by Susan Kay
“It would indeed be bad of me to forget God, who has been good to me,” she had replied innocently, and Cecil had been astonished at the ease with which she slid round the direct threat from Spain. Everyone knew she must keep friends with Philip, yet to lose faith with none of her Protestant allies while doing it—now that was truly remarkable! Her own personal leanings were still an ambiguous question mark in Europe, and she had taken the heat out of religious controversy by forbidding all public sermons for the present.
No English sovereign had ever sat on a more uncertain throne. The Catholics considered her a bastard; the influential Protestants, now flocking back into the country from exile, expected to see an immediate return to the religious regime of King Edward. Religion could make or break her, and quite honestly Cecil saw no way of effecting a settlement that would make her safe. With her claim to the throne so tenuous, she could not afford to alienate any large section of the population; but clever as she was, she had to alienate someone soon. She could not sit on the religious fence for ever.
They talked long on the issue and he looked forward to each personal interview, because he could talk to her like a man. It was his pleasure to guide her; she learnt so quickly. On Christmas Day she walked out of the chapel before the elevation of the Host—if there was uproar they could always say she had felt ill. There was no uproar. On New Year’s Day she proclaimed all future services would be held in English. Still no outcry. It was working, this gentle easing away from Rome, each step so small it was hardly noticeable, yet inexorably showing the way they would go. Soon they would be ready for Parliament.
What surprised Cecil most was her complete lack of illusion. She deceived everybody, but she never deceived herself. She knew all the odds were against her success. She was surrounded on all sides by rival claimants to the throne whose legitimacy was beyond question. And England was weak, riven by internal divisions, virtually bankrupt since Mary’s disastrous campaign in France. What a task! He had seen strong men, able men, go under with less than half the opposition that waited for Elizabeth. Her enemies said smugly that it was only a question of time and waited gleefully for her brief hour of triumph to collapse like a speculator’s bubble.
But if she was nervous and insecure, no one knew about it. She had a calm, unquestioned air of authority which had caused even Feria to admit grudgingly that “she never gives her orders and has her way as absolutely as her Father did.”
Fluent in six languages, she was uniquely independent in her dealings with foreign ambassadors; and her Council she had tamed by the end of her first week. Not a man among them seriously entertained the hope of becoming the power behind the throne. Even Cecil knew his place.
Only a husband could hope to challenge her power. She had said many times in private, and in public, that she did not intend to take one.
But, naturally, no one believed her.
* * *
The Count de Feria was not enjoying his ambassadorial duties in England. Communication with King Philip had led him to believe he would step effortlessly into the same unique position of influence that Renard had held in the previous reign.
But it simply had not happened. Far from becoming her chief adviser, he was finding it extraordinarily difficult to get close enough to give any advice at all. He was hedged in by an unseemly press of envoys and special emissaries of foreign suitors and no one seemed the least impressed by his credentials as Spanish Ambassador. And he was not accustomed to being treated as though he were of no account.
He wrote home in alarm to inform his master, “I am afraid one day we shall find this woman married and I shall be the last person in the palace to know anything about it.”
Personally he considered the Queen’s attitude to be suicidal. Without Philip’s support her petty, insignificant little crown would be knocked off her swollen head inside six months. And yet this jumped-up, low-born baggage still behaved as though she were the centre of the universe—and more to the point, succeeded in getting everyone around her to treat her accordingly. Feria had never seen so many men compete for the honour of making utter fools of themselves—Lord, they fell over themselves backwards to keep her in a pleasant humour. It was a ridiculous sight. Give her a year at this rate and there would not be a single man among the lot of them. Already they showed disturbing signs of losing their initiative, and more incredibly, their self-interest.
Feria had found he could not even bribe with success. One very promising candidate, accepting his delicate overtures with interest, had come back to tell him the next day that “the Queen says it is quite acceptable for me to take the money and I should be glad if you would let me have the first payment.”
Feria was deeply concerned. What sort of diplomacy could be conducted in a court where one could not bribe? And what manner of woman could reduce ambitious, self-seeking predators to tamed birds in less than two months?
He looked at her with new respect—and suspicion. Every day that passed saw this cocksure, confident madam sitting a little more securely on her uncertain throne, and consequently a little less dependent on the goodwill of her brother-in-law. And still he had no inkling of her true intentions.
It occurred to Feria that once she was safely crowned there would be no holding her. And the coronation was rapidly closing in upon them…
* * *
When Robin left Dr. Dee’s mysterious riverside house with rolls of astronomical calculations coiled in his saddle-bag, he deliberately dawdled over his return. And when he finally sauntered into court, it was to find the Queen waiting for him with ill-concealed annoyance.
“The 15th of January,” she said coldly, and pushed the documents aside after a cursory glance. “Dee took his time to come to that conclusion. Is he in his dotage?”
Robin lifted his broad shoulders and gave her a look of practised surprise.
“Madam, you gave me to understand there was no urgent need of my return.”
“So? Where have you been till now?”
“Visiting my wife,” he replied calmly, “at Your Majesty’s kind insistence.”
“I see.” He saw her fingers tense as she began to roll up the documents with unnecessary vigour. “And was the visit of benefit to her in her sad state of health?”
“I believe I managed to raise her spirits, madam—among other things.”
Her hand quivered towards the heavy sand caster and for a moment he was quite convinced she would throw it at him. But then she appeared to think better of it, clasped her fingers resolutely together on the desk, and looked at him with something curiously like grudging respect. It was not often that she got as good as she gave and she was half furious, half amused by his nerve. She wanted a man at her side, a real man—one who would not be afraid to stand up to her when the occasion demanded. And Robin was suddenly aware that if he wanted to get any closer to her, he was going to have to be prepared to take a few risks.
Certainly for the moment his strategy appeared to have succeeded. He had never known her so charming. There were no more uncalled-for remarks about Amy, and he was the Queen’s constant companion. By the time the fifteenth day of January dawned, cold and brilliant with snow clinging to the narrow streets, even the lowest court scullions were whispering about their intimacy.
Plans for the most spectacular coronation in English history had been held in abeyance by the need to find a bishop willing to officiate, but Oglethorpe, Bishop of Carlisle, had finally capitulated under pressure. Reluctantly, with all the grace of an unwilling bull being herded into the ring, he had agreed to crown her at last, and after that, Cecil had seen to it that no more time was wasted. With half the world ready to question her legitimacy, the sooner she was safely crowned the happier he would be.
Strenuous ceremonies led up to the great event and by the day of the coronation, Cecil, in company with the majority of the court, was completely exhausted. But Robin was young enou
gh to cope with the extra work, and insensitive enough to remain impervious to the tension. And as he strode through the crowded corridors he was amused by those glances of deference which were already becoming his due. His new suit of carnation-gold silk perfectly complemented his dark features; he looked like a king and had begun to feel like one. He could hardly wait for the Queen to see him in all his magnificence and when he managed, amid the press of people, to get close enough to kiss her hand, he was sure she would remark upon it.
“Are you actually related to Jonah,” she inquired in a fierce undertone, “or just a close friend?”
He straightened up abruptly and released her fingers with alarm. She moved on immediately to give her hand to the Duchess of Norfolk, leaving him feeling deflated and very uneasy, wondering what he had done. Or not done. Or said—
The questions gnawed at his mind until he saw her enter the Abbey, and there in that solemn moment, he briefly forgot the fortunes of Robert Dudley. His quick intake of breath was echoed by the whole congregation, clearly audible above the fanfare.
The cold air was heavy with incense. She walked slowly towards him, dressed entirely in crimson velvet, an ermine cape around her shoulders, her red hair falling loose to her waist beneath a tiny crimson cap. In the glow of a thousand candles she looked suddenly like a living flame, remote, splendid, immortal.
Untouchable, he thought, and lowered his eyes as from a brilliant light that caused him pain. It was in that moment that he first knew he loved her, and the knowledge filled him with despairing humility. There was no shame in aiming for a crown and failing—some of the strongest men in England had done that. But to truly want the one woman in this world who might just refuse him—that was madness. He could wander the surface of the earth and never find his pride of manhood again, if the worst happened. If she said no—
For five hours he craned his neck to get a glimpse of her between the flowing arms of Oglethorpe’s robe and when it was over he was as weary as the rest. Elizabeth’s crimson gown was changed for cloth of gold after the Anointing and by the time she sat down at the state banquet in Westminster Hall, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and she was wearing violet velvet. Eight hundred guests were attended by an army of servants, all dressed in red, while Norfolk and Arundel supervised the proceedings on horseback. Robin sat like a man in a trance, absently eating whatever came within reach of his hand. His eyes were fixed continually on the Queen, who had not once glanced his way.
She sat on a raised dais beneath a lofty window, with the Earl of Sussex and her great uncle Howard standing behind, ready to serve all she ate and drank. The violet gown did not suit her so well, thought Robin suddenly—in the harsh winter daylight it made her look quite ill. She was extremely pale and she had eaten nothing—
Jonah!—ill-omened messenger of the Lord, his name for centuries synonymous with bad luck.
Understanding dawned upon Robin in an unpleasant moment which made him sweat with horror. It was one o’clock in the morning before she left her place and he was able to calculate dully that she had endured over fourteen gruelling hours of ceremony on a day she should have spent in bed. A day he personally had guaranteed as propitious.
She was not going to forgive him for this, he knew it. Dee was to blame, but Dee was safely buried at Mortlake beyond her immediate reach. The damned charlatan would doubtless get away with it, while Robin paid the penalty, like the Greek messengers of old. And the penalty would be withdrawal of her favour—
Hopelessly, he dared one more glance at her and found her eyes suddenly fixed upon him. Her face was waxen with fatigue, but her smile was warm, reaching out to him like a friendly hand. To the end of his life he never knew how she found the strength to walk out of the Hall and back to the palace unaided.
When she had gone he found his eyes were wet with unshed tears. And it was no surprise to him next morning when he was told his tournament must be cancelled because the Queen was too ill to attend it.
* * *
The opening of Parliament was also delayed by the Queen’s illness, the first real indication to the court that they might all be living in a fool’s paradise. Cecil conducted state business at her bedside and was aware of a nagging anxiety. Evidently she was not as strong as her blazing energy had seemed to suggest. The official explanation that she had a bad cold hardly seemed sufficient to account for her pinched pallor and her listless lack of appetite. She seemed to have dissipated all her reserve of strength and he was suddenly aware of the pressing need to get her married and safely with child. If she should die without leaving an heir of her own body, the country would be thrown back into the dynastic feuds of the previous century, the Catholics plumping for Mary Stuart while the Protestants championed Lady Katherine Grey. There would be utter chaos. Surely she could see that.
While he was there, they brought her a bowl of steaming beef broth which she pushed to one side without interest. He was driven then to interfere and beg her to take some nourishment.
“…for the sake of this country which depends on Your Majesty’s well being.”
She glared at him but picked up the spoon, like a sulky child, and began to toy halfheartedly with the contents of the bowl. As he took his leave, he told himself feverishly that there was no time to waste, no time to waste at all.
I must find her a husband quickly—
The shadows over her crown were rapidly growing longer. In France Mary Stuart had officially quartered the English royal arms with those of France and Scotland and now appeared at all public functions under the title of Queen of England. It was the first serious challenge to Elizabeth’s legitimacy, and it could only mean that sooner or later the French King would enforce his daughter-in-law’s claim with an army. And England was in no position to wage war at the moment. So much depended on the uncertain life-span of one delicate, wilful young woman—it hardly bore thinking about.
And yet he thought of it continually, while snow fell soundlessly outside his narrow window. Waking and sleeping Elizabeth was never far from Cecil’s thoughts. Her pale, oval face seemed to be permanently engraved on his mind and in any other man there would be only one word for such obsession in a woman. But he was not in love with her. How could he be when he was so utterly devoted to his bluestocking wife? He was a simple, respectable married man who had neither the time nor the inclination for other women.
And yet she was everything to him, he could not deny it. His career, his future, almost his twin soul. He had never felt this way for any other human being. He had served and abandoned several men in cold blood, but deep in his heart he knew he would never be able to abandon Elizabeth, no matter what she did against him. It would be like abandoning himself.
On the day she officially swore him into her service, her eyes had looked straight and unafraid right into his soul.
“It is my command that at all times, without respect to my private will, you will be faithful to the state and give me always the counsel you think best. I know you will not be corrupted by any manner of gift…”
Her words had moved him immeasurably, her riveting glance had made him tremble with the magnitude of the burden she laid upon him. She had said in public that he was a man who could not be bought. How did she know it? Many would say his record for loyalty was not an impressive one. Indeed he could think of only one other who would have given that judgement of him—his straight-laced, unexciting, but entirely reliable wife, Mildred. Was it possible that the Queen, on such a relatively brief acquaintance, could know him as well as his own wife? Because if she did, then her judgement was not only sound—it was quite uncanny.
For Mildred was the key that unlocked the inner man in Cecil. He was a loyal husband and a loving father in an age where those qualities were rare. He and his wife had a happy, stable union and they had dwelt for many years behind its dull fortress in secure harmony, no hint of restless dissatisfaction on either side.
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Now suddenly there was the Queen, volatile, unpredictable, demanding—the very antithesis of Mildred in every way. And Cecil knew the quiet, happy existence of his home life must lose something in consequence of his extraordinary relationship with Elizabeth.
He accepted the loss gladly and felt guilty because of it. Once he would have said nothing in this world could come between him and Mildred, but now holding his place at Elizabeth’s side was his sole concern. He had a dream—a strong, united England guided by his hand—and Elizabeth was the answer to that dream. He had sensed her kindred spirit years ago, and known that there might yet be one worthy of his selfless devotion, one he would not need to desert.
She owed him loyalty, a debt of gratitude, and already she had begun to repay it. He was jealous of his influence, terrified of losing it, prepared to hate anyone who might place it in jeopardy. And fierce resentment had begun to gather in his mind around the name of Mary Stuart. She was sheltered behind the might of France and there was no way they could strike at her directly. But in her native land of Scotland her crown was not so strong, defended virtually alone by her Catholic mother, the Regent Mary of Guise, struggling to uphold the lost cause of the Catholic faith in a land ruled by the Puritanical kirk. Oh yes, it was in Scotland that they must strike at Mary Stuart, strike hard and soon, aiding the rebellious Protestant lords. They could rely on help from the Scottish preacher John Knox, who held the populace under his thumb—Knox who had denounced the “monstrous regiment of women,” but would surely bend his scruples to the wind of necessity in alliance with a Protestant Queen.