A Court Affair (47 page)

The tears were pouring down my face by then, and, Pirto, seeing my distress, hurriedly pressed a coin into the woman’s palm and shooed her out as I buried my face in the pillows and sobbed my heart out. So it
was
true about the poison, and Robert had known all along. Richard Verney had only been following orders! My husband wanted me dead! That was why the spices he sent only made me sicker, and why he had taken my unicorn’s horn away; he didn’t want me to get better!

I cried and cried as the last of my illusions died. But I knew I could not waste the whole day in weeping. I still had to see Robert. Even knowing what I knew, I had to find a way to dissuade him from this murderous course. I needed to get away from Compton Verney, to be somewhere pleasant and safe, where I could stop fearing what malice and evil lurked in the shadows and rest in peace for what little time I had left to live. Robert and his minions would not steal what was left of my life away with poison. I was fully on guard now, and I would not let them!

I forced myself to dry my tears and rise from my bed and give myself over to Pirto’s ministrations.

“Please,” I implored her, “help me; I need to look my best today. I need him to see at least a glimmer of the Amy he fell in love with. Help me be that girl again, Pirto.”

“Time changes us all, love,” Pirto said sadly, “but ’twas him a-changin’ that made you change, broke your heart and made you sadder.”

She applied salve and a fresh dressing to my breast and rose perfume to try to mask the fetid odour of the seeping discharge and helped me into a fine gown of buttercup yellow damask trimmed with seed pearls and frills of golden lace. She arranged my hair in shining curls, long, loose, harvest gold ringlets to remind Robert of the girl he had fallen in love with and been wild to wed and bed, instead of the wife he no longer wanted, with the wealth of her hair pinned up and hidden beneath her gold-bordered hood as becomes a respectable matron. And around my neck I fastened the black silk cord of the amber heart Robert had given me. “Here is my heart,” he had said at the time. “Let this token stand as surety for my eternal, undying love.” I wanted him to see it; I wanted him to remember that he had once given this most precious gift to me, not the amber heart, but the flesh and blood one beating within his chest and the love that it stood symbol for.

“God, give me strength!” I prayed. “
Please,
if I am to die, let God take my life,
not
Robert, or one of his or the Queen’s minions. If he cannot love me like he once did, then let him like me enough to stay the poisoner’s hand and let this cancer follow its course, and let me die a natural death.”

Then I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and set out to confront Robert.

Hoping to meet him privately, rather than before the curious, scandal-hungry eyes of the court, I went first to the Dairy House at Kew, the small but stately milk white riverside mansion the Queen had given him, where the lawn sprawled emerald green and white peacocks paraded proudly amongst classical-style marble urns overflowing with meadow daisies, marigolds, pinks, cowslips, and gillyflowers, white marble statues of dairy cows, and chairs carved like wooden milk pails where two lovers might sit, embrace, hold hands, and converse most intimately. The whiteness of it all was so glaringly bright, I had to squint and shield my eyes. Like staring into the sun, it hurt just to look at it.

The housekeeper, a pleasant, moon-faced woman almost as round as she was tall, greeted me at the door and introduced herself as Mrs Margery Dowe. I asked if my husband were at home. To her credit, she tried to veil her astonishment. She fast recovered her wits and, though it was with a blush, averted eyes, and a stammer, she answered me, “N-No, M-My Lady, he … he … he is at … at … he is at court!” she at last blurted out. Then, as if rushing onward and changing the subject would make me forget her answer, she asked if I would like a piece of fresh-baked mincemeat pie or, she added, as my husband had just re-established the dairy, she could offer me some of his cheese or butter spread onto some bread that had also been baked fresh that morning. “Or per’aps some sweet cream slathered on a sugar biscuit would be more to m’lady’s liking?” she asked, most anxious to please.

“No, thank you, Mrs Dowe,” I said softly as I stood there in the stately entrance hall, gazing down at the highly polished oak floor peeking around a narrow carpet of red velvet, lest its lustre be lost to admiring eyes. Slowly, I turned in a circle, taking it all in. The carved and gilded ceiling and gleaming oak wall panelling were all acorns and oak leaves and bears holding ragged staves standing ankle-deep in red and white painted Tudor roses, and there were carved cameo portraits in profile of Robert and the Queen, their oval frames supported by cherubs and garlanded in roses, acorns, and oak leaves, everywhere with their initials—
RD
and
ER—
for Robert Dudley and Elizabeth Regina. And, if I looked straight ahead, where a beam of sunlight that poured in through a round clear and ruby red stained-glass window set like a jewel above the front door was pointing, my eyes were led to a life-sized portrait of she who ruled here, the mistress of the realm and this house, its gold frame all a-blossom with a garden of red and white enamelled Tudor roses.

I went to stand directly before it, to better scrutinise my rival. She was so regal and proud, within her confidence seemed to reign supreme. Her face, neck, breasts, and hands were as white as marble. She was like a statue all dressed up, like the statues in the churches in bygone Catholic days were sometimes given wigs of real hair and dressed up in embroidered robes with jewels to adorn them. The Protestant religion had banished the Holy Virgin from England’s altars, and now Elizabeth was giving her subjects another virgin queen, this one of earth instead of Heaven, to venerate and adore. She was gowned in scarlet and white, all a-sparkle with ruby and diamond hearts—on her dress, at her wrists, ears, and throat, and in her vivid hair, like flames tamed to be docile and hold the jewelled hearts. Her head was tilted downward to contemplate something in her hand. It was a heart-shaped locket, attached to a long diamond chain she wore about her neck, with the golden halves open so she could gaze down upon the two faces inside. I stood on tiptoe and peered closer, squinting my eyes, the paintings within the painting were
so
tiny. And then, with a little thud, I sank down heavily onto my heels again, feeling altogether defeated, as if my errand today, though only just begun, was already a lost cause. Surely these two dainty likenesses were Lavinia’s tiniest work—I knew they were hers by the telltale azure backgrounds. Each in one half of a golden heart, Robert and Elizabeth faced each other, so that when the halves were closed, their painted lips would meet.

“The Queen of Hearts and the Knave of Hearts,” I said softly.

“Beg pardon, m’lady?” Mrs Dowe, now at my side, inquired.

“Nothing of any importance, Mrs Dowe.” I feigned a smile. “I was just thinking aloud. I apologise for coming unannounced, but I wanted to surprise Robert.”

Mrs Dowe’s expression told me that, sure enough, had he been at home, Robert would have been surprised, and
not
in a very pleasant way, but she was too kind to say so.

“Would you—that is, if your time permits, of course—would you show me around? I would like very much to see the house. Robert has told me about it in his letters,” I lied, “but—being a woman, I know you will understand—men don’t always describe the details well enough for one to picture them, the way a lady likes to.”

Mrs Dowe’s lips spread in a wide smile, and she nodded vigorously. “Aye, m’lady, I know
just
what you mean, I do! Sometimes it’s like pullin’ teeth, it is, to get an answer out o’ my ’Arry! ’E saw the Queen once, an’ when I asked ’im what she ’ad on, ’e said, ‘A dress,’ Just that—‘a dress’! ’Ad ’is own life been at stake, ’e couldn’t ’ave told me the cut or colour of it or what kind o’ trimmin’s it ’ad! So I know
just
what you mean! Now, if you’ll come this way, m’lady, I’ll show you the best parlour first. You came at just the right time, you did; the murals were just ’ung up t’other day.”

But at the door, with her hand hovering over the ornate gilded handle shaped like a naked nymph with long, flowing hair, she hesitated once more. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but are you
sure
you want to see?” She jerked her head back at the portrait of the Queen. “There’s more o’ that sort o’ thing, if you take my meanin’.”

“It’s all right, Mrs Dowe.” I gave a comforting pat to her arm. “I assure you, I am well aware of my husband’s friendship with the Queen.” The look on Mrs Dowe’s face told me that she knew just as well as I did that
friendship
was not the best word for it, and, to reassure her further, I amended, “I mean, of course, his
intimate
friendship with Her Majesty. Now, please, if you would be so kind, I am most eager to see what my husband has done with the house.”

Mrs Dowe nodded and gave a little shrug. “As you will, m’lady, this way,” she said, and she turned the door handle, though I had the distinct impression that she thought I was only torturing myself and better that I go to the Tower and have myself racked rather than explore Robert’s house any farther.

The best parlour was a sizeable room, “the largest in the ’ole ’ouse, m’lady, there not bein’ a Great ’All,” Mrs Dowe explained. The curtains and upholstery were done in a rich deep brown velvet trimmed with gold fringe and tassels, and the floor was carpeted entirely in a brown carpet woven in gold, tawny, and various shades of green with a pattern of acorns and oak leaves. I was
amazed
to see it. I had seen, and even owned, smaller squares of Turkey carpet, but never one such as this that covered the whole floor, reaching from wall to wall. What it had cost Robert I could not even begin to imagine. The candles rose out of gilded sconces and candelabra shaped like wreaths of oak leaves and acorns, and the carved oak ceiling and wall panelling continued the same pattern. But it was the murals covering every wall that took my breath away and left me reeling, groping behind me for a chair—and not a moment too soon—as my knees gave way.

In the common clothes of a milkmaid and her gallant swain, the Queen and Robert cavorted through a series of bucolic, pastoral tableaux. In the first they shared a kiss over the back of a cow Elizabeth had apparently just finished milking, as its pink teats still dribbled drops of white milk into the wooden pail still sitting beneath, which a sly tabby cat eyed longingly. In the second, Robert lifted her over a stile, swinging her in such a way that her trim ankles and shapely calves showed. Next he crouched by the river, peeping through the reeds, to spy on her as she bathed, her nakedness barely veiled by the blue water and waves of long, rippling red hair. In the fourth mural they held hands and stared longingly at each other as they herded a flock of geese. And in the next, as a shepherd and shepherdess, they stole a kiss while minding the sheep. Then they progressed to lying together, embracing, in a haystack. And in the seventh—the one that tore at my heart most—they stood together beneath a mighty oak tree, gazing upon the ruins of a sprawling manor house where sheep grazed upon the overgrown grass and thistles as a rainbow spread over it all; from the looks on their faces, they were dreaming of the future and making plans. And in the eighth, and final, painting, they danced high-spiritedly together at their wedding, Robert lifting Elizabeth high in a white gown embroidered with golden flowers, surrounded by smiling faces and bountifully laden tables.

Lest I break down and fall weeping onto Mrs Dowe’s shoulder, I sprang from my chair and hurried out.

“And now the other rooms please, Mrs Dowe,” I said quickly in a miraculously steady voice.

Each successive room was like a shrine to Elizabeth, with her portrait prominently displayed.

In a yellow room decorated with gilded suns, she wore a golden gown with her hair like a sunburst rippling about her shoulders. In the next room, done in midnight blue adorned with pearly white moons and silvery stars, she was gowned in the same colours and emblems within a silver gilt frame, as chaste Diana with a silver crescent moon and diamond stars and ropes of pearls entwined in her elaborately styled hair, all coils and plaits and cascading curls, falling past bare shoulders as white as alabaster.

And in a room of deep forest green velvet and dark wooden panelling, with a plaster ceiling painted with hawks swooping after sparrows and other small birds, and wildflowers blooming on a Turkey carpet beneath my feet, she was mounted, regal and proud, a commanding presence, sidesaddle upon a handsome bay hunter in a flowing-skirted green velvet riding habit and feathered cap, with a hawk on her wrist.

The next room was the library, lined with shelves of leather-bound books with the Dudley coat-of-arms gilded on every one; they were a bewildering assortment of works on mathematics, cartography, navigation, astrology, astronomy, alchemy, history, warfare, and geography. Even the ones in English seemed writ in a foreign language to me—I could scarce understand a word of them. And, presiding over it all, was a portrait of Elizabeth in a buff-coloured gown trimmed with gold and russet silk braid with a wide ruff edged in gold cushioning her chin, and a feathered hat set at a rakish tilt. In her leather-gloved hand she held the chain of a trained bear that stood up on his hind legs beside her, his paws reaching out as if he wanted to embrace her. It was as though Elizabeth’s slim figure had replaced the ragged staff clutched in the Dudleys’ bear’s claws. On each side of the portrait hung a large framed chart, an intricate and elaborate horoscope, beautifully embellished with stars and other symbols. One was for Elizabeth; the other was, of course, for Robert. But I noticed one glaring error—upon each chart the date of birth was given as September 7, 1533, when I knew very well that my husband had been born in the same month and year as myself, though some days afterwards, on June 24, 1532. Had he spun a tale for Elizabeth about it being written in the stars that they were destined to be together? “We two are one—it was written in the stars at the hour of our birth.” Truly I could almost hear him saying those very words, in a hot, velvety voice whispered into an all too willing ear that was eager to hear them. It was easy to imagine, because that had once been me, lapping it all up like a cat does cream.