Constant Heart (45 page)

I had little money, I had no wife, I had no friends. But I still had my pen. And, given enough time and hard work, I could write sonnets that would make heaven weep with their beauty.

I would write a sonnet. A cycle of sonnets.

I would dedicate it to Her Majesty.

She would forgive all, and further I would entreat her to give me a pension just like she had done with Spenser.

A sonnet!

How could I go wrong? And why had I not thought of it before?

All I had to do was portray Her Majesty as the most beautiful woman in the world. As the ideal beauty. As the Aphrodite of the Atlantic. If I could praise her beauty and get others to do the same, then my fortunes might be restored.

I went to work on it that very night.

It needed to have something to do with wisdom and temperance. With peace and grace. And beauty, of course.

I spent several difficult weeks in the writing of it and another in the correcting and the organizing of it. And then, at last, it was complete. And I had only to convince the Queen that she wanted to hear it.

That took a full two months.

I dressed in my best hose and doublet and threw my finest cloak over top. As I approached the center of the Presence Chamber, a hush fell over the crowd. I bowed. Straightened. Pushed my cloak over one shoulder, held the sonnet out in front of me and began to read.

At first, Her Majesty’s visage remained cool. She continued to summon her councilors, to issue orders to her clerks.

But soon she stilled.

And then she listened.

“Those angel’s feet, so lithe, so filled with grace
Which whirl and bound and leap about the air
So nimbly dance among this fallen race
And touch all hearts with gladness everywhere . . .”

I dared a glance at the throne. Aye, she had smiled. I continued on for some verses before coming to one of which I was especially proud.

“Look! Wisdom’s silken mesh of gilded hairs
Have birthed within the sun a jealous rage
Fueled by envy, Apollo, war declares
But he is dazzled ere he can engage . . .”

Another smile.

It was working! I could almost see her softening with each word. I read on, each line provoking a reaction which exceeded my expectations until, at last, I had come to the end.

“That such an eye of blue could spark Sun’s rays
Within a heart, and raise it from its sleep!
That with one look, one azure-colored gaze,
One sole regard shall maketh all life sweet.
Lay down your weapons you who need not fight
And heed our Sovereign Queen—she makes all right.”

I had expected a smile, perhaps applause from the throne. But I was disappointed. All the goodwill the previous verses had created seemed to vanish in an instant. I received only a steely-eyed stare from those legendary gray eyes.

Gray.

Oh . . . sweet heaven, Her Majesty’s eyes were gray.

’Tis Marget’s that were blue.

It did not take long to ride back to Lytham House. I waited there in growing terror for several days, knowing that at any moment I might be clapped into the Tower. Men had been sent there, had their heads removed from their shoulders, for less than I had done. But after a week’s time, I began to realize that my fate was to be much worse. I was simply to be forgotten.

I had tried everything I knew to succeed at court. I had spent all of my monies, exhausted all of my influence, and used up all of my favors. And what had I gained from all of it? Nothing. Not one thing.

If my situation did not change, and soon, I would have to let go of the lease on Brustleigh. Even Holleystone might be in jeopardy. In what universe could that be considered just? All I wanted was to be with Marget. At Holleystone.

I smiled at that thought. When had my life become so very simple? I had been a poor excuse for a courtier ever since I had married Marget. It used to be that I wanted money and estates and honors . . . but now I only wanted what it seemed I could not have. One thing was certain: I could not leave court. There was no way out for me, not even if no one spoke to me, even if the Queen herself did not deign to recognize me. I was a noble, I had responsibilities. Responsibilities of which I could never be shed. And I could not just renounce my title. Could not flee court. I was well and truly stuck unless the Queen excused me. Or unless she could find a use for me elsewhere.

The wars?

Nay. I was too old for wars.

Perhaps I could find myself a position somewhere. Become an authority of some port city.

Nay. Once, perhaps, I might have, but I had no money left to purchase such rewards.

Once more my thoughts returned to Her Majesty. Unless she excused me, unless she found a use for me elsewhere . . . perhaps Polonia. She needed an ambassador, a better one, in Polonia.

Perhaps I could offer myself to her for that position. It was certain she would have no volunteers. Not for a post beyond the borders of civilization. Not for a post in the savage wilds of the eastern part of the Continent.

She might just let me go there.

But in going I would have to leave everything. There could be no hope for retrieving any preference or preferment; I would no longer be in court to present my case before the Queen. I would not be present to buy or trade influence, to exchange favors, to deal in secrets. Of course, I would be given some small pension for my services, some pitiable allowance for my expenses, but I would have to forgo any dreams of amassing a fortune. Fortunes were made at court, and I would be far from the throne.

I could, perhaps, leave the courtier’s life without too much regret, but in going I would also be leaving Holleystone. I would be leaving my home. Mine and Marget’s. I had toiled for years to be able to regain it. But then how could I stay at court, in possession of Holleystone, and be separated from Marget forever? Her Majesty’s banishment of my wife was a test. A test that would reveal in which woman lay my loyalties. Aye, I could stay at court and try to regain my place, but rare would be the chance to regain my bride.

So, after weighing my options, it came down to one choice. A simple choice. Marget or the Queen; Polonia or the court; all or nothing. And then it occurred to me that perhaps this was the way.
The
way. Had I not left my destiny in God’s hands, certain that He could find no solution if I could not? Perhaps, then, this was His answer, His way of setting my feet on another path. An honorable path. Some path other than that of the courtier.

I wrote to every friend and ally I once had. I wrote to Cecil, Her Majesty’s secretary, and even to Essex, who was about his duties in Ireland. I pleaded my case to anyone who would hear it. But still the months passed by, autumn turned to winter, and I heard not one word from the throne. Not until just before Christmastide. It was then that I received the summons.

The Queen made me wait for hours before finally granting me admission to her Privy Chamber. And when she did, she did not even look at me, but continued with her reading as if I were not there.

I bowed and stayed bent for many minutes waiting for some sign.

At last, she spoke. “I will not have a man reciting poetry to me in front of my own court which is clearly meant for another woman’s ears.”

I straightened.

She continued reading for some minutes and then, finally, sighed and put the book aside. “What am I to do with you?”

“I do not deserve to remain in Your Grace’s presence.”

“So I should throw you into the Tower? Like I did Raleigh?”

“My life is yours to command.”

“But not your heart.”

God, help me! Please help me. I bowed again, and stooped even further. “I am not worthy of your esteem, Your Highness. My . . . inconstancy of heart—”

“You never were like the others.”

“Your Grace?”

“You seemed to be quite sincere. For a courtier. But I have never asked for sincerity or for constancy. I have
hoped
for those things, but I have only asked that one be discreet. Behold Essex and the debaucheries that take place at Essex House.” Her words seemed mild compared to the fire, the wrath in her eyes.

I did not know where to look or what to say.

“Come, you think I did not know of them?”

“I cannot account for what Your Grace might—”

“Tsk. One may only react to what one acknowledges. And I
will not
acknowledge his . . .” She seemed in imminent danger of exploding from rage.

“Essex, being the sort of man that he is, Your Majesty, perhaps if you gave him something—”

“Something to do? Some mission? Is that not why he is in Ireland, trying to fix the troubles? I have given him a rope. He can either use it to save himself or use it to hang himself. I care not which.”

Clearly, she did care. But still, I felt that I should warn her. And so I set aside my own worries to address hers. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but one such as he is too proud to be used so slightly . . . and he covets the people’s hearts.”

“One always longs for what one cannot have. And I love the people more than he. He may ask of me many things, but the people, I will not give him!”

“His roots betray him, Your Grace.”

“His roots? You mean to say his mother, Lettice? That grasping whore?” Then she threw back her head and laughed. “Do you know she has paraded herself through the streets pretending to be me?” She cast me a keen glance. “And so must my roots betray me?”

“You are your father’s daughter, Your Majesty. Your parentage ensures that one man, though he be the Earl of Essex, might never be sufficient.” Could I get her to drop the man for spite, then many would thank me.

“And you, Hugh St. Aubin’s son? That Earl of Lytham was married some . . .”

“Twenty years, Your Highness.”

“To the same woman?”

“My mother, Your Majesty.”

“Happily?”

“Quite.”

“And so your roots betray you. You are fixed upon this gypsy girl?”

“I cannot pretend otherwise.”

“Have you not heard me? I only ask for what I can see. I only react to what I choose to acknowledge. If you could just keep her out of sight . . . out of
sonnets
! You have made this quite complicated, Lytham.”

“A thousand apologies, Your Grace, but might I propose a solution?”

“Outside of the Tower? Is there one?”

“Perhaps there is an ambassador, one of your emissaries to a foreign court in the eastern part of the Continent. An ambassador who, if I may be frank, is an embarrassment to Your Majesty’s Grace. Perhaps, if he could be recalled and another sent in his place, several of Her Majesty’s problems might be solved at one and the same time.”

“You speak of Polonia. And I suppose you would like to be that man?”

“It could only be an honor to serve Your Highness at home or abroad.”

“And I suppose you would want to take your gypsy girl with you?”

“Your Majesty would never have need to see her again.”

“Happy marriages are hard to come by. Or so I have been told. And so, if you find yours to be . . . happy, I do not wish to hear of it. Ever. And you had better leave soon! Before winter makes the Channel impassable. I am feeling unaccountably merry this season, but if you stay in the realm until spring, I
will
see you in the Tower.”

53

T
he golden days of autumn in Berkshire had given way to the mean, cold days of winter. They were made chiller still by the knowledge that Lytham had fallen from favor at court. Due to a sonnet! He had told me all: how he had written it while thinking of me. How the vision of my face had transformed the poem from one of love for the Queen to one of love for me. It seemed, even in my absence, that I could do nothing right.

Every morning I woke with the knowledge that he could be sent to the Tower that very day. I spent most of my time in silence. In prayer. But one forenoon, a great commotion disturbed my solitude.

“Girl? Girl!”

It was Lady de Winter’s voice. I had just pushed myself from my chair when she burst into my room. Her hat was askew and her clothes in disarray. She had not even bothered to remove the traveling shield from her skirts.

“Lady de Winter.” I gestured toward Joan to move one of the chairs closer to the fire.

“I come with news.”

I found within me the will to be civil. “Sit then, and speak.”

She crooked a gnarled hand and motioned me close. “It is not for everyone’s ears.”

I had to recover from the foul scent of her breath before I could order the maids gone.

“And that one as well.” She pointed to Joan.

I looked at Joan.

She looked at me.

“What news, Lady de Winter? Have no fear. You may speak in Joan’s presence. She is my dearest friend.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her.

“Before you tell it, you should know that I recently made a new friend. I visited Lady Elinor. In North Moreton. She had a strange tale to tell.” I tried to smile. “And most of it involved you.”

“How is Lady Elinor?”

“She was most anxious for a visit from you.”

“Was she?”

“Aye. She wished to know of Lytham’s success. Somehow she seemed quite assured of it . . . since she had removed herself from his life. Just as
you
had suggested.”

“I . . .”

I took a chance with my next words. “When did Lytham catch Lady Elinor?”

“You mean with the Earl of Essex?”

The Earl of Essex? I had learned more than I had hoped for. “Aye.”

“Just before Lytham petitioned for annulment. He caught the two of them together in his very own bed. Tell me what you wish to know.”

I did not want to know more than I already did. In fact, I wished I knew much less. For now I knew Elinor sane enough to do the one thing that would have made Lytham cast her far from him. She had slept with Essex, in Lytham’s bed, where she could be certain she would be caught. The very same Essex with which Lady de Winter had me make an alliance. “Nothing you have ever done has been calculated for my success, has it?”

“I—”