by Susan Kay
He had never met Alençon, but he could find it in his heart to pity the man. He stood no chance against Elizabeth’s inborn gift for manipulating men, her remarkable ability to take advantage of her sex. Her physical frailty had saved her from the serious limitations of a total virago and he suspected, at times, that she was not above making use of that too, when it suited her. The same woman who rode roughshod over the dignity of the men who served her was also likely to restore their feelings of male superiority by fainting outright at their feet, a move which never failed to send them into a fiercely protective fuss for vinegar and restoratives, however murderous with exasperation they might have felt with her five minutes before. Play-acting or genuine, it was always impossible to tell which and it always had the desired effect. She had made her sex into the most formidable weapon in her armoury. And Alençon was to be her next victim.
* * *
The soft, tinkling notes fell on the air like pure, clear drops of rainwater; as the last one died on a throb of exquisite melancholy, there was a genuinely reverent silence before the burst of furious applause.
Jean de Simier, special envoy of the Duke of Alençon, bent to offer his arm to the player who sat at the keyboard of the virginals, attempting, not particularly with much success, to look modestly embarrassed by the spontaneous ovation.
“My master will be entranced—Your Majesty plays like an angel.”
She smiled a little smugly, familiar enough with fulsome flattery to know the man spoke sincerely. She was very proud of her accomplishments—there was no woman in her court who could rival her, for she played and danced, as she did everything, to perfection.
She glanced up at the virile Frenchman and smiled mischievously.
“Don’t you think your master would find marriage with an angel a great trial? Surely wings and a halo would be a great inconvenience to any man in bed.”
He returned her smile and leaned over the virginals to take her hand, caressing it with his lips.
“The Duke would overcome any obstacle for the joy of meeting with Your Highness in that same place—”
“Yes—we have heard it said that he always rises to the occasion.”
A ripple of amusement ran round the little group of listening courtiers and Simier bowed, acknowledging her sly wit.
“You are too quick for me, madam. I fear I cannot deny my master’s reputation with the ladies. It is true that his virility exceeds that of many men.”
“Alas—then I can scarcely expect a faithful husband.”
“Not so, my Queen. I swear you will drive all other women from his mind.”
“It’s not his mind that troubles me, Simier, it’s his bed.”
Leicester laughed out loud and the Frenchman shot him a look of dislike and distrust before spreading his hands in an expansive gesture.
“Madam—surely experience is an asset in every field.”
Elizabeth rose from the virginals and leaned familiarly on the Frenchman’s arm.
“When I’ve tried him in a field,” she said wickedly, “I’ll let you know.”
Simier had been at court since Christmas, wooing the English Queen by proxy with a dextrous mixture of charm and outrageous gallantry. He was never absent from her side now and he had caused more scandal in the last few weeks than Leicester and the rest had done in twenty years. His overt physical advances were cloaked in the thinnest guise of respect and were never repulsed. He was an aggressive, dangerous man who had murdered his wife and his brother for infidelity and he was attracted by Elizabeth’s feline charm—she was perhaps the only woman he had respected all his turbulent life. At the age of forty-five she was playing her favourite game for all it was worth, more successfully than she had ever played it before. Her mirror showed her hard, handsome face positively radiant beneath the flamboyant diamond-threaded curls of her fashionable red wig. She felt as though she had shed ten years in as many weeks and tonight the intense gaze of Simier’s eyes, and of all those furiously jealous ones behind him, filled her with an ecstatic sense of power.
She glanced beyond Simier to the men who shared her government. Sussex, his weathered features ageing and benign, looked on with approval—he longed to see her with an heir. Burghley’s face was noticeable only for its lack of emotion in that very emotional room; he knew more of her game than most and was not deceived by her performance. Walsingham, who had spent four years in the Secretariat, serving her with passionless efficiency and infuriating her with his Puritan bigotry, was irritated at the apparent success of the Catholic Frenchman. And Leicester was intensely and bitterly jealous, making no secret of his fierce hostility to the match. Poor Robin! But she would make it up to him, when at last it was all over. She saw no reason why she should not enjoy her last fling.
Beneath the light of a hundred candles, she danced with Simier until dawn and knew that beyond the palace gates the people had begun to grumble faintly and say that she had lost her senses. Robin said quite openly that she was bewitched by the Frenchman.
She wondered in half-idle amusement if she was.
* * *
Simier sat in the royal barge watching the sweating oarsmen, tightly bunched up in their Tudor livery, dipping their long white oars in and out of the water in perfect rhythm.
He stared out over the Thames, gnawing the inside of his lip, for he was a man who found it hard to relax at the best of times, and relaxation was a commodity in short supply at the English court, where everyone from the sovereign down appeared to live on their nerves. He had been over six months in England and the Queen gave him every reason to think she found him and the cause of his mission as fascinating as ever; but still he had not persuaded her to sign the vital passport which would allow the Duke to come to England. She painted a pretty picture of herself as a weak and defenceless woman in the hands of statesmen who could not agree, but it was a picture which did not quite accord with the totally unquestioned obedience she appeared to command from all, even Burghley. Simier knew she was playing for time and he believed he knew why—Leicester’s enmity had been steady and pointedly obvious since his arrival in London. Well, he had discovered a secret which would cook Leicester’s goose, and if necessary he would disclose it at some suitable opportunity, if the man did not back off soon.
Certainly the French marriage was not being hailed by the English people, and public opinion was beginning to speak out against it. The Duke should be here now, pleading his own cause; they would be less ready to offend a prince personally than they were to offend his shadow.
Simier sighed and arranged the lace ruff at his cuff. A slight breeze was skirting the river now, rippling the water into small waves, and boats passed them on either side. Idly he noticed a small sculler’s boat which seemed suddenly to be out of control, its occupant struggling with an unwieldy gun. Simier stiffened. What in God’s name would a man want with a gun on this peaceful river?
He was about to cry out, when suddenly the gun discharged. A grey lead bullet grazed the royal canopy, missing the Queen by inches, and struck a bargeman who collapsed to the floor with a scream of pain. The peace of the river dissolved into pandemonium.
Calmly the Queen snapped her book closed and smiled at the French Ambassador who was watching her closely, hoping she would panic at this attempt on her life and provide him with a nice tid-bit for his next despatch. She waved back the anxious onslaught of courtiers who flocked around her and insisted on going at once to the injured man. A respectful silence fell as her bargemen parted to let her pass and followed her with worshipping eyes.
The bullet had passed clean through the man’s arm and blood was streaming down his wrist. Elizabeth unwound the silk scarf that flew at her neck and bound the wound tightly. When he swayed unsteadily, her hand beneath his arm guided him back to his seat.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said gently. “You took that bullet for me and I shall see that y
ou never want.”
Leicester had pushed his way to her side anxiously and now handed her a handkerchief to wipe her fingers.
“The culprit has been arrested, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.
She glanced out across the river to the muddle of small craft and sighed.
“Won’t you come back and sit down, madam? You’ve had a shock.”
She smiled faintly. “I’m all right, Robin, stop fussing. Tell them we will return to the palace—this man needs attention at once.”
Leicester gave her his arm and they walked back towards the royal canopy. As she passed Simier she noticed how pale and shaken was his dark face and the thought crossed her mind that he firmly believed the bullet had been meant for him.
The trial of the would-be assassin took place at Windsor where one Thomas Appletree was found guilty, not of treason but of creating a dangerous disturbance in the presence of the Sovereign. The point was merely academic—the penalty for both charges was still death—and he was brought to the scaffold through a violently hostile crowd which screamed abuse and tried to attack him. He wept bitterly, declared that he deserved death and had hoped for nothing else, but he did not get his wish. Elizabeth sent a personal reprieve to the foot of the gallows and the crowd, as though to prove their notorious fickleness, cheered him down the scaffold as heartily as they had just booed and hissed him up it.
She was quite prepared to believe his story that it had been an accident and not only saved his life but got his employer to take him back. Burghley, who lived in constant terror of her assassination, was dumbfounded by the incredible implications of her unwarranted mercy; but she told him that she did not slay mice.
In July, after a furious quarrel with Leicester on the subject, Elizabeth signed the passport which would permit Alençon to travel to England, and the Earl retired to Wanstead to sulk and announce loudly to anyone who would listen that he was ill with grief and chagrin. Elizabeth strongly suspected him of shamming, but she had to make sure and so she hurried down to Wanstead with a small train and spent two days reassuring her offended lover that he had nothing to fear.
“I couldn’t put him off any longer without arousing the suspicion that I’m not serious about the marriage.”
“And are you serious?”
“Of course not, haven’t I told you so often enough?” She looked at him shrewdly. “Have you dragged me here on a wild goose chase? There’s nothing wrong with you, is there, you sly devil?”
“Indeed there is, madam.” His jealous fear had relaxed at her quick concern. “My feelings have been deeply wounded—you will have to kiss them better.”
She laughed and leaned over the bed to tweak the grey-streaked beard.
“You’re absurd, do you know that, Robin Dudley, and I’m too busy to waste any more time on your nonsense.” She kissed him briskly and got off the edge of his bed. “Stop acting the fool and come back to court. We’re getting a little too old to play these silly games with each other.”
She was tired when she got back to Greenwich and not at all pleased to hear that during her absence another pot shot had been taken at Simier in the palace gardens. She changed her gown hurriedly to receive him, prepared to humour the man’s injured dignity and smooth the situation before it got out of hand and caused real trouble with France.
“Jean!” She came across the room with her hands outstretched to him, at her most charmingly informal. “Jean, I was so sorry to hear. I cannot imagine who can be behind such a foul act.”
“I can,” he said grimly, bowing over her hand and allowing her to lead him to a window-seat. “I know who opposes your marriage with my master more strongly than anyone else.”
“Robin?” She burst out laughing. “Oh, Jean, how little you know him to suggest that. If you had seen him as I have today, sulking in bed like a little boy, you would not walk in fear of him. I promise you, he would not dare to do it.”
“Why not, madam? A man who found the courage to marry your cousin, the Countess of Essex, twelve months ago would certainly dare to silence me.”
“What!” It came on a whispered gasp. “What did you say?”
“I said he was married, madam.” Simier opened his eyes wide in feigned astonishment. “But surely you knew—why, everybody knows—it’s common gossip around the court.”
As he watched, the blood drained out of her face so that the small patches of rouge stood out in stark relief on her ashen cheeks. She stood up suddenly and took hold of the heavy curtain to support herself. Her mouth was a thin, twisted line clamped tightly shut as though to prevent any cry of anguish escaping and her eyes, suddenly unable to meet his knowing glance, looked away through the window in mute misery. It was as though the ramparts of her world were crashing in upon her and though he was not a sensitive man, he knew he was looking at a woman reeling from a mortal blow. She began to breathe in quick, laboured gasps and one hand crept to her heart, as though she felt a physical pain.
A cold sweat broke out over Simier’s body, for if she dropped dead at his feet of a seizure, as she seemed in a fair way to do, then all his clever diplomacy would count for nothing. He touched her arm in a panic. Suddenly she swung round to look at him and he fell back a step from the dreadful expression in her blazing black eyes. He felt he was looking into the eyes of a creature from the darkest regions of Hell, as though he stood on the crust of a seething volcano.
“Leave me!” she said, and he fled from the room like a man who has dabbled in forces beyond his control and understanding. He was halfway across the Privy Chamber when a scream of unearthly rage splintered the air behind him; something hit the closed door with a crash, and again he heard that terrible cry. Whatever had broken loose in that room, he knew for certain it was no longer sane or even human. He hurried away to his own apartments, feeling the startled glances of courtiers as he passed. When at last he dared to emerge, a few hours later, he heard the news that the Earl of Leicester was already under arrest in a small fortress in the palace gardens, waiting to be shipped to the Tower on the next tide.
Bets were being placed on the date of his execution.
* * *
That evening saw the members of the Council’s inner ring ranged about the council chamber in various poses of nervousness, as restless and uneasy as a cluster of frightened rabbits cowering from the presence of a mad dog. It was absurd, thought Burghley, truly absurd that half a dozen of the most influential men in Europe should be skulking in here, too terrified to face one woman in the mindless grip of a hysterical tantrum. But there it was. Not one man or woman had the courage to go in and slap her to her senses, putting a timely end to that appalling frenzy before she caused permanent damage to herself and to the state. He had never counted himself a coward until this moment when he knew that he could not face her. Oddly enough it was the sort of situation which Leicester alone might have been expected to handle and in any other set of circumstances they would all have been looking to him to calm her back into sanity. Now it looked as though the magic cure of his personality was about to be lost to them for good.
If anyone had told Burghley twenty years ago that one day he would be desperately debating how to save Leicester’s skin, he would have laughed aloud at the impossibility. Now he reflected grimly on life’s little ironies. Thanks to the Queen, Leicester was a man of very considerable standing—“The Great Lord” they called him at home and abroad—his voice counted for something among their Protestant supporters in Europe and throughout England. If Elizabeth struck him down now, in a moment of jealous rage, the scandal of her injustice would never die. Such a blot on her name would send her prestige plummeting like a falling star. So she could not be allowed to execute the man; she could not even be allowed to send him to the Tower. And someone was going to have to risk his own fortunes and freedom—possibly even his own life—to tell her so. Burghley tapped his gouty fingers on the table in front o
f him and looked around the room, seeing the others hastily avoid his cool gaze.
“Well, my lords, we are all agreed that someone must do it. Walsingham—you have been the man’s friend.”
Walsingham started and stared, his long thin face quivering like that of a cornered rat.
“Her Majesty threw a slipper in my face the last time I contradicted her opinion—I hardly think I am your man. Surely someone who is known to be the Earl’s sworn enemy would infuriate her less—a man known for his courage and physical presence—a man she holds in high esteem…”
He licked his dry lips and looked over to where the old Earl of Sussex sat gnawing his thumb and frowning. Suddenly everyone in the room had followed Walsingham’s hopeful gaze and the elderly soldier could feel their eyes boring into his head. A moment longer he glowered at nothing, then he got painfully to his feet and shrugged his great shoulders ruefully.
“Well—I’m nearer to the grave than the rest of you. I suppose it had better be me. I stuck my neck out for her with her sister when she was just a slip of a girl and she said she would never forget it. I suppose I’ll never have a better chance to test the word of a prince.” Across the table he met Burghley’s anxious glance. “I can’t promise anything, of course, my lord—but I’ll do my best.”
As he went out of the room he heard someone mutter darkly that that would make a good epitaph.
Sussex went at once to her ante-room, sent in his name, and begged an audience. A maid of honour, her pretty face convulsed with terror, returned to sob the refusal. “I am to admit no one, on pain of death, my lord.”
The Earl frowned and turned to wave his gnarled hand at the pitiful group of females huddled in a corner. “Go into the Presence Chamber and shut the doors. Stay there until I send word.”
Mute with fear, they obeyed and he watched them go. With one thumb in his belt in a gesture which gave him courage, he stared for a long moment at the door which led to the Queen’s bedroom; then he stepped through it, without a knock or a second thought.
