by Susan Kay
Suddenly she was deeply ashamed of that quip.
In all the weeks of her tempestuous relationship with Bothwell, no word of warning from friends or ministers had penetrated the crazy fortress of her infatuation. But this letter had moved her, unnerved her, made her suddenly begin to question her own actions with torpid bewilderment, like someone stirring at last from a drugged sleep. Elizabeth was the only woman in Europe who truly understood what it meant to choose between a lover and a crown.
If only she was here. If only I could talk to her. Throckmorton was right. I could have trusted her—
In an agony of doubt she turned at the sound of footsteps on the private stairway and a moment later Bothwell was before her, towering above her with his magnificent weatherbeaten face laughing down into hers, a face hard and brutally handsome, like rough-hewn granite. Here was a man indeed, a man who, given the opportunity, might even have tamed her cousin, and for a moment she wondered just how hard Elizabeth would have fought for her honour, that dark night on the floor of the Exchequer House.
He seized her exultantly and swung her round as though she were as light as a doll, but carefully, gently, remembering that already she carried his child.
“What’s amiss, my little white Queen? You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost—not Darnley’s, I trust.”
It was the tasteless joke of a tasteless man and she shuddered as she handed him Elizabeth’s letter.
“You had better read this—it concerns you.”
He read it in silence, then cursed and flung it on the floor with an angry laugh. “So the Virgin Queen offers you the advice she took so well herself! But that bitch’s game won’t work for you, madam. You’ll never keep me for a tame bird as she keeps Robert Dudley—I’m no horsemaster or kept man. I’ll leave you to your enemies first, so take your choice.”
For a long moment Mary hesitated, weighing her future in the balance, until he bent her backwards in his arms and took her chin between his strong fingers in a vicious grip that made her cry out with pain.
“I am your destiny. You’ll marry me and we’ll fight for your crown if we have to. Tell Elizabeth to go to hell—it’s where she belongs anyway.”
Gladly she surrendered to his will and stood perfectly still while he tore off her cumbersome gown and carried her through into the tiny bedchamber. And while they made wild, passionate love on the very brink of disaster, the Queen of England’s letter lay face down and forgotten on the stone floor of the ante-room.
Disaster followed Mary like a patient spaniel from that day on as, relentlessly, the very scandal men had expected to see in England years before was enacted inexorably, like a morality play. Mary married Bothwell and swore that she would follow him to the end of the world in a white petticoat before she would abandon him. And it was the end of the world, as she had known it. Scotland rose against Bothwell in the righteous fury of a civil war and the lovers gathered their forces at Carberry Hill, only to watch their followers melt away in a bloodless battle which betrayed the utter hopelessness of their course. Torn from her husband’s side, Mary was stripped of her power, imprisoned on the lonely island of Lochleven, and forced to the final act of abdication. But for the fear of Elizabeth’s retribution she would have been executed, and increasingly Mary looked on her cousin as the only friend left to her in a world turned suddenly treacherous and hostile. For a few short months, in spite of the miles between them, each felt a curious closeness to the other, two women against an army of men. Elizabeth was working furiously for her release and reinstatement, confident that it could only now be accomplished on terms favourable to herself, when Mary plunged everything into chaos by escaping. Her few days of wild liberty ended in a resounding armed defeat at the battle of Langside, and Mary fled across the bleak Scottish countryside as a fugitive in fear of her life.
In May 1568, against the advice of her staunchest supporters who begged her to flee to France, Mary turned to the last relative she trusted. She crossed the Solway into England in a tiny fishing boat, wearing the only gown she possessed, to throw herself upon the mercy of her cousin and dearest friend—Elizabeth.
* * *
“Well, madam, you have the wolf by the ears now, and no mistake.”
The comment fell from the Secretary’s lips, as flat and heavy as a lump of lead, and she did not trouble to stop writing or look up.
“That’s not an original remark, Cecil. I had expected better of you.”
He promptly began to give it in a tone deliberately casual, but spiced with malice.
“I hear she is holding a pretty court in Carlisle, madam, for all her ragged state—a dispossessed princess makes a most appealing damsel in distress. I hear it said on all sides that, even in rags, she is very beautiful.”
Elizabeth looked up at that and eyed him with respect; he was perhaps the one man at court who would have dared to mention it.
“You have no scruples, have you, Cecil? You would have made a good woman. Are you actually daring to suggest that I have good cause to be jealous?”
“Jealous of your people’s loyalty, madam. Remember that most of your northern lords are Papists. Within months the whole of the North could be aflame beneath her banner. The Catholics—”
“You,” she interrupted waspishly, “have Catholics on the brain.”
“Certainly I maintain that the statutory measures against them are hopelessly inadequate under the present circumstances.”
She pursed her lips angrily; she was beginning to grow annoyed.
“Did you learn nothing at all from my sister’s reign, Cecil?”
“Madam, I fail to see—”
“Then open your bigoted eyes and look around you, my friend. Perhaps you will see that the majority of my Catholic subjects are quiet, law-abiding folk whose only real desire is to live out their lives in peace. It’s my belief that half of them couldn’t give a damn who is on the throne. But start a reign of terror and they’ll begin to care heartily enough—they’ll take up her cause like a crusade and you and the rest of my godly Council will have so much to answer for you’ll still be excusing yourselves on the Day of Judgement. I’ve told you more times than I care to remember that persecution is the last resort.”
“The last resort will come, madam, no matter how you try to avoid it. If the Pope should excommunicate you now in favour of Mary, the very word Catholic will become synonymous with traitor. Parliament will cry out for action against them.”
“And you can’t wait for that day to dawn, can you, Cecil—you and the rest of your Puritan mob? Well, I can tell you this much—I’ll stand against it as long as I am able. I will make no windows into men’s souls!”
She leapt out of her chair and swirled away from him in her billowing russet skirts, and he sighed inwardly. She was a sad disappointment to him in religion and indeed he had the sneaking suspicion that she would rather be a Catholic, if only it were politically expedient. The circumstances of her birth had allied her in a marriage of convenience to the Protestant Church, but her personal taste inclined distressingly towards Catholic ritual and her private chapel was a hotch-potch of the new and old religions. She liked music and candles, even a crucifix, and was downright rude to her married clergy. But, much as it grieved him, there was nothing he could do about it; he knew better than to pass comment.
And just now, there were more pressing concerns than her orthodoxy.
“May I ask what Your Majesty intends to do with the Scottish Queen?” he ventured at length. Waiting in vain for her answer, he continued uneasily. “I trust you don’t intend to bring her to court.”
She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a wicked smile.
“Would the monstrous regiment of two women be more than your sanity could bear?”
“I merely suggest it may be as well if the two of you do not meet. It might cause—complications.”
“You think she may win me for a friend? Oh Cecil, how little you know me.”
He smiled thinly. “Of late Your Majesty has shown some sympathy for her plight. I beg you to remember that she is still your enemy.”
“But this alters everything. The bird has flown to me for protection from the hawk, and by God I’ll see she gets that protection—from you if need be. I shall clip her wings and put her in a golden cage where she will sing safely for the rest of her life.”
“Mere imprisonment,” he said discontentedly, “will scarcely restrain her violent appetite for your crown. Madam, such mercy on your part is suicidal.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You call it mercy to wake day after day in a living grave?”
He avoided her eyes and knew his instinct had been true; certainly a meeting between the two of them must be prevented at all cost.
He said bleakly, “She will demand to see you, madam, and I beg you to refuse. It is hardly fitting for you to receive a harlot accused of such outrageous crimes.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Move her to Bolton Castle then, under guard. But, Cecil—no little accidents on the journey. I want her alive.”
“To sow a canker of treason throughout the land?”
“To stand between me and Philip. She is the most valuable hostage in the history of Europe.”
“And the most dangerous,” he said bluntly. “This puts a premium on your murder, madam—your life hangs by a thread from this moment on.”
“Then you must be vigilant, my Spirit.” Elizabeth held out her hand to him. “I trust you beyond all men and you have never failed me yet.”
“Then don’t set me an impossible task,” he burst out suddenly as he closed her fingers between his own. “The best spy system in the world could not protect you under such circumstances.”
“Assassination is the occupational hazard of any monarch,” she said calmly.
“But to court assassination in this manner is madness. As long as you have no heir and the Scottish Queen lives in England, you will never know a minute’s peace. I can’t answer for your safety, not now. No man could. All I can promise you is that sooner or later a dagger or a bullet or a poisoned cup will do its work. For God’s sake, madam, reconsider your decision and dispose of her.”
“Stop panicking,” she said gently. “I shall dance on your grave even yet. Always supposing that you don’t desert me first, of course.”
“Desert you!” he stiffened in horror. “What do you mean, madam?”
She turned back to her desk and began to tidy her papers casually; she was not looking at him now.
“Ten years of loyalty is something of a record for you, isn’t it, Cecil? Some would say it was high time you were looking for your next mistress.”
He was not a demonstrative man, but he went down on his knees then in a clumsy gesture of obeisance and pressed her fingers to his dry lips.
He said, “I would rather die than desert you, madam. You are the last person on this earth that I shall ever serve.”
She had not expected that and found she had to bite her lip to govern herself. She raised him to his feet and looked into his worn face, wondering a little at her power to trap the heart and loyalty of such a hardened man. He had been a chameleon before she swore him into her service, but he would not change colour again, she knew it.
The moment was charged with emotion. She had only to take one step towards him and their unique relationship would be altered for ever.
Instead she stepped back from him and allowed him to recover his composure; she did not want him to become like all the rest, reduced to the squalid level of panting for her body. She let the dangerous moment pass them by and knew it would not come again.
And yet she was still curious. Precious little material gain had come his way through serving her—he was not even a member of the peerage. So what held him? What had she done to deserve such unswerving loyalty from the most accomplished politician in all Europe?
When she asked him, he smiled and sighed and replied with flattering exasperation, “Madam, I would to God I knew the answer myself.”
Chapter 4
Trouble came to England in the wake of the Scottish queen, just as Cecil had feared, and rather sooner than he had first anticipated. Fear of Mary and the action that Spain might take on her behalf, jealousy of Cecil’s undisputed position with Elizabeth, and sheer terror of the Queen’s uncertain health were soon concentrated in a cabal of her foremost Privy Councillors. The intensely vigorous life which the Queen led no longer lulled the men who surrounded her into a false sense of security; they were morbidly obsessed with the possibility of her death. It was obviously necessary to make some provision for that event now that the next heir was resident in the country, to find some way of circumventing the possible accession of a Catholic queen who would take revenge on her rival’s supporters.
To protect their own interests, Elizabeth’s closest advisers, with the notable exception of Cecil, sought to ensure against the future by arranging a marriage between Mary Stuart and the foremost Protestant peer of the realm, the Duke of Norfolk. Norfolk had buried three wives already; he was confident of controlling Mary and his confidence won over the anxious men who formed the English Council and who were now convinced that disaster was about to overtake them at any moment.
Superficially, it seemed they had good cause for concern, for relations with Spain had been strained to breaking point. In December 1568 Spanish ships carrying bullion intended for the payment of Philip’s armed forces in the Netherlands were harassed by pirates and forced to seek refuge in an English port. When Elizabeth discovered that the money was a loan from Genoese merchant bankers, she promptly entered negotiations to transfer that loan to herself, leaving Philip and his commander, Alva, in desperate straits. For a time the incident looked certain to precipitate war; but Elizabeth and Cecil were quietly confident that Philip’s hostile gestures would prove as empty as his coffers. Both politically and economically they had him in a stranglehold; for the time being they held all the trump cards and could afford to gamble high.
Lesser minds found this hard to accept and soon a combination of fear and outright panic had concentrated into a conspiracy to sweep Cecil from office to the block. Cecil’s execution was the bait they dangled before Leicester and he charged after it with a will. Remembering bitterly how readily the Queen would have abandoned him after Amy’s death, Leicester was suddenly convinced that in the face of united opposition she would desert Cecil too.
So Leicester allowed his fellow conspirators to talk him into the role of spokesman and on a cold Ash Wednesday he got to his feet in Council and told the Queen bluntly that England would be ruined unless Cecil answered for his policies with his head.
It was the first and last time he ever dared to challenge her face to face in public, and within minutes he was wondering what had possessed him to open his mouth in the first place. White-lipped with fury, she whipped him with scathing contempt, until he bent like a stalk of corn before the blast of a hurricane. Soon he was cowering on his knees and then to his relief she turned her searing rage on the rest of his confederates.
When she had chastised them all to her complete satisfaction, she swept out of the room with Cecil at her side, for all the world like a tigress with her cub, leaving Leicester collapsed in his seat at the council table with his head in his fine hands.
Terror and jealousy warred within him. She could not have defended Cecil more vehemently if he had been her lover. What was the secret of her relationship with that colourless statesman which transcended all other ties? She had begun lately to bestow deeply symbolic nicknames on the men who were closest to her, an echo of the playful dragon allegory she had created in the Tower for her own amusement. Robin was her Eyes, Hatton her Lids, Cecil her Spirit—her familiar spirit some said, and to Leicester the implication was obvious.
Without her Eyes she would be blind, but without her Spirit she would be dead. If it came to a fight to the death between the two of them he believed he knew which she would support. They were a formidable combination and now that they had closed their ranks against him, Leicester could see that his blunder had merely served to bind them even closer together. Theirs was an unholy union that no mere lover could ever hope to put asunder.
One by one, crushed and nervous, the councillors stole away from the chamber, until at last Norfolk and Leicester were left alone in the chill atmosphere.
Norfolk rolled his quill back and forth across the polished oak table and said peevishly, “She never wraps it up, does she? Spares no one’s feelings!”
“Neither woman in her anger nor man in her lust,” muttered Leicester, misquoting deliberately and darkly. “I feel drained, don’t you—as though she’s sapped every ounce of blood out of my body.”
A great pity she hasn’t, thought Norfolk maliciously, it would be an improvement that’s long overdue. When I mount the English throne with Mary Stuart, I’ll make sure you are not around to bask in the sun!
Aloud he said, “As I see it, there’s only one course left to us, and that’s to take a lesson from the Scots—they have a quick way with overmighty ministers. I suggest that we arrest Cecil and finish him ourselves, since we can’t persuade her to do it for us.”
Leicester emerged from his hands in alarm.
“Are you out of your mind?” he breathed. “She’ll hang the lot of us! If you persist in this mad plan, I shall have no alternative now but to warn her of it.”
Norfolk bowed ironically and flicked his small, pie-dish ruff in an insolent gesture.
“The loyalty of the Earl of Leicester to Her Majesty has of course always been beyond question.”