Читать книгу A Court Affair - Emily Purdy - Страница 11

Syderstone Manor in Norfolk June 4, 1550

The first time I saw Elizabeth Tudor was on my wedding day.

June 4, 1550—that was the happiest day of my life. We celebrated our marriage in the clover-and-daisy-dotted meadow at Syderstone, with the breeze-caressed buttercups nodding their approval and the bluebells swaying as if they were indeed bells ringing with joy for us.

Despite the manor’s crumbling, ramshackle appearance, the young King Edward and his court came to see us wed. We had benches and trestles set out to serve them fresh milk and Father’s famous cider, and many dishes made with apples, just like our wonderful harvest feasts. And at the centre of it all was a great, towering, spiced apple cake nigh as tall as me, with nuts, raisins, and little chunks of apples baked into the batter, all covered with frothy waves of cream, dusted with cinnamon, and decorated with red, gold, and green marzipan apples. And some clever person from the royal kitchens, who must have been like a magician with confectionery, had made gilded candy lace that we could actually eat to adorn the cake that exactly matched the golden lace on my gown. Lace spun of sugar, what a marvellous thing indeed; I never even imagined that there could be such a thing!

I wanted everyone to have something. I did not want a soul to go away empty-handed that day. I wanted to share my happiness with them all, and for everyone to have a token to remember this day by, something that would make them smile every time they looked at it. And, though they were at a trestle table set far apart from our royal and highborn guests, there was a roasted pig with an apple in his mouth, apple cider, custard, tarts, and cake for the common folk. And my father personally gave each one a shiny new penny in a little blue green velvet pouch “the same colour as my Amy’s eyes!” he boasted proudly of the specially dyed velvet. And everyone, highborn or low, was given a sprig of gilded rosemary tied with a blue silk ribbon as a wedding favour, and a new pin, which I gave out myself from a pincushion made to look like a pomegranate, the fruit of fertility. The men, as was the custom, wore these favours upon their hats, while the women pinned theirs onto their sleeves or bodices.

And there was another trestle table set up, draped in gold-fringed white linen, to display our wedding presents. There were gifts of gold and silver plate, all of it most ornate. Tall, weighty salt cellars in a variety of shapes like castles high on mountaintops, and one with a mermaid resting on a rock, dispassionately watching a sailor drown in the sea below her, drawn to his death by her song. Spoons with ornamental handles topped with animals, from the ordinary, everyday sort like rabbits, horses, and leaping fish, to fanciful beasts of legend such as unicorns and dragons, crests for both our families, including the Dudleys’ bear and ragged staff, and also some with gilded acorns and oak leaves as Robert’s personal emblem, and beautiful damsels with flowing hair, and a similar set with mermaids instead, and even a set topped with golden apples and another with silver sheep from my father. I don’t think I ever saw so many spoons in my whole life! And there were all sorts of vessels made of beautifully enamelled and glazed pottery, so that our cupboards would house a rainbow. And fine Venetian glassware, including a set of jewel-coloured cups and bowls—ruby, emerald, amethyst, and sapphire—each with a silver cover and swirls of silver gilt painted upon the glass. And, my favourite of all the gifts, a complete table service made of Venetian Ice Glass. I had never heard of such a thing. I remember when I first opened the straw-stuffed crate, I gave a long and loud wail of dismay—I thought it all cracked and broken—until Robert laughed at me, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. “Everything is as it should be, my silly little chick; it is the fashion,” he said, and he went on to explain how, as the glass was being blown, the glassmakers rolled it over cold water to produce cracks that made it look as though it were actually made of ice. I was simply amazed by it! And, after I understood, whenever I reached out to touch it, I half expected to find it cold and wet like ice just beginning to melt. I thought they were the cleverest, most beautiful glasses I had ever seen, and I could not wait to see them upon our table, to host my first grand banquet as a wife, with our table fully laden with a fine meal and all these beautiful things; already I was planning the menu in my dreams.

There were also gifts of linen for our household, cushions of velvet and damask, and rich fabrics for us to have made into clothing, gifts of jewellery, and costly and rare perfumes in ornately carved crystal bottles. There were even games, including beautifully inlaid chess, draughts, and backgammon sets, even one made entirely of crystal and silver, decks of beautifully painted playing cards, some embellished with real silver and gold paint, and, my personal favourite, a Fox and Geese game board with little ivory geese and a fox carved out of carnelian. And there were musical instruments—richly adorned virginals with ivory keys and painted panels, and lutes inlaid with mother-of-pearl—and pretty gilt and enamelled boxes to hold all manner of things like comfits, documents, jewellery, and playing cards. There were even a set of exquisitely carved crossbows, great and small, perfect for a lord and lady to hunt together, and a pair of beautiful trained falcons with a keeper to attend them—“a big, handsome, docile fellow trained to serve both a lord and a lady, if such is desired,” the giver explained with a wink, though I wasn’t sure why. Some gave us books filled with humorous or wise homilies about marriage, volumes of advice on being a good housewife, and venery, which Robert told me was a fancy word for hunting; there were books of Scripture and song, and even a beautifully embellished book writ in Italian that Robert whispered in my ear was filled with fun and bawdy stories that, if I were good and “buxom and bonair in bed and at board” as a bride should be, he would translate and read to me in bed at night to enhance our pleasure. Some of the guests even gave us Turkey carpets and tapestries; my favourite had a beautiful, golden-haired maiden petting a unicorn as he trustingly laid his noble head in her lap.

It was a truly astounding array; I had never expected even half so much, but the Dudleys were an important family—the power behind the throne, some might even go so far as to say—so many went to great, even extravagant, lengths to impress so that they might be remembered for the lavishness of their gifts, should they ever need a favour from the Dudleys someday.

And there were gifts from the royal family as well. King Edward sent us a life-sized portrait of himself to hang in a place of honour in our home and a big black-bound copy of his Book of Common Prayer. His elder sister, the pious Princess Mary, sent us a gold-fringed embroidered hanging of damned souls writhing in Hell, being tormented by flames and leering, pitchfork-wielding demons, to adorn our chapel. And the Princess Elizabeth sent us a cunning little clockwork device, a small gold and silver cart on wheels with pretty pink enamelled and mother-of-pearl roses, that, when wound, would travel the length of our table and, when a little tap was turned, would dribble rosewater for our guests to wash their fingers. I had never seen the like of it before, and, just like a child, I kept winding it again and again to watch it roll, until Robert laughed and bade me stop, else I wear it out before it ever had a chance to grace our table.

I walked across the meadow that day as a barefoot bride in a frothy, fanciful rendition of a milkmaid’s garb, a gown that blended court elegance with country charm in creamy brocaded satin festooned with golden lace and embroidered all over with gilt buttercups, with a dainty lace apron trimmed with silken ribbons and seed pearls. I wore my golden curls in a careless, carefree tumble cascading down my back, crowned with a wreath of buttercups, the customary gilded rosemary, and gold-lace butterflies whose wings moved ever so slightly in the breeze and shimmered with diamond dust, and long ribbon streamers trailing down my back. And I wore a heavy necklace of golden oak leaves and amber acorns that matched the betrothal ring on my finger, the one folk said contained a vein that ran to meet the heart, like a pair of lovers running to embrace and kiss one another. And in my hand I carried a great bouquet of buttercups, their stems tied together with gold ribbon and frothy white lace. Sweet little barefoot pageboys in white silk raiments with rainbows of long silken ribbons streaming from their sleeves ran alongside me, and little girls in white dresses, with wreaths of gilded rosemary and wildflowers crowning their free-flowing hair, carrying trays of golden honey cakes baked full of red currants, raisins, and nuts to share with our guests, and musicians in merry motley satin stitched together with gold capered and danced around me, serenading my every step.

Blissfully happy, I walked in a dream with pink clouds of love swirling round my head. I was so happy, so light of step, I felt as if I were floating, my feet never once touched the ground. I can’t even remember the green grass tickling my toes that day, the way it always did, or the hard-packed earth beneath my soles, or even the cool, smooth wood and stone floors inside the manor house; I have not one single memory of feeling solid ground beneath my feet that entire day.

I went out amongst our guests with a gilded wooden yoke about my shoulders, carved with cherubs, garlands of flowers, and frolicking sheep and goats, from which hung two gilded pails, and served them delicious cold milk from our dairy. And Pirto, smiling as proudly as if she were my own mother in her new spring green damask gown, followed alongside me with a big gilded tray of specially made clay cups fashioned and painted to look just like a woman’s full, bountiful breast. These were a souvenir, a special wedding favour, for our noble guests to take home with them and keep to remember this day by, and to wish us all luck, happiness, and fertility. Some years ago, my father had met a man, a scholar of ancient lore, at a wool fair who had told him a story about cups moulded from the perfect breasts of Helen of Troy. The tale caught Father’s fancy, and he never forgot it and vowed that I should have such cups made for my wedding day, and I knew it pleased him much to see his promise fulfilled. Though some seemed startled and even embarrassed when presented with these most unusual cups, I didn’t care; the smile on Father’s face was worth more than all the cups in the world to me.

I served the King first, as he was the guest of honour, though when I knelt before him with a tentative smile, timidly offering up milk in one of the special cups to him, he never once smiled. Instead, he sat there stiff-backed in his bower of white roses, evergreen boughs, and softly fluttering gold lace and creamy satin bows and streamers, glowering at me, with his mouth a firm, straight-across line, his eyes as hard as blue-veined marble, and his arms folded across the chest of his cream and gold doublet as if he were impatient to have done with all this and take his leave. He seemed so solemn and stern for a boy of twelve, as if he did not even know what the word fun meant. He should have been romping and running, playing, bobbing for apples, and tossing them about with boys of his own age, jumping and tumbling in the hay, or going fishing and dangling his bare toes in the river, not sitting there all bitter and grim as a gouty old grandfather who has outlived all life’s pleasures and everyone he ever held dear. I fully expected the hair beneath his cream and gold plumed cap to be grey instead of ruddy-fair; it was as though he had been born old, and God had not blessed him with the gift of good humour.

Quaking with fear that I had unknowingly done something to offend him, I backed away, with tears brimming in my eyes, but Robert hugged me tightly against his elaborate oak leaf, acorn, ivy, and yellow gillyflower embroidered chest, and kissed my cheek and told me not to be afraid, such was just Edward’s way.

“He may be King of England, but that doesn’t stop him from being a self-righteous little prig, and as cold as the Devil’s prick,” he whispered in my ear, giving the lobe a playful little nibble that made my knees tremble unseen beneath my skirts. “And I, for one—and the most important one, if I do say so myself—love my buttercup bride. And it’s just as well that Edward isn’t impressed, for I will have no man for my rival, not even a king. Remember that, Lady Dudley, when I take you to court and you are formally presented, and you will do just fine; you’ll carry yourself as proudly as the grandest lady, knowing that you are all mine.”

At his words, my face lit up with joy, and I threw my arms around his neck, standing up, straining on my tippy-toes, and covered his face with kisses. I was so eager to be alone with him! Even though the revelry had scarcely begun, the King was not the only one to want it over and done; I wanted to be with my husband in the curtained privacy of our bridal bed with all our finery stripped away, leaving only warm, naked skin and hands and lips eager to explore, caress, and kiss. But duty beckoned, and I must resume serving the milk and meeting and making welcome our guests, so many of whom were complete strangers to me. And I fear I gave offence to many, for, as I did not know them even by their lofty names, they seemed annoyed by the blankness in my eyes, my tentative, uncertain smiles, and my clumsy, faltering attempts to make conversation with them. But they were all smiles for Robert, and he moved amongst them with the utmost confidence and easy grace. I will have to do better, I told myself sternly. I must not disappoint him; I must school myself and become the woman Lady Dudley should be, a worthy consort for my husband, not a pig-ignorant Norfolk squire’s daughter he will always be ashamed of.

I was serving the milk when I first saw her. I instantly froze, stricken by that horrible realisation one feels when one has accidentally trod upon a serpent hidden in the grass, at first sight of that tall, taper-slim woman, as white as the pearls around her throat, her vivid scarlet hair the only spot of colour about her. Her dark eyes seemed to hammer nails into me, and I felt my heart jolt inside my breast. She was so cool, so supremely regal and poised, I shivered, and for a moment I think I actually believed she had the power to call down rain to ruin my wedding day and banish the golden sunshine that warmed this happy day and shone down so brightly upon me. I was afraid the milk in my gilded pails would curdle beneath her gaze. I couldn’t rightly tell if she hated me or if she just envied me.

Of course I knew who she was—the Princess Elizabeth. I’d heard titbits of tattle about her, that she was fresh from a scandal, a frolic with her stepfather, the Lord Admiral Sir Thomas Seymour, that went too far and led to their both being disgraced and the Admiral losing his head on Tower Hill, leaving Elizabeth with a besmirched reputation that she tried to whitewash by wearing virgin-white gowns dripping with pearls and living a quiet life. All around me people whispered behind their hands and darted swift glances at her stomach. Though it was as flat as a board beneath the tightly-laced white satin stomacher, rumours had long been rife that she had been with child by the Lord Admiral; some even said it had been born, delivered by a midwife brought blindfolded into her lying-in chamber, and foully murdered by being thrown alive, kicking and wailing, into a fireplace. She seemed so brittle and hard, tense and wary, that I couldn’t believe the rumours were true and that she had ever cast caution and decorum to the winds and let herself go with a man, or that she had ever loved Tom Seymour, or anyone at all. She seemed entirely too cold, frozen too solid, to ever be melted by the flames of passion. That flaming red hair was deceptive; I felt certain there was a core of solid ice and steel inside Elizabeth.

I forced myself to approach and offer her a cup of milk. She refused it with a wave of her hand, but when I started to back away, she reached out and took my face between her cold, long-fingered white hands and stared at me as if she meant to suck out my soul with her eyes, like a cat on a baby’s chest, stealing its breath as it lay sleeping. She studied me so intently, searching my face, but I don’t know what she was looking for. She never said one word to me. And then, just as suddenly, she released me and turned away to converse with a plump, grey-haired little dumpling of a woman who waddled like a duck when she walked and whom the Princess called Kat—that must have been her governess, who had also been implicated in the Seymour scandal. And I was left standing there shivering as though a goose had just walked over my grave. She scared me, though I was at a loss to explain why, and had I tried, I know I would have been thought quite silly.

Later on while we all sat merry with our tankards and ate our fill of apple cake, the men decided to have some sport. There was to be a joust in which they sought not to unhorse each other but to impale upon the sharpened tip of a spear a goose with a lacy gold bow tied about her neck. When I realised what they were about, I burst into tears; I wanted no blood spilled upon my wedding day, and I ran out amongst the men, already mounted on their horses, and caught the goose up in a protective embrace, hugging her tightly against my breast. I would not release her until Father himself came and gently took her from me, dried my tears, and swore the goose would not be harmed but would live out her natural life unharmed, pampered like a beloved pet. Then he called for the musicians to play, and for us to have dancing instead, even as the men still grumbled and lamented their spoiled sport, ruined by a silly, soft-hearted girl who would shed a bucket of tears over a plump goose that cried out for roasting. But Robert dismounted and drew me closely against his chest, kissed me, and declared he loved me all the more for it. “No goose-down pillow is softer than my Amy’s heart,” he said, and later, when he engaged an artist to paint a portrait of me in my wedding gown, he ordered the beribboned goose painted in, standing beside me and eating from my hand.

And then, at long last, as the sun was sinking like a great orange too heavy for the sky to hold up any longer, the time came to put the bridal couple to bed. Amidst much bawdy jesting and singing and showers of flowers, sweetmeats, and herbs, my stepbrother John Appleyard and my dear old swain, Ned Flowerdew, swept me up onto their shoulders, as two of Robert’s brothers, John and Ambrose, did the same to him and, in a torchlit procession, carried us inside the manor. At the top of the stairs, I untied the ribbons that bound the stems of my bouquet of buttercups and flung them high into the air, laughing delightedly, as hands reached up to catch them. I only wished there were enough; I wanted everyone to have a flower. Then they carried us to our bridal chamber, where, on opposite sides of the room, modestly shielded by guests of the proper gender, we were divested of our wedding finery.

After they had stripped me bare, a bevy of giggling girls and smiling matrons stood facing one another in two rows alongside the bed and formed themselves into a human passageway, lifting their arms and joining hands to create an arched roof. And I, blushing rose-red and hugging my arms over my jiggling breasts, ran naked, clad only in my unbound hair and crown of buttercups, through the tunnel they made for me and leapt under the covers to join Robert, whose friends had already performed the same service for him. I felt the warmth of his naked thigh press mine as we leaned to kiss; then I pulled the covers up high, clutching them tightly about me as everyone clapped and cheered and raised their cups to drink one last toast to us.

We drank a loving cup, a special brew of warm red wine mixed with milk, egg yolks, sugar, and spices, to give us “strength and vigour for the night’s passionate exertions”, those about us teased, and everyone applauded when we had drained it to the dregs. And then they drew the bed-curtains and left us alone. But just before the curtains closed at the foot of the bed, I caught a glimpse of the Princess Elizabeth watching us, her dark eyes narrowed and intent, her long, slender white fingers twirling a buttercup by its stem. And again I shivered as if I could feel those very fingers closing murderously around my neck, squeezing the life out of me.

I turned to Robert to seek refuge in his warmth and found him staring straight at her, until she dropped the buttercup and, with an abrupt and angry tug, jerked the curtains shut, then slammed the door behind her in such a way that the sound must have rung throughout the manor. She was like a human cannon packed with gunpowder, and the tiniest spark would make her explode, and I was deathly afraid that somehow I was that spark. I wanted to talk to Robert about it, to ask him why it should be so—what had I done?—but some inner instinct warned me to keep silent, and I was too afraid to defy it.

I slipped my arms about Robert’s neck and laid my head upon his shoulder, but I found his body rock-hard and tense. The silence that had so suddenly replaced the merry, good-natured ribaldry hung heavy and awkward about us, and I felt so afraid, though for the life of me I couldn’t explain why. I felt Robert’s hands upon my waist, and I started to relax and allow a smile to form upon my lips, but it died midway as he put me from him, wrenched open the curtains, and leapt from the bed. Naked, he stalked across the room and, not even bothering to pour it into a goblet first, drank long and deeply from the flagon of wine that had been left for us. I grew alarmed as I watched a ribbon of red wine dribble down his chest, like a crimson snake winding its way through black grass, yet still he drank as if his thirst could never be quenched. Then, just as suddenly, he flung the flagon into the fireplace, where it shattered, and, like a lion attacking a trembling and helpless lamb, sprang at me from the foot of the bed and pinned me flat beneath him, grabbing my wrists, leaving bruises where his fingers pressed, as he held my arms above my head.

I cried out when I felt his savage thrust. He was rougher with me than he had ever been before and ignored me when I begged him to be gentler, as he had been when we coupled in our bed of buttercups. I knew he must be angry with me, but I didn’t know why; I also knew that asking would only make it worse.

Later, when I lay sobbing, huddled and hugging my pillow with my back to him, he kissed my shoulders and stroked my hair and spoke softly, blaming it all upon the wine, but I knew it was something more than that, and I felt certain it had to do with Elizabeth.

He coaxed me to sit up, saying he had a present for me. To spare me any embarrassment upon the morrow, when all would expect to see the sheet we had coupled upon hung up to proudly display the dried red rose petal stain of my vanquished maidenhood, he took his jewel-hilted dagger and made a tiny cut to his chest, right over his heart, so that it would be his heart’s blood masquerading as my maiden’s blood that stained our sheets and saved me from dishonour. For the rest of his life he would bear a little scar there, just over his heart, that would be our secret that only we two, husband and wife, would know; that tiny raised white line upon the bronzed beauty of his chest that my tongue would seek out so many times to tease and trace would be a precious remembrance of our wedding night. And then he took me in his arms again and loved me so gently that I cried. And I fell asleep after with my head upon his chest, listening to his heart beat, like a lullaby, singing me to sleep.

The next morning while I was still asleep, my husband rose early to hunt. I lay abed for a long time, lazily savouring the fact that I was now a married woman, a wife, and, God willing, soon to be a mother, caressing my little round belly and wondering if it had already become a warm nest for our baby to grow in. When I rose, I noticed that my husband had left our chamber in some disarray; clothing lay strewn about the floor and protruding from beneath the lid of his big oak travelling chest, carved with his initials and coat-of-arms, the Dudleys’ great bear and ragged staff, and beautifully bordered with acorns and oak leaves. I instantly set about tidying it, gathering up garments from the floor, and, observing the crumpled and wadded disarray inside, I scooped everything out of the chest, thinking to do my duty as a wife and put it all right, everything perfectly placed and folded, all pristine, perfect, and neat, and later amongst the folds I would put little bags of sweet-smelling herbs tied with blue silk ribbons, as that was my husband’s favourite colour. As I lifted out the last linen shirt, something clattered against the bottom—a small rectangle-shaped portrait framed in black enamel and pearls.

I instantly recognised the haughty and imperious young woman who stared back at me from beneath the feathered brim of her round, pearl-studded black velvet hat, with her hair caught up like a pair of plump, fresh-baked buns on each side of her head protruding from a caul of pearls. It was the Princess Elizabeth in a black velvet riding habit worked with gold embroidery all down the front and around the hems, with its tight, close-fitting sleeves studded with an elaborate lattice pattern of pearls. But what struck me most was her hand murderously clutching her gloves as if they were a neck she wished to break.

I remembered the look that had passed between her and Robert last night as she stood at the foot of our marriage bed and began to tremble violently as tears overflowed my eyes. Feeling of a sudden ill, I dropped the portrait back into the chest as if it burned me and bunched up all the clothes my arms could hold and crammed them back inside the chest and slammed the lid shut. Perhaps I should have confronted Robert when he came back, asked or said something, but every time I tried, fear tied my tongue in knots, and the words just would not come out. I suppose I was afraid that knowing would be even worse than not knowing. But every time I glanced at that chest, knowing that portrait was hidden away inside it, I felt a surge of blind terror that made the breath catch in my throat and my vision dim and at the same time dance with jewel-coloured sparks like gems sewn on black velvet. I didn’t know then that that flame-haired princess would ignite such a blaze of passion and ambition in my husband’s soul that it would reduce all my hopes and dreams to ashes.