kissed once before, a chaste and hasty peck on the lips, light as a feather, from young Ned Flowerdew when we bumped into each other while dancing round the Maypole at the fair, each of us clinging to one of the long, gaily coloured streamers. Red-faced and sheepish, we laughed together and hastily rejoined the other dancers weaving round and round the Maypole in the intricate series of steps, and no more was ever said about it.
I
never
dreamed I would see him again, this Robert Dudley. Why should he linger hereabouts? It was obvious he was one of the men, the thousands of soldiers, who had been sent to put down Kett’s Rebellion, the outburst of furious protest that had erupted over the enclosure of common grazing land and had fast gotten out of hand, boiling over to the extent that the frail boy-king, Edward VI, had to send out troops to quell it.
I was drowsing on my bed, dreaming of Robert Dudley’s playful smile and dancing dark eyes, and the warm weight of his body on top of mine, with my new kitten, Custard, a fat, cream-coloured ball of fluff, curled up beside me, when my mother burst in. It was one of the rare times she was up and out of bed, so I knew something momentous must have occurred. She came in all aflutter, gesturing with her hands as if they were a pair of anxious butterflies, to tell me that the Earl of Warwick and two of his sons—“two fine, handsome sons, Amy, and neither of them yet married!”—were doing us the
very
great honour of lodging with us tonight, then breathlessly went on to say that I must look my best when I came downstairs to dine. Thereupon she turned away from me and fell to arguing with Pirto about what I should wear.
Mother was set upon the new silver-trimmed milk-and-water gown. White with the barest hint of blue, it was the colour of the moment in London, but Pirto thought it much too pallid and was adamant that I needed something bolder and brighter to show off my golden curls and blue green eyes to best advantage.
While they bickered back and forth, Mother never once wavering in her support of milk-and-water, as Pirto suggested one robust, jewel-bright hue after another, I took from a chest an apple green satin gown embroidered all over with white meadow daisies, their centres like little yellow suns, and brazen red ribbons that playfully crisscrossed the bodice and came together in a flirtatious bow when they reached the top—a pert little flirt of red satin that
begged
to be toyed with and untied. Next I found a bright cherry red taffeta petticoat and under-sleeves dotted with seed pearls and dainty gold beads, and a pair of cheerful and bold red stockings, and went to stand before my looking glass, humming as I held the ensemble up against me.
I
never
worried about such things then; I
always
knew my own mind with complete and utter certainty. I
never
worried or prevaricated, doubted or second-guessed myself. I was as far from nervous as we were from the Emperor of China’s palace. I was just me—Amy Robsart—and I did whatever felt right for me to do. I never worried about what other people might think of me. “You wear your confidence like a queen wears her crown, Amy, my lass,” Father used to always say of me with a broad, beaming smile and a hearty nod of approval.
I smiled as, behind me, my mother wagged an emphatic finger in Pirto’s face and insisted, “No, no, Pirto, I tell you the milk-and-water gown is much more refined!”
“Aye, My Lady,” Pirto nodded, wagging her finger right back in Mother’s face, “that may well be, but
I
tell
you
it’s too subdued; Mistress Amy’s beauty needs a bolder colour to set it off best! Now a nice, robust red …”
I laughed and, hugging my gown, pale and bold hues perfectly married, against me, I pranced and spun, dancing around them, then kissed them each upon the cheek, making them both smile at me.
That
was the Amy I used to be!
When I saw him again, I nearly fell straight into his arms. I was at the
I
never
dreamed I would see him again, this Robert Dudley. Why should he linger hereabouts? It was obvious he was one of the men, the thousands of soldiers, who had been sent to put down Kett’s Rebellion, the outburst of furious protest that had erupted over the enclosure of common grazing land and had fast gotten out of hand, boiling over to the extent that the frail boy-king, Edward VI, had to send out troops to quell it.
I was drowsing on my bed, dreaming of Robert Dudley’s playful smile and dancing dark eyes, and the warm weight of his body on top of mine, with my new kitten, Custard, a fat, cream-coloured ball of fluff, curled up beside me, when my mother burst in. It was one of the rare times she was up and out of bed, so I knew something momentous must have occurred. She came in all aflutter, gesturing with her hands as if they were a pair of anxious butterflies, to tell me that the Earl of Warwick and two of his sons—“two fine, handsome sons, Amy, and neither of them yet married!”—were doing us the
very
great honour of lodging with us tonight, then breathlessly went on to say that I must look my best when I came downstairs to dine. Thereupon she turned away from me and fell to arguing with Pirto about what I should wear.
Mother was set upon the new silver-trimmed milk-and-water gown. White with the barest hint of blue, it was the colour of the moment in London, but Pirto thought it much too pallid and was adamant that I needed something bolder and brighter to show off my golden curls and blue green eyes to best advantage.
While they bickered back and forth, Mother never once wavering in her support of milk-and-water, as Pirto suggested one robust, jewel-bright hue after another, I took from a chest an apple green satin gown embroidered all over with white meadow daisies, their centres like little yellow suns, and brazen red ribbons that playfully crisscrossed the bodice and came together in a flirtatious bow when they reached the top—a pert little flirt of red satin that
begged
to be toyed with and untied. Next I found a bright cherry red taffeta petticoat and under-sleeves dotted with seed pearls and dainty gold beads, and a pair of cheerful and bold red stockings, and went to stand before my looking glass, humming as I held the ensemble up against me.
I
never
worried about such things then; I
always
knew my own mind with complete and utter certainty. I
never
worried or prevaricated, doubted or second-guessed myself. I was as far from nervous as we were from the Emperor of China’s palace. I was just me—Amy Robsart—and I did whatever felt right for me to do. I never worried about what other people might think of me. “You wear your confidence like a queen wears her crown, Amy, my lass,” Father used to always say of me with a broad, beaming smile and a hearty nod of approval.
I smiled as, behind me, my mother wagged an emphatic finger in Pirto’s face and insisted, “No, no, Pirto, I tell you the milk-and-water gown is much more refined!”
“Aye, My Lady,” Pirto nodded, wagging her finger right back in Mother’s face, “that may well be, but
I
tell
you
it’s too subdued; Mistress Amy’s beauty needs a bolder colour to set it off best! Now a nice, robust red …”
I laughed and, hugging my gown, pale and bold hues perfectly married, against me, I pranced and spun, dancing around them, then kissed them each upon the cheek, making them both smile at me.
That
was the Amy I used to be!
When I saw him again, I nearly fell straight into his arms. I was at the
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