Queen Elizabeth's Daughter (40 page)

The queen fingered the strands of hair, one black, the other reddish-gold. She slipped the ringlet on her finger. She spun it around and around. The minutes ticked by. Mary dared not move. Finally, the queen looked into Mary’s face. She did not smile but she did utter a soft sigh.

“All right, Fawn. I shall spare your husband. Because of the love we have shared, I will give you his life,” said the queen.

Mary could not stop the tears that ran down her cheeks.

“Do not shed tears of joy just yet. There is a condition,” said the queen.

“Anything, Your Majesty,” said Mary.

“You are to stay at court with me all of your days. You will not be given leave to return to Holme Lacy. You will not leave me again,” said the queen.

“I shall stand by Your Majesty until I die,” said Mary.

The queen called for Sir Nicholas Bacon and the Great Seal. She told him to write out a pardon for Sir John Skydemore and bring it to her immediately to be signed. She then sent word for Sir John to be released.

“Your Majesty, I thank you with all my heart,” said Mary. The queen motioned for her to rise. The queen also rose and stepped forward to hug Mary. Lord Robert and Mistress Parry also linked arms around their Fawn. The four of them stood together for several minutes, laughing and crying, then laughing once again. The queen called for malmsey and gooseberry tarts. She then clapped her hands to signal the musicians to begin playing.

“La Volta!” shouted the queen. She took Lord Robert’s arm and led him to the middle of the floor. Mary and Mistress Blanche watched as the Queen of England pranced and leaped with her love.

Sixty-one

At first, I did not know if I could bring myself to forgive Fawn for her treachery. She looked so young and beautiful when she entered my Privy Chamber—ripe as a plum, ripe with love fulfilled, ripe in a way I shall never know. Yes, Parry, I was jealous—of her youth, her beauty. And of the fact that she had married the man she loved, something I could never do.

Ah, but when she fell to her knees and began to crawl toward me, I felt my heart shift in its cage. I could see the child once more, the sweet loving face of the little girl who had adored me. I remembered her chubby arms clinging to me, the feel of her body against my own. I remembered the smell of her breath while she slept, the sweetness of our waking together. I remembered the time she reached up to touch my face, the gentlest touch I have ever felt. She said, “I love you, Your Majesty.” And the words were so pure and so real they made my eyes water.

I knew, then, I would give her anything she wanted.

Yes, I made her promise never to leave me. Do not worry. I shall reinstate Sir John as a Gentleman Pensioner—they shall both live with me. I am not a cruel woman. I would not keep them apart. Well, I would not part them forever.

Now, Parry, help me into bed. This day has been long and I wish to rest.

Epilogue

April 28, 1603

She who has been our queen for, lo, these many years is no more. I am well enough to attend her funeral this day, though I was not at court with her when she died. She had allowed me, finally, to return to Holme Lacy, for she could see Death had his fingers around my throat. This happened before she grew ill herself. I wish I could have been with her in those last moments when the soul parts from the body. But it was not to be. Perhaps the fresh air at Holme Lacy strengthened me a little. Whatever the reason, Death released his grip so that I am able to escort her to her final resting place.

But I shall see her again. Indeed, I shall follow her soon, perhaps before the harvest. For I feel the cold fingers once again tightening around me.

She would have loved the English sky on this day as her people lined the funeral route to Westminster Abbey. The heavens are blue and filled with white clouds, soft-looking as Her Majesty’s finest silks and satins. Earlier in the day, many Englishmen paid her tribute, all silent, hats off in respect. Four horses arrayed in black velvet pulled the hearse which carried her body encased in lead. Atop this coffin, a full-sized effigy of Her Majesty, holding her orb and scepter, lay dressed in her state robes. Six earls held the canopy of estate over her. Her Master of the Horse led a riderless palfrey behind the hearse, followed by the Marchioness of Northampton, chief mourner.

I followed, a dark drop in the sea of black, over a thousand lords and ladies of the realm, councillors, courtiers, the Lord Mayor, and every person of import in London. I watched the citizens, hanging from windows, climbing on rooftops for a better view, all of us mourning and crying for our Good Queen Bess.

I mourned for more than my queen. She had become my family and I, hers. From the time I was allowed to return to court until her death, John and I served her unfailingly. We were both rewarded: John with high positions and I with gifts of coin that exceeded my dreams.

As time passed, those who had been with the queen since her youth grew more powerful. I was considered one of a trinity of ladies able to work miracles for those who petitioned us. The others were Mistress Blanche and the Countess of Warwick, Lady Jane Russell. One courtier called the three of us the “triumvirate of evil” that surrounded Her Majesty.

It was true, I suppose, if one was trying to petition the queen for something or other. Her Majesty did listen best to us and, as she grew older, she depended upon us to help her remember the details of government. We did our best to protect her from those who would use her. She trusted me implicitly with her clothing, allowing no one else to select and care for her gowns. I made certain she remained regal and beautiful.

But beauty, like everything else, fades in this earthly life. They say at the end, she insisted on hours of prayer, reaching for her priest again and again when he tried to rise to give relief to his poor knees. The comfort of prayer must have helped her. I am only sorry I could not have been there with her, sorry she had to make that last journey without me.

She was the kindest yet the cruelest of mistresses. When I was sick with any small illness, she would treat me with her own medicines and spoon broth into my mouth from her own hand. She never struck me or anyone else again. At least, not that I know of.

Yet, she kept me with her at all times. I could not return to Holme Lacy unless I begged and pleaded. Rarely, she would give in to my pleas and allow me a fortnight with the children. On those occasions, I loved being surrounded by the peace and beauty that was Holme Lacy. But, more often than not, she recalled me to court before even one week was out. She said she could not sleep without me.

I believe her. She had enough difficulty resting and, in her later years, kept a rusty sword by her mattress, fearing an assassin would break into her apartments and do away with her. I knew how to soothe her, bring her lids closed and help her relax. Sometimes, I gave her one of my cordials. Other times, I would sing or rub her back. She was almost like a child then, and I, the mother.

John and I never had children of our own. I blame the queen. He and I were rarely together, though we were married. She kept us both too busy for our own love to engender a babe. Though I did not have children of my own body, I tried to raise John’s children as best I could. I saw to their education and made certain they had proper clothes to wear. I kept in close contact with their governess, and when I was allowed a little time with them, I tried to make up for my frequent absences. Sometimes, they would come to court. The queen was kind to them and seemed to favor them above the children of her other subjects. Somehow, they grew up, the way children do. They are now busy with their own lives.

As time passed, I devoted myself more and more to the queen.

*   *   *

There is a strange scent permeating London this afternoon. It smells something like sweet marjoram. I want to inhale it, remember it, this sweetness. For I am convinced she is here, still here in the very bricks and mortar of the castles, in the cobbles and in the shops and alleyways. She is in the river, traveling to and from her houses, sustaining her people in their daily jaunts. She rises like the mist from the water and permeates everything. She is in the very air of this England.

I go to join her soon. Already, I feel cold, as if my blood is no longer able to warm me. I shall be happy to see her again, to feel her hand on my face and hear her whisper, “My Fawn.”

Author’s Note

Once again, I have shaken the family tree to find a story about one of my ancestors. In
At the Mercy of the Queen,
I wrote about Lady Margaret Shelton, first cousin of Queen Anne Boleyn. In
Queen Elizabeth’s Daughter,
I’ve written about Lady Mary Shelton, who served at Elizabeth I’s court and was her second cousin.

After reading a historical novel, I want to know how much of the story is true. I suspect this response is pretty common among readers. Folks want to know which part of the story is fact and which part the writer made up. Here are some facts about Lady Mary Shelton.

First, Lady Mary was born around 1550–1551, according to various sources. She was, indeed, an orphan. Her parents both died on the same day, November 15, 1558, the same month Elizabeth became queen. This made Mary a royal ward of the court because she was the queen’s second cousin. Her older brother, Ralph, was of age and inherited the various family properties. Most likely, he would have kept Mary in his care, though the final decision about her fate would have been in the hands of the Court of Wards and, ultimately, in the hands of the queen. Mary’s marriage would have been of great importance, given her close proximity to the queen, and the queen would have retained Mary’s marriage rights. This would have enabled the queen to make a political match, using Mary’s position either to strengthen her own or to reward a faithful courtier.

I changed Mary’s age when she was orphaned, making her three years old, rather than eight. I thought a three-year-old would appeal to Elizabeth’s maternal instincts more strongly, with the child’s need for care being greater. Although Mary would have been a little older than Elizabeth was when she lost her own mother to the executioner’s sword, perhaps Mary’s bereft state would have touched Elizabeth’s sympathies. A younger child would also allow the attachment between them to have been stronger, more like a mother/daughter relationship.

Mary’s rise in position occurred as it appears in the novel and she did become one of the queen’s favorites; she exercised a great deal of power and persuasion, especially in the queen’s later years. She was rewarded handsomely for her service, and the meticulous records she kept of Queen Elizabeth’s wardrobe have given us a thorough look into the clothing of the day (see
Queen Elizabeth’s Wardrobe Unlock’d
by Janet Arnold).

Mary married Sir John Scudamore (also spelled Skydemore, Skydmor, Skidmore, and other ways) without the queen’s permission. Sir John was a widower with five small children. He was also a Catholic from an old church family in Herefordshire, where the family estate, Holme Lacy, still stands (only portions of the original remain, as the house has been destroyed and rebuilt several times). The queen did, indeed, break Mary’s finger in a fit of anger over the marriage. Mary, Queen of Scots, mentions the event in one of her letters and says Elizabeth tried to pass off the incident as the result of a falling candlestick. The information about Mary’s unfortunate “accident” most likely came to Mary, Queen of Scots, from Bess of Hardwick, who was her “keeper” for a while. The episode is corroborated by Eleanor Brydges, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

The queen did eventually forgive Mary’s indiscretion, making Sir John one of her Gentlemen Pensioners. However, she continued to demand Mary’s presence as one of her sleeping companions as well as one of her ladies-in-waiting. She did not allow her ladies to leave her side very often, and Mary was no exception. Mary and John had no children. My own bloodline comes down through Mary’s older brother, Ralph.

In the early months of 1603, Mary was allowed to go to Holme Lacy to die. However, when the queen passed away in March, Mary also attended the funeral. Mary followed the queen to the great beyond on August 15, 1603.

ALSO BY ANNE CLINARD BARNHILL

At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

Coal, Baby
(poetry chapbook)

What You Long For
(stories)

At Home in the Land of Oz: Autism, My Sister, and Me
(memoir)

About the Author

A
NNE
C
LINARD
B
ARNHILL
has published short stories, poetry, a memoir, and hundreds of articles and book reviews over the past twenty years. Her first novel,
At the Mercy of the Queen,
was recently published to wide acclaim. She has taught writing in a variety of venues and has been a keynote speaker for numerous events. She lives in North Carolina with her husband.