I stood close enough to attend my lady when she required, but not near enough to overhear their conversation, which left me able to observe. The queen was splendid beyond what anyone had imagined—she smiled often, and when she did, there were tiny wrinkles upon the corners of her black eyes, like the splaying of a fine paintbrush. Her skin was poured silver—no, rather moonlight, because it was ethereal. And yet there was no question of the power that rested completely in her hands, sheathed by pretty gloves. At age thirty-two she was nearly thirteen years older than I, and seven years Princess Cecelia’s senior, but looked no older than Cecelia whatsoever.
We were all taken with the queen, with the exception, perhaps, of the margrave; he had noticeably slipped away. He’d once been proposed as a suitor for Queen Elizabeth. I wondered, at this rich court, if he felt that he’d settled for less than he should have.
“Do you find your quarters comfortable, Lady Elin?” A voice came up from behind me, and I saw that it was the marquess. His hair was silver but carefully groomed. He smelled faintly of pine; perhaps he scented his wash water with marjoram. All Swedish ladies learned to work with herbs so ’twas easy for me to recognize.
“Very, Lord Northampton,” I said, comfortable and safe in his presence, honored to have been singled out by him. “Lord Bedford and his wife have made us exceedingly welcome, and I know my mistress is overjoyed to meet yours after these many years.”
“The queen shared how pleased she is to have Princess Cecelia, and her entire retinue, here,” Lord Northampton said. “Come, will you accompany me at a walk in the garden? The countess has an exceptionally lovely autumn display.”
I looked at my mistress, who nodded her permission, and I gladly slipped away. As I did, I noticed Bridget smiling in my direction, but the other ladies in waiting, and quite a few of the English ladies, frowned. I tucked my hand into Lord Northampton’s proffered elbow and tried to ignore them. As we walked through the gardens, I asked him how long he had known the queen.
“Nearly all her life,” he said. “My sister Kateryn was the sixth and final wife of Her Majesty’s father, King Henry, whom I also served.” I tried to hide a smile, but Lord Northampton caught it and smiled with me. “I see that you know of our king,” he said.
“Somewhat,” I answered with a teasing smile. I wasn’t going to cast the first stone on behalf of Sweden’s royal family, with its own checkered past.
“I next served the queen’s brother Edward, when he was king, as Lord Chamberlain and Master of the Hawks. When the queen’s sister, Mary, took the throne, my wife and I were convicted of treason. I was imprisoned in the Tower and sentenced to death, though, as you see, the order was not carried out.”
I laughed. “And it’s a good thing that it was not. Please, continue!”
“Soon came the glorious day Her Majesty became queen. She was returning from the Tower of London when she spied my pitiable self locked up behind one small window. She stopped her palfrey, called out to me, and asked after my health. Her Grace had been especially close to my sister Kateryn and remembered that, and me, when she came into her power. She freed me and restored my titles, to my everlasting thanks and gratitude.”
I smiled, and a cool autumn breeze rustled through the trees, coaxing some of their burlap cupules to the ground. It reminded me, with a pang, of my home, where beech grew freely. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever pitiable. And what of your wife, Lord Northampton?” I asked. “Was she pardoned, too?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “She was a great friend of the Queen’s Majesty as well. Sadly, she died April past after a long illness.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. He seemed like a good man who had sorrow etched on his handsome face, and I felt moved with the desire to lift his countenance if I could.
“And so am I,” he answered. “But that is not talk for a comely lady on a beautiful day. Tell me of Sweden. Is it wild? Are there yet Danes harrying every port?” he teased.
“Indeed there are,” I replied. “They are a pestilence.”
At that he laughed, as I’d intended, which pleased me, and said the English cared little for Danes as well. We sat in the garden and talked of Sweden and of my family, and I spoke to him in French as well, which I had also been tutored in, as our king and his brother Duke Johan had had French tutors along with Latin.
As darkness fell he indicated to me that we should return to the house, as Princess Cecelia would be wondering after me. “I should like to teach you Italian sometime,” he said. “If you’d like.”
“I’d like that very much,” I said, thinking that this was my first happy day in well over a year. “If I see you again.”
“You shall,” he said. “I can promise you that.”
• • •
The very next day the princess began her pains; we ladies rushed to assist, and I prepared a mixture of lady’s bedstraw and applied it to a linen. I held it next to her nose, and as she breathed in, her pain became more tolerable and she quieted enough to calmly deliver of a son, Edward Fortunatus. The name Edward had been chosen for Queen Elizabeth’s brother, the former king, and Fortunatus because he had made it safely through many perils on the journey to England. My duty done, I stood back, pleased, but noted with confusion the querying look the English midwife directed toward me. Was she upset that I had stepped in to help my lady? Surely that was my place. Feeling awkward, I withdrew to my own room.
The queen herself stood as godmother some days later when young Edward was baptized at the Royal Chapel at the Palace of Whitehall. Queen Elizabeth had spared no expense for the child of her Swedish “sister.” The Archbishop of Canterbury, Matthew Parker, blessed the font before the child was brought in by our Bridget. She handed the babe to Lady Margaret Howard, who stood in front of the Earl of Leicester, the queen’s favorite, and the Earl of Sussex, an especially trusted friend of Her Majesty but sworn enemy of Leicester. My Lord Northampton held the towel with which to dry the babe.
“Why the pelicans?” I asked him after the ceremony, nodding to the many fine linens upon which were stitched those delicate birds.
“A pelican is the symbol of self-sacrifice,” he said. “When there is no other food available, she will reach down and with her beak wound her own breast to supply blood for her children to sup on. This is a figure of our Lord and His passion. And also of our queen, who readily sacrifices herself for her realm, England.”
“I learn something new from you each day!” I teased, but it pleased me, the interest he took in me, and I wanted to offer a return. “So now I shall have to try to teach something to you as well.”
I tried to teach him a few words of Swedish, but he could not readily grasp them and, after a moment or two, lost interest, though he was gracious about it. I suspected he found our language guttural. We reverted to smooth French, which was comfortable for both of us, or in the main, English.
That evening, Anne Russell, in whose home we stayed, came to visit with me. We’d become quick friends, and I enjoyed her wit and kindness. So I found it odd, then, when she approached me with hesitation and perhaps a little fear. “The Englishwomen, we’re wondering—what did you give to Princess Cecelia that quelled her birth pangs so readily? I told them I would ask you and share the secret.”
“Lady’s bedstraw,” I said. “Mixed with some other herbs from the north.”
She remained quiet for a moment before shaking her head, and laughed, but uneasily. “Those strange northern herbs seem to have worked . . . wondrously!”