Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

TWO

September, October, and November: Year of Our Lord 1565

Dover, England

Bedford House, London

The Palace of Whitehall, London

November: Year of Our Lord 1565

The Palace of Whitehall

A small party awaited us, splendidly dressed and accompanied by the finest horseflesh I had ever seen. I was anxious to make a good impression on the English; I hoped that they liked us and would welcome the princess as a royal sister. The princess disembarked from the ship first, all health and cheer as one might expect after her fine diet and warm clothing. She and the margrave were shown the honor and welcome befitting their royal status. We ladies stood to the side so as to give the princess precedence, but it soon became clear that something was amiss.

Christina Abrahamsdotter moved forward and then came back to tell Bridget and me, “A bee is harrying the princess.”

The princess was deathly afraid of bees, having been stung by a small swarm of them as a child. Her husband must not have known this, as he stood to the side looking chagrined. The princess continued to bat the air around her and cry out in a most undignified manner. “Hilfe!” she shouted, her belly making it hard for her to move away. “Help!” she tried in English.

Perhaps the Englishmen were unaware of the bee and simply saw her batting the air. Perhaps her brother Erik’s reputation as an unbalanced man had preceded her. But they stood still, which I thought very unchivalrous indeed for a country that prided itself otherwise.

I stepped forward impatiently, stood next to my lady, and when the bee hovered close, I clasped both hands around it. The margrave hurried his wife away just as the bee slipped its needle deep into the soft flesh of my palm. I said nothing, but grimaced. The other ladies ran to help Cecelia, as was proper. I unclasped my hand and let the bee fall away while my hand swelled in anger.

As I turned I noticed a tall, elegant man standing next to me. By his dress, his manners, and his silver-marked horse, he was clearly the highest-ranked gentleman present.

“Marquess of Northampton, my lady,” he said, bowing. He offered his arm, which I took with pleasure, drew me near, and to the astonishment of both English and Swedes, escorted me to the litters that awaited. Perhaps chivalry yet lived among the English.

“Elin Ulfsdotter,” I said, using my Swedish patronym first, as a good daughter would. “Lady Elin von Snakenborg,” I concluded, because my heritage was noble and I was proud of that, too.

He held my gaze, not overlong, but much longer than with any of the other ladies in waiting to whom he was introduced, and I blushed. Bridget smiled at me behind his back and, though weary from the journey, I felt it was a bright spot and a warm welcome and I smiled at her, and at him.

The Marquess of Northampton, or Lord Northampton, was not only the highest-ranking man in our welcoming party but one of the highest-ranking men in all of England. Princess Cecelia soon found this out and made it her business to be most attentive to him as he journeyed with us to Bedford House in London, where we would stay. The queen had sent some of her own hangings and tapestry for our warmth and pleasure, and they were rich indeed. I enjoyed needlework and marveled at the tiny stitches that joined so tightly as to almost be painted.

“Are you well?” A warm woman with a long brown gown came to me and made inquiries.

“Yes, my lady,” I said.

“Call upon me, Lady Sussex, or my husband, Lord Thomas, if you or the princess should need anything,” she said. I dipped a short curtsey and thanked her for her kindness. Aside from Lady Sussex, none of the other women had spoken to us at all, and when they did, they used loud, slow voices, though we assured them we understood English. It was disheartening, as we had come to offer warm friendship but found cool acceptance and reserve except for the Sussexes and our hosts, Lord and Lady Bedford. Within days, the queen herself came, from the Palace of Whitehall, one of her many royal residences.

Princess Cecelia had dressed for the occasion in a black velvet robe with a mantle of black and silver; a costly gold crown graced her blonde head. She looked magnificent. We ladies wore crimson taffeta that shone in the candlelight and rustled quietly as we walked. Although she was regal, our princess had not been trained by my mother and therefore was not given to withholding her emotions. As Queen Elizabeth approached, Cecelia reached forward, full body notwithstanding, and gave her a long embrace. The queen seemed genuinely moved by it and indicated by word and motion that they should retire to Cecelia’s receiving chamber.

I stood close enough to attend my lady when she required, but not near enough to overhear their conversation, which left me able to observe. The queen was splendid beyond what anyone had imagined—she smiled often, and when she did, there were tiny wrinkles upon the corners of her black eyes, like the splaying of a fine paintbrush. Her skin was poured silver—no, rather moonlight, because it was ethereal. And yet there was no question of the power that rested completely in her hands, sheathed by pretty gloves. At age thirty-two she was nearly thirteen years older than I, and seven years Princess Cecelia’s senior, but looked no older than Cecelia whatsoever.

We were all taken with the queen, with the exception, perhaps, of the margrave; he had noticeably slipped away. He’d once been proposed as a suitor for Queen Elizabeth. I wondered, at this rich court, if he felt that he’d settled for less than he should have.

“Do you find your quarters comfortable, Lady Elin?” A voice came up from behind me, and I saw that it was the marquess. His hair was silver but carefully groomed. He smelled faintly of pine; perhaps he scented his wash water with marjoram. All Swedish ladies learned to work with herbs so ’twas easy for me to recognize.

“Very, Lord Northampton,” I said, comfortable and safe in his presence, honored to have been singled out by him. “Lord Bedford and his wife have made us exceedingly welcome, and I know my mistress is overjoyed to meet yours after these many years.”

“The queen shared how pleased she is to have Princess Cecelia, and her entire retinue, here,” Lord Northampton said. “Come, will you accompany me at a walk in the garden? The countess has an exceptionally lovely autumn display.”

I looked at my mistress, who nodded her permission, and I gladly slipped away. As I did, I noticed Bridget smiling in my direction, but the other ladies in waiting, and quite a few of the English ladies, frowned. I tucked my hand into Lord Northampton’s proffered elbow and tried to ignore them. As we walked through the gardens, I asked him how long he had known the queen.

“Nearly all her life,” he said. “My sister Kateryn was the sixth and final wife of Her Majesty’s father, King Henry, whom I also served.” I tried to hide a smile, but Lord Northampton caught it and smiled with me. “I see that you know of our king,” he said.

“Somewhat,” I answered with a teasing smile. I wasn’t going to cast the first stone on behalf of Sweden’s royal family, with its own checkered past.

“I next served the queen’s brother Edward, when he was king, as Lord Chamberlain and Master of the Hawks. When the queen’s sister, Mary, took the throne, my wife and I were convicted of treason. I was imprisoned in the Tower and sentenced to death, though, as you see, the order was not carried out.”

I laughed. “And it’s a good thing that it was not. Please, continue!”

“Soon came the glorious day Her Majesty became queen. She was returning from the Tower of London when she spied my pitiable self locked up behind one small window. She stopped her palfrey, called out to me, and asked after my health. Her Grace had been especially close to my sister Kateryn and remembered that, and me, when she came into her power. She freed me and restored my titles, to my everlasting thanks and gratitude.”

I smiled, and a cool autumn breeze rustled through the trees, coaxing some of their burlap cupules to the ground. It reminded me, with a pang, of my home, where beech grew freely. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever pitiable. And what of your wife, Lord Northampton?” I asked. “Was she pardoned, too?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “She was a great friend of the Queen’s Majesty as well. Sadly, she died April past after a long illness.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. He seemed like a good man who had sorrow etched on his handsome face, and I felt moved with the desire to lift his countenance if I could.

“And so am I,” he answered. “But that is not talk for a comely lady on a beautiful day. Tell me of Sweden. Is it wild? Are there yet Danes harrying every port?” he teased.

“Indeed there are,” I replied. “They are a pestilence.”

At that he laughed, as I’d intended, which pleased me, and said the English cared little for Danes as well. We sat in the garden and talked of Sweden and of my family, and I spoke to him in French as well, which I had also been tutored in, as our king and his brother Duke Johan had had French tutors along with Latin.

As darkness fell he indicated to me that we should return to the house, as Princess Cecelia would be wondering after me. “I should like to teach you Italian sometime,” he said. “If you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much,” I said, thinking that this was my first happy day in well over a year. “If I see you again.”

“You shall,” he said. “I can promise you that.”

• • •

The very next day the princess began her pains; we ladies rushed to assist, and I prepared a mixture of lady’s bedstraw and applied it to a linen. I held it next to her nose, and as she breathed in, her pain became more tolerable and she quieted enough to calmly deliver of a son, Edward Fortunatus. The name Edward had been chosen for Queen Elizabeth’s brother, the former king, and Fortunatus because he had made it safely through many perils on the journey to England. My duty done, I stood back, pleased, but noted with confusion the querying look the English midwife directed toward me. Was she upset that I had stepped in to help my lady? Surely that was my place. Feeling awkward, I withdrew to my own room.

The queen herself stood as godmother some days later when young Edward was baptized at the Royal Chapel at the Palace of Whitehall. Queen Elizabeth had spared no expense for the child of her Swedish “sister.” The Archbishop of Canterbury, Matthew Parker, blessed the font before the child was brought in by our Bridget. She handed the babe to Lady Margaret Howard, who stood in front of the Earl of Leicester, the queen’s favorite, and the Earl of Sussex, an especially trusted friend of Her Majesty but sworn enemy of Leicester. My Lord Northampton held the towel with which to dry the babe.

“Why the pelicans?” I asked him after the ceremony, nodding to the many fine linens upon which were stitched those delicate birds.

“A pelican is the symbol of self-sacrifice,” he said. “When there is no other food available, she will reach down and with her beak wound her own breast to supply blood for her children to sup on. This is a figure of our Lord and His passion. And also of our queen, who readily sacrifices herself for her realm, England.”

“I learn something new from you each day!” I teased, but it pleased me, the interest he took in me, and I wanted to offer a return. “So now I shall have to try to teach something to you as well.”

I tried to teach him a few words of Swedish, but he could not readily grasp them and, after a moment or two, lost interest, though he was gracious about it. I suspected he found our language guttural. We reverted to smooth French, which was comfortable for both of us, or in the main, English.

That evening, Anne Russell, in whose home we stayed, came to visit with me. We’d become quick friends, and I enjoyed her wit and kindness. So I found it odd, then, when she approached me with hesitation and perhaps a little fear. “The Englishwomen, we’re wondering—what did you give to Princess Cecelia that quelled her birth pangs so readily? I told them I would ask you and share the secret.”

“Lady’s bedstraw,” I said. “Mixed with some other herbs from the north.”

She remained quiet for a moment before shaking her head, and laughed, but uneasily. “Those strange northern herbs seem to have worked . . . wondrously!”

I reached out and squeezed her hand; she was to be married very soon and I suspected that was the seat of her curiosity. “I shall readily assist you when it’s your turn to bear a child if we have not yet returned to Sweden!”

She smiled, but I noted that she did not say she would be happy to have me do so. I sighed a little and wondered if we’d make any friends here at all before we returned home.

Some days later, as my lady was recovering from childbirth, Lord Northampton asked if he might take Bridget and myself to show us his estates in London. “You may,” the princess said, waving her small hand in the air. “But I have sworn to be their mother on this journey, and I’ll expect you to care for them thusly.”

“I shall,” Lord Northampton replied with an easy grace. “The Queen’s Majesty would have it no other way.” He brought around a fine litter with foot warmers and furs, and Bridget and I spent a glorious day at his large estate, waited upon by a dozen servants, eating pheasant and other delicacies as Lord Northampton spoke warmly of England. We passed the hours in charming, pleasant companionship and conversation, and I was sorry to leave his happy home.

That night, in our chamber, Bridget asked me, “Is Lord Northampton wooing you?”

“I do not know,” I said. And then after a minute, I said, “Perhaps. He says I favor his late wife. But he is kind and attentive to me for my own sake, too, I know that as well.”

“What about Philip?” she asked me.

“I do not know,” I said, not wishing to think upon it. For all I knew, he was cozily partnered with my sister. “If things progress, I shall ask our lady what I must do.”

“Do you care for him?” she asked.

“Philip or Lord Northampton?”

“Either . . . both,” she responded.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.” I rolled onto my side to forestall further questions, even from my dearest friend, so I could think, and pray, about what I must do.

• • •

Some weeks later, the margrave and Princess Cecelia held a large, lavish banquet to celebrate the birth of Edward Fortunatus. After the rich meal of nearly one hundred courses, a masked herald arrived in the hall, and as the room hushed, he trumpeted three times and then spoke up. “A messenger has late arrived with tidings from a strange country, with greetings and an invitation for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and the Honorable Princess Cecelia of Sweden.”

The crowd began to clap and all seemed delighted with perhaps the exception of the margrave, who had not, noticeably, been included in the greeting.

A second man strode into the room attired in heavy boots and spurs and knelt before the queen. “In honor of the marriage, next month, of the Earl of Warwick and the Lady Anne Russell, four foreign knights challenge any comers of Your Majesty’s kingdom. Shall this challenge be met?”

A great ripple of laughter, shouts, and cheers went up. Lord Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, called out, “I shall meet these strange comers. Who rides with me?” Many men stood to meet the challenge. Lord Northampton cheered and clapped with the rest of them, but he did not offer to joust.

The queen raised a hand and instantly the room grew quiet. “We heartily thank you, Master Herald, Master Messenger, and we shall be most pleased to look upon these strange knights and the defenders of our realm,” she said. “And we are most pleased to attend the wedding of our dear friend Lord Ambrose and his betrothed, Lady Anne.” She turned to Princess Cecelia. “If that seems right to you, too, my good sister?”

Cecelia nodded and smiled, and then the room burst into cheers again and music echoed throughout the hall. I was instantly chosen to dance, as were Cecelia’s other maids of honor, which pleased us all and brought happy, high color. The night was joyous and festive, and I admit I enjoyed not only the playacting and playfulness of the queen’s court but the pleasant manner of the queen herself.

After some time I noticed Lord Northampton approach Princess Cecelia. I didn’t have to wait long to find out why. She called me into her chamber, alone, the next morning. “Elin,” she said, “sit with me.” She indicated a plush low stool near her feet. “Lord Northampton, the Marquess of Northampton, approached me last eve,” she said. “He said he had fallen in love with one of my ladies. I asked of whom he spoke, though I could but guess. He spoke of you and wished to know if he had any hope of winning your hand.”

“But . . . I am engaged, my lady,” I said, vexed. Even if Philip did not love or desire me, I understood that there had been some arrangement that I could not set aside without permission or a refutation on his part. “To Philip Bonde.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you, indeed?”

“Am I not?” I asked wonderingly. Did she know about the partial dowry, and had it canceled our engagement? Or had news reached her regarding Philip and my sister Karin? Would I want to stay here in England after the others returned home? Worse, perhaps, would be to return home with no dowry and my fiancé in love with my sister.

The margrave came in then, and the princess dismissed me. I would have to wait until she raised the matter again.

• • •

It has been said that every wedding puts a woman in mind of her own nuptials, whether or not they have yet to transpire; therefore we ladies were a happy gaggle. Bedford House was the Russell family home, and we Swedes were particularly fond of the bride. She was of an age with most of us and, in fact, shared my exact day of birth and had her apartments across the hall from Bridget and me. So I felt closer to her, perhaps, than to the other Englishwomen. And of course William’s request to Princess Cecelia for my hand was much on my mind.

One afternoon I helped Anne Russell stitch a rip in her train and asked, “Are you happy to be marrying Lord Ambrose?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course, he’s very kind.”

“Do you . . . do you mind very much that he has been married before?”

She didn’t rebuke me for my impertinence. I think she knew I was airing my concerns about my own potential situation with Lord Northampton.

“No. I believe he loves me, as he loved the others.”

I smiled at her and she smiled back, warmly. In spite of her odd and somewhat unresolved comments regarding the lady’s bedstraw and other herbs, she continued to kindly befriend me. In that, she was alone among the Englishwomen.

Later, we gathered at the Queen’s Great Closet for the wedding of Lady Anne, whom her new husband had nicknamed Amys, to Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, twenty years her senior. We ladies thought it romantic that her husband had a special name for her, and I hoped, for myself, that my own husband would lovingly do likewise. Lady Anne wore a kirtle of silver mixed with blue and a gown of purple embroidered with silver. Upon her fair hair she bore a golden caul, and her train was borne by little Catherine Knollys.

Lord Northampton invited me and my friend Christina Abrahamsdotter to be his guests at his banqueting table, and we gladly agreed. I noted that he was served more quickly, more attentively, and with better dishes than the other guests. His benches were also cushioned. There were some long looks toward me from the others at the table, but soon enough talk reverted to the events of the day, and the week ahead.

“Do you celebrate weddings in Sweden with banquets and jousting?” one woman asked politely.

“We do banquet often,” I replied. “Vadstena Castle has a beautiful and ornate galley called the Wedding Hall. But we hunt and hawk perhaps more than joust.”

“Which is a pity,” Christina said, “as your knights in their armor are compelling to look upon.”

The others at the table laughed and began to speak of other tournaments they had witnessed, arguing the valor of one man over another. I smiled at Christina’s sentiments, heartily agreeing; the jousters were strong and fine-looking, and cast an air of manliness, but I said nothing. Lord Northampton’s gout prevented him from jousting.

“You speak English well,” a young man sitting next to me said. “With a pretty accent.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Danke, or tack—thank you in German and Swedish, too,” I said with a wink.

He grinned and struck me up in another conversation, but soon enough Lord Northampton stood behind my chair. “Would you and Lady Christina like to see the Royal Library?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, and Princess Cecelia nodded her assent. We followed Lord Northampton from the banqueting hall through a long gallery and up a sweep of stairs. At the top of the stairs the gallery led either left or right. We took the right, and as we did, I caught sight of a couple out of the corner of my eye. The man, splendid in purple, was the queen’s handsome favorite and her lifelong love, the Earl of Leicester, also known as Robert Dudley, whom I recognized from the christening.

What would it be like to have a lifelong love? Highborn women did not expect to marry for love, but one had only to read Greek or Roman mythology, or attend a masque or performance at court, to know we all wished we could.

Lord Robert was accompanied by a heavily pregnant, beautiful woman perhaps ten years younger than Her Majesty and looking remarkably like her. It was a tribute to the power of her charm, I supposed, that even while so pregnant she seemed able to enchant Lord Robert.

“Who was that?” I asked Lord Northampton as he led to the library.

“Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester,” he answered.

“Nay, the lady . . . accompanying . . . him.”

“Lady Lettice Devereux,” he answered gruffly. “Sister to the little girl who bore the bride’s train this morn. Cousin to the queen.”

• • •

Two days later we were seated at tournament to watch the jousting. Princess Cecelia sat with the queen, of course, her husband the margrave beside her. The margrave was splendidly dressed in new garments, as was Princess Cecelia, and they had been handing out lavish gifts to our new English friends, which was worrisome and the focus of much discussion among us ladies. The journey had taken many months more than we had anticipated, and gifts and remunerations had to have been paid along the way. I wondered that King Erik had funded his sister so lavishly, especially since any and all talk of a potential marriage between the king and England’s queen had come to naught since our arrival and the idea, for the most part, had quietly died. If she spent all of our money, how would we get home?

Lord Northampton asked me to sit with him, and after ascertaining that this was all right with Princess Cecelia, I happily agreed. There was no need for a chaperone, as we were among all the others, so Lord Northampton did not invite anyone else to accompany us to his viewing area, which was very close to the action. I could have reached out and touched the jousters as they kicked up dust in the arena.

“Some weeks ago I spoke with your princess about my affections for you.”

“Indeed, she mentioned that to me, Lord Northampton.”

“Please, call me William,” he said, smiling. His smile, as always, put me at ease.

“William,” I said. “But then you must call me Elin.”

“I had told her that I found you beautiful, Elin, a delightful, rare flower. I had wondered if there was any hope of your remaining in England and, perhaps, marrying me.”

“What was her answer?” I, of course, already knew, as she had told me, but I wanted to let him speak for himself on this delicate matter.

“She said there was an engagement in Sweden that she believes was set aside due to the lack of a dowry, and that she was to act as your mother while in England. She would also send a letter to your mother with some of Geoffrey Preston’s merchant friends. In the meantime, dear Elin, I should like to know your mind on this matter.”

Princess Cecelia knew about the dowry problem and assumed that it had canceled my engagement—or perhaps she knew that it had already been canceled, and I was the only one who hadn’t been told for certain.

I was angry and yet . . . I knew now that I did not truly love Philip, and I would never be able to trust him. But if we were legally betrothed, then there was no more to be discussed. William made me laugh, he clearly adored me, we had rousing discussions, and while he knew more than I in every matter, he never made me feel lesser for it. I felt good with him. I felt safe. I was truly fond of him even if there was not the passion found, perhaps solely, in poetry.

“I am honored that you would wish to take me as a wife.” I took his hand, which seemed to please him, thrilled that he’d concerned himself with my opinion. “I find great pleasure in your company and enjoy our times together very much,” I said. “Perhaps I may think upon it while we wait to hear from my mother.”

“Of course,” he said. “Of course you must. I would provide everything you need, should you agree, of course. Maids of honor and servants and lady maids of your own, fine houses and your clothing and jewels. No woman will ever be more treasured than you, Elin.”

“I know your character, William,” I said. “I feel treasured by you already.” And I did. I had never felt so valued by a man.

He placed his hand over mine and I allowed it to rest there. I prayed silently for a quick response from my mother; the Danes sometimes let through the English ships, so a letter and response might be forthcoming.

Once the challengers rode into the tiltyard, my mind set aside thoughts of marriage and letters and focused on the match. The horses twitched with energy, stamping at each end of the arena, and though the men were wrapped in metal I could sense their readiness to battle. I watched and cheered as much as the next person. Lord Robert rode for the queen’s favor; the gossip was that there had been a loud and public quarrel between Lord Robert and Her Majesty after the queen had seen him close together with Lettice Devereux. I had difficulty believing that, as the queen seemed so calm and dignified. And today, when she smiled upon him, it was certainly with the look of a woman deeply in love. I looked but did not see Lady Devereux among those watching. I wished that one day a man would ride for my favor, but then I looked at William, so kind, intelligent, and caring, and thought perhaps that didn’t matter so much after all.

After the contests were complete and the crowds began to thin, William led me out toward the litters returning to Bedford House and then stopped to talk with someone while I proceeded on. As I reached the end of the tiltyard, one of the comers lifted off his helmet and then turned and looked straight at me. His longish blond hair was pulled back in a queue and he had a smear of blood on his cheekbone. His blue eyes held mine. I was taken aback by his strength and his frank interest. “Thomas Gorges,” he said before bowing to me, metal clanking.

His words startled me out of my reverie, and I nodded. “Lady Elin von Snakenborg.”

“Are you new to court?” he asked.

“Yes.” I nodded. “I’ve come with Princess Cecelia from Sweden.” At that, I felt a presence beside me. William looked at Thomas for just a moment and then put his hand behind my back to guide me on. Thomas bowed his head toward me and turned to leave.

“I know Her Majesty enjoys the tiltyard, but it can be a bloody and, perhaps, unrefined sport,” William said as we walked. “I shall take you hawking.”

Later that night, in our chamber, Bridget and I discussed the day’s events. “William spoke to me himself of marriage,” I said, shrugging into my sleeping gown.

“William? Not Lord Northampton?” she teased, already snug under a thick coverlet.

“Yes, William,” I said with a soft laugh. “Princess Cecelia has written to my mother to ask her permission. Since things are unsettled, or perhaps void, with Philip . . .” I let the sentence dangle. In spite of his ill treatment of me, I did not want to dishonor him.

“Has Cecelia truly written to her?” Bridget asked.

I stopped brushing my hair and turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

“If you were to marry the marquess, you would be nearly as highly ranked as she. I suspect she would like that not at all. Perhaps one way to forestall that is to lack the agreement of your family.”

I found that unsettling for a moment, but then simply refused to believe that the princess would do ill by me. She had promised to care for me as a mother would. Hadn’t she?