Authors: Emily Purdy
“Madame, I
swear
”—Cecil met my eyes—“I had no part, and no foreknowledge, of this dreadful deed. I am just as surprised as you are! I would not have my Sovereign’s hands stained with blood through me, nor have her live always under a pall of suspicion. And someday I must meet my Maker, and though I am not without sin, Lady Dudley’s death is not one of them.”
I nodded. I believed him; I knew instinctively that he spoke the truth.
“But people will think that—” I began.
“Madame,” Cecil interrupted me, “take heart, I implore you; it is not so bad as it first appears. It is true, your reputation has suffered a blow, but it is
not
a fatal wound, merely a stain on your hem compared to the tar and feathers Lord Robert will wear in public opinion for the rest of his life; many will always look at him and see his wife’s blood on his hands, and such a man is not fit to be King. But you
will
survive; you
will
go on, past this; you are the phoenix that rose from the ashes of Bloody Mary’s reign, and you
will
rise above this too. Like you, I wished Lady Dudley a gentle end to her suffering. After all the rumours of poison, even before we staged our little drama for the Spanish Ambassador, there would have been suspicion even if she had died quietly in her bed, with the cause conclusive and indisputable, but it would have been whispered, not shouted from the rooftops and in the city streets. But, nevertheless, with this unexpected tragedy, our work is done—Robert Dudley will
never
be King now, and Lady Dudley, God rest her sweet soul, is past her pains and has not died in vain.”
“But did he do it, Cecil?” I demanded. “Did he do this?”
“Madame, in truth, I do not know,” Cecil answered. “There must be an inquest, a full investigation …”
“… a full and earnest searching out and trying of the truth!” I finished for him; Cecil and I understood each other so well, we could at times finish each other’s sentences. “No stone must be left unturned to discover the truth! And if it is found that he had
any
part in it, Cecil,
he
shall
pay,
just like any other man in my kingdom so condemned. My favour shall not save him. And that is not just idle or angry talk, Cecil. Justice will not turn a blind eye for Robert. As Dr Bayly feared his name and medicines’ being used to cover Robert’s sin, nor shall my crown cover his crime if he has committed one. When I became Queen, I asked you, Cecil, to never spare me any truth I need hear, even if you knew it would be displeasing to or pain or anger me, and I meant it, and I still do. Though I know there have been times when I have seemed to ignore those truths and have vexed you no end, though I have been like a wilful, rebellious girl determined to go her own way, that girl has grown up, Cecil, and said farewell to her dreams and the follies of her youth. Now, find me the truth, Cecil—uncover it, lay it bare and naked, cold as a corpse, before me, and do not shrink from showing me! I
must
know!”
“Majesty, it shall be done,” he promised.
“When my mother went into the Tower, she laughed when her gaoler sought to comfort her by saying that all subjects of the King have justice. In my reign, Cecil, none shall
ever
laugh when such words are spoken; instead, they shall
know
it for the truth, that even the most helpless and humble shall have justice in Elizabeth’s England. I leave all to you, Cecil. I trust you to see that all is done
exactly
as it should be. Keep a watchful eye on Lord Robert; he must not be allowed to interfere. I know him, Cecil. He has charm and winning ways, but he must not be allowed to use them to—”
“Madame, we
cannot
stop him from trying, but we
can
prevent him from succeeding. Mrs Ashley, if you would be so kind as to bring Her Majesty’s dressing gown.” Cecil spoke softly to Kat, then continued, politely turning away as I stood, clad only in my thin summer nightshift, and slipped my bare arms into the proffered gold-embroidered tawny velvet robe, “I hope Your Majesty will forgive the presumption, but time being of the essence here, I have anticipated your desire, and I have already the
very
man to assist us, one who has Lord Robert’s trust, whose duplicity he would
never
for a moment suspect; indeed, if it were even suggested to him, I think he would laugh. He waits now in your private garden, if Mrs Ashley will open the door …”
“Quickly, Kat.” I nodded.
And a few moments later an ashen-faced, wild-eyed young man with a riot of rumpled ginger curls standing up like springs upon his head, and freckles standing out starkly against his pallor, was standing before us. I recognised him at once—Thomas Blount of Kidderminster, Robert’s country cousin, the one he used so often as his courier, sending him riding back and forth across the country on one errand or another, that the lad hardly ever felt solid ground beneath his feet for long and felt ill at ease in polite society and at a loss without the body of a horse gripped between his knees.
“A
perfect
choice,” with an approving nod, I murmured sotto voce to Cecil.
Belatedly, Thomas Blount executed a hasty bow, and when his lips brushed my hand, I felt their coldness. I caught his chin in my hand and stared intently into his face. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and the still-moist tracks of tears were even then drying upon his cheeks. Cecil had already imparted the sad news, and clearly young Master Blount was much affected by it; he looked as though he might be felled by the merest touch of a feather.
“Come sit down with us by the fire,” I said kindly, taking his arm and guiding him to a chair. And once he was settled with a goblet of wine in his hand, I began to speak softly to him. “I am told you are a great collector of tales,” and at his nod I continued. “Well, Mr Blount, there is a damsel, sadly now departed, but when she walked this world, much distressed, for whom you can, if you will, still render a
great
service.”
“Amy … I … I still can’t believe it.” He gulped back a sob. He looked first at me and then at Cecil. “Are you
sure
she’s r-really gone? She’s dead? Not just injured from her fall?”
“Sadly, in this instance we are not mistaken,” Cecil answered. “Lady Dudley is indeed departed from this world.”
“But”—I reached out and touched his hand—“you
can
still help her, Mr Blount. And”—I gave him a long, searching look—“I think you want to.”
“I do,” he affirmed. “Oh, yes, Your Majesty, I do! I wish I had been there. I … But what can
I
do? How can I help her now?” Tears overflowed his eyes again and began pouring down over his cheeks.
“You can help her spirit rest in peace,” I said. “You can help ensure that she has not died in vain, that her life is not a sacrifice on the altar of another’s ambition, that his purse does not tempt Justice to look away, to ignore Amy as he so often did. Let us have it plain, Mr Blount. I know you have heard the rumours about myself and Lord Robert. Despite what they say, I
never
intended to marry him under
any
circumstances, certainly not over his wife’s dead and broken body. Lord Robert refused to believe that; he was blinded by the glare of his own ambition.”
“But, in order to help Lady Dudley, you
must
be the Queen’s man
first,
rather than Lord Robert’s,” Cecil interjected. “I know he is your cousin, Mr Blount; are you capable of ignoring the ties of kinship? Can you do that, Mr Blount? Can you serve the Queen before Lord Robert? Can you serve Lady Dudley before her husband?”
“Yes!”
He swallowed hard another sob and nodded his head emphatically. “I can. I can do that—
anything
for Amy,
anything
! I … I …” He shook his head hard and bravely fought back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. “He didn’t love her like he should—I could see that. I … I thought he was a fool. She was so … so sweet and good, I could never believe that he wanted her dead. I thought it was just mean and idle gossip. If I had known …”
I nodded and sat back in my chair, letting my spine, and my hands’ grip on the arms of my chair, relax a little and dangled my gold-braided tawny velvet slipper from my toes. “I believe you, Mr Blount. My mother once said to my father, ‘All that glitters is not gold.’ Lord Robert, for all his glittering vibrancy, his fine looks and manners, is
not
gold. And sometimes gold doesn’t shine as brightly as it should; sometimes its sparkle is hidden, obscured by the mud. And thus I think it was with Lady Dudley; she was like a diamond rough from the earth that lacked polish and shaping, but precious nonetheless, and I lament her loss, as I can see you do as well, Mr Blount.”
Thomas Blount gave me a startled look. “You didn’t know her, and yet you understand her, I think, better than he ever did. She tried so hard to please him, but …” His words trailed off, and he shook his head, the sadness and confusion plain upon his face. It was clear that Thomas Blount would never make a good card player, but, to serve my purposes, he didn’t have to face his cousin over a card table.
“I am a woman, Mr Blount. Just because I am the Virgin Queen does not mean I know nothing of life; my father had six wives, and history, even one’s own, is an
excellent
teacher. Now, then”—I leaned forward—“here is what you are to do. Doubtlessly, as he is so accustomed to doing, Lord Robert shall send you riding to Cumnor Place quite soon, to be his eyes and ears, to discover all about this dreadful business that you can. And you shall indeed do just as he commands,
but
”—I held my finger up—“you shall do
nothing
to interfere with the workings of Justice. If Lord Robert bids you speak with the coroner and the jurors or give them money or gifts, tell him whatever nonsense you please, that the jurors are well disposed to him, that you have dined with the foreman, played cards with the coroner—write a
fine
story for him, Mr Blount, one that he will believe, one that I and my Lord Cecil will think credible when we read your letters—as we indeed will—but you are
not
to consort with or befriend the jurors, the coroner, or
anyone
officially or informally associated with this case. Invent out of whole cloth or embroider on the gossip you overhear in the street and tavern to fill your letters to Lord Robert, and relate whatever you hear at Cumnor—do not lie about that, as he will be in contact with others there—but do
nothing
that he tells you; you are my man now, Mr Blount, and you follow
my
orders, not Lord Robert’s. And do not attempt out of any cousinly loyalty to warn Lord Robert of this or to secretly carry out any orders he gives that are contrary to my own; you
cannot
serve us both, and you
will
be watched, Mr Blount. Yours are not the
only
eyes observing this tragedy and awaiting its outcome, and if you do seek to put Lord Robert’s desires before Justice, I
will
find out. If he killed Amy or paid the hand that did, his life will be forfeit like any other murderer’s; do not become his accomplice or abettor after the fact, Mr Blount.”
“Remember, Mr Blount,” Cecil said, “that Her Majesty can do
far
more
for you, or against you, than Lord Robert ever can …”
“Majesty.” Thomas Blount dropped suddenly from his chair, slumping on his knees at my feet as heavy sobs convulsed him. He fumbled to take the hem of my robe and lift it to his trembling lips. “Your servant first, A-Amy’s s-s-second!” he blurted.
“Exactly.”
I nodded as I met Cecil’s eyes over the young man’s sob-shuddering back, and we exchanged an approving nod. “You are Lady Dudley’s champion, Mr Blount, a knight clad in the shining armour of truth, and I can see that you will not fail her.”
After Cecil and Mr Blount left me, I lingered long by the fire, sitting alone as the sky lightened and the birds began to sing, pondering my peculiar dream.
I had been riding in the hunt, with a number of lords and ladies, crashing through the forest, the hooves of our horses tearing up clods of earth, the branches and brambles catching at our clothes, as the barking hounds bounded before us in pursuit of our quarry. I could smell the heady commingled scents of perfume, sweat, horseflesh, and leather. Leading the chase was my mighty, majestic, and fearsome father, ruddy-cheeked and red-haired in his prime and glory, a magnificent figure astride a great bay stallion. And then the doe was cornered; I could smell and feel her fear as though my own soul were trapped within her form, my brain inside her skull, my heart pulsing and beating fast with fear inside her chest.
Suddenly the deer changed form and became a female—a slender woman in a black velvet riding habit with her hair caught up in a net of pearls beneath a black velvet hat adorned with an elegant, gracefully arching spray of black and white plumes held in place by a diamond brooch. I recognised her at once—my mother, Anne Boleyn. And I remembered the poem that had made her famous, written by Thomas Wyatt, the poet who had loved her, in which he compared her to a hunted deer.
She was cornered; desperately she stood there, her back against a tree, surrounded on all sides by hounds and huntsmen, bared teeth, poised knives, and arrows. And then a rustle of leaves, the sharp, sudden snap of a twig, distracted my father, and he was off again, in pursuit of another doe, one that kept flickering between the form of a fleeing deer and a frightened, flaxen-haired female whom I recognised in my fleeting glimpse of her as Jane Seymour.
My mother turned and faced me, calmly twirling her pearls, from which dangled a big golden
B,
as she said, “It’s all about the hunt, the chase, you know.
Never surrender!
Stand your ground, Elizabeth—hold your own, and let no man take it from you! You are Queen in your
own
right, Elizabeth,
not
a consort through a husband’s whim and sufferance! Your crown is not just some pretty ornament with no more power than a feathered bonnet, but it
will
be if you marry Robert Dudley; he won’t just share your throne—he will
take
it from you!”