Constant Heart (35 page)

I received a letter from Lytham that cheered me. Raleigh had set sail once more both on his perpetual search for gold and to restore himself to Her Majesty’s favor, which had been distinctly lacking since the discovery of his marriage. Lytham made mention that he had been one of the backers of the venture. He said it could not fail. I fervently prayed that his risk would be rewarded.

I was brought to bed at the end of February. The babe took me by surprise, in my sleep, waking me with a drenching of waters and the feeling of knives stabbing at my back.

It was over quick and the babe born before sunrise. He was small and scarce made a cry. My work successful, I succumbed to sleep with him nestled in my arms. But he only tarried for three days before he closed his eyes one morn in slumber and failed to wake again. My attendants waited until my tears had stopped and I slept from heartache and exhaustion before they removed my boy from my arms.

Upon waking and finding my hands freed from their sweet burden, I slipped into sleep once more and did not emerge for several days. When I did, it was to find Lytham pacing the floor beside my bed. Seeing him, I tried to shut up my eyes before they caught his attention. I had failed once more at my most important duty. I could give him no heir.

I could not help thinking that the babe had somehow heard the words I had used to deny his parentage. That somehow he knew he had not been wanted. I had started from court before I had heard of the birth. But even so, I had been too late for his birth. And his death.

I sighed. Ran a hand through my hairs.

I only wanted Marget to wake.

The midwife swore she had no sickness and Joan said she slept only from her heart’s pain. I had reached the foot of the bed with my pacing and had naught to do but turn around and walk once more to its head. In doing so, I caught a glimpse of Marget’s eyes.

They had opened!

And now she was burrowing beneath the coverlet.

“Marget!”

She curled into herself at the sound of my voice.

I climbed up onto the bed and tried to unbury her. But the harder I tried to wrest the sheet from her grasp, the tighter she clung to it.

“Marget. My sweet . . . I am sorry. For saying . . . what I said.”

“It was
you
who did not want him. Leave me!” She thrust an arm behind her to push at me.

I grabbed on to it and used it to drag her closer. “Do not ask me to go. I will not do it.”

She kicked out at me. “You would do better without me. Leave me and go find another. Some other that can give you an heir.”

“You do not know what you say.”

She turned on me then, twisting herself up in the sheets. “I know precisely what I say! I am useless. I am worthless. I am worth less than a Southwark stew. I can give you no children, least none that will live.” Her lips parted to dispense terrible laughter. But the laughter soon changed to tears, and the strength that had enabled her to push me away deserted her. She sunk back onto the sheets and turned her back to me.

But I would not let her go so easily. I clasped her around the waist and pulled her toward myself. The misery at work inside me wanted only to have her. To hold her.

She beat at me with her elbows, but still I would not let her go.

That show of fortitude turned her tears into wailing. “I want my babe.”

I wanted him too. “Hush you now. I know.”

“I want my babe, Lytham. I just want to hold my babe.”

I clasped her tighter.

“I never even got to say good-bye.”

I cupped her head to my shoulder and sheltered her within the curve of my body.

She wept there for a long while. And then when she quieted and found her voice, she used it to share with me the gift of those few days that she had been given.

“He was so . . . sweet. He had the face of an angel. And your eyes. He had your eyes. I wish you could have seen him. . . .”

And then it was my turn to weep.

39

A
fter I was churched in March, it was judged best for me to return to court. At least I knew what would be expected upon my return. At least I knew no one would wish to share my private grief. And so I practiced as we rode to court; I practiced pretending that I had not lost another babe.

The blue violets along the roads had pushed their heads from the ground and begun to perfume the air. So with them as my example, I also took on the courtier’s robe of gaiety. By the time we reached court, my sorrows had been put away and I was ready to take my place once more.

Marget had been pretending a certain joviality since we had returned to London. I doubt that anyone had noticed. But I had. I wanted to persuade the bloom back into her cheeks. To hear her laugh in earnest instead of under pretense.

I sent a messenger out for a handbill one day to see what would be played that forenoon. When the boy came back, there were several options. Two I knew to be not worth seeing. The other two were tragedies. I hesitated at choosing either, but then wondered whether coaxing tears from her might do even more good than coaxing laughter. I chose
King Richard the Second,
which played at The Theatre.

I found her in the Great Hall, gave over the handbill to her, and removed Argos from her hands so she could read it.

The beast tried to chew my finger and I dropped him to the floor.

“Lytham!”

“The creatures have nine lives.”

“ ’Tis
cats
who have lives to spare.”

“My mistake.”

She looked at me beneath her brow as if she doubted the veracity of my implied apology.

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

As she read the handbill, her nose began to wrinkle. But when her eyes met mine, it stopped.

“What does not please you? The play or the house?”

“Neither. Do you not think Marlowe superior to Shakespeare?”

“I had not thought on it.”

“Then think.
Tamburlaine
or
Titus Andronicus
?”

“You do not like The Lord Chamberlain’s Men?”

“I prefer The Admiral’s Men.”

“The Admiral’s Men?” I shuffled through the other handbills. “
Tamburlaine
is at The Rose. How fortunate for you.”

She smiled. And it seemed to me a smile of some substance.

Lytham and I took a wherry across the river to Southwark and arrived at The Rose in time to take a lords room with cushioned seats from which we could see all. Below us, in the pit, there was a great jostling about for seats . . . and for women. But then the play began and I forgot the crowds. I thought I recognized a particular countess’s frippery on one of the players. And then a baroness’s sleeves on another.

It was nearly an hour into the play when I became aware of a commotion in the theatre. I pulled my gaze from the stage and saw Nicholas in heated conversation with some man. Prodding Lytham with an elbow, I made a broad gesture, attracting Nicholas’s attention and motioning in our direction.

He made his way to stand beneath our seats, but not without causing a string of curses to lift into the air to mark his progress.

We could not hear him speak, but he made a show of doffing his hat and dropping to one knee in a courtly bow.

Seeing his pantomime, Lytham pushed to his feet and hurried from the box without a word, leaving me to stare at his rapidly disappearing back.

A minute later he was replaced by Nicholas.

“Her Majesty.” The gentleman did not offer the information by way of apology but only by way of explanation.

Again? I was tiring of being constantly jilted for another’s company, even if the other happened to be our Queen.

A summons from the Queen! I hurried to the palace, prodding my horse into a gallop whenever I could. Once there, I paused only to adjust my hat and drape my cloak more gracefully over a shoulder. That done, I walked in a measured pace through the palace halls. By the time I reached the Privy Chamber, I had gained control of my thoughts. And my breath.

I was bid to enter.

Her Majesty was pacing before the fire, speaking to her maids.

She paused, and with loud voice put an ending to a story that made the ladies around her rock with raucous laughter. She laughed herself for a brief moment. And then she turned and saw me. “Lord Lytham!”

I bowed. “Your Grace.”

She walked toward me and extended her hand. It was a hand grown bony and disfigured with age; in fact, it looked as if with a brief tug I might pull her thumb right off. But I took it as if it were the loveliest I had seen and kissed it in reverence.

“I grow weary of the city.”

She wished to travel! “Perhaps a Progress this summer, Your Grace?” Work on Brustleigh was far from being done, but if I hired more men, if I purchased more supplies . . . ?

“I cannot travel this summer. But speak to me of your estate. Of Brustleigh. Perhaps you can convince these aging bones into a Progress next summer. I have heard it is an estate grand enough for a sovereign.”

She had? But who had told her? And to which challenge should I respond first? “The only bones aging here, Majesty, are mine. I fear you sit a horse far better than I.”

“You fear it, do you? But do you not have horses at Brustleigh?”

“There are horses aplenty at Brustleigh, Your Grace, and a park in which to hunt. But I fear you would find my estate lacking in refinements.”

“There is no garden?”

“There is, Your Grace.”

“Then there must be no suite of rooms.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps, then, there is no fish pond to supply your table?”

“There is, Your Grace. A small one.”

“Tennis court?”

“One, Your Majesty.”

“Then there must be no banqueting room.”

There was no banqueting room. I felt perspiration dot my upper lip. How dearly I wanted to claim one, and yet I could not lie. She had already been informed. “There is no banqueting house, though I have plans for one, Your Majesty.”

“Ah. Well . . . perhaps there might be one by next summer? If there were, I might be persuaded in your direction after all, Lord Lytham. Even in spite of your ties to that gypsy girl.”