Arthur.’
‘The Queen—’ I cleared my throat. ‘The Queen believes it was Dudley’s mission. I was there to hold his bridle while he resolved matters.’
I wouldn’t normally have passed this on, but I was tired of being undervalued and thus underpaid and guessed that, for the first time, this man, who had survived service to three
successive monarchs, would begin to understand.
‘Oh
really
,’ Cecil said mildly, ‘What else would you have expected?’
There was considerable tension this year between Cecil and Dudley, whose star had grown brighter in the royal firmament than Venus at dawn. Cecil, meanwhile, had been deemed a disappointment for
his failure, in negotiations with the French, to regain Calais for England. This had ever been unlikely, but the idea that it was even possible had been put into the Queen’s head by…
Dudley, of course.
I said nothing. The word was that Cecil had felt himself abused to the point where he’d tendered his resignation to the Queen. But then Amy Robsart, who had become Amy Dudley, had died and
something had snapped like an overwound crossbow.
Cecil went to sit down behind his trestle. The great window’s lower frames were barricaded from outside by the builders’ scaffold, but when he leaned back, tilting his oaken chair on
two legs against the sill, at least half the spires of London were, once again, at his elbows, blurred by rain.
‘John, would you happen to know why Mistress Blanche wanted to see you?’
‘Would you?’
‘I might.’
‘However,’ I said, ‘when she – and, presumably the Queen – find out that you physically prevented the meeting taking place, as arranged—’
‘She’ll simply realise that you didn’t receive the letter. I gather it was left with your mother, you being absent at the time.’
How the
hell
did he know all this?
‘Having gone off on one of your… expeditions in search of the Hidden.’ Cecil leaned forward until the front legs of his chair met the floor. ‘Do you want to know what
this visit may have been about, John?’
And what was I supposed to say to that? Cecil half stood to pull off his bulky black robe, revealing a doublet in what was, for him, the somewhat frivolous colour of charcoal. He tossed the robe
across the wide trestle in front of him.
‘Now
sit down
,’ he said.
The people of the Welsh border take a long path to the point. My father loved to explain that this was because, in an area ever riven by conflict between the Welsh and the
English, they would need to know precisely where a visitor’s allegiances lay before entrusting him with even the most trivial intelligence.
I’d oft-times marked this approach in the manners of Blanche Parry, who retained her accent, but was inclined to forget that the family of William Cecil – from whose tones all trace
of Welshness had long ago been smoothed – had once spelled its name
Seisyllt.
‘Did you know Amy Robsart, John?’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew her. She tended not to come very much to town.’
An understatement. The Queen was not exactly approving of wives brought to court, or even to London. Especially Dudley’s wife, obviously. In the absence of a Dudley country mansion, Amy
had spent most of her married life as a guest of various friends of her husband. A dismal existence.
‘Met her once,’ I said. ‘On one of her rare visits to Dudley’s house at Kew.’
‘And what thought you of her?’
At last I sat down. Truth was I’d thought Amy quite beautiful. Also intelligent, lively and warm. In my view – was this treason? – as a wife, the Queen would not quite compare.
God help me, I’d even caught myself, wishing that circumstances had been such that I might have met her before Dudley.
‘You’re blushing,’ Cecil said.
‘Heat of the fire.’
Cecil laughed.
‘What a waste, eh, John? As I oft-times think about a carnal marriage—’
‘Starts in joy, ends in tears?’
Cecil frowned. I’d gone too
‘The Queen—’ I cleared my throat. ‘The Queen believes it was Dudley’s mission. I was there to hold his bridle while he resolved matters.’
I wouldn’t normally have passed this on, but I was tired of being undervalued and thus underpaid and guessed that, for the first time, this man, who had survived service to three
successive monarchs, would begin to understand.
‘Oh
really
,’ Cecil said mildly, ‘What else would you have expected?’
There was considerable tension this year between Cecil and Dudley, whose star had grown brighter in the royal firmament than Venus at dawn. Cecil, meanwhile, had been deemed a disappointment for
his failure, in negotiations with the French, to regain Calais for England. This had ever been unlikely, but the idea that it was even possible had been put into the Queen’s head by…
Dudley, of course.
I said nothing. The word was that Cecil had felt himself abused to the point where he’d tendered his resignation to the Queen. But then Amy Robsart, who had become Amy Dudley, had died and
something had snapped like an overwound crossbow.
Cecil went to sit down behind his trestle. The great window’s lower frames were barricaded from outside by the builders’ scaffold, but when he leaned back, tilting his oaken chair on
two legs against the sill, at least half the spires of London were, once again, at his elbows, blurred by rain.
‘John, would you happen to know why Mistress Blanche wanted to see you?’
‘Would you?’
‘I might.’
‘However,’ I said, ‘when she – and, presumably the Queen – find out that you physically prevented the meeting taking place, as arranged—’
‘She’ll simply realise that you didn’t receive the letter. I gather it was left with your mother, you being absent at the time.’
How the
hell
did he know all this?
‘Having gone off on one of your… expeditions in search of the Hidden.’ Cecil leaned forward until the front legs of his chair met the floor. ‘Do you want to know what
this visit may have been about, John?’
And what was I supposed to say to that? Cecil half stood to pull off his bulky black robe, revealing a doublet in what was, for him, the somewhat frivolous colour of charcoal. He tossed the robe
across the wide trestle in front of him.
‘Now
sit down
,’ he said.
The people of the Welsh border take a long path to the point. My father loved to explain that this was because, in an area ever riven by conflict between the Welsh and the
English, they would need to know precisely where a visitor’s allegiances lay before entrusting him with even the most trivial intelligence.
I’d oft-times marked this approach in the manners of Blanche Parry, who retained her accent, but was inclined to forget that the family of William Cecil – from whose tones all trace
of Welshness had long ago been smoothed – had once spelled its name
Seisyllt.
‘Did you know Amy Robsart, John?’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew her. She tended not to come very much to town.’
An understatement. The Queen was not exactly approving of wives brought to court, or even to London. Especially Dudley’s wife, obviously. In the absence of a Dudley country mansion, Amy
had spent most of her married life as a guest of various friends of her husband. A dismal existence.
‘Met her once,’ I said. ‘On one of her rare visits to Dudley’s house at Kew.’
‘And what thought you of her?’
At last I sat down. Truth was I’d thought Amy quite beautiful. Also intelligent, lively and warm. In my view – was this treason? – as a wife, the Queen would not quite compare.
God help me, I’d even caught myself, wishing that circumstances had been such that I might have met her before Dudley.
‘You’re blushing,’ Cecil said.
‘Heat of the fire.’
Cecil laughed.
‘What a waste, eh, John? As I oft-times think about a carnal marriage—’
‘Starts in joy, ends in tears?’
Cecil frowned. I’d gone too
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