Read Online Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I by Sandra Byrd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Byrd
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queen to marry and to bring forth a son, to have the succession settled. They are discomfited by the thought of years of war that threaten a kingdom without an heir. And many feel it is unnatural for a woman to rule.”
“Will she marry?”
He lowered his voice. “She must. But whom? No matter the offers, parrying, and diplomatic considerations, I believe that the queen’s honor and faith will not let her choose a Catholic prince for herself or for her people. Protestant princes are few, and they are entangled in costly wars that would bring this realm nothing but debt, of which we already have an abundance after the . . . generous spending of His Majesty King Henry and the warring of Queen Mary at the provocation of her Spanish husband, Philip.”
“An Englishman, then?” I grinned, truly fond of William. “I find myself much given to marrying an Englishman.”
“Ah, that it should come quickly to pass,” he said as he kissed me lightly.
“Our marriage or hers?”
“Both. We know whom you should marry, my lady.” He clasped his hand over mine. “But the queen?”
“Lord Robert?” I asked.
“Mayhap,” he admitted. “As she has raised him to earl, making him of sufficient rank to partner her.”
“Why do I sense your reluctance?”
“The Dudley family is scattered with traitors who tried, like vines, to circle the royal oak and climb to the throne. Elizabeth loves Lord Robert well, but I am certain she does not forget that Lord Robert’s father conspired to keep her from her throne by placing her cousin Jane Grey, married to Lord Robert’s brother Guildford, on it in her rightful stead.”
“Lord Robert’s father and brother Guildford are now . . . ?”
“Executed. I believe Lord Robert well loves the queen, but most others believe he is simply another choking shoot of the Dudley vine. Whether or not the queen, in her great love, will risk being entwined with him, only time will tell. Which nobleman in this kingdom will bow the knee to Lord Robert? I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
• • •
After we returned to London, I made my way to the queen’s library. Lady Blanche, also keeper of the queen’s books, said I might take any of them back to my chamber to read for my pleasure, and to assist in my English. I was excited to find some histories and some Greek myths and stories, as well as a tiny New Testament in which was written on the forepapers, in Her Majesty’s own hand, “I walk many times into the pleasant fields of the Holy Scriptures, where I pluck up the goodly green herbs of sentences by pruning, eat them by reading, chew them by musing, and lay them up at length in the seed of memory by gathering them together so that having tasted Thy Sweetness, I may less perceive the bitterness of this miserable life.”
I made my way back to my chamber and, as I did, glanced out the window at one of the turreted towers of the palace. I’d heard that King Henry had quietly, officially, married the queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn, here at Whitehall in one such tower, while my ladywas already comfortably resting inside her mother’s womb. Did she even now wonder about her mother? Was her mother’s beheading the beginning of the bitterness of Queen Elizabeth’s life? Or was it the lack of a husband, of children? The bitterness of knowing that others greatly desired your death so that they may poach your royal perquisites and power?
I wished I had my own mother nearby to discuss these things, to offer affection and counsel. I yearned to hear from her, but she had not written to me, or if she had, the letters had not made it through the Danes. The thought of home, and of belonging, brought me pain, so I quickly dismissed it. I had thought to be married by now, and perhaps on my way to becoming a mother myself.
I carefully thumbed through the pages of the Scriptures I had just borrowed and noted diverse passages that someone, perhaps the queen herself, had underlined, for
“Will she marry?”
He lowered his voice. “She must. But whom? No matter the offers, parrying, and diplomatic considerations, I believe that the queen’s honor and faith will not let her choose a Catholic prince for herself or for her people. Protestant princes are few, and they are entangled in costly wars that would bring this realm nothing but debt, of which we already have an abundance after the . . . generous spending of His Majesty King Henry and the warring of Queen Mary at the provocation of her Spanish husband, Philip.”
“An Englishman, then?” I grinned, truly fond of William. “I find myself much given to marrying an Englishman.”
“Ah, that it should come quickly to pass,” he said as he kissed me lightly.
“Our marriage or hers?”
“Both. We know whom you should marry, my lady.” He clasped his hand over mine. “But the queen?”
“Lord Robert?” I asked.
“Mayhap,” he admitted. “As she has raised him to earl, making him of sufficient rank to partner her.”
“Why do I sense your reluctance?”
“The Dudley family is scattered with traitors who tried, like vines, to circle the royal oak and climb to the throne. Elizabeth loves Lord Robert well, but I am certain she does not forget that Lord Robert’s father conspired to keep her from her throne by placing her cousin Jane Grey, married to Lord Robert’s brother Guildford, on it in her rightful stead.”
“Lord Robert’s father and brother Guildford are now . . . ?”
“Executed. I believe Lord Robert well loves the queen, but most others believe he is simply another choking shoot of the Dudley vine. Whether or not the queen, in her great love, will risk being entwined with him, only time will tell. Which nobleman in this kingdom will bow the knee to Lord Robert? I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
• • •
After we returned to London, I made my way to the queen’s library. Lady Blanche, also keeper of the queen’s books, said I might take any of them back to my chamber to read for my pleasure, and to assist in my English. I was excited to find some histories and some Greek myths and stories, as well as a tiny New Testament in which was written on the forepapers, in Her Majesty’s own hand, “I walk many times into the pleasant fields of the Holy Scriptures, where I pluck up the goodly green herbs of sentences by pruning, eat them by reading, chew them by musing, and lay them up at length in the seed of memory by gathering them together so that having tasted Thy Sweetness, I may less perceive the bitterness of this miserable life.”
I made my way back to my chamber and, as I did, glanced out the window at one of the turreted towers of the palace. I’d heard that King Henry had quietly, officially, married the queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn, here at Whitehall in one such tower, while my ladywas already comfortably resting inside her mother’s womb. Did she even now wonder about her mother? Was her mother’s beheading the beginning of the bitterness of Queen Elizabeth’s life? Or was it the lack of a husband, of children? The bitterness of knowing that others greatly desired your death so that they may poach your royal perquisites and power?
I wished I had my own mother nearby to discuss these things, to offer affection and counsel. I yearned to hear from her, but she had not written to me, or if she had, the letters had not made it through the Danes. The thought of home, and of belonging, brought me pain, so I quickly dismissed it. I had thought to be married by now, and perhaps on my way to becoming a mother myself.
I carefully thumbed through the pages of the Scriptures I had just borrowed and noted diverse passages that someone, perhaps the queen herself, had underlined, for
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