Lost Love Found (76 page)

She was attended by only four of her ladies and the two eldest maids of honor, for Lady Burke had advised Lady Scrope that the younger girls should be spared the queen’s travail. Lady Scrope concurred.

“We do not need hysterical, fainting misses about us during this crisis. Dare we send the others home?” she asked Valentina.

“I think not,” Valentina replied. “It would be considered presumptuous of us to do so. And I believe the girls should all be here to attend the final rites for the queen. Her Majesty would not want her final pomp to be lacking in spirit, would she?”

Lady Scrope smiled. “You are so young, my dear, to be so wise. She has never been one for the ladies. You touched her as no other did. I will tell you now, for she cannot scold me for my loose tongue, that she prayed daily for your safe return, often telling me when we were in private that she wondered if you were safe and when you would return. The queen had a special feeling for you from the beginning because she was so deeply fond of your father, and she matched your parents. She came to love you for yourself, however.”

Lady Scrope paused for a moment and patted Valentina’s hand. “You have served her well, my dear. You have served her with kindness in a time when she was not the easiest of mistresses. You know we have had few new people about us, for as she has grown older the queen has not liked change, yet you fit yourself into our little group with great ease despite your youth and our age. You have been a ray of bright sunlight in our dark winter, Lady Burke. Thank you.”

“You must not thank me for doing my duty, Lady Scrope,” Valentina protested. “I have always wanted to serve the queen, and had my mother not been so insistent on a marriage for me I should have been to court long since. No, no, Lady Scrope! Do not thank me for doing a duty that has been a joy for me. I love the queen even as I love my mother and my husband’s mother!”

A day later, a second abscess burst within the queen’s throat. Once again her speech was restored. She asked for a little bit of meat broth. The doctors came to examine her, shaking their heads and making mournful faces. One of the physicians dared to inquire, “How spend you your time in so much silence, Your Majesty?”

The queen fixed the speaker with an irritated stare and said, “I meditate.”

The doctors departed. The queen’s ladies changed her bed and garments again, and helped her back into her great wooden, ornate bed.

The queen lay back on her satin-covered pillows, beneath her embroidered linen sheets and down coverlet. Gathering her ladies about her, she told them with her characteristic bluntness, “I wish not to live any longer, but desire to die.”

The council was sent for, for it now became imperative that the queen name her successor. They gathered about her bedside. The men were shocked by her appearance, having never seen her in her bedchamber or without all the trappings of her great office. Suddenly Elizabeth was just an ordinary old woman.

The queen’s dark eyes were scornful as she looked them over, for she could easily read their thoughts. She had always read their thoughts. The council shuffled uncomfortably as she glared at them, for even on the brink of death Elizabeth Tudor was stronger than everyone about her.

Robert Cecil spoke. “We realized that Your Majesty’s throat is greatly troubling her, and we would not intrude, but that we very much wish to remain Your Majesty’s loyal servants and do only Your Majesty’s bidding in all things. I would name all the claimants to Your Majesty’s throne, and if you would just make some sign to us—perhaps hold up a finger—when we name your choice, then it shall be done as Your Majesty instructs us.”

The queen made a small impatient noise of irritation and Robert Cecil quickly began naming the legitimate claimants to the English throne. At the name of Arabella Stuart, who was the granddaughter of the queen’s great rival, Bess of Hardwick, the Countess Shrewsberry, Elizabeth Tudor made a disapproving face.

Cecil continued. “Do you then remain in your former resolution to have the king of Scotland, James Stewart, for your heir?”

For a moment everyone in the room ceased breathing. Understanding that this was her last and perhaps her most important public moment, Elizabeth Tudor, with much effort, clasped her hands around her sweating forehead in imitation of a kingly crown and rasped a single word. “
Aye!
” Then she closed her eyes and fell into the first sleep she had slept in days.

The council stumbled away from the queen’s bed, more exhausted than the dying old queen herself. It was done! England was to have a king again! In a few days, James of Scotland would reign, uniting the two ancient kingdoms that had so long warred with each other.

“See that everything is prepared for the inevitable,” Robert Cecil told his secretary as they all filed from the room. “And no one is to leave the palace without my written permission. Where is Sir Robert Carey?”

“Here, Cecil!” The queen’s nephew stepped toward Cecil.

“You are prepared to ride for Scotland, sir?”

“Aye, my lord. I have horses posted all along the route for me,” replied Carey.

The door closed behind the men, and once again the queen’s bedchamber was silent but for the gentle activity of her women and the crackle of the fire. Outside it had begun to rain and the wind was beginning to rise.

“So it is settled at last,” Lady Scrope said in a low voice.

“Was there ever any doubt?” replied Lady Dudley.

“I wonder what King James’s court will be like?” Lady Southwell ventured.

“What does it matter?” Lady Scrope said. “We will not be here. We are the old regime. Off with the old and on with the new.”

“Perhaps Lady Burke will visit the new court,” Lady Dudley said. “She is young. If I remember correctly, she has a sister-in-law who is wed to the Earl of BrocCairn, a cousin of King James.”

“Aye,” Valentina told her, “my husband’s little sister, Velvet Gordon. I do not know, however, if Padraic and I will join the new court. We are country people by preference and, being newly married, wish to have a family.”

“Coming to court is a great expense,” noted Lady Southwell.

At a knock on the door, Honoria de Bohun opened it to reveal the archbishop of Canterbury, John Whitgift, and a group of his priests. Entering the room, the five men knelt about the queen’s bed and began to pray.

The queen awoke and whispered angrily at them. “Be gone, all of you! I am no atheist, and I know full well ye be but hedge priests! Get you gone from my chamber!”

The clerics scuttled from the room. Valentina held a cup of warmed wine and herbs to the queen’s lips to ease the soreness in her throat. The queen swallowed some of the mixture with difficulty, then lay back. Valentina turned away, but the queen’s bony fingers clutched at her sleeve and she turned back again, leaning down to catch the queen’s whispered words.

“Do not forget me, my child,” Elizabeth said. “Go home when this is done, and name your eldest daughter for me.”

“I will, dearest madam,” Valentina replied hoarsely, unable to restrain her tears now, and kissing the queen’s hand.

Elizabeth Tudor weakly squeezed Valentina’s fingers. She said, “Tell
that
woman I shall be waiting for her.” Then she closed her eyes and slept again.

When the clock struck six o’clock that evening, Elizabeth awoke again and weakly asked that John Whitgift be sent for, as she wished to pray with him. He came with his chaplains and knelt by her side. The queen lay on her back, one hand on the bed, the other outside it. The archbishop took the frail hand, and by the opening and closing of her eyes, the queen answered his questions regarding her beliefs.

Then John Whitgift told her, “You have been a great and glorious queen, Elizabeth Tudor, but now you have reached the hour of your death and must yield an account of your stewardship to the greater King of Kings.”

A faint smile touched the queen’s lips, then she closed her eyes. After a moment the archbishop attempted to rise, thinking the queen had gone to sleep, but Elizabeth’s eyes flew open and she gestured to him to continue his prayers. She clutched his fingers with hers in the same gesture her father had made to Archbishop Cranmer so many years before.

“O most heavenly Father and God of all mercy,” prayed John Whitgift, “we most humbly beseech Thee to behold Thy servant our queen with the eyes of pity and compassion. Give unto her the comfort of Thy Holy Spirit.… O Lord punish her not for her offenses, neither punish us in her.…” The archbishop continued with his intercessions on behalf of Elizabeth Tudor until at last, several hours later, she fell into a deep sleep. The archbishop was helped to his feet, and he and his chaplains walked slowly from the room. Dr. Parry, who was Elizabeth’s favorite chaplain, remained behind to watch over the queen.

There was nothing to do but wait. Honoria de Bohun and Gabrielle Edwardes sat together on a settle by the fireplace, their young heads nodding with exhaustion. Lady Southwell was quite openly asleep in a chair, her head to one side, snoring. Lady Dudley and Lady Scrope were praying while Lady Burke sat next to the queen’s bed, Dr. Parry opposite her.

The rain and the wind stopped as midnight came and March 23 became March 24. Outside Richmond Palace there was an unearthly quiet that extended as far as London, Elizabeth’s own city, itself. The candles burned low and soon only firelight lit the great chamber. Exhaustion had claimed them all, and they slept.

The clock striking three awakened Valentina, with a start, and turning she glanced at the queen with a certainty that was more instinct that anything else. Taking the little mirror that hung from a gold chain about her waist, she held it over the queen’s face. The mirror remained pristine clear.

With tears sliding down her face, Lady Burke rose and walked across the chamber to awaken Lady Scrope. “The queen is dead,” she whispered to that good lady. “Just, I think, for I only fell asleep briefly.”

“We all did,” Lady Scrope said gently. “How like the queen to slip away when we weren’t looking. Her final little jest on us.” Arising, she went to examine her mistress herself. Finally, with a deep sigh, she said, “Aye. Bess is gone.” She lifted the queen’s still-warm hand and removed from the longest finger a blue sapphire ring that had been given to Elizabeth by the Earl of Essex. This would be proof to James Stewart that his cousin was truly dead. Alive, Elizabeth would never have been parted from this most precious love token.

She hurried to the door of the chamber with the ring and, opening it, called softly for her brother, Sir Robert Carey, to be brought. Silently she handed him the ring, then the weeping pair hugged each other.

“I’ll tell Cecil,” Sir Robert said, “and then I’m for Scotland. The queen is dead. Long live the king!” He turned and departed, while behind him, in the queen’s bedchamber, rose the sounds of bitter weeping.

Valentina could not remember ever having been so tired, but she could not yet leave the royal service. She and the others accompanied the queen’s body by water to Whitehall, where it was watched over by Elizabeth’s ladies as it remained in state for five weeks.

April 28 dawned fair. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue from which the sun shone on the sparkling River Thames. The trees were green with new growth and the flowers were all in bloom as Elizabeth Tudor made her last progress through her city of London, the city that had loved her so well and been so unflaggingly loyal.

All the trappings of royal mourning had been prepared to honor Elizabeth Tudor as she passed through the streets of the city to her final resting place in Westminster Abbey, next to her unfortunate sister, Mary. The streets were so crowded that it became difficult for the royal procession to make its way. People hung from windows, from rooftops, even from house gutters.

Elizabeth’s effigy was set on top of her coffin, fully robed and crowned, the ball and scepter of her office in her hands. The head of the effigy had been painted by Master Maximilian Colte and was so lifelike that seeing it caused general weeping and sighing among the citizens of London, most of whom could remember no ruler other than Elizabeth Tudor. She had reigned over England for 44 years and 127 days, longer than any English ruler since Edward III.

Valentina, dressed in deepest mourning, her final act of homage to the queen, managed to obtain from a balladmonger a parchment on which was written a poem lamenting the queen’s passing. She read it once and showed it to Padraic before tucking it into her pocket to take home.

She rul’d this nation by herself
And was beholden to no man
,
O she bore the sway and of all affairs
And yet she was but a woman
.

Valentina laughed aloud at the last line, and Padraic said, chuckling, “No one having a personal acquaintance with Elizabeth Tudor could dismiss her with the epitaph ‘And yet she was but a woman’! Still, it was meant to be complimentary, and I know the queen would have appreciated it.”

“Perhaps,” Valentina considered with a small smile. Then she tucked her hand in her husband’s arm and announced, “I am ready to go home, my lord.”

“To Clearfields, my hinny love? And what shall we do there once we have arrived?” he teased lovingly, smiling. Their eyes reflected their love of each other.

“I do not know what you will do, my lord,” Valentina told him matter-of-factly, “but
I
intend preparing for the arrival of our child.”

“Our
child
?” He was absolutely stunned. “Our
child?
” he repeated.

“My lord, is that not what you want?” she demanded, a mischievous smile on her pretty lips.

“You are with child?” His face was a picture of perfect delight.

“Aye,” she said calmly, her hand smoothing her gown over her flat belly. “I am with child, Padraic.”

“When?” His heart soared with happiness.

“November, midmonth probably,” she said softly.

“A
son!
” he crowed, as if he alone were responsible for this wonderful turn of events.