Queen Elizabeth's Daughter (2 page)

Mary had not yet blossomed into the promised prettiness of her childhood. Her dark hair, thick and lustrous, was her best feature, along with her eyes, the same shade. Her mouth was set too primly and her nose was too long and sharp to make her breathtakingly beautiful. Though she had not fulfilled the high hopes the queen had had for her looks, she had that fresh allure reserved for the young. With her deep brown eyes and the smile that played around her mouth, she was beginning to feel her power as a woman. Her figure was shapely and she saw how the courtiers watched her taking delicate steps in the galliard on the rare occasions she consented to dance. She could see how her smile brought the same, answering response to the lips of even stodgy old men like Master Cecil.

Being brought up as the queen’s favorite had given Mary an imperious air, and when she spoke, it was to command. She was the queen’s cousin and royal ward. She was no shy flower waiting to be plucked. Rather, she was almost as forceful as the queen and often at odds with Her Majesty—they argued about the low cut of Mary’s gowns, the bit of rouge she put on her cheeks, and the way she flounced into a room. Few people at court had the courage to disagree with the queen. Mary Shelton was one who dared.

Two

April 1569

The spring had been unusually cold and rainy; Mary Shelton was happy to have a sunny day at last. She walked quickly across the meadow behind the Hampton Court knot gardens in pursuit of her dog,
Tom,
a large, red Irish hound she’d been awarded on her tenth birthday—a gift from the queen for excellent progress in Latin and Greek and, of course, penmanship. She’d named him
Tom
after the devilish Tom Wotton, the boy who continued to plague her at her lessons with Master Cecil’s wards. Even now, Tom Wotton would hide her quill, steal her books, and laugh at her for no reason. She despised him, though he had grown handsome and filled out his doublet nicely. She enjoyed giving her dog,
Tom,
commands. She pretended she gave such orders to the
real
Tom Wotton.

Though she’d had the dog for five years,
Tom
still enjoyed a romp in the woodlands and Mary took him there almost every day. Already, she’d loosed his leash, allowing him to run and leap until he exhausted himself. She struggled through the still-damp ground to keep pace.

“Hey-ho!
Tom!
Wait for me, fellow! You run too fast!” Mary panted as she lifted her skirts to trot after the dog. Mary was well made, with dark hair that had escaped her lace caul, long curls bouncing as she ran. Her face was flushed with her efforts, giving her a pretty blush. But it was her eyes people noticed—large and brown with long, dark lashes. They were hypnotic and, though she had a resemblance to her cousin the queen—the same small, slender frame and a similar zest for life—Mary looked more like the queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn. Everyone said so, though never within earshot of Her Majesty. It had become quite clear, early on, that Elizabeth wanted no talk about her mother at court.

The dog paused, looked back at his mistress, then bolted for the nearby trees. Mary sighed. “Cursed hound! I will not give chase!” She stopped where she was and turned to gaze down the slight slope toward the castle. She was glad to be away from the doings at court and the smelly confines of the queen’s chambers. Hampton Court was beautiful to look at, but after a time, the air became contaminated with horrible smells from the refuse of people and animals, not to mention the garbage and wastes from the grand kitchens. Mary understood why the queen insisted on at least one daily walk. And why she moved from castle to castle with some regularity—she was driven to it by the offensive odors of her court. Mary smiled—her queen seemed to be more sensitive in this regard than most. Yet, no one would dare mention the smells; like the queen, they pinned flowers to their clothes and pretended the air was filled with the scent of roses and chamomile blossoms.

“Now what could be passing through your addled brain to make such a pretty smile?” said a young man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

“Oh! Tom Wotton, you gave me a start!” said Mary, turning to him. “How dare you creep up on me! What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I warrant. The sun is out and so am I—bleak winter lasted past his welcome. I have been gathering the first flowers of spring!” said Tom. He handed her a posy of daffodils and purple hyacinths.

“Humph. Stolen from Her Majesty’s garden, no doubt,” said Mary, sniffing the blossoms.

“Not so, milady. I found them growing of their own accord at the edge of the forest. Do you like them?” said Tom.

“Of course I like them. But such a gift is a bit odd coming from the likes of you. You don’t usually do
kind
things—” said Mary.

“Maybe the sun has brought my humors into balance…” Tom said. He rocked back and forth on his feet, his hands pulling on his doublet and fiddling with a strip of velvet that had come loose.

“Here comes
Tom,
my dog. Are you tired now, boy? Do you want some food?” said Mary, rubbing
Tom
’s fur roughly.

“
Tom
? Your dog is named
Tom
?” said Master Wotton.

Mary felt her cheeks grow warm. She and Wotton were not friends. She remembered when she’d first gotten her pup,
Tom,
the boy, had been tormenting her relentlessly during Master Nowell’s classes. He made fun of her Latin pronunciation; laughed when she erred in mathematics; poked her when she tried to copy her poems, ruining countless parchments; and tripped her when they were partnered together for dancing. Worst of all, he berated her for being a girl; after all, she was the only female ward to take such strenuous courses—and Tom would not forgive her for being a quick study.

“Well, yes,” said Mary, her face growing more and more warm.

“You named that wretched cur after
me
?”

“Um … well, um … yes! Yes, I did,” said Mary, meeting his gaze.

“That’s quite an honor … I suppose you did it because you have always thought highly of me—even when we were but children. I’m charmed, mistress. Do you still hold me in such high esteem?” Tom said.

“Well, no, I … um, rather, I did not honor you, sir … you have mistook me…” said Mary.

“I see, I see. It’s plain as old Nowell’s preaching—you hold me dear in your heart. I confess, mistress, I would not have guessed it—you have kept such feelings buried deep—but now that I am recovered from my surprise, I admit to a certain inevitability about your love. I am, after all, a bit older and wiser—I am by nature more intelligent. No, no, do not try to concur—I know already. It is said by the serving wenches that I am the handsomest of all the wards and, I daresay, when I look into the glass, I am not unhappy with what I see…” said Tom, smiling down at her.

“This goes beyond the Pale, sir! You have tormented me for years. It was not for love I named my dog after you—it was so I could call your name and be obeyed. So I could scold you and swear horrible oaths using your name! Say all the things I wanted to say, like ‘Hush,
Tom,
quiet!’ Or ‘Sit,
Tom!
’ Or ‘No,
Tom!
’ And now, you think I admire you! Your head is bigger than that cloud and more full of airs as well. The serving wenches may think you pretty, but one of my breeding and station does not look at you twice! I am the queen’s cousin—and you? You are the ward no one will purchase because of your insufferable arrogance!” said Mary, leashing her dog once more and heading toward the castle. A ward was a child who had lost his father; his lands and any monies collected reverted to the queen at the time of the father’s death. The queen was then able to sell or give away the wardship as she desired.

Tom followed her, grabbed her arm, and spun her around.

“What do you mean, the ward no one will purchase? Has the queen been made offers? Have I been denied? In truth?” said Tom, his face suddenly pale and his grip tight.

“God’s blood, let me go! Yes, there have been offers, but not one has come to anything. No one wants you!” said Mary. She watched as his face filled with sorrow. He looked as if he might cry. Mary’s heart moved at the odd sight. She suddenly hoped to assuage the hurt she’d caused.

“Perhaps the reason has more to do with where your lands lie. If the queen had wished to give your wardship to one of her men as an honor, if your lands lie too far, he might request a different gift,” said Mary.

“Do not try to soften it, Mary. I am unwanted. My own mother has not been to London to visit me in all these years; at Christmastide, I get a letter filled with the news of the year and all the records of my holdings. She does not send kisses or warm wishes. Truly, my flaws must be manifest if my own mother detests me,” said Tom.

Mary watched him and their eyes met. She was overcome with sympathy. After all, she was a most fortunate girl—the queen loved her, Mistress Blanche loved her, Kat Ashley had loved her before her death—and this boy, this poor, stupid boy, was all alone in the world. He had no one.

Mary continued to stare into his cool blue eyes until she could not tear her gaze away. He
was
handsome and had grown tall and straight. She thought of how strong his grip had been on her arm. She wanted to soothe the hurt she had done him. Before she quite knew what was happening, she reached up to him, caressed his cheek with her hand, and pulled him to her.

They kissed, a very soft, gentle touching of the lips, brief as a candle flicker.

“Do you seek to strike, then kiss away the hurt, mistress? That is a perversion of love … and to tarry with one so far beneath you—that, too, marks a cruel mistress. But come, let us kiss again, for I have many wounds that need soothing,” said Tom, his arm still encircling her waist.

“I am not cruel. Let me go! I will not kiss you again, though truly, I did not mean to hurt you. If you would allow your gentle side to peep out once in a while, it would be as welcome as the sun shining through the clouds … You should try it more often,” said Mary as she disengaged herself and continued to walk toward the castle.

Tom swept the cap off his head and bowed to her backside.

“For you, mistress, I shall endeavor to do so,” he said, watching her go.

*   *   *

“Oh, Eleanor, I was stunned by the kiss! I have never even liked Tom Wotton—he has tormented me all these years. He has hated me and I, him. I am not even sure how the kiss came about!” said Mary, sitting on a pillow near the window in the queen’s private chambers. She held an embroidery hoop in her hands and pulled the bright blue thread up and through, up and through. The flowers Tom had given her lay at her side, slowly wilting.

“That is often the way with kisses—I have no idea what overtook Sir Anthony when we walked in the gardens one evening. I was pointing out the beauty of the moon that night, and before I knew what had happened, I was in his arms. Perhaps Tom has loved you all this time. You know how boys are—they tease because they do not yet know the language of love. Once they learn
that
silent speech, the teasing becomes something else,” said Eleanor Brydges, newly appointed lady of the Privy Chamber.

“Perhaps … I cannot rid my mind of the feel of his arms … so strong. And his mouth, so soft. His are the first lips to touch mine—I shall never forget this day!” said Mary, putting down her sewing and picking up the small bouquet. Mary walked to the queen’s bed, reached under it, and pulled out a box. She carefully placed the flowers Tom had given her within, then closed the lid and returned the box to its hiding place.

“What in the name of heaven is that?” said Mistress Eleanor.

“My treasure box—Lord Robert gave it to me when I was but a child. Yet, even now I keep my dearest things in there, but please do not tell anyone. I would be ashamed, for some items are childish—a pretty rock from the river, a butterfly wing. The others would laugh at such trifles,” said Mary.

“Have no fear—we are friends. I shall keep any secrets you tell me, if you will do the same for me,” said Mistress Eleanor. “Even though you keep his flowers, you must blot Master Wotton from your mind. Have you forgotten our most recent lecture from Her Majesty? ‘My ladies are to be above reproach. You represent me, and as my representatives, you will be chaste and guard your honor with your life. The unmarried state is best. However, if your carnal lusts force you to coupling, be certain you do so after I have given my blessing to your marriage. Anything otherwise is treason!’” said Eleanor, mimicking the queen’s pose and facial expressions.

“Oh, stop! You are making me laugh and I shall ruin my stitches,” said Mary, shaking and wiping tears from her eyes.

“‘I know full well the temptations to be found at court—young ganders prancing around in their finery! But you, my ladies, are not geese! You serve the queen, who remains married to England. I have found this a most satisfactory union—give your allegiance to me and I shall find you all good husbands, those of you foolish enough to want them!’” continued Eleanor, now strutting with long, authoritative steps, moving exactly as the queen did.

Both young women were giggling so loudly in their corner they did not hear Mistress Blanche approach.

“What in heaven’s name are you two laughing at? Have you nothing better to do?” said Mistress Blanche as she stood before them.

“We … er, we … we are sewing, Mistress Blanche. As the queen instructs … putting our talents to good use,” stammered Eleanor.

“I could have sworn you were putting your
acting
talents to use. I cannot imagine two young women of the court, girls who serve the queen and are at her mercy, to have been mocking Her Majesty. Such a thing could not be possible … Especially you, Mary. You who have enjoyed the queen’s love for most of your life,” said Mistress Blanche. She shook her finger at the girls.

“Take this as fair warning—the queen is in no mood for jokes these days! The poor woman is hounded on all sides, and for the two of you to amuse yourselves at Her Majesty’s expense— Well, I’m confounded, just confounded…” said Mistress Blanche, her voice rising higher and higher.