by David Field
‘I know you well enough to see by your face that there is something further that you fear to advise me,’ Elizabeth commented, almost playfully and Cecil nodded, his head bowed.
‘I have remained silent on the matter for several years now, but it may no longer be avoided, given the slow creep of time, even though it does not reflect itself in Your Majesty’s natural beauty,’ Cecil lied, bracing himself for the angry rebuke that never came.
‘Nevertheless, I remain unmarried and without an heir,’ Elizabeth said tauntingly, aware of what Cecil was working his way around to with fear in the pit of his stomach. ‘You wish me yet again to consider marriage, do you not?’
Cecil almost sagged with relief as he looked back into Elizabeth’s eyes, in which the mischievous twinkle of old had returned, as if someone had managed to wind back the calendar by twenty years.
‘Tell me, Cecil,’ she goaded him further, ‘given that I am now in my thirty-ninth year, which of the available Protestant princes of Europe would contemplate taking such an old lady into his bed? And should he do so and should his seed perform its allotted task, do you seriously propose that I risk childbirth, as did my sister before me, only to die in the attempt?’
‘Your sister did not die in childbirth, Your Majesty.’
‘She died of an affliction brought on by it,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘But do not avoid my first question, Cecil — who would have me in my old age?’
‘There is the young Francis, Duke of Alençon, Your Majesty. He is of royal blood, being the youngest of Queen Dowager Catherine’s sons. He is third in line to the throne of France currently occupied by his older brother Charles. It wants only his death and the death of the next in line Henri and Francis will be King of France.’
‘That is rather a lot of deaths between him and the throne, Cecil,’ Elizabeth chuckled, ‘so I must assume that he is young enough to outlive them all. How old is this Francis, exactly?’
‘He is currently seventeen,’ Cecil told her as he swallowed hard, ‘but of all the sons of Catherine he is the most lenient towards the Huguenots.’
‘So he is a Catholic himself?’ Elizabeth chortled at Cecil’s obvious discomfort and Cecil nodded, while closing his eyes in anticipation. ‘So, if I have this correctly summarised,’ Elizabeth continued dismissively, ‘you are proposing that I entertain an offer of marriage, should it eventuate, from a man less than half my age who is a Catholic and whose mother detests England with a passion? The former brother-in-law of the Scots Mary? And a man whose youthful vigour, either in the marital bed, or in consequence of it, would get me with child and thereby expose me to the perils of childbirth at an age at which few women have been known to survive it? Have I omitted anything pertinent in that assessment of what you propose and would it really be in England’s best interests?’
‘It would ally England with a man who, when he becomes King of France, would be favourable towards Protestants, Your Majesty.’
‘And should I marry him and die without issue, England would fall to France as part of its wider empire, thereby returning us back to the days when we were simply an outpost of Normandy,’ Elizabeth reminded him. ‘Is there really no-one else?’
‘Not abroad, Majesty, so far as I have been able to ascertain.’
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose in challenge. ‘And here in England? You have tactfully eluded any reference to Robert Dudley, who would marry me by crawling across broken glass, given the slightest opportunity. Why do you not suggest him?’
Cecil blanched and shook his head. ‘He has many enemies at Court and the suspicions regarding the death of his first wife remain. I fear that were you to marry him, the nation would be in uproar, both Catholic and Protestant. The Protestants because they despise him for the favour you have ever shown him and the Catholics in order to shake your grip on your crown.’
‘Enough of these games, Cecil,’ Elizabeth hissed as her face hardened. ‘You may advise Walsingham that he has my blessing to return to Court only if he brings with him this young buck of Alençon who you would lever into my affections. It would cheer me immensely to have a young gallant chasing my farthingale, but be advised privily that I will never marry him. Indeed, having survived this far without marriage, I doubt that I will ever marry anyone. Say rather that I am married to my people. And now I bid you a good morning, since I have an appointment with a physician regarding the state of my teeth. No doubt his advice, as usual, will be as unwelcome as yours.’
Elizabeth and Robert Dudley strolled, her hand on his arm, through the specially created garden whose recently planted, but fully mature, rhododendron blooms glistened in the glow cast up periodically by the exploding firework displays across the great lake that had taken a week to set up. They were heading for the Great Hall of Kenilworth Castle and the twelfth banquet in a row in honour of their royal visitor. Earlier in the day they had sat enthralled on special platforms on the shore of the recently commissioned artificial lake and watched a splendid masque featuring a moving dolphin made entirely of paper treated with a clear tar, in the belly of which a small orchestra had played some of Elizabeth’s favourite tunes from her youth. Tomorrow would consist of a morning hunt, followed by afternoon bear-baiting, then more masques at yet another banquet.
‘This must have cost more than my entire Exchequer is worth,’ Elizabeth said as she snuggled in closer and slid her hand down so that it could grasp his. ‘The members of the Court are all jealous and I have heard unworthy rumours that you financed it all by joining Captain Drake in his raids on Spanish bullion ships.’
Robert laughed gently, looked round cautiously, then kissed her on the cheek, recoiling slightly from the smell of whiskey on her breath and the residual taste of ceruse on his lips. ‘In truth, Master Drake has only recently returned from his journey to the ends of the world and those of us who were far-sighted enough to invest in his enterprise have been well rewarded. He has also caused Philip of Spain to rage at his own mariners for allowing it to happen.’
‘Summon Master Drake to Court once we are back at Whitehall,’ Elizabeth requested as watched a massive explosion of red stars across the lake spelling out ‘E.R.’ in gold letters in its centre. ‘I am flattered that you spent all your gains on such a splendid retreat for me from all the cares of running the nation. It’s a pity that Cecil was not well enough to share it.’
‘Indeed, but I had a reason of my own for inviting you down here,’ Robert murmured.
‘You wish to enter my good books in order to acquire yourself forgiveness for something wicked that you have done?’ she asked teasingly, then dropped her gentle pace down the path as Robert stopped still and pulled her towards him with his hand until they were only inches apart.
‘Dearest Lillibet,’ he whispered, ‘I have organised all this as a final reminder of how much you have always owned my heart and in the hope that you will finally favour me with your hand in marriage.’
‘Away, Robert!’ she giggled nervously. ‘The young girl you held so tenderly in the copse at Hatfield has become an old hag with a pockmarked face and shaky teeth.’
‘To me the years have stood still,’ Robert insisted, ‘and when I look at you, it is as if we are still lying in the sweet grass together — or, more recently, on a bolster in Whitehall.’
‘Hush, Robert!’ she urged him. ‘Those matters must remain our secret, if England is to acquire allies.’
‘A secret, in particular, from that ugly little French dwarf with the oily manners and the complexion of a marsh toad?’
‘I assume you are referring to Duke Francis of Alençon — and more recently of Anjou, since his brother Henry became King of France?’
‘Yes, your “Frog” as you call him. Do you pretend to insult him as a secret sign of your passion for him?’
‘Fie, Robert!’ Elizabeth chuckled. ‘He is half my age and yours and if I feel anything for him, it is as an aunt towards a gallant little nephew. As for pet names being a sign of my affections, I must indeed b
e promiscuous with them, since I call Cecil “Spirit” and his son Robert “Pigmy”. Do I not also call you my “Eyes”?’
‘I would be more to you than mere eyes,’ Robert replied almost pleadingly as he leaned in to kiss her and she averted her face, then pulled him back into their casual stroll as Blanche Parry, several yards behind them, looked discreetly up at another burst of fireworks.
In the silence that followed Robert was clearly deep in thought and his voice, when he reclaimed the conversation, was more business-like in its tone.
‘You referred to our ages and you must know that I need an heir for all the riches that I have accumulated. For this I must marry.’
‘And this I forbid, Robert, as you must know,’ Elizabeth replied stiffly. ‘If the true purpose of this splendid two weeks was to secure my consent to your marriage to another, then it is withheld. If I may not marry, then neither may you.’
‘So we grow old together and neither of us will have anyone to leave our estates to?’
Robert responded with a sigh and Elizabeth nodded.
‘At least we shall grow old in each other’s company, as we have always been for as long as I can remember. As for the succession to the English throne, it will most likely travel north to Scotland. Although not to that false cousin of mine who seeks my overthrow with Catholic intrigue. If she is not more careful and were I not so merciful, she would by now be feeding the worms. And talking of feeding, I trust that you commanded sugared almonds?’
XVIII
There was much bustle and excitement on the Plymouth quayside as Elizabeth walked carefully down the gangplank of the Golden Hind on the arm of the French Ambassador de Marchaumont, who was smiling broadly at the honour being bestowed upon him of participating in what was to follow. He was naïve enough to believe that it was a personal recognition of the regard in which he was held by England’s Queen, when in fact he was being kept sweet on the recommendation of Walsingham, who was using his offices in an attempt to negotiate a treaty with his King that would oblige the French to intervene on behalf of the Dutch in their ongoing attempts to throw off the Spanish yoke. Added to which, the overt endorsement by France of the honouring of the man reviled by Spain as a pirate would serve as a fart in the face of Philip II.
Francis Drake was waiting on the foredeck, dressed in a new doublet and fresh hose and with a triumphant grin on his sun-blackened face as he knelt in homage. He had much to grin about, having returned late the previous year after a masterly feat of seamanship in navigating the entire globe. In the process he had lost four of his ships, but had successfully entered the Pacific around the Magellan Strait of South America, then attacked the Spanish ships and ports that he found on the far coast. Loaded with looted gold and other precious cargoes, he had finally made his way back to Plymouth via the Cape of Good Hope. He was now reviled by Philip of Spain, who had named him ‘El Diablo’, but was about to be rewarded by the only monarch who mattered to him.
Elizabeth handed the ceremonial sword to de Marchaumont, with terse instruction as to how it was to be employed when she nodded. Drake was still kneeling, his eyes firmly on the gently rolling deck, as Elizabeth intoned ‘Arise, Sir Francis Drake’ and the French Ambassador dubbed each of his doublet shoulders as instructed. A rousing cheer from the mariners on deck was echoed by the excited crowds on the quayside and it was all over. England had a new naval champion.
Back in Whitehall Palace, Elizabeth was rapidly adjusting to the many changes in personnel that had been ordained by circumstances. Her trusted Senior Lady, Blanche Parry, was some years older than her mistress and in her early seventies was beginning to fall prey to the many fevers and other contagions that crept into the royal palaces via the menials who delivered food and other goods and she was regularly excused her duties due to ill health. In her absence Elizabeth Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury, was doing her best to shepherd the other Queen’s Ladies in their many and varied duties of attendance on their royal mistress, but Elizabeth missed the confidences she was able to share with her old friend and companion Blanche.
There was another significant absentee from the high-born attendants on all formal occasions. Lettice Knollys, Countess of Essex, had been widowed the previous year, when her husband Walter Devereux had returned from serving the Queen in Ireland with a severe flux that had eventually proved fatal. There were rumours of poison, but whatever the cause of Walter’s death, Lettice had been left to supervise the raising of her eleven-year-old son Robert, now the 2nd Earl of Essex. Elizabeth had recognised her years of faithful attendance upon her by granting her leave to absent herself from Court whenever the need arose and she was now rarely to be seen a few feet behind the Queen whenever the Court was summoned.
But while Elizabeth could afford to dispense with two of her favourite Ladies, she found the regular absences through ill health of Cecil much harder to abide. For some years now he had been ‘Baron Burghley’, in honour of his years of devoted service, but his elevation had proved to be no protection against his increasing inability to walk or stand for any length of time and his breathlessness even when seated was something that Elizabeth found particularly distressing, since it reminded her that she was getting no younger herself and the aches in her own bones were a daily reminder that her reign would not last for ever.
Partly in deference to his growing frailty and in the hope that reduced duties might prolong the years in which he could still give sage advice, Elizabeth had appointed Francis Walsingham as a companion Secretary of State and had agreed to Cecil’s son Robert, that curious and solemn little hunchback, carrying out most of the routine clerical work that his father would once have supervised down to the last vellum. Between them Walsingham and Robert Cecil kept the ship of state afloat and she did not lack able support in matters of correspondence and diplomacy.
Perhaps the hardest to bear was the almost continual absence of her beloved Robert, with whom an almost brotherly friendship had existed these past forty years and more. He was said to be constantly brooding in his castle of Kenilworth, adding to its fortifications, extending its gardens or improving its moat. He seemed to have accepted with good grace that he would never be her husband and given their long and happy association Elizabeth was content to allow him to lick his wounds behind the walls of the magnificent stronghold that was the seat of his earldom.
In any case, she was not short of Courtly attention for as long as Francis of Anjou was by her side. Her devoted ‘Frog’, far from taking offence at his nickname, seemed to delight in being on such familiar terms with the Queen of England and while their respective ambassadors were still walking carefully around plans for the two to marry, neither of them was in any great hurry. Elizabeth was twice his age and he was no great specimen of Courtly manhood, given his dark countenance, which at least hid most of the pockmarks that were the legacy of a childhood bout of smallpox and the slight curvature of the spine which, although not as marked as that of Robert Cecil, tended to accentuate his natural lack of height. Height was regarded as one of the essential attributes of handsome men and Robert never lost an opportunity to pepper his many quarrels with both Francis and Robert Cecil with references to their lack of it. Dear Robert, always jealous of other men by her side; it was perhaps as well that he was absent from Court most of the time, since dear fawning Frog was never far from her extended hand when she invited a chaste kiss from him.
Her reverie was interrupted by the announcement of the entry of Walsingham and it occurred to Elizabeth yet again that she had so far not bestowed a nickname on him. This was perhaps because his stern demeanour at all times seem to prohibit it and she was mentally toying with ‘Ferret’ when he bowed and sought permission to address her in that formal and somewhat quaint, way of his.
‘By all means, Sir Francis. Is it a Privy Seal matter, or have you unearthed yet more conspirators against the throne?’
‘Possibly the latter, Your Majesty,’ Walsingham confirmed as he took the seat next to hers into
which she had waved him. ‘I have, as you requested, maintained many contacts in France, since we hope for an alliance with them against the Spanish who continue to occupy the Netherlands without challenge. Through a friendly Catholic source in Paris I have been advised that the Pope has commissioned and financed, the establishment of seminaries throughout that nation for the training of priests.’
‘And why should it concern England if the Bishop of Rome wishes to add to his deluded servants and the French are misguided enough to play host to them?’
‘It seems that the priests they are training are then being smuggled into England, to continue to celebrate the heathen Mass in the private houses of those who have — and forgive me, but perhaps unwisely — been allowed to continue to worship in their own wicked way.’
‘You believe my tolerance of other forms of worship to have been abused?’
‘Put bluntly and with the greatest respect to both yourself and my Lord Burghley who advised it at the time, that would seem to be the case. While respect for freedom of religion is a matter that does Your Majesty great credit, it can — if abused — lead to the encouragement of further plots against Your Majesty’s person. The earlier risings in the north and most notably the treasonous plotting of the Duke of Norfolk, could not have occurred without overwhelming Catholic support. And then, of course, there is the matter of the Scots Mary.’
Elizabeth tutted. ‘You begin to sound like Cecil, my dear Walsingham, forever bending my ear to have my cousin executed. And for what, precisely? Bring me evidence that she is behind these plots and not merely their inspiration and I will remove her head. Until then I must give her the benefit of the doubt.’
‘I did not come here this morning to press the matter of Mary of Scotland, Your Majesty,’ Walsingham explained as tactfully as he could. ‘Rather I seek your authority to smoke out these Catholic invaders in whichever households they may be located.’