth will listen to him,” I said.

My Lord Sussex did speak with the queen, and told her, gently but bluntly, that no one should be imprisoned for a lawful marriage. For my part, I prayed that although the queen had declared her desire to continue the line of her father, she would not continue his sins, punishing for personal vengeance and not for political right.

Lord Robert was not imprisoned, nor did he have his titles stripped. Lettice Knollys, however, was never again seen, or spoken of, at court.

We spent the days before our second child’s birth playing chess together, rehearsing play lines, and reading passages of Holy Writ to one another. Some mornings our daughter, Elizabeth, would join us in our bed, her tiny hand reaching over to the table nearby to grab a piece of marchpane left over from the night before, stuffing it in her mouth, eyes wide with pleasure, while we laughed with her. Thomas indulged her and offered her another piece; I loved him even more for his devotion to her, and to me.

Our son was safely born and we named him Francis, in honor of Sir Francis Knollys, who continued to serve his queen well at great cost to himself—namely, the companionship of his wife while she’d lived. I did not return to court for six weeks, flourishing in the love of my family, suckling my babe for a week before turning him over to the wet nurse, and speaking German to young Elizabeth. Reluctantly, Thomas and I parted, and I returned to Whitehall.

The queen greeted me with affection and love. In private, one evening, I asked how she truly did. Her mask dropped, just a little, and I spied the frailty behind her pale, pulled white skin.

“To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it,” she responded quietly. I knew it cost her to be honest with me, and I cherished the trust she’d placed in me.

• • •

The year 1580 started off with more difficulties and dark concerns; the papal secretary of state had been asked if it would be a sin for someone to murder Queen Elizabeth. After discussing it with the pope, he answered, “Since that guilty woman of England rules over two such noble kingdoms of Christendom and is the cause of so much injury to the Catholic faith, and loss of so many million souls, there is no doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world with the pious intention of doing service, not only does not sin but gains merit.”

Mary Radcliffe approached me one afternoon as we were attending to the queen’s jewelry. “Whilst you were away, a new pamphlet was published, and a copy of it found here at court,” she said. “In it, the ladies attending upon Her Majesty are urged to follow the example of Judith, and execute Her Majesty for the good of the Catholic faith.”

Whoever wrote this must have known that the queen often slept under an eight-piece tapestry set of Judith and Holofernes. I shook my head. “Like Eleanor,” I said quietly. “Where did you hear of this?”

“Walsingham,” she said. “He wanted me to be aware.” She looked at me for but a moment longer before turning away. I knew she trusted me; had I wanted to poison the queen I could have done it with the ointments or dipped her dress pins. Perhaps there was nothing at all behind the look. It was hard to tell.

Once the French marriage proposal was dead, the English returned to the love and adoration of their queen. Although they now understood, perhaps like my very own revelation, that the queen was flesh as well as spirit, most certainly did not want Mary, Queen of Scots, upon the throne.

In September, Thomas’s great friend Francis Drake returned from the New World on his ship the Golden Hind. He had claimed new land for the queen and brought her back many novel and enjoyable tokens. After mooring his ship and securing it with booty and bounty aboard, he came to court to celebrate his victory.

“We welcome you!” the queen called to him as she raised him from his knees. He bent to kiss her ring and I daresay by the dip of her head that she was inclined to tickle his chin.

She spent six hours closeted with him, learning of his adventures, enjoying with a loud cry of delight the coconut he brought back for her. He cracked one open and personally served her some flesh and juice before asking if her confectioners could sugar the rest for her pleasure.

“Yes, all but one,” she said, hanging on to one of the large, coarsely clothed fruits. “I shall have a silver cup fashioned in which this shall repose, in a place of honor, in my palace. It will remind all who see it of your exploits, Francis.”

He grinned the devilishly charming smile of a pirate. “I do not want any to reflect upon me, Majesty. But if looking upon such a fruit can remind them that you, and your realm, have begun to dominate the world at large, yanking false claims from the Spaniards, then I am well pleased indeed!”

There had been some question as to whether Her Majesty, now that she had no shield in the French, should keep the booty stolen from the Spanish, but in the end, she kept it, as I knew she would. Francis Drake was made a wealthy man indeed and was knighted by the queen forthwith upon his ship.

Thomas and I profited, too, as investors. But late one night in bed, after we’d made love, he did not rest in the comfortable glow of marriage.

“What is it, Thomas?” I asked, stroking his cheek.

“I am well pleased for Drake,” he said. “And yet I am restless; he is now knighted while I am not. I seek to serve Her Majesty well in all I do, whether it be at home, abroad, or the regular forfeiting of the companionship of my wife.” I heard the notes of anger and restiveness in his voice, unusual for him.

“She may say nothing,” I reassured him, “but she sees. Cecil has said that the queen’s share of the bounty on the Golden Hind was more than the crown earned in a typical year throughout all other endeavors. She can hardly ignore that.”

“Not that I want her to,” he said. “But it’s a shame if sure-and-steady service, though it be quiet, should be ignored.” He kissed me on the lips before turning to sleep, but he seemed disquieted and perhaps overthoughtful. I tried to restart the conversation the next day, but he waved it away and turned the topic. There was nothing for me to do but comply.

Some months later our second daughter was born. We named her Frances after our friend, Drake.