The Queene’s Christmas
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OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR KAREN HARPER’S ELIZABETH I MYSTERIES
“Tudor England’s answer to V I. Warshawski.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Harpers facility with historical figures is extraordinary.”
—Los Angeles Times
THE QUEENE’S CHRISTMAS
“Wonderful historical detail mixed with intrigue … A real treat for those who enjoy historical mysteries.”
—Booklist
“Nicely blends intrigue, humor, and period detail.”
—Wall Street Journal
THE THORNE MAZE
“Brilliantly plotted and authentically detailed.”
—Booklist
“The novels true pleasure is the re-creation of Elizabeth Is court, the manners of the day, the fetes, the sumptuous clothes, all of which Harper brings wonderfully alive.”
—Miami Herald
“Harper is to be commended for keeping to what we know about Tudor history … and for making the factions of Elizabeth’s court clearer than many history books have done.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A wonderful web of drama and deceit that would make Shakespeare envious … This is great stuff.”
—Toronto Globe and Mail
THE QUEENE’S CURE
“A neatly plotted mystery with genuinely terrifying scenes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fully rounded, sometimes baroque, but always engaging … The plot quickens to the very end/'
—Booklist
“Superb … a winner.”
—Amazon.com
“Based on historical fact, The Queene’s Cure is an Elizabethan fans delight… [with] several red herrings that will delight the hearts of mystery lovers.”
—RomanticTimes.com
THE TWYLIGHT TOWER
“Harpers exquisite mastery of the period, lively dialogue, energetic plot, devious characters, and excellent rendition of the willful queen make this a pleasure for fans of historical mysteries,”
—Library Journal
“The sleuthing is fun, but what makes The Twylight Tower comparable to the fine works of Allison Weir is the strong writing of the author.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Exciting … and as cleverly crafted as only Karen Harper can be … A hugely appealing and fast-paced tale that keeps the reader satisfied and yearning for more.”
—Romancereviewstoday.com
THE TIDAL POOLE
“A nice mix of historical and fictional characters, deft twists and a plucky, engaging young heroine enhances this welcome sequel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Harper delivers high drama and deadly intrigue … She masterfully captures the Elizabethan tone in both language and setting … Elizabethan history has never been this appealing.”
—Newsday
THE POYSON GARDEN
“Impressively researched … The author has her poisons and her historical details down pat.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Intoxicating … Whether you love history, romance, adventure, or mystery, you will be intrigued by this view of Elizabeth as queen and as a brilliant detective.”
—Romantic Times
AN ELIZABETH I MYSTERY
The Queene’s Christmas
KAREN HARPER
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”
THE QUEENE’S CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2003 by Karen Harper.
Excerpt from The Lyre Mirror copyright © 2004 by Karen Harper.
Portrait of Queen Elizabeth I, The Darnley Portrait, by Federico Zuccaro Courtesy of The National Portrait Gallery
“Banquetting Scene” © Ancient Art & Architecture Collection Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, NewYork, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003046822
ISBN: 0-312-99472-9
EAN: 80312-99472-3
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martins Press hardcover edition / October 2003
St. Martins Paperbacks edition / November 2004
St. Martins Paperbacks are published by St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
For my family, with whom I have shared many a happy Christmas,
especially my mother, Margaret Kurtz,
and husband, Don.
And to many more to come!
Earlier Events in Elizabeth’s Life
1533 Henry VIII marries Anne Boleyn, January 25. Elizabeth born at Greenwich Palace, September 7.
1536 Anne Boleyn executed in Tower of London. Elizabeth disinherited from crown. Henry marries Jane Seymour.
1537 Prince Edward born. Queen Jane dies of childbed fever.
1541 Unlawful Games Act bans sporting activities and some Yule customs at Christmas.
1544 Act of Succession and Henry VIII’s will establish Mary and Elizabeth in line to throne.
1547 Henry VIII dies. Edward VI crowned.
1551 Holy Days and Fasting Days Act. Strict Sunday and worship laws passed.
1553 Queen Mary (Tudor) I crowned. Tries to force England back to Catholicism; gives Margaret Stewart, Tudor cousin, precedence over Elizabeth. Queen Mary weds Prince Philip of Spain by proxy.
1554 Protestant Wyatt Rebellion fails, but Elizabeth sent to Tower for two months, accompanied by Kat Ashley.
1558 Mary dies; Elizabeth succeeds to throne, November 17. Elizabeth appoints William Cecil Secretary of State; Robert Dudley made Master of the Queens Horse.
1558 Elizabeth crowned in Westminster Abbey, January 15. Parliament urges queen to marry, but she resists. Mary, Queen of Scots becomes Queen of France at accession of her young husband, Francis II.
1560 Death of Francis II of France makes his young Catholic widow, Mary, Queen of Scots, a danger as Elizabeth s unwanted heir. Elizabeth names Earl of Sussex Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
1561 Now widowed, Mary, Queen of Scots returns to Scotland. In London, St. Pauls Cathedral roof and spire burn.
1564 Earl of Sussex returns from Ireland to royal court in May.
The Queene’s Christmas
The Prologue
Cardamom Christmas Cake
Cream 1 cup country butter and blend in ⅔ cup brown sugar, beating with a spoon ‘til frothy. Stir in 1 beaten egg. Stir ½ teaspoon grated lemon peel, ¾ teaspoon crushed cardamom (having been dearly imported from the Portuguese), ½ cup ground almonds, and I cup of currants into 2½ cups of fine white flour Beat the dry ingredients into the sweetened butter. Pour into a greased cake pan or two layer pans and bake in a brick oven may-hap some three-quarters hour or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Yon cake can be frosted with brown sugar icing. Dress cake with holly sprigs.
SEPTEMBER 29, 1564
ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON
“I SWEAR, YOUR GRACE, THAT MAN WI
LL BE THE DEATH of you yet!”
“Robin Dudley, my Kat?” Elizabeth asked. She forced herself to stand still as the frail, elderly Kat Ashley, First Lady of the Bedchamber, and Rosie Radcliffe, her favorite maid of honor, pinned the ermine mantle to her shoulders over her russet velvet gown. If anyone but these two had spoken such impertinence to her, the thirty-one-year-old Tudor queen would have rounded on them soundly.
“Of course, that’s who I mean,” Kat pursued, fussing overlong with a jeweled pin. “Lord Robert Dudley, alias your dear Robin, about to become Earl of Leicester by your hand. I fear he’ll think he’s king in waiting.”
“Or at least your main advisor, if not heir apparent,” Rosie muttered as she fastened a diamond brooch.
“You too, Rosie?” Elizabeth asked of the pretty young brunette. “Et tu, Brute, and you with that sharp object in your hand?”
The queen kept her voice light, but her heart was heavy. Today she was creating Robert Dudley, her staunch ally and longtime court favorite, the Earl of Leicester despite the resentment of the court faction that detested him—led by Rosie’s cousin, the Earl of Sussex.
“Your kith and kin had best not be saying I will name Robin my heir,” Elizabeth warned.
“But you did name him Protector of the Kingdom when you were sore ill with the pox,” Rosie replied.
“Those were desperate times. I’ve said I will not marry him nor name him, or anyone, my successor. If he weds my cousin Queen Mary of Scots, as I have counseled, he shall rule through her.”
“But you’ve said you’ll not name her heir, either,” Rosie added, “though she’s your nearest royal kin.”
“They shall rule Scotland, not England. If I named an heir,” Elizabeth said so sharply that both women stepped back, “disgruntled courtiers and conspirators for my crown would latch on to that heir like leeches, and my life could be more at risk than it already is. As for Robert Dudley, he is being created a peer not to make him worthy, for he already is.
“I’m ready,” she announced with a toss of her red head that rattled the pearls on her jeweled cap. “Let’s brighten this dreary day outside with a fine old ceremony inside.”
“It’s still pouring cats and dogs,” Kat observed as if they could not all hear the drumming of raindrops against the mullioned windows. “However wet the weather in the olden times, it never seemed so chilling. How I long for the good old days!”
“In the good old days, I was not queen but likely locked away in sundry country houses in tawdry gowns,” Elizabeth reminded her. She took the old woman’s mottled hands in hers. The skin felt as dry as parchment. “You said the other day, dear Kat, you longed for an old-fashioned Christmastide. Perhaps we shall have one.”
Kat’s flaccid features lifted a bit. Suddenly, she seemed younger, stronger. She had been withering like one of the brown chestnut leaves on the trees in the park, and Elizabeth had been deeply distressed at knowing no way to halt her slow slide toward a deathbed. Elizabeth’s first governess and longtime companion, Katherine Ashley had been the only mother she had ever known, since her own had been beheaded when she was but three.
As the women left the privy chamber and her other attendants fell in behind them, Elizabeth glanced out the corridor windows. In sodden clumps, Londoners were gathering along the parkside lane, hoping for a glimpse of their queen. Once when she’d ridden into St. James’s after hunting, a crowd of ten thousand had greeted her, shouting, “God save Elizabeth!” and throwing flowers.
That was one of few happy memories of the place, for St. James’s had little to commend it to Elizabeth Tudor other than its being set in a fine hunt park on the edge of her capital city. It was an outmoded, small palace her half-sister, Queen Mary, had favored and died in. Here “Bloody Mary,” as the people called her, had confined Elizabeth before having her hauled off to prison in the Tower; that hardly endeared this russet pile of bricks to her, either. She came only for particular ceremonies she did not want to seem overly grand and for respite from her favorite city palace, Whitehall, when the jakes needed to be cleaned. As soon as this investiture was over she would ride back there, muck and mire on city streets notwithstanding.
When the queen’s crimson-liveried yeomen guards swept open the double doors to the presence chamber, her sharp eyes scanned the crowd. As handsome as ever, though he’d managed a humble demeanor today, Robin Dudley awaited amidst his little entourage of loyalists. He was attired sumptuously in blue and gold; for good reason had his rivals given him the sobriquet of “the peacock”—among other names.
Her dear, brilliant chief secretary, William Cecil, bearded and thin, looked hardly happy about this necessary charade. In truth, he was no friend of Robin’s either, though the two tolerated each other for the sake of queen and kingdom. The clusters of courtiers included Rosie’s cousin Thomas Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, who would rather, no doubt, skewer and roast Robin than honor and toast him.
The queen’s gaze settled on the two men she wanted most to impress today, so that they would report Robin’s elevation to their Scottish queen. As diplomats, both spoke several languages including their native lowland Scots, but they were rapt in whispers now as they went down on their knees before her.
The queen wanted everyone, especially her too clever Catholic cousin, the Scottish Queen Mary Stuart, to know Robin was eligible to sue for Mary’s hand. At least that is what Elizabeth and Cecil had publicly promoted. Their actual plan was, of dire necessity, much darker and deeper.
“Ah, my lords, you must tell your queen, my dear cousin,” Elizabeth announced so everyone could hear, “how greatly my court honors Lord Dudley, soon to be Earl of Leicester”
“Indeed, we shall tell her all,” Simon MacNair spoke up.
“Of course you will,” the queen countered quietly with nary a change of expression but a roll of her eyes toward the hovering Cecil.
MacNair was the younger and handsomer of these Scots, an aide to the seasoned Sir James Melville, who was Queen Mary’s envoy to the English court. Melville was leaving for Edinburgh on the morrow, so Elizabeth would soon have only MacNair to keep an eye on. MacNair looked more the part of a braw Scot, auburn haired and big shouldered, while Melville seemed more polished and urbane. Elizabeth trusted them both in opposite proportion to how much Mary Stuart relied on them.
“Tell me, my lords,” Elizabeth said, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet, six inches to peer down at them as they knelt, “whether your royal mistress is taller than I or not.”
“Six feet tall, she is, higher by half a head,” the black-bearded Melville said as she gestured for them to rise.
“Then she is too high,” Elizabeth retorted with a set smile. “But not too high to take to herself as husband, consort, and king our illustrious Earl of Leicester. Come close and stand by me for this,” she invited them and swept toward the throne awaiting on its dais under the crimson cloth of state.
As Robin knelt before her, the queen tapped his broad, fur-draped shoulders with the ceremonial sword and intoned in her clarion voice the traditional words creating him Earl of Leicester. At her accession to the throne, she’d named him her Master of the Horse; she’d given him money, a wool monopoly, and Kenilworth Manor in Warwickshire—and her heart, though cursed if he would ever be sure of that while there was breath left in her body.
“And so, it is done,” she whispered for Robin’s ears alone and stroked his warm neck once with her left thumb. The ceremony was over. Her hand on the newly created earl’s arm, Elizabeth pre-ceded her entourage out of the crowded chamber. “I’ll need my cloak,” she requested as her women divested her of the ermine mantle. “With Ladies Ashley and Radcliffe and the Earl of Leicester, I am going in my carriage to Whitehall forthwith, and the rest of you shall come when you will.”
The big, boxy city carriage was brought around from the mews. When Elizabeth was certain the rattle of its iron wheels on cobbles was not another deluge, she stepped outside. The rain had momentarily
stopped. A roar went up from the hundreds of people who had waited outside the gatehouse.
“Come on then,” she said to her courtiers, who she knew would soon be scrambling to follow her to Whitehall. “We shall walk a bit, as we’ve been closed in for days.”
As ever, she glanced up under the arch of the stone and brick gatehouse at one of the few sets of the entwined initials, H & A, of her parents, which someone had failed to chisel away when her father wed his later queens. Ah, she did now recall a happy day here at St. James’s during her father’s reign; it must have been when Catherine Howard was briefly queen.
Elizabeth had been allowed to watch the Yuletide hanging of greens in the great hall, the decking out of the grand staircase, the bay and ivies being suspended in hoops from this gatehouse. At the banquet table that night, her father had smiled at her and shared with her a mammoth piece of his favorite Cardamom Christmas Cake. And Kat had been there, smiling, ever watchful and protective.
Elizabeth of England climbed the carved mounting block just outside the gatehouse, but she did not get into the carriage, which had followed her. She turned to her people and held up her hand. At first the crowd cheered and waved until someone realized she would speak. Slowly, the roar became chatter, murmur, then silence, while her guards held their halberds out to keep back the press of people.
Just when she was ready to speak, Robin, frowning, whispered up at her, “Your Most Gracious Majesty, it’s going to rain again. Your coach is here, so—”
“So it will wait for the will of its queen even as the earls of her realm must,” she told him. “My good people!” she called out. Men doffed their wet wool caps; children popped up, hoisted onto shoulders. “On this Michaelmas holiday honoring the archangel Michael, I wish to give to all an early gift for our next and grandest holiday, the Twelve Days of Christmas.”