by Susan Kay
Cecil, that sneaking, wily snake! Who had advised her in this?
“Throckmorton,” she continued softly, and again it was as though she had heard his unspoken thought. “Throckmorton tells me he is the only man for the job.”
“May his advice prove sound,” Robin said stiffly.
She held out her hand in dismissal and he rose to his feet, kissed her fingers, and bowed himself to the door; where she called him back.
“One thing more, my lord. Do you wish me to find a place at court for your wife?”
There was a gasp, a suppressed snigger of amusement from the few women who attended her, and he knew instinctively that he looked every inch the fool he felt. And yet, humiliated as he was, a small part of him laughed in grudging admiration and said she was a clever bitch.
He had still to get out of this with panache. He bowed to her with exaggerated formality.
“My wife has been in poor health for some time, madam. Unless Your Majesty expressly commands otherwise I know she would prefer to remain quietly in the country.”
The Queen seemed to eye him with satisfaction.
“And your sister Mary—will her health permit attendance on me at court?”
“Mary will come with the greatest of pleasure, madam.”
Oh, it would suit him finely to have his favourite sister among her women. He wondered briefly if that was why she had suggested it and then the door closed behind him and he was alone in the ante-room, still none the wiser as to where he really stood with her. Charming, familiar, generous—she had been all three, but what did it amount to? He really could not say. Beneath that casual intimacy she remained unshakably in control, invulnerable as a fortress.
And no matter which way he looked at it, he knew he still had a long way to go.
* * *
On a brisk November morning Elizabeth rode through the cheering crowds which lined her way, to take possession of the Tower, dressed in the royal mourning gown of purple velvet, with Robin Dudley following immediately behind on a black horse.
The crowds pushed forward and challenged the cannon fire which echoed down the narrow streets with their great full-throated roar of affection. It was a sound that had not been heard in England for many years. They called out to her and saw her turn in the saddle to laugh and wave in reply. They had waited through many gloomy years, through poor harvests and rebellions and religious controversy, for this moment, and she had waited with them. The moment was theirs as much as her own; she wanted them to know it.
On Tower Hill she drew rein and the cannon fire ceased as she looked down on the fortress. It lay silent and submissive, girdled by a grey curtain wall, with the pinnacles of the White Tower spiking upwards in the winter sky. She had cheated death and conquered the dark force of “that place” and as she stared down at it in the deep silence which had descended all around, it seemed to her as though the Tower itself was shrinking, dwindling in significance before her eyes until it was no more than a toy fortress. She might reach out one hand and toss it into the River Thames beyond.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, she became aware of the wondering faces about her. They clearly expected her to say something and she caught Robin’s grave eyes upon her as she began to speak.
“Some have fallen from princes to be prisoners in that place; I am raised from a prisoner to be prince of this land.” Her eyes swept the rows of eager faces. “Let me show myself thankful to God and merciful to all men.”
Entering the Tower as a prince, she asked to be conducted to the apartment she had occupied as a prisoner and as many as possible crowded into the semi-circular room on the upper floor of the Bell Tower. Those unfortunate enough to be last were squashed against the three latrines between the inner and the outer door.
She wanted never to forget this room—the uneven floor, cold and rough beneath her feet, the tall windows capped with hoods, the deep, stone window-seats, and the sound of the east wind outside.
Oblivious to the staring crowd behind her, she walked to the window and looked out, resting her fingers against the rough wall. Cold stone. The words of an old psalm came suddenly into her mind. “The stone that the builders refused has become the headstone of the corner.”
And she was that stone—smooth, hard, impregnable. She too would stand for ages in the memory of men, for she wished to make her fame spread abroad in her lifetime “and after occasion memorial forever.”
Robin was beside her, silent, a little overcome by the significance of this moment, and as she turned slowly she saw her own memories reflected in his eyes, memories which isolated them together from the rest of the crowd. He was the only one who understood—truly understood—what this moment meant to her, for it meant almost the same to himself.
Smiling and laying her hand familiarly on his arm, she walked out to the state apartments in the White Tower.
* * *
Sir Henry Bedingfield knelt before the throne and kept his eyes on her jewelled slippers, because he did not dare to look into her face. He was mortally afraid of what he would find there. Face it—should she choose, she had ample cause for taking revenge on many, and Gardiner, chief among them, was no longer alive to receive his share, having conveniently died of natural causes three years before her accession.
Her summons had filled Bedingfield with stark terror. He wished he had not removed all her servants that night at Richmond; that he had not insisted on locking gates behind her; that he had not dismissed the Sands girl. He wished with incredible fervour that he had not made Elizabeth of England sit under a hedge to do up her hair.
“Look at me,” she said.
He lifted his eyes unwillingly. She sat above him like a statue, glittering, unsmiling.
“Well, gaoler—what shall I do with you?”
“Your Majesty—” His voice was an absurd croak in his throat; his legs were trembling.
“Get up, my friend.” Her finger brushed his grizzled cheek. “Get up, go home, and live in peace. And when I need to keep someone close confined I shall send for you.”
“Madam,” he stammered. “Gracious Madam—”
She smiled and covered his clumsy incoherence by offering her hand. Behind his back the polished courtiers were rude at his expense, but they could not take this moment from him. Slowly he made his way out of the thrumming palace where the candles now burnt till dawn took over. He did not belong here, he knew it and he was glad to go, back to rustic obscurity where there would be no more teasing assaults on his wooden dignity. And yet his relief was tinged with regret. So young, so full of life, and he not there to see it. Too old—too old! Ah—he knew it. The pace would kill him. So walk out of her palace, walk out of her life, and forget her.
But he never forgot. He took with him the shining memory of a laughing girl—brilliant curls dressed with diamonds, white gown crusted with gems spilling over the arms of her chair. And whenever at dinner someone raised his tankard and said reverently: “Gentlemen—the Queen,” he saw that image in his mind, untarnished by time.
When Bedingfield had gone, Elizabeth came down the steps of the dais and walked slowly through the crowded room, pausing frequently to talk with anyone who caught her fancy, until at last she reached the two she had marked for attention.
“Margaret!”
The Countess of Lennox sank into an uneasy curtsey at her feet and kissed her hand.
“And this must be Henry. I should hardly have recognised him, he is so well grown—but of course you feed him well—day and night, I seem to remember. I trust you have found a quieter set of menials to service your kitchen by now, cousin.”
Elizabeth gave Lennox a smile which sent the Countess’s stomach plunging with fear. She took a step past her and then glanced back over her shoulder.
“I think your mother looks a little pale, Henry. Perhaps you should take her to the window for some fr
esh air. The room is vastly overcrowded.”
She inclined her head pleasantly and moved on, with Robin Dudley at her side, leaving the Countess to fan herself vigorously.
Sweat a little, Lennox. Your time will come.
Robin said questioningly, “Kitchens, madam?”
“Just a little private jest among relatives, Robin. Nothing to excite concern.”
Robin glanced over his shoulder thoughtfully.
“It certainly appears to have excited the Countess. I thought she was going to faint when you spoke to her just then.”
“She’s a very excitable lady. It takes very little to go to her head.”
Robin looked hard at his Queen; her expression was inscrutable, but he sensed her hostility to the Countess and was surprised by it. She possessed more pressingly dangerous relatives than Lennox—the Duke of Norfolk, mouthpiece of the old nobility, the Queen of Scots, now Dauphine of France. France might yet declare war in support of Mary’s claim to the English throne; Norfolk could prove disloyal. And the claims of Margaret Lennox were certainly subsidiary to those of the two remaining Grey sisters, Katherine and Mary. Suspicion was a vital force, so why waste it? Frankly, he would have said the Greys were the greatest threat of all—Katherine was truculent and opinionated, and considered herself heiress presumptive. Some said she should be Queen—His hand on Elizabeth’s arm tightened its grip. She looked up at him in surprise and followed his glance across the room.
Lady Katherine Grey was in conversation with the Spanish Ambassador and her voice rose and fell on a complaining note.
“Watch her,” said Robin softly. “Watch her well. And Norfolk. You can’t afford to turn your back on any of them for a moment. You’re not safe yet.”
Elizabeth smiled at him.
“I’ll never be safe,” she said and went on down the room to give her hand graciously to Katherine.
Chapter 5
The gayest court in Europe was like a golden hive under the rule of a Queen bee, no place for the old or the fainthearted. The new Queen was never tired or idle and the courtiers who shared her life found they were not expected to be tired or idle either. They rose at dawn and few could hope to see their beds again before the small hours of the morning.
There was something quite insatiable in Elizabeth’s mad pursuit of activity. In the eyes of half of Europe she was a bastard and usurper; it was as though she stretched out both hands to snatch all that life now had to offer her, and snatch it greedily for fear it might be gone tomorrow. Her restless energy, her total inability to relax, affected everybody’s life; but to no one was her wild mood of more importance than her principal Secretary, William Cecil.
He could not complain that it affected her work—she was killing him with work! No one had ever stretched his mind like this before and her ability to manage her affairs and her court never ceased to amaze him. Oh no, he had no qualms about her conduct in Council.
It was her private hours of pleasure that gave him real concern. He allowed for her youth, allowed for the years of miserable restraint—but he simply could not make allowance for her relationship with Robin Dudley. And that relationship was becoming quite impossible to ignore.
Cecil stood unobtrusively in the doorway of the Great Hall, glowering at the court masque, waiting for some appropriate moment at which to catch her eye and draw her aside. There was news from France—not pressing, admittedly—but news he would prefer to discuss before she went to bed—if she ever went to bed! Sometimes he doubted it. They were dancing—well, he had nothing against dancing, he was no Puritan—but was it necessary to dance all night with the same partner? By the same token, was it necessary to wear a green wig?
The music rose to a climax and every partner exchanged a formal kiss.
Only there was nothing formal in the way Robin Dudley kissed his Queen; and Cecil found his own hands were clenched with anger.
They must be watched. Later, I shall arrange it—
The masque ended and the court applauded as Robin led the Queen back to the dais. She sat down in the chair of state and handed him her heavy mask on its silver handle. Robin, in turn, handed it to his sister, pretty, dark-eyed Mary Sidney, who curtsied and withdrew tactfully out of hearing.
“You make a better mermaid without the mask,” said Robin thoughtfully. “That pale mysterious face of yours beneath a green wig has quite an eerie fascination. You look like—”
“Like death, Kat said.” Elizabeth’s eyes were smoky with kohl; her smile was provocative.
“Ashley is a silly old fool,” said Robin seriously. “There can’t be another woman in England who could wear that wig and get away with it. Why shouldn’t you wear something that suits you so extraordinarily well? You are the Queen.”
“True.” Elizabeth nibbled the plumes of her fan aggressively. “I am the Queen and answerable to none save God. If I should wish to be outrageous, eccentric, even dishonourable—” She caught a sight of the grim figure by the door and broke off with a sharp sigh. “Damn! There’s Cecil hanging around like the ghoul at the feast. I swear if he had his way I’d be locked up in a glass cabinet and only trotted out for Council meetings and state occasions. Judging by his face I’d say he doesn’t approve of my green hair either.”
Robin followed her glance with sudden hostility.
“It’s not his place to approve or disapprove of you, madam. I wonder you don’t box his ears and tell him to go to the Devil.”
Elizabeth laughed and shook her head.
“Ah no, to lay a finger on all that dignity would be sacrilege.” She leaned back in her chair, fanning herself lazily. “Now you, on the other hand, have the sort of face that simply asks to be slapped.”
“Is that all my face moves you to, madam?” His eyes were steady on her face. “It did not seem so to me just now when we danced.”
He moved close, leaning over the arm of her chair with the boldly painted hunter’s mask hanging from a ribbon on his strong wrist. She was acutely aware that the talk and laughter in the hall had become muted, that all eyes were fixed upon them in vulgar curiosity.
“You must not kiss me again like that.”
“How would Your Majesty prefer me to kiss you?” he inquired pleasantly. “Like that wooden idiot Pickering?”
“Not at all for the present,” she said coolly. “I would prefer you to leave the court for a while.”
His hand on hers tightened angrily. “For what purpose?”
“To perform a small service for me. But, of course, if you are unwilling I can easily find someone else—Tom Heneage perhaps—or that wooden idiot, Pickering—”
Robin kissed her hand hastily.
“You don’t need those fools. I can provide anything Your Majesty may desire.”
“Anything?” she mocked. “Anything at all?”
“Tell me what you wish me to do.” He was suddenly eager and humble. “Please tell me, madam.”
It was always “madam” now, whenever he was uncertain of her, whenever he was afraid he had taken familiarity too far. It was something to hold power over such an arrogant young man.
“I want you to consult your astrologer, Dr. Dee,” she said slowly.
“On your behalf?”
She nodded. “To discuss the most propitious day for my coronation—if there ever is a coronation. Cecil’s yet to find a bishop willing to crown me.”
Robin frowned. “Catholic bishops! Why wait on them? The Protestant clergy will soon be flocking back from Geneva, ready to slit each other’s throat for the honour!”
“It’s too early to risk trouble, Robin. I dare not be crowned by Protestant rites.”
“Have all the Catholic bishops refused?”
“All save one, and who can blame them? Once I’m safely crowned I shall be quite at liberty to start a reign of persecution worse than the last.”
“But you won’t,” he pointed out reasonably. “You’ve given your royal word—”
She looked up at him quickly, with a slight smile.
“And knowing what my royal word is worth, you as a Catholic bishop would be prepared to trust your life to it?”
He coughed and supposed not; they shared a smile. After a moment he said cheerfully, “So there’s not much point in my going down to Mortlake to see Dee, is there?”
Elizabeth shrugged.
“Well—there’s always Bishop Oglethorpe. He’s too scared of the Pope to say yes, and too scared of me to say no, but since I’m nearer than the Pope I may well win in the end. And the minute he agrees I want to be ready, with the stars on my side. If you go I shall be endlessly grateful.”
“May I know what form that gratitude will take?” he inquired significantly.
“Leave of absence,” she said mischievously, “to visit your wife.”
“My wife!”
“Yes—with this ring I thee wed—remember?”
He wrenched the hunter’s mask from his wrist with a savage twist that snapped the ribbon, and his sister glanced round in alarm.
“I won’t be mocked,” he said darkly. “Even by the Queen.”
“I’m not mocking—merely reminding my Master of Horse that he has not ridden his own mare for many weeks. You are a married man, Robin.”
“And if I were not?”
The rash words were out and could not be recalled. He knew a moment of acute unease, until he saw that she was still smiling, her gaze bright, amused, and tolerant.
“If you were not you would be in need of a wife, my Robin. And I rather think I should have to find you one with some alacrity.” She stood up abruptly. “Now let loose my hand—I must go to Cecil.”
* * *
Robin left the court for Mortlake in a mood of baffled exasperation and Elizabeth was conscious of some relief. There was a great deal requiring her attention and it was easier to concentrate without those predatory eyes constantly following her about. Cecil relaxed, too, in Robin’s absence, and lowered his guard against fear of disillusion. She was not going to disappoint him, as others had. It was almost ten years now since he had singled her out as his personal protégée, and so far she had not put a foot wrong along the slippery ledge she walked. She was young and totally inexperienced, yet she behaved like a seasoned statesman. At her first public reception Philip’s Ambassador had challenged her to be “very careful” in religious matters.
