Elizabeth I (84 page)

Sir Francis Carew was one of those curious creatures, a lifelong bachelor. No more curious than a virgin queen, I suppose, but it is so rare it causes comment. Since we were about the same age, there was little chance either of us would change our state. He had been a faithful but unremarkable courtier much of his life, serving me on minor missions and staying clear of factions and politics, although his family ties were to the Throckmortons and hence to Raleigh, through Bess.

As we trotted down the lane, the clattering of our horses alerted our host, and he dispatched a line of servants, attired all in scarlet and black, to stand along the way and greet us. He himself waited at the entrance, his arms held wide like a welcoming father. When he saw us, he swept to the ground, his white head bent low.

“Up, Sir Francis,” I said. “We are delighted to be here, to partake of your hospitality.”

“The delight is mine, Your Majesty,” he said, rising to his feet, his sunburned face cracking with his wide smile. “May this be your home for however long you choose to abide with us.” It was a question, but a diplomatically asked one.

“It cannot be for more than three days, I am sad to say,” I told him. No need to keep him in suspense or make him lay in unnecessary supplies. “But three days can be sweet enough.”

“Indeed,” he said.

He welcomed Raleigh with “Nephew!” and clapped him on the back. He stared at Percival until Raleigh introduced him. He bowed gravely to Catherine and to Helena, then, with exaggerated courtliness, bowed to Eurwen and said, “So you are the Queen's goddaughter. You look much as she did at your age. One would think you were of her own family.” Eurwen blushed and lowered her eyes.

Seeing the great line of wagons following us, he gave brisk orders that they could park and unload in the barns at the edge of the park. “Although I think I have everything for your comfort,” he said, “try us first, before you unpack.”

I always insisted on my own bed, but perhaps tonight I would try to do without it. After all, is that not another notorious sign of aging—rigid, fixed habits? I must fight it. “Very well, but that might be dangerous. We may appropriate your things if they please us too much!” I warned him.

The chamber he had set aside for me and my ladies was unused. I saw no telltale signs of his having just vacated it himself. It was spacious and overlooked the extensive orchard on the east side of the house. A magnificent bed stood waiting, its layers of linen, blankets, and counterpanes swelling it like a woman near her time of delivery. The canopy was carved on its underside, and the curtains were of green and gold tapestry. It was not quite as fine as mine, but it came close. And there were regular beds for Helena and Catherine and Eurwen. They would not have to sleep in truckle beds.

He had provided a writing desk well stocked with ink, pens, wax, and paper. Another table, inlaid with ebony, stood waiting for jugs or pitchers of drink. A discreet adjoining chamber held the washing and privy implements.

A bit later he invited us to stroll with him in his garden.

“Twilight is the best time to visit a garden, and at this time of year, twilights are long,” he said.

“Sir Francis,” I said, “we like our chamber well.”

He smiled. The man had the most winsome smile I had seen—it came from deep inside. “I have set it aside for you from the beginning,” he said. “It was worth the wait.” We were descending the stairs and he looked over at me—to make sure I did not stumble? “It has been waiting your entire reign, wearing the title ‘The Queen's Room.'”

“It has stood empty all that time?”

“No, others have been allowed to use it. That is because I knew that when Your Glorious Majesty came, it would burn away the traces of the others as the sun burns away mist. However, after this, no one will be allowed to use it, lest it be sullied.”

He was so serious I feared he meant it. “I am not sullied so easily as that, Sir Francis,” I assured him. “It would be a waste of an exquisite room.”

“Is a shrine a waste?” he asked, puzzled.

We had reached the main floor, and I decided not to pursue the subject further. If he wished to keep a shrine, so be it. I only hoped he would not enter the chamber after we departed with an open jar to capture my breath, as papists did for their Virgin. I looked back; my ladies were not laughing, but I knew it was difficult for them to suppress a giggle.

We swept out into the garden. The last rays of the sun were still slanting across the gravel paths with their boxwood borders, touching them with gold. I could hear the splashing of a fountain somewhere in the distance. The gravel crunched; Raleigh and Percival had joined us.

“When I began the gardens—which had gone to ruin when the property was in dispute—I thought very conventionally. It was only the middle of the century, after all, and I was hardly in the forefront of fashion. Hence, this knot design, which will make you yawn. Planted with the usual: dwarf box, black yew, and lavender.”

I looked at them, and he was right. They were so predictable one did not need to look at them at all.

“But ...” He turned and riveted his eyes on me. “My kinsman Walter has opened my eyes to wider vistas. Come!”

He led us out of the railed, neatly patterned garden and into an alley of trees that were shoulder high, lined up like soldiers. They resembled plums and cherries in their branch pattern, but their leaves were brighter green and waxier.

Raleigh smiled. “I jested about the king of Spain being the king of oranges and figs,” he said. “Now he will be unique only in being king of figs. For soon Your Majesty will be Queen of oranges as well as apples, pears, plums, and apricots.” He took one of the leaves and rubbed it hard. “This is an orange tree, and it has thrived here—with help from Sir Francis. I brought some orange seeds back from my Cádiz mission and persuaded him to plant them. That was three years ago, and thanks to his invention”—he pointed to a row of canopies on wheels—“they have survived our winters.”

“When it gets cold, I cover them with these movable shelters,” said Francis. “It has enabled them to take root here and grow. In a few years, God willing, they will flower and bring forth that joyous orange fruit.”

“My subjects are ever inventive,” I said. “But oranges in England? Who would have thought it possible?”

“I am calling this an orangerie. For obvious reasons,” said Francis. “I hope you will return for the first picking. I will stew up a dish swimming with oranges for you.”

“It would be an honor,” I said. But how many years would that be? Would I even be traveling by then? Then, the forbidden thought: Would I even be alive?

“There is yet another invention,” said Raleigh. “But it falls to our host to unveil it.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he said. “Enough marvels for today.”

I agreed. The sun had fled the sky, turning the undersides of a bank of clouds pink-gold. I was ready for night's rest.

Our chamber proved just as comfortable in practice as it had seemed on first glance. Wearily I let Helena pull off my day clothes and dress me in my sleeping gown, setting my bed cap on my head. The low, patterned ceiling made us feel safe and snug. Several candles were burning, their flames steady in the quiet air.

“We are not so far from Hever Castle,” said Catherine suddenly. “Have you ever visited it?”

Hever Castle: seat of the Boleyn family and the home of Mary and Anne Boleyn.

“No, that I have not,” I admitted.

“Would you consider going there this time, together?” she asked. “I have seen it only once, from the outside, when I was still a child. The family was gone then.”

Indeed they were. My grandparents had died soon after my mother, and the property became the Crown's. Anne of Cleves lived in it briefly. Since then it had acquired new owners.

“I don't know,” I said. I did not know if I could stand it. Yet at the same time I longed to see the place where my mother had been young, before she had known the world. To make a sentimental journey, revisiting the past ... another earmark of aging. Putting together the puzzle of the past, then, important only as one's own life closed down. “But as it would mean much to you ...”

“It would. I never saw my grandmother Mary; she died before I was born, far away from her old life in east Essex. It seems the family was so smitten and scattered that we could never come together again. Now we can finally go back. Together. We'll hold hands and lay those ghosts to rest.”

If only we could. They were restless, those spirits, cut off from any finality. Was the old castle overgrown, sleeping, like the enchanted ones in tales? Had the vines been growing since the Boleyns ceased to be? Had the moat dried up? What would we find?

There was no trace of the sensual Mary Boleyn in this granddaughter; at least none that I could see. Perhaps the admiral would differ in his opinion. As for me, they say I have my mother's eyes, dark and challenging. Our ancestors live on in us, calling us back to their territory, daring us to meet them on their ground.

“Very well,” I said. “We'll alter our itinerary. Hever is only about twenty miles from here, and more or less on our way.”

A little frisson of dread and excitement ran through me at the thought of this personal pilgrimage.

T
he day was brilliant with sun and radiating warmth. Sir Francis sent word that nothing was planned until early afternoon, when he would host a banquet in the orchard. Until then, we were free to do as we would.

“Ladies, to our country clothes!” I said. “No ruffs, no stays, no dark colors, and nothing that will tear on brambles—or if they tear, no matter.” I felt giddy as a girl, able this morning to pretend I was not a queen but the country exile I had been as a child, living at Hatfield, Hunsdon, Eltham, and Woodstock, free to romp in meadows.

This day I did not even wish to hunt—too organized, too formal. Instead we would walk along the Wandle River, following its banks, and then into the woods of the deer park. I wore sturdy deerskin boots and a wide-brimmed sun hat, took a stick for walking, and bade everyone follow me.

At first Helena and Eurwen were right beside me, keeping up easily. Helena was fifty now, but her hardy Swedish stock meant she still retained her long-necked beauty, clear complexion, and vigor. I complimented her on her health, and she replied, “Even after all these years in England, I go by what my mother taught me in Sweden: A brisk walk before breakfast will add ten years to your life.”

“I, too, swear by a walk before breakfast,” I said. “I keep ambassadors waiting, but I am not myself until I've had my exercise. And I dare not face them without all my wits about me.”

Helena smiled. “I doubt that you are ever separated from your wits.”

“You have seen me in a fog or two,” I reminded her. She had served me for many years. Now she was a quasi-relative. Soon after she was widowed she had married one of my Boleyn cousins, Thomas Gorges. Their first child, Elizabeth, was another of my godchildren.

“Did you bring Elizabeth?” I asked her. “It has been too long since I have seen your daughter, my namesake.”

“Indeed I did,” said Helena. “She is back there keeping company with some of the young men.”

“Like her mother,” I teased Helena. “Let's bring her up here. I want two of my goddaughters to meet.” Turning to Eurwen, I said, “I told you I had many, and I look out for all of them.”

A few minutes later Helena's daughter caught up with us, crashing through the brush alongside the path. She skidded to a halt and curtsied. Her hat flopped forward. “Your Majesty,” she panted. She was the antithesis of her refined, stately mother. The only trait they shared was shiny golden hair.

“My Elizabeth,” I said. “I have not had the pleasure of seeing you in a good while. Your godmother craves more attention, or she will feel forgotten. Here, I wish you to meet your sister in God, Eurwen. She is from Wales.”

Eurwen smiled and bobbed her head. Elizabeth clapped an arm around her shoulder. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

“I am learning....” The two of them meandered to one side of the path together.

“Just so were we once,” said Helena.

“A hearty crop,” I said. “You must come to court more often so I can know all your children.” I had given Helena and her husband the old royal manor of Sheen, near Richmond Palace. “You are right close when we are at Richmond.”

The footpath followed the riverbanks for a mile or two, curving with its curves, hugging the reedy shallows, alive with birds. From this angle Beddington Manor glowed a contented red, its roofs gleaming, its weather vanes catching the sun as they turned.