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Long may she reign...England, High Summer, 1572Following a brief stay at Leicester's estate, at Kenilworth, the entire baggage train, a party of some two hundred and fifty persons, some noble and some mere cogs in the great traveling court machine, trailed in the glittering wake of the Faerie Queen herself, as she made her way to Warwick Castle. And moving within the cumbersome shadows of jeweled and ornamented distinction, cloaked in her own bland disguise of white linen shifts, and a bodice and yards of rippling skirt, all in a coffee-colored fustian, was a simple, quiet lady's maid, of no distinction whatsoever, but for the alert clarity of her emerald eyes and the occasional sliver of flame that slipped out over her forehead from beneath the edge of a beaded caul. A series of clever ruses had brought her to these shores some years earlier. She had plucked herself up, at last, from tiresome mercenary life, and it had been a simple matter to sneak passage on a ship from war-torn Calais, across the Channel, to Dover. Within a matter of days, the hoarded gold gleaned from the bodies of the dead saw her suitably dressed, and her quiet manners breached the barrier of a language she barely knew. Those things, in timely combination with luck, and the skills acquired over a century, brought her quickly into the fold of a prominent Southampton household. From there, it was only a matter of time - and again, of astounding luck - before she found herself accompanying the Lady of the house, serving her in all matters, from dressing, to feeding, to attending on her whims at social gatherings. But it was when her Mistress was presented at court, for the first time, that the real drudgery of her century of life exploded away like so much shattered glass. From the very first second that her emerald gaze fell on the regal presence of Elizabeth Gloriana, she knew she would never worship another. Peering out from behind the velvet-wrapped backs and elbows of dozens of courtiers, at the rear of a long gallery, she felt the exhilarating rush of privilege as she watched her own great Lady fall soundlessly to her knees in tribute, and her breath was stolen by the moment. And when the Queen offered a gracious nod of russet curls, and the silent flutter of a hand encased in demure white leather, motioning the Lady's recovery as though she were pulling strings with those slender fingertips, all thoughts of ever returning to the battlefields were swept clean by a tidal wave of … awe. It so happened that the Lady, through the power of her own charms and, no doubt, the persuasive jingle of her father's coffers, was invited to attend on Her Grace through that summer's progress across the countryside. Thus did Rose find herself a part of the roiling, chaotic, jewel-encrusted entourage making the same journey, and so long as she did not speak overmuch, or, when she did, carefully measured every syllable, to disguise the harsh, guttural timbre of her native accent, she was allowed to linger in the shadows of her service, basking in the radiant glow of her mere proximity to that paragon of womanhood, Queen Elizabeth I. Twilight was already descending as the first crude rumblings of hoof and coach made the turn onto the forest path leading to Warwick castle, and an alarm went up throughout the nearby countryside. It was as though the very sparrows in the trees carried the message with them, singing it to the squirrels who had just begun to prepare for sleep, who, in turn, sent the call out to the nervous, waiting foxes, whose keening carried the news to the castle courtyard, where the geese and sheep raised a hue and cry that brought the steward of the house running, snapping orders to a pair of pages as they shrugged into their best doublets. The boys, a pair of stout lads no older than ten, and perfectly matched for height and coloring, were sent forth onto the forest path, to run beside the lead carriage, lighting the way with pairs of thick white candles almost too fat for their young hands to grasp. As the rolling assemblage made its way onto Warwick's lands, the prying eyes of night creatures and local inhabitants alike winked at the edge of the treeline, gaping at a sight that few, perhaps, would be blessed enough to view in their lifetimes - the mere passing of the Queen and her court. The royal arrival was heralded with little more fanfare than that, as the majority of the country household was already abed, and Her Grace, with all her elegant modesty, refused to have them roused. As the court descended in her wake, to join Lord and Lady Warwick in a late supper, the rest of the retainers, Maids of Honor, various ladies in waiting, stewards and grooms, all scrambled from the discomfort of their hours' long ride, into a flurry of activity that lasted long past twilight, repeating the age-old ritual of unloading and uncarting and unpacking, to settle the Queen and her galaxy comfortably for their few days' repose. Sitting bolt upright from a blood-washed nightmare of feeding on her Lady's own ravaged corpse, she turned towards the window of the boxy apartment, to be greeted by the murky pre-dawn grey of the English countryside morning. A slender, ivory hand curled to the back of her neck, at the sudden realization that the hair at the nape was prickling to life. No mere product of nightmare this, she suspected, and with a silent shudder of alarm, she tossed aside her flimsy bedsheets and scrambled across the hardwood floor, to crouch beside a small mahogany chest in the corner of the room. Nimble fingers lifted the lid, and she winced against the tell-tale creaking, lifting a silent prayer that the sound would not wake the other eight girls sharing the room just yet... With the merest quaking of her fingertips, she rummaged for the ancient pewter timekeeper from Nuremberg, and as her eyes fell on the seemingly random placement of drilled holes and sliding chambers, her hand began to tremble all the more. A stricken look, of humiliation and horror, galloped across her features, and she dropped the crude calendar back into its nest among the needlework and linens, backing away slowly, as though disbelief might halt the coming of the cursed full moon. She rose to force her spine into the strictest posture she could manage, and, with the hem of her partlet swimming around her ankles, she padded on bare feet to the window. Resting her hands on the sill, she peered out, her features a mask of cool composure, as though she were no more than a disinterested spectator, taking what was possibly the only free moment she would have that day to drink in the local landscape. But her eyes - those ever-alert, ever-wary eyes - were shifting back and forth at a nervous pace, scanning the horizon, studying it with the sharp gaze of a predator, searching for a place to hide when night fell on the castle. True to the usual schedule of things, the other girls were stirring not long after, and, forcing her quandry to the back of her mind for the moment, Rose fell in line with the rest of the servants, scrubbing up and dressing with seemingly haphazard speed, to rush to her Lady's apartment for the routine of brushing and combing, lacing and tightening, choosing and setting aside and choosing again of the proper gown for the day's entertainments, so that the Lady herself could rush to the Queen's apartments and attend on Her Grace's needs in a mimicry of the morning ritual. Rose was ever on her toes throughout the bustling morning, no time for her own worries, as there were courtiers to be dressed and fed, errands to be run... the only one who, it seemed, was allowed leisure in those early hours, was the Queen herself. Even though Rose's path rarely took her closer than a few hundred yards from the exalted presence, Her Grace, Rose knew, would spend the earliest hours in her Privy Chamber, the very innermost cell of her hive, where she would be groomed and pampered by her Maids of Honor, before emerging into the Presence Chamber. There, while the rest of the castle hummed with the activity of preparation, Elizabeth would suffer the hated importunities of those officials allowed entree'. Even on her countryside vacation, there was still commerce to transact, suits to be presented - the business of the crown would not be halted, in spite of Her Grace's protests of everyone forever trying to get something out of her. Meanwhile, in the gallery, the remainder of the court would simply walk, talk, perhaps conduct business of their own, or perhaps enjoy light entertainments. It was here that Rose spent the majority of her time, settled into alert repose at the arm of her Lady. On this morning, there were madrigals to liven the assembly, and at the insistence of her Lady, Rose lent her voice to the company of singers. She sang for hours, it seemed, until her throat was nearly raw with the strain, only to be asked to redouble her efforts, and continue at the behest of the court, a request she dared not deny. And then it was off to her Lady's chamber again, to redress her hair in preparation for the noon meal, after which, it was told, there would be a pageant, and a few dances from the local peasantry, in honor of Her Grace's presence. As sure as the sun shining in the midday sky, the afternoon's pageant was an elaborate orchestration, a masquerade played out in the courtyard of Warwick Castle, with makeshift stages and courtiers festooned in feather and fur, all for Her Grace's amusement. Devised to replay a classical tale of mythos, scripted by the hand of Leicester himself, the story carried the not-so-subtle undertones of love for one's sovereign. Young grooms garbed in little more than loin cloths, their lithe little bodies draped in sashes of red and gold, their tender cheeks heavily rouged, their golden locks curled into childlike ringlets, took the roles of cherubs, window dressing as they poised in the wings, occasionally taking mock flight in prancing steps behind the players. And the players - the stars of Elizabeth's constellation - were decked out in an array of finery, stylized versions of ancient togas and robes trimmed in contemporary ermines and gilt, ruching and ribbons. Despite their stilted deliveries, the fluid grace of the prose spilling past their lips saved the day, singing the song of undying worship, all leading to the inevitable crescendo of never forsaking one's Mistress. Rose watched it all from a perch in an apartment window. Her eyes never left the pageant, but with each successive act, as the praise and adulation mounted, she found her mind drifting, spinning into a waking dream of... settling her own feet into those dainty golden slippers some day... "...It pleased Her to have the country people resorting to see their dance in the court of the castle, Her Majesty beholding them out of Her chamber window; which thing, as it pleased well the country people, so it seemed Her Majesty was much delighted and made very merry..." - from "The Queen's Progress", by J. Nichols As the last creeping vines of daylight melted into the horizon beyond the forest, the castle thrummed into revitalized life once more, as its occupants braced for a siege... Let me bring you all things refined: Galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale. Greetings, well-met fellow, hail! I am the wind to fill your sail I am the cross to take your nail: A singer of these ageless times- With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes. - from "Songs from the Wood", Jethro Tull "Lazy, wretched girl!" The disdainful snarl of her Lady's voice cut through her sleeping haze just seconds before the birch rod itself snapped down, and even through the heavy folds of fustian gathered around her legs, the bite of the cane was more than enough to rouse her fully. At first, as her eyes blazed open in alarm, instinct told her to scramble away from the blows, but a second's pause allowed her to catch the impulse, and she merely flinched, her body curling slightly to accept the rapid-fire lashings at her back. Buried against the pallet, her ivory features burned with the red of humiliation and bitter regret... but she held every muscle perfectly still, knowing full well that to do otherwise was to invite an even worse penalty at the hands of her Lady's fury. Had she really slept so long? Had the ragged weight of approaching nightfall really exhausted her sensibilities to such a degree? O, how she cursed herself, the silent epithets screaming louder in her brain than any of the blurred torrent of the Lady's scolding as it rained down on her ears. For what seemed like an eternity, she huddled there, offering only a meek nod as her Lady delivered the final blow, ordered Rose to her chambers at once, and then huffed out in a swirl of velvet skirts. How long had she lain there? With tear-brimmed eyes, she lifted her gaze to the window. The sky beyond had lost its cerulean brilliance, and was now dappled with watercolor shades of orange and silver. Her heart surged to her throat, and the stinging ache in her lower limbs was quickly forgotten in the face of this new torture. Night was fast approaching, and with it that devil moon - and she with no means of escape. Visibly trembling, she thrust herself upright, wincing against the agony of coarse fabric brushing across the welts she knew were formed on the backs of her thighs. On hands and knees, her skirts tangled around her lower limbs, she made her awkward, pitiful procession towards the window, not daring to stand upright and face the pending twilight until she had reached the wall, and then, it was only with the sheerest strength of her will that she was able to force herself to pull up by the sill, and make herself gaze out on the one thing in the world she feared most - the charcoal rim at the horizon preceding a full moon night. Her gaze darted furtively across the landscape as she clung to the windowsill, seeking some sort of refuge, any place to hide. But although the surrounding lands were heavily forested, random curls of smoke rising from the treeline indicated the local homesteads of the Earl of Warwick's tennants. That wouldn't do... it wouldn't do at all. She would vastly prefer to hole up in one of the earthen cellars of this grand home, than be caught sight of and hunted by a local woodsman. And what was this? Not far to the south, she caught sight of a banner, hoisted high above the trees. It was still at least a mile in the distance, but by the looks of it, the mottled blues and golds, it appeared to be none other than that of the Earl of Oxford. Peeking above the treetops, as well, were the unmistakable iron tips of a veritable army of pikes, all wavering in some semblance of unison. Rose had to clap a hand over her mouth to cover the startled gasp. Of course, she had heard whisperings about it in the gallery that morning - de Vere had brought a battery all the way from the Tower, to stage a mock siege on the castle. The forests would be impossible tonight... But what of her Lady? And the stern order to present herself at the chamber at once, to dress her and prepare her for the evening's entertainments? Caught somewhere between two equally important needs for self-preservation, she froze in place like a cornered animal, her eyes darting furtively from side to side, in rapid time with the dozens of desperate solutions galloping through her mind... Some thirty minutes later, a shadow-veiled figure in coffee-colored fustian ducked back into a doorway, to await the passing of a gaggle of giggling maids through the belowstairs corridor. When the last of their girlish laughter has echoed around a corner, she peeked out, her head swivelling from side to side, before darting a dainty foot forward, to take a few steps in the direction she was sure would lead her out, somehow. Slung over her shoulder was a makeshift knapsack of coarse linens, and nestled in the crook of her arm was a simple mahogany box, containing all that she held of true value in this world. Self-preservation in the moment had won out over the possibility of a future in her Lady's presence. No doubt, the Lady in question was at this moment fuming and sputtering in her own chamber, and it would be only a matter of time before she had sent someone to comb the castle for Rose, but Rose hoped to be long gone before her pallet had even grown cold. She would likely never see her Lady, nor her beloved Elizabeth Gloriana again. But though the future might not be opulent, it would hold some sort of survival for her... it always did. Her only thought for the present was to escape the stone confines of Warwick Castle, and perhaps, in the chaos of the sham attack, duck past the oncoming armies, and into the sanctuary of the woods, where at least she would have the cover of foliage to hide her disfigurement. The trek to the outside castle courtyard was much more arduous than she had anticipated, given the bustle of activity preceding the night's festivities. Two or three times, she risked being seen to dart across a passageway or in front of an open door, as the clock ticked away and the coming full moon nipped at her heels. Finally, the last remaining obstacle was the expansive kitchen. Though supper had long since passed, a few scullery maids still languished, producing more gossip than cleaned platters. Rose hung just outside the door for a long while, ever conscious of the dwindling hour, uttering low expletives at the irony, that she would have done the job, even in so lowly a position, a thousand times better, if only her accursed nature would allow her to stay. Collecting a few last shards of pride, she took a deep breath, deciding that to risk a bluff was better than to linger in the hall much longer. With her head held high, she swung into the doorway, and with soft, measured footfalls, she carried herself through the kitchens as though she were the Lady herself. The maids must have thought her a curious site, with the bundles at her shoulder and in her arm, but she did not deign to so much as glance at them, and they, recognizing the breeding and carriage, and the fine cut of her gown, turned meekly away. Rose might not have existed at all to them, but for the sudden quieting of their long tongues. It was as simple as that. Minutes later, she was past the pantries and out the door, her slippered feet padding over the cobbled steps leading out to the perimeter of the grounds. The cool air of night, though relieving to her skin, served only to heighten her fear and quicken her steps. All around her were the noises of impending conflict, the clatter of armor and the familiar clang of steel on steel, a sound that brought shuddering back memories of a battlefield in Ravenna nearly a century earlier. But she hardly noticed the bodies of men swarming around the castle walls, and they hardly noticed her, so caught up were they, these laughing mock soldiers, in their merry game of war. Quickening her pace, she broke into a near-run, as she retreated for the nearest wooded covering, the time ticking away like a muster call in her head. Through the night, it seemed, she ran, but never made it very far in any direction before being confronted with some crude structure of wattle and daub, or the laughter of approaching soldiers. Some of the men, she noted, had had the audacity to make themselves up in the image of Maximilian's proud armies, mimicking the bold colors and rich plumage of their Continental brothers in arms, the Lansknechts, in cloddish fashion, with the ragged slashings of their mandilions, swatches of garish tangerine and eggplant tied onto the tips of their pikes, and a few gaudy plumes tucked into the bands of their tall hats. Some time in the night, the acrid aroma of burning thatch hit the air. Somewhere in the tortured muddle that was her mind, she suspected that one of the local tennants was being burned out of his home in the course of the revelry. And as fireworks illuminated the midnight sky, one of the bright blossoms of spark was doubly reflected, in the hungry crimson eyes of a beast huddled in bloodlust on the forest floor. The next morning, "it pleased her Majesty to have the poor old man and woman that had their house brent brought unto her; whom she recomforted very much. And by her Grace's bounty, and other courtiers', there was given towards their losses that had taken hurt £25.12.8, which was disposed to them accordingly. Enough to build a another house - a simple, jolly world! and thus was order kept in the people's nursery." - excerpted from "The Queen's Progress", by J. Nichols Let me bring you love from the fields: Poppies red and roses filled with summer rain To heal the wound and still the pain That threatens again and again As you drag down every lover's lane. Life's long celebration's here; I'll toast you all in penny cheer. - from "Songs from the Wood", Jethro Tull |