Philippa Gregory - The Virgin's Lover

Mrs. Forster hesitated. “Yes.”

“So now she has nowhere to go, and no physician will heal her?” she demanded incredulously. “What is she to do? What am I to do with her?”

“She will have to come to terms with her husband,” Mrs. Forster said. “She should never have quarreled with him. He is too great a man to offend.”

“Mrs. Forster, you know as well as I, she has no quarrel with him but his adultery and his desire for a divorce. How is a good wife to meet such a request?”

“When the man is Robert Dudley, his wife had better agree,” Mrs. Forster said bluntly. “For look at the strait she finds herself in now.”

Amy, a little better after a rest of two days, walked down the narrow circular stair from her room to the buttery below, and then through the great hall into the courtyard, her hat swinging in her hand. She walked across the cobbled courtyard, putting her hat on her head and tying the ribbons under her chin. Although it was September the sun was still very hot. Amy went through the great archway and turned left to walk on the thickly planted terrace before the house. The monks had walked here in their times of quiet prayer and reading, and she could still trace the paving stones of their circular walk in the rough-cut grass.

She thought that they must have struggled with greater difficulties than hers, that they must have wrestled with their souls and not worried about mere mortal things like whether a husband would ever come home again, and how to survive if he did not. But they were very holy men, she said to herself. And learned. And I am neither holy nor learned, and in fact I think I am a very foolish sinner. For God must have forgotten me as much as Robert has done if they could both leave me here alone, and in such despair.

She gave a little gulp of a sob and then rubbed the tears from her cheek with her gloved hand. No point in crying, she whispered miserably to herself.

She took the steps down from the terrace to walk through the orchard toward the garden wall, the gate, and the church beyond.

The gate was stuck when she pulled at it, and then a man stepped forward from the other side of the wall, and pushed it free for her.

“Thank you,” she said, startled.

“Lady Amy Dudley?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“I have a message for you from your husband.”

She gave a little gasp and her cheeks suddenly blushed red. “Is he here?”

“No. A letter for you.”

He handed it over and waited while she examined the seal. Then she did an odd thing. “Have you a knife?”

“What for, my lady?”

“To lift off the seal. I don’t break them.”

He took a little dagger, sharp as a razor, from its sheath in his boot. “Take care.”

She inserted the blade between the dried shiny wax and the thick paper and lifted the seal from the fold. She tucked it into the pocket of her gown, returned the knife to him, and then unfolded the letter.

He saw that her hands were shaking as she held the letter to read it, and that she read very slowly, her lips spelling out the words. She looked at him. “Are you in his confidence?”

“I am his servant and his liegeman.”

Amy held out the letter to him. “Please,” she said. “I don’t read very well. Does that say that he is coming to see me tomorrow at midday, and that he wants to see me alone in the house? That I must clear the house of everyone and wait for him alone?”

Awkwardly, he took the letter and read it quickly. “Yes,” he said. “At midday tomorrow, and it says to dismiss your servants for the day and sit alone in your chamber.”

“Do I know you?” she said suddenly. “Are you new in his service?”

“I am his confidential servant,” he said. “I had business in Oxford and so he asked me to take this letter. He said there would be no need of any reply.”

“Did he send me a token?” she asked. “Since I don’t know you?”

The man gave her a thin smile. “I am Johann Worth, your ladyship. And he gave me this for you.” He reached into his pocket and gave her the ring, the Dudley signet ring with the ragged staff and the bear.

Solemnly she took it from him and at once slipped it on her fourth finger, snugly it fitted above her wedding ring, and she smiled as she put her fingertip on the engraving of the Dudley crest.

“Of course I shall do exactly as he asks,” she said.

The Spanish ambassador, de Quadra, staying at Windsor for the weekend of Elizabeth’s birthday, found himself opposite Cecil to watch an archery tournament on the upper green before the palace gardens on Friday evening. He noticed at once that the Lord Secretary was looking as grave as he had done since his return from Scotland, and was wearing his customary black unrelieved by any slashing, color, or jewelry, as if it were an ordinary day and not the eve of the queen’s birthday.

Carefully he worked his way round so that he was near the Lord Secretary as the party dispersed.

“And so all is prepared for the queen’s birthday tomorrow,” the Spanish ambassador observed. “Sir Robert swears he will give her a merry day.”

“Merry for her, but little joy in it for me,” Cecil said incautiously, his tongue loosened by wine.

“Oh?”

“I tell you, I cannot tolerate much more of it,” Cecil continued in a tone of muted anger. “Everything I try to do, everything I say has to be confirmed by that cub.”

“Sir Robert Dudley?”

“I’ve had enough of it,” Cecil said. “I left her service once before, when she would not take my advice over Scotland, and I can do it again. I have a beautiful house and a fine young family, and I never have time to see them, and the thanks I get for my service is shameful.”

“You are not serious,” the Spaniard said. “You would not really leave?”

“It is a wise sailor who makes for port when a storm is coming,” Cecil said. “And the day that Dudley steps up to the throne is the day that I step out into my garden at Burghley House and never see London again. Unless he arrests me the moment I resign, and throws me into the Tower.”

The ambassador recoiled from Cecil’s anger. “Sir William! I have never seen you so distressed!”

“I have never felt such distress!” Cecil said bluntly. “I tell you, she will be ruined by him and the country with her.”

“She could never marry him?” de Quadra asked, scandalized.

“She thinks of nothing else and I cannot make her see reason. I tell you, she has surrendered all affairs to him and she means to marry him.”

“But what of his wife? What of Lady Dudley?”

“I don’t think she will live very long if she stands in Dudley’s way, do you?” Cecil asked bitterly. “He is not a man to stop at much with a throne in his sights. He is his father’s son, after all.”

“This is most shocking!” the ambassador exclaimed, his voice hushed to a whisper.

“I am certain he is thinking of killing his wife by poison. Why else would he put it about that she is ill? Though I hear that she is quite well and has now employed a taster for her food. What do you think of that? She herself thinks he will murder her.”

“Surely the people would never accept him as king? Especially if his wife died suddenly and suspiciously?”

“You tell her,” Cecil urged him. “For she will hear not one word against him from me. I have spoken to her, Kat Ashley has spoken to her. In God’s name, you tell her what will come from her misconduct, for she may listen to you when she is deaf to all of us.”

“I hardly dare,” de Quadra stammered. “I am not in her confidence.”

“But you have the authority of the Spanish king,” Cecil insisted. “Tell her, for God’s sake, or she will have Dudley and lose the throne.”