The Queen's Bastard Read online

  A voice in my head was shouting “danger, danger!” urging me to decline and ride away with a polite “good day.” But an equally vibrant voice which was not speaking words so much as humming a sweet romantic melody — “Greensleeves” perhaps — intruded, drowning out the sensible one.

  “Come see it,” she urged. “No one goes there but me.” Her hazel eyes were glinting in the sun, the upturned bow of her lips an unrefusable invitation.

  I do not remember saying yes, that I would go. I only remember following her as she pulled the wagon into a copse of trees which hid it from the road. She had jumped down so quickly I had no time to dismount to help her, but she came immediately to Chargers side, gave me her hand, and I pulled her up behind me in the saddle. With her arms wrapt round my waist, I felt her breasts bumping on my back, her warm breath on my neck. At her direction we rode into a thick wood of ancient oaks with gnarled branches and no distinct paths. But Mary knew the way and before long I heard the sound of running water, too loud for a mere stream.

  In deed her secret place was a mossy green forest glade suited perfectly, I thought, for fairies and nymphs, with a rushing rock waterfall and sweetwater pond below it. I helped her down and while Charger drank she looked round her and began to breathe deeply, as tho inhaling the beauty into her body. I thought I saw upon her face the same kind of pleasure I felt after a hard ride on Charger. Then she reached up and removed her cap revealing her tawny hair, which fell thickly round her shoulders and back. With her hair thus freed her face seemed even more lovely to me than before, and I could hardly tear my eyes away from her.

  “Let me see to that cut,” she said and without waiting for my reply dipped the hem of her skit in the clear water. “Come, Arthur, I shall not bite you.” I came closer and found I towered over her tiny frame. “Here, bend your head a little.” She washed the gash thoroughly then, tho I do not remember the pain of it. I only recall that when she was done her arms came up, twining round my neck, and my lips found hers. They were the softest thing I had ever known, and her mouth the sweetest flavor. At one moment I do remember the taste of salt mingling with the sweet, but if I recognized it as her tears I did not stop kissing her. The feel of a woman close in my arms was as pure and wholesome as the rhythm of a galloping horse beneath me. I wished to slowly, tenderly plumb the many mysteries of Mary Willis — the skin of her tiny, perfect breasts and woman scented thighs so soft, the shadowy pits neath her arms, the small sacred darkness of her navel, the cleft tween her buttocks, the downy hair of her neck. But I was impossibly aroused, and so was led by that hard part of my self to rush, leaving behind tenderness, and cleave her body with my own. This I did, giving as full rein to my mind as my body, a revelation of passion. Then explosion. Then peace.

  On my return from adventuring I was greeted with much displeasure from my Parents, for they were alarmed by my sudden disappearance without prior permission. Worse, I returned in a dishevelled state, my clothing filthy and torn, with bruises and a great gash on my cheek to attest to my ruffian’s behavior. Neither had I accomplished the goal which I used as my best excuse for going — bringing John home with me. He did not, in fact, return as promised until two more days and nights had passed.

  I was disgraced, and punished by having all my riding privileges revoked for one month. I was forced, humiliatingly, to walk to school. No weekend sessions with Charger were allowed, and my Mother oversaw my daily routine, adding more prayer and Scriptural study, and even some womens work which kept me indoors all the day long. I felt a bloody fool.

  When the profligate son returned he barely had his knuckles rapped, and after a mild scolding was made much of by my Mother who, as always, forgave him everything. My Father, tho, was right and truly disgusted with his dissipated son, at eighteen a drunkard and a lecher. My Father feared that when John inherited Enfield Chase it would fall to wrack and ruin under so uncaring a hand. He saw me — the perfect landlord of this cherished Paradise — turned away from it by law to make my own way in a cold world. If my Father had been more wealthy in his own right, he would have made provision for me, but as it was our wealth was illusory. We lived well in our manor, surrounded by Natures vast treasures, but there was no inheritance save the Chase and it was, irrevocably, for John.

  I survived my punishment in better form than might be imagined, as I took more flights of fantasy than ever before. I relived and embellished the memories of my day and night in Maidstone, the victorious battle with the horse thieves, and mostly my secret tryst with Mary Willis.

  This one memory was the greatest balm to my soul and masculine pride, tho I did feel an imposter, for she never learnt I was but fourteen. I had no opportunity to apply the lessons Alice had taught, of a woman finding repeated satisfaction in sexual congress. In truth I do not know if Mary had been satisfied even once. After my own explosion of pleasure she had fallen to weeping, and I held her gently in my arms whilst she told how her husband never touched her, how he had lost his virility entirely with age, and only wished a keeper for his household — a pretty face to stare at over dinner, not a wrinkled old wretch like himself. Mary was more miserable than she ever thought possible before her wedding day, and these few hours with me, she said, had been a precious gift. We had parted sadly with no hope of laying eyes on one another again. But truly she was with me in my dreams and imaginings every day for many weeks after our meeting.

  Therefore twas a great shock when some months hence on a stormy afternoon a strange rider came galloping hell bent thro the gates and up to the door of Enfield Manor. I was coming across the yard from the stables and saw the mud splattered messenger hand my Mother a sealed letter, then heard the man utter the words “Sir Howard Willis.” He hurriedly watered his horse and excusing his haste — for he wished to be returned home by dark — galloped away.

  I came indoors where I stood staring at the letter lying on the table unopened, till my Mother came and screamed at me that I was dripping on her floor. One by one I took the stairs feeling a sense of doom overtaking me. I knew my Father was away in the village at a church meeting and would not read the letter for some hours. But I also knew that when he did my life at Enfield Chase would come to a crashing end. For I had certainly impregnated Mary Willis, and her husband would know the child was not his own. She must have broken under his cruel interrogation — I shuddered at the thought of him causing her pain — and revealed the true paternity of her child.

  This was an idea which for months had crept stealthily round the perimeter of my mind, but one which I had assiduously denied entrance therein. I had no need for my fantasies now. Mary and I would be tried by ecclesiastic court for the crime of bastardy and I knew, from my memory of that terrible procession in the streets of Maidstone, what fate and punishment lay ahead for us. Her husband might, it occurred to me, find further justice in having the cuckolder killed.

  As calmly as I was able I weighed and measured my choices. I could stay and pay the piper, but I saw what retribution had been meted out for my absence without permission from home for two days. I knew also that my happy position at Enfield Chase was limited to the years remaining in my Fathers life, after which I might be allowed by my brother to stay, but would be at best a guest in his household, an employee in his service. Tho I had learnt and learnt well the profession of chase keeping, I knew in my deepest heart this was neither my love nor my calling. I was a soldier, a horse soldier, and I might as well begin now in that profession as later. If I waited, I reasoned, Howard Willis might kill or maim me and end my fine dreams for ever.

  I chose instead to live.

  I wasted little time, packed a few things — foremost my copy of Xenophon — and wrote a letter of explanation to my Father. I told him my plans, tho not my destination, and begged his forgiveness for my cowardly act of running away, and for the shame and scandal which would surely rain down upon our family. But as I believed he wanted me alive more than dead I thought my plan prudent, and would write from the battlefield. I
did not know then which battle-field or which war it might be. I would, I supposed, have to settle for the life of a mercenary soldier, England having no enemies at present.

  Alice was desolate when I came to her room and in whispers told her I was leaving. She had no allies but my self and would be forced to fight her battle alone. When she asked me how I would pay for my journeying I answered her with a blank stare, for I had no money of my own, and nothing of value except my horse which I could not, of course, sell. She went to a box she kept hidden neath her bed and drew from it a ring, a garnet set in gold.

  “Part of my dowry,” she said. “Mayhaps if I have less to make me worthy, no husband will want me. Here, take it.”

  I did not argue for I had no choice. I told her I loved her dearly, kissed her and with my cloth saddle pack slung over my arm, descended the front stairs. With a final glance at the letter from Willis which had sealed my fate, I walked out the door. My course was set.

  Within half an hour Charger and I were on the road and riding to our destination — a village in southern Wales on the edge of the great Western Sea, a place that was home to a cavalry training school. As we flew down the highway towards a sunset dulled by rain I was warmed by thoughts of the place. Twas said there were parade grounds and an indoor riding school. The men learnt weaponry and equitation, with especial practice in jumping over walls and ditches. All the skills, I thought smiling, at which I was already adept. I imagined presenting my self to the school commander, enlarging my age to match my size, and then begging permission to demonstrate my skills as a horseman. I would mount Charger and within moments the commander would not only grant me entrance to the school, but raise me to instructor.

  The miles and the days flew by. The land changed from flat marshes and pastures to rolling hills with villages called Swindon and Stroud, till finally I passed into Wales with its high mountains, and town with names like Caerdydd and Merthyr Tydfil. I slept where I could — in barns or stables or, if I chanced to make a kind acquaintance on the road, in a bed. My gentlemans manners and clothing, and such a fine horse as Charger gave me entrance into some grand homes as well. I never had fear of starving, always believing I would make my destination.

  And so I did. Six days after leaving Enfield I reached the outskirts of the village of Milford Haven. As I drew closer I smelt a strange fragrance which was, in deed, more than an odor but a heavy freshness in the air. Twas the sea I was smelling, and I urged Charger on, my heart pounding with anticipation as upon entering the gates of Maidstone. We climbed a small rise and as my gaze filled with the sight of the grey and churning Western Sea, the breath left my body in awe and suddenly I wished, nay longed to be on the very edge of it.

  Charger felt it too, for he needed no urging but just a loosening of the reins, and plunged galloping down a road made as much of sand as clay earth. Suddenly the sound of clattering hooves muted and the ride softened, for it was all sand beneath his feet, and everything at once was the sea. Mountains of white topped water roiled and swelled, then crashed down upon the shore of a sweeping bay. Soaring gulls wheeled and shrieked above me. One, then another and another, laid back its wings and like an arrow falling from heaven, sliced down thro the chop and was gone.

  I sucked pungent air into my chest in great gulps and felt the salted wind sting my cheeks. I was at the edge of the world and each thundering wave which crashed at Chargers feet seemed a message, a calling from far away, that I was meant to leave the shores of England, see other lands beyond the sea.

  I climbed down from the saddle and led Charger south along the waters edge. In the distance a figure sat stooped in the sand facing the ocean. As we came closer I saw he was an old man, a fisherman bent over a net which covered his lap like a hempen apron. He was mending it with fingers as gnarled as an oak branch, no longer nimble but sure at their task. We were very close when he looked up to see us, and he nodded without smiling, but the eyes in his well weathered face twinkled, so I thought him sociable and sat down near to him.

  He did not speak for many minutes and I remained quite as silent, contented to be gazing out over my destiny. When he spoke therefore, it startled me.

  “Tis a fine beach, this,” he pronounced solemnly.

  “Tis my first,” said I, “and I think it more than fine.”

  “More than fine, is it? Why, what see ye?”

  “Beauty, for one,” I answered quickly.

  “Aye, that’s plain. What else?”

  I scanned the horizon. “The greatest force that I have ever known. More even than the fiercest thunder and lightning strikes.”

  He laughed. “Well then, ye should see this ocean in storm. It strikes terror into the hearts of the bravest of men.”

  “When I look out there,” I ventured, “I see my future.”

  “Yer future?” His fingers never ceased their delicate work. “Tis the young who come to this place and see their future. Mayhaps tis only the old who care at all for its past.”

  “Past?” My ears suddenly pricked at the thought of an old man weaving a tall tale. I had many of my own making, but this was a gift not looked for. “Has this place a story?”

  I hoped I had not been too eager, for I knew some men were stingy with their tale spinning and parcelled it out at their own will. But this was not such a man, I learnt. Perhaps twas his only story, beloved but with scant opportunity to speak it, for when he began, the words tumbled and soared and at times exploded like the waves.

  “Ten years short of a hundred year ago, Henry Tudor landed with his rebel troops upon this very beach of Milford Haven, intent on lifting the crown off the head of King Richard the Third. Look there.” He pointed with a twisted finger to the north shore of the bay. “Three thousand men, some Norman French, others scum out of gaols who wished more to fight than hang, and some of Henrys own retainers long in exile with him. Those were his troops. Once on land he swelled his ranks with his Welsh countrymen, two thousand strong, and then Henry …” The old man gazed out to sea and said with trembling voice, “… without power, without reputation and without right, marched to Bosworth and took England for his own.”

  I saw the landing then. Saw the massed ships rocking in the violent surf, men and horses scrambling for the flat unruffled stretch of sand, gathering their forces into marching companies. I saw Henry Tudor himself come ashore in a dinghy, the fire of victory burning in his eyes and then, mounted, taking lead of his men. I saw how the march had left behind naught but the waves crashing on the sand, now trodden and trampled by the footfall of invaders, soon to be masters of the land.

  “I was not yet born when the Welshman made himself the seventh King Henry of England. But I did see his son rule. Aye, Great Harry we called him. Married a Spaniard, then an English whore. The whores daughter sits on the throne of England now.”

  I was rocked by the anger of the mans words. Elizabeth, my own beloved sovereign, vilified by a rough fisherman. “She refuses to act decently and marry. She rules — a woman!” He spat the word. “When she dies childless, all that Henry Tudor fought for and won will be lost to God knows what successor. Tis a crime against the realm. Treason, I say!”

  I had to speak. “I know the Queen!” I blurted suddenly.

  “Know her?” The old man fixed me with those glittering eyes.

  “Aye, I rode next to her and Lord Leicester on a hunt at my Fathers chase. She is …” I knew not what to offer in her defense. “… beautiful. And good. She loves England and is no traitor as you say. She may yet marry.” I had heard my Father and Mother argue this very subject. “She is young enough still to bear children.”

  “Sure, as her sister Mary was ‘young enough.’ She married a Spaniard too, then bloated with pregnancy and gave birth to a black tumor in her womb, and died of it. Naa, this Queen of ours means to rule as a man. And a man without issue at that. I curse the day she was born.”

  I had never before heard such venom leveled at our Queen. I supposed he could not be the only man who
thought this way. But before I could defend Elizabeth further, I felt a curious vibration neath me where I sat. Twas not the shaking of the earth from the power of the waves breaking before me. It came from behind. In the moment before I turned I recognized it as many hoofbeats, but was never the less startled to see a patrol of armed soldiers bearing down upon us.

  I stood to face them as they came. I thought perhaps, magically, the cavalry school had found me before I them. For what else could these smartly uniformed soldiers want with one old fisherman and a boy?

  “Arthur Southern?” said the captain of the guard.

  I must be dreaming. This was all a dream. The beach, the diving seabirds, the fisherman who stared up at the horsemen with surprise and at me with wonder, for I knew he never believed I had known the Queen.

  “Are you Arthur Southern?” the officer repeated.

  If this was a dream I could very well speak, as we often speak in dreams, and so I did. “I am he whom you seek. What do you want with me?”

  “We have orders to bring you home to your Fathers house,” he replied with official blandness. “Mount up and come with us.”

  “Whose orders are these?” I cried entirely baffled. “I may be young but I am no fool, Sir, and I will not go willingly till you tell me where you come from.”

  “London. We are guards of the Privy Council. Now come along, lad, or we shall take you by force.”

  My mind whirled, flying like leaves blown about in a circular wind. Somehow my fantasies had receded and fact had taken the fore, becoming more strange and awesome than my dreams. Like a sleepwalker I moved to Charger and mounted him. The soldiers surrounded us, and thus prisoners of the Privy Council — why I could never fathom — we were escorted home to Enfield and my Fathers custody.

  ***

  The memory blurs some. I do recall that the letter from Sir Howard Willis was naught but a request for a days hunt at Enfield Chase with his wife and children, and that when they did come Mary Willis and I passed many longing looks tween us that no one noticed. But we never did find time to talk privately of our passionate meeting before she rode out of my life for ever.