Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I (21 page)

•   •   •

As I was to take charge and then manage all gifts presented to Her Majesty, I was near her elbow and throne each New Year’s, and therefore was close at hand when Lettice presented her gift to the queen at the beginning of 1579. The air between them was always disturbed, as they liked one another not, but as Lettice came forward and presented Elizabeth with a great chain of gold and amber with a small diamond, I detected no thunder in the clouds surrounding Frigga, so perhaps she did not yet know.

Elizabeth took the gift in hand and thanked her cousin graciously. “How does your family?” she asked.

Lettice looked perhaps a bit surprised. “My children are well, Majesty,” she answered smoothly. She held her gaze equal with the queen, whereas most of us made sure our gaze was tipped slightly floorward. “My young earl studies well, and my daughters are thinking ahead toward marriage.”

“Ah, yes, marriage,” the queen answered. “We will take an especial interest in assuring that they marry in security, so please make certain we hear of their plans from their guardian, Lord Huntingdon, as soon as a possibility may be raised.”

For those who cared to listen, there was a warning.

That year, as in many others, the queen received many gifts of gowns, fabrics, and other expensive clothing. Anne Dudley and I looked at one another with pleased satisfaction for the young maids of honor who would also benefit from this largesse. When the queen had to pay less for her own clothing, she presented more to her ladies and maids, many of whom served at their own expense, throughout the following year. Lady Mary Radcliffe, with little money of her own, almost always received a valuable piece or two of the queen’s gifted jewelry.

Within weeks the d’Anjous’ envoy, Simier, arrived at court. He was light of heart and step and had pretty words and tokens for all of us. As master of the duke’s wardrobe as well as his “chief darling,” he was authorized to speak freely on behalf of his master. After a year of tension, fear, and dull wit, I must say that whether or not one was in favor of the marriage, it was a pleasant diversion to have Simier at court.

“My master,” he said to Her Majesty, “he is so very far away in France, and yet his heart, Majesty, is right here with you. May I send him a word, and perhaps a token, of your affection, something you yourself have touched?”

The queen, always engaged by courtly flirtation and wit, smiled and agreed. “A portrait of ourself?” she suggested.

“
Non, non, madame
, that will not do. Of course, he has already seen of your beauty. But perhaps something that you have kissed and cherished and held dear?”

I was finishing the lace detail on one of the queen’s handkerchiefs and I raised it slightly. She glanced at me and nodded. I finished off the edge and brought it to her. “Our perfume?” she said to me. I went to the lacquered box—which was now securely
locked—and took out a crystal vial of the vanilla and rose scent she now favored.

“Majesty?” I held it out toward her and she unstoppered it, sprinkled the new handkerchief with a few spare drops and then kissed the linen before handing it over to Simier.

“Oui, oui, c’est parfait!”
he exclaimed, bowing. And then, before any could stop him, he dashed into the next room, which was the queen’s private bedchamber.

Alarmed, two of the men stationed at the door moved forward, but the queen lifted her hand to stop them. Within a minute, Simier came out with one of her lace bed caps in his hand.

“Monsieur Simier, what is the meaning of this?” she asked.

“I am sure that my master would like to have something not only close to your heart but close to your bed!” he insisted.

At that the queen laughed, pleased, I was certain, to be found attractive and desirable by a man twenty years younger than she. And perhaps, the jesting and acting were leavening in a court that often felt weighty and wearying.

Soon she had nicknamed Simier her “monkey.” I looked at Mary Radcliffe, wondering, perhaps, if the queen was recalling the fable of virgins being forced to marry apes in Hell. Mary held back what seemed to be a tart retort as she responded to my glance, so I knew it was on her mind, too.

“May I always be numbered among your beasts!” Simier responded with diplomatic aplomb.

The courting soon turned to negotiations, however, and the forecast was not quite so bright. I heard Simier and Her Majesty discussing d’Anjou’s terms, much more pointed than his compliments, as I was tending to her jewels with Mary.

“He must be crowned king immediately after the marriage,”
Simier insisted. “And he needs a generous allowance, as befits his position, paid annually throughout his life and which will be irrevocable.”

The queen grew quiet before answering in flawless French that she would speak to her council on the matter.

Although Sussex and Cecil were strongly for the marriage, even they would not agree to those terms. Her other councilors, including Lord Robert and Walsingham, were strongly against it. Philip Sidney represented most Englishmen when he said the proposal would be unacceptable to her people regardless of the terms because d’Anjou was the “son of the Jezebel of our age,” Catherine de’ Medici.

The next Sunday the queen was forced to march out of the service given by her own minister, in her own chapel, who proclaimed, “Marriages with foreigners would only result in ruin to the country.”

Thomas was back from his travels and greatly desired my companionship, but the queen was on edge and required it, too. That eve, before she retired, I rubbed her neck and shoulders with ointment of rose and valerian. By the time I returned to our chamber, having purposed to rub his shoulders as well, he was fast asleep.

I sat there, herbs nearby for a few moments, then quietly put them away. I slipped on my sleeping gown and, while he stirred some, he did not wake when I joined him in bed. I ran my hands over the back of his neck, craving his touch and, finding none, offering mine instead.

•   •   •

In September of that year John Stubbs published
The Discovery of a Gaping Gulf, Whereunto England Is Like to Be Swallowed by Another
French Marriage, If the Lord Forbid Not the Banns by Letting Her Majesty See the Sin and Punishment Thereof.
Stubbs was rare in that he spoke for the common man but was also educated, in his case, at Trinity College, Cambridge.

When Elizabeth found out about this pamphlet, she demanded that both Stubbs and his publisher have their right hands cleaved off, and this was done, publicly, even after the book was banned.

After the bloody deed was accomplished, Stubbs was said to have raised his hat with his left hand and call out, “God save the queen!” before falling in a faint upon the platform.

The crowd watched in silent horror, but Clemence, who had attended the spectacle, told me that there were great murmurings of malcontent and unhappiness with Her Majesty afterward. I admit to wavering between admiration for her strength and revulsion toward the deed.

“The people, perhaps she does not know that their hearts can turn,” Clemence told me.

Elizabeth knew.

Later that fall the council, still divided as to whether the marriage was good for queen and country, told her that, as they were split, they could make no recommendation at all.

We ladies loitered just outside the council chamber as was our duty, waiting for her to emerge, but we could, of course, hear the proceedings. Being closest to the door, I could see in as well.

Every man present looked down at the table as she began to cry and complain that she had expected them to support her marriage choice as a “surety to her and her realm . . . to have her marry and have a child of her own body to inherit, and so to continue the line of Henry the Eighth.”

Sir Francis Knollys spoke up. “Majesty, there are none present, nor in your kingdom, who could desire less than perfect happiness for you and issue of your own body. But it is our learned view, and that of Walsingham, who has long resided in France and who is in communication with those across the Continent, that this marriage would enslave England to France.”

“This is a fine way to show your attachment to us, who might desire, like others, to have children,” she rebuked him.

Francis said nothing but, having been both a husband and a father to daughters, bowed his head in understanding. He deserved better; he had given his life, and his wife’s, to the queen’s service. The queen fled the room in tears and did not allow but a few into her presence for some days. I retired to Blackfriars, as I was near to giving birth to our second child.

Once at our small home, I relished being with my child, Elizabeth, for many hours during the day. She gurgled at me and shook her tiny fist as she walked across the floor with her small ball in her hand, holding it up to me to play with. I kissed those hands, her cheeks, her head, which had fine downy hair that would soon be twisted into curls. I took over many of the nurse’s duties and enjoyed planning and ordering her wardrobe myself. We sat on my bed and I told her stories in Swedish and German, which she was learning to speak, though not well. They were rare hours that we spent together and I cherished them.

Thomas returned from court one afternoon much earlier than anticipated. He gently handed Elizabeth back to her nurse and then closed the doors to our reception room.

“Simier was sent back to France with the quiet understanding that if the queen’s people did disapprove of the French marriage,
she would not go forward with it. Simier, being no fool, knew that the English would never accept the duke. So, before he left, he insured that the queen had heard of Lord Robert’s marriage.”

“Oh . . .” I exhaled.

“Oh, indeed,” Thomas said. “The queen has banished Lettice and Lord Robert from court. She’s threatening to send Lord Robert to the Tower.”

Nothing needed to be said to prompt our own memory of my banishment and Thomas’s stay in the Tower. However, should Lord Robert be sent to the Tower, he was unlikely to enjoy a brief stay, as the wound his marriage would inflict upon the queen would be nearly mortal.

“What happened?”

“The queen called Lettice to stand before her. Lettice, of course, did not come humbly nor did she bow, ask forgiveness, or in any way abject herself. Instead she held her head high and came much nearer to the queen than was meet . . . or wise.”

I shook my head. Foolish. There was a time for pride. This was not one of them. “She lashed out at her.”

Thomas nodded. “Indeed. She boxed her on the ear and said, ‘As but one sun lightened the earth, she would have but one queen in England.’ She shouted to her men to remove the ‘flouting wench’ from her presence and said she’d never set eyes on that ‘she-wolf’ again. Then she sent for men to remove Lord Robert from court, back to one of his properties, where he may await her decisions. Word is that she intends to strip him of his lands and titles rather than see them benefit Lettice. And then imprison them so they may not meet.”

“This is ill news, indeed,” I said.

“And yet, it is not unreasonable that the man may want a son
of his own to carry his name, and a wife of his own to companion him,” Thomas finished. That was true, it was not unreasonable for Lord Robert to want such a thing; perhaps, as Lettice was the softer, younger version of her cousin the queen, he sought someone who favored her looks. My heart was entombed, I admit, from sympathy for Lettice. With a hundred or more men from whom she could have chosen, could she have settled upon any other?

Then my thoughts turned to poor Katherine Grey Seymour, separated from her husband, too, after marrying without permission.

A kingdom was complicated; a heart more so.

I ran my hand over my belly, which had begun to contract. “Quickly send to my Lord Sussex,” I said. “He was able to speak wisely to her after she’d banished me and imprisoned you.”

“Sussex?” Thomas asked. “He is no friend to Lord Robert.”

“Which is precisely why Elizabeth will listen to him,” I said.

My Lord Sussex did speak with the queen, and told her, gently but bluntly, that no one should be imprisoned for a lawful marriage. For my part, I prayed that although the queen had declared her desire to continue the line of her father, she would not continue his sins, punishing for personal vengeance and not for political right.

Lord Robert was not imprisoned, nor did he have his titles stripped. Lettice Knollys, however, was never again seen, or spoken of, at court.

We spent the days before our second child’s birth playing chess together, rehearsing play lines, and reading passages of Holy Writ to one another. Some mornings our daughter, Elizabeth, would join us in our bed, her tiny hand reaching over to the table nearby to grab a piece of marchpane left over from the night before, stuffing it in her mouth, eyes wide with pleasure, while we laughed with
her. Thomas indulged her and offered her another piece; I loved him even more for his devotion to her, and to me.

Our son was safely born and we named him Francis, in honor of Sir Francis Knollys, who continued to serve his queen well at great cost to himself—namely, the companionship of his wife while she’d lived. I did not return to court for six weeks, flourishing in the love of my family, suckling my babe for a week before turning him over to the wet nurse, and speaking German to young Elizabeth. Reluctantly, Thomas and I parted, and I returned to Whitehall.

The queen greeted me with affection and love. In private, one evening, I asked how she truly did. Her mask dropped, just a little, and I spied the frailty behind her pale, pulled white skin.

“To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it,” she responded quietly. I knew it cost her to be honest with me, and I cherished the trust she’d placed in me.

•   •   •

The year 1580 started off with more difficulties and dark concerns; the papal secretary of state had been asked if it would be a sin for someone to murder Queen Elizabeth. After discussing it with the pope, he answered, “Since that guilty woman of England rules over two such noble kingdoms of Christendom and is the cause of so much injury to the Catholic faith, and loss of so many million souls, there is no doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world with the pious intention of doing service, not only does not sin but gains merit.”