Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  “Hate? Why?” he asked, lighting his pipe after he’d fluffed the pillows behind her.

  “Because it’s futile. We can’t go on like this indefinitely.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ll get caught or you’ll get married or—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. “I do not like the sadness in your eyes. Banish it.” He reached to a table by the side of the bed, grabbing from it a sheaf of papers. “Here—a gift for you. A manuscript of a play by a new writer, Christopher Marlowe. It’s called Tamburlaine.”

  “I’ve heard of this,” she said, turning to her side and leaning on an elbow. “Margaret knows someone who saw it performed.”

  “I saw it performed. It was magnificent.”

  “You’re trying to distract me,” she said. “It’s not working.”

  “Then I shall have to try harder.”

  She put a finger to his lips to stop him from kissing her. “No. I must tell you this. I fear that what we are doing will destroy us.”

  “You want to stop?” His voice was serious.

  “Should we?” she asked.

  “Of course we should. And the poor should have food and Spain should leave England alone.”

  “That does not make what we are doing right.”

  He took her face in his hands. “I love you, Bess. What makes this right is the fact that we were designed for each other, that we understand each other, that we need each other. I will never choose to walk away from you, whatever the cost. I don’t want to hurt her any more than you do.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I do. I’m sorry if it hurts you.”

  “It doesn’t, though I can’t understand why.” She sighed. “You love her, yet you will still come to me?”

  “Forever. Even if we can never have more than these stolen hours. Forever, Bess.”

  

  Elizabeth’s nights were troubled, full of the horrors and pressures of planning for war. She craved privacy, solitude—two things unreachable, for even when she was alone, she knew droves of courtiers waited outside. She had gone to her bedchamber with a book, shutting the door on the supportive but irritating faces of her ladies-in-waiting. There was only one person she wanted to see. Walking back and forth in front of her window, she read aloud, knowing he would come as soon as her summons arrived, wishing she hadn’t needed to ask.

  “Think you that there is any certainty in the affairs of mankind, when you know that one swift hour can destroy the greatest among us?” She turned at the sound of the door opening. Seeing Raleigh, she held up the book. “Boethius.”

  “The Consolation of Philosophy,” he said, coming to her side.

  “Thank you for coming at this late hour.” It felt good to be close to him. Safe. She closed the book and set it on the table next to her bed. “We’re at war. Who knows when we’ll meet again. If we’ll meet again.”

  “May the Lord God preserve England’s Queen.” His formal tone, cold and impersonal, disappointed her.

  “The same God in whose name Philip wages his holy war. Philip is a righteous man, and righteous men love to destroy. They burn whole worlds to make them pure, and leave behind ashes.”

  “He’ll not burn England.”

  “He may. His Armada is invincible, they say. If London falls, if I’m captured, then I’ll have one more short walk to take. I’ll climb the steps my mother climbed. And then—all over.”

  “Never.” The strength—bordering on arrogance—of his voice brought a strange sort of comfort to her.

  “Never?” She drew a deep breath. “It’s night and my thoughts turn dark. Don’t you ever think that one day, perhaps one day soon, you too will die?”

  “The closer I come to death, the more I want to live. The hungrier I am for life,” he said, a defiant gleam in his eyes.

  “You’re right, Water,” she said, breaking her morbid mood. “We must live while we can.”

  “Why be afraid of tomorrow? Today’s all we have, and all we know.”

  “Today. Tonight.” Their gazes held steady.

  “Now.”

  “I wish—” She stopped, couldn’t say it.

  “I’ve never known a woman like you,” he said. She saw in his expression everything and knew that perhaps, this time, not giving herself fully had been a mistake.

  “In some other time, in some other world, could you have loved me?” she asked.

  “I know only one world. In this world, I have loved you.”

  Her smile was small, hesitant. “Then there’s something you could do for me—something I’ve not known for a very long time—if you felt so inclined.” He came closer as she spoke. “Something not to be spoken of afterward—to be forgotten—but just for now—” She lifted her head to his. “A kiss?”

  He took her in his arms and brought his lips, cool and soft, to hers, forcing them apart. One kiss to hold all that might have been, all that could never be. When at last they parted, she turned away from him, head bowed, eyes still closed, the sweetness of the moment painted on her calm cheeks and smiling mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said. A perfect kiss could make even a war easier to bear.

  Chapter 17

  The outside of Lisbon Cathedral looked as much like a fortress as a church, and a crowd swarmed in front of it, its enthusiasm cresting in a ground-shaking roar as the royal procession passed. Carried at the front was a flag bearing an image of the Virgin Mary—the flag that would serve as the great Standard of the Armada. The king marched behind it, a somber figure leading a column of Spain’s nobles into the cathedral, past the font at which St. Anthony was baptized and on to the altar, where an archbishop sprinkled it with holy water and made the sign of the cross over it.

  “Exurge, domine et vindica causam tuam. Amen.”

  Philip knelt to kiss the newly blessed standard before it was thrust aloft again into the vast spaces of the nave, which, unlike the exterior, lacked nothing in ornate decoration. The congregation applauded and wept, ready for battle, confident of victory as music soared through the nave, echoing the triumphant emotions. Then all fell quiet and mass began.

  The familiar ritual was like a heady stimulant, sending through his body sparks that brought with them enlightenment, clarity, purpose. He breathed deeply, drawing smoky incense into his lungs, reveling in the sweet spices as the rhythm of a Latin prayer pulsed. He soared with the choir as they began to sing a forceful series of amens, his voice louder and stronger than those around him. And when the mass was finished, he rose from his pew and led the procession to the harbor to bask in the glory of the Most Fortunate Armada.

  The hundred and thirty ships, tall as castles, pulled against their anchors, the red crosses on their sails filling as the wind blew cold. Philip presented the standard to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, Don Alonso Perez de Guzman, commander of this most impressive fleet, and soon the standard was on his flagship. The triumphant cries of the assembled masses seemed deafening until they were drowned out entirely by the Armada’s cannons firing a booming salute as the flag was hoisted into place, billowing among a forest of masts as ships filled the horizon.

  It was an incomparable marvel—a masterful example of Spanish superiority. Not only would these ships wreak destruction on their puny English counterparts, the mere sight of them would drive stakes of fear through the enemy’s heart. And all this—all of it—would bring glory to God.

  Philip was pleased.

  

  All of England was shouting stories about the imminent arrival of the Spanish. Rumor said that three—no, four— some had heard as much as five—hundred ships were closing in on Dover. The army they carried was not only huge but full of savages, ready to kill every adult, both male and female, in England. And it was said that also on board were seven thousand Spanish wet nurses, who would suckle the newly orphaned children of Britain.

  Not that England was unprepared. Immense chains had
been stretched across the Thames, from Gravesend to Tilbury, to block approaching ships. Lord Howard, admiral of the English fleet, ordered Sir Francis Drake, the explorer, to patrol near Plymouth, and troops, raised daily, marched toward Tilbury, where they would build an encampment and wait for the enemy. Fear circulated but so did hubris and a brash desire to join battle and force Philip’s lackeys from English soil.

  At Whitehall, armed men marched through the corridors while servants hauled trolleys packed with valuables to be hidden away: paintings, porcelain, golden ornaments. Bess was in the midst of the commotion, looking for Raleigh, a dull pain in her chest. Quickly out of breath, she dodged soldiers and courtiers racing through the lengthy corridors, at last finding him across from the Guard Chamber. She hovered, waiting while he finished speaking to an earnest-looking soldier, then caught his attention and beckoned him to a secluded corner. He came at once, taking both her hands in his.

  “Bess, I’ve been ordered to my ship—”

  She stopped his mouth with one finger. “I’ll be quick,” she said, her heart pounding. “I have something to tell you. But I ask for nothing. Is that understood? Your life is your own. Nothing will change.”

  “What is this, Bess?”

  Two court officials hurried by. She lowered her voice, wished for a moment that she didn’t have to tell him. Wished for every impossible thing. “I’m—” She stopped, bit her lip, looked down, and touched her waist.

  “You’re pregnant?” he asked.

  She nodded. “No one knows. My plans are made. I shall ask the queen for permission to leave court. I shall live quietly in the country with my child. The queen must know nothing.”

  He stared at her, his eyes full of shock, but pulled her closer. “Where will you go?”

  “To my mother’s house.” She looked at the floor and realized she was already consumed with the grief of losing him. It felt as if the deepest parts of her had been savagely attacked, and the raw wounds pulled apart.

  “Must you?”

  “I’m a ward of the queen. I can’t be courted by a man without her permission. I can’t marry without her permission. As for having a child—” She fell silent as another official passed them.

  “When will you leave?” he asked.

  She hadn’t expected him to ask her to stay. But that did not keep his simple question from cutting deeply. She swallowed hard. “As soon as I’m allowed.”

  She looked up at him and saw that he, too, was struggling. He pressed his hands to his forehead, closed his eyes, shifted his weight. “Am I not to see you again? What’s to become of the child? Bess—”

  “Hush!” His weakness gave her strength. She touched his lips. “We’ve no choice. You know it as well as I do.”

  “All I know is nothing’s as it should be.” He rested his forehead against hers, and the heat of his skin swallowed her. “Please listen. You once said to me, ‘Whatever I have to give, ask and it’s yours.’ Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  She could see in his eyes that he spoke the truth, that he would do anything for her, and she let herself wish, for the briefest moment, that their love did not have to be illicit, that they could give themselves freely and wholly to each other. But wishing that, even for an instant, did nothing but open her heart to more hurt. “I ask that you forget me. Go to your ship. Do your duty. Forget me.”

  “Do not ask that of me,” he said.

  “I have no choice.”

  “There is always a choice, Bess. Sometimes it’s difficult.

  Sometimes it hurts other people. But sometimes it’s still right. Sometimes it’s what must be.”

  “I cannot,” she said. “I cannot do it to her.”

  He did not move his eyes from hers. “Bess...”

  The queen’s ladies rushed by, Margaret calling out on their way. “Bess! We’re summoned.”

  “I’m coming,” Bess said, then turned to Raleigh. “Goodbye.” She nearly choked on the word, the pain of it unbearable. Her throat burned, her eyes ached, and every muscle in her body stiffened. She could not bring herself to look at him again, knowing that if she did, she’d throw herself in his arms. Against all her will and all her heart, she forced herself to turn away and ran down the hall.

  

  The Privy Chamber had been polluted by an oppressive tension since Mary Stuart’s execution. All the members of Elizabeth’s council felt her fury, but it was William Davison, a secretary, who received the bulk of it. It was he whom she’d sent to convince Paulet to get rid of Mary on his own, to spare the queen having to sign the death warrant. When Davison failed on that mission, she sent him to the Tower, threatening to hang him.

  She hadn’t followed through, of course, but she could see that her moods took a toll on her ministers. It was obvious when they were afraid of her—the way they slouched in their seats, spoke more quietly than usual. They should fear her; all their happiness, their success depended upon her favor, and she would not tolerate disloyalty. And disloyalty, she believed, included failing at what should have been a simple task, like that she’d given to Davison.

  But now they sat around the table, united again, ready to address the Spanish threat.

  “What is the condition of our fleet?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I’d like more ships, Majesty,” Lord Howard said.

  “I understand this Armada Philip is building has ships the size of castles.”

  “Ships that will be difficult to maneuver,” Howard said. “I don’t think they can beat us.”

  “Of course they can’t beat us,” she said. It felt good to be in control again, to know that she would lead England to victory. She smiled at her men: Walsingham, Howard, Hatton, and Burghley. She was ready to listen to their advice.

  

  “Bess!” Raleigh pulled her away from the other ladies as they left the hall after supper that night, headed to the queen’s quarters for dancing. “I must speak with you.”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t. Please—”

  “You cannot refuse me a conversation.” His eyes pleaded. “Just talk to me.” She closed her eyes and sighed but did not resist when he took her hand and led her outside, past walls of guards to an empty garden, flowers long since dead from frost. No one would see them here.

  “What do you want?” she asked, eyes filling with tears. He was making this all so difficult. She wished he would go away, sail on his ship, never come back. If he did, in a hundred years or so, she might start to forget him.

  “Marry me, Bess. Marry me.”

  “I can’t. You know I can’t. It’s impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. Choices, remember? Difficult choices? You cannot ask me to leave you, to pretend we’d never met. You’re my heart, Bess, and I will not let you escape from me.”

  “The queen will never give us permission,” she said.

  “So we’ll do it secretly, tell no one. You’ll go to the country to have the baby, just as you’d planned. But you won’t be alone, Bess. You’ll never be alone.”

  “Why? Why do this? Why not just go on as we are?”

  “Because I need to know that you are mine, even if no one else can.” He pulled her close, embraced her, kissed her neck. “Stay with me, love me, have me for your own.”

  She put her hand to his head, held it against her neck, felt his tangled curls. “I suppose we’re risking no more than we already have.”

  “And gaining something far more dear than anything we could lose, even if we’re discovered.”

  This made her laugh. “Really? More dear than your head? We’d soon find ourselves on the scaffold if the queen were to discover us.”

  “She didn’t send Leicester to the scaffold when he married Lettice Knollys.”

  “She was in love with Leicester.” A sigh. “And she’s in love with you. It makes it worse, don’t you think? To think our lives are protected because she loves
you?”

  “No, I don’t. She loves me, Bess, but she won’t have me. Is it fair, then, for her to keep me from you?”

  “Queens don’t have to be fair.”

  “And when they’re not fair, are we required to do their bidding when it hurts us?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “Not this time.”

  “If she would take it, would you give her everything? Or would you be here with me?” He buried his head deeper in her neck but said nothing. “You would go to her, wouldn’t you?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Bess. I don’t know. I don’t know what I would do. But it doesn’t matter—it’s not our reality. Our reality is this—us, our child. I love you. Will you have me? Will you take my everything?”

  Her breath was coming fast as she looked into his eyes. “I will. I will take your everything and give you mine in return.” He kissed her, and all her fears disappeared. They’d come back, that she did not doubt, but she would always be able to recall the simple perfection of this moment.

  

  Elizabeth’s nightmares were getting worse, and Bess, who’d always been able to soothe her in the past, had been too distracted of late to be of much help. She’d noted the girl’s pale face and sketchy appetite and worried, insisting that she drink foul-tasting tinctures daily, but they yielded little result. So now, when she needed her favorite friend, instead of calling for her to sleep next to her, she found herself alone, not trusting any of the others enough to let them see her so vulnerable.

  Sleep did not come easy, and when at last it did, something—a sound, light, she knew not what—woke her in the night. She was frightened, the curtains of her bed pressing in, overwhelming her with claustrophobia. She flung them apart, only to find the shadows filling her room equally terrifying. They floated and dove with sinister movements and she screamed, no longer caring who saw or heard her.

  “Air! I must have air!” Her servants rushed in, opening the windows. Guards appeared next, followed by ladies in their streaming nightgowns. Elizabeth took no heed of any of them. She leaned over the sill, drawing in a deep breath of night air while she watched the moon, all the while overwhelmed with the sensation that something terrible was about to happen.