Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I (15 page)

Later, Eleanor told me she was leaving for Sudeley to assist her mother as the queen would soon visit. “The queen has used Mary Shelton very ill for her marriage.”

I nodded my agreement; although I had served a princess who was not above offering a quick blow to her ladies, I’d yet to witness the queen strike anyone. I’d thought it was beneath her. I’d been wrong.

“She bought her husband very dearly,” I agreed.

It could not have helped that Douglass Sheffield appeared about court flush in health and love and, perhaps, with the glow of pregnancy. In the days that followed, the queen exhorted all of us unmarried or widowed women to remain in the single state. Mary Radcliffe nodded and spoke her enthusiastic agreement, having already committed herself to a lifetime of virginity.

Those of us who were disinclined to celibacy kept our own counsel. As for me, I had special reason not to agree. I’d finally seen Thomas Gorges one day, riding at court. I trained my eyes on his fine form as long as I could keep him in view, then turned away from the window with a smile. I clasped my hands together and then unclasped them to smooth my hair.

He was clearly, then, at court again.

Year of Our Lord 1574

Sudeley Castle

The Palace of Whitehall

W
e arrived at Sudeley Castle in the flush of spring, its gardens verdant and lush; they were well known for their beauty. Lady Dorothy had recently wed the son of Her Majesty’s beloved but late Lady Knollys, Sir Francis’s wife, so the queen had come to pay her respects. After attending to Her Majesty, I made my way to the Chapel of St. Mary. I knew William’s sister Queen Kateryn was buried there, and I wished to pay my respects and to pray and meditate.

“Your brother was a fine man,” I said aloud in the quiet stillness, though I knew Queen Kateryn was with the Lord and could not hear me. “And your stepdaughter, Elizabeth, she is a fine queen. You would be proud of her.” William had told me that his sister had considered Elizabeth to be a daughter to her. He had also shared
some unsavory details that Queen Kateryn’s husband, Thomas Seymour, had tried to marry Elizabeth when she was still in her girlhood, to capture her throne, exploiting her vulnerability and desire to be loved and cared for.

Which of us did not wish to be loved and cared for?

Queen Kateryn had borne a child of her own, Lady Mary Seymour. The queen died of childbed fever and her child died of plague during the reign of King Edward as her governess was taking her to visit her grandmother. “I hope you are at peace, my lady, and your daughter, too,” I whispered quietly, placing my hand upon her cold tomb before taking my leave.

William had also told me that Lady Dorothy, our hostess, was the aunt to his late wife Elisabeth Brooke. After dinner, as we were enjoying music and a cordial, I mentioned it to our hostess. “I know Lord Northampton had a particular affinity for Sudeley,” I said.

“Really?” Lady Dorothy said. Her tone was cold. I began to see from where Eleanor inherited her lack of charm.

“Yes,” I said. “Because, of course, it was home to his sister. And his wife Elisabeth Brooke, she was your niece, is that right?”

The room grew quiet, and I saw Her Majesty suppress a surprised smile, not a good sign in this situation.

“Yes, she was,” Lady Dorothy said, and turned from me to take the arm of her much younger husband. It was ill mannered for her to turn her back on me, a guest, and one more highly titled than she, but I ignored it.

Later that evening, Clemence came to me. “Ma’am, I feel I must share something with you.”

“Yes?” I said.

“Lady Dorothy, well, she, ah, she was, um, a companion to Lord Northampton before he met Lady Elisabeth Brooke.”

“A companion, Clemence?”

“Yes, ma’am. In the . . . intimate sense. Then he left her for Elisabeth, whom he married.”

Ah! Blood rushed to my face. I now understood. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Clemence. I’m certain it must have been awkward for you.”

She dipped a little curtsey and went to get my gown ready for the morrow.

The next day, I was walking in the garden, near the chapel again, with Mary Radcliffe. Eleanor caught up with us. She seemed smug. “You have visited your sister-in-law?” She nodded toward the chapel.

“Yes,” I said. “It would please William to know I’d done so.”

She took my proffered arm, but I felt warned rather than warmed. “Did you always please William?”

I didn’t know where she was leading. “Yes . . . I think so.”

“That’s considerate of you,” she said. “Considering he was not, perhaps, dedicated to you alone during the many years while you waited to wed.”

We stopped walking and I looked at her; Mary stepped back. “What are you speaking of?”

“Men are men,” Eleanor said. “They do not set aside the lusts of the flesh simply because there is no marriage in place. They find other women to satisfy their drives.”

“Do you know this in truth, this accusation you make?”

She didn’t nod or shake her head, but she answered, “Not specifically. But I did long know Lord Northampton, and his character.” I knew that she was speaking of his relationship with her mother, whom he cast aside without marrying. But that did not mean he was unfaithful to me—I did not believe it, though I’d admit, she’d planted doubt.

I withdrew my arm, angry that she would have so little respect for either my dead husband or my friendship. In my anger, I offered an intemperate response. “I cannot say for certain, of course, what William was doing when he was not with me. I can say, however, that he did marry
me
, and as soon as he could.”

With that, I took my leave. Within a few days, we left Sudeley and returned to Whitehall.

The incident did put me in mind to think about men, though. I yet longed for one certain bold man, and though I looked for him among the players or other men about the court doing the queen’s business, I did not see him again. I was beginning to wonder if we would ever meet again, and more important, why he had not sought me out. Surely he knew William had passed away some time ago; he’d said he made it his business to keep informed of court matters that concerned him.

A dark thought crossed my mind: Perhaps I was not a matter that concerned him any longer. Perhaps he had already taken another woman to wife.

•   •   •

All through the year the queen’s “good sister,” as she called herself, Mary, Queen of Scots, sent little gifts and presents to win the favor and affection of the queen. As I was in charge of receiving, caring for, and, upon the queen’s orders, dispersing all of her gifts, I noted with small alarm both their increasing regularity and the queen’s glee at receiving them.

Mary started by sending sweetmeats, which all knew the queen loved. To the consternation of Cecil and the man he’d appointed to have a care for the queen’s safety and security, Francis Walsingham, the queen popped one into her mouth as soon as it arrived.

Next Mary sent a beautifully styled wig. Walsingham warned her not to put it on her head, but the queen dismissed his concerns. “I pay for her keep, whereby I’ve paid for this, I may as well enjoy it,” she said. The next night Mary Radcliffe helped the Countess of Nottingham, Catherine Carey, style it on Her Majesty’s head.

Mary soon sent a crimson petticoat, and the queen tried that on, too. She was wearing it while we played cards with her ladies after an early meal.

“I see you have on the dress of Mary, Queen of Scots,” I said.

“Yes, it becomes us,” she answered pertly.

I thought, but didn’t say, that Mary would like some of Elizabeth’s wardrobe in exchange, in particular, her crown and scepter.

We played several hands and the queen grew tired. “We shall retire to our bedchamber and read,” she said. After Catherine Carey and I got her ready for bed, I said, “I, too, will retire to my reading.”

“What are you reading, Helena?” the queen asked.

“Greek, Majesty.”

“Oh!” She perked up at that, as she loved Greek. “What in particular?”

“Of the Trojans, madam. I am just now at the point where the city of Troy was besieged and taken by the gift of a horse.”

She looked long at me, holding her face steady. I knew not whether she was holding back a smile or an ill humor. “Are you schooling us, Marchioness?”

I took her hand in mine and kissed her ring. “I would never be so overbold, Majesty. I read Greek because I know it pleases you, and it pleases me to serve you in whatever ways I can.”

At that, she smiled, and I took my leave.

Soon thereafter, the queen awarded to me substantial grants
of land in Huntingdonshire, including the tolls of its markets and fairs, manors, and fisheries for the rest of my life, or until the queen revoked it.

•   •   •

Spring found the Countess of Nottingham, normally in charge of my lady’s bedchamber and wardrobe, delivering a child. The queen appointed me to the task until she returned from childbirth, but she did not remove any of my other tasks. It was with some relief, then, when Eleanor Brydges returned to court and service.

“May we speak in private?” she asked me. I nodded my agreement, but did not thaw. We walked down one of the long galleries lined with portraits and she said, “I’m sorry for the sharp speech I offered to you at Sudeley. It’s just that my sister, and then my mother, married noblemen while neither of them accepted my George. It’s no excuse, I know. I now understand that one does not need to be married to the highborn in order to live a life of significance.”

She looked so heartfelt and her speech was so unlike her usual reserve. I reached over and embraced her. “Consider it undone.” She smiled and we walked together toward the queen’s chamber.

“I must prepare the alms coin purses for Her Majesty, for the Maundy ceremony,” I said. “Would you care to assist me?”

She nodded her assent and I told her where to find the material for the purses and their drawstrings. I would get the coins from the treasury myself. We sewed together till late in the night, talking, in my chamber. I could tell by the set of her face that Clemence was not pleased with this, but she said nothing.

I had ordered the seamstresses to make a new cambric apron for the queen, and a towel to tuck into it. I also had ordered a fine
damask gown. It was tradition for the queen to give a gown to each poor woman who had been invited to present herself to court. As the queen was forty years of age this year, she would receive forty women and give thirty-nine of them a plain but well-made dress. One woman would get her “best dress”—the new damask made just for the occasion, threaded with gold.

I went to help the queen get dressed, but I’d forgotten some pins and also the purses. I turned to run back and get them, but Eleanor put a staying hand on my shoulder. “I shall fetch them for you,” she said. “You have many more responsibilities than do I.”

I nodded my thanks and went to assist the queen. Within some minutes, Eleanor was back with pins, clothes, and the lacquered box of salves that I used to rub Her Majesty’s aching shoulders and arms nearly each eve, which she would surely need after today’s ceremony.

We finished dressing Her Majesty and then went to the great hall where hundreds were gathered. The poor women gathered were so inspired by the queen herself that I felt they would have been happy even if they had not been given purses of coins and a dress. The queen took time to greet each one of them with personal words and a heartfelt nod of affection. After the ceremony, we made our way back to her chamber. The mood, as was right for such a day, commemorating death, was somber. Shortly after we arrived in her chamber, however, Walsingham, unusually, joined us.

He stood in the center of the room emanating both concern and menace. Instinctively, we ladies backed away from him. The queen sat on her chair in the center of the room, holding her face in an impassive mask. I looked at her, but she would not meet my eye.

“Marchioness,” Walsingham said. As I was the only woman in the realm with that title, of course, I knew he spoke to me. He beckoned me forward. I looked at the queen, and she nodded that I should obey him.

“I understand that it is your job to prepare pomanders and scents and ointments such as the Queen’s Majesty requires.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that is right.”

He pointed to my lacquered box. “Is that yours?”

“Yes,” I said again. “I brought it from Sweden. I keep my herbal preparations in it.”

He opened the box and lifted out a blue jar. “Do you use this rub on Her Majesty?”

I nodded.

“Open it.”

I did, and I could smell the mint camphor I had blended in to speed the herbs through Her Majesty’s skin for quicker relief, and to cover the scent of the valerian, which she disliked.

He stood very close to me; I could hear his ragged breath and see drops of sweat emerging through his beard, beading themselves on the rough hairs before sliding down them. He spoke clear enough for all to hear. “Can you please scoop out a large amount and liberally apply it to your own arms?”

I nodded and reached my hand into the jar, but just as my fingertips brushed the surface he clamped his hand down on mine and brought it back. He dismissed me to move back from the center of the room. As I did, he called forth another.