Fair Youth

Fair youth

Fair youth

a novel

by

Lawrence Wells

Copyright 2024 by Lawrence Wells

ePub edition published by Sanctuary Editions, an imprint of Yoknapatawpha Press,

P.O. Box 248, Oxford, MS 38655

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper or magazine.

ISBN 978-0-916242-94-7

Cover and text design by Emily Bowen-Moore

Cover image credit: Alamy.com

To the memory of Gertrude C. Ford

In the old age black was not counted fair,

If it were, it bore not beauty’s name;

But now is black beauty's successive heir,

And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame.

SONNET 127     

CHAPTER ONE

Richmond Palace − May, 1570

The unthinkable was happening. The master of ceremony, swimming in Lethe, failed to acknowledge him. "I am the Earl of Oxford! he said. I am recently returned from the Scottish border war." In war as in peace he dressed to kill. His family crest, a boar’s head, was inset in gold and silver on his buckler.

The Earl of Oxford! the master of ceremony called out to the court, adding for good measure, Lord Great Chamberlain!

Buckram vest creaking, Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, 20, strode through the anteroom. He had ridden night and day to bring news of the Scottish defeat to Her Majesty. The border campaign had evolved from a 1569 uprising by followers of Mary, Queen of Scots. His ancestors being known as The Fighting Veres Oxford had begged Queen Elizabeth for a commission. If Majesty fails to allow me to fulfill my destiny, he declared, I do not wish to live.

Queen Elizabeth was listening to one of her Ladies playing the virginals. Gentlemen of the Chamber hovered about her like wall hangings. Plumed helmet under his arm Oxford strode toward the queen with a heavy tread—not easy to do when one weighed under ten stone. With a wave of her fan Elizabeth stopped the music and motioned him to approach. He went forward and knelt. My Liege, he murmured, staring at the royal slippers. Had he remembered to comb his hair? It felt a bit wiry. He could not help admiring her dramatic pause. She knew how to make a man wait.

God be praised, this brave soldier, Lord Oxford, has returned safely! declared the queen. What news from Scotland?

The Scots are vanquished! he sang out, still on his knees. She had called him a soldier in front of the entire company. Lord Sussex is triumphant. The rebellion has been put down. The northern border is secure! From boyhood he’d dreamed of military glory, practiced long hours with sword and crossbow, broken dozens of lances at joust. The border war was, in fact, one castle siege after another. Making and breaking camp was how one spent nine-tenths of his time, but the point was to get something out of it.

He rose to address the court. Our main column proceeded up the valley of the Teviot, destroying castle, tower and town for two miles on either side of the stream… (One did not mention pigs’ throats being slit, peasant girls raped, orchards hacked down, wells being salted. The corridors of history were hinged, like Richmond Palace, with privies at every corner.) And Lord Sussex said… He paused to make sure he had the Queen’s ear. ‘Before the light of this moon be past I mean to leave a memory in Scotland whereof they and their children shall be sore afraid to offer war to England!’

The Court burst into applause. Oxford self-consciously tugged at his collar. He remembered the Scots, valiant in defeat, filing out of their burning strongholds. His single act of gallantry, against Lord Sussex’s orders, was to salute them.

We will proclaim this blessed news throughout the provinces, the Queen exclaimed. Tomorrow you must dictate a full account to the chief herald.

I could dictate it now, Majesty! Before memory and feelings faded, one might even compose a war epic in blank verse.

Nay, tonight, you dine with us.

The royal command surprised him. Living quarters at the palace were impossible to arrange on short notice. As your Grace wills, though I have made no provisions to stay overnight.

A place will be found, she said. He looked inquiringly about. Now that the stir over his arrival had subsided, a buzz of private conversations resumed. Are they not a lackluster lot? the Queen whispered. Until you arrived nothing was happening.

Shall we have a pageant, your Grace?

She nodded eagerly. She looked younger than her thirty-seven years. Everyone knew the queen’s date of birth. It was a national holiday.

What will our pageant be? she asked.

He mentally rejected stories from Homer, Aeschylus, Virgil and Seneca. Gorboduc? Ferrex slaying Porrex in blank verse? No, comedy was wanted. Let them laugh. Gammer Gurton’s Needle? Too rustic, though noblemen disguised as churls had a zany appeal. Ralph Roister Doister? Her Royal Highness as Dame Christian Custance and himself as Matthew Merrygreek? Too bourgeois.

Let us have a pageant celebrating the seasons, he exclaimed, wherein Spring be virginal, Summer voluptuous, Autumn jaded and Winter jilted!

"And what role shall we play?" whispered Elizabeth.

Any your Grace desires.

Choose thy part, first!

Old Man Winter.

She hooted with laughter. Every lady and courtier grew alert. You must be Spring, she went on, and we shall be Summer. You have brought us a change of season.

Oxford began organizing the pageant. Ladies were lambs and nightingales. Gentlemen of the Chamber were shepherds, Yeomen of the Guard sheep. Yon table’s a hill! he declared. Stools are boulders. That hearth’s a cave. Fetch me a pikeman. We need a maypole, a sapling pike as it were.

Standing on a bench he directed the pageant, instructing musicians in a balcony to sound a fanfare and grandly announcing the entrance of Her Majesty’s Springtime. Oxford pretended to be impatient with Old Man Winter, the role he’d assigned to Sir Henry Lee, the Queen’s champion at the joust. At his directions, Sir Henry was to promenade in blizzardly silence, while snowflakes played by Ladies-in-Waiting swirled around him.

Chillingly, Sir Henry, cruelly linger! he instructed the white-haired knight.

What? What? called the deaf knight. When musicians played Under the Greenwood Tree Oxford led the singing in a high, clear tenor.

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither.

After the song the Queen crowned him Lord of Spring with an ivy wreath. Her look of tender regard made him a little drunk.

As a grand finale he directed the followers of Spring and Summer to fall dead at Sir Henry’s feet. Maids of Autumn dropped leaves on their graves. At his direction Queen Elizabeth gladly sank to the floor in a swoon. He saw a flash of thigh before maids straightened the royal skirts. At his command the musicians played a dirge. Sir Henry Lee stood at attention as if reviewing the palace guard.

Oxford signaled the musicians to strike up a jig. The company joined hands and danced in a circle. When the jig ended Elizabeth led the applause. Lords and ladies exchanged bows with pikemen who had performed with them. The Queen marveled at her ivy-crowned Pan. Our Lord Great Chamberlain has talent, she observed.

For devising or entertaining? he asked.

Make a point, she replied, and both will come together.

The royal banquet was ablaze with a hundred candles. Oxford was given the place of honor next to Elizabeth. Envious noblemen shook their heads as if there were no accounting for Her Majesty’s taste. Dinner was endless. Roast goose followed by baked sea trout, venison, roast pig and duckling, plumed pheasants with staring eyes, platters of pigeon, lobsters with claws locked as if in battle.

Oxford picked at his plate. The queen, too, ate sparingly. They chatted about trifles. Tables were soon strewn with empty golden goblets and silver plates. To the accompaniment of bassoons, castanets, and perfumed dancers from the Orient, a grand dessert of sugared wine, brandied dates, cheeses, and raisins soaked in honey was served.

Oxford glanced at the Queen. Details of battle crowded his imagination. A wail of bagpipes. Ground-shaking barrage of heavy cannon. Rattle of Scottish arms being stacked in defeat. I must say, Majesty, he said, your cavaliers wept at being denied a coup de grace. Sussex’s raiding party under Sir William Drury penetrated Scottish defenses all the way to Edinburgh…

We had had no choice but to break off hostilities, Elizabeth broke in. Soldiers must fight.  We must reign.

Why the sudden coolness? What had he said to irritate Her Highness?

Whilst our soldiers were setting fire to Scottish castles, she hurried on, the King of Scotland was appealing to the King of France, who demanded that British troops withdraw. She explained—as though to a child, he thought—that England could not risk the possibility that France might join with Spain to forge a peace. Fear of such an alliance had forced her, she said, to order Sussex to call off the attack.

Why had he mentioned cavaliers weeping! He felt as green the herb salad untouched before him, although he would not forget British soldiers cursing when ordered to fall back. How had she known about firing the huts?

She stood up and, as if on cue, the inebriated lords implored Her Majesty to stay. The ritual objection amused her. Yes, the courtiers could hardly make do without her, but they must try, and there was an end to it. She brushed past Oxford in a rustle of satin.

Wait a spell, she whispered, then come to my Retiring Chamber. Knock once and you will be admitted. Feet bolted to the floor he stared after her.

Dawdling in darkened corridors he polished the tips of his boots on the back of his stockings, toyed with his dagger, carved his initials on a privy door. Eventually he approached what he assumed was the Retiring Chamber. A Gentleman Pensioner guarded the entrance. Like a messenger delivering an official report Oxford folded his arms and assumed a bored expression. The Pensioner looked at him askance.

Her Majesty is expecting me! he said.

In his wildest imagination he could not picture himself alone with Her Majesty. How would he entertain her? Lost romances, ghosts, legends...the budget? Perhaps sing a ballad, recite a sonnet, pour her a cup of wine? How many others had knocked before him? The Earl of Leicester was said to be the Queen’s favorite. Leicester was a physical specimen with broad shoulders, a head taller than Oxford. Half a head, if one stood very straight. He tapped on the door. There was no answer. Perhaps he had not knocked loudly enough. He started to knock again, then froze. Knocking twice might arouse the Gentleman Pensioner’s suspicions. Mercifully the door swung open. A serving maid curtseyed.

Edward de Vere, he said gravely. To see Her Majesty.

This way, my Lord.

He followed the maid through antechambers, sitting rooms, bedrooms, privy chambers and yet more antechambers leading to presence chambers and who-knew-what-chambers. At last the girl stopped and knocked on a door with conviction. He was not sure he could have brought himself to do it. What was going on in the Retiring Chamber? What dishabille? What perfumes and lotions were being applied? Was a Queen’s bodice different from any other? Hearing a faint summons the maid opened the door and stood aside. He hesitated. She gave him a smile of encouragement.

Is anyone attending Her Majesty? he whispered. The maid shook her head. Should I announce myself? The maid curtseyed in reply.

"God’s bones, art coming or no! shouted Elizabeth. He straightened his scabbard and stood in the doorway. There’s a draft, she complained. He entered, carefully closing the door behind him. She was seated on a chaise in front of the fire. She wore a velvet dressing gown. Hair spilled over her shoulders. He noticed the royal bed palely looming. Sit you down, sir!"

In courtier fashion, fist pressed against hip, rapier angled behind, he came forward. Elizabeth turned her face away in amusement. He knelt in homage, the fire’s heat branding his neck. She gestured at a bottle of wine and two silver goblets.  Grateful for something to do, he poured the wine, mixing hers with water as she asked. He gave her the goblet and offered a toast: ‘Tis a glorious day for English arms—

Take off your sword.

He set his goblet on the sideboard and unbuckled his belt, balancing sword and metal scabbard against the wall. As he turned away the sword fell to the floor with an ear-shattering crash. He half-expected the Gentleman Pensioner to burst through the door. Elizabeth patted the chaise. He sat gingerly beside her and sipped his wine.

Do you remember when first we met?

Aye, Majesty, at Hedingham Castle. Her perfume clouded his senses, essence of roses.

It was 1561, she recalled.

I was eleven.

She changed the subject. You beat me at jeu de le maillet.

Oh, no, Madam, you won, he said thickly. Had she said me in lieu of the royal us? Such informality was strange and marvelous like going barefoot in December.

I did?

I, not we! The royal thigh was cool. Not warm like an ordinary thigh. Yes, Mmm— He stopped short of saying Majesty.

She pressed against him. You allowed me to win.

He stared at the crackling flames. You hit with skill.

She trailed a fingernail down his neck. You let me win.

No, your…you beat me fair and square.

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. Fie, still wearing buckram! Remove your doublet. He gulped the last of his wine. The leather buckler thumped to the floor. What else do you recall? Her fingertips traced a line down his neck.

With a savage effort he brought memory to heel. We met in Westminster at the wedding of Lord Warwick and Lady Russell… She pushed his hair away from his ear. Rutland and I served as pages in the wedding...and afterwards there was a wedding tourney… She probed inside his ear. "I unseated Rutland…at joust!"

The royal thigh warmed to his. I am told you neglected studying law, she whispered, in order to attend plays by the Gentlemen of the Inn.

I do like ‘em, ma’am, he admitted, naming Philip Sidney, John Manners, Thomas Howard, Henry Percy—brilliant young men he’d met at Gray’s Inn.

"Did you study lex situs and lex domicilii and lex mercatoria?" she prompted.

"Aye, and lex fori and lex terrae." He welcomed any distraction that might reduce his sudden, embarrassing erection.

"Lex scripta and lex non scripta!" she teased.

"Lex g-g-generalis," he stuttered.

Now you have me at your mercy! she said merrily. "What is God’s name is lex generalis?"

The law as generally applied, Majesty.

She kissed the back of his hand. He tentatively pressed his lips against hers and was shaken when she kissed him back. Majesty, pardon this poor rising codpiece. Tongues probed and searched. You’ve spilled wine! she said, dabbing at his breeches. You’re all sticky.

A kingdom of joy was within his grasp. She laughed in her throat, a lioness in heat. Arms about each other’s waist, they approached the bed, and she began plucking at his clothing. This silent unbuttoning, yanking and untying, was as intimate as touching tongues. Like a serving girl she knelt to pull off his breeches. He stood naked and erect while fully clothed she grinned impishly, enjoying her advantage. He drew back the curtains and dived into bed. Silhouetted against the fire she slipped out of her gown. He admired her economy of motion as she drew her shift over her head. Her nipples were small and dark.

She laid a cool hand on his stomach. Am I the first? Embarrassed, he tried to kiss her, but she held back. Am I? Her fingers slid towards his groin. There was no air in his lungs. Was this what dying felt like? I wager some lusty maid hath had thee, she whispered.

A single lucid thought remained, a blazing pine cone in a burning forest. "I must be mindful of my seed!" To his horror she threw back her head and burst into laughter, honking into the pillows. He threw back the bedclothes.

Wait! she said, brushing tears from her cheeks. She made him lie down and kissed him. Her hands grew busy. With a moan he turned to her. She gripped his buttocks. If thou’rt a virgin, she whispered, so am I.

CHAPTER TWO

Whitehall Palace, May, 1571

Elizabeth summoned Oxford wherever she traveled—Whitehall, Greenwich, Richmond, Hampton Court. His challenge was stealing unnoticed into the royal apartments. At court he stood close to hand, awaiting Her Majesty’s pleasure, while attendants buzzed about them. He smiled at lords and ladies paternally. They know, Elizabeth whispered.

Let them talk, he replied.

Her eyes blazed. Cock’s bones, we can’t afford the luxury! We have set a date.

Hope pounded in his veins. What date would that be, Madam?

Thy marriage shall take place in September.

He tried to catch her eye. Might one ask...to whom?

Anne Cecil.

Her father is a mere knight!

Of late, William Cecil has risen to baron.

He felt himself cartwheeling though space sans love, hope, or sympathy.

The tiltyard was roped off for the Mayday Tournament. Londoners pressed against the barrier. Oxford raised his arms while his squire, Fulke Greville, fumbled with the drawstrings. This was his first tournament. As the Red Knight his role was to challenge the Queen’s champion. His opponent in the draw was Tom Cecil, soon to be his brother-in-law if the queen had her way. Greville finished buckling the red chest plate.      You are armored! No one will see your blood flow. Greville’s envious look amused Oxford. At eighteen, Fulke was not old enough to participate in the joust. Aim for the head, he solemnly advised Oxford. You may not hit Cecil but with luck you’ll break his concentration.

Speaking from experience?

I am grooming for the tilt, as you know… Greville changed the subject. Milord has an admirer in the Queen’s Box. Oxford glanced at the royal box. Along with her father, William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Anne Cecil was seated next to the queen. To his embarrassment the fourteen-year-old Anne caught his eye and waved. The trumpets sounded, opening the joust.

He mounted and instructed Greville to stack lances. Champions and challengers took their positions. On both sides of the Westminster tiltyard, Londoners in holiday colors waited to see noble blood spilled. In the royal box Queen Elizabeth was magnificent in gold and red, her face encircled by a white ruff. Until then Oxford had appreciated her ability to lose herself in games and contests. Now, he’d been assigned a role in a masque of her choosing.

The Earl of Oxford shall ride fourth! shouted the Constable of the Tilt.

I stand ready! replied Oxford, giving the ritual response.

The tiltyard rails were twelve-score paces deep and six-score wide. Riders charged and closed fast, yet turned with difficulty. Any contestant who could wheel sharply held a distinct advantage. Being fourth in line gave him an opportunity to see how fast his fellow riders turned.

The spectators’ roar drowned out the trample of hooves and smashing of lance against shield. The Queen waved her handkerchief acknowledging this or that rider’s skill. When the third tilt ended, the Constable motioned Oxford forward. Across the yard Tom Cecil was performing the same ceremony. All his life Oxford had waited for this moment.

What is thy name and for what cause art thou come hither? The Constable called.

Raising his visor he gave the time-honored reply. "My name is Edward de Vere. I am hither