Queen's Pleasure Page 23

  “Mmm ...” I sighed rapturously, closing my eyes as I luxuriated in the feel of silk—and Robert’s warm hands—on my bare skin. “How fine they are, how exquisite! Henceforth I shall wear no other stockings but silk!”

  “And I shall dedicate myself to keeping Your Majesty well supplied with them. Never shall wool again touch these shapely alabaster limbs!” he vowed. Then, pressing my discarded woolen stockings to his lips and tucking them inside his doublet as “a love token,” he rose and took my arm and led me down to the Great Hall, where he had arranged a very special performance for me.

  Large, well-stuffed evergreen velvet cushions tasseled in silver and silver brocade ones tasseled in green silk had been strewn about the floor for me and my court to sit upon, and with boughs of evergreen tied with silver ribbons and hung with silver tinsel, and a white velvet carpet sprinkled with diamond dust that flashed in the light of hundreds of tall white wax tapers, Robert had created a winter wonderland for us. And before us had been erected a stage, mounted on wheels so it might later be rolled out to make room for dancing, curtained in green velvet fringed with silver.

  Musicians masquerading as holly bushes, their green livery—even their hats, hose, and boots—sewn all over with what appeared to be real holly branches replete with prickly leaves and red berries, came to stand below the stage. After they had bowed to me, grimacing and stifling cries of surprise and pain as the holly thorns pierced them, they began to play a song I knew well, for my own father had written it.

  As the music began, Robert bowed over my hand and backed away from me, until he was standing before us all, framed by the musicians and rows of white tapers. Then, his eyes never once leaving my face, he began to sing in a fine tenor voice:

  “Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.

  Though winter blasts blow never so high,

  Green groweth the holly.

  As the holly groweth green

  And never changes hue,

  So I am, and ever hath been,

  Unto my lady true.

  As the holly groweth green,

  With ivy all alone

  When flowers cannot be seen

  And greenwood leaves be gone.

  Now unto my lady

  Promise to her I make:

  From all others only

  To her I me betake.

  Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.

  Though winter blasts blow never so high,

  Green groweth the holly.”

  When the song ended, he knelt, swiftly doffing his white-plumed green velvet cap and holding it over his heart as he ardently declared to me, “Eternal and evergreen shall ever be my love for you!”

  Then he clapped his hands, and two young page boys, a pair of angelic children, each with a mop of golden curls, shivering, all but naked in a white loincloth with golden wings tied to his back, came running, one to me, the other to Robert, with a silver tray upon which sat a golden goblet wrought with an ornate and intricate design of hearts and lovers’ knots.

  Loud and bold, Robert said, “Let us drink a toast to undying love!” and he raised his cup to me.

  I smiled wanly at him over the rim as I took a polite sip of the red wine. I also had heard the story of how my father had sung “The Holly” to my mother, and how she, years later, in disgrace, had sung it back to him, as a reminder he conveniently ignored as he turned his back on her and gave his hand to Jane Seymour.

  “There is more, my Queen, much more,” Robert said, gesturing to the stage, as he came and lolled on the cushions beside me, taking my hand, kissing it, and playing with my rings, pointedly ignoring the many who frowned and murmured at the lax formality and careless familiarity Lord Robert displayed in the Queen’s company, comporting himself as though he were my equal or even my superior in rank. “He carries himself like a king,” many said of my dear Gypsy. It was one of the reasons I so delighted in his company; he was so natural, so free and easy, and sometimes even made me forget myself.

  “Robert”—I turned to regard him fully—“would you love me the same if I were not Queen?”

  “But you are Queen!” Robert smiled back at me as he bounded up, brushing a quick kiss onto my cheek, and ran toward the stage and plunged behind the green velvet curtain.

  “Yes, Robert,” I nodded and said softly, a shade bitterly, to myself, since he was no longer there to hear me. “I am Queen.”

  The curtain opened to reveal a painted scene of a castle high atop a hill and Robert standing, arrogant and grand, in ermine-furred purple robes and a jeweled crown, before a huddled mass of groveling peasants, kneeling bareheaded before him, clasping their caps over their hearts as they gazed up at him with soulful, imploring eyes.

  Kneeling at the fore, right at Robert’s feet, his springy ginger curls standing up every which way, was my dear Gooseberry, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Blushing and bashful and looking as round as a berry himself, he nervously cleared his throat and began to stammer a speech, his voice at times cracking and rising to a higher, more nasal, pitch before it fell again as he droned through Chaucer’s words, with no more passion and feeling than a rather dull-witted child reciting the alphabet. He was imploring the great lord to marry and secure the future of his kingdom and the happiness of his people. As he spoke, he gradually turned on his knees, until he was fully facing me as he recited:

  “But bow your neck beneath that blessed yoke

  Of sovereignty and not of hard service,

  The which men call espousal or wedlock;

  And pray think, lord, among your thoughts so wise,

  How our days pass and each in different guise;

  For though we sleep or wake or roam or ride,

  Time flies, and for no man will it abide.

  And though your time of green youth flowers as yet,

  Age creeps in always, silent as a stone;

  Death threatens every age, nor will forget

  For any state, and there escapes him none:

  And just as surely as we know, each one,

  That we shall die, uncertain are we all

  What day it is when death shall on us fall.

  Accept then of us, lord, the true intent,

  That never yet refused you your behest,

  And we will, lord, if you will give consent,

  Choose you a wife without delay, at least,

  Born of the noblest blood and the greatest

  Of all this land, so that it ought to seem

  Honor to God and you, as we shall deem.

  Deliver us from all our constant dread

  And take yourself a wife, for High God’s sake;

  For if it so befell, which God forbid,

  That by your death your noble line should break

  And that a strange successor should come take

  Your heritage, woe that we were alive!

  Wherefore we pray you speedily to wive.”

  By the end of his speech, poor Gooseberry’s face was as red as a beet, and his nervous fingers had shredded his cloth cap until he was holding nothing but a tattered handful of brown cloth strips.

  At the far right of the stage a movement at the back of the massed peasantry caught my eye. A barefoot, red-haired wench whose breasts jutted immodestly high above her low white linen bodice and tightly laced black stomacher stood, swaying her nut brown fustian skirt with a basket of daisies swinging from her hand. It could be no other than my cousin—Lettice Knollys, the granddaughter of my mother’s sister, Mary Boleyn. Only sixteen, Lettice was a flirty little minx so taken with her recently acquired bosom that she flaunted her breasts as if they were God’s greatest gift to mankind. There were many who said there was a remarkable resemblance between us, in our coloring and features, though Lettice’s hair was a shade or two darker than my own. Perhaps, from a distance, some might be fooled; if her gown weren’t cut as low as a tavern slut’s and she weren’t slouching over to give the men a better view, some might be fooled. She reminded me far more of another
cousin—my foolish and wanton young stepmother, Katherine Howard. Lettice was like a taller, slimmer version of poor, hapless Kat; she had exuded the same raw sensuality as Lettice did, and it had cost her her head when she dared cuckold my father with his favorite body servant.

  Abruptly, I stood up, bringing the performance to a sudden halt as the rest of the court hurriedly scrambled up after me in a great rustling of clothes.

  “The performance is over,” I announced. “I’ve no desire to see Griselda stripped down to her shift by a man who is not worthy of her love and devotion, much less such perverse obedience,” I added, no doubt leaving most of the men disappointed that they would not be treated to the indecent spectacle of Lettice Knollys wiggling out of her dress, though it left little enough to the imagination to start with; she obviously wasn’t wearing a single petticoat beneath that skirt.

  “Better to be a beggar-maid and single than a queen and married!” I cried as I spun in an indignant flurry of green velvet skirts and headed for the door with my ladies hurrying after me.

  Everyone wanted me to marry! Even the schoolboys at Eton had sent me a book they had made filled with Latin verses imploring me to marry with all haste so that all might rejoice to have a little Henry in the royal nursery who would grow up to be a great king and England’s savior someday.

  On the threshold I halted and turned back to face my court and the dismayed performers, frowning and flustered on the stage, and poor Gooseberry, who looked very near to tears.

  Always keep them guessing, that was my philosophy; just when they think they’ve found their balance, give them a push, and leave them staggering and flailing!

  With an airy little laugh and a flutter of my fan, I called out, “Gooseberry!” beckoning to the Earl of Shrewsbury as if he were a lapdog. “I’ve a fancy to take a turn in the garden, to see the frost glittering on the trees like diamonds in the moonlight; will you accompany me?”

  “N-N-Nothing c-c-could g-g-give me gr-gr-greater p-p-pleasure, Y-Your M-M-Majesty!” he managed to stammer, falling off the edge of the stage as he took a step toward me. But, undaunted, he quickly righted himself, shook himself off, and ran to kiss my hand as though it were the most precious and sacred holy relic.

  As I linked my arm through his, I glanced back over my shoulder. “And ... I think ... Sir William Pickering”—I smiled and nodded at the tall, suave, slender diplomat newly returned from the French court with bold gray streaks at his temples marring the ebony blackness of his hair and lending him an air of distinction that made many a feminine heart flutter—“should join us, and ...” My eyes darted playfully about the Great Hall as all the men watched me with bated breath and eyes that pleaded, “Please pick me!” “... the Earl of Arundel,” I concluded as I flashed a smile at the potbellied conservative and quietly Catholic old graybeard, “looks as though he could use a bracing blast of winter-fresh air.”

  And with a merry trill of laughter I walked out as they hastened to join me, Gooseberry holding tightly to my left arm, determined not to relinquish it, as Pickering and Arundel vied to take my right. With a last backward glance I saw Robert standing alone on the stage in his false crown and royal robes, looking as though he would like nothing better than to draw his dagger and bury it to the hilt in the backs of each of the three gentlemen I had chosen.

  Even my dear Gypsy must be kept in his place. His presumptuous airs had already made him despised, and he must never think that my favor was all his alone. The next morning, I refused to see him at all. I invited Sir William Pickering to breakfast with me, though I was still in my nightgown, and spent five whole hours closeted alone with him, enjoying his conversation and lively gossip about the French court. He had such a fine speaking voice, he could make even the dullest document sound as pleasant as poetry. And when I emerged from my chamber, bundled into the Swedish Prince’s sables, my arm linked through Pickering’s, talking and laughing as though we were old, dear friends, I sent for Gooseberry and Arundel and invited them to go out in my barge with us. At the very last moment I included Robert in the invitation, but I soon sent him ashore to buy roasted chestnuts for us, and then I had him sit with the musicians and sing to us. “Sing for your supper!” I laughingly commanded. And when he finished his grudgingly sung love song, I laughed and tossed him a chestnut, which he made no attempt to catch and let fall to the floor as he stared up at me with a smoldering glare, itself as hot as a chestnut just taken from the fire. But I only laughed all the more and gave myself up fully to the combined attentions of Gooseberry, Pickering, and Arundel.

  That evening I shunned Robert’s lavish entertainments and spent a quiet evening listening to Gooseberry trip and stammer through a volume of poetry. And all the court was left to wonder, and the foreign ambassadors grew more worried with every day that passed as I seemed to favor these three Englishmen over any of the royal and titled foreigners who sought my hand. Did this mean England would soon have a homegrown king? The betting had already begun. And Kat, who had grown most disapproving in her old age, had frowningly informed me that Arundel had ordered himself a splendid new wardrobe and distributed upward of £2,000 amongst my ladies to encourage them to speak well of him, whilst Gooseberry had attempted to buy their allegiance with jewels. And the debonair Pickering, gossips reported, had taken to dining in lordly fashion, seated alone at his table while musicians played. He and Arundel had even nearly clashed swords over who had the right to pass through a doorway first.

  As I went about with all three of them, every time I saw Robert glowering at us, I would throw back my head, laugh, and exclaim, “I don’t know which one of you gentlemen I like best! I just can’t make up my mind! Oh, if only I could marry all three of you, how happy we would be!”

  I just loved keeping everyone guessing! With no father, brother, or uncle to force my hand, I could play the game exactly as I pleased, and oh, how I loved playing it, and I never wanted to stop; there was nothing more exciting or empowering than being the most avidly courted and desired woman in the whole of Europe.

  17

  Elizabeth

  London

  January 1559

  As tradition dictated, I must return to the Tower of London to lodge there, in the royal apartments, before my coronation. This time I entered in triumph, in pearl-encrusted purple velvet and ermine, with my head held high.

  “ ’Tis a rare feat,” I said proudly as I passed through the gate, pausing to wave heartily at the throngs of cheering people, “for one who was once a prisoner here to return in triumph! O Lord Almighty and Everlasting God,” I said fervently as my people quieted to hear me speak, “I give Thee most hearty and humble thanks that Thou hast been so merciful unto me as to spare me to behold this joyful day. Some have fallen from being princes of this land to be prisoners in this place, whereas I am raised from once having been a prisoner here to become a prince of this land!” And with another wave, I passed fearlessly through the portal I once feared as the threshold leading to my death.

  With a gasp of surprise I recognized the rotund figure kneeling humbly, waiting to greet me.

  “Rise, Sir Gaoler!” I cried out in impetuous delight, as Sir Henry Bedingfield, who had once been tasked with keeping me under house arrest, struggled to his feet, looking more fat and florid than ever, and so awed and shamed by the memories of that time tugging at him like little demons on his coattails that he could not even meet my eyes.

  “God forgive you the past, as I do,” I said readily, as I reached out to gently lay my hands, richly gloved in purple velvet sewn with pearls, upon his arms. “Do you remember what I promised you when we last parted?”

  “Y-Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, nodding, daring a smile, “indeed I do.”

  “Well, it still holds true,” I affirmed. “Whenever I have one whom I require to be most straitly and securely kept, I shall send them to you, my dear Sir Huff and Puff.” I patted his plump apple red cheek fondly as I passed him by with a smile and, with my ladies and guards hurry
ing after me, continued to the royal apartments.

  But I was restless in the Tower; I could not bear to sit still. I felt the need to retrace my steps, to revisit the past, now that it could not harm me. I walked alone, for I could not bear to be crowded, to be dogged by following footsteps or curious, questioning eyes, along the snow-blanketed lead wall-walk between the Beauchamp Tower and the Bell Tower, where I, as a prisoner, had been allowed to take my daily exercise. Fearlessly and boldly now, through a veil of lightly falling snow, I stared down at the Green, where my mother, and so many others, had died, confident and secure for the first time in my life that such would never be my fate. I gasped as I felt a pair of arms steal around my waist and warm lips nuzzling my ear.

  “Did I not say to you, the last time we walked here and watched the ravens circling above the heads we despaired of keeping, ‘Have patience, Bess. Someday, we too shall soar and fly free as the birds in the sky’?”

  I felt his hands rising slowly from my waist, his palms traveling up over the firm, tightly laced purple velvet stomacher of my gown as I sighed, shut my eyes, and leaned back against his strong, hard chest. His thumbs lightly grazed the undersides of my breasts, as I answered, my voice low and tremulous with the rising desire I was trying so hard to trample back down, “Aye, Rob, you did.”

  “You see, I was right,” he said, as his lips again found my ear and his hands rose to boldly, fully cup my breasts.

  Instantly I pulled away from him and spun around to face him, my cloak flapping in the winter wind as pearls of snow beaded our heads and clothes.

  “Yes, you were.” I nodded. “And so we are—free!” I flung my head back and my arms wide and cried up at the ravens, “Free as the birds in the sky! Free! Free! Free!”