I love Windsor Castle, the rides down to the water meadows by the river, the great park with the herds of deer moving quietly in a ripple among the trees, and the castle perched high above the little village. We are to celebrate Elizabeth’s birthday as if it were a feast as great as Christmas. Robert Dudley, as master of horse, appoints a master of ceremonies and orders him to hire players and choirs, dancers, and entertainers—jugglers and magicians. There are to be poets to hymn Elizabeth’s beauty; there are to be bishops to pray for her long and happy reign. It is to go on for days to celebrate the birth of a girl whose mother died on the scaffold accused of adultery and whose father did not recognize her as his own for most of her life. I could almost laugh aloud to see Elizabeth order the court to celebrate her birth, when the older people remember what a bitter disappointment the girl baby was at the time and how indifferent everyone was to her for so long.
Robert Dudley is everywhere—the king of the court, the master builder of Elizabeth’s happiness. William Cecil is self-contained inside a bleak silent fury. His hard-won treaty with France is to go ahead, but he gets no thanks for it. It is not celebrated as a diplomatic triumph, and he blames Elizabeth’s poor judgment on her infatuation with Robert Dudley.
The master of ceremonies designs a beautiful dance that all the young ladies of the court must learn. We are all to represent different virtues: I am to be “Duty,” Janey is to be “Honor.” She is well enough to dance, the flush in her cheeks has cooled and her eyes are not blazing with fever for once. Mary is to be “Victory” and stand at the top of a tall tower that hides her tiny feet and shows her as a beauty. The queen’s sergeant porter, the officer in charge of the safety of the whole court, is a tall broad man, bigger than any other, and they call him in to lift Mary into the top of the tower. Gallantly, he bows to her; she looks like a fairy under the feet of a giant. It is as good as a play. She puts out her little hand and he takes it to his lips, and then he puts his hands around her tiny waist and lifts her up. Everyone applauds, it is so pretty, and someone says that Mr. Thomas Keyes, the sergeant parter, must put his deputy on the gate and come in to play his part in the masque. Mr. Keyes bows, smiling, handsome in his Tudor livery, and Mary, her little hand buried in his huge paw, laughs and curtseys, her face bright.
Ned plays the part of “Trust” and is paired to dance with Frances Mewtas, who is a female trust—whatever that is—“Gullibility” perhaps. I wish that she would swap with me, but I cannot ask her without revealing that I want to dance with Ned, and he does not think to hint to her that she might prefer to be “Duty.” He even seems to enjoy her company. After their dance is finished they stand together, and when we all go outside to enjoy the sunset and take a glass of small ale, he goes with her hand on his arm and he pours a glass for her.
The dance goes off step-perfect. Elizabeth, enthroned, smiles as we dance before her, though I daresay she would rather be in Robert Dudley’s arms herself. I know that I would rather be dancing with Ned than watching him. Frances Mewtas has painted her face, I am sure of it. She looks ridiculous and she sticks to Ned’s side like a snail on a wall. I frown at him to show that I am displeased, and he looks blankly back at me as if he cannot imagine that the sight of another girl, her hand on his arm, looking up into his handsome face, might displease me. He is such a taking young man, his smile so charming and his eyes so bright, I cannot bear to see him partnered with a little plain thing like Frances. I would have thought that she would have had the sense to know that he was longing to be with me. Surely, she can see that it would be a prettier dance if Ned and I were together?
I have to stand beside Elizabeth’s throne when the Spanish ambassador, de la Quadra, and the other ambassadors arrive to give her birthday gifts. I am to demonstrate that we are the best of friends, on the warmest of terms. I am publicly known as Elizabeth’s heir, and Cecil’s treaty proves that Mary Queen of Scots has surrendered her claim to the throne of England. Elizabeth remembers to turn her head and smile at me, and waves her hand to my little sister. My friendly intimacy with Elizabeth is choreographed, just like the dances. I am here to indicate that Mary Queen of Scots has no claim to the English throne, I am the heir-to-be and Elizabeth will nominate me at the next parliament.
De la Quadra bows very low and steps up to speak to the queen, but I am not attending to royal business; I am watching Ned, who is walking with Frances Mewtas through the people to the back of the hall where the candles throw intimate shadows and courting couples dawdle in the alcoves. I cannot see him, and I am not allowed to go to find him. This is an ordeal for me, and then I hear, almost in the distance, Elizabeth telling the Spanish ambassador that Robert Dudley’s wife is dead of a canker.
I am so shocked as the words penetrate my anxious surveillance of the back of the hall that I stop looking for Ned and I stare at Elizabeth. Did she really say that Lady Dudley is dead? “Or nearly so,” she corrects herself. “Poor woman.”
De la Quadra looks as stunned as I am. Only good manners prevent him yelping: “Qué? Qué?”
Why would Elizabeth say such an extraordinary thing? What woman is dead one moment and “nearly so” the next? Is Elizabeth blind and deaf to simple good manners? Does she not realize that it is not very charming of a mistress to release the news of an abandoned wife’s death as if it were a matter of mild interest? And then muddle whether she is dead or not? And if the woman is dead, why is Robert Dudley not at his home, ordering mourning clothes, arranging her funeral? Or if she is on her deathbed, why is Robert Dudley dancing at Elizabeth’s birthday feast and not at his dying wife’s side?
I long to find Ned and tell him this extraordinary conversation, but when the presentation of gifts is over, there is general dancing and I am still nailed to the dais behind Elizabeth, who is now whispering with Robert Dudley. Whatever she is saying, while he smiles down at her with his eyes on her mouth, they are not talking about cankers and deathbeds.
Ned is not among the couples on the floor. He is not among the men watching the women dancing. He is not cautiously working his way to the top of the room so that he can be near me. I can’t see him anywhere, and I cannot see Frances Mewtas either.
I am trapped on the dais with Elizabeth, and Ned does not come near me. I don’t see him again all night, though the court retires late as Elizabeth dances and dances, drinks her own health, and finally leads us from the room. Ned is nowhere to be seen among the men bowing as we withdraw. Frances Mewtas scuttles from one of the galleries at the last minute, all flushed, and joins the procession of ladies leaving the room.
I go to bed in tears, I am so furious and so pained. I did not think I could feel like this again. It is so much worse than the last time that I lost Ned. This time I have given him my promise, I believed us to be all but married.
I toss and turn in the hot sheets, and my lady-bedfellow mutters sleepily: “Are you ill, your ladyship? Shall I fetch you something?”