by Jean Plaidy
“My lord!”
“Aye,” he cried, “I have made that clear, have I not?”
He had risen and taken a step toward her. The impetuous man! she thought with tender emotion.
But her eyes flashed. Do not forget, they said, that I am about to be your Queen. But a caressing smile accompanied the warning.
“I trust you, Lord Robert,” she said. “What are these bags you bring me?”
“They are full of gold. I bring them as a token. More awaits you…if you should need it. I have sold lands and will sell more. The end of a reign is not always followed by peaceful succession. I wish Your Grace to know that if you should need me…in any capacity…I am yours to command. My recently restored fortune I place at your feet. These bags are but a symbol. These arms are yours, this heart, this body, this man.”
She was deeply affected. She held out her hand for him to kiss, but he did not take it. He muttered: “Your Grace, I cannot. You are so beautiful…I could not trust myself…”
These words pleased her as much as the bags of gold. She was not only a Princess about to become a Queen, he was telling her; she was the most desirable woman, who could make him forget all else because he loved her so madly.
“Go now,” she said softly. “We shall meet again.”
He knelt before her; he did not touch her; and as he rose he said: “When Your Grace is Queen of England I shall be the first to come to pay you homage and to offer myself in your service. I swear it.”
When he had gone, Kat picked up the bags.
“He has bewitched you,” she said.
“I know, Kat. And might it not be that I have bewitched him?”
“Bewitching is second nature to him.”
“Mayhap it is to me.”
“It is easier to be sick of love for a Queen than for a gentleman of fortune. Do not forget, when your hour comes, that you have other friends. Remember William Cecil who has served you well all these years at your sister’s Court, writing to you, advising you.”
“Why should I forget William Cecil? Have I not said that he is my very good friend?”
“Nay, you have not! But he does not possess a pair of flashing black eyes that look at you as though they would devour you. He does not tell you that your beauty goes to his head, that he dares not touch your hand for fear of seducing you here and now in front of your good servant, Kat Ashley.”
“Shame on you, Kat! Did Lord Robert say any such thing?”
“He did, my lady.”
“Then I did not hear it.”
“But you saw…and I saw…as he meant it to be seen. He is an adventurer.”
“Well, what should I want—a sit-by-the-fire? A dwarf? A pockmarked ninny?”
“So you want this man?”
“You are dismissed, Kat Ashley. I’ll have no more of your insolence.”
“You have my love, and love such as mine is indifferent to the anger it may cause. It seeks to serve even if the serving sometimes gives displeasure.”
Then Elizabeth turned and embraced Kat. “I know it, Kat. I know it. But don’t provoke me.” She smiled. “So he looked at me as though he would devour me? I confess ’twas so. But as long as he but looks, what matters it? Have no fear, Kat; I shall not allow myself to be devoured. Let us take a look at the cards. Let us see what they have to tell us of our tall dark man now.”
“Beware of him! That is what they will say.”
“I? Beware? Let him beware of me!”
“No, my lady, it is you who are a-tremble. Have a care. He is no ordinary man.”
“There you speak truth,” said Elizabeth beginning to laugh in anticipation of a passionate friendship. “He is indeed no ordinary man.”
November came. The house at Hatfield was the scene of much activity. The Princess had become more haughty; she was regal yet gay, arrogant and more quick-tempered than ever.
The Count of Feria called upon her, and this caused fresh excitement, for all were aware what this meant.
Feria, on behalf of his master, Philip of Spain, had come to ingratiate himself with Elizabeth.
The Count bowed low—lower, Elizabeth was quick to notice, than he had on their last meeting. Such behavior made her want to laugh aloud. She thought: So your master will give his support to me whom he suspects of heresy, rather than allow his old enemy the King of France to put Mary of Scotland on the English throne.
It was good to know that she was to receive the support of mighty Philip, and to know that whatever she did would not alter that. She could be cold to Feria, if she wished; or she could be warm, and neither attitude would alter his master’s decision. She was the lesser of two evils as far as Spain was concerned, and so she would continue to be.
“I am honored, my lord Count,” she told him, “that you should lighten my humble house with your presence.”
“It is I who am honored,” said the solemn Spaniard.
Elizabeth looked at him appraisingly and wondered what had made Jane Dormer fall in love with him. He was handsome in his way—but a Spaniard! Give her a good hearty Englishman. Always her thoughts returned to Robert Dudley.
She bade Feria sup with her.
“It gives me great pleasure to know that you come to assure me of your master’s friendship,” she told him as they sat at table.
“It has always been my master’s endeavor to show friendship to Your Grace,” he answered. “You know that the Queen is very sick indeed?”
“I have heard it.”
“Your Grace, this is a momentous time for you,” went on Feria. “You will be named as the Queen’s successor. That is the wish of my master. You know of his influence with the Queen, and it is due to him that this will come to pass.”
The light sandy brows shot up; the tilt of the head was haughty in the extreme. “Your master is my very good friend, I doubt not,” she said, “but I cannot see that he—or any—can give me that which is mine by right of inheritance. None has any power of bestowing on me that which is my right; nor can I, with justice, be deprived of it.”
“It is the custom in England that a monarch shall name his or her successor, is it not?”
“It is the custom in England, my lord, that the succession goes to the next of kin.”
“There were some difficulties with regard to the marriage of Your Grace’s father and mother.”
“I am my father’s daughter,” she said. “Any, who knew him and knows me, doubts it not.”
“You speak truth and it is the Queen’s delight—at the suggestion of His Majesty, my master—to make you her successor. I would have you know that His Most Catholic Majesty is your friend.”
She put her head on one side. Feria could scarcely believe that this haughty young woman was the demure eager-to-please Princess of a few years ago. She knew her position was secure; she knew that the Queen was on her death-bed; she knew that it was but a matter of weeks—or possibly days—before she would be Queen of England. She behaved as though that honor were already hers, thought the exasperated Spaniard.
“There will be conditions,” he said. “You will be expected to discharge Her Majesty’s debts.”
“I should deem it my duty to do so.”
“She wishes that you shall not change her privy councillors.”
Elizabeth lifted her shoulders gracefully. “I should believe myself to be at liberty to choose my councillors, as she was to choose hers.”
The Count was silent for a few moments. She was being truculent and he saw trouble ahead. He continued, “And, what is most important of all, she would require you to make no alteration in the religion of the country.”
She bowed her head and spoke with reverent dignity. “I would not change it, providing only that it could be proved by the word of God, which shall be the only foundation of my religion.”
Feria was too exasperated to hide his feelings. What troubles lay ahead for his master, for Spain, with such a woman on the throne? What could he make of her? She was all coquetry
when he admired her dress and jewels, so that it would seem he had a foolish simpering girl with whom to deal; then unexpectedly he found himself confronted by a cunning statesman.
He was anxious for the future and he fervently hoped that he would be recalled to Spain before he had to serve in a country governed by such a woman.
Jane Dormer, the betrothed of Feria, called at Hatfield. Her visit gave rise to much speculation, for next to Mistress Clarencius she was the favorite lady-in-waiting to the Queen.
Elizabeth received Jane with reserve. She looked at her speculatively—this lovely young girl, this fanatical Catholic who was about to become a Spaniard…and a spy, doubtless for that lover of hers.
Elizabeth trusted Jane Dormer slightly less than she trusted all those of the Queen’s Court who had not proved themselves to be her friends.
Jane knelt and told the Princess that as the Queen’s health was fast failing she had, on Mary’s request, brought the crown jewels to Elizabeth.
“Your Grace, I bring three requests from Her Majesty. They are that you shall be good to her servants, repay her debts, and leave the church as it is—re-established by Her Majesty.”
“Thank you, Mistress Dormer,” said Elizabeth. “You may rise. Her Majesty may rest assured that I shall be good to her servants and pay her debts. As to religion, as I have already said, that is a matter concerning which I rely on no other than God.”
Jane said: “I bring also a casket of jewels from the King.”
Elizabeth was pleasantly excited. She was fond of jewels, and jewels presented by Philip—who she felt was already beginning to woo her—were doubly attractive.
“He says they are to be presented to you as he knows you will admire them and they will become you.”
“So those were his words?” said Elizabeth.
Jane assured her that they were; and Elizabeth, well pleased, treated Jane to a show of affection.
When she had dismissed her, the Princess became thoughtful. It was clear that Mary must be very near to death. She remembered Robert’s warning and the gold he had brought. Had she been too firm over this matter of religion? Had she been too haughty with Feria? What if Spain should withdraw support after all? What if the French King should have set in motion some plot for putting Mary Queen of Scots on the throne?
She sent for a man whom she knew to be one of her ardent admirers, and whom she could trust. Nicholas Throgmorton had been concerned in the Wyatt rebellion but acquitted on account of insufficient evidence against him.
“Go with all speed to the palace,” she said. “Enter with as little fuss as possible and make a point of conversing with the ladies of the bedchamber. Most of them are willing to serve me—with the exception of Jane Dormer and old Clarencius. The Queen always wears a black enameled ring which was given to her by her husband at the time of their marriage. It is unmistakably a Spanish ring. Send that ring to me so that I may be sure the Queen no longer lives. I remember when my brother died, guards were placed about the palace and the news was not allowed to leak out. I must know immediately. Send me the ring with all speed.”
Sir Nicholas departed; but before he had time to reach London there was another visitor to Hatfield. He came hurrying into the house, demanding audience with the Princess, and when it was granted he fell on his knees before her and cried: “God save Your Majesty! God save Queen Elizabeth!”
He stood up, towering above her, and she was filled with delight in him.
“You know this to be true?”
“I was determined to be the first with the news. I swore it.”
Overcome with emotion she turned aside. She was Queen of England at last; and the man who had occupied her thoughts for so long and so pleasantly stood before her offering himself in her service.
Then she sank to her knees and cried: “This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in our eyes.”
For a short while she gave herself up to solemn contemplation of her destiny. Then she rose and turning to him said: “Now I am indeed your Queen.”
He bowed his head and murmured: “Your Majesty…your most beautiful and beloved Majesty!”
“My friend,” she said, extending her hand to him, “my very good friend, you shall not regret the day you rode to the Queen with such news.”
She drew back as he stepped toward her. He said: “I hear others coming. The news is out.”
In a few seconds this intimacy would be over. She allowed herself to give him a caressing smile.
“Lord Robert Dudley,” she said, “from this moment you are Master of the Queen’s Horse.”
“My humble thanks, Your Majesty.”
She noted the heightened color in his cheeks. The post in itself would bring him fifteen hundred pounds a year. She thought: Never did a Queen have a more handsome Master of Her Horse than Robert Dudley.
“You are well suited for the post,” she said; “and it means that you will be in constant attendance upon me.”
He said passionately: “Your Master of Horse shall be all that Your Majesty requires of him.”
The intimacy was broken. Others were coming to proclaim Elizabeth the Queen.
FIVE
The Queen began her triumphant journey to London, and as she rode through the countryside she was smiling at the cheering people who lined her way.
“God bless the Queen!” they cried. “Long may Elizabeth reign over us!”
She was young and fair; she had always shown a fondness for the people, and they loved her. Now, they promised themselves, there would be an end to the terrible fires which had been burning, not only in Smithfield Square but in many other parts of the country. This was the end of persecution. Bloody Mary was dead and England would be merry again.
At Highgate the Bishops were waiting to receive her. She was gracious to them, although making an exception of Bonner, who had been persecutor-in-chief since the death of Gardiner. Would that old enemy were here! she brooded. It would have been pleasant to have had Master Gardiner trembling before her. The people noticed her cold manner to Bonner and they cheered afresh.
She rode on for her traditional entry to the Tower, and there was great rejoicing as she passed through the City’s gates.
Now she sat in a splendid chariot which was drawn along Barbican to Cripplegate that she might be received by the Lord Mayor and the City dignitaries. When she had received their homage she remounted her horse, and magnificent she looked in her purple velvet. There was no need now to wear somber clothes; she had no rival now. She was the Queen.
She was continually aware of her Master of Horse who rode beside her. What attention he aroused! Some of the women looked at him instead of their Queen. He glittered with jewels—a dazzling figure.
“That is Lord Robert Dudley,” people whispered, “who came so near to losing his head in the last reign. Did you ever see such a man!”
“They say he compares with His Majesty King Henry the Eighth in the days of his glowing youth.”
Let him win their approval, meditated the Queen. Let them all see him as she saw him. She was not sure what role she had in store for him; and she wanted the people to retain a picture of him—magnificent, towering above all others.
Music filled the air; gay tapestry banners hung from the windows. As she reached the Church of Blanch Chapleton on the corner of Mart Lane she heard the Tower guns begin to boom. Through Tower Street she went, and she paused to listen to the children of St. Paul’s singing her praises, remembering—it seemed long ago now—how they had sung her sister’s.
She prayed: “Oh God, help me in this task. Help me to play my part nobly and honorably.”
She was filled with emotion. Her greatest desire had been granted; she must prepare herself to fulfill her duty and be worthy of the role. She was even glad of her misfortunes for she had come safely through them, and they had taught her more than easy living would have done.
All these people who cheered her now should be her first consideration. She would not
be foolish as her sister Mary had been. Mary too had ridden into London to the cheers of her people; but these same people now called her Bloody Mary; they reviled her for making a Spanish marriage and bringing foreigners among them; they blamed her for the loss of Calais; they rejoiced that she was dead.
It should not be so with Elizabeth. They should love her, these common people, all the days of her life. They were her strength; she would sacrifice anything rather than their devotion. She must never forget that they were the pillars which supported the throne.
At this sacred time she was oblivious of the picture she made in her purple velvet; she had forgotten her Master of Horse; she was only a Queen, determined to rule wisely, determined to make her country great.
It was a solemn moment when she entered the Tower.
All the officials were waiting to make obeisance to her. She dismounted. All about her were the nobility of England; and instead of the pride she had expected to feel at such a time, she was conscious only of a deep humility.
The words she spoke were spontaneous. “Some,” she said, “have fallen from Princes in this land, to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being a prisoner in this place to be a Prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God’s justice; this advancement is a work of His mercy. As they were to yield patience for the one, so I must bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful for the other.”
She turned then to the Lieutenant of the Tower.
“Conduct me now to those apartments which I occupied when I was a prisoner here.”
This was done, and she went into them wonderingly; and in great emotion she fell once more upon her knees and thanked God for her deliverance. “For,” she said, “like Daniel I have come safely out of the lions’ den, and I shall never forget His Mercy.”
There was no sign of the frivolous girl on that memorable day when Elizabeth came to the Tower of London as Queen.
Mary was buried with great pomp, and the Queen attended the burial. Dr. White, the Bishop of Winchester, preached the funeral sermon, and that day he proved himself to be a bold man.
