Lost Love Found (14 page)

Valentina laughed. “There is little chance of my taking a lover, Nan. For one thing, you are too vigilant a watchdog for me. And I was not, I am afraid, born to dissemble the truth. Now go and see if you can cajole one of the footmen into bringing me some hot water, then find me something to eat.”

Valentina ate a light supper of capon, bread, and cheese washed down with her own wine, and was comfortably ensconced in her oak tub when the door to her bedchamber burst open and the five maids of honor burst into the room.

“Here, young ladies, what is this?” demanded Nan, outraged.

“Lady Barrows! Lady Barrows! Honoria has taken my good pearls and will not give them back!” sobbed Beth.

“You have a half-dozen strands more to wear, and I have none,” said Honoria, herself close to tears. “You have lent them to me before.”

“Who are you setting your cap for tonight, Honoria?” teased Eleanora.

“You need not be so smug just because you are soon to be wed,” snapped Honoria. “Not all of us are so lucky!”

“I want my pearls!” wailed Beth.

Valentina closed her eyes. She knew she could not allow these young hoydens to gain the upper hand.

“You have interrupted my bath,” she said coldly, and the room went silent as the girls realized the seriousness of their error. “When I have dressed, we will discuss this matter.”

The five girls silently backed from the room, closing the door gently behind them.

As the door closed, Valentina said to Nan, “Help me dress so I may go out and settle the argument.”

“Which one of those shameless gowns will ye be wanting, m’lady?” said Nan.

“The deep violet with the silver lace,” Valentina answered sweetly.

The maids of honor were properly subdued when Lady Barrows entered their room, and they gasped at Valentina’s beauty. Earlier, she had been wearing a high-necked black gown, her hair hidden beneath a linen cap. This vision in rich violet velvet stunned them. The gown’s underskirt was made of cloth of silver and velvet brocade, and the sleeves dripped with silver lace. The same silver lace coquettishly edged the neckline. The gown was fashionable and wonderfully flattering. Valentina’s elegant chignon was dressed with small silver flowers, each sewn with an amethyst center. Pink pearls adorned her ears and throat.

“Are you ready?” she asked them, glad for the impression she was making on them.

“Aye, madam,” they chorused, curtsying to her.

“Excellent. We shall go as soon as we have solved the dilemma of the pearls. Honoria and Beth, come over to me.” When the two girls stood before her, Valentina said, “Honoria, you were wrong to take Elizabeth’s pearls without asking her first. As for you, Beth, the pearls are indeed yours, and if you had wished to wear the strand Honoria chose, you might have offered her another strand in its place. It is difficult for a woman to be without jewelry, you know. Until I married Lord Barrows, I had very little real jewelry.

“I must punish both of you, for you have both been wrong. Neither of you shall wear any jewelry tonight. No ropes of pearls, no earbobs, no rings, no brooches, no bracelets. Tonight your only jewels will be your flashing eyes and sparkling smiles. You will have to depend on your own charm tonight, my fine young ladies.”

“ ’Tis not fair,” whimpered Beth, her blue eyes filling.

“Elizabeth Stanley, we have not yet discussed the matter of your rude invasion of my privacy when I was in my bath,” Valentina said softly.

“Be quiet, Beth!” Margaret warned her cousin.

Beneath Lady Barrows’s stern gaze, the girls removed their jewelry. Then everyone hurried to the queen’s apartments, where Elizabeth Tudor was awaiting them.

Her Majesty’s sharp eyes swept over the girls, and then she said, “Why are Elizabeth Stanley and Honoria de Bohun not wearing any jewelry, Lady Barrows?”

“A punishment, madam. The sins of selfishness and pride run deep within them,” replied Valentina.

“Hah! At last there is a mistress of the maids who knows how to handle those unbridled hoydens! I knew I was correct in choosing you, Lady Barrows. You may have your father’s beauty, but you also have your mother’s sense.”

With a chuckle, the queen departed from her royal apartments, her ladies-in-waiting and her maids of honor following in her wake.

In the queen’s banqueting hall, musicians were playing a spritely tune as the queen entered. Her brown velvet throne, studded with very large diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and pearls, had been placed in the most prominent position within the hall. The queen seated herself, surrounded by her women. She was most graciously pleased to receive the new ambassador from the duchy of Cleves. There was a definite edge to the atmosphere, however, and, listening carefully, Valentina learned the reason for it.

The Earl of Essex, son of Lettice Knollys, the queen’s cousin and former rival, was once again behaving badly. He had been the queen’s favorite almost from his first day at court, and she loved him dearly, sometimes as she might have loved a son, at other times as she might have loved a man. Throughout their entire relationship, however, the Earl of Essex, Robert Devereaux, had allowed his great pride to rule his head and his heart. Unlike his wily late stepfather, Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, Essex never learned to put the queen first in their close relationship.

His ego was monumental, and he was quick to quarrel with anyone he disliked or anyone he felt had slighted him. There was not one of the queen’s other favorites with whom he did not argue. For a brief time during the Armada scare, he had healed his breach with Sir Walter Ralegh, but in the years since there had been scarcely a civil word between him and the queen’s old favorite, “Water.” The queen loved Essex, but Essex did not understand that Elizabeth Tudor would not be cut off from others she also loved.

The Earl of Essex had put himself in direct confrontation with old Lord Burghley and Lord Burghley’s heir apparent and son, Robert Cecil. After Lord Burghley’s death, Robert Cecil had increased his favor with the queen, for he was a shrewd politician and a loyal servant of Her Majesty, as his father had been. If Cecil favored a matter, the Earl of Essex was certain to oppose it.

Essex had shared command of the Cádiz expedition with Lord Admiral Howard, quarreling constantly with the admiral and irritating him with childish ploys such as placing his signature so high on a document meant for the queen that there was no place for the admiral to sign his name above it.

It did not help that the queen raised Lord Admiral Howard of Effingham to the earldom of Nottingham for his service to England in both the Armada and the Cadiz campaigns, for the Earl of Nottingham took precedence over the Earl of Essex at official functions, so in an appalling fit of sulks, Robert Devereaux refused to attend the Accession Day Tilt in November of that particular year. The queen missed her young Robin, and, in an effort to attract him back to her side, created him Earl Marshal of England, thus giving him precedence over Nottingham.

The queen had to choose a new lord deputy of Ireland. The Earl of Tyrone had been promised aid by the ever-meddling Spanish, and as the French had signed a peace treaty with Spain, the danger to England was once more very real. Elizabeth wished to appoint her cousin, Sir William Knollys, who was also uncle to the Earl of Essex. Essex, seeking to rid himself of Sir George Carew, one of old Lord Burghley’s cronies, suggested Carew for the position. What better place to send an enemy than Ireland?

The queen, wise to Essex’s little game, refused his candidate. Childishly, Essex lost his temper, turning his back on the queen in open contempt. The queen boxed Essex’s ears. His hand went to his sword, and he loudly declared that he would not have accepted such treatment from Henry VIII himself, let alone a mere woman. Elizabeth Tudor’s dark gray eyes narrowed. Seeing her silent rising anger, the Earl of Nottingham wisely placed himself between his sovereign and the earl. The queen, more than a little disenchanted by her favorite’s outrageous behavior, walked away without a backward glance. Leicester. Hatton. Ralegh. All had been clever, passionate men whose devotion to her never wavered, though God knew they had all been ambitious. She had given to them gladly, and they had accepted graciously, protecting her and playing at love with sweet, soft words. Not so Robert Devereaux. She did not understand it, and it angered her to realize that for the first time in her life she had erred in her judgment of a man.

The Earl of Essex had insulted the queen, but he could not bring himself to apologize to her. It was at this time that William Cecil, Lord Burghley, chose to die. Elizabeth was lost in grief, for William Cecil had been with her from the beginning of her reign. He had been the father she had never really had. Lord Burghley’s death presented a golden opportunity for the Earl of Essex to mend his fences. His mother and sisters told him to do it, but Essex would not heed their advice. He would return to the queen’s side in his own good time.

He chose to go to the Accession Day Tilt on November 17 of that year, but his attendance was meant more to spite Sir Walter Ralegh than to please the queen. Several years prior, Ralegh, without royal permission, had married the queen’s favorite maid of honor, Elizabeth Throckmorton. They were in love, and had waited over four years to gain the queen’s consent, but she had dismissed the subject each time they attempted to broach it. Finally, Bess and her lover ran off to be wed. When she learned of it, the queen indulged in a great fit of temper over their betrayal. Still, she gave them Sherbourne Castle in Dorset to live in, though they had not been allowed back at court until recently.

Feeling more alone than she had in years, Elizabeth recalled Sir Walter to his place as captain of her guard, and welcomed him and Bess back to court. On Accession Day, Ralegh had dressed his men, at his own great expense, in rich gold and brown velvets with orange-tawny plumes. He wished to honor the queen, on whom his fortunes had always depended. Knowing how much an elegant show delighted Elizabeth, he had arranged to please her with his display.

Essex, however, had learned of Ralegh’s plans. Thinking it great sport, he mocked Ralegh by attiring his own great army of retainers in identical garb and plumes and marching them boldly before the queen.

Disgusted by this display of Essex’s boorishness, Elizabeth ended the celebration early. She had divined Ralegh’s attempt at kindness toward her and appreciated it. She understood Essex’s actions just as well, and was hurt that he preferred harming Ralegh to pleasing her.

Essex had returned to court to stay, for he could not allow Sir Walter Ralegh or little Cecil to gain ground over him. For the next few months he made his presence felt by opposing every name brought forth in the council to fill the position of commander-in-chief in Ireland. It became obvious that Essex wanted that position for himself, and finally, the queen acquiesced. She was angry and hurt by the young man to whom she had given so much and who gave her nothing in return except grief. Ireland had been the graveyard of more English reputations, both political and military, than she could remember. But if Essex thought he could succeed where so many others had failed, perhaps it would be to England’s good to give him the appointment.

Upon his departure for Ireland in March of 1599, Robert Devereaux said loftily to his retainers, “Methinks ’tis the fairer choice to command armies than humors.”

As difficult a personality as he was, the Earl of Essex had the ability to win men to his side, for he could be most charming when he made the effort. Many young courtiers eager to make reputations for themselves, younger sons of the nobility, adventurers, and a host of military veterans from the Cádiz expedition were eager to serve with the earl. Essex therefore departed from England with an enormous army, ample provisions, and the promise of whatever else he might need to secure a victory over Tyrone and his rebels.

Once out of the queen’s sight, however, Essex disobeyed every order he had been given, despite the pleading of Sir John Harrington, the queen’s favorite godson, and Sir Christopher Blount, Essex’s stepfather. The queen had ordered her commander-in-chief to march into Ulster immediately to confront Tyrone. With the element of surprise, there was a good chance of victory. Essex announced his presence to all of Ireland, and remained all during the wet spring and the wetter summer within the safety of the Dublin Pale, that area around Dublin held by the English since Norman times.

The queen’s angry letters demanding explanations went unanswered. Finally believing that Robert Cecil and some others were planning his immediate overthrow, Essex dashed north to sign a hasty truce with the Earl of Tyrone that was very much to the queen’s disadvantage. Then, flouting the queen’s direct order not to return to England, Essex and several close friends did just that.

Arriving on September 24, 1599, at Nonsuch Palace, where the queen was in residence, the Earl of Essex forced his way into the queen’s bedchamber before she had arisen. He saw her as no man had ever seen her—without her wig, without her makeup, without her jewelry. Immediately he realized his mistake and, kneeling, kissed the beautiful hand offered him before hurrying off to change his filthy riding clothes. He was certain he could charm his way out of his difficulty.

Later in the morning, to his extreme delight, the queen gave Essex a long, private audience. Those listening at the door heard nothing except a low murmur of voices. Not once did the queen raise her voice to the recalcitrant earl. Elizabeth dined alone in her apartments, however, while Essex commanded center stage in the dining hall. Afterward, she spoke with him again, and this time she could easily be heard demanding explanations for his many acts of disobedience. When Essex could not answer to her satisfaction, attempting to bluster his way out of his predicament by blaming everyone he could think of for his own rash actions, Elizabeth Tudor exploded with a show of her famous temper, sending her favorite of favorites to York House in the custody of Lord Keeper Egerton. There was no hiding the fact now that she was deeply disappointed and very angry with Robert Devereaux.