Authors: Brandy Purdy
The Tudor Throne (32 page)
32
Elizabeth
T
he hour I spent each fine, fair day in the little walled garden adjoining Sir John’s cottage brought a bright spot to my otherwise dull and dreary, fearful days. Indeed, it soon became the hour I looked forward to most of all.
he hour I spent each fine, fair day in the little walled garden adjoining Sir John’s cottage brought a bright spot to my otherwise dull and dreary, fearful days. Indeed, it soon became the hour I looked forward to most of all.
Two little children, a boy of five called Christopher, and a tiny tottering tot, his little three-year-old sister, Susanna, came, at first shyly, then more boldly, to visit me, bringing me bedraggled bunches of flowers, some with dirty roots still trailing below their stems, picked by their clumsy but well-meaning fingers.
Susanna would settle herself, sucking her grimy thumb, upon my lap, and I would tell her stories. And her brother would take up a stick and brandish it like a sword, pretending that he would slay all my enemies, be my knight, and kill the dragons that threatened me, just like St. George. Sometimes he would creep close and whisper in my ear a message of greeting from “the dark-haired young man who wishes to be remembered to you as your gypsy.”
I knew at once whom he meant. Robert Dudley, my Robin, my childhood friend, born on the same day in the same year as myself. When Katherine Parr had brought me back to live at court, he was among the boys who shared my brother’s schoolroom where he was clever at mathematics but a poor study at languages. We had become fast friends, united by our love of music, dancing, and, most of all, fast horses. I had dubbed him “my gypsy,” because of his dark good looks, free spirit, and bold ways, as well as his magical affinity with horses. Like the gypsies who performed daring feats of horsemanship at the fairs, Robin possessed an innate understanding of horses; he knew instinctively how to gentle the most wild and troubled mount, and could soothe away their fears with a touch of a hand and words gently whispered in their ears.
Each time Christopher whispered in my ear, I would send back a greeting to “my dear gypsy.” We had not seen each other for ever so long, not since I had left the court after my father died to make my home with Kate. How queer that we should be united here though divided by thick prison walls. Robin’s father, John Dudley, the power-mad Duke of Northumberland, had been the mastermind behind poor Lady Jane’s brief, ill-fated reign; he had married his youngest son, Robin’s vain and petulant brother Guildford, to that poor little bookworm; and now, though the mighty Duke, pretty posing Guildford, and poor Jane had all gone to their deaths, Robin remained a prisoner in the Tower, still awaiting his fate, always wondering, just like me, if each day would be his last.
One day Susanna toddled up to me in her primrose-pink frock and pressed a sticky bunch of dirty, old, rusted keys into my hand, prattling in her baby talk “go free, Lady, go free!” and clapping and giggling at her own cleverness and pointing at the lock upon the gate.
Snapping to attention, my half-dozing guard rushed over and snatched the keys from my hand. Susanna instantly burst into tears, and I gathered her in my arms and stroked her straw-straight yellow hair while chiding that churl of a guard that any fool could see that the child meant no harm. She was far too young to understand, and any fool could see that the keys were of utterly no use at all; they were more likely to unlock a cupboard than the sturdy lock upon the gate, though in their degraded rusted condition, I doubted they could be used at all.
But that was the last I saw of my little friends. They were borne off by the guard, kicking and screaming, to be questioned by the Constable of the Tower, Sir John Gage, instead of the genial and understanding Lieutenant, Sir John Bridges, and given a stern rebuking. Henceforth, they were forbidden to come near the garden during my daily walks. Sir John Gage, that beastly man who would do his best to curtail my few liberties, had threatened to “flay the skin off their bums” if they ever dared speak to me again.
But bold little Christopher was still my brave knight, and the next day, when my guard was distracted, guffawing over the antics of a pair of the Tower’s ravens bickering over a worm, brave little Christopher crept up to the gate, caught my eye, and whispered, “I can bring you no more flowers, Princess,” as he stealthily tucked a folded paper into the flowering hedge that bloomed fragrant and pink beside the gate, then crept away as silently as he had come.
Casually, I stooped down to sniff the flowers and discreetly palmed the square of paper.
Dine with me tonight at nine o’clock.
I have arranged all with Sir John Bridges.
He will bring you to me.
—Your Gypsy
Oh how my heart soared at those words! For the first time since I had walked, an unwilling prisoner, through Traitor’s Gate, I felt alive, truly alive! And, like any woman with a shred of vanity, I began planning what I would wear, considering each gown I had brought with me to the Tower and weighing its merits. Oh to see Robin again! I felt as if my impatiently thumping heart would burst clean out of my chest and gallop straight to his door, defying all locks and stone walls to be with him, the one I had always called my best friend.
I spent over an hour fussing before my mirror, trying on first one gown and then another, nearly driving Kat and Blanche to distraction, before finally settling on a gown of lion’s mane tawny embellished with gold tassels and braid.
For some reason I couldn’t quite understand, I did not want to go to Robin wearing virgin white. Perhaps it was merely because I was pale enough from imprisonment and worry, or perhaps it was something more. Perhaps some part of me wanted him to see me as a flesh-and-blood woman and not a plaster saint evoking chastity. I do not pretend to know or understand, I only know that, that night, I could not bear to wear white.
I trembled with nervous anticipation as I followed Sir John along the cold and clammy torch-lit corridors until he paused before a door and took the keys from his belt and unlocked it.
I did not even hear the door close behind me, or the key turning in the lock. I flew like a falcon, diving in for the kill, straight and true into Robin’s arms, nearly knocking him off his feet with the fervor of my embrace. Oh how we clung! Neither one of us ever wanted to let go. He clutched me tight and covered my face with kisses. It was as if we had never been apart—the distance that had been between us instantly dwindled away to nothing. It was as if we had been together each and every day of our lives.
Wordlessly, hand in hand, we went to sit on a pile of red velvet cushions laid out before the fire. Robin’s nimble fingers lifted the French hood from my head and rippled through the flaming waves that streamed down over my shoulders. And with a blissful sigh I went into his arms, laid my head against his strong chest, closed my eyes, and let the rhythm of his heart soothe me.
Though Robin had spent extravagantly from his paltry purse to provide us with a fine supper, we touched not a morsel though we did partake freely of the malmsey. I felt it go straight to my head, to make me smile and giggle, and the room seem to glow, but I didn’t care. That night I wanted to be free of all prisons, including the cage I had constructed around my heart, so every time Robin filled my cup I drank it down.
We sat thus for I know not how long, drinking and holding hands, gazing deep into each other’s eyes, then Robin drew me to him again, enfolding me in his arms, and our lips met.
Though we had never shared such intimacies before, here in the Tower, where so many had died before us, with the shadow of the ax always looming above us, never knowing if each day would be our last, the day that a warrant would arrive signed by the Queen sealing our fate, it seemed only natural that we should grasp at what might be our last chance at happiness.
I sank back against the cushions, and drew Robin down with me, my legs rising to wrap around him, even as my arms rose and went round his neck. And then, as his lips moved down my throat, leaving a trail of hot kisses, and his hands reached beneath my petticoats, I felt a sudden inexplicable chill. My eyes shot open wide, and a silent scream filled my lungs, for over Robin’s shoulder I saw the grinning ghost of Tom Seymour.
A frost instantly killed my reborn passion, which I had convinced myself was stone-cold dead, but Robin’s kisses, the wine, and the threat of the ax had reawakened it with a new, vibrant intensity that made me want to grasp, fully experience, and hold tighter than ever to life.
I struggled free of him, hampered by my heavy skirts, stumbling and tripping, as I ran to the window and flung it wide, hanging over the sill and drinking in great gulps of the cool night air.
Robin came softly to my side, his brow furrowed with concern, and gently stroked my back, the way he would gentle a frightened mare.
“Frightened, my brave Bess?” he asked, his voice gentle and surprised. “This is not like you; you were always so fearless. Tell me, what has wrought this change in you?”
“Life,” I stammered, “and Death.”
I pulled away from him and went to the table and, with an unsteady hand that shook as if with palsy, poured myself another cup of malmsey and gulped it down. I spilled a goodly portion down the front of my gown, ruining the beautiful velvet, but I didn’t care. I wanted the wine to chase away the vision that still haunted me, Tom Seymour standing there, leering at me over Robin’s shoulder, as another man mounted me and my body gave in to the passion surging up inside me that I had tried so hard to kill. And over Robin’s shoulder Tom smiled knowingly, as if he had known all along that I would never be free—passion’s ghost would forever haunt me.
Again, Robin came to me, but I put out my hand to stop him, keeping him at arm’s length, shaking my head at his murmured words, the concern vying with the curiosity on his face, and turned my back on him and went to the door and pounded on it as I called loudly for Sir John.
In silence, I followed him back to my cell. I waved off Kat’s questions and stood in silent stillness as she undressed me, clucking dolefully over the wine stains on my gown. Then, with an absently murmured “good night,” I climbed into bed even though I knew it was no use; even behind the drawn bedcurtains, I could not hide from my private demons and the salacious ghost of Thomas Seymour. Would I never be free of them, I wondered as I tossed restlessly upon my pillows, haunted by the ghost of an ambitious fool’s caresses and the newer, fresher memory of the kisses of a tender, loving friend, even as the urgent, adamant “Never surrender!” rang like an alarm bell inside my brain. I felt as if I were a woman torn apart by wild horses, forever at war between the burning desires of my body, the crypt-cold reason that ruled my head, and the icy fear that came with the red-hot passion of surrender. I could not reconcile them all, and I knew deep down that I never would. I would always be a soul in conflict, torn between weak and blissful womanly surrender and absolute control. I could never win, because even when to all the world it would seem that I had triumphed, a part of me would always feel the loser.
And as I drifted off to sleep I heard a phantom voice softly sing, imbuing each word with such intimacy it was like a lover’s caress gliding over my body:
I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,
I gave her Sack and Sherry;
I kist her once and I kist her twice,
And we were wondrous merry!I gave her Beads and Bracelets fine,
I gave her Gold down derry.
I thought she was afear’d till she stroked my Beard
And we were wondrous merry!Merry my Heart, merry my Cock,
Merry my Spright.
Merry my hey down derry.
I kist her once and I kist her twice,
And we were wondrous merry!
I bolted out of bed, snatched up the nearest cloak, and went to spend the rest of the night sitting by the low-burning fire. Did I only imagine it, or did the glowing embers truly resemble burning hearts?
The next afternoon, my eyes dark-shadowed, I went to walk, with my guard trailing after me, upon the wall-walk instead of in the garden. Robin, followed by his own guard, was already there, lost in thought, the wind running playful fingers through his curly black locks and tugging at his black cloak as if to say “pay attention to me!”
I started to turn away, but he saw me and called to me.
“Don’t go!” he pleaded. “Stay. Walk with me.” He held out his hand entreatingly.
I silently fell into step with him. After what had happened the night before I found it hard to meet his eyes.
“I do not pretend to know what has happened to you, Bess,” Robin said at last, after we had walked in silence for a time. “I see a fear in you where there was none before; a fear to let anyone get too close to you. I have a suspicion it has to do with the Lord Admiral, but,” he added hastily when I made a sudden move as if I meant to bolt, “we shall not discuss it, for it really has nothing to do with us. I have a plan, Bess; would you like to hear it?” I nodded, and he moved to stand directly before me, keeping a distance of a little more than arm’s length between our two bodies. “If I stay with you, Bess, being your friend as I have always been, making no sudden moves, never pouncing on or pawing you, patiently nurturing your friendship, winning your trust, then, perhaps, after a time, one day when I stand before you like this, and hold out my hand to you, like this”—he reached out his hand to me—“perhaps, you will come to me.”
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