by Jeane Westin
“We will not have it!” she shouted, her face swollen with anger and sleeplessness and, Robert feared, the dropsical illness she was prone to suffer when under so much nervous tension.
When Elizabeth next spoke, her body strained forward under the weight of such a great decision. “No more importuning us to take off the Scots queen’s head, my lords.” She lowered her loud voice to not much more than a raspy whisper, which held extra menace for those who knew her temper so well. “We see heads in plenty here, my lords, heads that disobey our orders and yet remain on their too-proud necks!”
No councilor, not Sir Christopher Hatton and not the Chancellor of the Exchequer, old Sir Walter Mildmay, said a word, their eyes sliding away from her face. Robert had rarely seen her in such a state since . . . ah, since her father had beheaded his foolish young Howard queen. Henry had made Catherine Howard in his mind his “rose without a thorn,” though when out of his sight she was far from thorn-free. The Tudors hated to be wrong, and therefore never were.
Bess lived under the shadow of Henry’s famous Holbein portrait wherever she resided, proving to all the world that she was the great king’s legitimate daughter. Yet there must be some deep hatred in her heart, too, born of the helpless fear of him she had known as a child, losing mother and surrogate mothers, one after another, until she was almost a woman grown.
Did she deeply hate all those who sought the head of a queen? He studied his hands, adjusted his jeweled rings, but finally looked full on her, hoping by the worry in his face to remind her of her better self, the one that honored the men who spent their lives serving her.
“And you, Sir Puritan,” she said, mocking Walsingham in his plain black garb. “You have had much to say before. Have you no words of council for me now that I ask for them? You would have me kill a queen, but you offer no alternatives to spare me from such a miserable undertaking.”
Walsingham turned his long, narrow face to her, his mouth almost smothered by his full, much-grayed beard. “Majesty, I but take the council of your own words and hold prisoner my tongue while I have a head to jail it in.”
Robert saw Elizabeth’s lips twitch. Even when angry she appreciated a clever rejoinder . . . as long as it was humble. Walsingham was master of the right humble word.
The spymaster picked up the warrant for Mary’s execution and appeared to study it, though, having supervised the writing of it, he needed no review. And then Robert saw him dare what many greater men would not. “Your Grace, all appears in order here. The Scots queen has been found guilty of treason for plotting your death by twenty-one of your own lords.” He cleared his throat. “She has betrayed your long . . . hospitality. Since it is treason to speak of or wish for the death of England’s monarch, your Parliament but calls for the sentence of execution to be carried out, as is their duty to the Crown.” He took a breath after a long sentence for a man who usually said much in a few words.
Elizabeth leaned forward, her black-shot blue eyes losing all traces of the gentler color. “In truth, Walsingham, if I took your advice, Philip would have his armada sailing past our south coast by spring. Does not one of my councilors see the danger in beheading a Catholic queen when our navy is yet in a state of unreadiness?” She spoke in an exasperated tone to all, but her eyes were on her spymaster.
Robert was happy that Walsingham did not mention that Elizabeth had not been generous enough to build up her navy. The man was a consummate courtier and never said the unforgivable.
Walsingham picked up one of his many reports. He had spies everywhere in Europe; it was said he even had an intelligencer inside Philip’s palace, the grand Escorial. “Majesty, my agents in Spain advise me that the armada could not possibly sail this year. Their commander, the Marquis de Santa Cruz, is dying and it’s rumored that Philip will next choose the Duke of Medina-Sedonia, a timid man with no experience as a soldier and who, it’s said, is prone to seasickness.”
Though Walsingham did not attempt drollery, Elizabeth could not help but smile, allowing every lord at the table to be amused: “Philip was always fortunate in his choices. He married my sister, Queen Mary, didn’t he?”
Since that marriage had been no less than disastrous, smiles broke into the open.
“Majesty,” continued her spymaster, “there is also plague aboard the ships and there have been many desertions. They must recruit more sailors and soldiers from their prisons, which are jammed with criminals and heretics who would choose any other death over the stake. More naval stores must be requisitioned and they are building their supply of shot. We will have good time to prepare our navy and drill our army of village trainbands. Though”—Walsingham took a swift breath—“madam, word comes that Pope Sixtus V has offered Philip one million gold ducats after he attacks England.”
“Jesu in chains! So much as that!”
“The pope is determined to return England to his religion, though he admires you.”
Robert looked up, holding a smile. He read from the paper in his hand. “ ‘The pope has been overheard to say: “She is certainly a great queen, and were she only a Catholic, she would be our dearly beloved. Just look how well she governs! She is only a woman, only mistress of half an island, and yet she makes herself feared by Spain, by France, by the Empire, by all . . . if we had married, our children would have ruled the whole world.”’”
Elizabeth laughed. “Then we must marry at once!”
All her councilors laughed with her, though she quickly frowned, making her pup! pup! sound of annoyance. “So the pope with his deep coffers thinks to inflict my realm equally with the tyranny of Rome and the violence of Spain. We will not allow it! My father would have fought them and, by Jesu on the cross, we will defend against them.” Her fist pounded the table and Robert believed her. “If their armada were in the center of Spain, I would go against them!”
Robert stood and put one hand to his heart and the other to his sword. “All Englishmen stand ready to fight with you, Majesty.”
Ayes echoed around the table.
But Elizabeth, ever cautious, had already drawn back from the brink of war. “Sir Francis, how do we know your intelligencers are not already turned to Philip’s service and are now trying to mislead us? We spend our treasury on equipping a fleet and an army and . . .” Her words ended, swallowed by her natural wariness.
Robert knew that no one would speak now until they could soothe Elizabeth’s humor, and not a man knew how to do that as the Earl of Leicester could, though he had no idea how he would do it this time, or turn her wavering mind toward inevitable war. At the council table, one simply agreed with her or was silent. In private, he might be able to help her to reason; then Bess could announce her change of policy as if it were her own idea. By that time, it would be.
Walsingham spoke again, no one able to read his bearded face. “Majesty, I know which of my agents are loyal and which are being used by Spain to play me false. I make use of both.” He said now, seeming careless of his head, “Majesty, there is less danger in fearing too much than too little.”
“You seek to instruct your queen, sir?”
Though she’d said a dismissive thing, she was stopping to consider his words. He had made them all reflect in a new way.
The queen looked about her council. “Cleverly said, my lord spymaster.” She paused, then spoke her final words, standing as she said them: “Yet we will steer the middle course. There are no shoals in the middle course.”
She motioned for Mary’s death warrant, threw it on the floor and trampled it on her way out, her ladies hurrying after.
Every man, after rising from a deep bow, turned to Leicester.
“You must dispute with her, my lord,” Burghley said.
Walsingham nodded. “You are the only one who can convince her and keep your head.”
Knollys, no friend of his son-in-law Leicester, nodded in agreement.
Robert shrugged and spoke the truth. “Her Majesty has many other ways to punish me.”
/> “My lord, you must quiet her fears so that she will sign the death warrant, or England faces disaster from within and without. If not this year, Spain will come next year and try to raise the northern Catholics and put Mary on the throne. Do it for our queen, my lord. The next plot against Elizabeth might succeed.”
Although Walsingham spoke the words, all the councilors nodded.
Robert bowed to them. “For the queen, I will try. As long as Mary lives, all our heads are in danger from the Spanish.”
“All England is in danger, General,” Lord Burghley amended.
Robert pulled down his doublet and squared his shoulders. They reminded him that he had headed England’s army. He took a deep breath, needing to fill his lungs. “My lords and gentlemen, when Her Majesty has set her mind to a course, she is a much more formidable foe than all of Parma’s army.”
Walsingham moved closer to him and spoke softly. “Her Grace must realize that there are now shoals everywhere. Mary schemes from Fotheringay trying to save herself from the block. King Philip gathers a huge fleet in Cádiz harbor to attack us. There is safety only in swift action, not in caution.”
Burghley leaned on his stick, standing close. “My lord Leicester, the queen yet hopes that her negotiations with Parma . . .” His words were muffled by his own skepticism. “I pray she is right and we are wrong.”
Robert nodded. “I think we must all pray, but find a way into her mind with a difficult truth that she will mislike.”
Walsingham nodded grimly. “Then I will ask God to guide your words, my lord.”
When Robert was alone, he walked to the map of the world across from the queen’s chair, the known and the imagined unknown, although there was less of the latter since Sir Francis Drake had sailed around the world, returning in 1580. Robert stared at the very short distance between Cádiz and England, tracing it with his finger. Parma’s resupply coasters sailed up the channel from Spain to Holland in less than a week, hugging the coastline of France. In good weather with a north and westerly wind the channel could be crossed at its narrowest in a few hours, certainly less than a day. Jesu Christo! All of England’s south and east coasts were there for the black beards to take. Although King Philip pretended his Great Enterprise against England was meant only to restore the true religion, not even the pope believed him entirely. Philip meant to expand his empire and with England and Holland in his grasp to encircle his ancient enemy, France.
“Bess. Bess.” Robert heard his own pleading voice. Mary of Scots must die or foment dissent among English Catholics, and England must prepare for war. He knew that he must make these twin dangers clear to Elizabeth and he needed help. He hated to admit it, even silently, yet he must have help from a rogue, but a rogue who was a sailor. Though it pained him to know it, Raleigh was one of Bess’s new favorites. She could not resist a handsome young face . . . an adventurer who wrote love poetry to her. Robert had hoped his son Essex would supplant him, but so far the lad was not polished enough to make his way toward the front of the courtiers.
Elizabeth would never gain enough attention from young and handsome men, but the ones she had were too ambitious to urge her to action. Had he been so himself when a youth? God forgive him if he had ever acted in any way that did not serve Bess.
Robert leaned his forehead against the map, tired from too much truth, from the struggle to hold his body as straight as a youth, from the effort it took to be Bess’s old Robin. He had fought in many tournaments, but never one that had exhausted him more than the one he fought with his queen.
He left the council chamber and went to Raleigh’s rooms, being stopped many times by bowing courtiers, not a few who begged Robert for favors. He found Raleigh in and was announced and greeted with obvious surprise.
“I see you well, my lord of Leicester.” He bowed handsomely. “This is an unexpected, but most—”
“Sir, I come for your aid in a matter important to the realm.” He did not like the man and would not pretend.
Raleigh, whose handsome face had also caught the eye of one of the queen’s favorite ladies-of-the-bedchamber, Elizabeth Throckmorton, had obviously been interrupted.
Leicester heard the swish of a gown and a door closing in the next chamber, which explained Raleigh’s hastily tucking his shirt inside his paneled trunk hose, padded and boned to a fashionable degree with a smaller-than-fashionable codpiece. Robert smiled to himself. Many young men used it as a pocket, enhancing whatever manly part nature had given them. Raleigh was more self-assured. He meant to draw a woman’s eye with his own true part . . . and easily did so. The novelty of the man’s self-assurance was more attractive than an engorged codpiece.
Leicester clenched his teeth, regretting the need to ask Raleigh for any help involving the queen. He would never have done so except for the queen’s good.
Sir Walter bowed with his hand on his heart, making a great and graceful production. “If it please you, my lord, take this chair, which is my most comfortable.” He motioned to a servant. “A glass of my best Portuguese Jerez sherry for His Lordship.”
Leicester sat, but leaned forward, tense and uncomfortable. “I come only on a service for Her Majesty.”
Raleigh bowed again. “My lord, ask anything of me and you shall have it to my small power.”
“I am sorry for interrupting your other guest, Sir Walter.”
The man had been at court just long enough not to show surprise or embarrassment, but Robert had made them equals. . . . He had a favor to ask; Raleigh had a secret to hide.
Leicester did not bother to smile or repeat endless pleasantries. “As you know, sir, the queen is reluctant to sign the order of execution for the Scottish queen.”
“My lord, I do know that the business troubles Her Majesty exceedingly.”
Robert had some difficulty understanding the man’s thick Devon accent, the same that Bess loved because it reminded her of her adored childhood nurse, Kat Ashley, dead now these twenty years. “Her Majesty is beyond troubled, sir, and unwilling to see that as long as Mary lives, England must be in a state of readiness for a Spanish invasion. They will come upon us with all force, sir, and your head is on their list as well as mine and the queen’s.”
“I am with you, my lord, to save all our heads, but more to take some Spanish gold. What can I do?”
“Mary is the first business. Her Majesty must sign the Scots queen’s death warrant and I must see it carried out.” Robert stopped and stood facing Raleigh. They were of a height, though Sir Francis was somewhat younger—damned upstart!—twenty years younger, with a young man’s body and carriage.
Robert tightened his hold on such thoughts. His errand was too important to make a greater enemy of Raleigh than their rivalry had already made. “Sir Walter, I have a plan to ease the queen’s fear of an immediate Spanish attack, which would remove one concern regarding Mary’s death. Let us take Her Majesty on a river trip—the Thames is clear of ice and the sweeter air flowing up from the channel will do her good.”
“Why would you need me, my lord . . . unless you seek out my company?”
Raleigh’s air was of amusement, but Robert could see that Sir Walter was curious to see what would follow. “I mean to stop at Deptford. There are new ships building there; the Golden Hind is in dry dock and the Ark Royal readies for sea.”
“Her Majesty would know that the fleet prepares to fight her enemies even if her captains have to pay for it,” Raleigh said, immediately grasping the idea.
Robert knew he had struck the right chord with Raleigh, who always looked for any possible adventure that might bring him advancement. He longed to be on the privy council, but Elizabeth chose her advisors from less reckless men. He longed to be an earl, which he would never be. The queen, clinging to her power, had created few nobles during her reign, but ambitious men were always full of hope. The Earl of Leicester was an example of that to every courtier. England was without a duke since the Duke of Norfolk was executed in 1572 for his plot to we
d Mary Stuart.
Why not Robert, Duke of Norfolk? Would Bess ever allow Lettice to be a duchess and lead the wives of peers in every procession? His mouth twisted in less than a smile, knowing the answer.
Raleigh bowed, merry in return. “We will show Her Grace that her navy is strong and growing stronger.”
“You take my meaning exactly. Better to see it than hear it.”
“My lord, I will send at once to Hawkins and Frobisher and Lord Howard of Effingham to meet us there. And Drake, who has been longing to take a small fleet into the port of Cádiz and wreak destruction on the Spanish Armada where they gather. Drake can bring in sailors from shore and we will show her a ready fighting navy—”
“Exactly!” Leicester nodded and left quickly. Raleigh was no friend, but for Bess’s sake Leicester would make plans with the devil himself.
The next day after dinner, with a sense of an early thaw in the noon air, Robert escorted Bess to the royal barge tied up at the Westminster water stairs, royal flags flying. The tide was coming in, making the trip under London Bridge easier, since they would not have to shoot between the bridge’s center pillars, though the downriver trip tested the strength of the royal oarsmen. Leicester thought it appropriate to this mission that the men row against the tide.
They watched the marshy shallows slide by, swans and other waterbirds tucking their heads under their warm wings. A brazier’s coal heated the queen’s three-sided cabin in the stern while musicians played forward, occasionally splashed by the oars.
The queen’s oarsmen in red-and-black livery with an embroidered rose on their backs bent to their task and kept the barge steady in midstream.
Leicester sat in the open cabin with the queen, under fur robes, heated wine in their cups. Raleigh chose to stand in the prow, his foot on the rail, his profile silhouetted to his advantage. Leicester remembered when he had done much the same, the queen knowing then as she knew now who was supposed to be impressed.