by Alison Weir
The honors and offices dispensed, she spoke from the throne. “Good people, the burden that has fallen upon me leaves me amazed. But I am God’s creature, bound to obey Him, and I yield to His appointment, praying with your help to make a good account to Him. I mean to direct all my actions by wise advice and counsel. I require of you nothing more than faithful hearts, and then you shall not doubt my goodwill, so you use yourselves as loving subjects.”
With applause ringing in her ears, she left the hall, her train of ladies following, and walked through her apartments—those same apartments that she had used since infancy—to her bedchamber. Here, she found Kat Astley, her former governess, now puffed up with pride at having been made first lady of the bedchamber and mistress of the robes. Dear Kat, who had taught Elizabeth her first lessons, said her prayers with her every night, suffered with her through the terrors and tribulations of the past years, and even been imprisoned in the Tower for her sake. Kat had been as a mother to her, in place of the mother of whom she had been cruelly deprived, and now she would have her reward. It was comfortingly strange to see the homely Kat so finely dressed in silks. It brought home to Elizabeth that her years of peril were at last behind her.
“To your duties, ladies. The Queen’s Majesty awaits,” Kat cried, rustling forward, the ladies-in-waiting, maids-of-honor, and chamberers hastening to assist her in changing their mistress’s attire for tonight’s dinner, which would, of course, be a subdued affair, for the court was in mourning. So it would be another black gown, but of velvet this time, with a high-standing collar—and very becoming too. Kate Knollys began untying the ribbons that secured Elizabeth’s sleeves to her bodice. When Kate had arrived at Hatfield, Elizabeth wept as she embraced her. She had never enjoyed such a rewarding relationship with her other half sister, Queen Mary, after leaving her childhood behind. Mary had loved Elizabeth when she was little, because Mary adored children and had always prayed—in vain—for a child of her own. But later there had been nothing but resentment and jealousy. So it was wonderful to have someone closely related and sympathetic in attendance. Elizabeth was pleased too that her niece Lettice, Katherine’s enchanting, flame-haired young daughter, was also to serve her, and Mary, Lady Sidney, Robert Dudley’s beautiful sister; she held both girls in high esteem.
There was only one notable absentee, whom Elizabeth had been glad to leave behind in the outer chamber: her pale, sullen cousin Lady Katherine Gray, whose sister Jane had gone to the block for usurping Queen Mary’s throne.
The memory of Jane’s fate always gave Elizabeth pause for thought. The two of them shared a common zeal for the new religion, but Jane had the makings of a fanatic, and she’d died for it. Given the chance to save herself by converting to Catholicism, she had said no, and no again—and suffered the consequences. Elizabeth still shuddered at the thought of her seventeen-year-old cousin lying broken and bleeding on the scaffold. She’d had nightmares about it at the time, and feared—and with good reason—that she herself would be next.
Elizabeth was not sure if she would have had the kind of courage that Jane had shown, and that made her feel uncomfortable. But Katherine, Jane’s little sister, had converted to the old faith without a qualm—no “no, and no again” from her—and won the warm favor of Queen Mary, who made her a lady of the bedchamber. It was now safe, of course, for Katherine to convert back to the religion in which she had been raised. I expect it of her, Elizabeth fumed, angry that the girl remained obstinately Catholic. Until she herself bore an heir, Katherine was next in line to the throne—a truth that Elizabeth had no intention of acknowledging—and therefore she should openly be professing the Protestant faith.
Elizabeth knew, of course, why the little hussy was holding back. She had seen Katherine tête-à-tête with the Spanish ambassador, no doubt sweet-talking King Philip into championing her as the Catholic claimant; or maybe it was a ploy to galvanize the Queen into naming her as her successor. Whatever it was, Elizabeth smelled a rat, and she was furious with Katherine for daring to meddle in dangerous matters that should not concern her. More than that, she was scared; she admitted it. Unlike herself, Katherine was unquestionably legitimate, and born in the realm, which could not be said for their mutual cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, who had been excluded from the succession by Parliament. Katherine had the potential to prove a deadly threat to Elizabeth’s security. It was for this reason that Elizabeth had demoted her to the rank of lady of the presence chamber. She hoped that would put an end to her forward cousin’s pretensions.
As the women unlaced and unhooked her gown, Elizabeth gave Kate Knollys an affectionate squeeze.
“Dear cousin, I cannot let you out of my sight again,” she declared. “You must be in attendance on me as often as possible, as one I love much.”
“I should be honored, madam,” Kate said, but she looked a touch downcast.
“And what of her children, Bess?” put in Blanche Parry, Elizabeth’s old nurse, who spoke her mind from force of long habit and privilege. “Who will look to them when their mother is dancing attendance on you? And that fine husband of hers will be jealous of you if you keep him from her!”
Kate flushed.
“Go to, Blanche!” Elizabeth cried. “Kate does not mind. She may see her children, aye, and bring them to court from time to time. As for you, I love you too much to send you to the Tower, so I mind to put you in charge of my books, to keep you quiet. I know you love learning.”
Blanche subsided, a happy expression on her old face. But Kate’s smile was forced. She loved her husband and little ones, and could not bear to be apart from them for long. Yet her love for Elizabeth was such that she would never desert her. She, who had been with her sister in her darkest moments, knew how much she needed her. For Elizabeth had no other close kin, and here she was, in her exalted position, set apart from ordinary mortals, isolated and untouchable. How could Kate deny her?
The next morning Elizabeth was up early, eager to be out in the crisp fresh air after days spent cooped up with her ministers. Zealous in his new duties, Robert Dudley had a fine mount ready, saddled, and waiting for her, and one for himself too, for her Master of Horse must accompany her whenever she went riding or traveled anywhere. He had put off his mourning and looked splendid in forest-green velvet, his riding cloak swirling jauntily from his shoulders. Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn again to his fine-boned features—the high-bridged nose and prominent cheekbones were compellingly attractive—and his shapely legs encased in tight white hose. There was no denying that he was a most handsome man.
He bowed at her approach, doffing his feathered bonnet, and she smiled graciously, realizing that her heart was pounding. She was tall for a woman, but when Robert stood up he towered above her. She rather liked that. What she did not like was this new formality between them. They had been friends since childhood, and more than that, surely, not so very long ago. Now she was Queen, and Robert was obliged to distance himself and pay her the proper courtesy. She found herself missing the old familiarity they had once enjoyed.
“Madam, allow me,” he said, as he stood by the mounting block and cupped his hands so that she could place her foot in them and heave herself into the saddle.
“Do not madam me, Robin,” she chided him playfully. “We are old friends, are we not?”
He smiled. “I had hoped that Your Majesty would remember that.”
“How could I forget it?” she teased. “You used to call me Bess when we were children. Do not call me madam, Robin. We know each other better than that.”
“It seems strange to address the Queen’s Majesty as Bess, as I did once.”
“How should such strangeness be between friends? I hope we are still friends, as before,” Elizabeth said, thinking how debonair Robert looked with his dark hair tousled in the breeze.
“I hope that too—and for more,” he said, bold as the bear on his family’s badge.
“Then you may hope!” she said lightly, her heart singing.
> Robert’s dark eyes lit up. “I would hope for much, were I permitted.”
She looked down at him. “I like a brave man!” she declared.
He mounted his own steed and they rode forth, letting the horses break into a canter across the park. The air was cold but the sun was rising. It was going to be a fine winter day. Elizabeth loved the rush of the wind against her cheeks, the heady excitement of jolting along at speed beside Robert, for they were equally fine riders. There was no one in sight for what seemed like miles. More than that, she relished the freedom to relax and be herself with someone who had known her since childhood.
Presently they slowed to a trot, passing through a stretch of woodland, the trees bare above their heads.
“How do you like living in Norfolk, Robin?” Elizabeth asked.
“It is quiet, madam,” he answered with a grin. “I prefer to be at court.”
“What, this glittering misery, full of malice and spite?” she teased.
“It cannot be so when it has your Majesty in it,” he replied gallantly.
“Bess,” she said firmly.
“Bess,” he repeated. His tone was tender.
“And your good lady? Does she like it?” She was surprised to find herself suffering a pang of jealousy at the thought of Amy Dudley.
“Well enough.” He seemed not to want to talk about his wife. Well, neither did Elizabeth. She would not mention her again unless he did. In fact, she decided, she would make it clear that she did not want to hear anything about Lady Dudley.
“I trust that the apartment allocated to the Master of Horse is comfortable?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Excellent, madam—I mean Bess—thank you. It is a great honor to be lodged at court near you.” The intensity in Robert’s eyes suggested that this was not mere flattery. “I would sleep in a cupboard for that.”
“You are too bold, Robin!” Elizabeth reproved, laughing.
“And prepared to be more so,” he riposted.
“Pish!” She was really enjoying herself. She loved nothing more than flirting, and there had been too little of it in her life so far. “Be serious, Robin! I meant to discuss my coronation. There is much to plan.”
“Then I am at Your Majesty’s disposal.” His eyes were warm now. She knew that his meaning did not encompass coronations, but she deftly steered the conversation on to that subject. It occurred to her that the old, easy relationship between them had been replaced by something else. They were not children now, or prisoners in the Tower. She was Queen, and he was her loyal servant. They were reencountering each other in these new roles, and the balance of supremacy in their dealings with each other had shifted. If she had been desirable to him in adversity, how much more so must she appear now. Power drew many men like a lodestone, and Robert was overtly greedy for it. And yet, she realized, there was a long-suppressed attraction between them, which had suddenly burgeoned again, there was no denying it. She must be careful, for her heart was in danger of falling captive to his charm and his ambition, and a queen must never be ruled by her heart.
When they returned to the palace, Robert leapt from his horse and led Elizabeth’s mount to the riding block. As she slipped down from her saddle, he caught her by the waist and turned her to face him. The feel of his strong hands through the thick stuff of her gown and corset came as a shock to her. They stood there, close together, their eyes locked, for a moment too long—until Robert let her go. She did not reprove him.
Dark and handsome, his fine features aligned to a dazzling smile, Count de Feria, the Spanish ambassador, stood before the Queen. His master, King Philip, had sent him to London when Queen Mary lay dying. Mary had been Philip’s wife, but in forsaking England when it became clear that she was barren, he had broken her heart. Before then he had championed Elizabeth, even betrayed a less than brotherly interest in her, which only inflamed Mary’s well-rooted jealousy of her sister. But Philip was a devout Catholic, Elizabeth an enlightened Protestant; there could never be any common meeting ground between them.
Feria, his blue eyes warm, offered his congratulations to the Queen on her accession. “Your Majesty is no doubt grateful that King Philip’s influence has brought you a crown,” he purred.
“My gratitude is due solely to my people,” Elizabeth said crisply, “but I thank my good brother for his kind words.” She must not alienate Philip, for she needed his friendship. Danger threatened her—from France, from Scotland, from Spain, from Rome, from every Catholic in Christendom. Already the King of France had proclaimed his daughter-in-law, Elizabeth’s cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, as the true Queen of England; Mary was married to the Dauphin, heir to the French throne, and, with the might of France behind her, represented the most chilling threat. But Elizabeth was confident that she could steer her ship of state carefully through the stormy seas of European diplomacy. She knew she needed to take on board all the friends she could cozen, and she meant to keep them sweet by promises. She might as well begin now by making overtures to Spain, France’s great enemy!
“Your Majesty,” Feria ventured, “I have come to discuss a delicate matter, that of Your Majesty’s marriage.”
Elizabeth frowned. This was an unlooked-for complication. She did not want to think of marriage. There came unbidden the memory of a pair of dark, lascivious eyes, long dulled in death …“Pray speak,” she said, a trifle sharply.
Feria cleared his throat, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous in the face of this young woman. “Naturally Your Majesty could not contemplate ruling alone, without a husband to guide and support you, and be a father to your children. Maybe you will give some thought to a suitable choice. My master, King Philip, is happy to advise you.”
No, thought Elizabeth, and no again. I need no advice, and I will not be Philip’s puppet. “I am not contemplating marriage just now,” she said, as pleasantly as she could. “It may suit me better to remain unwed. I have too much work to do in this kingdom to think of wedding.” And, ignoring the astonishment on Feria’s face, she swept on briskly to the subject of the aggravating French, their mutual enemy.
Alone with Kat in her chamber, she gave vent to her fury. “There is a strong idea in the world that a woman cannot live unless she is married!”
Kat, who knew better than most why Elizabeth did not want to marry, said soothingly, “None can force you to wed.” Heaven knew they had tried in Queen Mary’s day. Elizabeth had felt buried alive under the pressure to take first this Catholic prince, then that one, or even another.
“I will never marry!” she declared. She had been saying it since she was eight years old, and said it again later, when Cecil proposed raising the matter of the succession in council. “Your Majesty must look to the future security of yourself and the realm,” he reminded her, a touch severely, as if he thought she was being frivolous.
“Must?” she echoed. “Do you say must to me, William?”
“Madam, marriage is your only surety. That you should wish to remain a maid is not natural.”
“I am not natural!” she retorted. “I know it.”
“A husband would share the cares and labors of government,” Cecil persisted, ignoring her. “He would father the heirs who will carry on Your Majesty’s line.”
“Aye, and relegate me to the nursery!” Elizabeth said, tart. “No, I will not suffer a man to rule me and usurp my power.”
Cecil sighed. “King Philip may ask for your hand. Feria has been dropping hints.”
“So I heard. Well, let Philip live in hope.” She thought of those calculating but lustful eyes, that cold character, those full but disdainful lips, and inwardly shuddered. To be certain, he had wanted her. But never, never could she even consider it … Besides, there was the insurmountable obstacle of religion. “We will keep him sweet with promises, William. You must accept, though, that I am determined to be governed by no one.”
“I am sure that a settlement acceptable to Your Majesty can be arranged,” Cecil said smoothly.
Elizabeth left it. He would see that she meant what she said.
Her new Archbishop of Canterbury—good Matthew Parker, who had been her mother’s chaplain—asked to see her. Cecil had sent him, she suspected—but it seemed that she was wrong.
“Madam, I bear a most holy charge,” the Archbishop told her. “Your late mother, our sainted Queen Anne, not three days before her arrest sought me out and besought me to look to your welfare should evil befall her.”
Elizabeth said nothing for a few moments. “She knew, then,” she whispered. “She sensed what was coming.” She could imagine how her mother must have felt. She had been there herself, a prisoner in the Tower, anticipating death. For Anne it had become a reality.
Parker’s homely face creased in distress. “She knew something was badly amiss, and that her enemies were uniting in an unholy alliance. She feared there would be some move against her. But I doubt she ever envisaged what actually happened, poor lady. She was braver than a lion.”
“And my father?” She had never been able to bring herself to believe that the father she revered had signed her mother’s death warrant merely so he could marry Jane Seymour.
“Suborned and wickedly misled,” said Parker firmly.
“That has been my understanding,” Elizabeth told him, reassured. “He was a great king, but sometimes ill served.”
“Aye, madam, he was.” The Archbishop paused. “I came to speak more of that charge laid on me by your lady mother. Madam, in looking to your welfare—like a father, as it were—I must advise you that it would be to your safety and comfort to enter the holy estate of matrimony.”
So Cecil had sent him! Elizabeth rounded on him. “Good Parker, I know your worth, but you know not of what you speak. Think you, with the examples of my mother and my stepmothers before me, that I can see marriage as a secure and comfortable estate? I have no good reason to believe it!” Her tone was bitter. “Think of my father’s marriages. Some say one was unlawful, some that another was not, and that the child of it is a bastard; some say other, and so they go to and fro, as they favor or mislike. My own mother was falsely accused of adultery, as you well know. There are too many doubts, and so I hesitate to enter into marriage, for I fear the controversy it might engender. How then can it be called a holy estate?”
