Free Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I by Sandra Byrd Page A

placed them into small, pink satin pouches. I approached Her Majesty as she was relaxing after a midday meal.
    “Majesty, I have prepared some pleasant-smelling pomanders, some samples to choose among. Please, tell me which you prefer and I will blend some fine sachets for you.”
    “Come, Helena,” the queen said, calling me forth to the sumptuously covered chair she reposed upon. I knelt before her, and she indicated that I should instead seat myself at the low stool to the side of her.
    I held up the sachets one by one and I could tell from the look on her face which she preferred. Marjoram, of course, and those of rose, and some lavender that had been imported from France. The queen favored all things French.
    “I shall personally blend these for you, Majesty, and the sachets will be stitched and laced by my own hand,” I said proudly. “Is there any other way I can be of service?”
    I was still holding her favorite sachet in my hand, and rather than nod me away, she closed her own hand around mine for just a moment as a gesture of affection and acceptance. “No, my lady. How does Lord Northampton?”
    “He is well, madam. He is preparing to undertake the diplomatic journey you’ll send him on with the Earl of Sussex. I pray that their, and your, mission meets with success.”
    She smiled at me. “They are found faithful, as are you, Lady von Snakenborg. Come, tell me about your time thus far in my court.”
    She indicated that a cushion should be brought for me, and placed near her, and I chatted about my apartment and my readings and the hawking and chess that William was helping me improve at. She shared with me some Greek translations that she was working on, some of which she found vexing.
    “I should not have expected you to find anything vexing,” I said with admiration.
    “Ah, but we do,” she disagreed with me. It made her all the more likable.
    She offered some kind words and advice of her own, andinvited me to dine with her and William, privately, when they returned from their journey. “I shall look forward to your company and pleasant conversation,” she said. “And your herbal preparations, of course.”
    “Thank you, Majesty.” I was exultant. I had a task that set me aside from the others, and a manner in which I might serve the queen and the beginning of real friendship with her.
    •   •   •
    In February, some of the queen’s ladies were in her apartment playing gleek when a messenger arrived and burst impolitely into the chamber. The queen was taken aback, Cecil looked alarmed for her safety, and Lord Robert stood up. The messenger went directly to Her Majesty, and, kneeling before her, said, “I bring ill tidings, Majesty. Your cousin Lord Darnley, the husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, has been foully murdered!”
    The room collectively gasped, and even Her Majesty, the ultimate dissembler, allowed some shock onto her face. “Is this true?” she demanded.
    “I fear so, Majesty,” he said. “Lord Darnley was in a building that was exploded. However, when his body was examined it was found that he had been suffocated to death before the explosion.”
    “Who has done this?” the queen demanded. “Scots rebels?”
    The messenger leaned close to her and whispered, but as I was at her card table I was just able to overhear him. “Majesty, the whispering from Scotland seems to be that his wife, the queen, was involved in the plot.”
    Her Majesty sat back and waved him away in utter contempt. Perhaps the messenger was familiar with the ancient story of Tigranes’s messenger having his head cut off for bearing ill news,but in any case, he stepped clear away from Her Majesty. In respect for dead Darnley, the queen canceled the card games and retired to her rooms. Another maid of honor, Eleanor Brydges, and I gathered Her Majesty’s cards from the tables.
    “I hope Her Majesty is well,” I said. “She looked saddened and shocked.”
    Eleanor nodded. “Darnley was her