CHAPTER SEVEN

Work, Rest and Play

As Richmond had feared, the weather has turned this morning, and a thick drizzle shrouds the parkland in mist. Ever aware of the vagaries of English weather, however, Anne has taken care to ensure that the long gallery on the first floor of the main house has been well provided with amusements. Her Majesty's ladies take their turn upon a fine set of virginals, while tables for shovelboard and billiards stand in the vestibules at either end, where the curves of the great oriel windows provide sufficient space - and light - for ease of play.

A number of card games are in progress, here a hand of triumphs, there a hand of primero; while Richmond is, as he once did with Elizabeth and little Jane Radcliffe, engaging the princes with instruction upon the ancient game of hnefatafl. In the absence of a blood-related grandfather, they have rather adopted the elderly Lord Chancellor into such a capacity, and listen with fascination as he guides their moves.

The accumulation of bodies has rendered the need for fires unnecessary, and none burn in the grates. Instead, Anne sits alongside the main fireplace with Elizabeth and the pair embroider together, gossiping quietly over matters of little substance as though they were naught but a pair of idle gentlewomen with no responsibilities of State upon their shoulders. Across from where they sit, William is talking to Philip and Wiltshire over a large, recently commissioned map of England, examining it with fascination and pointing out cities and towns in each county as though they were schoolboys seeing such a thing for the first time. She smiles fondly; William seems almost instinctively to know what shall interest the Consort of England, for she remembers Philip's interest in the realm that his wife rules from the moment he first set foot upon England's shores in the Pool of London, all those years ago.

The virginals fall silent as the coranto that was being played finishes, and Elizabeth looks up, "I am minded to try the instrument, Mama; it has an excellent tone."

Anne's smile widens; she is well aware of her daughter's skill upon the virginals, and Elizabeth's intent to play saves her from the awkwardness of dropping hints that she do so. As she rises from her seat, her ladies are already hastily fetching out her book of favourite pieces to set upon the instrument, while all in the gallery pause their gaming and gossip to watch. Even were it not good manners to do so, only those most close to her Majesty would normally be granted the opportunity to hear her play the virginals; and most in the gallery are not so fortunate.

Her choice is a short alman, written by a young London man by the name of Byrd and - perhaps a touch presumptuously - named 'the Queen's Alman'. The piece shows much accomplishment on the part of the composer, and those who know of such matters have recommended to the Queen that he is likely to progress well in his chosen sphere.

The tune itself is quite simple, but the true measure of the ability of the player rests in the elaborate ornamentation of that tune, with runs, trills and swift passage-work that displays to all of Elizabeth's talent for the instrument. There are one or two minor errors in places, for she has not played the piece in some months; but the music that flees from the soundbox to the ears of the surrounding audience is a joy to hear. Anne finds herself trying to swallow down a lump in her throat: such talent, God above, she is a magnificent woman.

A hand rests upon her shoulder from behind and she smiles as she catches the fragrance of her husband's clove-spiced vetiver scent, "She is a wonder, my beloved. An accomplished Prince of Christendom in all things."

"Sycophant." She smiles up at him, but her eyes glisten with loving pride for her daughter, and he returns that smile.

Seated at the table with the Princes, Richmond also watches with pleasure; for he has seen this woman grow from childhood to such accomplishment. Beside him, the two boys are equally entranced, for they are usually long abed before their mother seats herself at the virginals. Sighing sadly to himself, the Chancellor lifts his gaze to where he can see his own son. For once, Robert is equally held by the display of musical skill by his Queen; and - for the first time Richmond can recall - has softened his expression from that constant glower of discontent. Perhaps the example of his Queen might persuade him to abandon such tiresomeness…

Then his eye is caught by Dudley. Jesu - no…he is almost afire with longing, the older man can see it: quickened breathing, flushed cheeks, widened eyes. There is no other woman in his line of sight - he can only be looking upon the woman at the virginals. What is wrong with him? She is the Queen! She is married to a man whom she loves deeply! Thanks be to Christ that all eyes are upon her Majesty - if others were to see him now, then their eyes would almost certainly be flying down to the codpiece, seeking evidence of an untoward swelling there. It takes all that he has in him not to do so himself.

He is not overly surprised when Dudley excuses himself and flees. Even if he does not recognise that his hot ardour is utterly inappropriate and a warning that he must rein in his stupidity, there is still that awkward consequence of male desire to be dealt with. That can only be achieved in private.

Richmond shudders to himself at the thought. For a moment he finds himself sympathetic to Dudley's plight; for he, too, was placed in such a position by the innocently comely wife of another man long ago when a youth. Dudley is no youth, admittedly, but to be so enamoured that his loins have betrayed him? God's wounds, that is a hard burden to bear. As long as he hastens to his quarters and dispatches that imp in private, then there shall be no harm; but perhaps it might be wise to take him aside while they have the opportunity to do so without alerting the sharp ears of the gossips.

Yes - he shall do that, as soon as the weather improves.

Elizabeth finishes the Alman, and he joins in the applause.

Dudley paces back and forth in his chamber, fighting down reminiscences of the Queen at the virginals, crowned with a halo of candlelight, her long fingers fleeing up and down the keyboard of that damned instrument…

And again that stab of desire, as his member twitches under the reminiscence of his imaginings over those long fingers upon it…

Damnation! Shaking, he puts his head around the door, "Summon my wife!"

God above, if he cannot have the woman he desires, then he shall make do with the leavings. She, at least, cannot refuse.

He could have ended it in the privacy of the stool closet, dispatching his seed into the chamber pot - but his longing is not merely for that end, but for the warmth of a woman's private part enclosing him. Intimacy is of no interest now, just that animal act of carnality.

The door opens, and the Steward he dispatched looks in, "Forgive me, my Lord; but my Lady Dudley is with her Majesty who craves your indulgence in seeking to keep her at her side."

Dudley stares at him, thunderstruck, "She is not coming?"

"She intended to, but…but…her Majesty required her to stay." Had he been less infuriated, Dudley might have noticed that the man's knees are knocking, "It was most assuredly her intention to obey your summons."

In an instant, all that swelling ardour is quelled, as though the steward had upended a pail of icy water upon his head. Damnation! And yet, all his fury at being so denied remains, but transformed into a cool excitement at the impertinence of a woman granted such power over men. Rather than fling some item or other at the cowering steward, he starts, slowly, to laugh. Such fire! Such determination! God above she is magnificent!

Dismissing the fearful man at the door, his hand returns to his scrip. Fetching out the miniature of the Queen that he found so fortuitously at Ightham Mote, he feasts his eyes upon her fair - albeit painted - countenance. A woman of such strength deserves a man of equal strength…one day…one day…

Sighing with unrequited longing, he returns his treasure to his side.

The rain does not let up for two more days, and Anne is finding herself running out of entertainments for the Court. William has obtained a short play from the Earl of Oxford's men, which he has handed to those whom he feels most secure can perform a masque as well as possible, and all are amused by the sight of various Courtiers concentrating upon written papers, committing their parts to memory. They shall perform at the end of the Queen's stay, so there is plenty of time for them to do so.

This morning, however, the sun has risen into a cloudless sky, and the Court have fled outside to enjoy its warmth. Many are out riding in the great park, while the older Lords are seated near the lake, where some of the ladies undertake a game of bowls with a great deal more gentility than men might do.

Taking a spare seat alongside the Lord Chancellor, Anne sits beside him under an awning and returns his smile, taking his hand, "Did I not promise that we would sit together and reminisce, Richard?"

"That is so, my lady Anne. I thank you for your kindness in granting me a space to sit and watch others sport. The time when I could do so is long gone, and I think now I appreciate truly the discomfort of our late friend of Essex when I am obliged to walk."

"I miss him." Anne says, quietly, "Even now, after six years, I mourn his loss."

His hand tightens upon hers, "As do I. For a man whose friendship I sought out of a necessity to preserve my life, I gained a valuable ally and companion. There is no man alive whom I trust more than I trusted him - and I loved him as a brother. I think it might amuse him, but I pray upon the repose of his soul each morn even in defiance of his reformist sensibilities."

"And I think he should be most amused at such a discovery - I have no doubt that he shall share that jest with you when you are reunited at God's table." She pauses to look at his expression, "What is it, Richard? I may have been apart from you for some years - but you have ever been an easy man to read."

"It is of no consequence, my Lady," he sighs, "I was granted perhaps some small hope two days past in the Gallery as her Majesty entertained us upon the virginals, for that cold discontent upon Robert's face had eased. I thought it ever to be affixed upon his countenance for all the rest of his days. Perhaps I shall win back his love after all."

"That is my determined intent, my friend. An ungrateful child is a cruel burden, and one that should not be placed upon your shoulders."

"Ah - but I, too, was an ungrateful child, Anne." He reminds her, with a mild smile, "I shall leave a path to my door for him, but I shall not impose myself upon him. In spite of all, he is my son - and I love him."

"I think, Richard, that - while he would never admit to it - he loves you also. It is merely buried under a covering of foolish arrogance that maturity shall clear away." She turns and reaches for her lute, "I have brought us some entertainment, see? Even now there is no escape from my wish to play."

"Do not require it of me to sing, my Lady; my voice is long faded to a hoarse wheeze that shall destroy the magic of your talent."

They sit in silence awhile as Anne plucks delicately at the lute, its soft tones complimented by the song of a skylark high above their heads. Richmond closes his eyes and smiles at the memory of times years ago when he had been granted the privilege of listening to such music surrounded by friends. Had he thought himself to be no longer welcome upon the earth? Jesu, no. To willingly give up such pleasure as friendship and the warmth of a summer's day? Such a fool…this is God's gift to him, and he should not be so ungrateful as to wish to live no longer.

A shadow stretches over his eyes, and he looks up to see that Lady Dudley has crossed to them, "Forgive me, my Lady; but the princes have returned from their riding lessons and his Highness Prince Henry asks for you. He has taken a fall and seeks your comfort for his skinned knee as her Majesty is at the hunt."

She is paler than usual, quite a feat for a woman already very fair in countenance, except for a red mark upon her right cheek - as though she has been struck. Richmond frowns slightly, dredging his memory for moments where she has been present amongst the Court in the last two days. No, she has remained away from view - and then he understands. She has somehow offended her husband, and he has lashed out at her for that fault. Such is the right of a husband, of course; but he cannot imagine how Lady Dudley has achieved such a thing - she has been in the company of the Queen, and thus could not have acted in a fashion that her Lord and master would find so offensive.

Anne also looks at the younger woman with a mild frown, "Thank you Lady Dudley, I shall see to it. Perhaps you might wish to remain under the awning awhile? I can assure you that his Grace of Richmond is a gentle companion and far less dull than his grey beard implies." She smiles at him as he chuckles at her jest.

For a moment, Amy dithers - as she is often wont to do - but then impulsively curtseys to the two, "That is most kind of you, your Grace, I thank you."

"And I shall bore you with a lesson in the game of hnefatafl." Richmond smiles at her and indicates the table nearby.

Anne watches fondly as Richmond exerts all of his charm to ease the discomfort of the young woman so unused to Courtiers, then hastens back to the stables in search of her grandson.

Mistress Peake is holding a cold compress to young Henry's knee as he whimpers somewhat from the pain. Anne smiles at him as she approaches, "Ah, what has occurred, my dear grandson?"

"Naught but a minor fall, my Lady," Mistress Peake answers, "but the ground upon which he fell was rough with small stones."

Heedless of her skirts, Anne sits upon the mounting block and holds out her arms to take the child, "I, too, have fallen upon such ground, my little Prince," she soothes him, "it is most discomfiting, is it not? And all the more so if one has fallen upon one's feet, rather than from a horse."

Henry nods, then winces slightly as she lifts the cloth to reveal the bloody graze beneath, "Oh, that is most angry, my highness!" she observes, "Truly a princely wound: after all, it is incumbent upon Princes to do all to a greater extent than mere mortals such as I."

As she intended, Henry starts to laugh through his sniffles, "And I am a Prince, Grandmama!"

"Indeed you are! And I should be most dismayed if you could not create such a state upon your knee as those who are not Princes, my precious Highness."

Jesu, she has missed this…missed the pleasure of a child resting upon her knee. How long ago it is since her beloved Elizabeth was so small. If it were not for the tiresome backstabbing of any Court - even Elizabeth's - she would almost be willing to give up this joyful life in Kent to experience it again…

Instinctively, her arms tighten about Henry's shoulders and she kisses him upon the crown of his tousled head. In spite of his name - which even now gives her cause almost to shudder - he is precious to her; for there was a time when she wondered if Elizabeth could even keep her throne. God, if they had failed her, then she should not be nestling a grandson upon her knees.

"What is it, Grandmama?" Henry is look up at her, "Why are you crying?"

"It is naught but joy, my dear Prince, for I am so happy. You, and darling Ned, are gifts to us from God, and I give thanks to Him each day for you both." She regards him, "Now, shall we return to the house? I am sure that there are some rather fine fruit jellies awaiting the consumption of the Court for dinner - and I have no doubt that one or two shall not go amiss, shall they?"

Henry returns her smile, and the conspiratorial air that goes with it, "Yes please, Grandmama."

"Then let us go." Anne looks across to Edward, "Highness, we have a plot afoot - we hunt, and our quarry is within the kitchens, shall we go to?"

When Anne and William make their way through the covered passage to the Gloriette, they usually do so in order to speak to Seton, but not this evening. While Elizabeth and Philip have supped in private almost continually since their arrival, with one or two visits to the hall each week when guests have been invited, they have done so as a small family. Aware of her own preference to pretend that she was a simple gentlewoman dining away from the scrutiny of a Court, Anne has regularly declined her daughter's invitations to intrude upon their time of equal freedom.

Tonight, however, that invitation has been replaced by insistence, and thus they make their way to the hall. While the usual chamber used by the Queen is smaller, it is too small for additional guests, and thus the larger space has been called into use. Admittedly, the trestle is still rather too small, but it is simply laid and retains an intimate air that belies the grandeur of its surroundings.

Elizabeth and Philip are already present, while the two princes are occupied by their puppies, and rise hastily as William escorts Anne into the hall.

"Mama! William! Welcome - at last!" Elizabeth laughs, hastening forward to accept the kisses to her ring, "Come, let us set aside the tiresome requirements of protocol and revert to the pretence that we are naught but a gentry family gathering to sup."

"Forgive me, my dear Majesty." Anne says, smiling, "We thought it best to permit your family to enjoy some peace away from fawning courtiers."

"Fawning, Mama?" Elizabeth frowns humorously, "I consider the term 'fawning' impossible to apply to you."

William smiles and squeezes Anne's hand as she laughs, "Indeed so, my Elizabeth, I could no more fawn over another than I could remove my own head!"

The princes hasten over and Anne crouches to hug them, "My little Highnesses, I am right glad that you are here!"

"They are shortly to retire to bed, Mama, but we thought it would be unfair upon them, and upon you, to deprive you of the opportunity see them before they did so."

"And I am grateful for it. Might I take them out into the parkland to ride upon the morrow? The weather seems set fair, and there is a most delightful area of woodland that I have no doubt they shall be keen to explore."

Immediately, the boys turn, "Mama! May we?" Edward's voice is hopeful.

"If you retire without complaint, and give Mistress Peake no arguments, then yes."

The boys laugh delightedly, "Thank you, Mama!" Even Henry's thanks are unprompted for once.

"Now, off to bed with you, my children - sleep well and ask the Holy Father to grant you fine weather for your ride."

They accept kisses from their mother, and ruffles to the head from their father, before bowing formally to Anne and William, and departing with their dogs in tow.

"They are delightful boys, Majesty." William observes, "England is fortunate to have them."

She smiles, and kisses him upon the cheek, "As I am fortunate to have you, for you make my Mama happy."

"She does likewise to me, Majesty."

Philip turns and takes Anne's arm to escort her to the table, "Come, my Lady, I am pleased to serve you a fine venison that was brought down at Ightham Mote, which was sent through to us just this morning as a gift by Sir Richard Clement."

"Ah, yes," Anne smiles, "I am given to understand that the venison from his estate is of excellent quality."

"Having sampled it, Mama," Elizabeth says, her arm taken by William, "I can vouch for that claim. It is almost as fine as yours."

Their conversation as the remove is served remains light and trivial, for discussions of the times that they have spent apart have already taken place. It is hard not to speak of more substantial matters, but Elizabeth is determined to keep such talk confined to the council chamber, and as Anne and William have been invited back to that table, they can confine such matters to there.

As she samples the venison, Anne watches a discussion between William and Philip over a new design for a barge that he is planning to have constructed to convey the family between their palaces along the Thames. They would not normally consider such expenditure, as Elizabeth has long learned to be frugal where possible; but all of the old barges that ply the river have become aged and battered, while one sprang a fearsome leak a few weeks ago while conveying a number of the Queen's senior ladies across the river. They returned to the Privy Stair at Whitehall only through a truly herculean effort of three oarsmen bailing frantically as the rest rowed for home. The ladies' gowns were befouled to the knees, but at least they had not been thrown into the river itself.

Lifting another morsel upon the point of her knife, she catches sight of Elizabeth, who is also watching the conversation. Her eyes are soft, as are her features, as she watches her husband talk animatedly of innovations and practical fittings to ensure that the vessel is faster and more stable than any of the barges currently in service. Yes - she loves him; loves him deeply and truly.

We made the right choice, my old friend Tom. She thinks to herself, smiling a little sadly, I wish that you could see how right we were.

Perhaps he can - perhaps he is watching them now, supping at the Lord's table as they sup at this one. Her smile becomes impish, that would be nice. He would be delighted if that were so.

Once supper is eaten, they rise and retire to a small withdrawing chamber, where they play a few hands of Triumphs. For a moment, Anne feels transported back in time, to evenings when she faced her dear Jane Rochford, while Richard and Mr Cromwell faced each other. They played for pennies, of course, and delighted in Jane's ability to trounce them all.

Such happy times. And now she can relive them with her daughter and son-in-law.

Best of all, they shall still be here until the leaves begin to turn, and she can enjoy them for the rest of the summer.

Her smile warms at the thought, and she gathers the cards to deal another hand.