ROMANTIC VENTURE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Time passed quickly and pleasantly at Nonsuch despite the court life which Maurette found a strain. Living publicly was not much to her liking. Though Ravenshead loomed before her as the fearful end to the happy sojourn in Surrey, Maurette had become anxious to return to a private life.

The queen had made a great show of "imploring" Maurette to attend her in her chamber during the earliest days of the holiday. The room was in the fifth-floor tower and looked down on four sides on the grounds and forests of the estate. Mullioned windows refracted the pale winter sun that dappled the groin-vaulted ceiling with wavering shadows of dusky light.

In the hush of the winter afternoons, Maurette would sit with the queen and read to her, or the two women would talk softly on many subjects. Maurette had found it easier and easier to speak with Elizabeth in that cozy privacy and began to understand her grandmother's great affinity for the queen.

"'Tis sadistic of these Spanish," Maurette said one afternoon to Elizabeth. "They keep us on tenterhooks. They threaten invasion and do nothing."

Elizabeth nodded her gray head. Maurette had been shocked to see the thin white covering of wispy hair that had been revealed the first time that the queen had removed her red wig in Maurette's presence. Now it did not shock her as she noted the baldness that Elizabeth's nodding head revealed.

"The Spanish have ever been known for their love of intrigue," Elizabeth said with a soft sigh. "Beyond that," she said, lifting her dazzling eyes to Maurette, "Phillip is a sick old man. He dares not tamper in his last days with a monarch of England, but he will because he must." She chuckled low in her throat.

"Did you know that he loved me once?" She nodded at Maurette's bemusement. "He did. After my sister, Mary, died, that old Papist asked me to marry him. "She pursed her lips in deep reflection. "Some say 'tis because of my rejection of his suit that he now threatens us. But we know better," she said sadly. "We know 'tis 'they' that will not allow poor old Philip to die in peace. Do you know who 'they' are, child?"

Maurette shook her head.

" 'They,' " said Elizabeth, placing a thin finger to the side of her nose, "are the unwashed masses whose whims rule a king. You think Elizabeth Tudor rules England? She does not. Her ministers go out among them and hear their wished and then come back and tell her what 'they' want. Elizabeth Tudor simply carries out their design."

"Do not," Maurette ventured in a small voice; "the ministers often relay what the ministers want?"

The queen glanced at her shrewdly. "You speak of my trusted confidants thus?"

" 'Tis only that I cannot imagine that the average man or woman on the streets of London wishes war with anyone," Maurette said earnestly.

Elizabeth cocked what would have been an eyebrow had she, in truth, had an eyebrow. Then she began to laugh. Her head went back in pure amusement.

"Oh, child," she said attempting to control her mirth, "you have placed your delicate finger on the exact problem. Forgive me," she said shaking her head tiredly, "but the power lies not in their own worth but in the worth I bestow upon those ungodly few. In your innocence, you have spotted the inequities of rule. I know too well their devious ways. Except for my old friend Burghley and that cynic Cecil, I trust them not. And yet," she said, drawing a deep breath and exhaling forlornly, "to whom am I to give the power, if not to them? To whom shall I listen, if not to those learned men? Often they provide just the right answers. When their own ambition succumbs to the exigencies of what needs doing, they can be most helpful." Elizabeth sighed.

"Oh, child, I am but a woman, though a monarch. Sometimes, I would give all that possess if I were the product of a fishmonger and his fat wife and not the daughter of Henry Tudor."

Elizabeth lay her head on the padded back of her small throne. Her eyes closed, and Maurette gently took the goblet of watered wine she held in her hand. Elizabeth's lids lifted briefly and she smiled. Then she seemed to drift into a kind of somnambulant reverie.

"My mother was thought a whore."

Maurette said nothing.

"She was a great and gallant woman, a woman of the masses. Had she been allowed to rule, she would have led them wisely and well. My father, you see, was a fool. He thought and acted through his breeches."

Maurette felt a gasp rise in her throat, which she suppressed, and remained silent. Elizabeth continued. Her voice was mesmerizing in the softly lit chamber.

"Henry the self-indulgent, Henry the boorish, the loud, the spoil-it, started all this." She raised her hand weakly to encompass the events that surrounded and threatened to overwhelm her throne. "All…this that now engulfs our people, our beloved England, was caused by that insatiable old turd's relentless lust." Elizabeth chuckled.

"She must have been quite a woman, my mother-sainted, headless thing. Poor old faithful Katherine. Poor Catholic Katherine. She gave him, Mary, and my mother, for whom he abandoned his religion, gave him me. He sired no sons until Jane's Edward-weak and dying from the start. All this." She said sleepily, "my legacy."

She closed her eyes. Her next words, when they came, were born of vehemence and profound sadness. "If I had been cloven instead of cleft, they would not treat me thus." She paused reflectively. "Write that, child," she said barely audibly. "I wish to remark that thought to my faithful and trusted ministers." She let out a sharp laugh.

Maurette scrambled up to search for quill and parchment. By the time she had found it and moved back to Elizabeth, prepared to write down her words, the sovereign of all Britannia was deep in slumber.

Maurette spent her last night at Nonsuch in the company of her sister, Imogene, Dominic and the other men at could were immersed with the queen in discussions of their various roles and obligations regarding the upcoming battle with the Spanish. Maurette knew that Dominic would be much in demand where that confrontation was concerned and felt a vague and rising disquietude.

"Do you know anything of the coming battle?" She ask Imogene when they were sipping tea that night in Maurette's warm chamber.

"I know not what you refer to, sister," said Imogene with a quizzical arch of her eyebrows. "A batter, you say. Oh, my. Thank G-d, Greg is no soldier. He would not make a very resplendent one, you know." She smiled mischievously. "He has flattened feet and a swayed back. And when he sits for a long time in one place, he aches with such loud mewlings that I must feed him hot wine and pack him with mustard."

Maurette laughed in spite of her growing perturbation.

"Many's the night," continued Imogene, "that his poor hind end must be raised by a bolster while he sleeps on his stomach. 'Tis invariably those mornings that the queen rouses everyone early for a hunt."

Both girls laughed.

"No, my Greg would make no soldier," said Imogene with a giggle.

"I wish, in many ways, that I could say those things of Dominic," said Maurette sadly. "If there is a battle, I can see him shoving his way to the front lines, to the stabbing violence of the thing, to fight gallantly for his country. I do honor that raging heroism that has characterized his life, little sister, but I also fear it."

Imogene nodded. She understood too well her sister's fears and, in truth, envied her them. The flaccid Gregory would never be a hero. Imogene placed a hand on her stomach. "Perhaps, 'twas just as well, she thought.

"Let us speak of other things tonight, dear Maurette," she said, brightening. "'Tis your last night at court, and I wish to hear your impressions."

Though Maurette had not appreciated the scornful gossips she had found at court, she had not trouble speaking with her sister on a private basis of all that she had seen.

They talked for many hours that night. They poured out their sympathy for the drunken Francis and decided Catherine de Medici's son would never become husband to Elizabeth, he was far too weak. They giggled over Maurette's encounter with Leicester and wondered if Elizabeth would enjoy one more fling with the old nobleman. And they tried to decide upon a name for Imogene and Gregory's babe.

The mention of Robin Dudley had brought to Maurette's mind the earl's observation of woman, vilifying their disinterest in their husband's business. Maurette could not, in truth, lay blame on any woman who chose that particular path. It was by far the easier path.

"…is absolutely the most awful name I can imagine. Don't you agree, Maurette?" Imogene was speaking and Maurette's mind had been wandering. "I said that Hugh is not a name that I would choose for a son of mine," she repeated. "Do you agree, dear Maurette?"

"I like Hugh," said Maurette abstractedly.

"You could not care less about your nephew's name," said Imogene, her mouth forming a small petulant moue.

Maurette smiled and patted Imogene's hand. "I am sorry, little sister," she said gently. "My mind is not, in truth, on that happy dilemma. But,' she added brightly, "I do like the Hugh."

"So do I," said Imogene, her bright curls bouncing " 'Tis only that it was Mary Paar's suggestion, and you know how I dislike that woman."

The two girls embraced and laughed. The sun was creeping over the horizon before they sought their beds. "I shall be leaving very early this morn," Maurette said as she ushered Imogene from her chamber. "And I shall miss you with all my heart."

"And I you, dear sister. May sweet fortune attend you till we see each other again."

"And you."

The sisters embraced once more before they parted for what they both knew to be a very long time.