A Court Affair. Emily Purdy

I even yearn for the fleeting, momentary satisfaction of seeing it burned or chopped into kindling. Only the knowledge that the servants would surely gossip, and, when word reached London, as it inevitably would, an angry letter from Robert would soon follow—only that stays my tongue from giving the necessary orders.

      I hate the way his eyes seem to follow me, so impatient, hard, and hateful, as if he were wishing that I would hurry up and die. The man in that portrait I do not think would hesitate a moment to send an assassin to hasten me to my grave. That is a man who would freely spend his gold to buy poisons to send to me or persuade a physician to undertake my cure but bring about my death instead. This is a portrait of a man who loves only himself; even the woman whose likeness hangs about his neck is only a means to an end.

      Sometimes I wonder if Robert has fooled her too. Does he make her feel like a weak-kneed woman of wax melting under the hot sun of gaze, burning lips, and the ardent, skilful hands that know exactly how and where to touch, the deft fingers that seek out and stroke the most intimate and sensitive places? I was Love’s blind fool; I trusted and believed and gave him my heart, body, and soul, and all the best of me; I married him. Will Elizabeth Tudor do the same? Or does my own bitterness cast a shadow and unjust suspicion on both of them? Is it true love betwixt Robert and the Queen? Am I, after all, just a youthful error, a foolish mistake that with my death will be remedied, undone and erased, to give true love the chance it lost through rash, young, and lusty folly?

      Robert has become very much his father’s son. John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, Duke of Northumberland, would be proud to see his son standing so near the throne, and the woman who sits upon it head over bum in love with him. It was always his ambition to play kingmaker and become the founder of a great royal dynasty. But with Robert, I thought that, as a fifth son, the hardness had been buffed smooth, the sharp edges rounded and softened, and the ambition that coursed through his veins diluted. I thought happiness was enough for Robert, that he had turned his back on fame and glory and wanted only a simple life with me, breeding horses and filling our nursery with as many children as we could have, and presiding over our flocks, fields, and apple orchards. I thought Robert was different.

      I remember the day Robert’s father, the Earl of Warwick as he was then, sought me out …

      4

      Amy Robsart Dudley

       Stanfield Hall, near Wymondham, in Norfolk April 1550

      I was in the dairy, with my hair bunched up carelessly beneath a white ruffled cap, wearing a faded old blue cloth gown with an apron tied over it, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and my hems pinned up to my knees. The stone floor was deliciously cool and smooth, like silk gone solid, beneath my bare feet, and I was laughing and gossiping with the milkmaids as I took my turn at a churn, just as if I were one of them and not Sir John Robsart’s daughter.

      The Earl eyed me up and down, then shook his head and sighed, “Poor Robert!”

      Of course, I did not know then that I was fated to perpetually arouse pity for my husband.

      My father-in-law-to-be bade me come out and walk with him. The silence hung heavily between us like a velvet curtain on the hottest summer day, and I felt as if I were walking alongside the Devil, there was such an aura of cruelty and power about him. But he was my beloved’s father, so I must try to win his good regard.

      “I am sorry you catch me, Sir, at a time when I am so unkempt and ill-prepared to receive visitors,” I said, blushing and flustered, my tongue tripping clumsily over the words and no doubt making me seem more crude, ignorant, and rustic.

      As we walked along, I rolled down my sleeves and tucked a stray lock of hair back inside my cap while debating whether I should stop and unpin my hems to let my skirts fall down to cover my bare shins and feet. I had a pair of comfortable old leather and wood clogs, but in my haste I had left them lying outside the dairy.

      “I have always taken a more active role in running my father’s estates than perhaps a grand man like you would consider fitting,” I half-apologetically explained, though in truth I was not the least bit sorry. I loved being a part of it all and having a hand in it, not standing idly by like a court lady with her nose in the air or a pomander ball smelling of oranges and cloves pressed to it. I never failed to feel a sense of wonder as I watched things come into being, from the birthing of a new calf to making a loaf of bread or churning butter; each time was like witnessing a little miracle to me.

      “For all your timidity, you are direct, lass,” the Earl of Warwick said with a grudging admiration. He stopped and turned to face me. “Shall I in turn be direct with you?”

      “Please do, sir.” I nodded. “I would account it a very great favour if you would. If you’ve something to say, just say it, I always say—don’t hide it under a bushel of pretty words so I have to dig and search for it.”

      “You might not think it so great a favour after you have heard what I have to say,” he cautioned. “Shall I continue?” And at my nod he did. “Though he is my fifth son, Robert has always been my favourite, so I am of a mind to indulge him and let him have his way, even though I think it is the wrong way. And he wants you; he thinks and talks of nothing but you. I think he is making a grave mistake and will rue my generosity one day, when he finds that your fresh-faced rustic charm, plain speech, and earthy common sense are no match for the sophistication and wit of the highbred ladies of the court, as he inevitably will. Even so, I am inclined to let him have you. I had other plans—great plans—for Robert, but I have other sons, and if Robert would wed and bed a country squire’s daughter and sink instead of rise in the world”—he shrugged and gave me a glance that was at once pitying and scornful—“so be it. But, I warn you, Mistress Amy, it will be you who will bear the blame and pay for it when Robert realises and repents his mistake. Are you sure you want to do this? You’d fare far better as Robert’s mistress than you ever will as his wife, my girl—I would bet the Crown jewels upon it. And if you’re willing to trade the role of mistress for that of wife, you’ll not find the Dudleys ungenerous—you and any bastards you bear will be well provided for, and I’m sure there’ll be a husband for you someday, someone who will suit you far better than Robert.”

      “Thank you for your concern, Sir.” I drew myself up stiffly. “But I love Robert, and he loves me, and whatever the future holds, we will face it together, as man and wife united, and none but God shall ever tear us apart!” I avowed, confident and proud. “I am sorry you find me lacking and do not think me a fit match for your son and worthy of the name of Dudley. But Robert loves me and thinks I am good enough to be his wife, to bear his name and be the mother of his legitimately born children, and that is good enough for me, with or without your approval. Now, if you will excuse me, I am needed in the dairy.” I turned and, with my head held high, as if I were every bit as good as those haughty and imperious highborn court ladies, I walked with great dignity back into the dairy to help pour the milk into the great shallow pans to cool for cream, another of God’s sweet little wonders.

      I didn’t show my fear, but inside I never stopped fretting and trembling, and even though I knew long before my wedding gown was finished that I did not carry Robert’s child, I never told him, and he never asked. Maybe it didn’t matter? Or maybe he was wise enough in the ways of women’s bodies to know that his seed had not taken root inside me? But I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject. I feared that knowing that there was no babe to bind us might make him think again and reconsider and forsake me, and that I could not bear. Now—when it is far too late—I know that was wrong of me; I should have been honest and hoped for the best, trusted in God and Fate.

      “And none but God shall ever tear us apart!” I was so confident and sure of myself at seventeen. I marvel at it now. The Amy I was then and need to be now is lost to me when I need her confidence, courage, and strength most of all. I spoke those words with such utter certainty; I never for an instant doubted them. Each syllable rang true and clear, like a triumphal peal of church bells, in my head and heart. I trusted Robert and fully believed that the bow of