Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

FIFTEEN

Year of Our Lord 1582

The Palace of Whitehall

Blackfriars

Windsor Castle

In the spring of 1582 we entertained Thomas’s relations, many of whom were in town on court business, and some who simply desired to visit the markets of London, very near our home in Blackfriars. I said a quick prayer for my own family, and my mother in particular, as I tucked my locket under my gown. Perhaps now that the waters were mostly clear of Danes I could write to her more regularly and expect to hear something, anything, in return. Even though our home was small, we still had a staff of nearly twenty-five to assist us. I went to my children’s chambers and spoke with them before our guests arrived. They wanted me to stay and tell stories but I could not. I was as disappointed as their little faces showed them to be.

Elizabeth was, as usual, playing with her dolls, lining them up and speaking to them in an authoritative tone of voice. Francis, who worshipped her, toddled nearby, while little Frances slept under the watchful gaze of the baby nurse. I kissed Francis on the head, and he felt warm to me. “Has Francis been unwell?” I asked the nurse.

“No, ma’am, he has not, though he’s been a wee bit tired. I shall watch after him,” she said. There was no need to ask after Elizabeth; she was always ruddy and solid.

I made my way down to the great hall. The smell of roasting lamb filled the air, as did the aroma of the warm breads made of fine white wheat and the crisp scent of the parchment in which our fish had been baked. And then our guests arrived.

“Lady Gorges,” Thomas’s cousin John greeted me; John was often the first to arrive and last to leave. Thomas beamed; at court I was always the good lady marquess or the Marchioness of Northampton, but here at Blackfriars I was Lady Gorges.

Some of Thomas’s Poyntz relatives, on his mother’s side, came, too, and all told there were perhaps thirty people dining with us. I’d arranged for musicians to play from the upper choir level to soothe and entertain us as we ate. Toward the end of the evening the talk turned, as it almost always did, to court.

“I hear that Parliament has just passed a law that anyone who converts to Catholicism, or induces another to do so, faces charges of treason,” one of Thomas’s cousins said.

Thomas’s brother William, a staunch supporter of the queen, disagreed. “That’s only for those who withdraw their loyalty from Her Majesty, and surely, that would be cause for treason no matter what the cause.”

“Then how be it treasonous to attend mass, for which the penalty is a weighty one hundred marks?” another Gorges cousin chimed in. “And if you don’t attend the Protestant church, why, that’s a burdensome twenty pounds to the crown from you. No man can afford that. Seems unlikely they’re all treasonous.”

I recalled a snippet of a letter I’d read in the queen’s library once while searching out a history of the invasion of the Danes so long ago. It quoted the King Richard, second of that name. “This is a strange and fickle land,” he’d written, “which never ceases to be riven and worn down by dissensions and strife and internecine hatreds.”

The comments died away and then were replaced by talk of Drake’s adventure; Thomas brought forth some of the treasures with which Francis had returned home. We had seen little of him in the last year; his beloved Mary had died and he kept mostly to himself and his sailors.

That night, after seeing our guests safely abed and checking on my children, a rare pleasure I was not afforded while I was at court, I went to our bedchamber, where Thomas stood looking out the window upon the dark street.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, love,” he said.

I thought that perhaps he was disturbed by the distressing conversation at dinner. “Your cousin John is a Catholic, isn’t he?” I blurted. Then I wished I could take it back, because in truth, I did not want to know.

But Thomas nodded. “Yes, yes, he is. So are some others in my family, even in my mother’s family, the Poyntzes.”

I sat down on the bed. “How can that be?”

He came next to me and took my hand in his. “It’s an untidy business in this realm, Elin. We were to be Catholic, and then not, and then so, and then not. Neither king nor queen can command what is subject to a man’s own conscience and heart and faith, though they would, if they could.”

I said nothing but looked at his face, still achingly handsome, by the light of the candles near our bedside.

“I want to please you,” he said. “I want you to be proud of me. I am no marquess.”

I gently squeezed his hand. “You joust with a ghost, my lord. I am your wife many times over what I had been to William. I am the mother of your children. I choose you above all others.”

He shrugged and pulled away from me. “And yet, I am still not a knight.”

I did not say that it did not matter, because we both knew it did. I was impatient for a moment, because he held me to account for acting with honor, and I had, from the time of our courting forward, always treated him with honor and respect, too—indeed, with a depth of love I had not developed with William. But I blew out the candles and sought to assure him of my love in the ways that only a wife might.

The next morning, Sunday, he told me to my surprise that he was unwell and could not attend St. Dunstan’s with me and it would be better if I attended alone.

• • •

That summer, our son Edward was born.

“He favors you,” I said, holding him toward Thomas, an offering of love that may come only from a woman to her husband. Thomas came near and kissed my cheek.

“He does indeed; he’s a lovely boy,” Thomas said. “Thank you, Elin.” He held the babe for a while, but though we both wished otherwise, he did not have time to spare, as the queen had just honored Thomas by planning to send him to Sweden. There was no official ambassador, but she wished, in the current political climate, to remain friendly with all Protestant nations. She’d allowed me to retire from court for a week while I helped him prepare.

“I wish I could come with you,” I said.

“I wish you could, too,” he answered. “Do you worry that I shall not represent you, or Her Majesty, well?”

“No, no,” I said, holding him close for a moment. I then disentangled myself. “It’s only that I wish to see my homeland once more. My mother, my sisters, my cousins. The beech trees, the small strawberries . . .”

“I should capture all of them for you, if I could, and return with them.” Thomas was beyond enthusiastic. “I shall comport myself well,” he said, reassuring himself, I knew, and not me.

I laughed. “You shall indeed, was there ever a question? But beware; there are still debts outstanding from Princess Cecelia, and Johan, who was duke when he came here but is king now.”

“Yes, indeed, I know,” he said. He practiced some Swedish and German phrases with me, and our young Elizabeth came dancing into the room and corrected his pronunciation while shushing baby Edward, whom I reluctantly handed over to his nurse.

“I see how it is,” Thomas declared, tickling Elizabeth’s chin. “This young lass is going to correct her father’s speech!”

“I shan’t want you to say it incorrectly!” she insisted.

He turned her upside down and then sent her on her way.

“Me, too!” Francis raised his hands toward his father. Thomas, aware of Francis’s delicate nature, tipped him upside down more carefully and then sent him gently on his way.

I saw Thomas off, watching him ride away until I could not see him on the horizon any longer and wiped tears away from my face. More often than not, it seemed, he was riding away from and not toward me.

I returned to court, where I was pleased that Her Majesty was negotiating in favor of the marriage of Francis Knollys’s son to the rich daughter of Lady Rivett. The lady and young gentleman in question desired to marry out of love, and one might have expected the queen to oppose such a match. But, perhaps out of affection for Sir Francis and loyalty to the long-dead Lady Knollys, the queen intervened on behalf of the young lovers. Perhaps, too, it was a way to pay penance for the banishment from court, forever, of Sir Francis’s daughter the she-wolf.

Illness came to London, and we were all gladdened when it passed by queen and court. However, Clemence came to get me early one morning, while it was still dark. “Lady Northampton,” she called, knocking on my door. “Come quickly. It’s Francis.”

I was only partially awake and did not know of whom she spoke—Sir Francis Knollys? Francis Walsingham? Then it occurred to me that she would not refer to either man by his first name but that she spoke, instead, of my son.

We raced through the dark on horseback with a brace of my servants, but by the time we arrived my poor Francis was gone. His small, gaunt body was laid out on his bed with a thin white sheet covering him; his eyes, their lids darkened, had been closed. His soul was already with the Lord Jesus. That brought me some comfort, as did the continuing health of my other children.

I dismissed everyone from the room and wept over this fine, sweet boy, whom, I admitted, I barely knew though he had held me in highest love and esteem. I sang to him, quietly, till his body cooled, my heart wrenched within me. When I finally left the room, my young Elizabeth and small Frances took my right and left hands in their own small ones, and while it dulled the pain, nothing could erase it.

I had his coffin prepared, and before the lid was closed and he interred at St. Dunstan’s, I put some of the first lamb’s ears of the season in with him, for gentleness, and wished, for a brief moment, that I could join him.

• • •

The Danes had resolved their conflict with the English and with the Swedes, for now, and so Thomas was able to return home only months after he left. He departed the islands of Stockholm on August 14, stopped in Paris to pick up some dispatches from Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen’s current ambassador to France as well as her spymaster, and then returned home.

I was at court when he arrived; he returned to Blackfriars and then came to see me. I excused myself from service.

“Please, take your leave, my good lady marquess,” Elizabeth said. “We shall see you presently when our good cousin Gorges reports back to us of his trip.” She knew I would want time to mourn young Francis with Thomas.

He was waiting for me in my apartments and I shut the door and then fell into his arms. “Francis . . .” I began, and the tears I’d held back since I buried our son came forth, unbidden.

He stroked my hair; he did not cry, for my sake, I know, but his hand and jaw trembled. “Shhh, there now. I have already been to Blackfriars. The governess informed me.”

We sat together for an hour and mourned our son for some time. Then we spoke of his gentleness and humor and the way he won everyone to him, and the charming antics he played as a toddler, and we laughed, the first I had remembered him with joy since he’d passed away. Later that night, Thomas told me of his trip; I loved hearing of his travels, even when he rode within England. He’d loved Paris—and knew I would, too. He’d brought me back some silk and had been able to carry out some missions for Her Majesty there.

The next day the queen invited us to dine with her, privately, while Thomas recounted his trip.

“I was able to negotiate with King Johan,” he said, “for repayment of many of the debts that are outstanding against your kingdom, Majesty, but to my regret, not all.”

The queen leaned over and patted his hand. “In the letter the king had you deliver to me he commended you in all ways, Cousin, so we are certain that you achieved all that could have been achieved and more.”

“He would like our backing in his war with Russia.” Thomas looked uncomfortable.

“He has as many of our funds as he is likely to acquire,” Elizabeth said shortly. “He may use them as he will.”

Overall, though, she was pleased with Thomas’s service and told him so. I asked for three days’ leave and she agreed, though perhaps a little unwillingly.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said as we rode to Blackfriars.

“A surprise!” I couldn’t wait. When we arrived at our home, my surprise was awaiting me in the greeting chamber, surrounded by my children.

She came forward, and as she did, I recognized myself ten years earlier. She had the same red-brown hair, same eyes, same fair skin as I did. Her body was as mine, but perhaps more lithe as she had not yet borne children.

I cocked my head. “Sofia?”

“You recognized me!” she exclaimed in German, throwing herself at me and kissing my cheeks time and again. I had not seen her since she was a small girl nearly running off the dock as I’d left Sweden.

Thomas stood behind me, eager for my response. “I knew how you longed for family, and for Sweden, and I thought, what could I better bring to my love than both of those?”

“I hope, I hope you approve?” she asked.

My children, already enchanted, jumped up and down and said, “Ja, ja, ja!” Had she been speaking with them in German in my absence?

“Of course, Cousin,” I said, and then turned to embrace, in gratitude, my pleased husband. I was thrilled to have someone from Sweden here, a friend, my very own family. “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you like.” I turned back and kissed each of her cheeks softly; they smelled, somehow, of home.

“I plan to remain in England, Cousin, as you did!” she said.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “Have you settled into a chamber?”

“Of course. The servants were kind enough to assist me. Oh—and I have a letter from your lady mother.”

At that, I grew truly excited. I had not heard from my mother in some time. Sofia quickly ran to her room and then returned with the letter in hand. “Can I help in any way?” she asked me.

I smiled. “I shall think upon it. Thomas and I will return to court, though we shall both be back and forth from time to time, he more than I. I’ll ask the governess to assist you in finding an English tutor to work with every day, and when the time is right, you can come to court, too.”

She leaned over and kissed me. “Thank you, dearest Elin.”

I wasn’t sure why my given name grated on my ears from her tongue. “Here in England, I am known as Helena,” I said.

“But Thomas . . .” she began.

“Thomas is different,” I said firmly, then reached over and embraced her. “Welcome to our home.”

I retired to my room and read the letter from my mother over and over again, rubbing my hand upon the page, which I knew her hand had touched, too. In it she asked after me and my family, told me she prayed daily for my well-being and that of my children. “Your Thomas is magnificent,” she said. “All here were taken with him and it is clear that he is well read, well spoken, and well looked after! I daresay that Christina Abrahamsdotter was brimming with envy, as her husband is fat and old. Bridget ensured that Thomas knew whom to speak with and when, and translated from English to German when Latin wouldn’t do.”

Dear Bridget. I had a sudden pang, an uncharitable thought, wishing that Thomas had returned with Bridget and not Sofia. I repented of it; I had expressed my wish to him to see my family, and now he had provided it for me.

My mother concluded her letter by proclaiming her love for me over and over, then begging me to take care of Sofia, her sister’s daughter, my cousin.

I would have, of course, even if she hadn’t asked me to.

Thomas and I spent those three days playing with our children, listening to Sofia’s stories, making love, and practicing the few Swedish words he had learned, which made me laugh when he spoke them, whereupon he began to laugh, too.

• • •

The queen held a banquet in honor of Thomas’s successful journey to and from Sweden; she was always festive when monies were earned or recovered, or saved. The court musicians played German compositions in addition to her usual Italian and English pieces.

“Thank you, Majesty,” I said after she had completed a dance and was watching others. “Thomas is blessed by your trust and attention, and I am, too.”

“My good lady marquess, I am always pleased to laud my servants . . . and friends,” she finished with a smile. She put her hand upon my arm. “Helena, who is yon woman?” She nodded toward Sofia, who, new to court, was at the center of a group of male courtiers, young and old. Her English was good and getting better each day.

“That is my cousin,” I said. “She came back with Thomas, hoping for a better life in England, as I’d found.”

“And perhaps a husband, too, as you’d found. We see that she is busily assaying the selection,” the queen said, not with malice, but perhaps with a note of caution. I watched as Sofia charmed the men around her. “She favors you,” the queen said.

“Without the fat that bearing babies brings,” I agreed, pinching a small amount on my still comely white hands. At that, the queen laughed.

That June we spent at Windsor Castle, I on constant attendance of the queen, Thomas sometimes at Windsor, sometimes at Blackfriars, sometimes on commission for the queen. We spent an odd day together now and then, mainly discussing the business of our family or our children, or making plans for the weeks and months ahead, but he was often sent on the queen’s business and I was always in service. I sorrowed that there was little time for sharing walks and promised myself that, as soon as time permitted, we would bow hunt together again.

The queen loved Windsor with its mirrored ceilings and walls, its pretty-smelling privies, and the sense of security being ensconced in a fortress brought. As for me, I loved harvesting its gardens.

There was never a moment of rest from the Scots’ ferment. Thomas and I had discussed in the preceding months and years the possibility that Walsingham saw shadows and specters where perhaps none existed. One night, during a rare dinner alone, he shared with me that perhaps Walsingham’s fears weren’t unfounded. “I listened to what the man had to say when I was in Paris for Her Majesty,” he said. “And there are those surrounding the queen on all levels, and seeded into all corner of the realm, who would do her harm.”

I mentioned to him the book that Mary Radcliffe had brought up to me, urging the queen’s ladies to murder her. Thomas grew quiet but said nothing, simply nodding. “And I’ve heard that a wandering priest, disguised as a man who draws teeth for replacement, has been stopped by Walsingham’s men. He was set free but his bag was seized, and in it, concealed amongst his equipment, were letters from those plotting with Mary against the queen.”

“Will she never learn?” I asked.

“There’s naught that says she’s initiating these plots,” Thomas warned me.

I hadn’t expected that; I had thought to hear his concerns echo my own. “Whence did you learn of this?” I asked.

“From one of my Gorges cousins,” he said. “And now, Lady Gorges, we shall finish our dinner and retire to a night alone.”

I savored it, as we had so few days or nights together of late. I lay abed long after Thomas was asleep, though, my mind unquiet with thoughts of my children and their governess, whom I no longer wanted to engage but had not yet had time to find a replacement for, and Scotland.

• • •

I walked with the queen, just the two of us, trailed by some other of her maids and two ladies, the next morning in the rose gardens of Windsor. “Do you find what you need, Helena?” she asked me as I unlinked from her arm to snip some roses.

“I found some, Majesty. The gardens are not so lush as those at Richmond, but I shall find enough ripe roses that I may blend a linen water for your bedchamber and my own!” I said, snipping some longish stems and placing them into the basket I carried alongside.

The sun was out and the day grew warm so we soon returned to the queen’s Privy Chamber, where she would attend to the day’s paperwork from her council. I set the basket down near the marble table I’d work upon; Anne Dudley helped the queen into a more comfortable gown in which to work and then withdrew to arrange for the week’s wardrobe to be requisitioned from the wardrobe stores at the Tower.

I arranged a small posy of rosebuds, both red blooms and white, to recognize Her Majesty’s royal heritage, in a glass vase and placed it near where the queen worked so she could enjoy the scent throughout the day. I glanced at the paperwork before her; ’twas from the ambassador of Scotland. “Thomas tells me they have caught a priest-spy from Scotland,” I said. “And that your Tudor cousin foments against you once again.”

“Thomas is particularly well informed for his position,” the queen said.

“We are all concerned for your well-being, Majesty,” I said. I slipped one more rose into her Tudor arrangement but had, apparently, neglected to snip off a thorn and it broke my flesh and I began to bleed.

“And I for yours. Be careful,” Elizabeth said as she turned back to her dispatches. “Roses have thorns.”