by Alison Weir
Drake laughed. “Depends whether I’m guilty or not!”
“I think that you deserve a knighthood,” she declared, and summoned one of the Frenchmen to perform the ceremony for her, the better to rile King Philip. He would be hopping with fury when he heard, all his Spanish dignity forgotten!
Beaming with delight, the newly knighted Sir Francis Drake presented the Queen with a map of the great voyage and his personal diary of his adventures. As she thanked him, her golden garter slipped off, whereupon one of the envoys, seeing it lying on the planks in her wake, asked if they could have it for their master, Anjou.
“No!” She smiled. “I need it to keep my stocking up.” But when she returned to Greenwich she relented and sent it to him after all. Then, keeping up the pretense that she’d had a change of heart, she authorized the commissioners to draw up the treaty of marriage.
“But it must be endorsed by monsieur himself!” she insisted, leaving the Frenchmen to depart for home disappointed and disgruntled.
Anjou did not come to England to append his signature—his proxies could do it, and he clearly felt he had better things to occupy his time—but by and by it became obvious that he was now even more desperate for money. Elizabeth was moved to send him a loan, and a letter with it assuring him that, although her body was her own, her soul was wholly dedicated to him. Let him make of that what he would!
She was enraged, therefore, when she heard that his interfering mother was up to her usual trickery, trying to make him wed a princess of Spain. If that happened, all of her careful, tortuous diplomacy might be gone to waste! There was no overestimating the fickleness of the French.
“Go to France, good Moor,” she commanded Walsingham, “and tell them that I really do mean to have the duke. But try to negotiate an alliance that does not involve marriage.” Walsingham went, dragging his steps. The task seemed impossible, especially when Elizabeth sent after him a deluge of instructions, telling him to do first one thing and then quite another.
“He writes urging you to forget about the marriage,” Robert said. “He is right, you know. I urge you to take his advice.” Hatton was nodding sagely.
“And I urge you to stop meddling, my lord,” Elizabeth said, tart.
“Madam,” Burghley intervened, shaking his head, “Sir Francis is at the end of his tether. He writes that he would repute it a great favor to be committed to the Tower, unless Your Majesty grows more certain of your intentions. He warns that, instead of the looked-for amity from the French, you will be the object only of enmity, and he will be much discomfited. King Henri, he says, is adamant that there will be no alliance without a marriage.”
Elizabeth replied, as she had many times before when cornered, that she would think on the matter, making it plain the discussion was at an end. Think she did, but still she bombarded Walsingham with conflicting orders. In the end, he wrote an exasperated letter telling her plainly that she would have to make up her mind.
So he wants me to marry Anjou after all! she concluded. She thought he opposed the match. He’d made enough fuss about it.
When, finally, a fraught Walsingham returned home, she was waiting for him.
“Well, you knave!” she chided. “Why have you so often spoken ill of monsieur? You veer ’round like a weathercock!”
“Madam,” he replied, “had you been in my place, trying to interpret your commands and keep the French sweet, you would have come to wish that Your Majesty would take the Devil himself as husband, so long as you made up your mind!”
It seemed to Elizabeth that there was now danger on every side. Intelligence reports told of hidden priests and secret agents furtively doing their utmost to subvert her rule. She gave her orders to Burghley and Walsingham. Houses were searched, people hunted down and arrested, and draconian new laws passed. There were arrests, interrogations, and hangings. She found herself—much against her will—forced to sanction torture, so terrified was she of plots to kill her and overthrow all she had worked for. To add to her burdens, when King Philip heard of the treatment meted out to his fellow Catholics in England, he threatened war.
It was at this critical juncture that Anjou, hopeful of obtaining English support against the brutal Spanish presence in the Netherlands, came a-courting once more. At news that he was actually on his way to Richmond, Elizabeth felt her heart leaping—unexpectedly, for she’d thought that her feelings for him had died. She chose a fine house for him in the palace precincts—being November, it was too cold for pavilions—and supervised the furnishing of it, taking pleasure in every last detail.
Anjou had matured into solid manhood since she had last seen him, and his greeting was more assured. She liked this grown-up monsieur even better than the fledgling version, and welcomed him with genuine affection. Very soon they fell into their old intimacy. When Elizabeth showed him around his house, she even joked that he might recognize the bed. It was the one on which he and she had once tumbled, giggling, then looked at each other in realization that something more serious might have been going on between them. How she wished now that she had been able to give in to that impulse. But never mind: he was back now, and who knew what might happen?
She gave him a golden key. “It fits every door in my palace,” she revealed.
“Is that an invitation, madame?” he asked, his eyebrows raised mischievously.
She smiled. “It signifies that the doors of England are open to Your Highness.”
Anjou gave her in return a diamond ring of great price, with which she was inordinately pleased, even though it had probably been bought with her money. It was the thought that counted, after all, and thank goodness they were finished with wilting flowers. He even attempted to slip the ring on her betrothal finger, but she resisted him, firmly placing it on the other hand. “That must wait!” she laughed.
They were back to being adoring sweethearts. He was once more her Frog and she his Divine Goddess. She had thought to have kissed good-bye to love and all its pleasures, but now she felt rejuvenated and the future no longer seemed bleak and lonely.
“You are the most constant of my lovers,” she told Anjou—forgetting Robert’s twenty-three years of devotion, and the thirteen years in which the Archduke Charles had waited for an answer—at which monsieur touched his lips to her hand most fervently. “I shall call you Francis the Constant,” she beamed.
She took delight in showing him around Richmond Palace, that fairy-tale fantasy that had been built by her grandsire, Henry VII, to glorify the Tudor dynasty and adorned with pinnacles, domes, oriel windows, and a plethora of royal badges wherever Grandfather could have them crammed in. She led her Frog through the maze of galleries and loggias framing gardens that were beautiful in all seasons; she danced him through the vast great hall, their footsteps echoing in that cavernous space.
She would not—could not—attend to any business; all she wanted was to be closeted with her Frog in her privy chamber, where they spent so many exciting and quite glorious hours. She knew there was much gossip about them, that people were speculating about what they did there, and that it was even being said she brought monsieur breakfast in bed. Anjou fueled this talk by loudly declaring that he longed day and night to be in Elizabeth’s bed, to show what a fine gentleman he could be. The court echoed with suppressed giggles.
Elizabeth had not forgotten that her subjects in general were against the marriage. She had Anjou accompany her to a service in St. Paul’s Cathedral so that everyone could see how gracious and debonair he was, and made a point of kissing him in front of the entire congregation. But public opinion remained divided. The French thought that the marriage alliance was as good as sealed, but many Englishmen scoffed and said the duke was only after one thing, and that was money.
Anjou grew uneasy. He had been here in England for some weeks and nothing was decided.
“I would pledge myself to you, my constant Frog,” Elizabeth murmured one day as she lay in his arms, fully dressed, on the bed in his house
.
“Then do so, ma chérie!” he urged. “Make a public declaration of your intentions!”
“I cannot say anything publicly yet,” she said.
“Do not make a fool of me!” he pleaded. For all his ardent courtship, she knew that he wanted the treaty signed as a matter of urgency, as his money—even the sum she’d loaned him—had all but run out.
She was not ready to make a decision. She wanted him, yes—whether she wanted him enough to marry him was another matter entirely—but she did fear provoking her subjects. Not wanting to hurt or alienate Anjou, she staged a little charade for his benefit. She asked him to walk with her in the gallery at Whitehall, having commanded Leicester and Walsingham to be in attendance at a discreet distance. They had been the most vocal opponents of the marriage, so their presence would serve to give credence to what she meant to say.
She had been advised that the French ambassador would try to see her at this time (and she had a good idea what he was going to ask), and sure enough, as if on cue, he entered the gallery.
“Your Majesty, monsieur,” he addressed her and Anjou, bowing low. “Madame, we meet by a happy chance, for I have been instructed by my master to hear from your own lips your intention with regard to marrying monsieur here.”
Elizabeth was ready with her answer. “You may write this to the King, that the Duke of Anjou shall be my husband.” Then she turned to a delighted Anjou and boldly kissed him on the mouth, drawing a ring from her hand and placing it on his finger. “This I give you as a pledge, my lord.”
Anjou looked deliriously happy—with love, triumph, or at the prospect of money, it was hard to tell. Hastily he gave her one of his rings in return, and vowed his undying adoration, kneeling in what looked like ecstasy and covering her hands with kisses.
“Now we may consider ourselves betrothed, the promise given and rings exchanged before witnesses,” Elizabeth declared, trying to look as delighted as a woman just betrothed should. She summoned her courtiers to the presence chamber, where, standing in front of her throne, she announced the happy news to them as Anjou beamed exultantly at her side, already dreaming of his coronation in Westminster Abbey and the gold that would soon be coming his way. But Leicester, Hatton, and some of the Queen’s ladies were seen to be weeping.
The announcement of the marriage sparked an immediate sensation at court. People were amazed that the Queen had finally decided to take a husband—and about time too! Church bells were rung. In his sickbed, laid up with gout, old Burghley cried, “Praise the Lord!” Some of Elizabeth’s courtiers leaped for joy; others, detesting the French and fearing the Catholics, wore their sorrow like a cloak. The mood in London was subdued.
By nightfall—not even been twelve hours since she gave her promise—Elizabeth was regretting what she’d done. She had said more than she intended, she insisted, listening anxiously to the sounds of carousing and celebration going on around her in the palace. Long after the merrymaking ceased, she sat up, pensive and doubtful, surrounded by her ladies, the incredulous targets of her laments. Some, catching her mood, were in tears at the prospect of their mistress making this terrible mistake.
“What will become of us?” they wailed. “The King of Spain will make war on us for this.”
Elizabeth hushed them testily, but she knew that their fears were well founded. What had she been thinking? She had betrothed herself before witnesses, just to keep the French on her side and monsieur on the boil, and there was no going back now. She could not sleep for worrying about it. Of course, she told herself, the French King would refuse the terms she offered him, releasing her from her promise. But what if he did not? Well, she would just have to make impossible demands; it would not be the first time, after all. And if that did not have the desired effect, she could be certain that Parliament would veto the marriage. So she was safe. Or was she? Had she foreseen all contingencies?
Her feelings for Anjou now seemed insubstantial beside her reluctance to proceed with their marriage. She saw them, in the dark reaches of the night when stark truths rear their fearsome heads, for what they really were: an illusion born of the vanity of an aging woman. They were feeble, illusory fantasies compared with the love she had cherished for Robert these twenty years and more. Anjou had fed her conceit; he had brought some long-needed excitement and gaiety into her life. But truth to tell, she was growing weary of the ritual courtship dance, the extravagant compliments, the pretense that this was true love. In fact she wanted nothing more at this moment than for him to go away.
She lay there wakeful until the late winter dawn broke, then stood wilting like a rag doll as her women dressed her. She felt ill, as if she would faint. When Anjou came to her, she almost collapsed into his arms.
“I am very worried, dear Frog,” she confessed. “I spoke out of passion yesterday, not wisdom, and if I endure two more such nights as the one I have just spent, I will be in my grave. You must not think that I do not love you. You must know that I want to marry you more than anything I have ever wanted in this life. My affection for you is undiminished. But I have been forced to the conclusion that I cannot marry you at present. I must sacrifice my happiness for the welfare of my subjects.”
She felt Anjou stiffen in dismay before he relinquished her. She saw him swallow as he stood, cold-eyed, before her. “I am utterly saddened and disappointed,” he said in a strangled voice. “And now, forgive me, I must leave you in order to compose myself.”
He went, fuming, seething with humiliation. Had ever man been treated so contemptuously? She would not marry him after all. She meant to make him wait indefinitely, with no hope of a happy outcome. There would be no coronation, no money, and when this got out he would be covered in ignominy because of her rejection. He could wave good-bye to glory in the Netherlands too! All his careful courtship, all that romantic charade, had been for nothing!
Very well. He too could play games. If he could not get English gold by marrying the Queen, he would make her pay to get rid of him!
Seeing that the English Jezebel was intent on sealing a marriage alliance with his enemies, the French, King Philip began making friendly noises, offering to forgive Elizabeth’s past transgressions against Spain. She saw that she was now in a strong position, especially as far as France was concerned.
King Henri read the long list of demands she had sent him. Outrageous! He could not possibly consent to any of them.
Elizabeth was consumed with relief that he had rejected her demands out of hand. The marriage negotiations could now be considered terminated. She thanked God for her deliverance and felt that a celebration was called for, save that it would not have been appropriate, with the matter so sensitive.
Anjou glowered after being told by the French ambassador what her terms had been. “Mon Dieu!” he was heard to exclaim. “I cannot believe the lightness of women, or the inconstancy of these islanders.”
When this was reported to her, Elizabeth summoned him. She would show him a thing or two about the lightness of women. She smiled sweetly. “If it pleases you to depart for the Netherlands, monsieur, I will give you a loan of sixty thousand pounds to use against the Spaniards.”
“Divine Goddess,” he said, bending and kissing her hands, “I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude. I accept your kind offer, of course, and will arrange to depart by Christmas.”
When he had gone, Elizabeth danced for joy around her chamber. Sussex, bowing his way in, gaped.
“My lord,” she trilled, “do you know something? I hate the idea of marriage more every day!”
Christmas came and went and Anjou was still at court.
“Do you not want to go to the Netherlands, my Frog?” Elizabeth demanded to know.
“Alas, I have found that I cannot face being apart from you,” he declared. “I would rather die than leave England without marrying you.”
Elizabeth’s mood abruptly changed. She knew what he was about! “Do you mean to threaten a poor old woman in her own country
?” she said sharply. “I see I have been at fault, encouraging you in your courtship. Until matters are decided, you must try to think of me as a sister.”
At that, to her consternation, Anjou burst noisily into tears, a seemingly endless flood. God, he looked disgusting, with the snot running out of his nose. Exasperated, she handed him her lace handkerchief and walked off. She was desperate to be free of him.
“I never had any intention of marrying him,” she told her council, “but he insists on carrying on this courtship, and it is wearing me down.”
“Might I suggest offering him, as a bribe, an advance of twenty thousand pounds on what you have already offered, on condition that he leaves England?” Robert ventured. “It would be worth it to get rid of him at last.” There was a certain vehemence in his tone, Elizabeth noted, but mercifully he had stopped short of reminding her that he’d been right about Anjou all along.
“The thought of wasting so much money on that little man appalls me,” she said. “Good Spirit, pray advise him to leave before the new year comes in. Say he will avoid the expense of buying me a gift.”
Back came Burghley. “He has already got a gift for Your Majesty.”
“Damn him!” Elizabeth swore. Was Anjou to confound her at every turn?
She was not pleased when he confronted her on New Year’s Eve.
“You pledged yourself to me!” he reminded her, his tone plaintive, his face choleric.
“I have not forgotten,” she told him, “and in token of that I will pay you ten thousand pounds of the money I promised to lend you.”
It was not enough, she could see by his expression. He knew very well that if he left England, he would never see the rest of the loan. And she knew that if he went now, the money would never be repaid.
1582
