A Court Affair (30 page)

“But you
are
Queen!” Robert smiled back at me as he bounded up, brushing a quick kiss onto my cheek, and ran towards 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 jewelled crown, before a huddled mass of grovelling 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:

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 colouring 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 favourite 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 saviour 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 towards 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 grey 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 greybeard, “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 favour 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 smouldering 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 favour 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 upwards 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.

London
January 1559

A
s 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 recognised 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 hurrying 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 travelling 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!
”