Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (291 page)

Amy did not want to see the church she had loved stripped bare of everything she knew was holy. Other churches in the city had been desanctified and were being used as stables, or converted into handsome town houses. Amy could not imagine how anyone could dare to put his bed where the altar had once stood; but the new men of this reign were bold in their own interests. The shrine at Walsingham had not yet been destroyed, but Amy knew that the iconoclasts would come against it some day soon, and then where would a woman pray who wanted to conceive a child? Who wanted to win back her husband from the sin of ambition? Who wanted to win him home once more?

Amy Dudley practiced her writing, but there seemed little point. Even if she could have managed a letter to her husband there was no news to give him, except what he would know already: that she missed him, that the weather was bad and the company dull, the evenings dark and the mornings cold.

On days such as this, and Amy had many days such as this, she wondered if she would have been better never to have married him. Her father, who adored her, had been against it from the start. The very week before her wedding he had gone down on his knee before her in the hall of Syderstone farmhouse, his big, round face flushed scarlet with emotion, and begged her with a quaver in his voice to think again. “I know he’s handsome, my bird,” he had said tenderly. “And I know he’ll be a great man, and his father is a great man, and the royal court itself is coming to see you wed at Sheen next week, an honor I never dreamed of, not even for my girl. But are you certain sure you want a great man when you could marry a nice lad from Norfolk and live near me, in a pretty little house I would build for you, and have my grandsons brought up as my own, and stay as my girl?”

Amy had put her little hands on his shoulders and raised him up, she had cried with her face tucked against his warm homespun jacket, and then she had looked up, all smiles, and said: “But I love him, Father, and you said that I should marry him if I was sure; and before God, I am sure.”

He had not pressed her—she was his only child from his first marriage, his beloved daughter, and he could never gainsay her. And she had been used to getting her own way. She had never thought that her judgment could be wrong.

She had been sure then that she loved Robert Dudley; indeed, she was sure now. It was not lack of love that made her cry at night as if she would never stop. It was excess of it. She loved him, and every day without him was a long, empty day. She had endured many days without him when he had been a prisoner and could not come to her. Now, bitterly, at the very moment of his freedom and his rise to power, it was a thousand times worse, because now he could come to her, but he chose not to.

Her stepmother asked her, would she join him at court when the roads were fit for travel? Amy stammered in her reply, and felt like a fool, not knowing what was to happen next, nor where she was supposed to go.

“You must write to him for me,” she said to Lady Robsart. “He will tell me what I am to do.”

“Do you not want to write yourself?” her stepmother prompted. “I could write it out for you and you could copy it.”

Amy turned her head away. “What’s the use?” she asked. “He has a clerk read it to him anyway.”

Lady Robsart, seeing that Amy was not to be tempted out of bad temper, took a pen and a piece of paper, and waited.

“My lord,” Amy started, the smallest quaver in her voice.

“We can’t write ‘my lord,’ ” her stepmother expostulated. “Not when he lost the title for treason, and it has not been restored him.”

“I call him my lord!” Amy flared up. “He was Lord Robert when he came to me, and he has always been Lord Robert to me, whatever anyone else calls him.”

Lady Robsart raised her eyebrows as if to say that he was a poor job when he came to her, and was a poor job still, but she wrote the words, and then paused, while the ink dried on the sharpened quill.

“I do not know where you would wish me to stay. Shall I come to London?” Amy said in a voice as small as a child’s. “Shall I join you in London, my lord?”

*  *  *

All day Elizabeth had been on tenterhooks, sending her ladies to see if her cousin had entered the great hall, sending pageboys to freeze in the stable yard so that her cousin could be greeted and brought to her presence chamber at once. Catherine Knollys was the daughter of Elizabeth’s aunt, Mary Boleyn, and had spent much time with her young cousin Elizabeth. The girls had formed a faithful bond through the uncertain years of Elizabeth’s childhood. Catherine, nine years Elizabeth’s senior, an occasional member of the informal court of children and young people who had gathered around the nursery of the young royals at Hatfield, had been a kindly and generous playmate when the lonely little girl had sought her out, and as Elizabeth became older, they found they had much in common. Catherine was a highly educated girl, a Protestant by utter conviction. Elizabeth, less convinced and with much more to lose, had always had a sneaking admiration for her cousin’s uncompromising clarity.

Catherine had been with Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, in the last dreadful days in the Tower. She held, from that day on, an utter conviction of her aunt’s innocence. Her quiet assertion that Elizabeth’s mother was neither whore nor witch, but the victim of a court plot, was a secret comfort to the little girl whose childhood had been haunted by slanders against her mother. The day that Catherine and her family had left England, driven out by Queen Mary’s anti-heresy laws, Elizabeth had declared that her heart was broken.

“Peace. She will be here soon,” Dudley assured her, finding Elizabeth pacing from one window in Whitehall Palace to another.

“I know. But I thought she would be here yesterday, and now I am worrying that it will not be till tomorrow.”

“The roads are bad; but she will surely come today.”

Elizabeth twisted the fringe of the curtain in her fingers and did not notice that she was shredding the hem of the old fabric. Dudley went beside her and gently took her hand. There was a swiftly silenced intake of breath from the watching court at his temerity. To take the queen’s hand without invitation, to disentangle her fingers, to take both her hands firmly in his own, and give her a little shake!

“Now, calm down,” Dudley said. “Either today or tomorrow, she will be here. D’you want to ride out on the chance of meeting her?”

Elizabeth looked at the iron-gray sky that was darkening with the early twilight of winter. “Not really,” she admitted unwillingly. “If I miss her on the way then it will only make the wait longer. I want to be here to greet her.”

“Then sit down,” he commanded. “And call for some cards and we can play until she gets here. And if she does not get here today we can play until you have won fifty pounds off me.”

“Fifty!” she exclaimed, instantly diverted.

“And you need stake nothing more than a dance after dinner,” he said agreeably.

“I remember men saying that they lost fortunes to entertain your father,” William Cecil remarked, coming up to the table as the cards were brought.

“Now
he
was a gambler indeed,” Dudley concurred amiably. “Who shall we have for a fourth?”

“Sir Nicholas.” The queen looked around and smiled at her councillor. “Will you join us for a game of cards?”

Sir Nicholas Bacon, Cecil’s corpulent brother-in-law, swelled like a mainsail at the compliment from the queen, and he stepped up to the table. The pageboy brought a fresh pack, Elizabeth dealt the stiff cards with their threatening faces, cut the deal to Robert Dudley, and they started to play.

There was a flurry in the hall outside the presence chamber, and then Catherine and Francis Knollys were in the doorway, a handsome couple: Catherine a woman in her mid-thirties, plainly dressed and smiling in anticipation, her husband an elegant man in his mid-forties. Elizabeth sprang to her feet, scattering her cards, and ran across the presence chamber to her cousin.

Catherine dropped into a curtsy but Elizabeth plunged into her arms and the two women hugged each other, both of them in tears. Sir Francis, standing back, smiled benignly at the welcome given to his wife.

Aye, well might you smile,
Robert Dudley remarked to himself, remembering that he had always disliked the smug radiance of the man.
You think you will have the high road to power and influence with this friendship; but you will find you are wrong. This young queen is no fool, she won’t put her purse where her heart is, unless it serves her interest. She will love you but not advance you unless it is for her own good.

As if he sensed Robert’s eyes on him, Sir Francis looked up, and swept him a bow.

“You are heartily welcome back to England,” Dudley said pleasantly.

Sir Francis glanced around, took in the court of old allies, conspirators, reformed enemies, and a very few new faces, and came back to Robert Dudley.

“Well, here we are at last,” he said. “A Protestant queen on the throne, me back from Germany and you out of the Tower. Who’d ever have thought it?”

“A long and dangerous journey for all us pilgrims,” Robert said, keeping his smile.

“Some danger still in the air for some of us, I think,” Sir Francis said cheerfully. “I’d not been in England five minutes before someone asked me if I thought you had too much influence and should be curbed.”

“Indeed,” Robert said. “And you replied?”

“That I had not been in England five minutes and I had yet to form an opinion. But you should be warned, Sir Robert. You have enemies.”

Robert Dudley smiled. “They come with success,” he said easily. “And so I am glad of them.”

Elizabeth reached out her hand to Sir Francis, still holding Catherine tight by the waist.

Sir Francis stepped forward and dropped to his knee and kissed her hand. “Your Grace,” he said.

Robert, a connoisseur in these matters, admired the sweep down to his knee and then the style with which he rose.
Aye, but it will do you little good,
he said to himself.
This is a court full of dancing-master-tutored puppies. A graceful bow will get you nothing.

“Sir Francis, I have been waiting and waiting for your arrival,” Elizabeth said, glowing with happiness. “Will you accept a post on my Privy Council? I am in great need of your sound advice.”

Privy Council! Good God!
Robert exclaimed to himself, shaken with envy.

“I shall be honored,” Sir Francis said, with a bow.

“And I should like you to serve as Vice Chamberlain of my household, and Captain of the Guard,” Elizabeth continued, naming two plum jobs that would bring with them a small fortune in bribes from people wanting access to the queen.

Robert Dudley’s smile never wavered; he seemed delighted at the shower of good fortune on the new arrival. Sir Francis bowed his obedience, and Dudley and Cecil made their way over to him.

“Welcome home!” Cecil said warmly. “And welcome to the queen’s service.”

“Indeed!” Robert Dudley agreed. “A warm welcome for you indeed! You too will be making your own enemies, I see.”

Catherine, who had been in rapid conversation with her cousin, wanted to introduce her daughter who was to be Elizabeth’s maid of honor. “And may I present my daughter Laetitia?” she asked. She beckoned toward the doorway; and the girl, who had been standing back, half hidden by the arras, came forward.

William Cecil, not a man to be overwhelmed by female charms, took a sharp breath at the beauty of the seventeen-year-old girl and shot an astounded look at Sir Francis. The older man was smiling, a quirky corner upturned at his mouth as if he knew exactly what Cecil was thinking.

“By God, this is a girl in the very image of the queen,” Cecil whispered to him. “Except . . .” He broke off before he made the mistake of saying “finer,” or “prettier.” “You might as well declare your wife to be Henry VIII’s bastard, and have done with it.”

“She has never claimed it, I have never claimed it, and we don’t do so now,” Sir Francis said limpidly, as if the whole court were not nudging each other and whispering, as the young girl’s color steadily rose but the dark eyes fixed on the queen never wavered. “Indeed, I find her very like my side of the family.”

“Your side!” Cecil choked on a laugh. “She is a Tudor through and through, except she has all the allure of the Howard women.”

“I do not claim it,” Sir Francis repeated. “And I imagine, in this court and at these times, it would be better for her if no one remarked on it.”

Dudley, who had seen the likeness at once, was watching Elizabeth intently. Firstly she held out her hand for the girl to kiss, with her usual pleasant manners, hardly seeing her as the girl’s head was bent in her curtsy, her bright copper hair hidden by her hood. But then, as the girl rose up and Elizabeth took her in, Robert saw the queen’s smile slowly die away. Laetitia was like a younger, more delicate copy of the queen, as if a piece of Chinese porcelain had been refined from an earthenware mold. Beside her, Elizabeth’s face was too broad, her nose, the horsy Boleyn nose, too long, her eyes too protruding, her mouth narrow. Laetitia, seven years her junior, was rounded like a child, her nose a perfect tilt, her hair a darker copper to the queen’s bronze.

Robert Dudley, looking at the girl, thought that a younger man, a more foolish man than himself, might have thought that the odd sensation he was feeling in his chest was his heart turning over.

“You are welcome to my court, Cousin Laetitia,” the queen said coolly. She threw a quick, irritated glance at Catherine as if she should somehow be blamed for raising such a piece of perfection.

“She is very glad to be in your service,” Catherine interposed smoothly. “And you will find she is a good girl. A little rough and ready as yet, Your Grace, but she will learn your elegance very quickly. She reminds me very much of the portraits of my father, William Carey. There is a striking similarity.”

William Cecil, who knew that William Carey was as dark as Henry VIII and this girl were matching copper, concealed another indrawn breath by clearing his throat.

“And now you shall sit, and you can take a glass of wine and tell me all about your travels.” Elizabeth turned from the young beauty before her. Catherine took a stool beside her cousin’s throne, and gestured that her daughter should retire. The first difficult step had been achieved; Elizabeth had faced a younger, far prettier version of her own striking looks, and managed to smile pleasantly enough. Catherine set about telling her traveler’s tales and thought that her family had managed their return to England rather well, considering all the circumstances.