Authors: Emily Purdy
“Free!”
Robert joined his voice with mine.
“Free!”
we shouted. Then, laughing, he took me in his arms again and began to dance me down the wall-walk, back to his old cell.
Sagging against the thick wooden door, I let him kiss me. I succumbed to the wild desire burning like a flame inside me and let him caress me. I shut my eyes and, just for a moment, let myself forget everything and just be a woman, not a queen.
“Let us meet here tonight,” he whispered as his fingers moved deftly beneath my skirts. “We shall feed each other cakes and drink a loving cup and then become one as we were destined to be. It is written in the stars, you know; we were born the very same day and hour, not as twins but because we were meant to be lovers, to be together, like this.” He kissed me again, and his fingers probed deeper. “Dr Dee has cast our horoscopes. I can show you …”
But I didn’t hear him; a ghostly voice that haunted my mind was singing of cakes and ale again. I went as stiff as a suit of armour in Robert’s arms, but he didn’t seem to notice and went on kissing me and whispering hot, persuasive, and encouraging words in my ear. But I wasn’t listening; I was remembering another man, another handsome, bearded, dark-eyed rogue who had awakened my body even as my mind cried out,
“Danger!”
and a beloved voice from the past urgently whispered,
“Never surrender!”
I pushed him from me. “Another time, Rob,” I said shakily as I hurried briskly away, my knees trembling beneath my skirts as I tried to run, and my whole body burning as if lit from within by a raging fever despite the falling snow.
I tried to avoid him. I sent him on errands to keep him at a distance, but he always came swiftly back. I tried to put walls between us, but he kept hurdling over them, leaping nimbly, dodging my every attempt at evasion. No door could keep him out; he seemed to slip through the keyholes like mist, to be always there, where he could train upon me a piercing, unwavering gaze, deadly as an arrow to the heart, blazing and burning with desire, like a toothache I could not ignore. He left me always feeling torn, as though wild horses, bound to my limbs, tugged and tore at me. I felt my body melting into a hot puddle of lust at the sight or thought of him, whilst my mind tried to drench the inferno with ice water, to bring the wild horses to heel and free me from the bonds of a passion that wanted to run, rage, and burn unimpeded. And in my dreams, the handsome fellow who stared at me, cock in hand, from the foot of the bed before he climbed slowly up the length of my body, was two men—Tom Seymour and Robert Dudley—merging and blending together until they seemed almost one, and I woke, crying out, to find my nightgown clutched tightly between my thighs and warm and wet with lust and sweat. And I knew God was testing me once again, to see how well I had learned my lesson, and Passion was mocking me, challenging me, to deny and save myself if I could, if only I had the will to withstand it.
The day before my coronation, as I was having the final fitting of my gown, he came to me.
I stood there, nervous and erect, my body feeling as taut as a too tightly strung lute string, amidst the sewing women, gowned in golden brocade with a raised pattern of silver that brought out the gold in my hair, brushed out and worn loose and flowing like a virgin maiden’s about my shoulders and down my back. My wary eyes never left him as he circled me like a shark swimming around a drowning sailor, devouring me with his eyes.
“Out!” He suddenly clapped his hands and spoke that single word in a tone that was meant to be obeyed. And they, women accustomed since birth to taking orders from men, did not hesitate or even look to me, their Queen, for permission, but meekly scurried out.
When the door closed behind them and we were alone, he swept me up into his arms and carried me to the bed and there laid me down gently. And I felt the length of his body stretched against mine.
“I have dreamt of this day for a
very
long time,” he said as he fanned my hair out across the pillows, as though my head were the sun and my tresses its radiant red gold rays. He bent and pressed a kiss onto each of my breasts, heaving above the low, square-cut bodice. “The day when I would at long last make love to a queen, the Queen of my heart.”
I gave a great sigh, and my arms went up to embrace him, and I felt my petticoats growing damp and hot between my thighs as he lay upon me.
“You are
mine,
” he whispered as he rained hot kisses down on me, as through my half-lidded eyes I watched the snow fall outside the diamond-paned windows. A part of me wished I could run stark naked out into it to cool the fever of lust that raged within me, driving my body to give in, to surrender to the urgent hardness pressed against me and the firm, commanding, exploring hands that were even then lifting my skirts. “You are
mine,
” he whispered again,
“all mine!”
“No!”
With such force that he tumbled from the bed and cracked his elbow upon the stone floor, I shoved him from me as I scrambled across the bed and ran to the window as if it alone offered my salvation. I was as flushed and breathless as if it were the hottest summer day as I flung wide the window, not even caring if the glass cracked against the wall, and thrust my head out. I hung there, my nails grinding, cracking, as I dug them against the stone sill, the wind seizing, tugging, and whipping my hair in a wild frenzy about my head, as the snow pelted down, and I gasped as though I had been holding my breath far too long, until my lungs were near to bursting. The air burned and cooled at the same time. I shut my eyes and tried to coax my reason back, like trying to lure a starving bird, outside pecking in the snow, to come near, to perch upon the windowsill for some breadcrumbs, even though it spies a cat curled beside the fire.
“Elizabeth.” I stiffened at Robert’s touch. His hands were on my shoulders, and he was pulling me back in, closing the window, and trying to smooth and tame my wild, wind-whipped hair with his caressing hands. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” he said, adopting a patient yet patronising tone, as if I were a simpleton or a child. “Come back to bed, and let me show you …”
“No!”
I slapped his hands down. I strode past him to the door and flung it wide and bellowed for the sewing women to come back in. “Who is King of England?” I demanded of them.
They furrowed their brows and gave me a puzzled stare. “Why, there is no king,” they answered. “Your Majesty is Queen of England.”
“Precisely!” I exclaimed. “There is no king,
I
am Queen of England,
I
rule here,
not
Lord Robert nor any other man, and
I
did
not
give you leave to withdraw!”
Most humbly they apologised, falling on their knees before me, some with tears in their eyes, begging forgiveness, giving every assurance that they had not intended to offend me.
“You are forgiven,” I said, “
but,
” I added adamantly, “see that it does not happen again. Now, come”—I smiled—“let us finish this gown. Just because our nerves are fraying does not mean we should leave our seams to unravel.” And I stepped back up onto the little wooden stool again to resume the fitting. “Lord Robert,” I said coolly, without turning to look at him, “you may go. This is women’s business, and you are not needed or wanted here.”
As he left, I watched the women kneeling at my feet, searching for some sign, fearing that they could somehow see or smell the lust upon me. I breathed deeply and lifted my head and stared straight at the wall ahead of me and wondered why a war must always rage within me. For other women life seemed so much simpler, but I wasn’t one of them. I wanted more, but I also wanted less. Would I
ever
find the right balance, the proper portions, that would allow me to live my life content, to be both a woman and a queen, filled and fulfilled, happy and complete? Often, I lay awake in bed at night, restless in both my body and my mind, waiting for sleep, with thoughts flapping like bats inside my brain, wild and frantic. At those times, I felt
so
alone, as though I were fighting, rebelling, against the whole world, swelling, overflowing the mould I was supposed to fit and neatly fill. I wanted love, I wanted passion, but I wanted it
my
way. I wanted to control the burn, I didn’t want to be enslaved and devoured by it, consumed by fear, to lose myself and everything I held dear within the flames, and be saddled and bridled, stabled and broken, by the man who rode and roused me. I
must
be sole mistress of my life, and of England; I could brook no master, and master was the role every man thought he was born to play. And with my crown as a glittering prize to be snatched and crammed onto his own head, what man could resist being not just master of his own household but of a whole kingdom as well? Thus would any man I married take from me what I valued most; he would reduce me to a figurehead of the nation, a queen consort, instead of the queen in her own right I was born to be. If I took a husband, his decisions would always hold sway, he would always have the final say, and the whole world would be deaf to my opinions. Even when the pain of loneliness stabbed me hard and the tears pricked my eyes, I must remind myself a cold and lonely bed was better than a life lived in the dominating shadow of someone who had stolen my right and destiny away from me by putting a golden ring onto my finger and reducing my crown to just another pretty headdress with no real meaning. I, Elizabeth, Elizabeth I,
Semper Eadem,
that was my fate, to
be always one.
January 15, 1559—that was my coronation day, a day that will always shine in my memory as the happiest, warmest, brightest day of my life, even though the sky was in truth as grey as pewter and the snow drifted down upon us. I remember well that frosty morning we left the Tower, to progress slowly through the streets of London, to Westminster Abbey, with speeches and pageants and singing choirs along the way.
As I gave Robert my hand to assist me as I started to climb into my litter, while Kat fussed with the cumbersome, heavy folds of my long, ermine-trimmed gold and silver brocade train, a full three-and-twenty yards long, the lions in the Tower menagerie suddenly gave a tremendous roar.
I paused and, raising my eyes to Heaven, uttered a solemn and most heartfelt prayer:
“O Almighty and Everlasting God, I give Thee most hearty and humble thanks, Thou hast dealt as wonderfully and as mercifully with me as Thou didst with Daniel, whom Thou delivered out of the lions’ den.”
Those near enough to hear applauded and cried out their blessings and “God save Your Majesty!” and I nodded and smiled my thanks as I waved back at them.
As I gave Robert my hand again, I gazed before me, at the scarlet-liveried trumpeters, their golden instruments glistening in the weak winter sun, and my heralds, bearing silken banners, then back at my long and splendid retinue that would follow my litter and snake slowly through the streets like a great jewelled serpent for my people to behold. My golden litter was upholstered in gold brocade to match my gown, and there were four yeomen guards poised to lift it, liveried in red and black embroidered in gold with my initials,
ER,
Elizabeth Regina, and red and white Tudor roses. Next a groom stood patiently holding the reins of Robert’s black horse, and the white one, my horse, which he would lead, its scarlet and gold jewelled and gold-fringed saddle symbolically empty. Next came my ladies, all gowned in crimson velvet with sleeves of cloth-of-gold, then the gentlemen of my court in crimson velvet doublets with gold sleeves and rows of gold buttons down the front, each with a jaunty white plume on his crimson velvet cap, and their legs sheathed in crimson hose, all of them, male and female, mounted on fine horses chosen by Robert and caparisoned in red and gold, their saddles cushioned in quilted crimson velvet. And behind them the men of my Council in gilded chariots, resplendent in their ceremonial robes and weighty gold chains of office. Even my household servants had new clothes; there was a red dress for my laundress, and my fools danced and capered to delight the crowd in new suits of orange and purple motley with tiny gold bells sewn along the seams and on their caps and sceptres. And my guards and archers were all in shiny and splendid array, everything polished to a high shine; even their ceremonial battle-axes gleamed with fresh gilt.
Despite the solemnity of the occasion and the heaviness of my clothes and the jewels that weighed me down, sapphires dark as the midnight sky, rubies as luscious and round as sweet, candied cherries, and pearls, both rounds and teardrops as pale as the full moon, set in heavy gold about my throat, shoulders, and waist, I felt featherlight and free. I knew it would not be easy, but I welcomed and embraced all the burdens that came with the crown. Though my form looked frail, inside I was filled with a coursing strength, and though there would be times when I felt weak and weary, it would
always
be there when I, and England, had need of it.
As I settled into my litter, and Kat fussed with my full skirts, Robert said that in my golden gown with my hair unbound, rippling down about my shoulders, I looked like the sun itself, “bright and blazing, nigh blinding in its radiant glory”.
“Thank you, Robin.” I smiled. “And though I do sit,” I said as I shifted my position upon the brocaded cushions, “I hope you mean a rising sun rather than a setting one.”
“Aye.” Robert smiled. “God grant that many, many years shall pass before this
glorious
sun ever sets.”
A light snow had begun to fall, and Kat hurried forward with an ermine lap rug, poised to drape it over my knees, lamenting that it was such a shame to cover the dress; the people always took a keen interest in such things and would be eager to see what their new sovereign was wearing on this most special day.
“Leave it off.” I gently pushed it away. “The love of my people shall keep me as warm as a roasted chestnut this day.”
Then we were off in a fanfare of blaring trumpets and flapping gold-fringed silk banners. And though I had been cheered and blessed by crowds many a time in my late sister’s reign, never before had I known such love; it was like luxuriating in a steam-caressing hot bath, whilst outside the window the snow was falling. I saw the love in the eyes of every man, woman, and child and heard it pouring from their lips, in their tears, and every smile and wave, in every cry of “God save the Queen!” and “God bless Your Majesty!” I waved and called back to them, “Thank you, my good people! God save you all! I thank you with all my heart!” and hoped they could hear my love in every word. Though there were barriers to keep them back, to prevent their impeding the procession or anyone being harmed or trampled by it, their arms reached out, straining, as if they would embrace me, and I felt as if they did. Some even dared vault or crawl beneath the barricades and run to me, to present me with little tokens, bunches of herbs tied with string or ribbon or the few paltry flowers they could find in wintertime, and some housewives even brought me cakes they had baked. One old woman offered me a sprig of rosemary, and I pressed it carefully into my English Bible, which lay upon my lap, promising her that I would treasure it always, as a remembrance of this day. Rosemary was always present at weddings—the bride and her maids often wore it in their hair, woven into crowns, or carried in bouquets—so it seemed so right, so
very
fitting, that I should be given this sprig of rosemary on the day I bound myself to England like a bride to her husband. In my heart, my coronation day was also my wedding day.