The Twylight Tower (7 page)

“Her teeth scaled? It sounds, Lord Robert,” the bishop observed, straight-faced, “as if Her Grace has been eating far too many fish.”

“Her teeth are being cleaned,” Dudley explained as if they were both imbeciles, “by my barber, to be precise.” He motioned them toward two padded stools facing the vacant throne across the vast chamber. “Too many sweets and suckets,” he went on. “Her Majesty adores them, but they’re not really good for her.”

“Santa Maria,”
de Quadra whispered to Cecil as they dropped back to follow Dudley slowly, “the wretch describes himself. They call him ‘the gypsy’ with that swarthy skin, you know, and I fear he could steal her blind of all she holds dear. You must warn her, Cecil.”

“She refuses to credit the rumors flying here and abroad,” Cecil admitted, suddenly wishing he dared unburden his fears to de Quadra. “If you know from whom such rubbish emanates, please let me know, bishop,” he added pointedly. De Quadra didn’t so much as blink. “Said lady has a mind and heart of her own,” Cecil explained, “and said lady is the queen, her father’s daughter.”

“Lusty and in love with love, you mean,” de Quadra said, speaking quietly and quickly. “Cecil, you and I may not agree on much thus far, but we both know this woman must marry. And not to that freebooter,” the bishop added with a slight flaring of his nostrils. Ahead of them Dudley took the third stool on the other side of—but much closer to—the royal dais than their seats.

“Is there no way to discredit him in her eyes or make her pull back?” de Quadra whispered.
“Santa Maria,
the man is her Horse Master, a traitor’s son, and married at that.”

“And his wife is ailing, I hear,” Cecil said, “of a tumor in her breast. You know, bishop, I have a strong-minded, clever wife, but that has hardly readied me to deal with Elizabeth Tudor. Perhaps, bishop, each in our own way, we can only pray.”

“Ah, Cecil, I have not been on these shores long, but already I know you better than that. Men like us pray, perhaps, but also always act.”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, ELIZABETH OF ENGLAND GIGGLED
as blowing rose petals caught in her hair and bodice. Meg Milligrew was strewing them in the satin-swagged royal barge as the queen’s party put out into the Thames for an afternoon ride and repast. The petals’ light perfume drifted on the river breeze, far preferable, Her Majesty thought, to that oily perfume burned to cover the reek of the Thames during the warm months in London. The twenty oarsmen bent to their easy task, heading downriver toward a favorite meadow spot. It wasn’t far and they could have ridden, but the day was hot and the barge a place to stretch out in repose. The queen already felt giddy.

She had gone against her instincts and invited Cecil and de Quadra along. Perhaps, she had thought, she could mix business with bliss. Yet both of them glanced at her far too often, and she soon felt she was being watched again. Perhaps one or both had spies at court to see what she and Robin were doing. If so, she was throwing down the gauntlet.

“Dear bishop and my Lord Cecil, since both of you
wish me to marry, I have a lovely surprise for you,” she called to them and summoned them to her pillowed seat.

“Of course you must wed, for England as well as for your own happiness and an heir,” Cecil said, looking as wary as Bishop de Quadra looked hopeful. Elizabeth noted that her ladies, and even the servants, hushed to listen.

“And your thoughts, bishop?” she inquired with a smile.

“It would be my greatest joy to see such a brilliant queen ally herself with the countries of Europe and build a greater—”

“Catholic countries, Catholic husbands, of course,” she interrupted.

“Your father was once named Defender of the True Faith by the Holy Father, Your Grace,” de Quadra parried.

“Ah, yes, before we found the true Protestant faith here and he became Supreme Head of the Church of England, as I am.” De Quadra was a formidable adversary; he barely blanched at all that. “But I was thinking then, bishop,” she plunged on, “you as a churchman could perform a marriage ceremony for Robin—Robert—and me this very moment and then report back to your master, King Philip, that you have achieved at least half your mission. And half is better than most get, is that not true, my Lord Secretary Cecil?”

Robin got in the act by going down on one knee and kissing her hand. Meg threw more rose petals, and
Ned began a lilting love song about swimming in love’s pulling tide. Everyone knew they were all just playing, so the queen hoped de Quadra and Cecil would lighten their moods too. Though she’d have favored a romping tune today, she had refused to bring her other lutenists in remembrance of Geoffrey’s demise. No player could soar to his heights anyway.

“Put in here in the shade of these woods instead of in the far meadow,” Elizabeth ordered her barge captain, and watched as her oarsmen pulled the craft to the sedgy bank. Amidst servants scurrying off to open blankets and carting off baskets full of food, the laughing queen let Robin carry her to shore over the narrow gangway.

“Though you but jest of wedding me,” Robin whispered to her as her voluminous skirts nearly muffled and blinded him, “yet I carry you over the threshold of our future.” The rogue bounced her once as if he’d drop her. She squealed while others roared with humor or dismay, but her Robin was sure-footed and strong-armed. She was quite out of breath when he plopped her down on the largest blanket in the thick shade and someone offered her a goblet of malmsey—and then she remembered Geoffrey again. Because … because … was that lute music on the breeze she heard now or just birdsongs and the ripple of the river?

Elizabeth hushed everyone and strained to hear. Had they played a trick on her and smuggled aboard some strange musician to cheer her? It was none of her own men. She could tell that flat out, for the fingering
was delicate, fast, and sure. Though lute music was always soft, she was certain the deliberate grace notes would have put Geoffrey to shame. She feared for one moment she was so exhausted or emotional that she was imagining it all, mayhap as she had imagined such melody when she had heard nothing but wind music after Geoffrey fell.

“Where in heaven’s name is that coming from?” Robin asked, helping allay her fears she was hallucinating. Everyone fanned out looking, and soon Ned produced a slender lad, still playing, dressed in a worn, loose-fitting forest green doublet, smudged gray trunk hose, and baggy-kneed stockings. His face was so pale and delicate that Elizabeth startled, as if Geoffrey had come back from the dead. But this one’s flat, straight hair was brown and his eyes dark. A country lad, left-handed, and his lute most plain and scuffed—and creating quite the most lovely sound she had ever heard.

“Bring him to me,” she commanded when the song was over, and everyone stood so hushed she knew the boy was a stranger to them all. Though his playing had been controlled, he seemed quite out of breath with shoulders heaving. When he tripped lightly, almost eagerly, forward, she added, “Your name, lad?”

“Franklin Dove, Majesty.”

His voice was reedy, without manly tones yet.

“Master Dove of the lute,” she dubbed him with a smile, as if she were giving him a knighthood. For one moment she wondered if Robin had arranged this as another gift for her, but he seemed surprised too. “Your age and home?”

“Nigh on fifteen, Majesty, and walked all the way to Richmond from Dover to offer my services, though folks said I was crazed as Tom O’Bedlam to think the queen would e’en hear me play. So forgive me, Majesty, but I used a bit of stealth, running from Richmond along the river path behind you, hoping you’d put in.”

“The people were wrong, and the queen will hear you, Franklin. See that he is given food and beer,” she ordered, “and then he shall play for us. Who taught you music so well in seafaring Dover, lad?” she added.

“At first my father, a sailor who learned in Calais and practiced at sea, Majesty. And then, somehow, when I surpassed him, forgive my boasting, I just taught myself.”

“Ah,” she said, instantly intrigued. “Well said.” She had learned much from her father too but hoped to surpass him in the memory of her people.

Even as the servants set a half of partridge, a peach, bread, cheese, and beer before the boy, he began to play again. As well as being a charming, stylish lutenist, he seemed to sense her need for levity and romped through verse after verse of “The Crafty Miss of London,” which everyone was soon singing:

“Will you take a guinny or two to come play with my musicians at Richmond and elsewhere?” the queen asked the flushed lad, a genius of his craft, she was sure now. She intended to surround herself with such brilliance in all arts during the years of her reign: in music with this boy; in science with men like Dr. Dee; in theater with actors like Ned Topside and his ilk.

“ ’Tis my life’s dream,” Franklin Dove said, interrupting her thoughts. “Someday will I go to London too?”

“If I can keep you from falling into the clutches of some lecherous friar on Exeter Street,” the queen said with a laugh and a sharp look at Bishop de Quadra.

Everyone—even Cecil and de Quadra—laughed while Franklin turned teary-eyed with joy.

“I SHALL MISS YOU SORELY, ROBIN,” ELIZABETH TOLD HIM
two days later as he took his leave to head forty-five miles to Cumnor in Oxfordshire to see his wife. “Late last night, I regretted I did not have my imp of an artist sketch your face so I at least have that with me. You know I need you here in many ways, my eyes.”

“Give the command, and I’ll never leave you,” he
vowed, stepping closer in the courtyard, where his saddled horse and those of his two companions blocked other courtiers and gawkers from seeing them. His boot toes touched her slippers, shoving her voluminous skirts behind her.

“No, it is right that you should go,” she insisted, though she was tempted to try to keep him here again. “You must give Amy my best hopes for speedy recovery from her bodily ailment. If you find her more ill than you surmise, I shall send a physician.”

“But not Dr. Dee,” Robin said with a little smile as he pressed Elizabeth’s clasped hands to his leather-clad chest. “Amy’s not much for learning or the learned.”

“What is she for then?” Elizabeth asked, though they seldom talked of Amy, almost as if she didn’t really exist.

“Baubles, trinkets, gifts, pretty tunes.”

“She’s not getting my new Dove of the lute.”

“And,” he added, almost as if he hadn’t heard her, “quiet, rural charms with no complications.”

“Mm. No wonder she abhors court life. And if she yearns for your face—to see your eyes—as much as I, I pity her indeed.”

“I believe, my beloved queen, that is the sweetest thing yet you have said to me. You haven’t let me kiss you half enough, but—”

He didn’t get the words out before she leaned close and kissed him quickly, almost pertly. “Be off now, Robin, and safe journey.”

He held her wrists tighter as she tried to step away. “Your lips were so lovely, but unexpected, my queen.
Let me kiss you back when I know what bounty will befall me, and you’ll see.…”

“Go, you braggart, for I have another now to keep me company.”

“If you mean anyone but that beardless boy, I’ll run the blackguard through!”

She laughed at his bravado, however much it thrilled her. “Besides the horses, that’s the other reason I keep you about, my lord,” she told him, and stepped away so he could mount. “I need an overly passionate swordsman to counterbalance my overly rational scrivener Cecil.”

AFTER ROBIN RODE AWAY ELIZABETH DRIFTED DREAMILY
into her bedchamber, feeling suddenly aimless. Writs awaited her signature, and she could call a Privy Council meeting to tend to swelling business, but she needed Robin there to—as she said—keep a leash on Cecil’s urging this and that. Three days. Three days without Robin. And he would be with Amy and no doubt bed her, the queen thought and hit her fist against the windowsill. Cecil had told her once that Robert Dudley and Amy Robsart had been a love match, a lust match at least, but surely his ardor for Amy had cooled. He’d said it, sworn it!

“There you are,” Kat said, coming in and closing the door firmly behind her as if to keep Elizabeth’s other ladies out. “For one moment, I feared you’d hop on pillion and ride off with him.”

Elizabeth hadn’t heard that strident, scolding tone
from Kat since she’d been a child and only then when she’d done something very naughty. The Tudor tactic of the best defense being a loud offense would most suit this impertinence.

“Where were you when I bid Robin a privy farewell?” Elizabeth demanded, her fists propped on her waist above the swell of her skirts.

“On the parapet from which Geoffrey took his tumble, if you must know. I could look almost straight down on that kiss. He wanted more, and I’ll warrant he’ll get it if he hasn’t already and at great price to you.”

“If
he hasn’t already?” Elizabeth exploded, throwing out her arms. “If you don’t know I’m chaste yet, where have you been?”

“I know you are chaste, lovey, but others don’t, and they’re hardly listening to me. It’s the way things
look
that’s being bandied about far and wide. Cecil said the Queen of Scots and her French husband are even calling themselves the king and queen of England, wagering this will bring you down.”

“Devil take Mary Stuart, and Cecil too for spreading such tripe here. And, Kat, you’ll not lecture me as if I were some green girl or tavern doxy—”

To her amazement, Kat went down on both knees on the tall bed’s mounting stool, as if she knelt at a prie-dieu.

“Kat, get up. Your old knees don’t need—”