Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  It was difficult not to be bored in these situations. Early in her reign, Elizabeth had been amused—vaguely—by proposals of marriage and the suits of foreign princes. Her feelings on marriage had always been ambiguous at best, and her suitors were rarely appealing. She did not need a husband to gain a throne, did not want a man to guide her rule. Taking a spouse would degrade her power and having a child might kill her. Frankly, it seemed a bad business in which she stood to lose everything dear to her while gaining nothing.

  Except love, of course. She might gain love, and that was the only thing that might entice her to marry. Not ordinary love, though: it would have to be passionate, enduring, consuming, and never compromise her role as queen. Was there a man alive capable of giving such a thing? She was skeptical even as she hoped. Not even her darling, darling Robert had succeeded in giving her all she needed, and she could not even imagine a man better than he.

  Despite his faults.

  There were always faults.

  Today, however, she had no concern for love. She had to pay attention to the boy in front of her, and a quick glance to the side of the room brought a smile to the royal lips. The Austrian ambassador was quietly mouthing the words to him as he spoke. She felt a stab of sympathy and focused on the awkward speech.

  “Your Majesty’s beauty is dazzling to my eyes,” Charles von Habsburg said, voice unsteady, tension evident on his not-unattractive, youthful face. “I see before me perfection in human form. I am overwhelmed. I am conquered. I die. Only your love, great Elizabeth, can restore me to life.”

  The courtiers who filled the room with their brightly colored finery smiled, keeping their laughter silent. Not so thoughtful were the members of the Spanish delegation, who made no effort to hide their sneers. But the queen maintained her composure, looking at the boy with serious eyes, sympathizing with his nerves, knowing full well that it was not a simple thing to have to tend in public to business that ought to be entirely personal. When he had finished his speech, she gave him her hand to kiss.

  “Your Highness does me great honor. Shall we go to dinner? It should prove almost as restorative as my love.” She slipped her arm through his and together they led the court through the mazelike corridors of Whitehall, their way lit by thousands of candles. “We shall dine in comfort,” Elizabeth said, leaning toward him. “But this palace could use a true banqueting hall. I ought to have one built. Are you interested in architecture?”

  “I—I hardly know.” His voice was still shaking. He was a decent-looking man, far too young for her, but his nervousness touched her and she would not see him tortured by the court. For a moment, she considered him for Bess. They would make a good match. But she was not yet quite ready to give up her friend to matrimony.

  Soon they were seated at an ornately dressed high table, on which stood an enormous castle sculpted out of sugar, flags depicting the arms of Elizabeth and the archduke flying from its towers. Musicians and tumblers waited on one side of the room, ready to entertain the guests, and there were more people in the room watching the party, eager to see the spectacle, than had been invited to eat. Among the observers was Walter Raleigh, who had taken care to dress in the latest court fashion, as handsome a man as had ever been in the palace. Bess Throckmorton lowered her eyes as she met his smile with one of her own. Elizabeth, watching, raised an eyebrow.

  “So tell me, Mr. Raleigh, in your sea battles—how do you sink an enemy ship?” one of the courtiers asked, hardly able to take her eyes off him. “You shoot holes in its sides, I suppose.”

  “No, ma’am,” Raleigh replied. “A sunk ship is of no value. The object is to capture and command.”

  “And how do you do that?” she asked.

  “Surprise. Speed.” He leaned closer. “Irresistible violence.” Calley, next to his captain, rolled his eyes.

  Elizabeth could just make out their voices and was fully distracted by watching Raleigh flirt. She appreciated a man who could hold the attention of so many ladies, whose handsome features were matched with a quick wit and a ready smile. A not inconsiderable length of time passed before she realized that she was ignoring the archduke, who was picking at a dish of spiced rabbit.

  “I think you’re not as accustomed as I am to eating in public. I have a secret.” She lowered her voice. “I pretend there’s a pane of glass—eine Glasscheibe—between me and them.” With an elegant flair, she moved one hand before her face, indicating an imaginary pane of glass, noticing as she did this that Bess, who had stepped away from her, was still watching Raleigh. Amused, she beckoned for the girl, who came to her at once.

  “He interests me.” Her voice was low. “Talk to him.”

  “Him, my lady?” Bess asked, moving her head slightly to indicate the man in question. “Him.” She was not being subtle in the least; it was obvious she was staring at Raleigh. Bess nodded, tugged her lip, blushing as she set off to speak to him. Elizabeth took a bite of chicken with rice and almonds and turned back to the archduke. “His Highness is tired after his journey.”

  Shy beyond measure, frozen, he stared ahead, trembling, and Elizabeth could practically imagine him trying and rejecting responses to her simple statement. She did not rush him, gave no indication that he was taking too long. At last he spoke. “No man can be tired in the presence of so lovely a queen.”

  “You play the game very well, my young friend.” Breaking a piece of crust off a mushroom pasty, she spoke softly in German, hoping that would make him more comfortable. “But don’t you find it hard sometimes not to laugh?”

  His eyes flew wide, then relaxed as Elizabeth shot him a conspiratorial smile. “I’m too afraid to laugh,” he said.

  “Why be afraid? We poor princes can only do our duty, and hope for the best.”

  “You’re very wise, madam.” Grateful relief flowed from him, and he scooped up a large bite of rabbit from his plate, then drained his glass of wine before applying himself to the rest of the meal and accepting a heaping serving of golden steamed custard seasoned with saffron.

  

  At the far end of the room, Bess faced Raleigh. “The pirate is not too bored by the vanities of the court, I hope,” Bess said, eyes sparkling, lips drawn in a winsome smile. “A simple sailor, dazzled by the bright lights,” he replied, the ladies surrounding him all but sighing over his every word. He showed no displeasure at their attention but gave no indication of disappointment when Bess drew him farther away. “If you can bring yourself to leave the dazzle of the bright lights for a moment—”

  “Drawn away by the brightest light of all,” he said, catching her gaze, holding it.

  Bess’s cheeks flushed dark as claret as he spoke, and her reply came too quick. “That can only mean the queen.”

  “I don’t presume to raise my eyes so high.” He turned to the queen, and with a wicked smile across his face, bowed low.

  “It seems you’ve presumed after all,” Bess said.

  He stepped closer to her. “It seems you’re determined to think the worst of me.”

  “Tell me what it is you really want.” Her voice was soft, intimate, bright.

  “What every man wants. Money. Fame. Love.”

  “In that order?” she asked, looking up at him through golden eyelashes.

  “Each leads to the next,” he said. “The money will buy and equip ships for a return voyage to the New World. The success of my infant colony there will make me famous. The fame will bring me love.”

  “It seems rather a long way round,” Bess said.

  “There are benefits along the way. It is something, after all, to take a blank on the map and build there a shining city.” There could be no question of his enthusiasm; his entire body radiated it, pulsing with energy.

  “Which you will no doubt name after yourself.” Her tone teased.

  He smiled. “No doubt.”

  Bess paused, considered. “Well, then. I am answered.”

  “May I ask
a question in return?”

  “Of course,” she said. “How am I to win the queen’s favor?”

  “Why should I tell you that, sir?” She could not help flirting with him; he was far too charming, far too good-looking.

  “I’ve little enough to offer, I know. But whatever I have to give—ask, and it’s yours.”

  Bess thought for a moment, studying his face, the creases between his brows as he looked intently back at her. “My advice to you is say what you mean to say as plainly as possible. All men flatter the queen in the hope of advancement. Pay her the compliment of truth.” She offered her hand, which he took and kissed at a pace so leisurely that it made all the skin on her body crave more of his touch.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he said.

  “Elizabeth Throckmorton.”

  “A second Elizabeth.”

  “Everyone calls me Bess.” She looked away, suddenly self-conscious, curtsied to him and returned to the queen. Halfway there, she turned back. He was staring after her.

  

  “What have you to tell me, Bess?” the queen asked when she reached the high table. “What have you learned about our puddle man?”

  “He is... magnetic, Majesty. Mesmerizing. Handsome.” She smiled, leaned close and whispered. “His breath is the sweetest I’ve smelled.”

  “High praise,” Elizabeth said. “I’m pleased.” She would encourage the girl’s friendship with him, if only to keep him close. She had not expected to find him so fascinating. The court had long been needing a new bright spot, and she was delighted to have found someone who might be a suitable candidate.

  Bess slipped back into her seat, and the queen, who had long since finished eating, whispered in German to the archduke, who smiled in response. Silence fell over the room as she rose from her chair. “His Highness the archduke informs me that my charms overwhelm him. He will retire to his private quarters to rest.”

  A swell of laughter filled the room and drew looks of disgust from Don Guerau. The archduke swallowed the last bite of custard, stood, and bowed solemnly to the queen before departing with his entourage. When he was gone, Elizabeth motioned for Walsingham.

  “He’s a sweet boy,” she said. “I don’t want him hurt by your schemes. You’re to send him home.”

  “Majesty—”

  She did not let Walsingham interrupt. “Find another way to annoy Philip.”

  

  Elizabeth’s private rooms in Whitehall surrounded an elegant atrium, a space into which only those closest to her were allowed. Here she had a small measure of privacy to pursue her passions. Her love of books stretched back to her youth, when they offered solace to a girl whose fortunes changed as often as her father’s wives. As an adult, even in the face of the demands of government duties, she tried to spend three hours every day reading and kept a ready stock of books in her library. Across the atrium was the music room, where she could play her lute or virginals, sing, and write music.

  There was a small room in which the queen could pray, and a large room to store her enormous wardrobe, rumored to consist of no fewer than two thousand dresses, many of which were New Year’s gifts from her admiring—and wealthy—subjects. She had exacting taste and insisted on being the most spectacularly dressed woman in any room, a feat not difficult when fortune provided no obstacle. The finest fabrics, laces, and embroidery were at her disposal, and she insisted on silk stockings rather than cloth. Her selection of jewelry—from ropes of pearls to strings of diamonds—was unmatched.

  To enhance her complexion, scarred, though not badly, by a bout of smallpox, Elizabeth turned to ceruse, a foundation made from lead and vinegar, which brightened her skin. A wash of egg white across the cheeks would give a smooth finish and a hint of vermilion on the lips would complete her toilette with stunning results that were mimicked by her courtiers, always eager to imitate the queen.

  It pleased her to see them copy her, although lately she’d begun to notice a disparity between herself and her ladies. They were so much younger, and no matter how spectacular she was, she could only hide her increasingly fragile skin and dulling complexion for so long. It was impossible to compete with youth.

  This angered her. On occasion she’d considered having only ladies older than herself around her. But she found them too dull. She had no doubt she could bewitch any man—who could resist her, the virgin queen? No mortal man. Not when an alliance with her could bring him the world.

  Which was precisely the problem. Who could love her and not want her to bring him the world? She considered Raleigh. He was a man who already had the world, or at least parts of it—and she had begun to wonder, tentatively, cautiously, if he might have something worth offering to her.

  “I suspect him of being a professional charmer,” she said to Bess, who was seated next to her in her bedchamber, closing the book she’d been reading to the queen. “Am I right?”

  “He certainly is charming, my lady,” Bess replied, a delicate hand flying to her cheek. Elizabeth felt like a girl, sharing whispered confidences with a friend.

  “There are duller professions,” Elizabeth said. “And what is it that he hopes to gain by his charms?”

  “He hopes for glory in his New World. He dreams of building a shining city.” There was a revealing eagerness in Bess’s voice, an eagerness shared by the queen, though she would not admit it to her lady-in-waiting.

  “You’d think it would be enough for a man to discover the place, but already he wants more. That’s the drawback of America. There’s so much of it.” She stopped, watched Bess, saw the hint of color creeping up her face, the way she bit her lip. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “If it pleases you.”

  “Ah, well. It’s refreshing to meet a man who looks to a world beyond the court. Let him come again.” And she knew, as she said the words, that she would be looking for him every time the door opened, every time someone was announced. She welcomed the feeling, happy for the distraction, because when she was not thinking of him, she would be forced to deal with the increasing difficulties caused by her Scottish cousin.

  

  The only real solace Mary Stuart had from the moment she’d made the mistake of fleeing to England was the ladies that surrounded her. She depended upon them. They were her only company, and she valued each of them, even her servants, as friends, despite the fact that at times they were absolutely incorrigible. At the moment, the laundress was crying so hard that her words were all but impossible to make out, but Mary tried not to be frustrated with her.

  “Tell me again,” she said, handing her a handkerchief.

  “Dismissed.” She’d finally managed a coherent word, and this success seemed to soothe her enough that she found her voice. “I’ve been dismissed.”

  “Dismissed?” Mary was holding Geddon in her arms and had been stroking the little dog’s soft fur, but stopped. “On whose orders?” More crying. “You really must stop sniveling.” The laundress had fallen into complete incoherence again. Mary turned to Annette. “Who dismissed her?”

  “The warden, my lady,” Annette said.

  “The warden? My warden?” She spat the words, then flew around at the sound of the door opening, her tone changing entirely as Sir Amyas Paulet entered the room. She walked to him, eyes soft, her voice all teasing seduction. “So you dismiss my laundress, sir. How am I to have clean clothes? Or do you want me to go about naked?”

  “That was not my motive, Majesty,” Paulet said, his voice steady. “Your laundress was found to be carrying letters in her washing.”

  “Intimate letters,” Mary said, leaning close enough to ensure he could smell her perfume. “Private letters. Love letters.”

  “Love letters?” The warden’s eyebrows pulled together. “I was aware that you had a husband, ma’am, who, sadly, died. And a second husband, who, sadly, died.”

  “Yes, yes—” Mary began.

 
“And a third husband...”

  Now she was irritated, her voice rough. “That’s enough. Am I to have no privacy?”

  “You are a queen, Majesty,” Paulet said. “A queen belongs to her people.”

  “Then why am I not being treated like a queen? Why does Elizabeth not answer my letters? Why does she not come to see me? Why does she hate me?”

  “The queen does not hate you.” She saw a measured kindness in his eyes.

  “Has she told you so? Have you met her?” Mary asked.

  “I have had that honor, Majesty.”

  “What’s she like? Is she beautiful?” Jealousy laced her words as she wondered—no, doubted—that Elizabeth could be more attractive than she.

  “She has a queenly air.”

  “So do I have a queenly air,” Mary said, forcing herself to flirt again. “But, more than that, some have said I am beautiful.” Beautiful, yes, but that was not all for which she was known. Her voice—with its lovely Scottish lilt—charmed, and her wit and passion had drawn many a man to her, including more than one of her jailers. Yet it infuriated her to have to flirt with such men, so far beneath her station. It was untenable that a queen should come to this. She tried to bury the anger she felt building deep inside her.

  “In the words of the poet, Fair child of beauty, glorious lamp of love—”

  She could stand it no longer. “Damn your poet!”

  Paulet recoiled. Mary closed her eyes, composed herself, knowing it would be politic to keep the warden under her spell. With a graceful hand, she waved away her servants.

  “My friend, forgive me.” She was sweetness, the silver rays of the moon, beauty itself. “You are my friend, aren’t you?”