Potted, cragged, swollen with insistent rain: the ancient Roman roads stretching from London to Dover made intolerable the hard ride from Hampton Court. The furrowed brows, wan faces, and occasional red-rimmed iris among the King’s entourage suggested it was not just the Dudleys who suffered from the biting, incense-thickened air, the relentless humming of the clergymen limping about, swinging their heady censers and crosses like weapons, warding away sickness, staving off the encroaching fog, the rain like whetted arrows pouring from the skies. Miserable, Leicester spat, this overwhelmingly frivolous display, as he looked about and found William’s entourage riding by like a guild of pilgrims, rather than a royal court – so habitually famed for its luster, horns blasting, stags bounding majestic, all eyes ablaze with happy furor and cheeks reddened by whipping wind, pomp and circumstance and gold banners brandishing about.
Now, the troupe trailed limply, colorlessly, all the way to Dover – like unwilling sacrifices – the news of Seymour’s rebirth dampening the spirits of the court.
Not even the King’s people, usually so eager to line up in the towns which the court passed unblinkingly, straggled to catch a glimpse of him, red-gold hair piercing through the mist, a gaggle of delighted gasps following, blackened fingertips jutted out to grab hold of an inch of his majesty, a vanished mystique. And, of course, not a one stuck their necks out to see if Elizabeth and her decorated ladies trailed behind, for they hadn’t. She hadn’t. And, as rain hung like blood to Dudley’s feathered cap, he knew that there would be no more of her entirely: Elizabeth Tudor was dead to him, a red-gold wraith of the past, bobbing at the tail of his eyes. Why, then, as he flayed open his doublet and tossed it to the window bench, rain-soaked fabrics usurped with fire-warmed furs, did the thought clout him with a sort of murderous rage? This searing agony? Was this Divine?
Wordlessly Robert Dudley undressed and re-dressed, for there was nothing left to speak: not to himself, nor anyone else. As he wrested the gold chain from his neck and the locket from his wrists, he thought of the Irish triad that haunted his early expeditions to that emerald isle, and grimaced, the lines of his face crowded with ghosts. ‘Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die, and to die not; to try to please, and to please not; to wait for someone who comes not.’
Dudley’s gaze snapped to Amy, lingering in the doorway, as she spoke. She looked herself, today, standing by the sleek, gilded archway: a newcomer to noble ranks. Out of place. The woman who for nearly half a decade his kisses had rained like Manna upon – her face, the hair that streamed over her shoulders, neck, breasts, thighs. He’d felt her tremble against him. Dug into the blades of his shoulders as he heaped her up against the mattress of their marital bed, driven into her with an intense and intoxicating desire, filled with his seed, for Amy Robsart at once his and something else entirely. Passive, yet not passive; a yielding presence. The dutiful wife; the loving mother; Helen before the war. Why, then, he again asked, did God now see fit to bless them with a child? His smile toward hers was surprisingly gentle, concealing the conundrum of emotions closing ranks behind his poker face. ‘Shh. Say naught.’ The last gilded clasp on his wrist unbroken, Dudley said, ‘the bear does not like to be disturbed.’
Dudley followed Amy blindly, mere inches of space wedged between husband and wife as his chest cocooned the arch of her spine, his large hand shifting her river of hair from one shoulder to the other, allowing him access to Amy’s soft neck. Peering down the bridge of his nose at the swell of her belly, he took note of the loosened stays laced up her back to accommodate for her burgeoning midsection. He wondered what she might look like when her belly was puffed up in four month’s time, a king’s ransom worth of fabric draped from her swollen body. He bit back the urge to reach for it, keeping his hands at the ridge of her shoulders, softly kneading the tension coiled in the twists of her muscles. ‘Or yours.’ He murmured, adrift in reflection. Dropping his mouth to her throat, Leicester kissed her not; but left his lips pursed there, breathing deeply of her powdery scent. ‘Forgive me. The trip taunted me; I am no use for the sparring of words. Do you feel quite well, despite my intolerableness, wife? Have I displeased you, Amy? Tell me, and I shall spend my life begging your humble forgiveness.’ For what else but forgiveness could she ever grant to him?
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