His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  “Ro-bin.”

  Her voice shook and so did his hand. He was forced to place the soup bowl back on the table and lay his head upon her lap. She stroked his face and he kissed her hand, then her arm as high as his lips could reach. “Bess, Bess . . .”

  She stood abruptly, trembling like a deer encircled by hounds. “I cannot bed you, Robin. You know that I . . .”

  He stood, brushing against the length of her body, and put his arms about her. “Sshh, Bess. On my honor, I will not harm you . . . or do aught but what you permit.”

  Her gaze roamed the great room, as if looking for escape, but came back to rest on him.

  She allowed him to lift her and walk to the stairs, climbing to the second-floor gallery, her head nestled in the hollow of his neck. He kicked at the door to his bedroom and found it off the latch. A fire had been lit and fresh linen covered the bed. He set her down there, removed her buskins and unrolled her hosen. She stopped trembling, hot color rising to her face as he fumbled with the ties of her kirtle and gown. “Bess, you are wearing no corset. Did you . . .” Had she planned to give herself?

  “Don’t question me, Robin.”

  He lifted Elizabeth to her feet and kissed her, opening her mouth with his, hungry even for her breath. She hid her face against his cheek, allowing him to drop her gown and shift to the floor, where they settled in billows of satin, lace and Flemish linen. Firelight danced across her slender body, while he flung off his doublet and shirt and dropped his trunks where he stood. Her eyes were tightly shut in denial of what she was allowing.

  She trembled as he curled his naked body beside hers. Putting his hands on her smooth hips, he whispered, “My queen, you are beautiful.”

  “I have less flesh than most,” she said, trying to cover herself with her delicate hands.

  “You are the more beautiful to me.” He kissed her stomach, vowing to himself that he would not take her without her asking, without her begging. Yet he was not at all sure that he could abide by his own pledge, and Bess was not helping. She moaned as he kissed her everywhere, licking at her nipples until she cried out and pushed her body against his. “Robin . . . Robin, do not torture me more. . . .”

  Bess had asked, or as close as she could ask, enough for him. Her legs parted and he entered her, slowly, slowly, pledging anew to hold himself back. She would never forgive him if he got her with a babe.

  But he could not stop himself and plunged ahead until he met the obstacle that told him he was her first lover, the first for all time.

  She cried out in an ecstasy of pain, his release mingling with hers; he fell upon her breasts until their breathing quieted.

  “I love you, Robin,” Bess whispered into his hair. “I will marry no man but you.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. But we must never mention this night again until we are wed, never think of it.”

  “I will not speak, but I cannot promise not to think, to dream.”

  They remained flesh in flesh until Robin reluctantly roused himself. “Sweeting, we must return to Cornbury before the dawn and you are missed. Who is sleeping in your chamber?”

  “Two bolsters under my blanket,” she said, laughing like a girl.

  He smiled down at her and saw her suddenly frown.

  “What is it, Bess?”

  “Was Lettice better . . . ?”

  “Sshh, my love. I would never compare you to another woman. You are a goddess, Diana, Gloriana, Elizabeth Tudor. There is no other woman like you . . . nor will there be, tomorrow or ever.”

  CHAPTER 13

  WITHOUT ROBIN

  ELIZABETH

  October 1586

  Whitehall Palace, Westminster

  Elizabeth banished her ladies, Anne Warwick, Helena Gorges and Philadelphia Scrope, to the far reaches of the grand gallery overlooking the tiltyard. She walked alone under the mural of Moses on the ceiling, her footsteps sounding hollow against the stone expanse beneath. She prayed for Moses’ wisdom, knowing that with or without it she must make all of England’s hard decisions, without Rob’s support. With him still in Holland, she was alone for now, and she felt his loss as if she were half-empty, incomplete. She had the power to make all decisions, but was the throne worth the price she had paid for it? She clenched her fists, trying to throw off the strange, questioning mood that had filled her all the day, the emptiness that being without Rob had always brought . . . an emptiness she could never reveal, not even to him. Especially not to him.

  A cool autumn breeze swirled leaves through the open arched windows and into the gallery’s corners. Her memory of a young Robin walked with her, Robin in the tiltyard below in an Accession Day tournament astride his white charger, the dust spurting from its pounding hooves, his leveled lance, as straight as his back, aimed at his opponent’s shield. He conquered all challengers whom he rode against . . . as he had conquered her. Once more she saw him raise his helm to her as she acknowledged his victory with a wave and a smile she meant to outdo, the applause for him from the overflowing crowd of Londoners in the two-shilling bleachers. His black hair was matted with sweat, his compelling dark Gypsy eyes looking up at her with . . . Was that love or triumph she remembered? Maybe both.

  And why not that same eager young face greeting her again when he returned from Holland, the years magically fallen away? Perhaps sadly, without triumph, since the Duke of Parma’s army had outgunned Robin’s poor soldiers.

  This was in no way a fault of hers. She had England’s treasury to consider and the power of her peace offerings . . . and, perhaps, Philip of Spain’s memory of her as the young princess he’d spied on in her bath while his wife died of a growing tumor she desperately insisted was a royal babe. Almost thirty years ago now, so he could have forgotten his humiliation over Elizabeth’s refusal to marry him almost the moment she took the throne. Did a man, especially the king of half the world, ever forget the rejection of his person? The queen of England had chosen no prince of Europe, preferred no royal man to him. Instead—she stopped to stifle a laugh, then walked on—the queen of England had preferred Robin, son and grandson of traitors and a minor lord, a man so poor he mortgaged manors to clothe himself for court. Could the greatest king in the world ever forgive such an insult to his royalty and person?

  Elizabeth turned quickly at the end of the gallery to march back. She could not care about Philip’s embarrassing memories. Delay, delay, delay was the battle tactic she used against him and the mighty fleet he was assembling. This was the strategy she most favored and which she had found most useful, whether against a marriage proposal or a foreign enemy. For every month of delay Rob might gain in the Low Countries, her sea dogs could harry Spanish treasure fleets, while she could use the gold they brought to add to her own navy’s readiness. She prayed her ships would not be needed, but if they were . . . if Philip dared . . . England would be ready, due to her careful diplomacy and watch on her money.

  Against all the warlike hotheads on her council, her objective of keeping Spain’s King Philip at bay with both her army and her peacemakers had worked and was still working. Parma’s peace commissioners remained at Ostend. As long as they talked, the armada would not dare sail. England was kept safe. Though rumors of an attack had been two a penny all summer, the Spanish fleet had stayed in its harbors and not come up the channel.

  Elizabeth reached the end of the gallery and, avoiding her ladies’ faces, she turned sharply and marched away, her mind turning as well. How could she wait longer here in her palaces, alone with all the burdens of rule? And without Rob she was always alone, though surrounded by guards, servants, ladies, courtiers, ambassadors, councilors and Parliament and . . . Raleigh, the handsome rogue. She clasped her hands in a prayerlike attitude. If she recalled Rob, that She-Wolf would have to spare him in service to the queen of England. Lettice must accept that her queen would have him here by her side!

  Elizabeth whirled and was about to return to the gallery’s other end, a little breathless. She must
slow her pace and breathe deeply to escape light-headedness.

  As queen, she had no substitute comforter for Rob, as gossip whispered Lettice had now, with her young son’s friends swarming about her like drones around the queen of the hive and, perhaps, around her bed. No, nor could favored courtiers, kneeling before the English throne, claim Elizabeth’s attention if Rob was absent, for in her heart he was never missing. She compared them all to him and found them wanting his understanding, his true devotion and care . . . all she had ever known since her mother had been so cruelly taken from her, a comforting warmth she remembered only when Rob held her close in those few secret moments they had.

  God’s bones and thorns! She needed him here. Now! She had a dreadful decision to make, since Mary, queen of Scots, had been condemned by England’s peers at Fotheringay. Elizabeth alone must sign the death warrant. Her mind rebelled at the thought. How could she order the death of a queen anointed by God, as she herself was? The Earl of Leicester must be by her side to support her in this terrible duty, and here she would have him.

  A new general must go out to hold the Dutch northern provinces. She would order it at once! Her happy decision quieted her heart, though she knew it would be weeks before he would be with her.

  Elizabeth looked down at the tiltyard again. The cool autumn wind now raised nothing but the dust of its emptiness.

  A commotion down the gallery revealed Lord Burghley and Sir Francis Walsingham passing despite her waiting ladies’ objections. The two men hurried toward her, bowing before they stopped.

  The queen sighed. Troubles. Always her Spirit and her Moor brought solemn difficulties. Rob was the only man who knew how to make her smile at bad news, but all problems could not wait for him. She prepared herself for what was clearly visible on their grim faces. Mary, queen of Scots, was condemned, and yet she lived on, everyone looking to Elizabeth to sign a death warrant against her cousin. Did they know what they asked?

  “We have no wish for more delays,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You come to tell us that Mary Stuart yet lives and not one of our good and loyal subjects can remove this horrible necessity from us . . . a queen to kill a queen . . . because her men fail her. Why has no one loved me enough to spare me? What think you, my lord and gentleman, of such subjects?” she demanded.

  They seemed reluctant to answer her question, both of them Puritans and unwilling to have a queen’s blood on their hands, the same blood they readily cast on their sovereign’s. Her voice was rising and she sought to bring it under her tight control. “You perhaps think us daintier in our aversion to the ax than our father!”

  “Majesty,” Walsingham said, “I know you do not hesitate with other traitors.”

  She clenched her fists against her bodice, wishing to show them her displeasure and suspecting she had been successful. “Well, what news have you brought to delight your queen?”

  “Majesty,” Lord Burghley said, his voice strained through the effort to hold himself erect with his stick, “as you know, the trial of Mary Stuart has been concluded and she has been judged guilty and sentenced to execution, as is the law for treason. I have prepared the death warrant for your signature and seal.”

  “What! You dare to do so without my permission?” Her face flushed and her breathing grew ragged. I will not be pushed to this, a deed which will outrage every prince in Christendom and God in His heaven! “Now you approach us on so grave a matter as an anointed queen’s execution . . . while we are so grievously concerned with the Holland business . . . so worried. . . .” She knew she was sputtering, but she could not let out her full rage, since her worthy Spirit sagged as if to fall.

  Walsingham put an arm about Burghley’s back to support him.

  “Sir Francis,” the queen said, “call our guards and have my lord Burghley taken to his rooms. And send our doctors to him.”

  Burghley put up a hand to deny his condition.

  Elizabeth feared for her Lord Treasurer and for herself without him. Without Rob. God’s bones! At every turn she was alone. “Dear Spirit, you must get you to your bed. We will come to you later.”

  “Madam, do not trouble yourself.”

  “Guards!” Sir Francis commanded.

  Two yeomen hurried forward, trailing pikes. The queen ordered them to take Burghley to his apartment. “On a chair, good yeomen, to spare his legs.”

  “At once, Majesty.”

  With eyes on her stern face, her guards gently overcame Burghley’s protests and carried him away.

  Walsingham remained, his face grave. “Majesty, I have reports from Holland.”

  “Yes, Sir Francis, we planned to speak with you on this matter.”

  “Madam, there has been a great battle at Zutphen. Many were slaughtered, both English and Spanish.”

  She swallowed the breath that caught in her throat lest it sound as a groan. “The Earl of Leicester?”

  “Not injured, Majesty, but nearly so. They came upon the enemy suddenly through a thick mist and were caught between cannon on the city ramparts and heavy musket fire from the trenches. The earl led the attack most valiantly, it is reported, hacking and hewing with his sword in the thick of the enemy with the courage and energy of a young warrior, though often his captains lost sight of him and communication was impossible. Now, His Lordship’s heart is breaking—”

  “But not—”

  Walsingham shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace, he is well enough, though full of grief. His young nephew and my son-in-law, Sir Philip Sidney, was wounded by a bullet in his thigh, having given his leg armor to another. That brave knight then gave up his water to his men, who, he said, needed it more. He is now dead most painfully and slowly of a terrible suppuration of the wound. The doctors thought to amputate, but he was too weak to bear the pain.”

  A line from one of Sidney’s sonnets rushed to Elizabeth’s mind, a line she had often clung to: Desiring naught but how to kill desire. He had been madly in love with Lettice’s daughter, Penelope, when young, but that daughter of a She-Wolf had turned him away most cruelly. Alas, all desire was dead for him now, though Elizabeth had still to find a way to manage her own.

  “We are saddened to hear of his death, Walsingham, and we offer our regret to you and his wife, your daughter. We will write to Lady Sidney.” Elizabeth put out a hand to the gallery wall and steadied herself. “He will be buried with all honors at St. Paul’s and we will mourn him publicly and keep him in our private prayers.” She bowed her head.

  Walsingham murmured his gratitude and began to retreat.

  “Is that all?” Elizabeth said, looking up, hoping to hear of Rob without asking further.

  Walsingham stopped. “Majesty, the earl says that he will try to recapture some of the smaller towns to provide his valiant soldiers and his queen with some victory. . . . Then he begs you to recall him with strong words: ‘Would to God I were rid of this place.’”

  Elizabeth leaned against the carved stone pillars flanking the window opening. She could not be angry with Rob for leading his troops even against her express wishes. How could he not and retain what had always made him the man he was . . . her brave Eyes?

  “Sir Francis, is there further word from our commissioners negotiating with the Spanish at Ostend?”

  “There have been no meetings of late, Majesty.”

  “What say you? Why are they not continuing?”

  “Majesty, my spies tell me Parma negotiates with the French and the States-General as well. I believe it to be an attempt to lull all sides until Philip’s ships are provisioned and manned for an attack on England.”

  “Yes, yes, Sir Spymaster, so you have warned many times. But we hear the old Spanish king has more care for his soul than for his fleet. It is said he takes communion four times a day to be ever shriven in case death comes between. But we have more immediate business than Philip’s soul. Come to us within the hour and we will have a private letter for the Earl of Leicester to go by swiftest courier to Holland.”

 
; Before Sir Francis bowed and backed away, Elizabeth was moving toward her privy chamber, her ladies hurrying to keep her fast pace. Once alone, she pulled her silver-trimmed writing cabinet to her and took out fresh parchment and a sharpened quill. To calm herself and allow her mind time to think clearly, she drank a few sips of watered wine and nibbled one of her favorite vanilla comfits before beginning.

  How to begin? A queen did not apologize or explain. Still, she had to show Rob her heart to reassure him that she . . . Jesu, to give him as much reassurance as was possible for a sovereign to a subject.

  Rob, I am afraid you will suppose by my wandering writings that a midsummer moon has taken large possession of my brains.

  But you have never been far from my thoughts and now I think to recall you from your labors in the field and urge you to come to me in England as soon as you can finish your affairs and those speedily.

  There is much trouble here and I am threatened by plots, assassins and spies of every hue and stripe. You know of the recent Babington conspiracy that planned my death and that Mary, queen of Scots, was part of it, agreeing to my assassination in writing and therefore condemning herself. Those men have met the traitor’s end they deserved and Mary has been tried and condemned, though I have not signed her death warrant.

  Plots and plotters are always with me and I need all my loyal men at my side.

  She stopped and closed her eyes, seeing his face, pierced by his eyes yet unable to go on and admit that her previous angry letters had been too harsh. Mistakes were not for queens, not for this queen. Her heart wanted to speak loud, but all that she could do was allow it to murmur through her swan quill:Now, will I end and do imagine that I talk still with you, and therefore loathly say farewell, ÖÖ, though ever I pray God bless you from all harm, and save you from all foes with my million and legion of thanks for all your pains and care. As you know, ever the same,