I was a welcomed maid of honor and the queen treated me with politeness, though she kept me at some distance. This was frustrating, as the others followed her lead. It pained me to admit that it was exactly as Princess Cecelia had predicted: I was daughter to no one, sister to no one, as yet wife to no one, mother to no one, and apparently friend only to Anne Dudley and William. I missed the companionship of my sisters and of Bridget. I longed to rectify that and had been seeking a manner in which I might make myself even more valuable to the queen. The queen often appointed me to sew new taffeta into the gowns she wished remodeled so she could pass them along to her ladies and maids, or even the underprivileged, but I wanted to be more helpful. And personal.
After the queen had left for a meeting with her councilors, I approached Mistress Blanche with what I hoped was a wonderful idea that would help me please the queen and earn friends. “I wonder if I might offer my assistance in helping blend perfumes and pomanders,” I said, my voice trembling a little with hope and the fear of being told no. “In light of Cecil’s concerns, I could provide sweet-smelling respite for the queen while protecting her person from harmful fumes given as gifts.” I waited and held my breath till she answered.
“That is a splendid idea, Lady Helena,” Blanche said. “I shall instruct Mrs. Morgaynne to provide you with whatever herbs and oils you need, and you may also select plants from any of Her Majesty’s gardens.”
“Thank you!” I said, reaching over to hug her, and she laughed lightly before shrugging me off. Within the week I had prepared some herbal blends and placed them into small, pink satin pouches. I approached Her Majesty as she was relaxing after a midday meal.
“Majesty, I have prepared some pleasant-smelling pomanders, some samples to choose among. Please, tell me which you prefer and I will blend some fine sachets for you.”
“Come, Helena,” the queen said, calling me forth to the sumptuously covered chair she reposed upon. I knelt before her, and she indicated that I should instead seat myself at the low stool to the side of her.
I held up the sachets one by one and I could tell from the look on her face which she preferred. Marjoram, of course, and those of rose, and some lavender that had been imported from France. The queen favored all things French.
“I shall personally blend these for you, Majesty, and the sachets will be stitched and laced by my own hand,” I said proudly. “Is there any other way I can be of service?”
I was still holding her favorite sachet in my hand, and rather than nod me away, she closed her own hand around mine for just a moment as a gesture of affection and acceptance. “No, my lady. How does Lord Northampton?”
“He is well, madam. He is preparing to undertake the diplomatic journey you’ll send him on with the Earl of Sussex. I pray that their, and your, mission meets with success.”
She smiled at me. “They are found faithful, as are you, Lady von Snakenborg. Come, tell me about your time thus far in my court.”
She indicated that a cushion should be brought for me, and placed near her, and I chatted about my apartment and my readings and the hawking and chess that William was helping me improve at. She shared with me some Greek translations that she was working on, some of which she found vexing.
“I should not have expected you to find anything vexing,” I said with admiration.
“Ah, but we do,” she disagreed with me. It made her all the more likable.
She offered some kind words and advice of her own, and invited me to dine with her and William, privately, when they returned from their journey. “I shall look forward to your company and pleasant conversation,” she said. “And your herbal preparations, of course.”
“Thank you, Majesty.” I was exultant. I had a task that set me aside from the others, and a manner in which I might serve the queen and the beginning of real friendship with her.
• • •
In February, some of the queen’s ladies were in her apartment playing gleek when a messenger arrived and burst impolitely into the chamber. The queen was taken aback, Cecil looked alarmed for her safety, and Lord Robert stood up. The messenger went directly to Her Majesty, and, kneeling before her, said, “I bring ill tidings, Majesty. Your cousin Lord Darnley, the husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, has been foully murdered!”
The room collectively gasped, and even Her Majesty, the ultimate dissembler, allowed some shock onto her face. “Is this true?” she demanded.
“I fear so, Majesty,” he said. “Lord Darnley was in a building that was exploded. However, when his body was examined it was found that he had been suffocated to death before the explosion.”
“Who has done this?” the queen demanded. “Scots rebels?”
The messenger leaned close to her and whispered, but as I was at her card table I was just able to overhear him. “Majesty, the whispering from Scotland seems to be that his wife, the queen, was involved in the plot.”
Her Majesty sat back and waved him away in utter contempt. Perhaps the messenger was familiar with the ancient story of Tigranes’s messenger having his head cut off for bearing ill news, but in any case, he stepped clear away from Her Majesty. In respect for dead Darnley, the queen canceled the card games and retired to her rooms. Another maid of honor, Eleanor Brydges, and I gathered Her Majesty’s cards from the tables.
“I hope Her Majesty is well,” I said. “She looked saddened and shocked.”
Eleanor nodded. “Darnley was her cousin, as is the Queen of Scots. It’s understandable that she be saddened. But there is no reason for shock. I do not believe that Queen Mary had a hand in her husband’s death.”
Later, after I was abed, it came to me that Eleanor could not have overheard the messenger mention that the Queen of Scots was suspected, as she had been playing gleek well across the great room.
• • •
If Her Majesty was shocked and saddened on that February eve, she was shocked and angry in May when word filtered south that Queen Mary had married the Earl of Bothwell, largely believed to have murdered Lord Darnley so he could marry Darnley’s wife, the queen.
“Has she lost all sensibilities?” the queen asked as she paced in her chamber. “She has gambled credibility as well as the affections of her people, which must never be treated lightly.”
The ambassador brought news that the Scots were arming themselves against Mary after her marriage to a murderer and that she would soon be deposed in favor of her young son.
That night, I heard whispering at the banquet tables while we ate. As few talked with me, I heard quite a lot. The queen rarely ate in public, which meant that most meals were free for courtier discussion. There was a name infrequently circulated in the banqueting hall that I did not know.
I asked Clemence that night, “Who is Amy Robsart?”
Clemence immediately stopped brushing my hair and caught my eye for a moment over the top of my head, in the looking glass. I had the sense that if she could have avoided the question altogether she would have, but William paid her handsome wages not only to attend to my physical needs but to answer questions such as I might need to know in order to better serve the queen.
“Amy was married to Lord Robert Dudley,” she answered.
“And she has now passed away?” I asked.
Clemence picked the brush up. “Yes, many years past. She was found at the bottom of a flight of stairs in a manor home, after all the servants had been dismissed for the day.”
It was my turn to be startled now. “Was she murdered?”
“The inquiry says no, ma’am, but the people . . . they think yes.”
“And who do the people say murdered Lady Dudley?” I asked.