Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  Chapter 18

  Escaping from the palace was more difficult than during Bess’s previous nighttime adventures, but she and Margaret managed to slip past the guards without drawing questions. A boat was waiting for them near the privy stairs, and they climbed aboard and were quickly settled, sitting close together. Margaret dropped her head onto her friend’s shoulder. “You’re quite certain you want to do this?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing I want more,” Bess said, heart racing, stomach tingling with nerves.

  “You know there will be consequences.”

  “No one need learn what’s happened.”

  “The baby, Bess. People will know.”

  “Eventually, yes, but perhaps by then...” Bess’s voice trailed.

  “By then the queen will have another favorite?” Margaret shook her head. “You know it’s not that simple. She would never agree to let you marry him. Never. And if she finds out that you already have—”

  “I know, Margaret, I know. But I adore him. He’s everything to me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t risk to be with him.”

  “Sweet words, my friend, but romance doesn’t translate so well to reality. Aren’t you scared at all?”

  “Of course I am. Terrified.” Bess tugged at her lip. “He’s taught me that some things are worth great risks.” She reached for Margaret’s hand. “You must be happy for me, if only for tonight.”

  “You know I wish you great joy. I just—”

  “Stop there, please.”

  “Very well.” Margaret gave her a smile, but it was forced and full of concern. “We will be happy tonight.” The barge slowed as they approached the dock at Durham House and she saw Raleigh waiting for them. All anxiety flew from her when she looked at his handsome face and she began to believe that all would be well, that they would manage, somehow, to have each other without losing everything else. He gave her his hand, steadying her as she stepped off the swaying boat, then pulled her close.

  “Forgive me. I can’t wait any longer to taste you again,” he whispered and kissed her lips, pulling back when Margaret clattered onto the dock. He gave each girl an arm and led them inside, through the courtyard and into the chapel, lit by the golden lights of hundreds of candles. A priest holding a worn copy of The Book of Common Prayer ushered them toward the altar, where they stood, facing each other. Margaret, their only witness, watched from the front pew.

  The ceremony was short, as brief as church law would allow, but the air was heavy with emotion. They would be joined as man and wife but would not be able to live together, would have to continue to hide their love. Tonight, though, none of this mattered. Tonight, she would drown in his eyes and pretend that they would not be torn apart in the morning.

  “. . . with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he said, taking her hand.

  He placed a ring on her left thumb. “In the name of the Father—”

  He moved the ring to her forefinger. “And of the Son—”

  To her middle finger. “And of the Holy Spirit.”

  Finally to her ring finger. “Amen.”

  

  Far to the south, the sun was rising over the English Channel, bursting through gathering clouds to dapple the rough water with sparkling diamonds. There was nothing else to see in any direction, only gray water, churning as if in preparation for a storm. But then, far off on the horizon, came a ghost of movement: dark shapes rocking in the waves. First a handful, then enough to stretch as far as the eye could see. No one on shore could see them yet. The sentries would still be staring idly, bored. But they’d know soon enough: the Armada was coming.

  

  In the center of Whitehall Palace, behind thick oak doors guarded by no fewer than two dozen well-armed men, stood the room in which Elizabeth was planning her war. Battle with Spain had been inevitable—the skirmishes already fought in ports and in the New World and the animosity between the two countries’ religious establishments were not going to be peacefully resolved. As much as she hated that it had come to this, she had to admit that it had allowed her to redirect the anger she’d felt at her advisors, following Mary Stuart’s execution.

  All at once, she had the delicious feeling that she was standing on the precipice of a new era.

  A magnificent map of Europe was inlaid on the floor, with model ships placed on it to depict the English and Spanish fleets, and still more maps covered the table standing in the center of the room. Elizabeth, imperious, stood tall, back straight, voice strong as she addressed Lord Howard, Hatton, Walsingham, and Burghley.

  “This Spanish Armada is at sea, carrying an army of ten thousand men.” She motioned to the map. “The Duke of Parma’s fifteen thousand men are marching on Calais. At Tilbury, we have four thousand men.” Parma, who commanded the superbly equipped Army of Flanders stationed in the Spanish Netherlands, could reach the English coast in very little time once he’d made it to Calais.

  “Parma’s army plans to cross the Channel in barges, under the protection of the Spanish fleet,” Walsingham said. “But as yet they don’t have enough barges at Calais. We have a little time.”

  “That is so.” Walsingham smiled, surprise in his eyes. She’d had every intention of shocking him with this information and was pleased to see she’d succeeded. “If the Spanish fleet reaches Calais in strength, the combined armies will be beyond our power to resist.”

  “Therefore,” the queen continued, “the Spanish fleet will not reach Calais.”

  Lord Howard stepped forward. “Majesty, this Armada is three times greater than our fleet. We must be prepared for the worst. The court must leave London.”

  “I will leave London, Lord Howard,” she said. “I will go to Tilbury. I will join my army.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Burghley asked.

  “I think it is necessary. I’m their leader, their queen. I must go to them. Unless you’d prefer I take up residence on one of our ships? Perhaps I could load cannons during the battle?” She was filled with satisfaction, knowing she was once again in control. The meeting finished, she walked briskly through the palace’s public rooms to her quarters, Walsingham by her side, her entourage trailing behind.

  “How did you know about the numbers of the Dutch barges, Majesty?” he asked. “I don’t recall supplying you with that information.”

  “You may observe, Walsingham, that I don’t see my way with only one eye. Nor do I hop along on only one leg. Why then would I rely on only one source of information?” She swept into her private rooms, her ladies jumping up in haste. She looked at them all, then turned to Margaret. “Where’s Bess?”

  

  “You’re dull today,” Elizabeth said. She and Raleigh had been playing chess. He’d let her win, not out of respect for her position but due to lack of attention, and she did not like it. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, Majesty. I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “I suppose you don’t want to go for a walk then? The gardens are finally all in bloom.”

  “If you’d like, we can.”

  “I thought we could go to Windsor tomorrow and ride. What say you to that?”

  “I am, as always, at your disposal.”

  She watched his face as he spoke, trying to read his emotions, but she could uncover nothing save an awkwardness she’d not before seen in him. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  He grinned, but there was no heart in it. “Of course not. Shall we go outside? Show me your garden.”

  “No,” she said. “I’d rather stay here and read. Why don’t you go alone? Your mind is clearly elsewhere.”

  He didn’t argue, didn’t protest, only kissed her hand, bowed, and backed out of the room. And when he was gone, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Her entire body started to ache as her head throbbed and her stomach turned. Something had gone wrong
, desperately wrong. He was no longer with her, she could feel it, and she wanted to know where he had gone.

  “Majesty?” The door opened and Walsingham stuck his head into the room. “There’s something I think we ought to discuss. May I enter?”

  She waved him in and forced herself to sit up straight and dignified. As soon as he began to talk, she no longer had to expend energy to appear regal. Anger filled her and a powerful queen took the place of the hurt woman that had been in the room. She knew exactly what she needed to do.

  Chapter 19

  Elizabeth had been sequestered in her study for more than an hour, questioning the ladies of the Privy Chamber, one after another in turn. Outside, in the atrium, courtiers sat in nervous silence. They dared whisper only when the queen’s voice rose to a shout, audible even through the thick stone walls. Palpable tension did not make for easy companionship. The ladies looked at each other with accusing eyes, trying to determine who among them had brought on this rage. They all gasped when Margaret stumbled from the room in tears and ran out of the atrium without a word to anyone. No one dared go after her.

  Some minutes later, the heavy doors flew open and Elizabeth stormed out, yelling, her face crimson, her voice shaking. She had suspected but never dreamed they would dare do this to her—humiliate her, betray her. It was beyond unacceptable. “Bess! Bess Throckmorton!”

  Bess was sitting alone at the far end of the room, keeping her face down, not joining in the quiet gossip. At the sight of the queen, she rose. “Here, my lady.” There was a tone of resignation in her voice, and the queen scowled, not caring who saw her boiling rage as the girl walked toward her. Hardly a breath was drawn in the atrium. No one dared speak, not that Elizabeth minded. They should never forget that she was their queen, that they were all here only because of her goodwill, should remember that she could destroy any of them in an instant. Her hands were shaking and she could not will them to stop, so she clenched them together in front of her. Once Bess had reached her, she slapped her, then smacked the side of her head.

  “How dare you! You slut! You whore! Is it true? You dare to have secrets from me? Is it true? Do you deny it?” Bess stood, trembling hands over her face, saying nothing. Her silence further infuriated the queen. Elizabeth clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms and drawing blood. “Tell me! Are you married? Are you with child? Are you with child?”

  Bess lowered her hands and slowly looked up at the queen. “Yes, my lady.” Her voice was weak but steady. Elizabeth thought she might collapse, the pain was that great. It started in her head and traveled through her body at a rate too fast to understand. Fury and hurt were unhappy companions, each vying for her full attention, but fury quickly won the battle, demanding to be heard.

  “Slut! Whore! Traitress!” she screeched. “I am your queen! You ask my permission before you rut—before you marry—before you breed! My bitches wear my collars. Do you hear me? How dare you be with child?”

  Walsingham stepped forward and reached for her. “Majesty, please! Dignity—mercy—”

  Eyes blazing, she turned on him and pushed his hand away. How dare he? How dare any of them? She ground her teeth and only barely stopped herself from stamping her foot. “This is no time for mercy. That’s what you said to me. I don’t forget. But you showed mercy, Walsingham. Go to your traitor brother and leave me to my business.” He blanched as she went back to berating Bess. “Is it his child? Tell me! Say it! Is the child his? Tell me! Say it! Is it his?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Bess was calm, dignified. “It is my husband’s child.” She was not looking at the queen but beyond her.

  Elizabeth forced out a hard breath, the pressure in her head building at the outrage that she did not have the girl’s full attention. She turned to see what had caught Bess’s eye. Raleigh stood across the room, arms folded, eyes sad, watching. The sight of him struck her like no assassin’s bullet could have. Shame and embarrassment mingled with her anger, and she would have liked nothing better than to run him through with a sword. But she had her wits about her enough to note that it was good there was not one readily at hand.

  His voice was rough, low, barely audible. “This is not the queen I love and serve.” He met Elizabeth’s stare, his gaze unflinching, and she felt the madness draining out of her. Her fury remained, burning in her throat and stomach, but she controlled it, focused it, replaced its outward appearance with a mask of regal calm.

  “You have seduced a lady under my care,” she said, wishing she could bury this hurt, wishing she’d better protected her heart. “You have married without my consent. These are offenses punishable by law.” She turned to Walsingham. “Arrest him.”

  She turned on her heel and disappeared into her study, the thud of the solid door as she slammed it echoing behind her. She put her hands, shaking, on her desk and lowered her head. Her lungs were paralyzed; she could not breathe. She dropped onto the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and sobbed.

  

  On the very tip of England, the Cornish coast, a young man stood in a watchtower. He’d been there for weeks, doing his best to maintain focus, to keep his eyes on the far-off horizon. It was a deadly dull post. No enemy ships ever passed him, and the ocean was starting to blur. The previous day he’d caught himself falling asleep, so this morning he’d brought with him a knife and a piece of wood and had set to carving it, promising himself that he’d be sure to look up every few minutes.

  He’d heard all the stories about the Armada, about the King of Spain—the Demon of the South, as he was called. They said he’d told a man condemned by the Inquisition that if his own son, the prince, were guilty of heresy, he would lead him with his own hands to the stake.

  He rolled his shoulders, rocked his head back and forth, and turned his attention to the wood in front of him. But as he raised his knife, something caught the corner of his eye. The blade and wood clattered to the ground as he stared at the sea. Over the rim of the world appeared the long line of the Spanish fleet, a floating wall, black and menacing.

  He raced down the steps of the tower, lit a bundle of sticks, and thrust them again and again into the beacon that stood nearby. As it caught fire, flames rising into the sky, he watched and soon saw a second beacon erupt on the next headland. Then a third on the next, and a fourth, and a fifth, until the line of fire stretched the entire length of the coast, warning all of Britain.

  It was time. The queen must be informed at once.

  

  “Majesty...” Walsingham was being hesitant with her. He’d been treating her like a wounded bird for three days. It was unbearable.

  “Say what you mean to, old man,” she said, blue eyes flashing. They were rimmed with red, and she knew that although none of her courtiers would dare comment—let alone make an empty gesture of sympathy—she despised the fact that her heartbreak was obvious.

  “It is perhaps not wise to lose control of your temper in such a fashion. Gossip, you know—”

  “I have dealt with gossips from the time I was a girl. You would have me tolerate betrayal? Deceit? Lies? From a Lady of the Privy Chamber? The rules are clear, Moor. None of my ladies may allow a gentleman to court her without my express permission. You would have me make exception to this? Because I liked Bess? Because I liked Raleigh?” Liked Raleigh? She had loved him. Loved him. And for what? She hated the very sound of their names.

  “No, Majesty. I would have you chastise the guilty parties in private. I would have you show nothing to the court but your serene, graceful self.”

  “Let them see me for who I am. Let them fear my anger.” A queen should not have to contend with such treatment. She wondered how Raleigh liked the Tower and doubted that his accommodations there could be uncomfortable enough.

  The other members of the Privy Council had hung back during this conversation, keeping eyes averted and faces turned. Elizabeth spun around, looking toward them, opening her mouth to say somethi
ng and then stopping. She flew to the window. Outside it, the last of the warning beacons, the one within view of Whitehall burst into flames, and her heart raced. The Armada. All pettiness dropped away, and great calm centered itself in the core of her chest. She was again focused on her country, her people. This was what it meant to be a queen. England would always matter more than the trivial concerns of a human heart.

  “So it begins,” she said as excitement and delicious anticipation worked their way into her soul. “Gentlemen, our ships sail in English waters. Our armies stand on English soil. We will not be defeated. Believe me: I am England.”

  

  “You see, it’s not so bad,” Raleigh said as Bess looked woefully around his room in the Tower of London. “It’s small, granted, but I don’t plan on doing much entertaining, and it’s furnished adequately for a man of my station.”

  “How can you joke?” she asked. “It’s dreadful.”

  “Not at all. There aren’t even bars on the windows, and the guards let me walk outside when the weather’s good. I’d expected much worse.” And before he could stop himself, he rubbed his neck, glad his head was still attached. Bess reached for him, put her hand on top of his.

  “I’ve found rooms nearby. The baby and I will be comfortable there.”

  “You are well, Bess?”

  “Not so well without you.” She looked at the floor and he saw a tear drop from her cheek.

  “We must make the best of it,” he said, looking at her face and memorizing every inch of it. “Do not be sad. We knew this could happen.”

  “I’m afraid,” she said.

  “Don’t be.” He pulled her onto his lap. “If the queen were going to execute me, she’d have already done it. All there is to do is to remain patient and pray that eventually she releases me. But in the meantime, I cannot have you sad.”