Constant Heart (39 page)

“Did he . . . He was not demanding an answer, was he?”

“What would be of more interest is his answer to Her Majesty.”

Unfortunately, the ambassador had not been given of an answer, but only charged to carry back to the King of Polonia Her Majesty’s reply. But it remained a topic of conversation and provided many a night’s discussion upon which characteristics, exactly, the ambassador had failed in his attempt at courtiership. And how our own ambassador to Polonia had failed to warn Her Majesty of such a missive. Surely he could not hope to keep his post for long.

I was trying not to fail at my own attempts in courtiership that season, but there was a pain in my mouth that would not be stayed. It was probably good that my fingers had lost their feeling, for I began to chew upon the littlest one. It took an edge off the ache in my teeth. I soon noticed that I was not the only lady in court driven to the same action. In fact, I had noticed Her Majesty doing that very thing quite often.

Spring bounded forth as we rode to Windsor for St. George’s Day. But it was a mean year, for though there were five inductions, Lytham was not one of them. In spite of my hopes, my prayers, and my alliance with Essex, for Lytham, nothing had changed.

One more St. George’s Day come and gone and still no Garter Knighthood. I sighed. Tried to tell myself it did not matter. As I rounded the Lieutenant’s Tower, Essex came around the corner from the opposite direction. I stepped aside so that I would not have to speak to him. But instead of continuing on, he stopped in front of me.

“Good day, Lytham.”

“Essex.”

“Is Lady Lytham with you?”

“Nay.”

“Would you be so kind then as to pass on a message for me?”

“To her?”

“Aye.” A smile played at the edges of his lips. Would that I could have wiped it off with a sword. To the heart.

“Tell her, if you please, that I am but one man.”

“You are but one man?”

“Aye. If she wishes to obtain you a place in the Order of the Garter, she must attempt to influence more persons than just me.” He bowed and then continued on his way.

If I had not been a person of honor, I might have . . . murdered him. Right there. Instead, I made haste in finding Marget.

I had just finished dressing when Lytham burst into my chambers. I stood, expecting a kiss or at the very least an embrace, but then I looked into his eyes.

I sat back down in my chair.

“Essex asked me to deliver a message to you. From him.”

Sweet heaven.

“You have been trying to buy me a Garter Knighthood?”

“I have only been trying to help you to succeed.”

“By treating with my enemy?”

“You know influence must be . . . purchased . . . in order to obtain such a position.”

“With Essex? What did you have to give him for his help?”

“I—”

He pulled me from the chair. “What did he ask for? Tell me the truth.”

“He asked for”—I could not look him in the eyes—“something I would not give him. And then he took the bracelets instead.”

“
You
gave him the bracelets?”

“I was only trying to help you.”

“Help me? You only succeeded in turning me into a . . . joke. Stop trying to help me! You are only harming my cause. Just leave me be.” He turned on a heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

45

T
he weight of Lytham’s anger and the burden of our insolvency bore down upon me. Daily I searched for some way to bring the subject of monies to Lytham’s attention. Finally, one day I knew I must speak of it or let my mind be ruined by worry.

It was not, perhaps, an ideal time. We had scarce finished dinner and he was already in his cups. Melancholy. Morose. Unshaven. He had become disheveled in dress, going about with his doublet unfastened. His years had begun to find him.

“My lord, we must talk.”

“Of what?”

“Money.”

“You mean to say its lack?”

“I mean we must be clever. We must begin to see how we can live. We must survive.”

“You think I do not know that?”

“I think knowledge is prudent, but action is better.”

“And what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we forgo the lease on Brustleigh Hall.”

“Nay.”

“Surely we do not need it. It has devoured everything we once owned.”

“I will not give it up.”

“Then we must look to Holleystone.”

“Holleystone?”

“If you cannot give up Brustleigh, then you must let go of Holleystone.”

“Let go?”

“You must sell it.”

“Sell it? After I finally retrieved it? It will never leave my family again!”

“My lord, can you not see? We cannot keep both. We have no monies. There have been no crops, so we are receiving no rents. There are no monies left and there are none coming in.”

“I will not sell Holleystone.”

“Then what else do you propose to do?”

“I will not sell Holleystone.”

The woman plagued me. Could she not see that I had nothing? Could do nothing? Could she not see that there was nothing more
to
do? “It is
you
who do not see. It is
you
who does not know. How can you know how it feels to watch your family’s inheritance handed to a son of no reputation, simply because he is the eldest? How can you know how it feels to watch your heritage traded away, piece by piece, for gambling debts? How it feels to watch your legacy carted away to embellish some mistress’s house? It feels wretched . . . abominable . . . to see everything your family stands for exchanged for ridicule, mockery, and derision. To have your own name spoken with scorn because of the actions of another. A person who was to have vouchsafed it—vouchsafed everything—for those to come. The only smart thing he ever did was to die without an heir.”

Her hand reached out to touch my arm. “I know you feel . . .”

I shrugged it off. “How do you know how I feel? How do you begin to know how I feel? Let me tell you. This will be a good lesson: I will tell you how I felt when I heard Holleystone was up for sale and I had nothing with which to buy it. I had put Elinor behind me. I had sworn never again to marry. And my monies were pledged to Sir Francis Drake’s disastrous campaign against Spain. Or was it Portugal? The estate, my family’s own home, was there for the saving and I had nothing with which to rescue it.”

“I cannot imagine—”

“Imagine this. Imagine hearing that in Norfolk there was a newly knighted merchant, who was dangling his daughter in front of nobility like bait set before a pack of dogs.” I heard the words I was saying. I winced to hear them, but I could not stop speaking them.

“I do not want to hear more.” She was pleading with me.

I should have stopped, wanted to stop, but I had no control over my tongue. “But what one wants is so rarely what one obtains. Do you know how your father baited the trap? Did you imagine that it was with your beauty?”

“Please stop.” She took a step away from me.

“You did?” I laughed because that was funny. Truly funny. “You did! Then that is the amusing part. Because your beauty was the last thing I learnt of you. Nay, the first thing, the very first and most important thing was your dowry.”

“I already know he spent more than he had intended.” My brave, sweet Marget.

“Oh, it was far,
far
more. And I intended for his great expense to fund my greatest triumph.”

“So . . . you never wanted me.” She was going to cry.

I had brought her to the brink of tears. Once that might have moved me to tears as well. But now? I could not bring myself to care. “Wanted you? I abhorred you. You were so very beautiful that I almost cancelled the marriage contract. You were a beautiful angel, but I knew you to be wrapped in the devil’s own cloak. And now I am so bewitched by you that even your words have the illusion of soundness.” I took another drink.

“You did not want me?” The words came out in a whisper.

Aye, I had. I did. In truth, I wanted her still. But I did not deserve her. She deserved someone successful. Someone who had made something of himself. She deserved someone like Essex. I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat. I clamped my jaw together and tried to swallow it down. “I tried so hard to hate you. I tried so hard to despise you. But, God save me, I could not do it.” To my eternal shame I broke down. I could not stay the sobs that ushered from my throat. I covered my eyes with my hands, trying to stop up the tears. Trying not to see the pity in her eyes. “Sweet heaven, what is to become of me? If I cannot hate you, then I love you. Do you not understand? I must love you!”

She waited to speak until I had composed myself. “But . . . I thought . . . I was given to understand . . .”

“That I was some beast? Some monster?” I lashed out with my arm, trying to make her go away.

“That you wanted me. The sonnet.”

“What sonnet?”

“The sonnet you gave me as a betrothal gift.”

“I wrote no sonnet.”

“But you did. I committed it to memory. And still I carry it with me.” She reached down to unfasten her Book of Hours and pulled a document from some hiding place.

“Every man who claims a destiny
Is giv’n a ship of fate on which to sail
Some guide their course by basest treachery
While faint hearts anchor far from life’s travail
But take to hand the Astrolabe of Love
And soon you find that your course does run true
Through day and night, gales thundering above
All the sailing leads to naught but you
To you alone I give Love’s astrolabe
That in your sailing you might find the same
Gale winds that blew my soul to you to save
Might in return give you to me to claim
Coupled, may we kneel before love’s altar
Clasping hands that bear faith’s ancient color
.”

I found that I could smile after all. “Love’s astrolabe . . . a clever device. And a very good sonnet.” I had recognized Nicholas’s work at the first quatrain.

“You seemed as if . . . you wanted me.”

“The man who wrote that made it seem as if I wanted you. But I did not write it.” I wished that I had. Nicholas had always been the better poet.

“What do you mean?”

“I did not write it. Who gave it to you?”

“You did.”

“So you say. But when?”

“As a betrothal gift. Along with the astrolabe. And—”

“Let me guess: my mother’s ring.” I had become of a sudden so weary. I only wished for sleep.

She nodded.

“But who was the man who
gave
those things to you?”

“ ’Twas Nicholas.”

I held her gaze, willing her to understand. Willing her to comprehend so that I would not have to say it. So that I would not have to disillusion her in still one more thing.

“ ’Twas Nicholas?”

“Aye. It was Nicholas who kept hounding me, begging me, nagging at me to send something. I finally told him to choose something. And since he was so bleeding concerned about your welfare, to take them himself. He did rather well, do you not think?”

She came to me then and knelt beside my chair. Took my hand in hers, threatening once more to undo me. “But even if you did not write it, you became that man. You are the man I love and you have become the man of the sonnet. I need you.”