by Susan Kay
But England refused to share her optimism and the Duke had scarcely left when the inevitable discontent, vigorously fanned by Leicester and his associates, broke out in a dangerous outcry. A widely circulated and intensely loyal pamphlet told her none too politely that though she was the “crowned nymph of England” she was too old and too delicate to be thinking of children and that her suitor was no less than the “old serpent himself” and his advances “unman-like, unprince-like.”
The pamphlet was an open insult to France, and Elizabeth was savage with anger. There was nothing for it but to reassure the Duke of her good intentions and she ordered every copy to be seized, condemning the author and the publisher to suffer the public loss of their right hands. More cruel and vindictive than anyone had yet seen her, she declared it a pity the author could not be hanged, and she remained unmoved when they told her that when the deed had been done he had promptly pulled off his cap with his left hand and shouted “God save the Queen.”
She affected to be unconcerned by the incident, but inwardly it had deeply unnerved her. She woke in alarm for several nights and fancied that a bloody hand was pulling the fringed coverlet on her bed. Always profoundly aware of public opinion, she now sensed the need for firm support from her advisers and in October she formally asked for the advice of her Council. For twenty years they had begged her to marry, and she expected them to beg her now, confident that Burghley could control the divisions in spite of Leicester’s virulent opposition.
The Council sat, and went on sitting in sterile argument on a cold October day from seven in the morning until eight at night, without stirring from the room to take food or drink or to answer the calls of nature, until at last five were for the marriage. And seven against it.
For once all Burghley’s elderly, assured leadership seemed to fail him in the bitter debate and it was as much as he could do to keep an open verdict. His hostile glance reached across the table and was mirrored in Leicester’s dark eyes and for a moment it was as though the old wounds of personal enmity had never healed. The meeting concluded in the general agreement that the Queen must make her own decision on the issue and there was a dignified stampede for the privy.
The following morning they waited on the Queen—Burghley, Sussex, Hatton, and Leicester—a sombre, uneasy little group who knew their message would not please.
“Well, gentlemen?”
Burghley cleared his throat and stared at the floor. Suddenly he could not look her in the eye.
“The Council feels that as a whole, madam, it cannot advise you on this matter.”
“Cannot advise me!” She stood up and her steady hawk’s eyes blazed black and hard. Each councillor felt a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and Leicester’s dark face turned pale and tense.
“God’s death, you call yourself my Council and dare to come in here and say you cannot advise me!”
“Madam.” It was Sussex, anxious, trying to avert the storm he saw gathering. “If the Council only knew your own feelings on the matter—”
She laughed shortly, bitterly, and turned away from him.
“My feelings! Which one among you has ever thought to consider them? I looked for a unanimous request for me to proceed with the marriage. You surely will not dare to say you doubt the wisdom of continuing my father’s line with a child of my own body!”
Their silent, doubting faces looked back at her blankly and she clenched her hands into fists. How dared they haggle and barter over her as though she were a barren cow for whom no good price could be found. Christ’s soul, the insolence—the mealy-mouthed self-righteous insolence of these little men who surrounded her, whom she had made and could as easily ruin by lifting one finger. Little men, little men! What would they be without her?
“I was a fool to ever consult you all in the first place.” There was a curious, choked sound to her voice as she flung out her hands to them in despair. “Why am I alone to be denied children? I want a child—is there no man among you who can understand that?”
Suddenly she began to cry, wild, hopeless sobs that shook her frame and made her hide her face from them. Instinctively Leicester would have stepped towards her, but Hatton laid a restraining hand on his arm and shook his head quickly. They all stood in helpless silence, not knowing what to say or do—it was so unlike her!
Aware of their acute embarrassment, she walked to the window, wiping the back of her hand angrily across her cheek, infuriated with them, but more infuriated with herself.
“Get out,” she said. “All of you—come back this afternoon.”
She watched them go in stony silence.
Leicester was the last and for a moment he hesitated in the doorway as though wondering if he dared to make some gesture of sympathy after what he had done.
Abruptly, contemptuously she turned her back on him and he left in silence; and when at last she knew she was alone, she sank into a chair at the table and buried her face in the jewelled brocade of her monstrously puffed sleeves.
No sooner had the great double doors swung shut than a row broke out among the fiercely opposed councillors, all shaken by what was obviously a very genuine reaction on the part of their mistress.
“Satisfied are you now, Leicester?” Sussex taunted him bitterly. “Haven’t you done enough against her lately?”
“I never expected that—never! I thought—”
“We all know what you thought, Leicester—I thank God now Her Majesty knows too.”
“I opposed this marriage from the soundest of political motives only. If you are trying to imply what took place in there gave me any personal pleasure—”
“Gentlemen! I hardly think this is the time or the place for a brawl.” Burghley banged his walking stick on the floor and the two rivals subsided into angry silence. He fixed Leicester with an icy, authoritative stare and the Earl flushed darkly, removed himself haughtily from their group, and stalked away.
But he had won. Long before they returned that afternoon, Elizabeth had admitted that to herself as she stared moodily into the harsh reflection in her mirror, and saw the pale, sad face of defeat. To marry now without the full support of her Council, in the teeth of her people’s opposition, would be to make the same mistake her sister and her cousin had made and place her own interests before those of the state. Selfish and self-willed as she was in lesser matters, her vow of service to England transcended everything and she knew she could not do it. As she sat and accepted the final sacrifice of her womanhood, she reined in the corroding resentment that threatened the whole purpose of her life. She must not hate England, that nameless, faceless mass of people who were the strength of her throne; and in reality it was far more easy, if unfair, to pin the blame on Leicester, who had given her that womanhood at last and then denied her its fulfilment for his own petty personal reasons. Men! They were all the same at heart, as she had always known—self-righteous and possessive, like her father, incapable themselves of the fidelity they demanded of their women.
Oh, what a fool she had been to go to him that night at Wanstead. How much easier it would have been to bear this defeat without the bitter-sweet memory of his body beating in hers, reminding her so poignantly of what she had lost, of all that she would never know. He would pay for what he had made her suffer today—oh, God, he would pay! She knew exactly how to punish him, not with disgrace or exile, but by her refusal to re-live that encounter at Wanstead. He thought he had conquered—he was mistaken! She had lived the past twenty years without his love—she could live the next twenty; not happily, perhaps, but at least with her pride intact.
That night when her women drew the curtains around the state bed, she felt the act to be deeply symbolic—the Maiden Queen shut up in a prison of her own making, trapped for ever in the mirror image of a virgin goddess. The silence of the room oppressed her and, when her women had withdrawn, she sat up and reached for her h
and-mirror, seeing not her own reflection, but the life she had chosen for herself, stretching out bleakly into infinity.
She was not going to marry Alençon, yet she must go on convincing him and the rest of the world that she would, until she had used him in the Netherlands to contain Philip’s aggression. The pretence must continue, perhaps for more than a year, and she must not seem indifferent to it, even for a moment, but must go on acting a lie, as all her life she seemed to have been acting, first one role, then another, until now she scarcely knew the real woman underneath. All through the summer of her reign, she had wrapped the layers of deceit more tightly round herself and enjoyed the game, like a child playing in the hot sun at noon. But now the sun was lower in the sky, lower and cooler, casting shadows on a path where once there had been only light. And in the shadows, with the chill breath of autumn already in the air, she chose to walk away from the only fire that could give her warmth.
It was a hard decision, and a hard, embittered woman made it, punishing herself to punish another and warping the fibres of her soul. The seeds of resentment were sown in her that night, a resentment which would grow rapidly out of all proportion, until the mere mention of love and marriage among her intimates would be sufficient to lash her into a vindictive fury.
She sat very still, staring into the mirror, and slowly became aware of her own face, so terribly altered that she could only gaze at it with shocked resignation. Thin lips set in a cruel line, eyes harsh with suspicion, shadowed with paranoia—her father’s face, the face of a tyrant.
She laid the mirror on the table beside her bed with a trembling hand and stared a moment at the small square of Venetian glass, immeasurably expensive, a gift from abroad. Then she took up the silver candle-holder and brought it down in a single savage blow that splintered her reflection into a million lethal shards.
Part 4
The Goddess
“What a pity it is that Elizabeth and I cannot marry…our children would have ruled the world.”
—Pope Sixtus V
Chapter 1
Plymouth harbour had changed little in the three years since Francis Drake last set eyes upon it—it was just as dirty and disorganised as he fondly remembered. Well—he was none too clean himself if it came to that, and who would have guessed that his little ship with its shabby paintwork could now lay claim to being the most celebrated vessel in Europe?
Fame sat awkwardly on Drake’s shoulders, interfering with his personal freedom to scratch and belch and fart whenever the mood took him. Such things were unacceptable at court, and the court was the final destination of his incredible journey. He had circumnavigated the globe, but there was, regrettably, no way he could possibly hope to reach the Queen’s presence by circumnavigating a bath.
Still, it was a small price to pay, he supposed ruefully, in return for a knighthood. The Queen had been the principal investor in his enterprise; and now with the hold of the Golden Hind packed with loot plundered from Spanish and Portuguese ships in the Pacific, a cargo of silver and jewels worth over one and a half million ducats, the principal investor stood to gain over a hundred per cent on her outlay.
A sound businesswoman—Drake had never been in any doubt of it—her only condition that he should keep her name out of it. He had always understood that if he fell into Spanish hands she would be obliged to publicly disassociate herself from his activities; but if he came back in triumph, he would have his just reward. And so, he was for the court, to kiss the fair hand of the glittering chameleon who had sent him out upon this venture, a woman half goddess, half guttersnipe, whom he was privileged to call his friend. He thought of the blatant acts of piracy with which he had filled his hold and of the Spaniards’ outraged demands for restitution and reprisals; finally he thought of the Queen’s pale avaricious face—and found himself cheerfully secure in his arrogance.
* * *
Don Bernadino de Mendoza was perhaps the most volatile and vinegar-faced ambassador ever to come out of Spain, eminently unsuitable for the briefest of diplomatic encounters with Elizabeth. It was a matter of common knowledge that these two could not bear the sight and sound of each other and no one was surprised when Mendoza took up the cudgels on behalf of the Spaniards’ treasure with his usual crass obstinacy.
He marched forcefully into the Queen’s presence, determined to have his say, and found himself unable to get a word in edgeways. Elizabeth sat on her throne like a graven image, and looked down on him with distaste, as though he were something particularly nasty that had just crawled out of the rushes. She began to complain haughtily of Philip’s interference in Irish affairs. When Mendoza produced a written apology from his master for that gross breach of international etiquette, she would be prepared to discuss the matter further. Until then, she regretted she would be unable to receive the ambassador again. A wave of her hand—and Mendoza was standing outside her closed door, opening and shutting his mouth, with a speechless rage that made him look as vacant as a fish.
Barred from the Queen’s presence, Mendoza skulked about the court, gleaning information from his spies. He heard that the Lords Burghley and Sussex had discreetly declined to partake of the treasure, too principled to be seen as the receivers of stolen goods. The Queen, who never allowed scruples to interfere with business, welcomed Drake to court at Christmas and showered him with attention. Drake, in his turn, commissioned London jewellers to fashion a fantastic crown set with a vast quantity of pilfered diamonds and five enormous emeralds, which she shamelessly paraded about the court on New Year’s Day—Mendoza swore to himself that she was the greatest pirate of them all!
In April she went down to Deptford to dine with Drake on board the Golden Hind itself, for the greatest banquet which had been seen since the days of that famous gourmand, her father, making her support of the rogue more flagrantly public than ever and taking with her, for diplomatic protection, the Duke of Alençon’s confidential agent, Marchaumont, a subtle reminder to Spain that England was far from friendless.
As she stepped on board, one of her purple and gold garters slipped off and Marchaumont promptly pounced on it and held it up before her horrified gaze, saying impudently, “Madam, I claim this as a forfeit. You must permit me to send this to the Duke as a love token.”
She glanced sideways to where her maids of honour stood blushing on her behalf, and decided there was nothing to do but laugh and carry the situation off with an immodest high hand.
“You shall have it as a token,” she said, snatching it back, “but not just yet. I’ve nothing else to keep my stocking up with.”
There in full view of polished courtiers and hardened seamen, she promptly extended a slender silk-stocking leg and tied the garter back on herself, deliberately prolonging the moment for their amused appreciation. The applause, warm and manly, started among Drake’s crew and spread instantly, like bush fire, along the deck. Marchaumont applauded too and laid her hand upon his arm with amused respect. Oh, one had to get up very early to catch this woman at a loss—he would be the first to admit it.
The festivities would end with the knighting of Drake—everyone knew it. Yet when her favourite pirate knelt on one knee before her with his curly head bent, Elizabeth fingered the sword thoughtfully and frowned.
“Francis Drake, you are a rogue and for the sake of my honour I wash my hands of you.”
All around the crowd an indrawn breath of shock; Drake lifted his head uncertainly to look at her and in that moment she turned swiftly and handed the sword to the Frenchman at her side.
“But I am sure,” she continued innocently, “that Monsieur Marchaumont will be happy to perform the accolade for me.”
It was a clever move, implying French approval of Drake’s activities, and Marchaumont, neatly cornered in a public place, had no choice but to go along with her outrageous demand.
Mendoza was duly infuriated. The diplomatic impasse continued till Oc
tober, when he received curt word that the Queen would see him at two o’clock that afternoon. The message was served with such short notice, that Mendoza was obliged to rush a meal and take a barge for Richmond at once. Arriving with time to spare, he went up the water steps and into the palace where some jumped-up official in the Presence Chamber informed him that he was late for his audience. Mendoza took out his time-piece pointedly and examined it with compressed lips, but the usher only shrugged insolently and opened the door to announce him.
In the room beyond, Mendoza found the Queen lying on a cushioned couch and he checked in astonishment. There was a pinched look to her face which suddenly caused him to feel positively genial as he bowed over her hand.
“Good afternoon, madam. I trust I find you well.”
“You do not,” she announced peevishly. “I have been troubled by a pain in my hip for several days.”
The look which accompanied this implied: And you are to blame for it, as you are for everything. She had actually screamed that at him during a previous meeting.
