Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

EIGHTEEN

Year of Our Lord 1585

Windsor Castle

The Palace of Whitehall

I settled back into my responsibilities at court, taking charge over the queen’s extensive jewelry and wardrobe, and controlling the ingress and egress of visitors who wished a word with her or to present her with a request.

Dear Blanche also had complete access to the queen at all hours of the day, but she was growing old, had difficulty seeing and walking. She spent her days assisting with letter writing and teasingly telling fortunes of the maids sitting about waiting for something to do for Her Majesty.

It was Blanche who delivered the news that the representative from the Scots’ court had arrived, and also that there was, on his way and riding hard, a representative from Mary, Queen of Scots. I tended the queen’s songbirds and thought how very much like them she was, in a gilded, jeweled cage, pretty as could be, but free to fly only within feet all round her.

The queen saw the Scotsman immediately.

“Your Grace,” he said. “I come on behalf of my king, James. He wanted to ensure that you know that his mother, Mary, who is under your care, had written to him of late, seeking to quietly ally herself with him against Your Grace. He wrote to her that he would in no way go against yourself and told her that even if he had the will to, he’d be a fool to align himself with one who was, as he’d put it, a captive in the desert.”

“Come, come,” the queen said to the envoy. She indicated for me to bring him some mead, which she preferred, though she drank sparingly, some cheese, and spiced wafers. “You must have ridden hard.”

He nodded. “Indeed. My king instructed me to have a care to arrive as quickly as possible so you should not doubt his fidelity toward you.”

“You may return to him with full assurance of my trust and affections,” she said. “And now, I will have a chamber prepared for you to repose in for some hours.”

Within days came a letter from Mary herself that Cecil purported to read to her before her council. The queen had us gown her in a splendid outfit and place many jewels upon her neck, fingers, and ears though it were daytime, and then she went to meet her councilors in private.

With the chamber doors open, we could hear her shout from down the hallway.

“So she says she shall find enough of heirs who will have talons strong enough to grasp what I may put in their hand, will she? What has she put in his hand? The head of his father? The instructions of a murderess? Her head should have been separated from her shoulders long ago.”

Anne Dudley and I looked at one another. “Has Mary gone mad?” I asked.

“Yes, a long time since,” she replied.

Within a few more minutes we could hear the queen’s voice again; it rose high against the quiet rumble of her council.

“And yet she says that I need not fear for my life on her behalf, because”—there was a pause, perhaps so she could pick up the letter again—“ ‘as to any fear or apprehensions of such like accident, I would not take a single step, or say a single word more or less; for I had rather die and perish, with the honors such as it pleased God I was born to, than by pusillanimity to disgrace my life by prolonging it by anything unjust and unworthy of myself and my race.’ ”

Something hit the table, either the queen’s hand, the letter, or both. “Indeed, dear sister, we find it strange that you should make such a claim as you have already proven that you are not only capable of devising such a plot but in marshaling others to assist you in carrying it out!”

She slammed shut the chamber door at that, but we soon found out that Elizabeth had appointed a new caretaker for Mary, a fanatical Puritan named Amias Paulet, who was unlikely to be charmed by Mary’s pretty accent or winning manner.

And just like that, the queen turned that week from pain to pleasure at the knighting of Walter Raleigh. Afterward, the queen threw a banquet to celebrate his achievements, at home and abroad. The newly dubbed Sir Walter had insisted that Her Majesty need not open her purse strings for entertainment; he himself would provide them.

The queen, and we all, were intrigued. I took pity upon Sofia and brought her to court for the entertainment.

“Your chambers are so near the queen!” she exclaimed. We were at Windsor Castle; I do not think she had ever been there, an impressive and imposing structure high upon the hill. And ’twas true that my apartments were much closer to Her Majesty’s here than at Whitehall.

Clemence was still in attendance upon me, but I also had three other serving women who cared for my personal belongings, my horse, and my person while at court, plus my secretary. I assigned one of the serving women to Sofia, but Clemence asked me if she might serve Sofia instead.

“Of course, Clemence,” I said. I must have indicated my confusion.

“It’s not that I don’t want to serve you, ma’am. It’s just that, well, perhaps it’s better if I’m the one keeping an eye on Lady Sofia. I tend to do that when we’re at home at Sheen, too.”

I nodded. Sofia looked elegant and alluring in the dark green gown she’d selected to wear, and I loaned her an emerald necklace that William had given to me.

“Does Thomas mind?” she asked.

I looked at her in the reflection of my looking glass as my lady maid did my hair. “Does my husband mind what?”

“That he is so much more lowly placed, that you have more income, that you were once married to a man with much more money and of a higher rank?”

I gave her a stern, cold look for her impertinence, but I was not about to upbraid her in front of the servants, for their comfort, not hers.

We ate first; it was a longish affair with many courses, and included potatoes, which Sir Walter had provided from his journeys. When daubed with butter and salted they tasted strange, but not bad. I was seated near the queen and while she was taken with and focused on her new knight, she did glance up several times to see Sofia fairly chasing Essex.

Milde makter.

Some moments later, Lord Robert, who I am sure had grander plans for his stepson than my cousin, steered Essex toward another table. I looked at the queen and cast down my eyes in apology.

We made our way to the grand hall; the musicians were already playing and Sofia was dancing, thankfully not with Essex. I sat next to Mary Radcliffe and we caught up on court gossip, of which she was fond, and the conversation turned, as it often did among her ladies, to the queen’s safety.

“I feel that perhaps her enemies will take a respite from advancing their evils,” Mary said with some relief.

“Why?” I asked.

“Paulet will not be simple to charm, and he is wise as a serpent. Getting correspondence through his hands will be like breaching Windsor.”

“I doubt not the ability of evil to find a path wherever it so desires,” I said.

“Other than Queen Mary’s letter to her son, which is, I suppose, understandable, there has been no other cause for concern since Throckmorton,” she said. “It has been relatively silent.”

“One swallow does not make a summer,” I said. “And perhaps the caged bird will take greater risks than he who may fly free.”

Soon thereafter the music drew to a close and Raleigh drew near to the queen’s throne. “Majesty!” he proclaimed. “You have seen the strange weed tabaco I bring back from the New World.”

“Indeed, we have.”

“I have, among my talents, the ability to weigh the smoke from this weed.”

“Begone!” She laughed. “I shall wager with you, Sir Walter. Twenty pounds if you can do so, and if you cannot, you owe me twice that amount as a penalty for the boast!”

Raleigh called forth one of his men, who handed over a leather pouch and a set of weighted scales. He tapped some tabaco onto the scales and weighed it. Then he withdrew his pipe and, after stuffing some of the tabaco into it, he lit it and smoked, curls of aroma swirling through the air. He wiped the withdrawing end of the pipe with a fresh linen, then handed it to Elizabeth to smoke. All held their breath, wondering, perhaps, if she would choke or otherwise be taken ill by it. We needn’t have worried. She drew in a smooth breath, and, with some relish, blew out the smoke in a thin, feminine stream before handing the pipe back to Sir Walter.

The court burst into applause.

After five minutes, Raleigh finished smoking and called forth the scales again. He tapped the ash onto the scales, subtracted it from the amount he’d put in, and then pronounced how much the smoke had weighed.

“And, Your Grace, I can, therefore, weigh smoke.”

She shrugged teasingly and said she owed him £20.

“May I suggest another forfeit?” he asked.

“Proceed,” she replied.

“I suggest that we name the land from which this delightful weed is harvested Virginia, in honor of history’s most beautiful, and virgin, queen. May I have your permission?”

She looked down, truly stunned, I think. All thought because she spoke and struck boldly that she could not be taken by surprise. Though she was used to and even courted well-mannered compliments, she was still surprised by displays of genuine affection for her person.

“Yes, Sir Walter, you have my permission.” Tears welled in her eyes. Few knew that retaining that virginity for the good of the realm had been charged to the account of her heart. It was a noble, apt gesture. She would not have a child named after her, but because she encouraged and launched her subjects in exploration, and not merely war as did many monarchs before and beside her, she would have new lands named for her.

He then presented some gifts to her from his journeys and travels, which she had encouraged and underwritten. Among them was a large basket of potatoes. “They are of an oblong shape, with a curious skin like burnt parchment, and truth be told, they smelled as such when baked and served,” he said. All nodded; we’d noticed that when they had been served that night. “When broken open and served,” he said, “they have a delicious soft flesh. And that is why”—he finished with a flourish—“they are said to encourage passion among those who partake of them.”

“Sir Walter!” The queen stood with feigned indignance. “And you have instructed my cooks to prepare them for the whole court this eve?”

“Alas,” he said, his head hanging, an earring looped through one ear. “It is true. Though if I could have instructed them to be served only to the ladies present, without drawing undue attention, I would have!”

“Well, then,” she said, waving toward the musicians. “Play on. But we warn you—there shall be no immodest liberties taken at our court!” She bade us dance, and we did, with relish.

I did not dance as often as I usually did, missing Thomas, I supposed. Sir Walter, though he was the guest of honor, took a moment to come and speak with me. “Pining?” he asked.

“Mayhap,” I admitted. “Thomas will be sore vexed that he missed this evening’s entertainment. You are wonderful to watch and behold.”

“I am sorry he cannot be here with us, too,” he said. He bent and kissed my hand and, before leaving me to rejoin Bess Throckmorton, he pressed something into my hand.

I looked at it. It was a small potato he’d withdrawn from his leather pouch.

“A gift for you to share with your husband when he returns,” he said with a mischievous grin.

I blushed and stammered out a thanks, which made him laugh all the more. I could not let him best me. “Perhaps I shall plant this, so many potatoes may grow, rather than consume it in one eating!”

“Touché,” he said with a gallant bow.

That night, I dismissed the servants and called Sofia to my side. “I am well pleased to have you here,” I began. “I know you took a large risk in coming to England, and no one understands more than I how difficult that can be.”

She nodded. “I . . . I am a bit lonely,” she said.

And when I thought upon it, I understood that she was, perhaps, even lonelier than I had been, as she was so rarely at court and there were but few at my house to entertain her but the governesses and the children. “Do you want to marry?” I asked her.

“Oh, oh, yes!” she said. “Perhaps Essex?”

I firmly shook my head. “Essex is out of the question.”

“But for you, a marquess was not out of the question!”

“He sought me, not I him,” I said gently.

“And yet the queen, she intervened on your behalf?” she persisted.

“For William,” I said, though that was not strictly true. I had developed the bud of a friendship with Elizabeth by then, but Sofia was not the kind of woman she was drawn to in friendship; the queen enjoyed wit and charm in all of her courtiers but her true friends had a softness of spirit and, in some ways, a motherliness. We women are most often drawn to our opposites as friends. Perhaps they foil us, complete us.

“I can help you,” I said, “find a good squire, a good man, a man with means.”

“But no noble?” she pled.

“No,” I said. “That I cannot help you with.”

“That you will not help me with,” she insisted, and at that, I grew tired. I stood and dismissed her.

“Good eve, Sofia.”

She said nothing, but turned her back and went to the small chamber I’d assigned to her and then firmly closed the door.

• • •

I had hoped to have a respite of time with my husband, even if it were at court, after summer Progress, and had mentioned it to the queen.

“I had thought to send him to the Netherlands, as an envoy to Robert,” she said. “I want someone I know I can trust to deliver sensitive material—and to report back to me, in all truth, how Leicester does.”

The queen had finally decided to outright support the Netherlands as they sought freedom from their mutual foe, Spain. Where she had spent years, perhaps, her enemies might say, dithering and vexing herself about whether or not she would upset her powerful enemies, she had of late begun to strike with more courage and daring, leaning upon her council, of course, but mainly upon her own best judgment.

“Do you want to go?” I asked Thomas one night as we dined together, alone. “I shall miss your company.”

“Do I have a choice?” he asked, his voice weary. “And we so rarely keep company together that I sense we have grown more accustomed to being apart than together. And yet, I am pleased that the queen honors me thusly. It’s a mark of high esteem to send me to Leicester.”

I had made a gift of the potato to him at an earlier meal and, while he had seemed charmed at the intention, it had not wrought the desired effect.

I went to bed alone and shed quiet tears for the truth that my husband had spoken. We were as comfortable, or perhaps more so, apart than together. I could not warm the linens that night and a steady rain cried down the window panes.

Shortly before he left, the queen awarded to us, jointly, the Manor of St. Ives, Hemingford Grey, and Hemingford Abbots, along with Houghton-with-Wyton and all their incomes. As typical, the reversion of properties and rents, when called, went back to the queen and not to our heirs.

I helped Thomas pack and sent special instructions with his servants to make sure that he ate well, as he seemed tired and weary of service. After he left, I wished that I had included a personal note of some kind in his bags. Truthfully, I’d been too busy to write one had I thought of it earlier.

After he left, I decided to look through his chests and coffers so that I might make an effort to mend any of his clothing while he was away. It wasn’t that our seamstresses or tailors couldn’t do it, it was more that I knew he would appreciate the touch of my own hand on his clothing, particularly his ruffs. I pulled open some drawers and took two or three garments in hand. In the fourth drawer, closest to the floor, of one of his chests there was a jewel case, and within the case nested a ring I had not seen before.

It was gold, but all round it were fastened small jet beads. I sat upon the floor for a moment, wondering where I’d seen such a ring before, as I knew I had. I prayed and asked the Lord to bring it to mind and memory. Of a sudden, I could see Thomas’s cousin John Gorges wearing the ring at a weekend’s stay with us. He, too, wore the expensive leathers I’d seen on Thomas.

I heard footsteps coming down the hall and quickly snapped shut the case and stood.

“Are you well, Cousin?” Sofia asked me as I steadied myself.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I am looking after Thomas’s mending.” I curled my fist around the ring case, covering it with my hand, but I knew she had seen it. I don’t know why I felt the need to hide it from her. But I did.

One afternoon as I sat in my chamber sewing with Mary Radcliffe, I decided to ask her what it was. She trusted me, and I her. I had taken it from the box and put it on a nearby table.

“Do you recognize this ring?” I asked her. She set down her linen work and took it in hand.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, and looked at me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“I found it in the great hall,” I said, unhappy with the lie. “It’s so unusual, I thought I should seek its owner and return it to him.”

Mary shook her head and handed it back to me with as much revulsion as if it were a viper. “It’s a recusant’s ring.”

“A . . . what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“A Rosary ring. As Rosary beads are banned, recusants wear these rings privately so they may keep count as they recite the Rosary,” she said. “I suggest you give it to Walsingham. It is not cheaply made. Whoever owns this ring has rank, and money, and is a traitor.”

“I shall, indeed,” I said, casually setting the ring back upon the table. I tried to pick my needlework back up, but my hand trembled so that I could not control the stitches. Without a doubt, Mary noticed, too.

• • •

That autumn, Parliament met, though they did not often do so during Elizabeth’s reign. Before they sat, a group of loyal Catholic nobles and gentry appeared before the queen with a signed petition to assure her that they owed their loyalty to her and denying that the pope had any right to authorize regicide, which they declared to be “false, devilish, and abominable.” Elizabeth received them graciously and said that she in no way questioned their loyalty, and reiterated that she had no wish to make windows into men’s souls. “A clear and innocent conscience fears nothing,” she reassured them. “There is only one Christ, Jesus, one faith. All else is a dispute over trifles.”

’Twas not the first time, nor, I was certain, would it be the last, that I basked in the honor and privilege of giving my life’s service to such a monarch.

However, Parliament’s members made it clear that they felt very differently. They spent their sitting season closing up, among other items, holes in the recusancy laws. If an alleged recusant were able to avoid being served a summons, a notice was posted on the church door requiring him to show up in court. If he failed to show in court, fines were levied against him again and again, and his lands and monies could be forfeited, up to two-thirds of all he owned.

Additionally, anyone at all might be required to swear the Oath of Supremacy, declaring that the pope had no spiritual authority in England. Peers were assumed to concur, though others may be required to prove their agreement at any time, and peers were not exempt from protecting any known recusant.

I sweat a cold sheen. I, of course, was a peer. Thomas was not.