“Sir Walter!” The queen stood with feigned indignance. “And you have instructed my cooks to prepare them for the whole court this eve?”

“Alas,” he said, his head hanging, an earring looped through one ear. “It is true. Though if I could have instructed them to be served only to the ladies present, without drawing undue attention, I would have!”

“Well, then,” she said, waving toward the musicians. “Play on. But we warn you—there shall be no immodest liberties taken at our court!” She bade us dance, and we did, with relish.

I did not dance as often as I usually did, missing Thomas, I supposed. Sir Walter, though he was the guest of honor, took a moment to come and speak with me. “Pining?” he asked.

“Mayhap,” I admitted. “Thomas will be sore vexed that he missed this evening’s entertainment. You are wonderful to watch and behold.”

“I am sorry he cannot be here with us, too,” he said. He bent and kissed my hand and, before leaving me to rejoin Bess Throckmorton, he pressed something into my hand.

I looked at it. It was a small potato he’d withdrawn from his leather pouch.

“A gift for you to share with your husband when he returns,” he said with a mischievous grin.

I blushed and stammered out a thanks, which made him laugh all the more. I could not let him best me. “Perhaps I shall plant this, so many potatoes may grow, rather than consume it in one eating!”

“Touché,” he said with a gallant bow.

That night, I dismissed the servants and called Sofia to my side. “I am well pleased to have you here,” I began. “I know you took a large risk in coming to England, and no one understands more than I how difficult that can be.”

She nodded. “I . . . I am a bit lonely,” she said.

And when I thought upon it, I understood that she was, perhaps, even lonelier than I had been, as she was so rarely at court and there were but few at my house to entertain her but the governesses and the children. “Do you want to marry?” I asked her.

“Oh, oh, yes!” she said. “Perhaps Essex?”

I firmly shook my head. “Essex is out of the question.”

“But for you, a marquess was not out of the question!”

“He sought me, not I him,” I said gently.

“And yet the queen, she intervened on your behalf?” she persisted.

“For William,” I said, though that was not strictly true. I had developed the bud of a friendship with Elizabeth by then, but Sofia was not the kind of woman she was drawn to in friendship; the queen enjoyed wit and charm in all of her courtiers but her true friends had a softness of spirit and, in some ways, a motherliness. We women are most often drawn to our opposites as friends. Perhaps they foil us, complete us.

“I can help you,” I said, “find a good squire, a good man, a man with means.”

“But no noble?” she pled.

“No,” I said. “That I cannot help you with.”

“That you will not help me with,” she insisted, and at that, I grew tired. I stood and dismissed her.

“Good eve, Sofia.”

She said nothing, but turned her back and went to the small chamber I’d assigned to her and then firmly closed the door.

•   •   •

I had hoped to have a respite of time with my husband, even if it were at court, after summer Progress, and had mentioned it to the queen.

“I had thought to send him to the Netherlands, as an envoy to Robert,” she said. “I want someone I know I can trust to deliver sensitive material—and to report back to me, in all truth, how Leicester does.”

The queen had finally decided to outright support the Netherlands as they sought freedom from their mutual foe, Spain. Where she had spent years, perhaps, her enemies might say, dithering and vexing herself about whether or not she would upset her powerful enemies, she had of late begun to strike with more courage and daring, leaning upon her council, of course, but mainly upon her own best judgment.

“Do you want to go?” I asked Thomas one night as we dined together, alone. “I shall miss your company.”

“Do I have a choice?” he asked, his voice weary. “And we so rarely keep company together that I sense we have grown more accustomed to being apart than together. And yet, I am pleased that the queen honors me thusly. It’s a mark of high esteem to send me to Leicester.”

I had made a gift of the potato to him at an earlier meal and, while he had seemed charmed at the intention, it had not wrought the desired effect.

I went to bed alone and shed quiet tears for the truth that my husband had spoken. We were as comfortable, or perhaps more so, apart than together. I could not warm the linens that night and a steady rain cried down the window panes.

Shortly before he left, the queen awarded to us, jointly, the Manor of St. Ives, Hemingford Grey, and Hemingford Abbots, along with Houghton-with-Wyton and all their incomes. As typical, the reversion of properties and rents, when called, went back to the queen and not to our heirs.

I helped Thomas pack and sent special instructions with his servants to make sure that he ate well, as he seemed tired and weary of service. After he left, I wished that I had included a personal note of some kind in his bags. Truthfully, I’d been too busy to write one had I thought of it earlier.

After he left, I decided to look through his chests and coffers so that I might make an effort to mend any of his clothing while he was away. It wasn’t that our seamstresses or tailors couldn’t do it, it was more that I knew he would appreciate the touch of my own hand on his clothing, particularly his ruffs. I pulled open some drawers and took two or three garments in hand. In the fourth drawer, closest to the floor, of one of his chests there was a jewel case, and within the case nested a ring I had not seen before.

It was gold, but all round it were fastened small jet beads. I sat upon the floor for a moment, wondering where I’d seen such a ring before, as I knew I had. I prayed and asked the Lord to bring it to mind and memory. Of a sudden, I could see Thomas’s cousin John Gorges wearing the ring at a weekend’s stay with us. He, too, wore the expensive leathers I’d seen on Thomas.

I heard footsteps coming down the hall and quickly snapped shut the case and stood.

“Are you well, Cousin?” Sofia asked me as I steadied myself.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I am looking after Thomas’s mending.” I curled my fist around the ring case, covering it with my hand, but I knew she had seen it. I don’t know why I felt the need to hide it from her. But I did.

One afternoon as I sat in my chamber sewing with Mary Radcliffe, I decided to ask her what it was. She trusted me, and I her. I had taken it from the box and put it on a nearby table.

“Do you recognize this ring?” I asked her. She set down her linen work and took it in hand.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, and looked at me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“I found it in the great hall,” I said, unhappy with the lie. “It’s so unusual, I thought I should seek its owner and return it to him.”

Mary shook her head and handed it back to me with as much revulsion as if it were a viper. “It’s a recusant’s ring.”

“A . . . what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“A Rosary ring. As Rosary beads are banned, recusants wear these rings privately so they may keep count as they recite the Rosary,” she said. “I suggest you give it to Walsingham. It is not cheaply made. Whoever owns this ring has rank, and money, and is a traitor.”

“I shall, indeed,” I said, casually setting the ring back upon the table. I tried to pick my needlework back up, but my hand trembled so that I could not control the stitches. Without a doubt, Mary noticed, too.

•   •   •

That autumn, Parliament met, though they did not often do so during Elizabeth’s reign. Before they sat, a group of loyal Catholic nobles and gentry appeared before the queen with a signed petition to assure her that they owed their loyalty to her and denying that the pope had any right to authorize regicide, which they declared to be “false, devilish, and abominable.” Elizabeth received them graciously and said that she in no way questioned their loyalty, and reiterated that she had no wish to make windows into men’s souls. “A clear and innocent conscience fears nothing,” she reassured them. “There is only one Christ, Jesus, one faith. All else is a dispute over trifles.”

’Twas not the first time, nor, I was certain, would it be the last, that I basked in the honor and privilege of giving my life’s service to such a monarch.

However, Parliament’s members made it clear that they felt very differently. They spent their sitting season closing up, among other items, holes in the recusancy laws. If an alleged recusant were able to avoid being served a summons, a notice was posted on the church door requiring him to show up in court. If he failed to show in court, fines were levied against him again and again, and his lands and monies could be forfeited, up to two-thirds of all he owned.

Additionally, anyone at all might be required to swear the Oath of Supremacy, declaring that the pope had no spiritual authority in England. Peers were assumed to concur, though others may be required to prove their agreement at any time, and peers were not exempt from protecting any known recusant.

I sweat a cold sheen. I, of course, was a peer. Thomas was not.



NINETEEN

Year of Our Lord 1586