The Feast of St. Paul 1549.
Thought long and hard about the way to the crown.
Grey and Boleyn are names on my family tree. There is kingly blood in me. Edward, the King, is wasting away. He will soon have coughed his last. Two women stand in line for the throne. Surely a sign from God! Mary? – in the hands of the Papists. The priests are no friends of mine. Moreover, Mary has the same maggot in her chest as her brother Edward – she coughs. Her hands are cold and damp. God forbid.
So, then, a bargain with God and fate: Elizabeth! Her star is in the ascendant, in spite of the machinations of the Antichrist.
What has been achieved thus far? We have met. Twice in Richmond. Once in London. In Richmond I picked a water-lily for her and ruined my shoes in the marsh.
In London ... I did fasten a ribbon for her that was hanging loose from her bodice and for thanks she slapped me across the face. That, I think, will suffice me for the moment.
Have sent a reliable messenger to Richmond. I must find a suitable opportunity to ...
Good news has come of Lady Elizabeth’s disposition. She tires of being schoolmastered and seeks excitement. If only I knew where to find the Muscovite, Mascee!
Today was sent to me from Holland a map of Greenland, engraved by my friend and master cartographer, Gerardus Mercator.
The Feast of St. Dorothy.
Today Mascee suddenly appeared at my door. Asked me if there was anything I needed. Said he had wondrous objects from Asia. – – Was mightily surprised to see him as it was not long since I had enquired after his whereabouts in vain. He swore his arrival had gone unnoticed. It is no light thing to have him in my house. I am risking my neck. The eyes of Bishop Bonner are everywhere.
He showed me two small ivory spheres, the one red and the other white, each formed of two halves screwed tight together. They are nothing special. I bought them off him, in part out of impatience, in part to keep him well-disposed towards me. And he promised to serve me well. I asked him for a powerful potion, such as would bring forth love – and good fortune for him that blessed the potion. He said he knew not how to prepare such a potion, but would procure one. – That is all one to me. He that would make haste toward his goal, needs take the shortest route. – As for the ivory spheres, a mood did suddenly take me to scratch strange signs upon them and then, of a sudden, I was taken with fear of them and threw them out of the window!!
For the love potion Mascee, the Tutor to him that doth call himself “Czar”, asked me for hair, blood, spittle and – – it doth offend me, but he has that which he requires. Loathesome; but wholesome if it bring me nearer my goal.
The Feast of St. Gertrude 1549.
It is remarkable: today my mind is filled with amorous thoughts of Lady Elizabeth. That is something new. Until now I have been completely indifferent to her charms. – I only obey the prophecy from the mirror. I am sure I have not been deceived. The reality of those moments is still branded on my soul as if it were yesterday.
But today all my thoughts flutter around one flame, around – – by St. George, I will write it down – – around my bride! My Elizabeth!
What does she know of me? Nothing, most likely. Perhaps that I got my feet wet when I went fishing for water lilies; perhaps that she slapped my face.
Certainly nothing more.
And what do I know of the Lady Elizabeth?
She is a strange child. Both hard and soft. Upright and plain-spoken, but reserved and withdrawn. I mind how she used to treat her maids and the girls she played with – sometimes my hand itched to thrash her, as if she were a boy in woman’s clothing.
But I like the bold, vigorous look in her eye. She is, I think, no respecter of persons, and will tread on the priests’ corns whenever she can.
But she can wheedle like a cat when she has a mind to. Why else did I go crawling through the marsh?
And that slap on my face was more than a gentle pat, but the hand that delivered it was as velvety as a cat’s paw.
In summa, as the logicians say: regal!
My quarry is a noble beast; even now, my blood runs hot at the very thought.
Mascee has disappeared once more.
Today I heard from one who is beholden to me how the Princess rode out on the Feast of St. Gertrude. It was the day on which I was visited by such strange thoughts. The Princess lost her way riding in the Forest of Uxbridge and Master Mascee directed the company to Mother Bridget’s hut on the moor.
Elizabeth has drunk the love potion! The Lord’s blessing be upon the potion.
Lady Ellinor Huntingdon would thwart the marriage, I guess; in her overweening pride she tried to dash the potion from the Princess’ hand, but the attempt failed.
I hate this arrogant, cold-hearted Ellinor.
I am burning with desire to go straight to Richmond. As soon as a certain piece of business is completed, as soon as I am free of certain obligations, I will find an excuse for my presence at Richmond.
Then shall we meet again, Elizabeth!
The Feast of the Sorrows of the Virgin.
I am plagued with anxieties. I am much concerned at the most recent affairs of the Ravenheads.
The Feast of St. Quirinus.
I cannot understand why the Lord Governor of Wales is so half-hearted. Why
