His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  She picked up some papers and pretended to read.

  He bowed, she suspected not deeply enough, and left her. She did not call him back. Either of them could say too much, too many words that could never be recalled. Better to let Cecil negotiate with Mary Stuart; then she would order him north. She must stay firm in her resolve.

  That decision gave the queen’s mind, if not her heart, a few hours of peace until the Scottish ambassador came to her.

  “Majesty, I long to take my queen a token of your friendship, since you desire to strengthen the futures of our two countries with a marriage.”

  “What, would please her, my lord Murray?”

  “You have a fine black-and-white pearl necklace.”

  Elizabeth smiled to think he thought her such a fool that she would give his queen such a necklace when Mary Stuart had sent nothing of like value. As long as he did think she was willing to pay anything for the union, she had the advantage and could keep him hopeful. “The necklace is very heavy, my lord ambassador, and your queen is somewhat frail, I hear, not as eager to exercise as I am.”

  “Majesty, you have been wrongly advised. My queen loves to ride and is tall and strong.”

  “Is she taller than we are, my lord?”

  “Yes, Majesty, she is.”

  “Then she is very much too tall, because we are tall enough.”

  He bowed.

  To put him off his desire for one of her best necklaces, Elizabeth went to her bedside table and opened her treasure box, thinking to give him an old brooch of some intricacy but no great value. Instead, he saw Robin’s miniature atop her possessions.

  “Majesty! But this is an excellent likeness of the Earl of Leicester. A perfect gift for my queen to wake her desire for him.”

  The idiot! He had said the very thing to seal her mind against any such gift. “Oh, no!” she said, snatching up the miniature. “My lord, I could never part with this.”

  “But, madam, you have the original.”

  “Soon, my lord, your queen will have him and this small portrait will be what we have left.” As soon as she said it, she realized how hurtful the words sounded to her own ear and always would. Life without Robin was a high price to pay for peace. Could she pay it and still be the woman she was?

  Months of negotiation followed and abruptly Robin acquiesced, indeed, more than consented.

  “Most gracious lady,” he said, kneeling at her throne in the presence room, the court looking on. “You do me great honor in the matter of the Scottish queen. I am most eager to do your will. When may I leave for the north and my beautiful bride?”

  Elizabeth was enraged. How dared he turn from her before the court! What had been private between them would now be laughed about everywhere from the cellar kitchens to the highest lord’s apartment. The Earl of Leicester was as faithless as all men led by their loins . . . and greed.

  “You will do as we decide best, my lord.” She could scarcely control her voice, which wanted to rave at him.

  “Of course, if Your Majesty asks, I will give up my great desire for the northern queen.”

  “Ask? We command here, my lord!”

  His head was bent in submission, but she saw the smile curl his rogue’s lips.

  She almost knew the future before it happened. She would continue to demand his obedience, leading to his renewed enthusiasm for Mary and her repulsion, and so round the Maypole they would go.

  At last Robin’s letter to Mary was intercepted and brought to her. “ ‘Most gracious Majesty,’ ” she read, “‘I am not fit to be your husband and so would not want to put myself forward to contend with higher men for your hand.’ ”

  Elizabeth, her face red with fury, confronted Leicester in private. “My lord, tell me how you cannot be fit to husband her, yet you think yourself fit for me?”

  “Bess,” he answered quietly, “it is obvious that the queen of England prefers men, while the queen of Scots prefers boys and her Italian secretary, the singer David Rizzio. . . .”

  “That is vile gossip.”

  “Perhaps, Majesty, but she has shown no liking for me. Have you forgotten what she said when at the French court?”

  Elizabeth turned away, not wanting to be reminded of that slander.

  Robin repeated what had angered her greatly when Mary had first said it: “‘I understand that the queen of England will marry her horse master, who will do away with his wife to make a place for her’?”

  She had not forgotten that hateful accusation, nor the laughter in the French court that was reported to her. “Leave me, Robin.”

  He bowed himself out with elaborate ceremony, obviously thinking he had won the tourney.

  Within days word came to Elizabeth that another English-man, her cousin, nineteen-year-old Lord Darnley, son of the Countess of Lennox, was already on his way to woo Mary, against his queen’s express orders. Elizabeth was in a fury. “That traitorous family has been warned not to send their baby-faced son north. Order the countess to the Tower until her son returns!”

  Elizabeth suspected worse was to come and was right. The Scottish queen warmed to the boy, no more able to resist his handsome face and form than she could resist any male temptation she tripped over.

  The Earl of Leicester held Elizabeth high against his body that night while dancing the lavolte at a masque for the Austrian ambassador in the great hall. He had come to plead for her to sign the marriage contract with the Archduke Charles.

  “Another suitor,” Elizabeth said, looking down into Leicester’s face.

  “How exciting, Your Majesty,” Robin said, his eyes showing none. “A Habsburg king for England. The people will rejoice.”

  He lifted her high again at the next leap, the lutes and citterns throbbing. “Sarcasm is not to be used by earls to queens. It is for little men, Robin.”

  “Tell me truly, Bess,” he whispered, “are you sorry that I am not even now in Mary’s bed?”

  “Yes,” she said fiercely, her head thrown back to avoid his dark eyes.

  “Bess, you are the most beautiful, glorious, fascinating pretender from here to Cathay.”

  She frowned.

  He grinned. “Pardon me, sweetheart. I meant in all the world.”

  She suppressed her satisfaction and the thoughts she held deep inside. Had she ever really meant to send him to another woman . . . even for lasting peace? Even for a moment?

  CHAPTER 11

  HOLLAND HEADQUARTERS

  EARL OF LEICESTER

  January 1586

  The Hague, Netherlands

  The earl stretched his boots to dry beforea crackling fireplace, holding Elizabeth’s New Year’s gift near to his heart. He traced each pearl strand as if to imprint his love on it so that Bess would sense the warmth he enclosed.

  In a length of scarlet silk, he carefully wrapped the pearl rope necklace with one hundred jewels, a huge table diamond sparkling in its center with a large ruby on each side. He gave it one last look of approval and tied the package with a gold-tasseled cord, readying it for a courier and a swift boat to Whitehall, where the queen held her Christmas court.

  He had scoured the jewelers from Flushing to Amsterdam for the perfect gift. It had cost an earl’s ransom, but Bess would adore it. And know I love her no matter how far away I am.

  He smiled again, thinking Raleigh could not possibly afford a better gift, not with all his New World plunder, potatoes, tobacco, gold and all, especially since the queen took one-third of all the wealth her sea dogs brought to the shores of England, all the while denying to Spain that she knew anything of such piracy.

  He glanced at the doors and was relieved to see they were yet closed against any visitors. He would not have Lettice see this package and demand to know what he sent. Although the gift would bring more return from the queen’s favor, Lettice would be furious at its cost. She was already angered enough that he had sold some of her dower lands and mortgaged the rest to raise twenty-five thousand marks to finance his t
roop of horse and was raising more to pay and feed his six thousand foot. She had become reconciled only when their welcome by the Hollanders had been more than even she could have imagined.

  “Robert,” Lettice had exclaimed excitedly as they passed under a raised arch, their horses treading on a profusion of flowers and boughs, “the people are kneeling to us as if we were their rightful rulers. And why shouldn’t we be? Look at how they love us!”

  “They love Elizabeth for sending us,” he reminded her, trying to hide his own thrilled heart. Her excitement was such that he could see her ample breasts labor for breath. Now, she had everything that her banishment from Elizabeth’s court had denied her. And more! And truly, many of the shouting citizens called, “Leicester! Leicester!”

  All along their way to The Hague, they had been greeted by cannon firing, bells ringing, citizens bowing and great feasts and speeches of welcome. He had not expected this overwhelming greeting, and it all seemed to be for him.

  Lettice had quickly grown accustomed to being seen as a greater lady than an earl’s wife, especially when her complaint to the officers of the States-General of having no adequate coach had immediately produced a huge gilt coach, with the arms of the king of Holland—assassinated a year earlier—carved in ivory on its doors.

  Robert ran his hands for the last time over the silken wrapping of his gift. Of all the New Year’s gifts Elizabeth would receive, she’d love none more than his, even if she had heard with displeasure of his elaborate reception by the Hollanders. Elizabeth brooked no rivals, but he was her man always. She must know that and not allow the thought of a crown of his own to distance him from her. Hadn’t she once offered him Scotland’s crown? Didn’t she know that no crown would ever replace his Bess in his heart?

  Robert handed his gift to the courier, who placed it deep in a leather pouch. “Haste!” Robert shouted after the man, who wasn’t moving fast enough.

  He took a turn about the room, then sat again and, almost as soon, jumped up. He laughed, imagining the look on Bess’s face when she opened his gift. He wanted to be there to see her delight more than he had wanted anything of late.

  His guards opened his chamber’s outer doors, announcing, “Your countess comes, my lord.”

  Lettice appeared wearing a coronet, her train carried by two ladies, her sleeves expanded with wire to their absolute limit. She was out of her carriage for only a short time, he was certain. She spent hours being driven from one great house to another, at last receiving the full honors and attention that Elizabeth had denied her. “Wife,” he greeted her, forcing a smile, though the words of Dr. Dee’s angel, Uriel, were never far from his mind: the Other.

  He must resist the thought of putting Lettice aside, no matter his suspicions. Though Bess thought she had his total love, she must never be so completely sure that she could be freely cruel. It was that small doubt that Lettice provoked in Bess that made him a man, since Bess would not.

  “Robert,” Lettice said, leaving her ladies behind and sweeping past the guards, “why are you not ready?” She stared at him impatiently, his boots off, his doublet comfortably open at the waist.

  He felt his belly gripping, his old malady upon him again. “What must I be ready for now?” he asked wearily, the joy in his gift almost completely evaporated.

  “For the delegation from the States-General!”

  Since they had landed, Lettice had been insatiable. No honor or gift was enough, but only aroused her appetite for more. Although she was nearing her middle forties, she had kept her beauty and a girlish need for its constant recognition. He smiled to himself. In that she was not so different from the queen, her cousin.

  Unexpectedly, Lettice knelt and helped push his boots higher on his long legs. She brushed at the wrinkles in his doublet as he stood and handed her to her feet. It was a rare sign of caring and he could not help but view it with suspicion. Unfortunately, she had not grown in affection as Bess had, his wife’s face always inclined to anger when she was with him. He was the first lord of England, but that was not enough for Lettice, since she had been kept from the court by Elizabeth’s anger. His wife was forever fond of reminding him of her banishment, as if it were all his fault. The queen had always disliked her. Their marriage had only increased dislike to loathing. Still, on occasions like this one, he was reminded of an earlier, gentler Lettice.

  “Thank you, wife.”

  “Do not forget the delegation, my lord husband.”

  “God’s bones! Another delegation from the assembly, Lettice? I’ve seen five this day. No more bibble-babble, I beg you. I’m weary of their incessant demands that I write to the queen for more money.”

  “Yes, another delegation, my lord husband, only this one comes with a difference . . . an offer and not a demand. Prepare yourself to be granted what your own beloved Elizabeth denied you.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. She could never hold tenderness long. “Another medal? I have enough already to an uncomfortable weight.” Wearily Robert tugged his boots higher and closed his doublet, holding his anger inside. “My lady, what have you been up to?” He tried to make his tone light, but he wasn’t completely successful.

  She came to him and rubbed herself against him in the kittenish way that had once excited him, but now he only tolerated . . . without telling her. No woman liked to be told her charms no longer appealed. Not that Lettice would believe him. She still had young admirers in plenty, some the friends of her son Essex, who was not yet twenty years old. Robert steeled himself to smile at her.

  “Your countess, my lord,” she said with a coquettish curtsy, “has been at the work you should have been doing . . . seeing to our future, taking what is eagerly offered.”

  Before he could question her further, the doors opened and a guard announced: “My lord, a delegation from the States-General.”

  “You are most welcome,” Leicester said as the Hollanders approached, all with grave expressions.

  He exchanged greetings with each of the men and one extended to him a document from which many large wax seals hung. “My lord, we have come to advise you that it is the will of the States-General as supreme governance of the northern provinces that you be quickly named our governor-general as was our late King William.”

  Leicester was alarmed but, he had to admit, not quite as much as he was intrigued. King? Or as good as king. The one thing that Elizabeth had denied him by refusing to marry him was now his for the grasping. But how could he defy her orders? “Sirs, my queen has named me captain general. More than that I cannot accept.”

  Lettice whispered in his ear, “Think you she will give you what you need to win this war? She grasps her authority to herself as she does her crown. If you intend to succeed here, you must have supreme authority.”

  He knew Lettice spoke the truth for once, though not for any reason of fairness or victory in war. Yet would Elizabeth accept any truth but her own? She had a great fear of being drawn deeper into continental wars than she wanted to be. She would put a toe in, but no more. Yet the queen would not accept his failure, either. Nor could he. This was his last chance to succeed as a battlefield commander, proving to her that he was her man in every possible duty. He must demonstrate that to her while there was time left in his life.

  “May I have a private moment to think on this, my lords and gentlemen? Countess Lettice will serve you some excellent wine from the Brabant.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Robert walked into an adjoining chamber he used for a private office and softly closed the door. He circled the room twice, then stood looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows over the square busy with carters selling the last of their wares before going home to a warm supper. For a moment, he almost envied them their porridge, beer and comfortable burgher wives and cottages.

  He bent his head. “Lord Jesu, guide me,” he prayed aloud for his own ears. Elizabeth had given him strict instructions, few troops and little money to win a war against Spain’s best army and greatest
general, the Duke of Parma. Leicester was already using his own marks to feed his troops, though now he could not pay them all even the few shillings due them without bankrupting himself. The Hollanders had been slow to grant him funds, hoping to force Elizabeth to open her treasury. But if he were their governor-general, their highest ruling lord, they would have to pay his troops and allow him the supplies to move against the Spanish before inaction further decimated his English ranks with sickness and desertion.

  He dared not ask Bess for permission to accept the offered honor. She would deny him absolutely, leaving him without options. The only possible way forward was to present her a fait accompli that she would have to accept, or disgrace her own man in front of all Europe. She would not dare do that. Would she?

  Leicester pressed his belly to relieve the pain that gripped him more and more often these days. He breathed in deeply, clenching his hands. He had no more lands to sell or mortgage. No earl could become a pauper and laughingstock . . . not even for his queen, who would then blame him for failure, since she could never blame herself. As she often said, she was the lion’s cub, and as absolute in her right as her father, Henry VIII. And more, he knew, she had Henry’s courage and physical vigor, but she also had his scheming mind.

  Leicester walked back into his outer chamber, not looking at Lettice. Her demanding eyes would probably anger him enough to change his mind.

  He took the warrant firmly in his hands. “Thank you, my lords and gentlemen. You may advise the States-General that I accept this honor on behalf of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England.”

  He had made himself king of Holland in all but name, and that would quickly follow with his first victory. Elizabeth would have to see that this was the only way to success.