A Court Affair (36 page)

I was trying
so
hard to hold on to my husband, to remind him of how we used to be and the love that once pulsed and thrived like a living thing with a heart of its own beating between us. I couldn’t bear to believe that love was dead and gone forever. I kept trying to bring it back to life, like a necromancer casting a spell to resurrect the dead. But the enchantment I tried—and failed—to cast was a rich, golden, and loving one, born out of the depths of my soul, not dark and sinister. The spell I tried to cast over him was not witchcraft; it was the wiles of a woman who, though disillusioned with her husband, was still
desperately
and wholeheartedly in love with him.

Sometimes Robert sent tokens, little gifts, delivered by one of those rough and surly men who wore his livery, pretty little things like buttons made of Spanish gold, velvet slippers, silk stockings, and lengths of lace, linen, and silk. But, despite their richness, they were poor recompense for his absence.

“Forget it all when you are with me!” I begged and beseeched the rare times when he was there with me, as I had so many times before, often on my knees, clinging to him, desperately trying to pull him back to me whenever his mind strayed back to the glittering world he had left behind in London.

“But I don’t want to forget!” Robert always said angrily, pushing or pulling away from me. “And I won’t forget! It is my life, Amy! I am not a country squire content to stay at home with his country-bumpkin bride and sit by the fire! A
real
lady, a
highborn
lady accustomed to life at court, would understand that her husband’s attendance upon the Queen and retaining her favour is as vital to his success and good fortune as breath is to living. She would not make the
slightest
difficulty or murmur even
one
word of complaint; she would understand and encourage him and never hinder him in
any
way. But
you
can’t understand that, and if I brought you to court, you would only blunder and bumble and embarrass and disgrace me. I could no more take you to court than I could Mollie the milkmaid!”

Now it was no longer “our” life but “his” life and “my” life, two separate lives, not one joined together by holy wedlock. The lock had been sprung, either picked or broken, and Robert was glad of it, glad to be set free, like a prisoner released from gaol revelling and rejoicing in his freedom.

And the loving words grew as rare as his visits. Once, he marched furious-faced into the parlour, grasped my arm, his fingers digging deeply into the soft flesh, and marched me into Mr Hyde’s study and shut the door behind us, even as he smiled and made his excuses to Mrs Hyde, who sat back swooning against the green velvet cushions of the fireside settle, her hand pressed over her heart, felled by his charm, with her embroidery fallen forgotten to the floor to be dragged away by the cat. He had come, “taking valuable and precious time away from pressing business at court,” to chastise me over “my profligate spending on such an ordinary, mundane item as candles”.

Mr and Mrs Hyde were so honoured to have me—Lord Robert’s wife—to lodge with them that they had on more than one occasion implored me to treat their home as if it were my very own and to do exactly as I pleased. Though I could not bring myself to interfere in household management, to usurp Mrs Hyde’s place as mistress and chatelaine; even though I
longed
for such work to distract me, I did not want to incur her resentment and that of the servants. But I did ask that every day at dusk a candle be lit in each window of all the public rooms that faced onto the road, as well as in my bedchamber, and that they be kept burning until the first light of dawn so that, should My Lord be on his way to me, he would find the house aglow with a warm and inviting welcome that would make him smile and spur his mount onward and speed himself into my arms. Often, I would go out and walk into the gloaming, and, from a little hillock nearby, watch the candles being lit and let them guide me back to the house. As I walked along the avenue lined with chestnut trees, I would imagine myself a weary traveller, like my husband, being guided by those candles like tiny beckoning fingers of flames urging me ever nearer to a pair of empty arms that ached to hold me. And I would pause and look up as the stars came out and wish upon their twinkling brightness that my husband would come soon.

But when he came, all he did was brandish the bill for the candles in my face, smack it against his palm, and complain about my foolishness and this “ludicrous expenditure”, and ask if it were my intent to make of him a laughingstock.

Stammering, wringing my hands, and teetering on the verge of tears, I tried to explain, to tell him how much I loved him, that I meant only to give him a warm welcome, to make the house look inviting if perchance he arrived after dark. But he only snorted and dismissively, derisively, waved aside my heartfelt words, exclaiming, “That is the most ludicrous thing I have
ever
heard! I am Lord Robert Dudley, the Queen’s Master of the Horse, and
any
house in England would make me welcome and be
honoured
to have me within its walls, and I don’t need a candle burning in every window to tell me so!”

Pacing before me, he said I had humiliated him and caused him no end of trouble. When he first saw the bill, he had thought there might be an error, that Mr Hyde had miscalculated or become distracted and mistakenly written the wrong number down; thus, he had his treasurer, Mr Forster, query Mr Hyde about the matter. Jewels and fine clothes, lavish furnishings, foods I had a craving for and that made my table look rich, like gilded marzipan, sugar sculptures, candied fruit, or a roasted peacock or swan dressed in its fine feathers—any sort of luxury that made a grand show that impressed others and made life more pleasurable, he could well understand—but £8 spent on
candles
? “Do you realise, Amy, that working men are fortunate to earn as much in a year?” he demanded. And regarding the fact that they had been left burning from dusk till dawn, Robert could only say, “If I were you, Amy, I would get down on my knees and thank God the house did not catch fire; for I’ll not bankrupt myself to buy another man a new house, even if my wife is the fool who set the old one ablaze!”

With a long, exasperated sigh he thrust the bill inside his amber doublet. “Pray word of this does not spread, Amy, else everyone will think you a madwoman, and in truth I cannot blame them. £8 squandered on
candles
—what a
ridiculous
expense! I’ve half a mind not to pay it! No more candles in the windows, Amy,” he said over his shoulder as he strode out. “And if perchance I do ride up after dark and see candles in the windows, you’ll feel the warmth of my wrath, and then you’ll wish I hadn’t come at all instead of ‘welcoming’ me.”

“Yes, Robert.” I sighed and hung my head and sank down onto the window seat, defeated yet again and feeling of a sudden tired of even trying.
You cannot win,
a tiny little voice in the back of my head said. And I knew it spoke the truth. But to stop trying … to me that was the same as dying. I
had
to keep trying, fighting this futile and oh, so wearying fight, and hoping that I would discover a way to win back his love.

But he came to me that night, and he was passionate, and made me believe our quarrel was all forgotten, just another misunderstanding, as all lovers are apt to have from time to time. He said he would come again in February if he could, on St Valentine’s Day perhaps, for that was a day meant for lovers, the day when the birds chose their mates. I was in his arms when he said it, our naked limbs entwined, and my head resting on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as he stroked and played with my hair, twining it round his fingertips, admiring its golden shimmer in the candlelight. I was so happy that I kissed him, and Robert used his warm, ardent body to roll me over onto my back again.

On St Valentine’s Day I was up with the sun, though I was so eager and excited, I had barely slept the night before. I sang as I bathed, and Pirto washed my hair with our special blend of lemons and chamomile. I was all smiles as I sat by the fire, my cheeks rosy and pink, and it was all I could do to sit still. I wanted to leap up and run down the road until I met Robert. As I waited for my hair to dry, I rubbed the whole of me with a sweet-smelling lotion I had made from the roses that grew in such pretty pink profusion at Syderstone, and I dreamed of Robert’s hands caressing my naked skin. Then I had Pirto dress me in a new gown of vivid robin’s egg blue satin that opened to reveal a kirtle of cream-coloured satin embroidered with branches that stretched across the front on which pairs of birds perched, nestled lovingly, and Mr Edney had cunningly fashioned little nests for them out of coils of gold braid and filled them with speckled turquoise eggs. I loved it. I was in raptures when I first saw it and even hugged and kissed Mr Edney and gave gifts of candy and coins to his apprentice boy and embroidery women. It was such a fun, clever design, and I couldn’t wait for Robert to see it. I could barely sit still—I wanted to run and sing and dance—as Pirto brushed my hair until it cascaded down my back in a mass of curls that shone like spun gold. I was so eager to be outside waiting for my beloved, walking, watching the birds and the road for any sign of Robert, that Pirto had to chase after me with a shawl, for the air still had a sharp nip of chill in it.

I walked and waited and hoped all day. Every time I heard hoofbeats, my heart jounced in time with them, singing in step with them, dreaming that at any moment my beloved would come galloping up, sweep me up into his arms, and carry me away to make love in a bed of wildflowers, just like he used to. But he never came, nor sent a letter or even a gift, not even the tiniest trinket, trifle, or token to let me know he was thinking of me, because he was
not
thinking of me; he had forgotten me yet again.

I watched the sunset, and then I gave up, and with heavy steps and an even heavier heart, and my shawl, fallen from one shoulder, dragging on the ground, I went back inside as the darkness descended and the air turned even colder. I was almost late for supper.

Later, seated at the table, even though I dreaded to hear the answer, I asked Mrs Hyde how Valentine’s Day was celebrated at court.

She told me that all the ladies wrote their names down on dainty slips of paper and put them into a bowl, and then the gentlemen reached in—“like drawing lots, my dear!”—and gave a gift to the lady whose name they chose. “Pretty little things that a lady might fancy—a bit of silk, lace, or gilded braid to trim a gown, a brooch, or a silk flower for her to wear, an ivory comb for her hair, a figurine to adorn the mantel in her room, or a book of poesy perhaps.” And, of course, there would be a banquet, “no doubt presided over by a great Cupid sculpted out of sugar and marzipan,” and there would be all sorts of dishes that were said to “encourage love to flourish”. And there was a dance, “a sort of gavotte, only a kissing game set to music,” Mrs Hyde continued, oblivious to my distress, as with each word I travelled further away from peace of mind. “And there will be a masque, of course, something to do with love, with the Queen at the centre of it all, like the Goddess of Love all men bow down to worship. And this year, since England has a new Queen, and a young and beautiful one at that”—Mrs Hyde nodded knowingly—“I think every man at court will choose her to be his Valentine and woo her with a gift. Already they say there are sonnets enough to ‘The Fair Eliza’ to fill a whole library, floor to ceiling, with books.”

Abruptly I let my spoon clatter onto my plate and stood up, claiming I felt all of a sudden unwell, and I fled upstairs to my room. I could not bear to let the Hydes see me weep.

That night I dreamt of the Queen dressed as a bee, the queen of the hive, all in yellow and black stripes, glittering with hard, icy diamonds, with a golden crown perched atop her flame-coloured curls, and gauzy, shimmering, wire-stiffened wings on her back. Haughty and majestic, she was surrounded by a circle of men, from beardless youths to bald-pated greybeards, all of them costumed as black and yellow bees. They danced in an ever tightening circle around her, jostling and clamouring just to be near her, each holding out an offering—jewelled necklaces, ropes of pearls, brooches, earrings, bracelets, rings, jewels to adorn her hair, velvet-lined caskets filled with loose gems, muffs and cloaks of ermine, sable, or fox, beautiful crystal bottles filled with exotic perfumes, fringed and embroidered gloves to show off those vain, long-fingered hands, bolts of rich fabric, velvet slippers, or golden and silver ones, with jewels on the toes that would twinkle when she danced, reams of lace and braid to trim her gowns, gifts of gold and silver plate, musical instruments inlaid with mother-of-pearl or ivory, fancy saddles, jewelled or fringed, for her horses, Turkish carpets, tapestries, paintings, and statuary to adorn her chambers, and sonnets and songs praising her beauty, grace, and majesty that they raised their voices to recite or sing, vying to be heard over the others who were doing the same.

And then there was Robert, crashing through the circle of her admirers, astride a big black horse, sending the besotted bee-men and their gifts scattering, tumbling, and rolling. He was clad like the others in the black and yellow stripes of a bee, with wings upon his back quivering with every movement of his shoulders, his fine horseman’s legs sheathed in vivid yellow hose, and tall black leather boots polished to a high gloss that caught the light of the candles. He swept Elizabeth up onto the saddle before him, extricating her from the buzzing hive of male admirers that surrounded her, all reaching out for her, calling her name, begging for her love and favour. But he ignored them all and cradled her close against his chest, his hand grazing her breast as he held the reins, and spurred his horse into a gallop, and carried her away from them all to a bed covered in heart’s blood red velvet to make mad, passionate love to her, though his eyes never left the golden crown pinned tightly to her red hair the whole time. Even in the throes of passion, his eyes were still upon the glittering, golden prize.