The Queen's Bastard Read online

  “Still the country, full of bumpkins and rowdy fools!”

  “Think you London has no bumpkins and rowdy fools? Then you are a fool yourself, Maud Southern!”

  “How comes this post with this child? One of your high friends, is it?”

  “We shall not talk of it, Maud. I have said that, and I mean it.”

  She fumed. Her fists clenched, and her jaw. Robert thought then that if a person could explode, Maud might do that now. He was suddenly frightened, for he had seen a man once, angry like this and bursting with rage, who had fallen down with a stroke and died.

  Robert put a soft hand on Maud’s arm.

  “Please, Maud. I have asked very little of you in our marriage. I have given you free range for your thoughts and ways. I have fostered your ambitions. I have never struck you, not once.” He looked away. “But you must let me have this boy, and you must go with me as my wife to the new post. And never … never ask me about it again. Do these things, and you will shortly find yourself a gentlewoman. I’ll give you leave sometimes to go to London if you wish, though I have little love for the place myself. Perhaps, even, John can be schooled there when he’s older.”

  Maud watched her husband as if from a great distance. He was smashing to pieces the beautiful confection she had created, and demanding she be grateful for the crumbs he now scattered before her. She supposed he expected her to love this child, this highborn bastard, destroyer of her whole life’s ambition. Well, thought Maud as she turned to face her bleak future as a country wife, Robert Southern had better think again.

  Eleven

  For as long as I can recall

  Twas a horse whose affection

  Held me in its thrall

  A poor poem, that, but the only verse I confess ever to have writ. Poor, but a true sentiment all the same. A horse and a boy together — the story of my life. What was my age? Which of those good friends was the first? I cannot say, but I was very small, this I know. I remember neither the beasts name nor color nor markings, whether twas stallion, mare, gelding. What I do recall is straddling the wide back, seeing before me the high proud head, muscled neck, breathing in the rich musk, hearing the sweet sound of nickering and blowing. Above all I remember the graceful rock and rhythm which soothed my senses, all the while bringing them sharply to bear. My tiny fingers are splayed round the leather pommel, my fathers great paw atop my smaller one. He and I are riding thro the greenwood, a slow clop, clop, clop, me nestled back against his large comfortable frame, gazing this way and that, for we are the protectors of the forest and all its wild inhabitants.

  This Heaven on Earth in which I was, with my family, so happy to reside, was Enfield Chase. Twas a Royal grant and license given to my Father, and with its acquisition came a great raising of our familys fortunes, just after my birth. The property was a large wooded expanse, well stocked with red and fallow deer — the noblemans favorite game. Wild boar were imported from France. Hare, hunted by gentlemen and yeomen, ran in smaller circles than the stag and were slower, but they were good quarry none the less with their cunning, and gave the hounds a run for their trouble. Fox were abundant but inferior prey, no better than vermin.

  The far end of the Chase went to marshlands, and there resided numerous ducks and mallards and geese which were hunted. On some farmland in the south quarter of the property, our tenants grew the oats, wheat, rye and sweet hay which they baked into horsebread to feed the livestock. The trees were many of them ancient, but there was new growth which showed the health of the forest. The trees were thickly grown, tho the whole of the wood was crossed with sufficient old and wellworn paths as to make travel within it — even hard riding — most pleasant.

  On the estate was a small manor house which I always thought very grand, tho my Mother complained of its age and dampness, and its nearness to the barn and stables which she said gave the house a stink of animals. This was not untrue, tho me and my Father chuckled together in private, how we liked the smell a far lot better than the French perfumes she sprinkled about.

  For it was, from a tender age, the stables that were more homely to me than the manor house would ever be. We kept thirty mounts — English Great Horses, Arab, Spanish, Barb. And more than just the keeping of them to be rented for hunting and hawking and several for racing, we backed and trained young horses, and taught equitation to local squires, their wives and children. All of those must be skilled riders, for horsemanship — to ride surely and cleanly — was part and parcel of every gentle and noble persons education.

  I should not forget the running hounds that we raised and kept, but I must admit that tho I felt a fondness for dogs, they were nothing in my mind compared to horses, but merely the necessary companion of hunting. I saw, tho, how there was a great bond twixt the two — the hounds inspired by the trampling hooves, and the sharp cry of the dogs urging the horses pursuit. The music of the hunt.

  My chores as a young child were mucking stables, feeding horses and grooming them, even sewing feed bags upon occasion. I soon learnt the differences in breeds, their temperaments and short-comings — tho I must admit I rarely called any behavior in a horse a shortcoming. Twas simply that steeds own manner of mind. I saw, even as a child — albeit no one I have ever known to this day agrees — that each horse was born with a mind. Whilst not the mind of person, surely tis a mind none the less. The temperament and disportment of a wild horse before backing — that cruel science which must be endured by all pleasure and hunting mounts — changed and grew different after it had been saddled, its mind broke and remade to civility, now more a mans than a horses.

  Enfield Towne was two days ride from London. Some city folk made the journey, for our Chase was known widely for its beauty, greatly stocked wood and fine horses. A good inn known as Stags Head, in the village, made the visitors stay most comfortable. There came, too, high lords of manors a days ride away, and local nobles and gentry, and they all partook of the bounty of Enfield Chase. Together with the rents collected from our tenant farmers, my Fathers fortunes rose. We lived well, though my Mother was wont to grumble that the Queen never came to hunt at Enfield, but my Father said she only rode out when on Progress and had not seen fit to come into our part of the country yet, but she would presently, he was sure.

  My brother John was four years older than me, and my Mothers favorite. This was as it should be, loving most greatly her firstborn, she always said, but to her disgruntlement he was not also my Fathers favorite.

  “John is your heir,” I would hear her say when she saw my Father being merely kind to me.

  He would say, “I know that, Maud, and John is the rightful inheritor of Enfield Chase under law, but I mean to provide for both my sons. Young Arthur needs to learn a trade, and he takes well to my own, so if I keep him close to me and school him in husbandry and game keeping it is most natural, so please do not interfere.”

  “Satans child!” she would mutter in a low curse, and my Father would flush red with fury.

  “He is no such thing! A tiny nub of extra flesh on the outside of his hand is nothing …”

  “There is a nail in it, John. Tis an extra finger! A witches mark, you know as well as I.”

  “If I were prone to superstition maybe, but I am not. Tis no more a witches mark than the great brown wen on your thigh.”

  “I say we bring the surgeon here,” she said, ignoring my Fathers reasoning, “and let him have it off.”

  “And I say you mind your business, woman, and leave the boy alone!”

  To cover the offending digit — a strange thing to be sure — I was made always to wear a small glove. My Mother instructed me to say to curious folk that I had badly burnt the hand in a fire, and wished to hide my disfigurement. The glove came to be a most natural part of my apparel, and I thought little of it as the years went by.

  For Johns part, he was a reasonable brother in my younger years. Sure he felt our Mothers bitterness towards me, but he was just a plain lad with few leanings in particul
ar. He learnt his numbers and letters well enough but cared little for them. He rode, but then all young gentlemen did. He fished in the marshes, played at dice and other games of chance. No passion stirred him, but then twas not a necessary thing, for he would without question, and despite his behavior inherit all of Enfield Chase upon our Fathers death. Twas the law of primogeniture.

  My sisters Meg and Alice, sweet girls, doted on me. My wet nurse left our employ when I was two, and to my great advantage my sisters — only two and three years older — were my little mothers and I their little doll. They would whine and wheedle those times my Father came and whisked me from the nursery to take me riding, claiming he took away their favorite plaything. Our Mother treated Meg and Alice well if not lovingly. Dressed them in pretty dresses, braided their hair, talked endlessly about the good marriages she would one day make them, the fine dowries their Father would provide.

  I have long since forgiven my Mother the beatings she gave, those which she proffered with switch, broom handle, leather strap or fisted hand. But I do remember that when they were freshly meted out to the small tender boy that I was, they were in deed cruel. They injured my flesh, I think, less than my emerging spirit, and yet did help to form the man which I became. For, I reasoned, if I were beaten by someone I loved, I could never then beat someone whom I loved. And as I did love horses, I learnt a kind of friendly intercourse with them shared by few men and distained by many.

  In my family I was the only child to attract my Mothers fury. I was perplexed, for my behavior I saw as not so different from my brother Johns. But I received all punishment stoicly, and in the way that children sometimes do, came to believe I was deserving of it, that I had somehow erred, that when I was older I would come to understand. For Parents are sacred, small Gods to a child and can do no wrong. I saw my Mother in those times as an Angel — she was quite beautiful to me — whose violent tempers were caused by a Devil spirit temporarily inhabiting her body, whispering bad things in her ear about me. For when my Mother was good she was very good indeed. Sharp and bright like a fine blade, flashing and brilliant in the sunlight.

  She read us Scripture twice daily in a voice filled with meaning, not the dull droning I had heard in other Godly households. She schooled us well, taught us right from wrong in all things, gave us our numbers and letters, and was patient with my brother and two sisters, tho less with my self. But as I have said I saw her as having good excuse to beat me, and in schooling that much more so. Whilst I was not slow, I had scant interest in schoolroom learning. I wished only to be abroad with my Father, helping him tend Enfield Chase, learning all manner of husbandry, doctoring sick beasts, building shooting towers and blinds for the companies of noble folk who would come to hunt in our little Paradise.

  And to be riding my horse — that most of all.

  Twelve

  The high rhythm of a French galliard resounding in her ears, Elizabeth found herself for a brief, brilliant moment airborne looking down upon her dancing partner. Then the same brawny arms that had thrust her upwards caught her fall. The moment her slippers touched the ground James Melville spun the Queen full round, and she landed with a whoop as the galliard ended. Melville was laughing, glistening with exertion as were all on the floor of the Great Hall who had shared the dance and the excellent music of pipe and tabor.

  “By God, by Christ, and by many parts of his glorified body, I do love dancing!” she cried.

  “Ye leap as pretty as a fine young goat, Yer Majesty,” answered Melville with a low bow.

  “And you as high as a roebuck, Sir James.”

  Offering Elizabeth his arm, Melville walked her off the floor, but the Queen declined to be seated. Though she wished to dance the next dance, she could see that Sir James wished to talk. The Scottish ambassador this evening had heeded her advice only to make merry, and had steered away from subjects of a serious cast. But he clearly enjoyed, as much as she, two bright and educated minds newly joined, discovering through light banter territories yet unexplored. In the past week Elizabeth and the roughly handsome and imperturbable emissary from the court of Mary Queen of Scots, who stood out from her peacock courtiers in a kilt of the muted tartan of his clan, had covered much and varied ground. Whilst she knew his purpose to be the penetration of her mind, and relaying the intelligence there discovered to his sovereign, Elizabeth smiled inwardly to know she had penetrated his mind equally. Besides queries about the Scots queen, from trivial gossip to matters of serious statecraft, she had asked him what books he liked to read and questioned him about the countries to which he had traveled — for she herself had never left England — and the peoples he had chanced to meet there.

  Was she flirting with Melville? Elizabeth asked herself, accepting a cup of wine from him and taking her first full breath in what seemed like hours. She liked this man. She had admitted as much the moment she met him, and was complimented by Mary’s choice of ambassadors, sure that the decision had been carefully and cleverly taken. Melville had proven to be not only a well of information about her mysterious cousin but wise, kind, and wholly sincere. He wished for nothing more than his mistress and Elizabeth, young cousins by blood, to finally meet and come to happy accord, particularly with respect to the succession. But the Queen also sensed that Melville felt a genuine esteem for herself, and would no doubt relay the same to Mary.

  “I am told Mary loves dancing as well as I do.”

  “Aye, she claims a close contest between her favorite pastimes — playing music, dancing, and hunting.”

  “She rides well, then?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Oh, she’s a fierce rider, Yer Majesty. She’s recently returned from Balmoral, where on one morning a thousand Highlanders came out to beat the bushes for stag, which she and her lords made sport of all the day long.” He bent down to whisper to Elizabeth, for he was tall as well as brawny. “I tell ye, Yer Majesty, the two of ye’ll be fast friends at the end of the first day ye meet.”

  Elizabeth smiled coyly. “You make your case well, Melville. Somehow you’ve contrived to take the sting out of my recalcitrant cousin’s refusing still to sign the Edinburgh Treaty, and her neverending insistence that she is the true queen of England. I am almost inclined to agree to this meeting. But they,” she added conspiratorially, indicating a gaggle of older, bearded ministers across the room, “are in doubt of this meeting’s worthiness. Some fear it. In any event ’twould be a great undertaking, a farther journey than I have ever made — and I am but recently returned home from my summer progress. Traveling that way is a complicated affair.”

  “Then do it another way, Majesty.”

  “Another way, Sir James?” said Elizabeth, her curiosity piqued.

  Melville whispered even more quietly, “Disguise yerself as a lad — my page. Accompany me back to Scotland. Cross the border and slip into Holyrood Castle incognito with nobody the wiser.”

  Elizabeth chuckled but found herself silently contemplating the outrageous plan. “Are all Scotsmen as bold as you are, Sir James?” she said, pinching his earlobe playfully.

  “Ye come to Scotland and I’ll show ye a passel of bold men and a bold queen to boot.”

  Lord Clinton had shouldered close to Melville and begged a word. As Elizabeth gestured that he was released from her company, she spied Robin Dudley inviting her pretty cousin Lettice Knollys for the next dance, and found herself troubled with confusing emotions.

  Pain stung the back of her eyes with the clear remembrance of her and Dudley’s poor infant lying between them, and Elizabeth’s dream of a life with her love growing colder, even as the babe’s body took on the chill of death. She was stung, too, by a terrible guilt. Despite her and Robin’s continuing liaison, despite the very real love and care that they shared still, despite the great honors and estates, licenses and pensions she had heaped upon Robin, building him into a powerful New Man, she knew that he refused to believe, chose to be blind to the truth of her motives.

  Not a month before there had
been the incident with the Swedish ambassador. When he had come courting the Queen on behalf of King Eric, Robin had thrown obstacles in his path to herself, threatening the man with imprisonment, even with physical harm. When Elizabeth heard of the disgraceful incident, she had raged wildly at Robin before all the assembled lords, cursed him for interfering with her diplomacy, and screamed that she should never ever marry him. He had been humiliated publicly and injured privately. In a blazing quarrel he had begged her permission to leave the Court, go to the Continent to lick his wounds. Elizabeth had granted him leave, believing the separation might be wise. She hoped the injury to his pride would finally force him clear of his hitherto faithful but hopeless pursuit of marriage to herself. But it had not. He had thought better of removing himself from Court when he knew himself held in disfavor, and after a reunion both tearful and passionate, Robin had renewed his efforts to wed her with ever more cunning stratagems.

  Was she herself evil? she wondered, watching Robin and Lettice — a pretty couple — swirl and bow and march with the elegant measured steps. How could she continue to let him believe she might yet marry with him? How could she keep him tied jealously to herself? Ah, thought Elizabeth, the answer within the question. Jealousy. She could not bear to think of him in another woman’s arms. He was hers alone, since childhood, and despite his marriage to Amy Robsart, Elizabeth had always owned his heart and he hers.

  There were worse fates for Robin, she suddenly thought. Worse than standing as the Queen’s favorite man, gifted with castles, honors, riches, and power — unheard-of power for a mere subject, son and grandson of traitors to the Crown. Worse fates indeed. No, she would not marry with him, bestow upon him the Crown Matrimonial, though she might lead him to believe one day she would. She was Elizabeth, Queen of England, and she had a kingdom to rule — to rule well. That would be uppermost in her thoughts, though she would never banish her own pleasure altogether.