A Court Affair. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ loved to go barefoot whenever I could. I loved the freedom and the feel of the grass, or wood or stone, rough or smooth, chilled or sun-baked, beneath my bare feet. Robert used to send me velvet and satin slippers, a dozen or more pairs at a time, as a silent signal of his disapproval, but I never let that stop me; I gave up too many other things for Robert.

      When Pirto starts to gather my hair up, I stop her. “No, the pins make my head ache. Leave it free.” This is my one and only concession to comfort—a proper married lady wears her hair pinned up, while a maiden leaves hers unbound—but no one will see. Pirto, however, still thinks I mean to go out today, to church and afterwards the fair.

      At times it seems too great an effort and a silly charade. I love Pirto, but I am the lady, and she is my servant, and it is not for me to placate her. I could have done without all these tedious preparations and put on my night shift and taken to my bed, unencumbered by corset and the stiff and rustling confines of petticoats and gown, garters, stockings, and shoes, all the accoutrements of a lady, but for some reason I don’t quite understand, it is important to me to be dressed today, to not lounge about languid and loose as a concubine in a sultan’s harem.

      “As you wish, love,” Pirto agrees and gently sets the gold-braided satin hood that matches my gown upon my head, fastening the strap and adding just a couple of pins, placing them carefully, anxious not to cause me any more pain. “There now.” She smoothes the cascade of golden curls streaming down my back. “All ready now, you are, pet, except for your purse, though you’ll not be needing it just yet, but I have it ready—it’s there upon the desk.”

      “Not quite ready yet, Pirto.” I smile. “I want my necklace. The special one My Lord gave me when he still loved me.”

      “Aye, I know the one.” She nods and brings forth from my jewel coffer a rich and heavy necklace of golden oak leaves and amber acorns that matches the betrothal ring I have worn on my left hand since the day Robert put it on my finger when I was a green girl of seventeen brimming over with hopes and dreams. I could not imagine then a world in which Robert would cease to love me. Even now, I like being clothed and jewelled in Robert’s oak leaves and acorns; like cattle wearing its master’s brand, I am still his wife, even if he wishes otherwise; I still remember, even when all he wants to do is forget. I am Lady Amy Dudley, Lord Robert’s wife, and I will never surrender that until Death takes it from me. With this ring I thee wed. Until death do us part. My affections are not frivolous and fickle despite the changeable nature often ascribed to my sex; when I stood beside Robert on our wedding day to make our vows, I spoke from my heart and meant every word.

      “Will you lie down for a bit, love?” Pirto hovers anxiously beside me.

      “No.” I shake my head. “It will muss my gown. Help me to my chair please, Pirto.”

      It is the most comfortable, beautiful, cheerful chair imaginable, so inviting that it often tempts me from my bed, which is good and exactly as it should be, Dr Biancospino said when I told him. It was the last present my husband sent to me. Such thoughtfulness surely proves that, somewhere, deep in his heart, despite his outward show of indifference, he must still care for me. It is upholstered in the most vibrant, rich emerald green all embroidered with bright, beautiful flowers, their petals, leaves, and stems accented with threads of gold and silver. When I sit in it, it is like sinking down into a bed of wildflowers. It always makes me smile. It is so wonderfully, heavenly soft. Sometimes, when I am so sick that I think I will never leave my bed again, I gaze across the room at it, and I am drawn to it. I want to reach out and touch the pinks and daffodils; their leaves seem to beckon to me, to coax a smile from me, and I cannot resist the urge to rise and sit in it—it is too powerful to ignore.

      As Pirto bustles about the room, putting things right after my bath, I sit and watch the dawn break over the park, where the pond catches the sun’s reflection. Mrs Forster’s children will be out looking for frogs in their Sunday best if their mother and nurse don’t keep a sharp eye on them. I smile at the thought, I can so well imagine it; it’s a scene I have seen before and laughed at until it hurt so much, I cried.

      As my hand caresses the bright flowers embroidered on the well-padded green arm of my chair, I gaze down upon my betrothal ring, and in that amber acorn, caught like little flecks and flotsam in the golden sap, I can see the happy, joyful days when I was strong, happy, and beloved by the man I can never forget, the one who made me believe all my dreams would come true, and that there really was a happily ever after …

      2

      Amy Robsart Dudley

       Stanfield Hall, near Wymondham, in Norfolk August 1549–April 1550

      I remember the first time I saw Robert Dudley. Sometimes one look, one glance, is enough. Though many, perhaps even I now, would scoff at my youth—I was only new-turned seventeen—that August day I knew I had met my destiny.

      I sat beside the river, lazy and languid in a bed of nodding yellow buttercups, almost one of them myself in my yellow gown, with my golden curls tumbling down, wiggling my bare toes, with an apron full of apples in my lap. I was daydreaming, building castles in the blue sky and white clouds, pretending that I was a princess, dreaming of the day my prince would come. Suddenly the whinny of a horse startled me and blew all the dreams right out of my head. I leapt up and spun round, the apples falling from my lap, tumbling and rolling every which way. That was when I saw him—Robert, Lord Robert Dudley, my prince in a shining silver breastplate, mounted on a night black steed.

      A playful smile twitched and tugged at his lips, and his dark eyes danced as they took my measure, eyeing me up and down as I stood there spellbound at the sight of him. His silver breastplate flashed in the sun, dazzling my eyes, nearly blinding me when he reached up to doff his purple velvet cap, adorned with a sprightly peacock feather. He tethered his horse to a nearby tree and came to me, this dumbstruck, barefoot, country lass gawking and gaping at him, and gallantly knelt to retrieve the fallen fruit around my feet. I had never seen anyone quite like him before, and my knees gave way, and I sank down, back into the buttercups, with him.

      Smiling broadly, he asked my name.

      “Amy,” I said, and to this day I don’t know how I managed to utter it, he left me so dazed and breathless.

      “Beloved!” He breathed the meaning of my name in a way that was like a caress to me, savouring each syllable upon his lips as if they were the most delicious morsels he had ever tasted.

      With a boyish grin, he took from his belt a dagger with its hilt studded with sapphire and emerald cabochons, like blue and green bubbles, and from my lap where he had laid them, he selected an apple, his fingers gently, lingeringly brushing my thigh through my skirts and making my cheeks burn as if the blood beneath my skin had suddenly burst into flames. It was love, I would later tell myself, burning like a fever that would in time consume me.

      As the peeling fell away in one long, curling ribbon, he smiled and asked of me:

      “Do you country girls still play at that old game of tossing the apple peelings over your shoulder to see how they fall and discern in their shape the initial of your bridegroom-to-be?”

      “At times we do, My Lord.” I blushed to admit it. It seemed now, when this elegant young man spoke of it, such a childish and silly game.

      “Go on, then.” He passed the apple peeling to me and jerked his head back over his shoulder to indicate that I should toss it over mine. “Let’s see how it falls.”

      With СКАЧАТЬ