William Cecil was engaged in conversation with Sir Nicholas Bacon, Keeper of the Great Seal, and Sir Francis Knollys, a kinsman of the Queen, when Richard Allgrave arrived.
Richard nodded his greetings to his fellow Peers while searching the assembly for Cecil. At last he caught sight of him and made his way towards him.
Cecil, with apologies, detached himself from his colleagues. “Richard, a word,” he said, drawing Richard to a window recess. “You have heard the news?”
Richard nodded gravely. “A bad business!”
Cecil agreed with him. “Her Majesty has ordered an enquiry and the Earl is confined to his house.”
“But think of the scandal, William! Her Majesty's reputation! All Europe will be pointing the finger of scorn.”
Cecil remained silent as a horrific thought dawned upon his colleague.
“Surely to God she will not marry him?” Richard whispered.
Cecil’s eyes betrayed his fears.
Richard was aghast. “God’s Death! It will be the end of her! They would turn her from the realm!”
“She has said nothing,” Cecil replied, “but with her…” he shrugged his shoulders.
Richard’s troubled gaze rested for a moment on the complacent features of the Duke of Norfolk. “Norfolk looks remarkably pleased,” he muttered savagely for his opinion of England’s premier peer and Earl Marshal was not an exalted one. Norfolk was ambitious but vain and foolish.
“Well he might,” Cecil replied. “He obviously thinks that my Lord of Leicester has cooked his own goose. He has not wit enough to be troubled by the fact that the self same Earl could become his King. God forbid!”
Before Richard could reply the doors of the chamber were thrown open by the Yeomen of the Guard in their scarlet and black livery. Striking the floor with the butts of their halberds they cried:
“Pray silence for Her Majesty, the Queen!”
Silence immediately prevailed as the tall, elegant figure clad in green and white appeared in the doorway. Those within fell to their knees, rising only when Majesty had passed before them. She carried herself regally, her head held high, smiling at those who found favour in her eyes and giving no indication that she was aware of the rumour and speculation that was rife amongst them.
She seated herself in the Chair of State on the dais at the far end of the room. The rays of the late autumn sun filtering through the windows caught her hair and the jewels of her cap and turned her head into a crown of gold.
Cecil left his place at Richard’s side and, ignoring the supercilious look directed at him by Norfolk, made his way to the dais. He welcomed Her Majesty to this meeting of her Privy Councillors, respectfully expressing the hope on behalf of her ministers that the morning’s business would be concluded to the satisfaction of all the parties concerned. After a pause he embarked upon his carefully prepared speech exhorting her on behalf of her loyal and loving subjects to consider the reasons for the desirability of her entering into the married state.
She sat listening to all outward appearances with deferential interest and concern. Inwardly she became more and more incensed for she had spent a sleepless night, tormented by doubts and guilt and had risen at last, pale and wretched but with her mind made up. There would never be a King of England while she lived. She had lost forever the chance of personal happiness therefore she would never take to herself a husband. She had lived down a scandal once before and she would survive this too. The very fact that she would not marry Robin would be evidence of the fact that she had nothing of which to be ashamed.
Cecil’s voice droned on but now he was concluding his speech which she knew had cost him at least one sleepless nigh.
“Poor William,” she thought, “‘tis always left to him to be the bearer of evil tidings.”
There was silence in the great chamber and then she spoke.
“In a matter most unpleasing, most pleasing to me is the apparent goodwill of you and my people, as proceeding from a very good mind towards me and the Commonwealth. Concerning marriage, which ye so earnestly move me to, I have long been persuaded that I was sent into this world by God to think and do those things chiefly which may tend to His Glory. Hereupon have I chosen that kind of life which is most free from the troublesome cares of this world, that I might attend the Service of God alone. From which if either the tendred marriages of most potent princes, or the danger of death intended against me, could have removed, me, I had long ago enjoyed the honour of a husband. But now that the care of governing the kingdom is laid upon me, to satisfy you I have already joined myself in marriage to the Kingdom of England.”
With increasing anger she rose and withdrew from her finger the Coronation ring. “Behold, which I marvel ye have forgotten, the pledge of my wedlock!” She stepped down from the dais and turned on them in fury. “Do not upbraid me with miserable lack of children for every one of you and as many as are Englishmen are children to me. But I command you that ye not appoint me a husband, for that would be most unworthy to the Majesty of an absolute Princess and unbecoming to your wisdom, who are all subjects born!” She paused for them to digest those ominous words. “But if I continue in this kind of life I have begun, it will be a satisfaction for the memorial of my name and glory if it be engraven upon my marble tomb, “Here lieth Elizabeth which reigned a virgin and died a virgin.”
Her final words rang through the vaulted chamber and all were forcefully reminded that this was Henry’s daughter. Without waiting for any further discussion she swept from the room.
William Cecil and Richard Allgrave exchanged disquieted glances. Did this mean she would not marry Leicester? If that were so then she meant what she said; they had their answer. She would marry no one!
Three
A year passed and the October of 1562 was cold and damp but for Isabelle Allgrave summer still lingered for during those golden days she had fallen in love.
He had first come to her home that June, the son of an associate of her father and she had loved him instantly. Peter Barnes was nineteen and was everything that James Stangate was not. Gay and witty where James was quiet and serious. Fair where James was dark. Peter loved nothing better than to be hunting, playing tennis or singing to her accompanying himself upon the harpsichord—pursuits which James spurned whenever possible although he could hunt and play with the best whenever he chose to do so.
Those unforgettable days they had spent wandering the gardens meeting in secluded corners away from prying eyes. She had wept passionately when he told her he must leave in the autumn for his father had business in Europe but he had promised to write and to beg his father to try to come to some arrangement with Sir Richard, although how the contract with James could be broken neither of them knew. But Peter would find a way, of that she was certain.
She had watched him ride away that September morning. Had watched until he was but a speck in the distance. In the weeks that followed she was desolate and wandered the now dismal and deserted gardens alone, trying to recapture the memory of those golden days.
Her parents watched her with growing concern. Her mother worried by her lack of appetite and listlessness and her father with increasing anger for he held no great opinion of Peter Barnes, thinking him little more than a frivolous dandy.
Richard was watching his daughter as she sat upon a mossy bank, careless of the damage to her gown, staring aimlessly across the river when the news was brought to him. The Queen had contracted smallpox! With a hasty farewell to his wife he threw himself into the saddle and rode with all haste towards the palace of Hampden Court.
Groups of courtiers were standing in stricken silence in the stifling antechamber as he pushed his way to Cecil’s side.
“I came as quickly as I could.”
“She has a great fever,” Cecil replied. “Lord Hunsdon sent for his own physician, a Dr. Burcot in whom he has infinite faith and it was he who diagnosed smallpox, but she would not believe him. ‘Have the knave away out of my sight!’ sh
e shouted at the poor man and he has gone his pride considerably hurt.”
Richard shook his head. “Rumour is rife in the City, the people are terrified lest she die for there is no heir and some still remember the strife between the Houses of York and Lancaster and are afeared it will happen again.”
“We can only pray that she does not die,” Cecil replied.
For five days and nights the fever raged while England prayed and trembled. Never had their Queen been so dear to them. Fearing herself that she was indeed near to death she sent for Cecil.
Her face was drawn and the sweat clung to her brow. Her eyes were bright with the fever, her red curls damp and matted. He bent low to catch her words.
“It is my wish that the Earl of Leicester be made Protector of the Realm,” she whispered.
He nodded.
“Though he is dear to me, William, nothing unseemly has ever passed between us.”
“Your Majesty, you must save your strength. You must recover!” he implored her, for the idea of Leicester as Lord Protector did not greatly appeal to him and he suspected that it would not appeal to the people of England either. He left her quietly but without much hope for her doctors had already given her up. He was met at the door by Lord Hunsdon, the Queen’s cousin, accompanied by Dr. Burcot who had been induced to return at the point of a sword. The good doctor ordered a huge fire to be made and a mattress placed before it. Elizabeth was wrapped in flannel and placed upon the mattress after which he administered large and frequent dosages of a potion he himself had brought. He then sat back to wait.
The atmosphere in the ante-room was intense for all knew that upon the next few hours hung England’s fate. Richard and Cecil sat close to a partially open casement for the heat and stench of the crowded room was well nigh unbearable.
In the early hours of the morning the door to the bed-chamber was thrown open and Lord Hunsdon appeared. There was an immediate surge towards him but Cecil reached him first.
“The fever has left her. The rash has at last appeared,” Lord Hunsdon announced.
Relief was apparent on the drawn faces of everyone.
“God be praised!” Cecil cried thankfully.
The citizens of London showed their thanks to the Almighty by the ringing of church bells and the numerous thanksgiving services held in the many churches but it was imperative now that once recovered, Elizabeth should marry. Imperative that she should produce an heir.
To Elizabeth' s relief the pox had left her skin unmarked.
* * *
Once more the seasons changed and to the despair of her ministers negotiations were only half-heartedly in progress for Her Majesty’s betrothal to the Archduke.
Peter Barnes had returned to England and the relationship between himself and Isabelle deepened although meetings were infrequent and secretive as Sir Richard and Sir Francis Barnes had forbidden their meeting. Plans were well under way for Isabelle’s marriage to James and she was to be married before Christmas. She sought desperately to find a way out for she would rather die than leave Peter. It was useless to try to plead with her parents for she had tried but had only received a sympathetic but firm refusal from her mother and had actually been chastised by her father. The contract was to be fulfilled. She would do as she was bid.
She had been frantic the last time she had managed to slip away to meet Peter and had begged him to do something for time was growing so short. He had persuaded her that the only thing left for them to do was to run away. At first she had been afraid but as Christmas drew closer she overcame her fears and so it was that she quietly crept along the long gallery and down the wide staircase, shutting the heavy door behind her. She looked quickly around before running across the silent, shadowy courtyard until she reached the gate to the orchard. Here she turned and looked for the last time at the house. Its windows were all in darkness, its tall chimneys stood out starkly against the sky. A little pain tugged at her heart for she loved her parents and her home—but she loved Peter more. By morning she would be on her way to France to he married. She turned away and crossed the orchard. Scrambling over the boundary wall she stopped as she heard a noise but she breathed a sigh of relief as she realised that it was only Peter.
They stopped only for a brief second to kiss and embrace before riding away into the darkness.
It was Kate who discovered her absence in the morning. Kate had been suspicious for some time for certain items of Isabelle’s wardrobe had gone unaccountably missing. Without waiting to search for an explanation she went to find her mistress.
She found her at length in the solar about to commence answering some correspondence. Seeing the agitation on the old woman’s face Margaret put down her quill.
“Kate, what is amiss?”
“Meg, you had best come with me.”
Margaret became anxious for it was a long time since Kate had used her childhood name. “What is it, Kate?”
“Isabelle,” Kate replied bluntly. “She has gone!”
Margaret stared at her and rose quickly. Picking up her skirts she ran to the door followed by Kate.
Kate was growing old and when she finally reached Isabelle’s chamber she was quite out of breath. She arrived panting and wheezing to find Margaret upon her knees, her head buried in the curtains of the girl’s bed, a scrap of paper clutched in her hand.
“Oh! Kate. Kate, she has gone away with him to be married!”
“Come, Meg, pull yourself together. ‘Tis only nine, she cannot have got far. Fetch Sir Richard, he will have her found,” Kate replied briskly.
Seeing the sense in this Margaret nodded, hastily wiping her eyes. “Will you find him?”
Kate went to the door and collared the first serving wench, packing her off with instructions to find her master and not to take all day in doing so.
When he arrived Richard was decidedly put out, his breakfast having been interrupted, but upon seeing his wife’s distress his impatience disappeared.
“What is the matter?” To his surprise his normally placid and self-controlled wife flung herself sobbing into his arms and it was Kate who finally enlightened him as to the cause of Margaret’s distress. Anger flared in his eyes. So she had defied him after all, and with that idle good-for-nothing!
Gently he disentangled himself from Margaret’s arms and consigned her to the care of Kate’s capable ministrations.
“I shall find them,” he promised as he strode away, calling to his servants to saddle up his horse immediately.
Margaret was still quietly sobbing as he galloped like a man possessed out of the courtyard.
For two days Margaret lived as if in a dream. She neither ate nor slept but walked the house like a ghost followed by her son who did everything he could to comfort and console his mother—who for the sixteen years of his life had always been his comfort and refuge. He himself had just become betrothed to Jane Blackford, a pretty, quiet girl he had known all his life and he failed to see why his sister must cause so much fuss and upset. James Stangate was a decent sort in his opinion, while he agreed with his father in his opinion of Peter Barnes. Isabelle must be addle-pated for it was obvious the kind of husband he would prove to be.
It was late afternoon as he stood watching for his father’s return as he had promised his mother he would do if she would try to rest. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of riders approaching and he caught sight of his father and Francis Barnes as they passed through the gatehouse, their clothes dusty and their mounts foamed-flecked and sweating.
Turning, he looked at his mother. She was asleep, worn out by two days and nights of worry. He quietly left the room and went down to meet his father. He knew instantly by his father’s drawn, travel-stained features and by the grim expression on the face of Sir Francis Barnes that the search had been fruitless.
Wearily Richard dismounted and to his son’s unspoken question sadly shook his head. “No trace of them. No one has seen them.”
“If you will excuse m
e, Richard, I will go home and break the news to his mother. I am truly grieved and sorry…”
“’Tis none of your doing, Francis.”
“I will break every bone in his body when I lay my hands on him!”
“We have to find them first,” Richard replied.
Sir Francis Barnes grunted and bidding Edward farewell turned his lathered horse towards home.
As the groom led Richard’s horse away the older man leaned heavily upon his son, the weight of despair and lack of rest making his head spin.
“What will you tell mother?” Edward asked. “She is ill with grief.”
His father shook his head. “There is no place left to look, Edward. It will break your mother’s heart,” he replied as he went slowly indoors to break the news to Margaret.
Kate Hopwith was distraught, for Margaret had not spoken a word since her husband’s return and had refused to take any nourishment and Kate was mortally afraid that she would go into a decline. But Margaret was made of sterner stuff and slowly she pulled herself together.
“Life must go on,” she told herself. She had a husband and a son who needed her although she could not bear to even think of the house without the sound of Isabelle’s voice and laughter and worry tormented her every waking hour.
A week after the girl had disappeared Richard gently reminded her that the Queen was giving a reception to which they had been invited and from which they could not be excused. Margaret despondently agreed. She neither knew or cared what she looked like and only Kate’s admonitions prompted her to allow herself to be dressed and her hair brushed and confined beneath a cap of pearls.
The Great Hall of Richmond palace was stifling as the thousands of candles and the great press of courtiers filled all the available space. Margaret smiled absently at the other guests, only dragging herself back to reality when the Queen spoke to her. She hardly touched the food set before her. The music and laughter beat upon her ears until she felt she could bear it no longer and she unobtrusively slipped away although fully aware that this was a serious breach of etiquette as none must leave until Her Majesty had retired.
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