For Elizabeth the weeks of early summer slipped by in peace and gentle pleasure. She had not realized how overwrought she had become, balancing a love affair, her exacting lessons, the visitors to Queen Catherine's palace, many of whom requested her company, and the constant if near-unconscious wariness about Thomas Seymour.
Slowly Elizabeth began to unwind. The pace at Cheshunt was slower—Sir Anthony and Lady Denny were no longer young and came to Cheshunt to escape the Court and the pressures of guiding the king and the nation. There were few visitors, and those who did come were of Sir Anthony's and Lady Denny's age. Sometimes they brought a political problem . . . but that was for Sir Anthony's ears alone. And when they asked to meet with Elizabeth, it was only to ask playfully about her studies or to be sure she was well and content with her lodging. Her maidens, with no one to compete against in matters of dress and attracting the young men who accompanied the queen's guests, became more placid, less shrill and intrusive.
Even Elizabeth's love affair with Denno became more peaceful. Although neither of them realized it, Denno had been competing with Thomas for Elizabeth's attention. He had been taking her with him to exciting places and doing exciting things and had been constantly finding places and excuses to make love so that his image would be as strong and virile as that the boisterous Thomas projected.
After two weeks at Cheshunt, Elizabeth asked to be taken to the Shepherd's Paradise. Da came along and they talked, mostly about the past at first but then about the possible future. Denoriel wondered where Vidal was and what he was doing. Harry advised Elizabeth about what she should do if she were invited to Court and what to say if proposals of marriage were presented to her. Elizabeth confessed that she would fight any suggestion of marriage. She did not wish to be married . . . ever.
Four weeks passed and then six and Elizabeth discovered that there was such a thing as too much peace. Restlessness, and a nervous energy that had always been a part of her began to plague her until even Sir Anthony and Lady Denny noticed. Denno asked Sir Anthony if he could invite a troupe of players to Cheshunt to amuse the whole party. The masque they performed was a great success, great enough that the players were asked to stay and present a second piece two days later. There was extra amusement in being allowed to watch the rehearsals. The masque looked so different without scenery or costumes that it was a double wonder to see it performed.
The next week Denno suggested a picnic in the woods near a small pond. Elizabeth rode as did Sir Anthony and Denno, but a small traveling cart carried Margaret, Frances, and Lady Denny, a second brought cushions, cloths, braziers, and baskets of food and wine. Somehow the food had more savor served in the open, and a remarkable number of animals came from the woods and showed themselves on the far side of the little pond.
Elizabeth suspected Denno's Low Court servants had been sent to lead the creatures to where the picnic party could see them, but she could not speak of that . . . not that she would have if she could. She enjoyed it no less than any of the others, who held their breaths when a doe and fawn dipped their delicate muzzles into the water, and later allowed her maidens to cling to her when a bear shambled out and stood looking at them across the pond.
Denno drew his slender sword and Elizabeth's guards came forward, unlimbering their weapons, but there was no need. The bear came to the edge of the pond, but only to slash a paw through the water with amazing speed and bring out a fish. Everyone laughed aloud in relief, and the big creature seemed startled by the sounds, as if it had not realized they were there, and hurried back into the wood.
Elizabeth noted that Denno's usually soft lips had been drawn back hard, and she rose and patted his arm. "Don't scold them," she said. "Everyone was so thrilled."
The picnic was a subject for lively conversation for several days, which was just as well because Sir Anthony disappeared and there were no visitors at all. A pall of dullness fell over Cheshunt.
When he came to take her Underhill that night Denno told Elizabeth that Sir Anthony had probably been called to London to discuss the situation with the Scots. Denno had news from William Cecil that the Scots parliament had resolved to send their little Princess Mary to France to remove any likelihood that she could be taken by English force of arms and married to Edward out of hand.
"Will the Protector bring an army into Scotland again?" Elizabeth asked.
"I do not think that is possible," Denno said. "But now we will see if Seymour's decision to send most of the naval vessels east will be vindicated. If they prevent the French from picking up the little princess, the depredations of the pirates will be forgotten."
"And if they do not?"
Denoriel shrugged. "Of course Seymour has the excuse that his wife is near her term, and Lord High Admiral or not he cannot be with the fleet. But Cecil also hinted that there are rumors of collusion . . ."
"I hope they catch the little princess. She would have a very good husband in Edward. I know he seems cold now, but I remember how quick he was to love me when he was a little boy."
"And it would save a world of trouble for Seymour, would it not?"
Elizabeth flung herself into Denoriel's arms and kissed him. "It would save a world of grief for Catherine. If not for her, I would not care if they hung Thomas."
But Thomas' naval vessels did not manage to block the French ships, and at the beginning of August, William Cecil told Denoriel that Princess Mary had been carried to France at the end of July.
At about the same time Sir Anthony gave Denno permission to bring a different troupe of players who had a new kind of performance, a play. That was very exciting, for the story—of a forbidden love that caused two murders—was shown as it happened to real people without any fanciful wild men or interruptions of dancing and singing.
Elizabeth herself was hard pressed from time to time to keep from screaming in horror, and Margaret and Frances wept aloud and hid their faces. It was only when the "murdered" gentlemen reappeared on the platform to take their bows that the maidens would believe they had not been killed.
July and August. Elizabeth and Queen Catherine kept up a pleasant correspondence, aided and abetted by Thomas, who often wrote the letters because Catherine was by now finding it difficult to write. Elizabeth was careful, however, to have no personal communication with him; when she wrote it was asking Thomas to be diligent to give me knowledge from time to time how his busy child doth.
But she missed Catherine and responded warmly when Catherine wished me with you, till I were weary of that country. Your Highness were like to be cumbered if I should not depart till I were weary of being with you; although it were the worst soil in the world, your presence would make it pleasant.
Had Catherine lived alone, what Elizabeth wrote would have been the simple truth, but both knew they would not live together again, at best would only meet in the future for a few hours in a visit. Neither knew that they would never see each other again. Catherine survived the birth of a little daughter on the thirtieth of August, but by the fifth of September she was dead of the dreaded fever that attacked women after lying-in.