Chapter 8
Once Francis Throckmorton had talked, the entire mood in the palace changed. Guards on high alert lined the corridors, and archers stood on the towers, their arbalests at the ready. The gardens were empty as courtiers stayed inside, watching everyone with investigating eyes. No one was certain what exactly was happening, but every corner was rife with whispered rumors of treason and foreign threats, conspiracies and betrayal.
Elizabeth was sequestered with her Privy Councilors. She paced around the table, too agitated to sit still. “So you learned all this when you searched his house?” she asked.
“There were papers, Majesty,” Walsingham said. “Naming ports that would be attacked first in a Spanish invasion— the Enterprise of England, they call it. There was also a list of Catholic sympathizers who pledged support.”
“And what has been done?”
“They’ve all been arrested,” Hatton said. “And are being questioned now.”
“One thing is clear. Mary Stuart is the center of this plot. Without her, the Catholics would have no rallying point. She stands to gain more than anyone from this conspiracy. She must be held accountable.” Walsingham’s tone was grave.
“There is no evidence that she knew about these plans, let alone that she was taking part in them,” Elizabeth said. “I will not have her arrested without proof.” She noted that Walsingham and Hatton exchanged a private look, while Burghley and Howard sat motionless.
“We can confirm that the Spanish are involved, and you know Philip would put Mary on the throne if he could,” Walsingham said. “You cannot let her—”
“I will deal with Spain,” Elizabeth said, and stalked toward the door before anyone could respond. Her elaborate black gown, embroidered with golden thread and covered with bows, flew behind her as she swept out of the Privy Chamber into the Presence Chamber, her councilors fast on her heels. She did not sit on her throne. Instead, she went directly to the Spanish ambassador.
“What do you know of the Enterprise of England, Ambassador?” she asked.
“The Enterprise?” Don Guerau was a seasoned diplomat; she expected that lying would come easy to him. His voice dripped with friendly ease. “Forgive me, Your Majesty...”
“It’s a plan for the invasion of my country,” she said. “Two armies landing on the coasts of Sussex and—”
“Norfolk.” Walsingham finished for her.
“And Norfolk,” she continued, keeping her voice calm and authoritative, despite the anger coursing through her. “Mary Stuart is to be set free and placed on the English throne. I am to be assassinated. Does any of this sound familiar?”
“I know nothing of any invasion plans,” Don Guerau said. “I’m afraid that your councilors have been tricked into believing nonsense.”
“You may think, sir, that feigning ignorance is wise, and I pity your weak mind for not being able to conceive of something else,” she said.
“No one is plotting an invasion,” he insisted.
“I refer to this plan as the Enterprise of England. It should more accurately be called la Empresa di Inglaterra, because it’s a Spanish plan. The plan of your king, my one-time brother-in-law, a man who schemed to marry me after my sister’s death, to attack my country.”
“Attack?” the ambassador asked. Now he was angry—she saw it in his flushed cheeks, the rushed way he spat out his words. “It is my country that is under attack! Your pirates attack our merchant ships daily. Do you think we don’t know where their orders come from? The whole world knows that pirates sail up the Thames all the way to the royal bed.”
Elizabeth turned on him, her eyes narrow, lips firm, shoulders straight, furious. No one would have dared stand before her father and say such a thing, nor before any male king. Yet she, a woman, could be shamed in front of her court for daring to give her heart to a man?
“You will leave my presence, sir! Go back to Spain.” She stepped toward him, her hand raised as if she would strike him. “Tell Philip that I don’t fear him, or his priests, or his armies. Tell him if he wants to shake his little fist at us, we’re ready to give him such a bite he’ll wish he’d kept his hands in his pockets.”
Don Guerau pulled himself up tall, full of pride and contempt. “You see a leaf fall, and you think you know which way the wind blows. But a wind is coming, madam, that will sweep away your pride.” He bowed and left, but the queen’s words blazed after him.
“I too can command the wind, sir,” she yelled. “I have a hurricane in me that will strip Spain bare, if you dare to test me!” Shivering with rage, she turned around, coming to face Raleigh, whose creased brow and tight lips irritated her further. He looked as if he were about to scold her.
“What are you staring at? Lower your eyes. I am the queen.” She marched past him without a further glance. She did not mean to hurt him, but she had to look strong now, not to appear under his influence in the slightest. Men were too fallible, too weak. She’d been flirting when she should have been paying closer attention to Spain. She should not have allowed such distractions to take her focus away from the lover that would never disappoint her: England.
Raleigh watched her go, pain chilling his heart and shooting through his veins. So much of him adored her, but her temper, her unpredictable nature, her need for absolute control without criticism tugged at him. His shining city would forever remain a dream if he stayed at court. He might willingly abandon it—if she would offer all of herself in return—and together they could search for new dreams. But he knew she would never give such a thing even the slightest serious consideration. He looked at the ceiling and weighed his options, pretending there were options. He already knew what he must do.
In Spain, Philip’s regret at the loss of the forests diminished as he breathed in the clean smell of freshly cut timber. Immense stacks of it stretched in every direction, and the noise of saws and hammers, instead of a cacophony, sounded like a harmonious chorus of angels heralding the raising of skeletons of enormous ships. With the completion of these new vessels, his fleet—the largest ever at one hundred and thirty—would soon be ready for its divine mission, its crusade.
But not all the news he heard was good. Elizabeth’s cagey spymaster, the heretic Walsingham, had made a damning discovery, and Philip’s minister, his face all serious lines, lowered his head before the king as he reported what had happened to Throckmorton.
“It can’t be denied that we’ve lost the advantage of surprise. A large part of our plans has come into their hands.”
“The Jesuit is still at liberty?” the king asked. A breeze carried the salty tang of the sea to him, the scent mingling with that of the wood.
“We understand so, Majesty.”
Philip had absolute faith in Reston, whose devotion to the work of God matched his own. “He knows his business. We’ve lost nothing.”
“Of course, Majesty,” the minister replied, keeping pace with the king.
“Reston understands what is at stake, how crucial his work is. Everything we are doing is in the service of God. We must defeat the English and bring their people back to the Church. I do not desire to be the ruler of heretics.”
Philip continued to walk, analyzing the progress of his shipbuilders. As their monarch passed, workmen dropped their tools and knelt before him. But Philip did not crave their obeisance. “Tell the carpenters to go on working. No one is to stop for me. The fleet must be ready to sail in a month.”
The minister cringed. “Impossible, Majesty.”
“If this is God’s work, God will make it possible.”
“Only a miracle—”
“A miracle then,” Philip said. God would not abandon his most holy son. “Let it be done.”
Elizabeth was pacing again, circling the desk in her private study. She did not think she ought to have to deal with one more problem. Was it not enough that she wa
s managing the daily work of the country, engaging in diplomatic relations, and addressing the Spanish threat? Now she was to contend with personal matters as well?
Raleigh’s letter had arrived more than an hour ago, and she had been unsettled, disturbingly so, since reading it. A host of unwelcome emotions consumed her: jealousy, disappointment, anger. But worst was the feeling that she should have known better, that she should have been more careful to protect her heart, that she’d allowed for this to be possible. As much as she wanted to despise him, hatred was not something to which she could bring herself. Not when it concerned him.
She had no intention of giving him what he wanted and knew that she’d have to do something to soften the blow. Give him something else. A pain had started in the back of her neck, and she cursed the stiff collar that made it impossible for her to rub the right spot. It always came down to this, playing queen for men she adored. She wanted to shower them with good things, wanted to bring them joy, but her generosity only led them to expect more and more until they decided that nothing short of being king would make them happy. And when she couldn’t—wouldn’t—give them that, she would be the one left heartbroken. She’d wanted to keep Raleigh separate from these trappings, but perhaps that was not possible for a queen.
Still pacing, holding the paper in her hand, she waited for him to arrive. She heard his voice in the atrium, was irritated by the sound of her ladies’ laughter as they vied for his attention, and willed upon herself composure. He would see nothing but a serene monarch. She would guard all her private emotions, give him what she must, and hope that her heart would not come out scarred. The door opened and he entered. She held up the letter.
“You ask permission to go,” Elizabeth said.
She could see at once that he was full of angry frustration. It was evident in his tense voice, stiff posture. “Just give me my warrant,” he said. “There’s nothing else for me here. At sea I know what I’m to do, I know the risks, I know the rewards. Here—” He stopped, threw up his arms.
“But you’re quite wrong. You are needed here. I have decided to appoint you captain of my personal guard.”
“Captain of your—”
A strange sensation flashed through her, an inkling suspicion that he was not sufficiently grateful. She did not want to be angry with him, so she gave him no time to speak. “Kneel,” she commanded in her firmest voice. He obeyed but did not look at her, and the omission cut. She tapped him on the shoulder with her hand. “Rise, Sir Walter Raleigh.”
Again he followed her command but kept his eyes on the ground, and she found herself unwilling to continue hiding her emotions.
“Why are you staring at your boots?” she asked, voice full of knives. “Any other man would be shouting out the news for all to hear.” He would not look at her; he’d turned away. She fought the urge to force him back around and slap him. “Now you stare at the wall. Am I so hideous that you can’t even look me in the face?”
He said nothing for a painful moment, leaving her to listen only to the rhythm of her racing heart. At last, he turned back, stepped toward her, met her eyes. “Why do you talk like a fool when you’re anything but a fool?”
“Talk like a fool!” She threw the words, laced with venom, at him. “Please teach me better.” Her eyes flashed and he paused. She looked away, afraid if she did not, she would lose herself in his stare.
“I asked Bess once to advise me how to win your favor. She said, ‘Pay her the compliment of the truth.’ I have done that.”
“Bess gives good advice,” she said, looking back at him. “My favor is won.”
“But you have not paid me the compliment of the truth.”
“Is a knighthood not enough? A royal appointment? How much more favor do you want?” She knew the answer. There was no point listening to him any further. She turned, ready to leave the room.
But his voice took on a gentle intensity that stopped her. b“All you have.”
“And what do you offer in return?” Her tone was flip, but she could feel all her sympathy returning to him, the small beginnings of a hope that he was not like the rest, that he wanted her for her.
“All I have.” He could not have stunned her further if he’d struck her. Her heart pounded; she grew warm and was so taken aback she could hardly trust herself to speak.
“My friend, forgive me,” she said, taking his hand. “I’m a vain and foolish woman. At court it’s all a game. I like to be admired. I require it. I grow accustomed to it. But it’s all nothing. You come here as if from another world, and I...” She gave him a smile so filled with emotion it seemed to make her lips swell. “You have real adventures; you go where the maps end. I would follow you there if I could, believe me.”
“You’re the queen. You may do as you wish.”
“Never. How can you say so? This palace is my prison. If I were to escape—if I were to fly to that place where I— where I could give you all I have, and all I am—” Her voice trembled with emotion. “Believe me, sir, I don’t cut up my heart and give it by halves. You would have all of me. You would possess me, and the queen, and all England.”
A soft tenderness crept into his words as he reached his hand to her cheek. “I don’t want the queen. I don’t want England.”
“I am all three. My own indivisible trinity.”
Love, admiration, every good thing passed between them, their eyes locked in a moment both wanted to stretch to eternity. She felt a crack in her soul and for just a second wondered if she ought to give herself to him, to bring him fully into her world, to trust that he would not disappoint her. Not yet. But maybe, eventually, soon.
“The storm clouds are gathering, my friend,” she said, bringing her hand up to rest on his. “Please don’t leave me now.”
Chapter 9
The summer heat was raging, and a rotten stench hung heavy over London, but there was no smell strong enough, no blazing sun hot enough to keep the people away from watching the queen’s justice being served. The paid seats in the makeshift galley were full, and every other inch of space around Tyburn Tree was filled with people swarming to view the day’s public executions. The Tree was notorious, a permanent gallows in the west of London, shaped like a triangle and large enough to hang twenty-four unfortunate souls at one time.
Today’s audience would be treated to more than the usual hangings. Today there was a traitor among the criminals. A traitor who would be hanged, cut down before he was dead, then disemboweled—his entrails shown to him before they were burned—and finally, his body would be quartered, the bloody remains displayed in prominent locations throughout the city, a not-so-gentle reminder that loyalty to the crown was preferable to the alternative.
Francis Throckmorton showed no visible response to the noose being tightened around his neck as the crowd bayed. Torture had destroyed his body, left his face a bloodied mess, but he held his head high, ready for death.
God was waiting for him.
He feared nothing, only prayed.
Lord have mercy on the soul of Your servant, who gives his life for Your eternal truth...
The cart upon which he stood pulled away, and he dropped, his body flailing, but his neck did not break. It was not supposed to. The executioners let him swing for a while, fighting for his breath, then cut him down, ready to continue their work.
The crowd, drunk on bloodlust, roared, ready to see the traitor meet his grisly fate.
Not far from Tyburn, in a candlelit room hidden in a secret cellar, Throckmorton’s co-conspirators knelt, Reston leading them in prayer. “May he enter heaven as a soldier returns home victorious from war—”
Babington alone did not lower his head, instead stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, Reston’s words burning until at last he could stand it no longer. “Why don’t we strike? What’s he dying for? Is this part of your plan?”
Reston looked up and stared, silent, at Babington, wh
o lowered his head, cowed by the measured intensity of Reston’s burning gaze.
The Jesuit continued his prayer. “Lord, be with us as the end approaches. We will not fail in our duty. We look beyond death, to eternity.”
Raleigh stood on the deck of his ship, docked not far from the shadow of St. Nicholas’ Church, where every sailor stopped to hear mass and pray for a safe journey before taking to the seas. Work on the Tyger was nearly finished. It was as if the patron saint of sailors had taken special interest in the vessel, which soon would be seaworthy again. She’d required only minor repairs, maintenance really, and the work had progressed without hindrance or delay. Less certain, however, was how soon her captain would be ready— willing? allowed?—to leave England.
Part of him wanted to go at once, to get as far from Elizabeth’s bewitching and frustrating charms as possible—the part of him that accepted the fact she would never really be his. She wanted to possess him but would not give him the same in return. The thought of being without her made him want to stay for eternity, content to play her game, confident that in time he could push her further than today she would think possible. But even as he considered the possibility, he dismissed it as ridiculous, bringing himself once again to the position of knowing he ought to go, and the whole cycle would begin again.
There was more, though. Hidden in his depths was something altogether different, something that tugged at him whenever he thought of leaving. A secret smile and forbidden thoughts. Bess. He’d had to consciously stop from letting her fill every space in his brain and had done a good job of it, difficult though it was. It was necessary. In ordinary circumstances, he’d be openly courting her. But he could hardly do that when he was entangled emotionally with the queen.
Yet he could not erase Bess entirely, nor could he bear the thought of not seeing her again. Her eyes, her lips, the smell of flowers and musk that surrounded her. She was like a dream, and to allow himself to fully consider her bright wit and ready smile was to court nothing but danger. So he kept her buried, did his best to ignore the spot in his heart full of her.
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