A Court Affair. Emily Purdy

Amy’s heart,” he said, and later, when he engaged an artist to paint a portrait of me in my wedding gown, he ordered the beribboned goose painted in, standing beside me and eating from my hand.

      And then, at long last, as the sun was sinking like a great orange too heavy for the sky to hold up any longer, the time came to put the bridal couple to bed. Amidst much bawdy jesting and singing and showers of flowers, sweetmeats, and herbs, my stepbrother John Appleyard and my dear old swain, Ned Flowerdew, swept me up onto their shoulders, as two of Robert’s brothers, John and Ambrose, did the same to him and, in a torchlit procession, carried us inside the manor. At the top of the stairs, I untied the ribbons that bound the stems of my bouquet of buttercups and flung them high into the air, laughing delightedly, as hands reached up to catch them. I only wished there were enough; I wanted everyone to have a flower. Then they carried us to our bridal chamber, where, on opposite sides of the room, modestly shielded by guests of the proper gender, we were divested of our wedding finery.

      After they had stripped me bare, a bevy of giggling girls and smiling matrons stood facing one another in two rows alongside the bed and formed themselves into a human passageway, lifting their arms and joining hands to create an arched roof. And I, blushing rose-red and hugging my arms over my jiggling breasts, ran naked, clad only in my unbound hair and crown of buttercups, through the tunnel they made for me and leapt under the covers to join Robert, whose friends had already performed the same service for him. I felt the warmth of his naked thigh press mine as we leaned to kiss; then I pulled the covers up high, clutching them tightly about me as everyone clapped and cheered and raised their cups to drink one last toast to us.

      We drank a loving cup, a special brew of warm red wine mixed with milk, egg yolks, sugar, and spices, to give us “strength and vigour for the night’s passionate exertions”, those about us teased, and everyone applauded when we had drained it to the dregs. And then they drew the bed-curtains and left us alone. But just before the curtains closed at the foot of the bed, I caught a glimpse of the Princess Elizabeth watching us, her dark eyes narrowed and intent, her long, slender white fingers twirling a buttercup by its stem. And again I shivered as if I could feel those very fingers closing murderously around my neck, squeezing the life out of me.

      I turned to Robert to seek refuge in his warmth and found him staring straight at her, until she dropped the buttercup and, with an abrupt and angry tug, jerked the curtains shut, then slammed the door behind her in such a way that the sound must have rung throughout the manor. She was like a human cannon packed with gunpowder, and the tiniest spark would make her explode, and I was deathly afraid that somehow I was that spark. I wanted to talk to Robert about it, to ask him why it should be so—what had I done?—but some inner instinct warned me to keep silent, and I was too afraid to defy it.

      I slipped my arms about Robert’s neck and laid my head upon his shoulder, but I found his body rock-hard and tense. The silence that had so suddenly replaced the merry, good-natured ribaldry hung heavy and awkward about us, and I felt so afraid, though for the life of me I couldn’t explain why. I felt Robert’s hands upon my waist, and I started to relax and allow a smile to form upon my lips, but it died midway as he put me from him, wrenched open the curtains, and leapt from the bed. Naked, he stalked across the room and, not even bothering to pour it into a goblet first, drank long and deeply from the flagon of wine that had been left for us. I grew alarmed as I watched a ribbon of red wine dribble down his chest, like a crimson snake winding its way through black grass, yet still he drank as if his thirst could never be quenched. Then, just as suddenly, he flung the flagon into the fireplace, where it shattered, and, like a lion attacking a trembling and helpless lamb, sprang at me from the foot of the bed and pinned me flat beneath him, grabbing my wrists, leaving bruises where his fingers pressed, as he held my arms above my head.

      I cried out when I felt his savage thrust. He was rougher with me than he had ever been before and ignored me when I begged him to be gentler, as he had been when we coupled in our bed of buttercups. I knew he must be angry with me, but I didn’t know why; I also knew that asking would only make it worse.

      Later, when I lay sobbing, huddled and hugging my pillow with my back to him, he kissed my shoulders and stroked my hair and spoke softly, blaming it all upon the wine, but I knew it was something more than that, and I felt certain it had to do with Elizabeth.

      He coaxed me to sit up, saying he had a present for me. To spare me any embarrassment upon the morrow, when all would expect to see the sheet we had coupled upon hung up to proudly display the dried red rose petal stain of my vanquished maidenhood, he took his jewel-hilted dagger and made a tiny cut to his chest, right over his heart, so that it would be his heart’s blood masquerading as my maiden’s blood that stained our sheets and saved me from dishonour. For the rest of his life he would bear a little scar there, just over his heart, that would be our secret that only we two, husband and wife, would know; that tiny raised white line upon the bronzed beauty of his chest that my tongue would seek out so many times to tease and trace would be a precious remembrance of our wedding night. And then he took me in his arms again and loved me so gently that I cried. And I fell asleep after with my head upon his chest, listening to his heart beat, like a lullaby, singing me to sleep.

      The next morning while I was still asleep, my husband rose early to hunt. I lay abed for a long time, lazily savouring the fact that I was now a married woman, a wife, and, God willing, soon to be a mother, caressing my little round belly and wondering if it had already become a warm nest for our baby to grow in. When I rose, I noticed that my husband had left our chamber in some disarray; clothing lay strewn about the floor and protruding from beneath the lid of his big oak travelling chest, carved with his initials and coat-of-arms, the Dudleys’ great bear and ragged staff, and beautifully bordered with acorns and oak leaves. I instantly set about tidying it, gathering up garments from the floor, and, observing the crumpled and wadded disarray inside, I scooped everything out of the chest, thinking to do my duty as a wife and put it all right, everything perfectly placed and folded, all pristine, perfect, and neat, and later amongst the folds I would put little bags of sweet-smelling herbs tied with blue silk ribbons, as that was my husband’s favourite colour. As I lifted out the last linen shirt, something clattered against the bottom—a small rectangle-shaped portrait framed in black enamel and pearls.

      I instantly recognised the haughty and imperious young woman who stared back at me from beneath the feathered brim of her round, pearl-studded black velvet hat, with her hair caught up like a pair of plump, fresh-baked buns on each side of her head protruding from a caul of pearls. It was the Princess Elizabeth in a black velvet riding habit worked with gold embroidery all down the front and around the hems, with its tight, close-fitting sleeves studded with an elaborate lattice pattern of pearls. But what struck me most was her hand murderously clutching her gloves as if they were a neck she wished to break.

      I remembered the look that had passed between her and Robert last night as she stood at the foot of our marriage bed and began to tremble violently as tears overflowed my eyes. Feeling of a sudden ill, I dropped the portrait back into the chest as if it burned me and bunched up all the clothes my arms could hold and crammed them back inside the chest and slammed the lid shut. Perhaps I should have confronted Robert when he came back, asked or said something, but every time I tried, fear tied my tongue in knots, and the words just would not come out. I suppose I was afraid that knowing would be even worse than not knowing. But every time I glanced at that chest, knowing that portrait was hidden away inside it, I felt a surge of blind terror that made the breath catch in my throat and my vision dim and at the same time dance with jewel-coloured sparks like gems sewn on black velvet. I didn’t know then that that flame-haired princess would ignite such a blaze of passion and ambition in my husband’s soul that it would reduce all my hopes and dreams to ashes.

      6

      Amy Robsart Dudley

       Cumnor Place, Berkshire, near Oxford Sunday, September 8, 1560

      As hot tears roll down my face, I reach for the medicine bottle and take another calming sip. What a strange sensation it brings! As if I were floating above myself, above the pain, like the notes of a song hovering above just-plucked and still-vibrating lute strings. I have the most