Elizabeth I (83 page)

“Would you consider going there this time, together?” she asked. “I have seen it only once, from the outside, when I was still a child. The family was gone then.”

Indeed they were. My grandparents had died soon after my mother, and the property became the Crown’s. Anne of Cleves lived in it briefly. Since then it had acquired new owners.

“I don’t know,” I said. I did not know if I could stand it. Yet at the same time I longed to see the place where my mother had been young, before she had known the world. To make a sentimental journey, revisiting the past ... another earmark of aging. Putting together the puzzle of the past, then, important only as one’s own life closed down. “But as it would mean much to you ...”

“It would. I never saw my grandmother Mary; she died before I was born, far away from her old life in east Essex. It seems the family was so smitten and scattered that we could never come together again. Now we can finally go back. Together. We’ll hold hands and lay those ghosts to rest.”

If only we could. They were restless, those spirits, cut off from any finality. Was the old castle overgrown, sleeping, like the enchanted ones in tales? Had the vines been growing since the Boleyns ceased to be? Had the moat dried up? What would we find?

There was no trace of the sensual Mary Boleyn in this granddaughter; at least none that I could see. Perhaps the admiral would differ in his opinion. As for me, they say I have my mother’s eyes, dark and challenging. Our ancestors live on in us, calling us back to their territory, daring us to meet them on their ground.

“Very well,” I said. “We’ll alter our itinerary. Hever is only about twenty miles from here, and more or less on our way.”

A little frisson of dread and excitement ran through me at the thought of this personal pilgrimage.

66

T
he day was brilliant with sun and radiating warmth. Sir Francis sent word that nothing was planned until early afternoon, when he would host a banquet in the orchard. Until then, we were free to do as we would.

“Ladies, to our country clothes!” I said. “No ruffs, no stays, no dark colors, and nothing that will tear on brambles—or if they tear, no matter.” I felt giddy as a girl, able this morning to pretend I was not a queen but the country exile I had been as a child, living at Hatfield, Hunsdon, Eltham, and Woodstock, free to romp in meadows.

This day I did not even wish to hunt—too organized, too formal. Instead we would walk along the Wandle River, following its banks, and then into the woods of the deer park. I wore sturdy deerskin boots and a wide-brimmed sun hat, took a stick for walking, and bade everyone follow me.

At first Helena and Eurwen were right beside me, keeping up easily. Helena was fifty now, but her hardy Swedish stock meant she still retained her long-necked beauty, clear complexion, and vigor. I complimented her on her health, and she replied, “Even after all these years in England, I go by what my mother taught me in Sweden: A brisk walk before breakfast will add ten years to your life.”

“I, too, swear by a walk before breakfast,” I said. “I keep ambassadors waiting, but I am not myself until I’ve had my exercise. And I dare not face them without all my wits about me.”

Helena smiled. “I doubt that you are ever separated from your wits.”

“You have seen me in a fog or two,” I reminded her. She had served me for many years. Now she was a quasi-relative. Soon after she was widowed she had married one of my Boleyn cousins, Thomas Gorges. Their first child, Elizabeth, was another of my godchildren.

“Did you bring Elizabeth?” I asked her. “It has been too long since I have seen your daughter, my namesake.”

“Indeed I did,” said Helena. “She is back there keeping company with some of the young men.”

“Like her mother,” I teased Helena. “Let’s bring her up here. I want two of my goddaughters to meet.” Turning to Eurwen, I said, “I told you I had many, and I look out for all of them.”

A few minutes later Helena’s daughter caught up with us, crashing through the brush alongside the path. She skidded to a halt and curtsied. Her hat flopped forward. “Your Majesty,” she panted. She was the antithesis of her refined, stately mother. The only trait they shared was shiny golden hair.

“My Elizabeth,” I said. “I have not had the pleasure of seeing you in a good while. Your godmother craves more attention, or she will feel forgotten. Here, I wish you to meet your sister in God, Eurwen. She is from Wales.”

Eurwen smiled and bobbed her head. Elizabeth clapped an arm around her shoulder. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

“I am learning....” The two of them meandered to one side of the path together.

“Just so were we once,” said Helena.

“A hearty crop,” I said. “You must come to court more often so I can know all your children.” I had given Helena and her husband the old royal manor of Sheen, near Richmond Palace. “You are right close when we are at Richmond.”

The footpath followed the riverbanks for a mile or two, curving with its curves, hugging the reedy shallows, alive with birds. From this angle Beddington Manor glowed a contented red, its roofs gleaming, its weather vanes catching the sun as they turned.

Soon we entered the woods of the deer park; oaks and alders closed over us, making a green shade. We were past the time of woodland flowers, and the forest floor held only green underbrush, some laden with berries. Creatures still scurried underfoot, vanishing with a flourish of their tails when they heard us. Instinctively we lowered our voices, hushed ourselves as if in a cathedral.

Suddenly I knew someone was right beside me; I felt breath on my neck. Jerking my head around, I found Percival only a few inches from my face. My heart leaped, then felt as if it stopped.

“Is he silent, or is he not?” Raleigh came up on my other side. “It’s something the natives in America learn at an early age. They can stalk an animal so quietly it never has a chance to get away.”

“Sides. Feet,” said Percival, holding his foot aloft. He turned it at a slant and showed me how he walked on the edges of his feet, soundlessly.

“It works better with soft shoes, or barefoot,” said Raleigh.

I would like to see Percival hunt the Indian way. I wondered how he tracked a deer or rabbit. They were so alert to motion. That is why we used beaters to frighten them and chase them toward us or into a blind. But to do it alone and on foot—remarkable.

“You long to return there,” I said. “You are half in love with America.” His expression told me I was right. “But we cannot spare you here. Not in these times.”

“I know,” he said.

“Do you think there is anything left of your holdings in Ireland?” I asked.

“There is not,” he said. “I am virtually certain of it.”

“You lived there and have seen the Irish better than most people. In your opinion, is there any remedy?”

“Only extreme measures,” he said. “Annihilation. Bloodbaths. They respect nothing else.”

“Are you saying, then, that they are indomitable? Unconquerable?”

“Any people can be conquered,” he said. “There is no such thing as unconquerable. It depends on how many you are willing to kill. How high a price you are willing to pay.”

His old bluster was gone, faded out of him. His handsome face was lined now, and early streaks of gray were threaded through his hair. He had grown up, my seafarer. “Bess. How is she?” I found myself asking.

A bit of his old smile curved his lips. “She is well, Your Majesty.”

“And young Walter?”

“Six years old, and already a seaman. He’ll fight in your navy one day.”

“If he does well, I’ll knight him for it,” I said. It was time to put away my pique toward Bess. It had all happened many years ago. “I shall always need good sailors.”

Out ahead the woods opened into fields where the deer, flushed out of their coverts, could be chased easily. Sunlight danced on the waving meadow grasses. But it was coming almost straight down, meaning that it was near noon, time to return to the manor.

When we arrived back, Francis greeted us heartily. “Only once a decade, no, once a lifetime, do the gods favor us with such exquisite weather. Even Solomon in all his wisdom, even Augustus in all his glory, could not have commanded a day like today! Oh, Your Majesty, how honored I am that you are here this day to share it with me!”

He then led us out past the house to the orchard, where long tables were set up in the shade, running almost its entire length. There was a seat of honor for me, but it was trimmed in meadow flowers rather than tapestry, and a crown of flowers waited at my place.

“I had hoped you would lay aside your regular crown and wear this instead, as our Faerie Queen presiding over her outdoor fête.”

Blue cornflowers, violet windflowers, green columbines were twined together to make a circlet. Laughing, I put it on. But I knew it would become young Eurwen or Elizabeth Gorges better.

My closest attendants were seated on either side of me, near Francis. Raleigh, my official bodyguard, was closest to my person. On my other side, my closest relative, Catherine. I treasured our secret decision to seek out the Boleyn seat together, as descendants of the two sisters. I reached over and squeezed her hand briefly as if to signal,
I have not forgotten.

We were seated in the apple area of the orchard; the leaves filtered out the fiercest rays of the sun, but dappled light fell on the table. Above us, branches dipped and swayed with their load of apples, wafting the musty, hot smell of autumn foliage toward us.

“I’ve had a first pressing!” said Francis, flourishing a pitcher. “Early cider. It’s still apple juice at this point, but tasty nonetheless.” He had his servers pour for us. The frothy, turbid brown liquid smelled of crushed fruit.

Raleigh rose. “Sir Francis is being modest. He will not tell us, but he is a fervid gardener and is experimenting with many types of plants. The oranges, for one. He has several varieties of pears—the midsummer kind that ripen early, and the ‘watery’ pears that are oozing with juice, and the wild hedge pear with its bitter juice for making perry. He grafts many different types onto one stock so he can compare the yield more accurately. And there are many other treasures in his gardens. I could not recount them all. I have a keen interest in foreign plants, and he has kindly agreed to cultivate some to see how they flourish here.”

“It is never a chore to do what one loves,” said Francis. “My plantings give me pleasure.”

“Indeed, God himself walked in a garden and found it soothing. That was before there were thorns, weeds, and brambles,” I said. “Sir Walter is correct. One may not boast of oneself, but it is no shame to boast of the deeds of another. It is my father who is also the father of England’s present-day orchards, for in the same year as I was born he sent his fruitier to the Continent to bring back the best new varieties of apples, pears, and cherries, since the wars had so devastated our old stocks. He set up a farm at Teynham to serve as a model, and from there the stock that flourished was sent out. So if today Kent and Surrey are our prize gardens and the source of much of our produce, it is due to the foresight and investment of good King Henry VIII.” I looked up and down the table. “Everyone knows he founded the Royal Navy, and the Church of England, and the Royal College of Surgeons, but how many recognize what he did for English agriculture?”

“To the King!” Francis drank to him, and we all followed suit.

“He would love this occasion,” I said. “The good English air, and good English food, and good English people. Those were most precious to him.”

Our banquet was a showcase of Francis’s estate’s bounty. There were venison and coneys from his hunting reserve, lamb from his fields, fish and waterfowl from his river, and fine bread from his wheat fields. Only the wine was imported, and he confessed that he had started a vineyard to begin making English wine.

“Now that would be a greater victory over the French than Agincourt,” said Helena.

The day was perfect—almost. The meal was perfect—almost. I said so, thinking out loud.

“Why, what would Your Majesty change?”

“I would move the day back six weeks, to early July. We have missed the cherry time—my favorite fruit.”

“That is not surprising, as the cherry is the emblem of virginity,” said Francis. “And here in Surrey, it ripens at the very height of our fleeting summer.”

“So much is cherry ripening a time of fairs and feasting that poets use it to suggest the brief time of merrymaking in our lives. Was it not Chaucer who wrote, ‘This world is but a cherry fair’—passing quickly, soon withered away?” said Raleigh.

“But to control the seasons, even the masterful Sir Francis cannot do that,” said Catherine. “What we have missed we have missed. We will have to come again next year, and come in time.”

“Where Her Majesty is is always the right time. For she herself is time, and it must bow to her, as her loyal subject,” said Francis. He gave a quick nod and his servers left the area. They soon returned with covered silver bowls and white serving napkins. One by one they placed them before us. Finally, when the last one was set down, Francis commanded mine to be uncovered. A server whisked the silver lid off, revealing a mound of huge, succulent, ripe cherries.

Oh, how cleverly they could fashion imitations in Venetian glass. I had heard of their work, which would fool even nature. I laughed. “And this fruit will keep forever. Thank you, good Francis.”

“No, Your Majesty. It will soon perish. It is real.”

That was impossible. “Have you some magic tree, then, that ripens late?”

“No,” he said. “I have only the normal Kentish Red, which ripens in early July. It is what I have set before you.”

Gingerly I picked one up. It was not even chilled. He had not packed it in ice (although how could it have kept for six weeks even on ice)? It was smooth skinned and its flesh was firm. I bit into it and its juice filled my mouth.