by Jeane Westin
“Rob, do you see yourself in Sir Walter?”
He swallowed his annoyance, but sat straighter. “Should I, madam?”
She was merry, laughing for the first time that day.
“What have I said to amuse you, Bess? If you tell me, I swear I’ll repeat it.”
“Nay, nay, rest yourself, Rob,” she said, her hand covering her mouth. Then she relaxed and leaned back against the pillows, her body at a rest he rarely saw. “ S’blood, you men are amusing creatures. Though I am yet a virgin maid”—her eyes flashed at him in the torchlight, daring him to deny what she wanted to believe—“I know the endless games men play.”
“And women play no games, Bess?”
“Never, my lord,” she said, even more amused.
“Yet I think you take pleasure in our labors to draw your eyes.”
She shrugged. “Of course. I am a woman.”
“But you are also a queen.”
“Rob, you need not remind me. My duty is always in the vanguard.” She laughed and added, “Almost always. But that does not require me to turn away from a handsome form.”
“Bess,” he said, his voice and gaze all for her, “I could never turn away from you. To me you are beautiful . . . ageless.”
Elizabeth liked to be reminded that she was forever young in his eyes. He wondered if she really understood that it was no mere courtly compliment, but what he truly saw, the girl, the princess, the young queen . . . all the women he had loved, still loved, more deeply as the years passed and their time together became more precious.
Robert sat silently for the rest of the trip to Deptford, though Bess’s hand stole under the furs to clasp his own. They looked west down the river all the way, Bess nodding her head in time to the music, a lively country tune, their hands growing warmer.
As they approached the Deptford main dock, Robert could see that Raleigh had done his work well. Lord Howard, Drake and Hawkins stood bowing, while sailors lined the rails of the queen’s ship, Ark Royal. Armed merchantmen were swinging on their anchors and busy pinnaces darted from ship to ship. To their left, the five-hundred-ton Golden Hind stood in dry dock, where it had been on exhibition for seven years since Drake had returned from sailing around the world, claiming much of it for England’s Queen Elizabeth. Robert was heartened to see several new keels were being laid, and several others were more than half-finished.
Lord Howard knelt and stretched his hand to help the queen to the quay. The sailors on the ships sent up a frenzy of shouted huzzahs. Several small guns were run out and a salute fired in the queen’s honor.
“We thank our loyal seamen and pray you always find safe harbors,” she shouted back at them, and they hallooed all the more to their Good Queen Bess, waving their dark caps against the white of sails unfurled from yardarms, to be mended.
Leicester heard her mutter: “No Spanish harbors for my sailors.”
“Your Majesty may be assured of that.” He couldn’t help himself: “Spain will come to us.”
Surprisingly, her anger was controlled. “My lord of Leicester, you know my mind on this subject.”
“Aye, madam, I do know it, but I ever hope that you would pray on the matter.”
She gave him a sharp look. “We are ever at our prayers on all matters touching our realm, my lord.”
He bowed and she turned away with a flick of her fan, probably not to forgive him for the rest of the day.
“Sir Francis,” Elizabeth said, recognizing Drake. He was a short and solid man with a light beard and the wide-legged stance of a man more used to a rolling deck than dry land.
“Welcome, Your Majesty. This will be a fleet to keep England safe and make Spain wish they had never come against us,” he said, his weathered sailor’s face proud as his gaze seemed to look beyond horizons.
The queen glanced at the new ships being built and frowned. “What manner of ships are these, Captain, that take so much from my treasury?”
“A wonderful new design, madam, race-built and low in the water, for speed. They will outsail any lumbering galleon of Spain.”
“But they have no forecastles and only a single deck. Where would the soldiers be? How would they grapple and board the towering Spanish ships?”
Drake bowed, grinning widely, well pleased with himself. “We wouldn’t, Your Grace. These ships will lay snug to the water, stand off and fire from a distance.” His voice rose as he warmed to his subject. “They will sail better to windward, always staying upwind. We’ll fire at the Spaniards’ waterlines, while their galleons’ cannon shot falls short.”
Elizabeth looked puzzled. “But, Captain Drake, if they board you they would overwhelm your small crew.”
“Pardon, Your Grace, they cannot board us, for we will fire at will from beyond their range.”
Elizabeth thought for a moment, then smiled. “So these ships are not floating forts for soldiers, but ships for my good fighting sailors and their new cannon.”
Drake beamed. “Exactly so, madam. Good English ships for sailors and cannon that take the same ball, not a dozen different ones.” He took a breath. “All of these new ships will be ready before summertide.”
The queen turned to Leicester. “My lord, did not Mr. Secretary Walsingham say that the armada would not come this summer?”
Before Leicester could answer, Drake spoke, too excited to observe royal protocol. “My pardon, Your Lordship, but some of these new ships will be ready by April and I would like to test them. Majesty, with your permission I would take a small fleet and lay off Cádiz harbor in April, taunting the Spaniards to come out.” He clapped his hands together in his eagerness. “And if they do not want to face El Draco, I will sail right up the Spanish king’s arse—begging your pardon, Majesty.”
Elizabeth thought for a moment, smothering a smile. “Indeed, El Draco,” she said, trilling the name in the Spanish way. “You would go right into their midst in their own harbor?”
“Aye, madam, that is my meaning. Take them where they least expect us.”
The queen’s face was as alive as Drake’s. “And then wait for their treasure fleet off the Azores. Building new ships such as these and provisioning them for war is costly, sir.”
“My idea exactly, Your Majesty. What better way to test our new ships than by fighting them?”
“What better way to pay for them,” Elizabeth noted, highly amused, “than with Spanish gold.”
Drake bowed again and kissed the hand Elizabeth offered. “We will make Philip regret that he ever eyed England, or thought to come against her navy.”
“Will we, indeed?” she asked herself, but with a sparkle of mischief infused. “We thank you, sir, and wish you Godspeed, though I will deny all knowledge of your mission.” She gave him her hand to kiss.
Leicester heard a lift in her voice that had been missing since his return from the Holland war. He wished that he had put it there, but he was grateful to Drake.
The wind came up off the Thames, tugging at their clothes. They faced into it and walked down the wharf toward the Ark Royal, careful of the uneven planking. Robert offered Elizabeth his arm and she turned to him as a shot whistled over their heads, followed by a puff of black powder from the lower deck of the Ark Royal. Although Robert tried to hold her up, the queen sank slowly to her knees.
He knelt, clasping her to his chest, fighting for breath against a pounding heart. “Bess . . . Bess, sweetest? Are you wounded?”
Around them, men formed a protective circle while other men ran toward the ship.
“Get that man!” Lord Howard called after them, pointing toward a gun porthole, where a smoking harquebus disappeared within. Drake and Hawkins unsheathed their swords and ran for the ship.
Elizabeth shivered, her teeth chattering, but she could still force words from her mouth. “Rob, Rob—”
“Where are you hurt, Bess? Where—”
Raleigh knelt beside them. “Majesty, my lord of Leicester, I think it is but my poor cloak that is assa
ssinated.” He lifted his expensive embroidered velvet cloak, one finger poking through a bullet hole.
Elizabeth raised her head and laughed, shaky but gathering herself together, always queen where her people could see her. “Good Sir Walter,” she said, her voice a little too high, but strong, “I think that is two cloaks you have lost in my service.”
“A price I’d pay many times over.” Sir Walter bowed and the crowd of gathered ship’s carpenters relaxed at the queen’s laugh, though Robert kept tight hold about her shoulders. “Your Grace,” Raleigh said, “I think I prefer losing a cloak to a muddy puddle than losing one to an assassin . . . since it cost me a gold mark.”
“Your gold mark will be repaid.” Elizabeth tried to smile, though she leaned on Robert as she stood erect.
Raleigh had lost a cloak, Robert knew, but had probably gained a manor with grazing rights for his Devon sheep.
Lord Howard returned down the dock, a bloodied sailor stumbling with his arms bound in front of him pushed along by Howard’s guards.
Raleigh stepped up. “May I have charge of this prisoner, Majesty, and I will see him to the Tower and show him no mercy in the dungeons.”
The sailor screamed at him, “Do as you will with me. I am a Catholic and a priest ready to meet my God, who will welcome me as Queen Mary Stuart’s loyal subject and the slayer of a heretic bastard queen!”
Robert shouted at him. “You fool! Murderers are not welcome in heaven.”
“At Douai, I was taught that the pope says—”
“We are lawful queen here! Who are you to doubt it?” Elizabeth shouted, gulping deep breaths, but keeping her voice from trembling.
“My name would mean nothing to you and I would not have you murder all my family. They know nothing of this.” The fear on his face as he frantically looked about for some escape told Robert that he had realized his bravado about meeting God was about to come true, and, if he were lucky, quickly.
Elizabeth stood tall and shook off Leicester’s assistance, not wanting to appear to need it. “Raleigh, take him and see to it that you have the Lieutenant of the Tower devise a new and most horrible torment for this man who would slay God’s anointed.”
All the way back upriver to Whitehall, Elizabeth lay quaking in his arms while he comforted her.
“Don’t leave me, Rob,” she whispered over and over. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Bess, dearest, you are always safe with me,” he whispered, “though not from Mary Stuart as long as she lives . . . as long as she lives.”
That night when he came to sit at Elizabeth’s bedside, he carried the warrant for Mary’s execution with a quill already dipped in the blackest ink. She signed her name without hesitation, yet still could not quite bring herself to allow Mary’s life to end.
“Do not send this warrant until I agree to allow that it be delivered,” she said, turning toward her ladies while they soothed her face and arms with rose-scented water.
Leicester bowed and took the death warrant to Burghley and Walsingham, who were in Walsingham’s closet, lit with many candles, the spymaster’s secretaries working late into the night on coded dispatches. “One thing only I must know,” Leicester told the Lord Treasurer and Walsingham. “Did either of you send that murderer to Deptford to force the queen’s hand?”
“My lord!” They both said the shocked words at the same time, but Robert knew he would never know for a certainty, nor did he want to know as long as Bess was safe. He doubted that Burghley would harm Elizabeth. His method was to threaten to resign, though he was careful to do it only when resignation was certain to be refused. Of Walsingham’s shadowy nature, Robert was less sure.
But Walsingham was staring at Robert with a question on his dark-as-a-Moor face. “I fear that if we hold this warrant as Her Majesty wishes, my lords, she will rescind it after she sleeps. We will be back as we were.”
“Send it!” Robert said, knowing he was the only one who could survive defying Elizabeth. “Let it be done tomorrow. The queen must be safe from Mary’s danger.” He turned to leave. “I will be by the queen’s bedside this night. She will have need of me.” As he hurried back to the royal apartments, he passed William Davison, his old secretary, wrapped in a cloak. “Are you for Fotheringay?”
Davison nodded.
“You must deliver the warrant before the queen gains knowledge of Mary Stuart’s execution. Godspeed you, William, now and later,” Robert said.
“My thanks, Lord Robert. I fear no punishment; I carry this order for England and my queen, may God preserve her.”
Robert embraced Davison, who would need God’s help on both his long night ride and later, when Elizabeth discovered her order had been executed upon the Scottish queen’s neck without what she considered her final permission. But this time she had come close enough so that those who cared for her could act. He doubted he would escape her furor. He knew it only too well. He might even be sent to the Tower after that poor deluded Jesuit thirsting for martyrdom, but he would return to her. She could not live without him by her side, just as he could not live without her. God must be an almighty jester to play such a trick on two people who could not have, but could not leave each other.
Once before, the full weight of Bess’s anger had landed on him. Eight years earlier, when she had learned from his enemies about his secret marriage to Lettice . . . Before he could explain his reasons, before he could save himself from being thought her worst betrayer, she had banished him.
CHAPTER 19
ROBIN . . . MARRIED?
ELIZABETH
January 1579
Whitehall Palace
An elegant, many-ringed hand parted Elizabeth’s tapestry bed curtains and, as she half started upright, the hand gently lifted the nightcap from her head.
“Do not be alarmed, most beautiful queen,” the man whispered in his courtly, accented English. His face peeked through and it proved to be the rather handsome emissary and friend of the Duc d’Alençon, who had come to woo Elizabeth in his master’s stead. Jean de Simier lingeringly kissed her stolen nightcap, his black eyes dancing with roguery. “I will send it to le duc to sleep with. He will kiss it before and after he sleeps . . . and perhaps during.” His drollery ended on that expressive up note the French affected that promised so much to come.
Elizabeth laughed, delighted with such arch gallantry. She was considering marriage negotiations with the duc, a younger son of Catherine de’ Medici, the French queen mother, who in her ever-sly wisdom had sent this charming man to court the English queen in her ugly, pockmarked son’s stead. And de Simier was a very fine substitute. Though well made, he was a small man, but a giant of amour, with the archly mischievous manner she loved. “Ah, de Simier, my handsome Monkey.” She sighed, teasing him with her play on his name, though she should be outraged that he had entered her privy chamber uninvited. Yet he was such a playful monkey, she did not want to discourage his games.
She knew that many in her court were disturbed that she had given such a fond name to an enemy negotiator . . . for the French were always enemies . . . except—she sighed—when they gave her this much delight.
“Ever your own Monkey, my queen, though my face cannot approach the beauty of my master, le duc.”
She adored playing these love games, especially with one so skilled. “We think you do yourself no justice, sir, since we have not heard many good things about the beauty of your master . . . though we grant you, gossip can be cruel . . . especially English gossip about the French.” She poked him with a truth to see him cleverly defend it. How delightful to wake to such a man.
He knelt beside her bed and kissed her nightcap again, holding it against his cheek as if it were the most precious thing to ever touch his flesh. “Majesty, when I think that le duc will have this in his bed”—he took several hasty and deep, gulping breaths, seemingly overwhelmed with ardor—“I know that he will swim to you across the water that parts our countries. If he were here this minute, he woul
d die to be in your bed.”
Elizabeth drew back, pretending shock. “Monkey, you go too far.”
“Your gracious Majesty, can love’s hot longing ever go too far?”
It was all a game. De Simier thought it his, but she knew it was her game. How often she’d played at it! Perhaps too often, but once only when the game overtook her heart. Robin! Where was he? He would be hot with jealousy if he saw this.
Elizabeth jerked the tester to her chin. “Still, de Simier, you go very far!”
“Not so far, Majesty,” he whispered, “as I would like.”
Does he speak for his master or for himself ? She had to reprimand him to quiet the gasps of her ladies, all of them idle, staring and too much prone to gossip amongst themselves and too often overheard. Though true, the man had gone very far. . . . She grinned into the coverlet . . . then made a dismissive gesture as if annoyed. Pup! Pup!
He fell backward. “I am prostrate with grief that I caused you one tick of yonder case clock’s unease. I would never do you harm . . . for I am your love monkey.”
The queen laughed aloud. This man went to the edge of insult and then most charmingly drew back. He was indeed a merry monkey and she could not chastise him too greatly. De Simier was sweet relief from constant council meetings, and Robin’s strange distance of late. And always more death warrants to sign when young English Jesuits trained at Douai in Spanish Holland were sent to work against her and her law. They had tried to kill and would try and try again. Now they worked inside her realm to turn her people against her.
If they would not recant their allegiance to the pope, the law said they had committed treason and must die. She had been a tolerant queen. Why did they come against her when they knew she had sworn to preserve her father’s church? And worse, insist on martyrdom and a terrible traitor’s death at Tyburn?
“Leave us now, Monkey, for we must make ready for the presence chamber and our morning walk.”
De Simier rose in one fluid motion without seeming to use any energy. “Can your Monkey dare hope to walk with you this morning? My master would have me see you in every guise and report . . . in detail . . . to him.”