Queen Elizabeth's Daughter: A Novel of Elizabeth I Read online

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  To all those whose lives have been touched by cancer

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is hard work. Writing Queen Elizabeth’s Daughter was especially difficult because I wrote it while undergoing treatment for stage-three uterine cancer, a very nasty, aggressive kind. I had a radical hysterectomy, chemo, then radiation, then more chemo. It was a very tough year. However, creating this story kept me going, kept me believing in my recovery, and in myself. There are many, many people I want to thank for their ongoing support and love during the process.

  First, thanks to my editor, Charles Spicer, who was incredibly patient and supportive during this time. His insightful comments and impeccable guidance make him truly an editor par excellence. I’d like to also thank my agent, Irene Goodman, for her understanding. April Osborn has been a wonderful person with whom to work on the nuts-and-bolts of the book, and Anya Lichtenstein has done a great job of sending the book out into the world. I’m much indebted to Ragnhild Hagen for a meticulous and thorough job of copyediting. Thanks also to the artists who designed such a beautiful cover—I love that blue dress.

  Next, I’d like to thank some dear friends whose consistent love and care gave me courage to continue when I was ready to quit. Becky Nestor Thacker, the amazingly talented seamstress who created my Tudor dress, was there with me every step of the way through my treatments. I simply wouldn’t have made it without her. Several wonderful friends sent a constant stream of cards and phoned me frequently, boosting my spirits with their love. Thank you, Chris Povish Freeman, Jo Claire Spear, Kathryn Lovatt, Sandra Redding, Carol Lewis, and the EFM group. I’d also like to thank several people who brought me food when I was too weak to crawl out of bed: the women at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Cary, North Carolina—Judy Crow, Jeanne de Ward, Deb Richardson, and my sister-in-law, Fran Weir. Those ladies can cook!

  I’m lucky to be a member of an online writing group called Book Pregnant. Those folks have been kind and generous beyond measure as they encouraged me to keep writing and keep healing. There are almost thirty members, all debut novelists (well, we started out that way—now many of them have second and third novels!), so I will not list them here. But know, BPers, I love you all!

  Thank you to my Facebook friends for their support and prayers. There are others who also supported me with their love; I cannot list them all here but I hope they know they are in my heart. I’m especially grateful to the man with the green eyes who inspired Sir John’s good looks.

  My three sons, Michael Smith, Jason Smith, and Adam Barnhill, offered me so much love and support during the writing of the novel and my recovery—thank you for everything. They, along with their wives, Jennifer Shy and Kristi Carswell, also cooked delicious meals for me during that time. Thank you.

  To my parents, Jack and Virginia Clinard, thank you for a lifetime of unwavering support.

  And to my husband, Frank, a thousand thanks for all that you do and have done for thirty-five years.

  I am a very lucky and grateful woman.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part 2

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Anne Clinard Barnhill

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  April 1574

  God’s death! I shall have their heads! To marry without the permission of one’s prince is treason! I will see everyone who took part in this debacle punished—the priest who dared marry them, the witnesses who arranged the wedding, even the stable boy who held their horses—all shall pay for this insult against my sovereignty.

  I have punished others before them, those fools who dared to marry without my consent. Did they believe I would be more lenient with Mistress Mary, just because she is my beloved cousin? If that is what they thought, then they are wrong! They will rot in the Tower until their stinking carcasses have turned to dust!

  Parry, did she think her treachery would go unpunished? After our most kind treatment of the baggage! Oh Parry, when I think of how she came to us, not much more than a babe in arms, how her chubby arms clung to my neck for comfort—God’s blood, she shall pay for her prank! All I have given her—hearth and home! Food and drink! Satins and silks to show off her beauty! Rubies and pearls to sparkle in her hair and on her person!

  Dear Parry, I gave her my heart—you know it is true! Does she put so little value on my love that she would turn traitor? I have cared more for her than I have for any man! A purer love. For she has been the daughter of my heart, if not my body! But she tossed my love back to me! Without a care!

  No! I will not forgive her, Parry! She has gone too far! Ungrateful wench! I shall see her and that new husband of hers in the Tower! They shall suffer a traitor’s death. I shall send for the guards this instant.

  You are right, dearest Parry. I could not bear such punishment. Even now, when I look into her dark, dark eyes, I see the poppet still, barely three years old, curtsying to me with as much grace as any grown woman, her dark hair hanging down her back, her little kirtle trimmed in lace. When I close my eyes, I can still feel her solid body seeking comfort from my own. Parry, do you recall her first night at court, how she cried until you took pity on her and brought her to me, how she fell asleep in my arms, snoring gently. I can still recollect her sweet smell, like the grasses in spring, fresh and delicate. I had not yet been officially crowned—I was young and beautiful! Ah, before the cares of the world etched themselves across my face …

  No, Parry, I cannot send
her to her death. I must keep her with me somehow. For now, it is I who cannot sleep, I who toss and turn unless she is there to comfort me. Fear not, old friend, she shall come to no harm.

  But by God’s teeth, he shall pay! He shall pay with his life for taking my girl from me! I will have his head!

  PART I

  And I hope to have children; otherwise, I would never marry.

  QUEEN ELIZABETH I, PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH

  One

  After eleven years under the rule of Queen Elizabeth, the England of 1569 found itself prospering, due mainly to the peace brought by the queen’s foreign policies. Through cunning use of her status as an eligible young woman seemingly eager to be wed, the queen had been able to walk a thin line between maidenhood and marriage, leading to the security and, for the most part, happiness of her people. When France threatened, she pretended to entertain the possibility of marriage to the Duke of Anjou. When Spain became menacing, she turned her romantic attentions to her former brother-in-law, King Philip. She pleased the Protestants by flirting with the royalty of the German states. By balancing her numerous suitors, Queen Elizabeth kept the rich jewel that England had become from the entanglements of war. As a result, she was able to refill the coffers of the crown, which had been emptied by her sister’s previous reign when Queen Mary I had supported her foreign husband’s fruitless war efforts. Elizabeth took great care not to fall into a similar trap. She refused to make war and she refused to make a domestic match.

  Though she had kept her country safe from foreign entanglements, there were still problems on English soil. The religious struggles between the Catholics, who lived mostly in the rural, northern parts of the land, and the stronghold of Protestants around London continued, though the queen was lenient in her dealings with recusants as long as they kept quiet and obeyed English law. However, this delicate balance was now beginning to teeter because Mary, Queen of Scots, had been deposed by her Scottish lords due to the mysterious death of her husband, Lord Darnley, a death in which Mary herself had been implicated. Then Mary had been carried away by the Earl of Bothwell, who, it was said, kidnapped and raped her. In response to this gross insult to her person and dignity, and much to Elizabeth’s horror, the Scottish queen married the man.

  Such events proved too much for the lords of Scotland to endure, and Queen Mary lost her crown. In desperation, she turned to her cousin Elizabeth for shelter. Elizabeth quickly recognized the threat posed by this Catholic queen, who had as much right to the English throne as did Elizabeth, in the minds of many. Elizabeth immediately placed Mary under guard and limited her access to the outside world. However, this did nothing to stop Catholic conspiracies from springing up, intricate plans to place Mary on the throne, thereby returning the country to the rule of Rome. These plots gave Elizabeth and her guardians many sleepless nights. But few were aware of the threat, except the queen herself, Master Cecil, and Robert Dudley.

  For Mistress Mary Shelton, now fifteen, the world seemed safe and secure; she attended to her studies, danced and played the virginals, embroidered clothing for the poor, chattered with the queen in the royal bedchamber, and ate as many gooseberry tarts as she could sneak past Mistress Blanche Parry.

  Mary had lived at court since her parents’ deaths within a fortnight of each other in November 1558. Elizabeth had become queen that very month, a young, vibrant woman of twenty-five. At that moment, she had met the three-year-old orphan and taken the child into her care. Because Mary’s father had received his knighthood from King Henry VIII, any of his offspring underage at the time of his death would become royal wards. But Mary was the only one of his children under the age of fourteen; the rest had reached their majority. Mary’s future was at the queen’s disposal.

  Mary was not only a ward, she was also Elizabeth’s cousin. Mary’s grandfather, Sir John Shelton, had married Anne Boleyn, sister of Sir Thomas Boleyn, Elizabeth’s grandfather. They were tied by bonds of kinship and, because of their long association, bonds of love.

  Mary had not yet blossomed into the promised prettiness of her childhood. Her dark hair, thick and lustrous, was her best feature, along with her eyes, the same shade. Her mouth was set too primly and her nose was too long and sharp to make her breathtakingly beautiful. Though she had not fulfilled the high hopes the queen had had for her looks, she had that fresh allure reserved for the young. With her deep brown eyes and the smile that played around her mouth, she was beginning to feel her power as a woman. Her figure was shapely and she saw how the courtiers watched her taking delicate steps in the galliard on the rare occasions she consented to dance. She could see how her smile brought the same, answering response to the lips of even stodgy old men like Master Cecil.

  Being brought up as the queen’s favorite had given Mary an imperious air, and when she spoke, it was to command. She was the queen’s cousin and royal ward. She was no shy flower waiting to be plucked. Rather, she was almost as forceful as the queen and often at odds with Her Majesty—they argued about the low cut of Mary’s gowns, the bit of rouge she put on her cheeks, and the way she flounced into a room. Few people at court had the courage to disagree with the queen. Mary Shelton was one who dared.

  Two

  April 1569

  The spring had been unusually cold and rainy; Mary Shelton was happy to have a sunny day at last. She walked quickly across the meadow behind the Hampton Court knot gardens in pursuit of her dog, Tom, a large, red Irish hound she’d been awarded on her tenth birthday—a gift from the queen for excellent progress in Latin and Greek and, of course, penmanship. She’d named him Tom after the devilish Tom Wotton, the boy who continued to plague her at her lessons with Master Cecil’s wards. Even now, Tom Wotton would hide her quill, steal her books, and laugh at her for no reason. She despised him, though he had grown handsome and filled out his doublet nicely. She enjoyed giving her dog, Tom, commands. She pretended she gave such orders to the real Tom Wotton.

  Though she’d had the dog for five years, Tom still enjoyed a romp in the woodlands and Mary took him there almost every day. Already, she’d loosed his leash, allowing him to run and leap until he exhausted himself. She struggled through the still-damp ground to keep pace.

  “Hey-ho! Tom! Wait for me, fellow! You run too fast!” Mary panted as she lifted her skirts to trot after the dog. Mary was well made, with dark hair that had escaped her lace caul, long curls bouncing as she ran. Her face was flushed with her efforts, giving her a pretty blush. But it was her eyes people noticed—large and brown with long, dark lashes. They were hypnotic and, though she had a resemblance to her cousin the queen—the same small, slender frame and a similar zest for life—Mary looked more like the queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn. Everyone said so, though never within earshot of Her Majesty. It had become quite clear, early on, that Elizabeth wanted no talk about her mother at court.

  The dog paused, looked back at his mistress, then bolted for the nearby trees. Mary sighed. “Cursed hound! I will not give chase!” She stopped where she was and turned to gaze down the slight slope toward the castle. She was glad to be away from the doings at court and the smelly confines of the queen’s chambers. Hampton Court was beautiful to look at, but after a time, the air became contaminated with horrible smells from the refuse of people and animals, not to mention the garbage and wastes from the grand kitchens. Mary understood why the queen insisted on at least one daily walk. And why she moved from castle to castle with some regularity—she was driven to it by the offensive odors of her court. Mary smiled—her queen seemed to be more sensitive in this regard than most. Yet, no one would dare mention the smells; like the queen, they pinned flowers to their clothes and pretended the air was filled with the scent of roses and chamomile blossoms.

  “Now what could be passing through your addled brain to make such a pretty smile?” said a young man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  “Oh! Tom Wotton, you gave me a start!” said Mary, turning to him. “How dare you creep up on me! What ar
e you doing here?”

  “Same as you, I warrant. The sun is out and so am I—bleak winter lasted past his welcome. I have been gathering the first flowers of spring!” said Tom. He handed her a posy of daffodils and purple hyacinths.

  “Humph. Stolen from Her Majesty’s garden, no doubt,” said Mary, sniffing the blossoms.

  “Not so, milady. I found them growing of their own accord at the edge of the forest. Do you like them?” said Tom.

  “Of course I like them. But such a gift is a bit odd coming from the likes of you. You don’t usually do kind things—” said Mary.

  “Maybe the sun has brought my humors into balance…” Tom said. He rocked back and forth on his feet, his hands pulling on his doublet and fiddling with a strip of velvet that had come loose.

  “Here comes Tom, my dog. Are you tired now, boy? Do you want some food?” said Mary, rubbing Tom’s fur roughly.

  “Tom? Your dog is named Tom?” said Master Wotton.

  Mary felt her cheeks grow warm. She and Wotton were not friends. She remembered when she’d first gotten her pup, Tom, the boy, had been tormenting her relentlessly during Master Nowell’s classes. He made fun of her Latin pronunciation; laughed when she erred in mathematics; poked her when she tried to copy her poems, ruining countless parchments; and tripped her when they were partnered together for dancing. Worst of all, he berated her for being a girl; after all, she was the only female ward to take such strenuous courses—and Tom would not forgive her for being a quick study.

  “Well, yes,” said Mary, her face growing more and more warm.

  “You named that wretched cur after me?”

  “Um … well, um … yes! Yes, I did,” said Mary, meeting his gaze.

  “That’s quite an honor … I suppose you did it because you have always thought highly of me—even when we were but children. I’m charmed, mistress. Do you still hold me in such high esteem?” Tom said.

  “Well, no, I … um, rather, I did not honor you, sir … you have mistook me…” said Mary.