Free A Court Affair by Emily Purdy

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, unvarnished charm. I was natural and real; I had no sleek and deceptive veneer of sophistication, no studied, artful airs. “You wear no mask. Your life is no masquerade. When I look at you, I see the
real
you, the
real
Amy, not a pretty painted façade that is false and ugly when it is laid bare and washed clean of paint, and I love what I see. With Amy Robsart seeing
is
believing!”
    But I doubted that his father, the high-and-mighty Earl of Warwick, would be swayed by all this talk of love. It was only common sense that he would want a greater, grander match for his son, even a fifth one like Robert. And then I did something that still shames me. I