Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I (16 page)

“Mistress Eleanor Giffard,” he said. “Would you please come near?”

All eyes turned to look at Eleanor. She stood still and did not move at all. She looked toward the door, and then a look of peace
settled over her face and she moved surely toward Walsingham. “Yes?” she demanded, her voice louder than his.

“Would you please scoop generously from the jar and liberally apply it to your arms?”

At that, she hesitated and seemed to lose her nerve. She looked me in the eye with neither a smile nor a sneer, but perhaps with a dare.

“The punishment for poisoners is death by boiling or by fire,” Walsingham reminded her. At that moment, everyone in the room gasped. We understood what was behind his questioning and I better understood the whisperings against me from the birth of Edward Fortunatus to William’s first wife. Because I had a gift with herbs I was suspected of being a poisoner!

Eleanor must have decided that whatever was in the preparation was a better death than boiling, because she reached her hand into the jar and smeared the contents over and into both of her arms. As soon as she did, she reached into her dress and pulled out her forbidden necklace and began to pray.

“Rosary beads!” someone hissed.

Eleanor turned toward me and said, “Yes, and Helena Northampton knew I wore them, and kept my secret. And then she invited me to assist her with the queen!”

Walsingham looked at me and I looked to the floor. She still sought to implicate me, and it may well have been effective. Within minutes Eleanor began heaving and gasping for breath. Walsingham called for two pages to assist her back to her chamber, and to call for her husband, who was somewhere at court.

“That’s all,” Walsingham said. He drew near to me. “You have had a difficult day, Marchioness. There are other ladies to attend upon the queen this evening. In the future, do not leave your
preparations without guard, and be very certain you check each gift Her Majesty receives.”

I could barely breathe myself, so unsteady was I, so uncertain of what had actually transpired. I did answer him, though. “I will, you can depend upon it.”

He looked at me, not unkindly. “If you ever have reason to doubt or to question anything regarding Her Majesty’s safety, you may confidentially seek me out. If you would have let me know about the Rosary beads as soon as you knew, I could have stopped this without anyone needing to die,” he said, his gaze never wavering.

As it is, this now rests upon your head and your soul
, was left unsaid but clearly heard.

I made it back to my rooms, and Clemence, who had already heard what had happened, was there to help me ungown. As she did, she accidently stuck me with a pin. I cried out.

“Sorry, ma’am,” she said. I hurriedly pulled my gown back on, not taking time to explain, and ran from the room.

As I made my way back to the queen, I heard a series of low wails, like a flock of geese honking, then retching and shrill prayer. Eleanor. My heart wrenched for her. I did not stop, however, but flew into the queen’s chambers, startling all.

“What is it, Helena?” the queen asked.

“Your pins, Majesty. Eleanor had charge over your pins. Do not move.”

The queen stood still and I approached her. The men were dismissed from the chamber and I very carefully eased each pin out of her garment. Twice or thrice at first and then over again I stuck myself as I maneuvered the pins out of the garments in such a manner that they would not touch the queen in case Eleanor had dipped
them in poison. All stared at me, watching to see if I fell ill or was slain by whatever evil may have been done.

Once the queen was out of her gown entirely, another lady came to help her dress, and I collapsed upon the floor, bleeding from the palm with pinpricks that were, thankfully, not poisoned, my head hot and floating. I felt anger and fear and revulsion and confusion all at once.

That night, when I had regained my composure, I asked Her Majesty if I might sleep at the foot of her bed. “As I did when I was a young maid,” I said. “To comfort myself that you are indeed safe and whole.”

She agreed.

“Here, Helena, I shall help you,” Mary Radcliffe said, the first time she had called me by my given name. Over the course of the evening, and thenceforth, she made it clear by deed and word that we were now sincere friends. Anne Dudley, always a friend, came alongside as well. I had now, it seemed, proved myself completely trustworthy to them. They helped both the queen and me ready for bed.

Mary sat near me. “After the way Eleanor ill used you at Sudeley, why did you trust her?”

“I was willing to turn the other cheek,” I said. “Once.”

Mary told me that Walsingham had discovered correspondence indicating there would be Spanish poisons laced into the ointments while the queen and court all attended and were distracted by the Maundy service. Ground glass had been blended in to speed the toxins into the queen’s blood. Instead, they had hastened Eleanor’s death.

I lay awake long after I heard the queen and the two maids at the foot of the chamber breathing slowly, with my eyes wide open.
Unbidden, a passage of Holy Writ that I had memorized only weeks before came back to me, from the prophet Isaiah:
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped.
It was not by chance that I had been directed toward that passage. I never heard another word connecting me and my herbs with poisons, and the warm hand of friendship was much more readily offered. It wasn’t a title that brought true friendship and safety, but proven fealty to the queen. From that day forward, I applied ointments or salves on the queen only after assaying it first on my own skin in full view of everyone in her presence.

I had arrived on these shores nearly nine years earlier. I’d thought that William had brought me from girl to woman, but that night I had truly reached maturity. I had prayed for the queen, against her enemies in Spain and in France. But I understood for the first time, then, that the enemies with the greatest potential to harm were the ones closest at hand and to heart. My womanhood had been hard-won.

Year of Our Lord 1575

The Palace of Whitehall

Kenilworth Castle

T
he new year brought not Mary, Queen of Scots, in Her Majesty’s fine garments, but I. The queen’s miniaturist, Nicolas Hilliard, was painting a set of portrait panels for the queen. The queen sat to have her face painted but grew impatient after but a few hours.

“Helena,” she said, “you favor us in feature, in hair color, and in build. Will you sit in our stead while the body is being painted?”

I nodded, thrilled. “Gladly! I do favor you; we could be sisters.”

She indulged me with a slight smile and overlooked my impertinence. The queen took her leave, and some of the ladies brought Her Majesty’s fine gowns and jewels into my apartment, just down the hallway, and helped me to dress in her garments.

“Begone, evildoers!” I said in my most regal, imitative voice when they’d finished.

“As you wish, Majesty,” one of the maids jested, and pretended to kiss my ring. I waved them on and one of them let Mr. Hilliard into my chamber.

For the first portrait I was dressed in a rich black gown with the finest gold embroidery. It was laced with pearls and puffs of cream roses. About my neck I wore the queen’s jeweled flower choker, and pinned to my gown was a phoenix brooch. I thought about the phoenix as I sat. Only one phoenix lived at a time, and after its death, it mysteriously renewed itself from the ashes of destruction to bring forth new life. As such, it was a symbol of our Lord Jesus Christ, but also of our queen, who had arisen, magnificently, from the ashes of the destruction of her mother.

It put me in mind of an idea. “Master Hilliard,” I said, “may I have a word with you after you are finished?”

“Certainly, Marchioness,” he responded. “Please call me Nicolas.” And a few hours later, among the tang of linseed oil and the buttery smears of paint, he kept his word.

“I would like to commission you,” I said. “For two miniatures.”

He cocked his head. “Certainly, Lady Northampton. Of whom?”

“You must promise to keep this to yourself. I understand that might be difficult for an artist, who surely paints for the pleasure of others’ eyes. But I promise you that if you will keep this secret, it will be a commission that will be valued in a way none of your other works are.”

He smiled. “I love mystery. When shall my subject sit for me? I leave for France after I finish these panels for the queen, and may not be back for some years.”

“These subjects cannot sit for you,” I said. “I must find something
for you to work with. I shall set about it immediately, and when I sit in Her Grace’s place for the portrait with the pelican device, I hope to have something for you.”

A few days later, I excused myself from service for the day and made my way to Lambeth Palace, home of the Archbishop of Canterbury. After announcing my arrival, one of his men took me to his study.

He stood when I entered and bowed his head. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Marchioness?”

“May I sit, please?” I asked. I was not weary but he looked frail, and I knew he was ill but would not sit unless I did. He nodded toward a chair near the window and then drew one beside me.

Matthew Parker had been the queen’s first choice for Archbishop of Canterbury and had served her whole reign. Moreover, he was the man whom Queen Anne Boleyn had charged with the spiritual care of her daughter, Elizabeth, just before Anne’s execution.

“I wish to present something to the queen,” I said. “And I believe you are the only one who can help me.”

“Yes?” He nodded. “Continue.”

“I wish to commission miniature portraits of the queen and her mother. However, I am not aware of any portrait of Queen Anne from which this may be drawn.”

He agreed. “They were all . . . destroyed. Or hidden.”

“I know. I wondered, perhaps, among your papers, might there be a sketch of some sort?”

He regarded me at length, wondering, I supposed, if I were to be trusted. I now understood that everyone was steeped in skepticism in the English court; it was perhaps our fifth humor here, in addition to the black and yellow bile, phlegm, and blood of which all were made.

“One moment,” he said. He tottered out of the room, dignified but delicate, and returned nearly an hour later. He placed a palm-sized piece of paper in my hand. I looked at it and saw a raven-haired Elizabeth looking back at me.

“Queen Anne,” he said. “Queen Elizabeth favors her mother as well as her father, does she not?”

I looked at her eyes, jet-black and yet warmed with humor and wit, her oval face, her intelligence. I could clearly see my own mother in my mind’s eye, and wondered if the queen ever grieved that she had perhaps no vibrant memory of her mother. This thought encouraged me all the more on the path I’d set upon. “She does favor her, too,” I said. “May I keep this?”

He nodded. “You may.”

We made small talk for but a few minutes more and I could see he was tiring, so I thanked him again and rode, with my menservants, back to Whitehall. I was soon in contact with Robert Brandon, the queen’s jeweler.

In May, just weeks after I had visited him, Archbishop Parker passed away, having fulfilled his duty to both Queen Anne and to her daughter, Queen Elizabeth.

•   •   •

Having mourned Parker, the queen had her master of revels hold several lavish and merry entertainments in the sunny month of early summer. At open court, the dancing spilled out onto the finely cared-for garden grass, so many were in attendance. The musicians stationed themselves so the dancers both inside and out could participate. I felt a hand upon my back and turned.

Thomas Gorges.

“Would you honor me with a dance, Elin?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak for a moment I was so surprised and, I admit it, taken with the man. When I was able to again, I said, “I would be most pleased.”

We were, of course, among all the other dancers, changing partners and dancing in line, but I could see that his eyes never left me. Although I took care to speak with and look at others, were they given leave, my eyes would have settled upon him alone.

We sat down, at long last, at a banqueting table.
“Du vack,”
he said to me.

I cocked my head, wondering if I had somehow misheard him as the crowd was still loud. “I beg your pardon, Thomas?”

He sighed. “You are beautiful.”

I laughed. “Ah!
Du är vacker!
” Of a sudden, my eyes filled with tears. “It has been too long since I have heard Swedish. It is sweet to my ears.”

“It has been too long since I have heard your voice. It is sweet to my ears,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about the marquess.”

I nodded; he meant it, I could see. “He was a wonderful man,” I said. “He’s been gone a little more than three years.”

“I know,” he said. “An appropriate mourning period.”

We spent the evening talking, about his life, mostly outside of court, and mine, mostly within. He was a witty companion, and he asked after my thoughts twice as often as he shared his own. He was careful to make certain my wine was refreshed and that I had any of the sweetmeats that the queen’s men passed. He joked, he spoke lines, he laughed loudly and well. I felt strength emanate from him and he drew me. “Why,” I dared ask, “why have you not sought me out these many years if you had wished to hear my voice?”