"Why not?" Anne asked, surprised.
"That's enough about me," he said, tearing a drumstick off his chicken. "What about your parents?"
"They both died of the Black Death."
It was Edward's turn to be surprised. "I'm sorry, Anne."
"I was only 6 at the time."
"You don't remember them?"
"I remember everything."
"Tell me."
Anne shrugged. "I didn't know anything was wrong until mother's lips turned black. Then my nanny and all the servants fled. The next day, father also fell ill. By now, mother's skin was completely black. Pains and fever raged through her. Within 2 days she was dead. It was a blessed relief."
"Of course," Edward muttered sympathetically.
"Six hours later, my father breathed his last. That night the death wagon rumbled up to our house. I remember the huge clusters of purifying herbs hanging from the cart men's necks. Their long-handled iron tongs dragged the bodies from the house and loaded them onto the wagon. Then I was alone in the house. Somehow, I escaped infection..." Anne fell silent.
"You were fortunate. Back then the bubonic plague was sending thousands to the fires every week."
"Yes," Anne nodded. "My uncle arrived from the country and took me to St. Peter's. I was raised and educated in the convent."
"We both lost our parents when we were young," Edward reflected sadly.
"But did not your mother, Margery, die only recently?" Anne asked, pushing aside her plate.
"That's so, but I lost her long ago, and I would it had been sooner."
"That's a terrible thing to say."
"You didn't know her."
"I've heard that she was a great beauty."
"Yes, but sadly, she allowed that great beauty to make her frivolous and vain. She cared little for motherhood."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"As a child, I saw her once a day, when my nannies took me to her, for 10 minutes. Even then, she never held me for fear of wrinkling her clothes."
"Whatever her faults, your departed mother deserves your prayers and forgiveness."
"I do my best, but every time I think about her, my heart fills with hatred..."
"Whatever did she do to merit such anger?"
Edward threw his napkin down and beckoned to his serving men. "It's time we got you back to the palace."
Totally captivated by Anne, Edward resolved to continue courting her at Bilton Hall, his manor house. It was a fine, private place bordering on the willow-lined Avon in Warwickshire, far from the Court's prying eyes. As his coach carried them back to Whitehall, the Earl persuaded Anne to take a leave of absence from her duties and join him at Bilton Hall.
1651
"Beggin' your pardon, Ma'am."
Patricia looked over at Ben. "Yes?"
"What had his mother done?"
"He didn't want to talk about it."
"But you know?"
"Oh yes."
"So what had she done?"
"He thought she had betrayed him and his father."
"How?"
"By marrying her second husband within a month of the first one's death."
"That does seem a bit hasty, Ma'am."
"Edward felt the same way. In fact, the young Earl protested so much that he was sent away to live in London as a royal ward. Unfortunately for Edward, Burghley, who was England's Lord Chamberlain - Elizabeth's closest advisor - had just been appointed Master of the Royal Wards.
"This new honor was yet another sign of the man's total ascendancy at Court. But he'd paid dearly for his high rank. The years of scheming and backstabbing had left indelible marks. Burghley's forehead was creased with cares. His once-spare frame now hung heavy and flabby. Gout was beginning to riddle both legs. To the Lord Chamberlain, these were costs well worth paying. After all, he controlled a kingdom.
"Burghley ran his household, like the country, with an iron hand. Yet, while the schemer may have commanded all of England, there was one rebellious subject he couldn't rule: Edward.
"The Lord Chamberlain's first ward was his opposite in almost every way possible."
BURGHLEY HOUSE
Edward guided his horse off the Strand and up a long driveway towards Burghley's London home. The huge square pile of white stone stood in vast, landscaped grounds near the middle of the bustling city, its opulence a fitting tribute to Burghley's exalted office.
The first clash occurred shortly after Edward's arrival. He was escorted up a polished marble staircase to Burghley's office. The Master of the Royal Wards had prepared a list of rules for those placed into his care. Burghley was eager to introduce his first ward to these morsels of wisdom. He acknowledged Edward's bow with a brief nod and waved the boy into a seat at an ornate writing table, in front of paper and pen.
"Take up the quill, boy," Burghley commanded. Edward picked up the pen slowly. It felt awkward in his hand. With the exception of one brief eulogy, he hadn't written a word since his father's death.
"Feel free to take notes as I read from my list of rules," the Lord Chamberlain said imperiously. He then began pacing the room, reading his list in a hectoring, self-righteous tone:
"Costly your habit as your purse can buy, but not expressed in fancy; rich not gaudy; for the apparel often proclaims the man. Give every man your ear, but few your voice. Take each man's advice, but reserve your judgment. Always keep some great man for your friend..."
Like most powerful figures, the Lord Chamberlain was accustomed to speaking without interruption. After years of such social deference, accorded him by an obsequious family and staff alike, Burghley had become extremely long winded.
As he droned on, Edward's active imagination hunted around for some distraction. Soon his mind's eye had transformed Burghley into a character performing on a stage. The audience fell about laughing. The less Burghley noticed his own pomposity, the louder the audience laughed. After 10 minutes or so, Edward, for want of any better pastime, began lightly sketching this scene on the paper in front of him.
Fifteen minutes later, Burghley moved to his concluding remarks: "Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, bear it that the opposed may beware of you." The Lord Chamberlain paused, lifting a finger in pointed emphasis. "Neither a lender nor a borrower be, for loan often loses both itself and friend.
"This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, you canst not then be false to any man."
Laying down his notes reverentially, as if they were some great text handed down by ancient prophets, Burghley walked over to Edward and asked, "Well, what do you think of those rules? I'm going to call them my first precepts..."
Burghley's voice trailed off as he saw Edward's sketch lying on the table. It included a distinctly unflattering caricature of the Lord Chamberlain.
Grabbing a handful of the boy's hair, Burghley hauled Edward to his feet. No one had ever pulled on Edward's hair before. As the young Earl wriggled in Burghley's tight grasp, he could hardly believe such pain existed.
"You insolent wretch!" Burghley bellowed in his ear. Releasing Edward, he snatched up the sketch and tore it into tiny pieces. Then, still seething with rage, he shoved the boy towards the door, shouting, "Get out! Get out!"
After he had calmed down, Burghley decided that the best way to deal with