A/N: Thank you everyone for your patience! I have - at long last - completed this story, which is remarkable given how short it is compared to the tale that preceded it. The chapters are all uploaded and ready to post, so on we go!
If I am to be completely honest, the location of the next chapter is a touch implausible as it's far too small to host a royal progress; but I've always loved the gorgeous little moated manor house of Ightham Mote, and when I returned to Kent on holiday last year, it was one of first locations I visited. It is, like Knole house, in the hands of the National Trust, so it's open to the public. If you ever get the chance to visit Kent, I urge you to stop here. It has a warm intimacy that is hard to beat, and, being a National Trust property, serves superb scones in the cafe.
CHAPTER FIVE
Clement's Joy
The approach to Sir Richard Clement's secluded home would normally be something of a rutted track leading from the road from Sevenoaks. Their stay at Knole has been a short one, as the roof is in something of a state of disrepair, and Elizabeth is grateful that the small manor of Ightham Mote nearby has been made available for their next stop of a longer duration.
Rather than picking their way between mud and ruts, instead the route has been paved - albeit rather roughly - with stones tamped into the ground in imitation of the rather better laid roads that run between the larger towns. Enormous oaks rise either side of the pathway, their branches setting a dappled shade over the heads of the entourage that is intermittently lit by shafts of sunlight from the cloudless sky overhead.
Blackbirds scatter from the branches and hedges, their clattering alarm calls causing rabbits to flee hither and thither in a dance of leaping scuts that seem to jump like bouncing lights with each bounding hop.
The head of the procession is the Queen's guard, bearing arms and banners to announce her passage, while she rides alongside her husband to their rear. Behind her are Edward and Henry, astride their ponies and led by a groom as neither boy is quite experienced enough to keep their mounts in the line. Then come the lords of the council, Northumberland and Richmond - escaping from his carriage for the final stretch - at their head, while the ladies of the Queen's household, and the King's Gentlemen bring up the glittering rear. Chamberers and maids are travelling with the baggage train, and are already awaiting their arrival.
At last, the tunnel of trees clears, and Philip calls back to his sons, "There, my boys - see where we are to rest our heads for the coming ten days!"
Before them is a low-built manor house of considerable age; a remarkable hodge-podge of building styles all set in a square around a courtyard and surrounded by a moat. He smiles to his wife at the excited exclamations of the boys. Indeed, so delighted are they at the presence of the moat, that neither of them show disappointment at the considerably smaller size of the house in comparison to the homes in which they are usually billeted.
"I suspect that the multiplicity of passageways between the rooms shall entice them to explore quite readily." Elizabeth smiles at Philip, "Indeed, I rather look forward to the smaller spaces in which to live; there are times when the grandeur of the palaces feels considerably overdone."
She looks back over her shoulder to Northumberland, "Have the works to accommodate the column outside the house been paid for?" She is, not surprisingly, concerned that their host not be put to undue expense by their invasion. There is the honour of hosting, yes, but that should not lead to penury upon the party's departure.
"Yes Majesty. I believe that those who are not part of your Majesty's immediate entourage are to be accommodated in canvas pavilions in the main parkland. Sir Richard has seen to the construction of a covered walkway from the camp to the house, and for a larger pavilion nearby to accommodate all for meals, as the hall of the House is too small to serve. Your Majesties shall - in the main - take your meals there; but there shall be some larger feasts to which many of the local nobility are invited that you shall attend while we are in residence."
There is insufficient space in the courtyard to accommodate the arriving party, so Sir Richard and his family have come out to greet them. As she is assisted to dismount, Elizabeth smiles to watch the group bow or curtsey according to the requirements of their sex. Sir Richard himself is quite short and rotund, with a greying, bushy beard and twinkling eyes, while his wife Anne is considerably younger in age, but has a warm, kind air about her that suggests their marriage to be more than of mere convenience. She has also provided him with a brace of sons, and a tiny daughter of no more than two years who nestles in her nurse's arms.
Taking Philip's arm, Elizabeth approaches the family, "Sir Richard, Lady Anne - thank you for your kind invitation. We look forward most heartily to our stay with you."
Clement leans forward to kiss her ring as she extends her hand, "Your Majesty, the honour is entirely ours. Welcome to our humble Manor. There is sweet wine and a light repast of amusements awaiting your Majesties and the Councillors in the Hall, where I have engaged a consort of musicians to entertain you while your chamberers complete the preparation of your chambers. There is ample water heating in the coppers should you require to bathe."
The hall is indeed rather lacking in space - but there is more than enough room for the family and the principal guests to be seated for meals. A large window looks out upon a courtyard surrounded on all sides by the wings of the house, while a small applewood fire scents the room from a great fireplace opposite. The dark wainscoting on the walls smells freshly oiled and polished, while above, atop a small gallery, a consort of viols is performing.
Behind her, Elizabeth can hear the twin thumps of Richmond's sticks as he limps in behind her. Northumberland is, as always, at his side, but the Queen is quick to to respond to her Chancellor's obvious stiffness and exhaustion, "Come, my Lord Richmond. Be seated - a Courtier of your stature is not obliged to stand in my presence, for you are far too valuable to the realm to be naught but a mere man."
Such a diplomatic means to persuade an old man on tottering legs that he should sit down before he drops.
"My Lord of Northumberland, I should be most obliged if you could see to the wants of his Grace of Richmond? I am sure that a cup of hippocras and a few morsels of victuals shall serve to restore him."
"Of course, Majesty; I shall see to it."
Anna is on hand to remove Elizabeth's riding gloves and cloak, and the royal couple are soon free to sample an array of excellent little amusements: liver paste upon wafers, small pastries filled with forcemeat, sugared fruits and other dainties alongside hippocras and light cordials for the princes. Edward and Henry are already forging a fast friendship with Clements's sons, Peter and James, both of whom are of the same ages. To Elizabeth's surprise, and relief, the boys are not insistent upon their titles, and the foursome have almost immediately begun to refer to their guests as 'Ned' and 'Hal'.
After an hour of light conversation, a steward approaches Lady Clement, who nods at his message, "Your Majesties, your chambers are prepared, it would be my honour to escort you."
Relieved, as she is tired from the long ride from Knole, Elizabeth takes Philip's arm, "Thank you, Lady Anne, I should be delighted. Lead on."
"Jesu, Robin, cease your grousing!" Warwick is annoyed again by his brother, "We are all accommodated under canvas - only father and the Lord Chancellor have been granted chambers in the house. What is wrong with this pavilion? You and Lady Dudley have a comfortable bed, a stove to warm you and ample space for your coffers - as have we all. You have received a knighthood, not a crown. Share your wife's pleasure at your surroundings and the joy of being permitted to travel with her Majesty - or is that a challenge that you cannot stomach?"
Dudley reddens under his brother's onslaught, but does not argue. He has no grounds to do so, after all: Henry is right. Across the canvas space, Lady Dudley sits in a chair, cheeks flaming, and clearly wishes that she were not witness to such embarrassing behaviour on the part of her husband.
"What is it, Robin?" Warwick's tone eases; he recalls a time when his brother was not so arrogant as this, "Why does all that you gain from her Majesty grieve you rather than bring you joy? Our family is highly favoured - and your career is developing well for you have much to offer. There is ample time for you to achieve great things in her Majesty's Court. Patience, my brother - that is your greatest ally."
"It is nothing of note, brother." Dudley answers, "Forgive me, I am tired and perhaps that is the source of my sourness. An hour's rest or so, and I shall be more pleasant company, I think."
"Join us for supper, Robin. Their Majesties are not to sup with the Court tonight - there shall be no formality to observe and I am advised that our hosts' venison is of the best quality, and their ale is excellent."
"I shall do so." He agrees, then nods as his elder brother departs.
"It shall be most pleasant to dine with the family, Robin." Amy agrees, "If you wish it, I shall summon Matthew to assist you in selecting a suit to wear."
"Do as you will." Dudley snaps, crossly, "I care not. I shall be with my lord of Leighs; for at least he is sympathetic to my position."
"Robin…"
"Do not 'Robin' me, wife." The tone becomes a low growl, "You shall henceforth refer to me either as 'my Lord' or 'Husband'. There is no affection between us."
She watches as he stalks out of the pavilion, tears stinging her eyes. With no one else upon whom he can visit his frustration, it is inevitable that he would unleash his temper upon her; but there is something else now - as though his regret in marrying her has deepened into a wish that another was in her place. She feels a cold chill in the pit of her stomach; what is there for her if he opts to find a means of ending their union? She has no home to go to, none to whom she could turn if her husband turns her out in favour of whatever woman he wishes to wed.
They have no children - and he has not looked to her to conceive a child in near-on a year. Without a child, what can she do if he chooses to oust her? He has no grounds to do so, but why should that stay his hand? If a man desires to be rid of his wife, he shall always find a way to do it.
Suddenly, Lady Amy Dudley feels very, very alone.
The stag leaps from the thickets of the parkland and flees from the pursuing hounds, while the riders behind urge their horses on. As is often the case, Elizabeth is to the fore of the chase, her eyes alight with the excitement of the ride; while her husband matches her pace-for-pace, sharing her delight. Most are trailing in their wake, but a few of the younger bloods are close behind, while Dudley rides a mere two paces back. His expertise astride a horse is already well known, so that is no surprise; but he is sufficiently wise to know better than to outpace the Queen.
The stag is fit in wind and limb, and it takes the best part of a half hour to bring it to bay. As the host, Clement handles the crossbow, and - out of courtesy - passes it to Philip to dispatch the exhausted beast. He is not long about it, and as they retreat, leaving the carcass to the gamekeepers for removal to the larders, Clement turns to Philip, "The meat shall not be ready for your consumption before your departure, Majesty, but I shall ensure that it is sent on to Leeds to be enjoyed by her Majesty there."
"Thank you, Sir Richard; that is most generous of you. If the quality of the meat is equal to that of the venison that we were served last night, then it is a handsome gift."
"I have arranged for us to dine alongside the lake. It is a fair spot with shady trees all about, and a bowling green has been prepared should any wish to play."
"Excellent. For myself, I am famished - I have no doubt that her Majesty shall also be pleased to dine. Lead on."
The promised spot is a perfect choice. Awnings have been erected over tables where an excellent array of victuals has been set out, while a great side of beef has been turning over hot coals for much of the morning. Gaming tables are arranged under further awnings, while that same consort of musicians who had played in the hall upon their arrival are already at their instruments, entertaining Richmond, who is no longer able to ride at speed upon a horse, and has instead ridden directly to the site at a pace more suited to his aged limbs. Nearby, the princes and Clement's sons are engaged in a game of bowls under the supervision of Lady Anne and a tutor, which is hastily abandoned as the column arrives.
Dismounting, Philip turns to assist Elizabeth. While she is more than capable of dismounting from a horse, her heavy riding habit makes such a manoeuvre far more difficult. Instead, Dudley is there, "Allow me, Majesties." Already he is extending his arm to take the Queen's weight.
He is the Master of the Horse - and, as such, is one of those very few men who are entitled to handle the Queen's person in such circumstances. Nodding, Philip smiles at Dudley, and turns to greet his excited sons, "Aha, my boys! We have hunted well this morning, and now we shall feast!"
"Papa!" Edward laughs, while Henry leaps into his father's outstretched arms and is lifted into the air, "We have been playing bowls, Papa! I have won more games than anyone!"
"Excellent, my boy! Excellent!"
"Ned is nearly as good as me, Papa - but I am the best!"
Sharing in their jubilation, he allows the boys to lead him to the table where the best dishes have been set for them, while Dudley escorts the Queen behind them as the rest of the party continues to dismount. From his chair, Richmond watches them, eyes narrowed somewhat. Unlike all about him, he sees the act in a different light. While Dudley might have the right to assist the Queen from her horse, the manner in which he has done so is altogether more presumptuous than his predecessor's. Even as he accompanies her Majesty to the table to join her husband, his expression is intent, as though he is savouring every moment and intends to make those moments last as long as is possible.
She does not see it; her eyes are instead upon her sons and her husband; nor do any others. Irked, Richmond shakes himself: why does he see things in such a manner? It is naught but a foolish calf-love. Even men who are no longer in the first flush of youth can be captured by such foolish thoughts, after all. It is a harmless waking dream upon Dudley's part that - as long as he does not attempt to take matters further - shall eventually fade as another woman captures his roving eye. Judge not, lest ye be judged, he reminds himself, and reaches for a cup of claret.
Then he pauses; instead of leaving the Queen and retreating to re-join the rest of the Court, Dudley remains alongside her as she greets her children. If nothing else, that is a presumption too far; if he does not retreat soon, then the Queen, or the King, shall be obliged to invite him to do so - which would be a highly awkward scene. Step back, you fool. That is not your place - step back! God, he wishes he could shout - but that would serve only to highlight Dudley's poor manners.
Fortunately, Ambrose Dudley calls across, "Robin! Lady Somerset's horse has thrown a shoe, we shall need to secure a fresh mount for her."
There is a sharp scowl upon Dudley's face, hastily quelled, and he turns to assist his elder brother. None but Richmond see it, for none but he were looking for it. Relieved that an embarrassing moment has been averted, he returns his attention to his claret. It might have been an unintentional error - but nonetheless he marks it. Should it happen again, then he shall have no alternative but to intervene.
Dearest Mama,
We are most comfortable at Sir Richard's home, and he hosts us well. The chamberers are in the process of arranging the removal of items from the house to the baggage wagons, which shall depart for Leeds Castle in two days' time.
Ned and Hal are both delighted in their adventures within the house and the gardens, for the young sons of the Clement Family are excellent youths who have made their guests welcome. I think it likely that they have shared favoured hiding places across the grounds, for they have come back from their excursions into the park in a truly unseemly state of dishevelment that has driven Mistress Peake to most amusing paroxysms of distraction!
I have found the privacy of the house a great joy, for most of the Court are housed in pavilions in the grounds. Thus Philip and I have found opportunities to dine alone together without fear of disturbance, and even to ride out in the park with far fewer companions that would be permitted should we be housed in a palace. I feel my love for him grow all the more in that freedom - there is not a day upon which I do not give thanks to God for granting me a husband such as he.
I look forward to reaching Leeds to commence a merry summer of leisure in the company of his Grace the Earl, and you, Mama.
Your loving daughter,
Elizabeth
Philip leans over her and smiles, "No 'Regina' my beloved?" He is used to seeing her name suffixed with an 'R'. He does not normally see her letters to her mother.
"Never to Mama, Filipe," Elizabeth leans back against him, her free hand reaching up to stroke his velvet-clad forearm, "I am Queen of England, yes, but I am Mama's daughter before she is my subject. I shall dispatch it at first light, and it shall be in her hands before the day's end by fast horse."
His voice lowers, "I have dismissed your ladies."
"Have you indeed?" She carefully blows pounce from the letter and folds it, then reaches for a candle to drip wax to seal it, "Then how am I to be undressed?"
The wax drips, slowly, into a pool of ivory upon the paper as Philip carefully begins to unfurl her hair from the confines of its headdress, "I shall see to that, my Queen."
Her heartbeat quickening, she presses her signet into the wax, her heightening senses savouring the swelling of the displaced wax as the gold presses into it. Setting the letter in a coffer for the morning, she rises from her seat and reaches behind her head to guide her tresses away from the lacing of her overgown, "Then go to, my precious husband; Queen I am, but wife I shall be this night."
Pausing only to let his lips linger upon the back of her neck, Philip reaches for the cords, and begins the long process of unfastening them, "When you are clad only in jewels, you shall be Aphrodite made flesh, and I shall worship you as my goddess."
Sometimes she laughs when he speaks so, but not tonight. Tonight she is afire with longing and each moment that passes as he undresses her seems to heighten her desire all the more. Their lives within the palace walls offer few opportunities for spontaneity, and such a gift as privacy is not to be refused.
Her outer garments set aside, he reaches for her chemise, but she turns, "No, not yet; I shall serve you as you have served me." Already her long fingers are entwined in the buttons of his doublet and her lips seek his. Only when he is as free of garments as she is does she permit him to free her of that last covering, leaving her - as promised - clad only in jewels.
"Take me, my husband," she whispers, her breaths quick with desire, "love me as a woman, not as a queen."
He does not answer, but instead lifts her and carries her to the bed.
Mathias hunts through the Consort's garment coffers and sighs with frustration, "James, have you seen the miniature of her Majesty? I cannot find it anywhere - it is not upon his Majesty's dresser, nor is it in his jewel coffers. I do not recall his wearing it at any time since we left Eltham, but I cannot for the life of me find the damned thing!"
Such is the way of things when one is travelling in such volume, of course; items are regularly lost in the flurry of packing and unpacking that accompanies a progress. The loss of the miniature, however, is something of a blow, as his Majesty is fond of it, and tends wherever possible to carry it about his person.
"Nay, Mathias; he wore it upon the hunt two days ago. I recall setting the chain about his neck. Was it there when he returned to the house?"
"I do not recall it." The steward pauses, "Nay. It was not upon his person. Damnation, it must have fallen from him in the park."
"Then there is no means to find it now. Not without knowing the route that they took - and that was determined by the quarry and the hounds, so what can we do?"
The pair share a sad glance, for they are proud to serve the Consort of England and have no wish to disappoint him by losing his possessions. That it is likely that he lost the item himself is of little consolation, for they also know that he values it, "I shall inform him of its loss, James." Mathias says, quietly, "I know that he shall not berate me for it, but nonetheless, it is hard to tell him that it is lost."
Squaring his shoulders, he sets off in search of Philip.
Northumberland's expression is grim as he rises to address the small assembly of councillors, "I wish I were not required to do this; but I fear there is little choice. As all know, England's religious settlement has ever intended to permit those who wish to worship in the Catholic faith to do so, while those who choose the reformed faith are equally free from restraint. It is true that we have endured protestations from those who favour reform to quell the practice of the Catholic faith in England; but never before have our Catholic brethren sought to demand the opposite. It seems, however, that this is no longer the case."
Elizabeth stiffens a little, "Tell on, my Lord."
"During the reign of your late father, many of the brothers of the closed abbeys opted to depart England's shores to remain cloistered rather than accept the pension and re-enter the world. A number of these brothers took their order to Douai in the north of France, where - until recently - they operated their cloister without issue."
"Recently?" Richmond asks.
"It seems that, last year, they opened an English college for young men of the Catholic faith. While this, in itself, is of no concern to us, for there are no establishments in England for such men to enter the priesthood, their intention is not to support those who are presently celebrating the faith, but instead to return and find means of ensuring that England rejects the reformation and returns wholly to Rome." Reaching amongst his papers, he extracts a pamphlet and passes it to the Queen, "I fear that their intention is your deposition, to be replaced with the Queen of Scots, who is of more distant Tudor blood, but is not - forgive me, Majesty - a bastard."
Elizabeth says nothing, but all can see two flashes of livid red adorning her cheeks as her temper is sparked by such a suggestion. Instead, she reads the document several times, before looking up, "They are fools to attempt such a thing; the treaties we have made with the Scots, and with France, have negated that claim. Unless there has been a sea change in the attitude of our neighbours, they shall not succeed. England has lived free from the jurisdiction of Rome for so long that only those in their dotage remember a time when the Pope ruled even their anointed Prince. To demand that Englishmen subject themselves to a foreign potentate shall fall upon the stoniest of ground - they would be obliged to overthrow the Government of England to do it, and thus become invaders, not saviours."
"I am not aware of any specific discontent amongst your Majesty's catholic subjects," Northumberland continues, "The Council of the North has received no petition or representation of such nature; and there are no quarrels between those of the differing faiths."
Richmond sighs, "They are not in England, my friend. Thus they are insulated from the reality of life in England - and hear only that which they wish to hear from the Brothers, and from one another. It is ever so with young men - I recall being so during my youth in the Middle Temple. I was a truly pompous fool who thought himself to be more knowledgeable than any of his teachers - and my fellows were no better. Between us, we told ourselves that none were our equal; but we were fortunate in that time punctured our stupidity and granted us the maturity to appreciate that we did not know all things after all."
"Aye," Wiltshire agrees, "I have no doubt that my late father would agree with you - but in your case, you emerged from that foolishness without causing harm to the realm. If there are enough of these young men, and they are sufficiently fervent for their cause, then they could cause much harm."
"Indeed they could." Elizabeth says, quietly, "My Lord of Northumberland is right, for this pamphlet makes clear that England shall not be cleansed of sin until I, and all the fruits of my tainted womb, am eradicated in favour of a catholic replacement of Tudor blood."
"Mary of Scots." Warwick mumbles, "And what is her opinion?"
"She has offered none." Northumberland admits, "Perhaps we should request that Randolph seek it."
"If he does so, then it must be in an oblique fashion." Elizabeth looks up from the pamphlet, "I will not have it noised about that I am discomfited by this scurrilous document. My subjects love me as their anointed Queen, and I love them for it - regardless of the manner in which they address their supplications to God. I am not He, and thus it is not for me to make demands upon the souls of men. Unless there are overt incidents of treason, I will not oppress those who look to the old ways, and these foolish young men shall not drive me to amend that view."
With no other matters to discuss, the Queen rises and departs to join her husband and children in the gardens, while most of the councillors head back to their pavilions to change for dinner. Being unable to move quickly any longer, Richmond is the last to rise, and does so with Northumberland's assistance, while Wiltshire gathers his sticks for him, "Are we mistaken in our agreement to her Majesty?" the old man asks, quietly, "I am fearful that some fool or other might be inclined to act upon the exhortation to remove the heretics at the heart of England's government."
"I suspect it is too early to fear such a thing, my friend." Northumberland smiles at him as Wiltshire hands him his sticks, "Let us keep watch upon it, and enjoy the progress while we may. It is a matter that shall not fade - yes - but it is one that I am sure can wait for our return to London, for there is no indication that the college is encourage or supported by her Majesty the Regent."
"Then we shall mark it, and set it aside until the autumn." Richmond agrees, "Now, let us to our chambers to change; dinner is nigh upon us and I would prefer to be more appropriately dressed for it."
The grand pavilion on the lawn has been bedecked with green boughs and woodland flowers, while the canvas walls have been removed to leave only the roof: the warmth of the evening being such that to be enclosed would be most uncomfortable. The tables are decorated with wreaths of ivy and fragrant herbs, while a troupe of players have been engaged for the evening, and are already performing a bawdy dance in the centre of the space as the Court assembles to take their seats. It is their last evening at Ightham Mote, and Sir Richard has taken care to ensure that it is as memorable as can be achieved in the absence of an enormous fortune to build entirely new structures for the entertainment of his guests.
The high table rests upon a wooden dais, crowned with a separate arbour roofed with scarlet velvet and garlands of roses in red and white to honour the house of Tudor, while her Majesty's finest plate has been laid out ready for the victuals that shall emerge from kitchens that have been extended under canvas to accommodate the richness of the supper that is to be enjoyed this evening.
Assembled in the hall, Elizabeth, Philip and her most senior Lords shall process out to the pavilion accompanied by trumpets and drums. Such foolishness; but the Court of England is founded upon ostentatious display, and Elizabeth has learned well when to wield it.
Smiling, she takes her husband's hand, and looks up at him, "What is it, Filipe?"
He seems a little sad - not over a grave matter, but over something small, "It is naught of great weight, my love. I fear that my miniature has been lost in the midst of the hunt. My poor stewards wasted the best part of a day searching for it in the parkland and are most distressed over its loss. I besought them not to be so dismayed; for it is but an object. But nonetheless, I mourn its disappearance, for it is precious to me and a comfort in your absence."
"Then I shall sit for another, my love, and resume my place alongside your heart."
He smiles at her, "And I shall be content."
The procession is somewhat slow, partly to be stately, partly to accommodate the slow pace of the Lord Chancellor. The aromas of the coming supper waft across the open lawn from the kitchens, mixing with those of the evening blooms that give their fragrances to the last warmth of the day. Their way is lit by ranks of small tapers that twinkle like earthbound stars, while further tapers shine from every window in the range of the house facing the lawn.
The entirety of the assembly is upon their feet as the royal party enter, accompanied by Sir Richard and Lady Anne. Taking her place at the high table, Elizabeth out across the gathering, "My Lords! Ladies! I thank you for your patience and shall keep you no longer." She turns to the Clement family chaplain, who bows to her, then raises his hand to perform a blessing, "Holy Father, we give thanks for the life of our beloved Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, King Consort Philip and our dear princes Edward and Henry. Grant your blessings upon them, and upon your dutiful councillors. Also, we beseech thee to grant equal blessings upon her Majesty's subjects in hopes of a fruitful harvest to come.
"We give thanks for the victuals to come this night, and for the kind hospitality of Sir Richard and Lady Anne. May the Grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all. Amen."
All seat themselves, and only a few start in surprise at the sound of the trumpets and drums as the first remove is paraded in. A great boar, brought down by the gamekeepers three weeks back and now well flavoured by its hanging; sides of beef and haunches of Sir Richard's magnificent venison are set out at the tables, while a decoratively dressed peacock is set before the high table, returned to its skin and with all its great feathers fanned out behind it.
Seated with a far smaller portion than that which would once have graced his trencher, Richmond seeks out the Master of the Horse again, and sighs. The discontented Dudley seems very much to have forged a friendship with the equally discontented Baron of Leighs, and he is reminded of his words in the council meeting. The pair share their discomfiture, and thus have no opposing opinion to counter it. Ah well. At least Dudley is not making calf-eyes at the Queen. Instead, he breaks off his conversation periodically, and looks down at something that must be concealed beneath the table before looking up again and continuing. Jesu, has he caught the pox? Surely he would not be so intent upon his lap were he not afflicted with some uncomfortable itch in the codpiece…
The foolishness of the thought makes him snort with mild amusement, and he shakes his head at it, before reaching for another morsel and returning his own attention to his fellow diners.
The banquet is served in another pavilion, a short walk away in a sunken garden lit with flares. Seated upon a cushioned bench, Elizabeth nibbles at a small piece of marchpane and gossips lightly with her ladies and Lady Anne, while Philip talks of sporting pursuits with Sir Richard and Northumberland. Nearby, the consort of viols are performing again: a soft lilting melody that is not quite drowned out by the conversation of the assembly, while Warwick cheerfully talks with Wiltshire about his intentions to renovate his manor house with the assistance of his wife.
"Talking of wives," he adds, "I am concerned at the countenance of my poor sister-in-law. I know not what has occurred between them, but Lady Amy seems fearful to even approach Robin." He frowns, then; "I know that Robin has tired of her - but he has never given her cause to fear him."
"I do not think it to be fear - not exactly," Wiltshire observes, "More a hesitance, as though she has been ordered not to speak to him, and does not know if the matter she must broach is of sufficient import to disobey."
Warwick shakes his head, disappointed yet again by his younger brother, "It is most frustrating. He was insistent that they be wedded, and our father was reluctant in his agreement as he knew that Robin's wish was born out of a carnal desire for her. She is not to blame for his foolishness - but nonetheless she must bear the price of it. God's wounds - who would choose to be a woman?"
"We do not choose our sex, Harry; that is granted to us by God. It is the obligation of a woman to be subject to a man; and thus it is incumbent upon us to protect and nurture them. It is hard when a marriage does not succeed; and it seems to be so with him. Perhaps it is as well that her Majesty has brought Lady Dudley into the household of the Princes: he is less likely to be able to set her aside without causing a scandal - and thus her marriage is protected even if it be a joyless union." He pauses, "What is he doing?"
"Hmm?" Warwick turns, mumbling through a sugared plum.
"Sir Robert: every now and again, he seems quite keen to step aside from the company and fumble for something about his person. He looks at it, then sets it back and returns to the conversation. That is the third time he has done it."
Warwick shrugs, "I suspect it to be a keepsake from a lover, Will. It would not be the first time - just as he was all afire for Lady Dudley before they wed, he has oftentimes believed that a foolish dalliance is the great love of his life, and becomes so utterly devoted to that dalliance that he seems unable to last more than a quarter hour without setting his eyes upon their countenance. Were we all not like that at one time? In his case, alas, he seems not to have grown out of such foolishness." He frowns then, "Nay, I am perhaps unfair upon him - for his passions have always been sincere, and it made him an excellent brother when we were young, for it made him a dutiful son. Perhaps his elevation shall grant him the maturity to restore his passion to that which is his already, rather than to desire more."
A steward interrupts the proceedings to advise that the supper has been voided, and that the pavilion is now ready for dancing and entertainments. Delighted, Elizabeth rises, "Then we shall dance." Without hesitation, she offers her hand to her husband, and the pair lead their guests back to the lawn.
Behind them, Dudley scowls at his wife, who has done nothing more than assume a place two paces to his rear, "Step forth, damn you; do you wish to announce your disfavoured position to all at Court? Jesu's blood!"
For the first time in the entirely of their marriage, Amy's eyes flash with temper, "I shall do as you command, my Lord, but do not expect me to be cowed by your craven cruelty." She hisses, softly, "Do you think I have not noticed what you conceal in your scrip? Or that I do not know it for what it is? It would behoove you to treat me with more courtesy; or would it be your preference for me to let that secret out? I am no scholar, that I grant you; but I am equally no fool - does it amuse you to harbour a suit that is cold before it is even offered?"
He stops, and becomes very still.
"I am a dutiful wife, Robert Dudley, and I shall remain so for that is the vow that I made to you. But my silence comes at a price: the price of courtesy. Like it or no, you are bound to me by vows that you made before God. Until I came to Court, I knew only to be subservient; but no more. The Queen's favour, and the respect of her fellows, has shown me that I am a woman of substance, and thus I shall be cowed by you no longer. Each insult that you pile upon me brings you closer to the humiliation of discovery. Mark that well."
Dudley glares at her, "You shall not if I have you dispatched back to…"
"Back to where?" She snaps, softly, "To be palmed off upon whichever household shall have me? A Lady of the Queen's Household to be rendered homeless? You would have to ask her Majesty to dismiss me now - would you dare to do it?"
Silence.
"I do not demand your love, for I know I have it not." She finishes, "Nor do I demand pretence of it. All know that I am a regretted wife, so our pretence shall be that we tolerate one another with courtesy - and I shall most assuredly not refer to you as 'husband' instead of 'Robert'."
Her eyes are diamond-hard; and he knows that she means every word. His expression a strange mixture of annoyance, and admiration, he accepts her hand and leads her back to the lawn.