Legacy

by Susan Kay

  “Guard your tongue, my friend,” was all she said. Her voice was deceptively mild and again he was misled.

  “I believe it was Your Majesty who asked me to speak my mind plainly, without respect to your personal will.”

  Her book snapped shut and her eyes blazed suddenly hard and hostile.

  “You may say what you like over matters of state, but leave my private life to me. I’ll brook no interference there from anyone.”

  “Madam, you have no private life. Your smallest action is a matter of state, you are the Queen—”

  “Yes, Cecil, as you so rightly say but seem to be in danger of forgetting, I am the Queen. And I warn you now that the man who tries to use the spur with me will take a fall from which he’ll never recover!”

  She stood up suddenly and he stepped back from the smouldering fury in her eyes.

  “You may leave me now, Cecil. Come back and speak to me again—” She turned her back on him and spoke spitefully over her shoulder—“when you have remembered your place!”

  As he stared at her jewelled back something Sir Thomas More had once said of her father echoed ominously in his mind.

  “If the lion knew his true strength it were hard for any man rule him.”

  And now he was finding it hard—perhaps impossible—to rule the lion’s cub. He had thought himself in partnership with this splendid young lioness, but now he saw how easily she might break the chains of discipline and dignity, and turn upon him with rending claws, as the great Henry had turned on his loyal servants Wolsey and Cromwell. Never trust a cat, the least domesticated of all animals!

  Bowing coldly, he left the room with heightened colour and in the doorway of the Privy Chamber met Robin Dudley, who inclined his head curtly and said with a smirk, “Good evening, Mr. Secretary. I trust you had a pleasant interview with Her Majesty?”

  “I believe, my lord, that you would know that better than most,” said Cecil icily. “And now, if you will excuse me, someone in her Grace’s court must see to the business of the realm!”

  Robin watched triumphantly as Cecil stalked away into the Presence Chamber.

  Chapter 8

  Mary of Guise stared out over the stone battlements of Edinburgh Castle into the grey mist of another freezing Scottish dawn.

  Never before had the narrow little streets of her capital city seemed quite so bleak. Sixteen years she had looked out upon them alone, sixteen years since her husband had died and left her to fight for the rights of a six-day-old daughter. She would not look out upon them much longer—her fight was over. She had lost; and just for once she had not expected to. The English troops had been so heavily defeated at Leith, at the very least she had expected a breathing space, time in which to receive help from France. But the slaughtered troops had been replaced with unbelievable speed to continue the besiegement without mercy. And in France, the uncovering of a Protestant conspiracy had drained the forces of her Guise relatives. Whatever aid came now from Mary’s homeland would be too late to save French influence and the Catholic faith in Scotland.

  Crossing the battlements with a slow, dragging step, the Queen Mother returned to her rooms. They were bleak rooms, as cold and comfortless, even in summer, as the life she had led in this barren land since the day she had sent her little daughter to safety in France. She would never forget that French galley drawing slowly out of Dumbarton harbour, its precious cargo a five-year-old child, queen of the most barbarous country in Europe. It had been a mighty slap in the face for the English, who had hoped to take her captive to London; but now those wretched years of separation seemed so pointless.

  Long, hard years they had been since that day she rode away from Dumbarton harbour, years filled with treachery and violence that had found her many enemies and a handful of loyal friends. And when she thought of friends, she thought of the Earl of Bothwell, surely the most unlikely man in this world to embrace a lost cause. Bothwell was a lone wolf and a loyal villain, the one member of the Protestant kirk who refused to run with Knox’s pack. And it was Bothwell who had waylaid that three thousand pounds of Elizabeth’s and embarrassed the English government—not that Elizabeth had been embarrassed for long. Her glib lies had disgusted Bothwell, who lied himself when it suited him as well as the next man, but had never thought to see a woman sink so low. She did not share his surprise or even his outrage, for it was the underhand which ruled the world now, the stab in the back rather than the honourable duel. It was the age of the serpent, and the tongue of the English snake was long and forked in the darkness. No one could yet be sure how far it reached.

  But whatever followed this humiliating peace with England would not be Mary’s concern. Her battle was over and with it her life—the doctors had been plain and already she felt distant and indifferent. An hour later, when they brought the news to her bedside that a delegation of English commissioners, headed by Sir William Cecil, was on its way to Berwick, she did not even turn her head on the pillow.

  * * *

  Cecil was glad of his lawyer’s training, his ability to function with passionless efficiency while his mind was totally preoccupied with another matter. Reports from his spies came in a steady and unencouraging succession from England. The Queen and Lord Robert were everywhere together—they were shut up for hours at a time in the palace—they were alone— There seemed little doubt that their affair was rapidly moving towards some kind of emotional climax and Cecil was in a mad fidget to get back to the scene.

  He cursed and railed against them in private, but it never affected his work for a moment as he juggled the complicated legal details which would result in an invaluable diplomatic triumph for England. The Scottish Regent had died shortly before his arrival; a military disaster in Tripoli had prevented Philip’s active interference by obliging him to look to his own territories; France was still desperately occupied overthrowing the Protestant conspiracy of Amboise. Never had there been a more perfect opportunity for the English to throw the French out of Scotland and place power in the hands of the Protestant nobility, led by Mary Stuart’s bastard brother, James.

  By the 6th of July his work was completed. The Treaty of Edinburgh formally recognised Elizabeth’s right to the English throne. The French, but for a mere handful of troops, were finished as a power in Scotland and the government of the realm could be safely left in the hands of Protestant allies. All that remained was the acquisition of Mary Stuart’s signature to ratify the document, and the back door to England would be firmly locked. Cecil knew he had reason to be well pleased with his achievement and the knowledge raised his spirits, causing him to view his recent fears and discontent in a new light.

  Whatever was happening in England, Elizabeth had to be grateful for this, for it altered her whole standing in Europe. He had made her as safe as she could ever hope to be, and what had Dudley to offer to compare with that? It would surely win back her trust, that unique and deeply satisfying trust which had been his before Dudley stepped between them with his malicious innuendoes.

  Suddenly, he could not wait to get back with his wonderful trophy; he was as eager as a hunting dog to lay a rabbit at his master’s feet. She would not pat him on his head and say: “Good boy,” but she might lay those beautiful fingers on his arm for a moment and tell him he was her right hand. It was the same thing really, he supposed wryly, but what did it matter if only he could win her back again?

  And perhaps he had been wrong to suspect her motive in sending him away, for who else could have handled this tricky business half so well? She had been right—he had needed this break from court, this chance to think things over and see how small and petty his fears really were. She would never let him down, not after all he had done for her, Elizabeth—his Elizabeth!

  He went out into the courtyard and affably patted the placid mule which waited for him; and as he began the tedious jog south to Windsor, he found he was full of hope.

&nbs
p; * * *

  Passing through the cool corridors of Windsor Castle on his way to the royal apartments, Robin noted with satisfaction that no guard of gentleman usher presumed to bar his way or question his right of access to the royal presence. Nobody questioned him now. Of late it had pleased him to flaunt his unique privileges quite flagrantly in the face of the old nobility, and chief among those it amused him to irritate were the Earl of Sussex and the young Duke of Norfolk. Sussex castigated him openly as an upstart gypsy; Norfolk, during the course of a dangerously heated exchange, had advised him to abandon his “preposterous pretensions” to Her Majesty’s hand. The envious eyes of every man at court were upon him and few doubted that he would shortly be their new master. But while the fawning deference of the court was deeply gratifying, it did not serve to mask Robin’s growing unease; he was still far from sure of winning that prise which everyone supposed to be so nearly in his grasp. He had rooms adjoining the Queen’s so that he might be on hand day and night should she need him; but the arrangement was not made, as the ill-informed fondly believed, that he might play the lover with greater convenience. As yet, he had not played the lover at all and the lack of that role had begun to disturb him greatly.

  Cecil’s absence from court had seemed the answer to his anxious prayer at first—he had been certain it was Cecil who held her back from him. As soon as the dust settled behind the Secretary’s entourage, Robin had begun to lay siege to the Queen’s affections, like a man beleaguering a castle. He had been sure of his ability to breach her defences. No woman he desired had ever denied the final intimacy, and the removal of Cecil from the scene had seemed to herald his approaching triumph.

  Through the lazy summer days he had bound her closer; mornings riding in the Great Park, afternoons on the sun-dappled river, evenings strolling hand in hand across the wooden terrace. She no longer seemed to care who saw their transparent happiness. Her attendants discreetly kept their distance—soon they were alone in her rooms and there, as he began to urge the natural conclusion of their love, he became slowly aware of something wrong, something missing in her response. She had become as tense and wary as a hunted fox and the previous evening a serious quarrel had blown up, causing him to depart in a towering rage to his own apartment.

  He had woken in a sullen mood and gone down to the stables, where he relieved his feelings by finding fault and bawling at the grooms. He took a vigorous ride in Windsor Great Park and returned in a better frame of mind to discover the arrival of the Irish geldings he had ordered. In spite of their journey they were in prime condition, with proud heads and gleaming flanks and the promise of good speed. His first thought was of Elizabeth—she would be pleased. He wondered whether to go to her now with the news or wait until she joined him for the hunt and have the pleasure of her surprise.

  And then his sister Mary had come down the path with a basket of roses on her arm, to tell him that the Queen had a headache and would not be riding today.

  His face darkened. He took his sister’s arm and steered her away from the prying ears of stable boys.

  “She doesn’t want to see me—is that it?”

  Mary withdrew her arm from his urgent grip. Her voice was curiously cold.

  “The Queen is ill, Robin. If you weren’t so wrapped up in your own interests you might have noticed that she’s not been well for several days.”

  He stared at her uncertainly.

  “But we’ve hunted and hawked and danced all week. She never said anything.”

  Mary shrugged.

  “She never says anything. Mrs. Ashley has taught me to recognise the signs.”

  He stood grinding the heel of his riding boot into the soft mud, tense and preoccupied.

  “I wish I’d known,” he muttered. “Perhaps it explains—”

  Mary watched him for a moment and then laid her hand on his sleeve.

  “Robin—what happened last night?”

  “Nothing happened,” he said absently, kicking the caked mud off his boot. “That’s the trouble.”

  “But you must have done something to make her so angry. Did you quarrel with her?”

  His head jerked up angrily, as though she had jarred a painful nerve.

  “That’s none of your damned business,” he snapped, and turned away abruptly across the paddock, striding so fast on his long legs that she had to run to catch up with him.

  He had no desire to talk of last night; how for the first time he had lost his temper, asked what the devil it was she expected of him, told her he was not cut out to live like a monk; how he had stormed to the door remarking angrily that he would settle with Amy whether she liked it or not, that he was damned if he needed the Queen’s permission, or anyone else’s, to divorce a wife who was a useless burden; how she had looked at him with icy contempt and told him that if he left the court now he need not trouble to return. An ugly quarrel that had placed everything at risk and all because he had lacked the sensitivity to look beneath her unreasonable attitude.

  But, Christ—what did she want of a man? What had the Lord Admiral offered to sweep away her resistance? Was it necessary to throw her on a bed and cut her dress to pieces to arouse her interest? Perhaps he had been too much the gentleman—

  Mary was at his side, her pretty face creased with anxiety.

  “Robin, it’s not safe to quarrel with her. You can’t back her into a corner and take her by force.”

  He stared across the paddock to where the grooms were trotting the Irish geldings for his approval.

  “I must have her, Mary. I must.”

  “But—if she does not want you—”

  He swung round and grabbed her arm roughly.

  “What has she said to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “For Christ’s sake, she’s fond of you—and there’s precious few women she does like—she must have told you something.”

  Mary moved away angrily.

  “I won’t spy on her for you, Robin. She’s been good to me since I came to court and I owe her loyalty.”

  “You owe me a sister’s loyalty.” He shook her roughly by the shoulders. “Doesn’t that count for anything any more?”

  “You’re so like Father,” she said suddenly. “Always wanting the moon, never happy with anything less—if you’re not careful you’ll end the same way. You’re pushing too hard and no one’s indispensible to her.”

  “Except Cecil!” he said bitterly and let his hands fall in a half-shamed gesture. “He seems to be the only one she really trusts. I wish to God I knew what it is between the two of them.”

  Mary was silent and her glance was touched with pity. She was very close to Robin, but she knew his faults and her primary attachment was now to Elizabeth. If she had to take sides, she would support her mistress.

  “Robin,” she said softly, “give it up. The Queen is not for you.”

  “We’ll see,” he said grimly and tugged the basket from her arm. “Give me those roses. I’m going to her now, alone and unannounced—and I mean to find out, one way or another, where I stand.”

  And so it was that he wound his way through the Presence Chamber and the Privy Chamber, to the door of the Bedchamber, where the Captain of the Guard, meeting his arrogant glance, let him pass without a murmur. He stood at length in the inner sanctum, a large, sunny, stone-walled room which housed the state bed, where the heavy curtains were partly drawn to shield the occupant from the bright light.

  Mrs. Ashley sprang up from her tapestry screen and her chair creaked with the violence with which she had vacated it.

  “How dare you come in here unannounced!” she hissed. He put both hands around the waist of this elderly viper and swung her gently out of his path to the bed.

  Once there, he drew the curtain quietly and hesitated. Elizabeth lay quite still on her pillows, her unpainted face very pale, her eyes closed. On
ly the faint tremor of her lids betrayed the fact that she was fully aware of his presence and only pretending to be asleep. If his intuition had played him false, the piece of lèse-majeste he had in mind would probably catapult him into an outer darkness from which he might never emerge. On the other hand—

  He turned the rose basket upside down and emptied the contents over her; Mrs. Ashley blanched with horror as the Queen sat up.

  “You bastard!”

  He caught Elizabeth’s hand, kissed it, and said with an impertinence that was almost suicidal, “So that’s what makes us such a perfect pair!—I’ve often wondered.”

  Behind his back, Kat sucked in her breath with a sharp, gurgling gasp of incredulity. The Queen stared at him in silence and there was an endless moment in which he heard his own heartbeat hammering louder and louder inside his head, before she lay back on her pillows and, still watching him, said with inscrutable calm, “Kat—you can go now.”

  “Go, madam—go?”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s about to rape a sick woman—we all know what a perfect gentleman he is!”

  Mrs. Ashley withdrew in frigid disapproval and Robin watched her departure with satisfaction.

  “Get these damned things off me,” said Elizabeth when the door had closed, “and if just one of them pricks me, you insufferable pig, you’ll be extremely sorry.”

  He smiled. “Madam, if I ever prick you it won’t be with a rose.”

  He leaned over the bed with an exploring hand and she bit him.

  “Vampire!” He jerked back and sucked his finger. “Look at that! You’ve drawn blood.”

  The Queen reached out and took a golden paperknife from the bedside table, then lay back on her pillows and touched its gleaming edge with the tip of her tongue.

  “Come closer,” she smiled, “and I may draw a good deal more.”

  The point of the knife flashed in the sunlight, teasing, provocative, edged with just sufficient genuine danger to make him pause for a second before he lunged forward and pinned both her hands behind her head on the pillow. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor; they rolled together across her bed, laughing like small children romping in a meadow.