and came together in a flirtatious bow when they reached the top—a pert little flirt of red satin that begged to be toyed with and untied. Next I found a bright cherry red taffeta petticoat and under-sleeves dotted with seed pearls and dainty gold beads, and a pair of cheerful and bold red stockings, and went to stand before my looking glass, humming as I held the ensemble up against me.
I never worried about such things then; I always knew my own mind with complete and utter certainty. I never worried or prevaricated, doubted or second-guessed myself. I was as far from nervous as we were from the Emperor of China’s palace. I was just me—Amy Robsart—and I did whatever felt right for me to do. I never worried about what other people might think of me. “You wear your confidence like a queen wears her crown, Amy, my lass,” Father used to always say of me with a broad, beaming smile and a hearty nod of approval.
I smiled as, behind me, my mother wagged an emphatic finger in Pirto’s face and insisted, “No, no, Pirto, I tell you the milk-and-water gown is much more refined!”
“Aye, My Lady,” Pirto nodded, wagging her finger right back in Mother’s face, “that may well be, but I tell you it’s too subdued; Mistress Amy’s beauty needs a bolder colour to set it off best! Now a nice, robust red …”
I laughed and, hugging my gown, pale and bold hues perfectly married, against me, I pranced and spun, dancing around them, then kissed them each upon the cheek, making them both smile at me. That was the Amy I used to be!
When I saw him again, I nearly fell straight into his arms. I was at the top of the stairs, with my head in the clouds, about to come down with not a thought in my head about what my feet were doing, as he was bounding up them, as easy, confident, and graceful as a young tomcat strutting on the prowl. I gasped in surprise and stumbled, my foot missing the next step and losing its slipper. He caught me before I fell, and from the safety of his arms, I watched my little black shoe tumble down to the bottom of the stairs. Closing my eyes, I murmured a quick prayer of thanks. That could so easily have been me falling downstairs, my bones and head banging and jarring against every step.
He clutched me close. Without the metal breastplate, I could feel how muscular and firm his chest was, and he could feel the soft fullness of my breasts.
“Safe in my arms … beloved!” he whispered, his breath hot against my face as his lips grazed my blush-scorched cheek and slid down to my neck. “You should be more careful, Buttercup”—that was the first time he ever called me that dear, special name—“this is far too beautiful a neck to break.”
Then, with a smile, he put me from him, holding me at arm’s length, gazing at me in a sort of dazed wonderment; then he blinked, gave his head a little shake as if to clear it, and pressed a kiss onto my brow before he turned and bounded down to retrieve my slipper. He was back in a trice, kneeling on the stairs before me to lift the hem of my gown, and, encircling my ankle in a caressing hand, he boldly bent to press a kiss onto my foot, before he put my shoe back where it belonged.
“I like a lass who is as bold as brass and dares to wear red stockings!” He grinned up at me, then stood and folded my arm through his.
“You thought me a light-skirt today, the kind of maid any man may tumble,” I said, frowning a little in mock rebuke as, arm-in-arm, we continued down to the Great Hall to dine.
“Such a woman as any man may tumble can hardly be called a maid in the true sense of the word.” He smiled at me. “All I know is that you struck me like the first sunbeam does a man coming out of a dark cave, and I wanted to be close to you, to bask in your golden beauty and be warmed by you. And when you ran away from me, your little naked feet were like a pair of white doves flying away from me, and I wished with all my heart that I were a hawk so I could soar and pounce and bring you back to me”—he paused, turned me in his arms, and pressed me close to his chest again—“back into my arms again, Amy … beloved!” And, again, he kissed me in a way that lit such a burning, raging fever in my blood, I thought it would scald me senseless.
Such was the way that Robert courted me; he left me breathless and burning and too dazzled and dumb to speak. He must have at times thought me a pretty mute or a starry-eyed simpleton with nary a brain in my skull. It seems to me now, upon reflection, that only after we were married did I really learn to speak; it was as if wedlock untied the knots in my tongue.
The bed of buttercups by the river became our trysting place. We used to lie there and kiss, caress, hold each other, and dream of the life we would make together, the golden future that awaited us as husband and wife. I imagined the future unfurling before us like a road paved with gold, glowing brilliantly in the sun, which we would walk down together hand-in-hand, confident, brave, and sure in our love, to face whatever lay before us, come what may. And one day he fastened round my neck an amber heart, the rich golden colour of honey, suspended from a cord of braided black silk. “Here is my heart, beloved,” he said, “so that even when we are apart, you will know my heart is always with you. And as these flecks and leaves and tiny creatures, these little bits of nature’s flotsam, are caught, captured, frozen in time forevermore inside it, so shall my love for you remain always as true and ardent as it is at this very moment; let this token stand as surety for my eternal, undying love.”
Lying back in our bed of buttery yellow blossoms, watching the clouds drift by, Robert told me of his dream to breed and train his beloved horses, vowing that he would become famous throughout the world for the perfection in both appearance and disposition of his mounts. “Someday,” he boasted, as if he could see the future unfolding in the clouds above us, “all the crowned heads of the world will vie to have my horses in their stables; every king, queen, prince, and princess, even the Emperor of China and the Sultan of Turkey, will want my horses!”
He came to me whenever he could, galloping back to Norfolk, thundering down the road to sweep me up in his arms and hold and caress me again, forsaking London and the court just for me. And I would come running out to meet him, pink-cheeked and breathless, scampering through the wildflowers, my hair streaming out wild behind me. “Ah, here comes my wild harvest-gold filly!” Robert would laughingly declare as he watched me race towards him to throw myself into his arms. And together we would loll back in our bed of buttercups by the riverside, and he would hold me in his arms, and we would watch the clouds drift, and dream of the wonderful life we would make together.
I was amazed that he wanted me. Robert Dudley had been raised a veritable prince, sharing nurseries and schoolrooms with King Henry’s children. His father, the mighty Earl of Warwick, was the king in deed, though Edward VI was the king in name. Even at seventeen, though his sword was but newly blooded in his first battle, Robert was already a suave and practised seducer, well versed in the allure and mysteries of women. Elegant court beauties, who painted their faces as white as consumptives with blood red lips and lounged about in a perpetual swoon, never lifting anything heavier than a fan, and rough, hardworking servant girls with strong shoulders and callous hands but no fine manners or learning, had all been pierced by his fleshly sword. He could have had anyone, and yet … he wanted me, me—Amy Robsart! I doubted whether I was worthy of him. He was the Earl of Warwick’s son, and I was a squire’s daughter, best suited to be another squire’s wife, a country chatelaine presiding over a hardworking landed estate, not a grand lady like those at court, but he wanted me! When I tried to talk to him about it, he just laughed at me. “Are you trying to talk me out of it, little fool?” he asked teasingly, and he hugged me tightly and kissed the tip of my nose.
He said I was like good, wholesome custard, with a touch of pretty garnish, like raisins or saffron or a dash of sprinkled cinnamon, not elaborate marzipan and spun-sugar subtleties, confectionery turned art, like the ladies of the court. I was a pure, country-bred beauty, a true English rose, not some exotic, easily wilted, hothouse flower. I was fresh, clean air, blue skies, sunshine, and acres of green grass to their close, over-ripe, and perfumed chambers, tapestried walls, and Turkey carpets. My words were sweet, plainspoken, and true, not barbed and double-edged, honeyed words filled with hidden, sometimes poisonous, meanings, or all done up in flowery parcels with the true meaning concealed inside the poetry. He said he loved my pure,