by Susan Kay
“A calculated risk,” she countered calmly. “All my contacts assured me that I had a year’s grace after Drake’s raid. So what are you bellyaching about? Time has proved me right, has it not?”
“You’re always right,” he said slowly, staring at her rather curiously, “sometimes I almost think—”
He let the sentence trail and absently struck the enormous globe which stood near the window, sending it spinning wildly.
When it came to rest, he found he was gazing full into the English Channel.
“The fleet shouldn’t stay here like a flock of sitting ducks,” he grumbled. “I say let the captains put to sea and take the offensive.”
“The fleet stays here to defend the coast.”
She spoke without raising her eyes, intent on the document before her, but her voice was categoric.
He fell silent. After a moment she became aware of his contemplative gaze and looked up at him with a wry smile.
“And you need not look at me like that—I am in full possession of my faculties.”
“Of course,” he said hastily. “How should it be otherwise?”
She met his gaze steadily, knowing that his memory had flown to the previous year.
“It could have been otherwise,” she admitted softly, “but that is over, Robin—over for good. Look at me. Am I not in command of myself now?”
The contours of his weathered face, ravaged by intermittent bouts of ill-health, were suddenly softened by a gentle smile.
“In perfect command of us all, my Queen. And no difference of opinion over battle tactics will ever shake my faith in your judgement.”
She laughed outright.
“Oh, you respect my luck—I know that by now, Robin.”
As she turned back to her work, ignoring him once more, he found himself reflecting on the communal belief in her luck. It certainly existed. A curious blend of loyalty and optimism pervaded England, with Catholics and Protestants moving hand in hand to defend Queen and country, all informed with a dog-like faith in the ability of the woman who led them. The aldermen of London—never noted for their generosity—had roundly declared their intention of providing double the figure that had been asked of them in men and ships. All over the country it was the same, no whisper of fear or panic anywhere, just a steady pulsing vein of gay patriotism which flowed from the heart of Elizabeth’s calm confidence. Mad or sane, it was her touch on the bridle which steadied and her touch alone; her unique charisma which made her people—so notoriously fickle and variable—now swear to defend her to the last man against the canting little saint in the Escurial.
In the smoky taverns, maudlin with beer, they spoke of her as Gloriana, embellishing the image of their goddess with every tale they had ever told of her brilliance, her cunning, her essential humanity. They sniggered over the long list of suitors, the crowned heads of Europe who had made fools of themselves for more than twenty years running after her.
“Chaste and well-chased, eh?”
Oh yes, they dearly loved it, the proud, insular English—a good laugh at the expense of a foreigner and no one had given it with more unfailing regularity over the years than Elizabeth Tudor. The suitors she had cozened, the pirates she condoned, the ambassadors she had deceived—one had to admire her nerve, and the astonishing manner in which she had got away with it all. They lauded her mercy and calmly ignored its few outrageous exceptions, for whatever she had done she was nothing like so hasty in revenge as her dread sire.
Thirty years of travelling among her people had taught her to understand their needs. Puritanism had raised its gaunt head in Parliament to no avail, for she had kicked out the unpopular bill to create “the English Sunday,” that bill which at one stroke would have banned cock-fighting, bear-baiting, fairs, and markets—in short, everything which made a day of rest worth having to the common man. She had refused the imposition of the death penalty for adultery, blasphemy, and heretical opinion, and had rescued the theatrical companies of London from suppression by creating her own company. No Puritan had yet dared to stand up in the Lower House and suggest the suppression of the Queen’s men!
She still maintained a humorous indifference to the many abortive attempts to assist her to her permanent repose. It was her continued ill-guarded appearances in the streets of London which had won her the warmest response from her people, who loved spunk above all things. They said she was without fear. They were wrong. But they would never know, and that perhaps was the greatest testimony to her courage.
Leicester watched her with exasperated tenderness, the same odd, baffled, begrudging admiration which had dogged him all his life, ever since that first moment when he had scowled at her across the nursery floor. If his only claim to fame was to have been loved by the most remarkable woman of her age he would be proud of it. And for him her weakness was the only true measure of her stature. It seemed little short of a miracle to Leicester that she should be sitting still in her old place, with the reins of government firm in her hands. She had locked away the terror and the guilt which had threatened to destroy her reason, so that now once more she appeared to stand erect and unassailable on her pinnacle. Appeared—perhaps it was no more than that; but for England, for the moment, it was enough. And he was more proud of her for that than for all the long succession of political achievements which had gone before. Robert Devereux, the young Earl of Essex, had wrought the first little miracle, the initial effort of will; the threat to England had done the rest. By the end of spring 1587 she had climbed out of her dark abyss of despair sufficiently to make decisions again. And the first, the most significant, was the pardoning of her chief minister. While Drake, on her personal commission, was wreaking havoc on Philip’s fleet at Cadiz, Elizabeth, with her full court, had descended on Burghley at Theobalds, at what was virtually a moment’s notice.
Mildred Cecil, inwardly furious, had supervised the chaos among her staff in stiff-lipped silence, while Burghley stood all morning by the window, shaking furtively like a man with an ague, and peering down the great drive for the first glimpse of fluttering pennants which would announce the royal entourage. There was the usual chaos as the court dispersed into the Great Hall to squabble over refreshments, served by a small army of servants, while the Queen was escorted ceremonially to her old suite of rooms in uncomfortable silence.
She walked the length of the Vine Chamber and stood for a good five minutes looking over the gardens on the south side of the house, watching the marble fountain which threw up a great spray of water as high as the house.
Her silence weighed heavily on the spirits of her host and hostess, just as she had intended it should. She knew, without looking, that Mildred’s face was an unflattering cherry hue, and Burghley’s chalk-white with tension. Finally she peeled off her gloves and tossed them, with her cloak, into the arms of a waiting maid of honour, announcing curtly that the ladies might have her leave to withdraw.
The women withdrew in a scurry of hasty curtsies, closing the heavy double doors behind them, and Mildred went, with a sinking heart, to pour a fine, pale ale into three silver goblets waiting on a table near the hearth.
The Queen had very little use for Mildred Cecil at the best of times; now she made no pretence at civility.
“I said the ladies might leave, madam. Are you deaf—or do you believe yourself, like your husband here, to be above my authority?”
In the centre of the room, Burghley stood with his chin sunk against the base of his scrawny neck, his eyes fixed on the floor, and his hands clasped around his staff for support. Over his white head, Mildred met her rival’s glance with an unguarded glimmer of hostility, before she too sank into a deep curtsey, and went out of the room, leaving behind the last hope of tranquillity in the twilight of her marriage. She lingered outside the door just long enough to hear the Queen say in a vastly altered tone, “Sit down, you old fool, before you fall”—but she d
id not wait to hear Burghley’s reply. She was not a masochist!
Through a maze of corridors stalked the lady of the manor, frowning at all she saw on her way. The house was a mausoleum now. What had originally been conceived as a modest, private residence, destined for Burghley’s second son, Robert, had grown into a sprawling palace, nothing short of a playground for the Queen’s pleasure. On her first visit Elizabeth had complained about the size of her chamber. Burghley had had it enlarged to such enormous proportions that it was now big enough to sport its own fountain; and the rest of the house, year after year, had grown around it, like some monstrous, extravagant weed curled in a stranglehold around the Cecil purse. Every visit she made there cost them at least three thousand pounds.
In the privy garden, deeply sunk and surrounded by a nine-foot hedge, Mildred found the only spot which afforded her a sense of escape from Elizabeth’s strident domination. There she sat for several hours, brooding among the figs and plums that grew along the walls, while the house towered above her, a pink brick façade with blue slate turrets and gilded weather vanes which seemed to mock all her austere good taste. How could Burghley have built anything so vulgar! The house was the Queen—unforgettable, ostentatious, overbearing—and Mildred hated it, hated to feel it sitting there self-satisfied in the sunshine, looking down on her with all its calm superiority.
No woman, thought Mildred angrily, had the right to make other women feel so colourless and drab, or to be so slim and upright at the age of fifty-four that merely to look at her was to feel as plain and stout and purely functional as a carthorse. No woman had the right to such presence! She had always been out of her depth in the company of the Queen, her dull bluestocking image overshadowed by all that effortless brilliance. But never before had Elizabeth made it quite so plain that, in the final analysis, Mildred and all the comfortable domesticity she symbolised counted for nothing. The Queen had merely to raise her little finger and Burghley, the devoted husband, the loving father, and doting grandfather, would turn his back on everything he held dear to follow her shining trail.
“I am nothing,” Mildred told the smug house savagely, “nothing,” and great tears forced themselves between her scanty lashes to roll sombrely down her unpainted cheeks.
Shadows were falling across the garden by the time Burghley came painfully down the steps to the stone bench where she still sat.
“I thought I would find you here, my dear,” he began cordially. “Would you care to take a turn with me in the Mulberry Walk? It will be cooler there.”
He was grey with fatigue but his faded blue eyes were alive again, alert with a joyful anticipation such as she had not seen there for many months.
She got up immediately and took his arm and they went slowly down the brick-walled walk, past the seventy-two mulberry trees that led to the Great Pond.
“So,” she said a trifle impatiently, when five minutes’ silence had still produced no voluntary information from him, “what happens now that you are forgiven?”
“I’m not forgiven,” he replied quietly. “I never hoped for forgiveness—only for the chance to serve her again. I thank God that of her mercy she has seen fit to grant me that favour.”
Every nerve in Mildred’s body screamed out in protest, but was given no voice.
“You have accepted the post,” she murmured dully, staring at the fountain ahead. “You will return to court.”
Burghley smiled faintly. “My dear, I could hardly refuse.”
His absent smile, his utter certainty of her acquiescence, were unbearable. For a moment she regretted all the years of patient self-restraint and wished she might throw one of Elizabeth’s famous tantrums here in the grounds of his own house. But even as she thought of it, she knew she had neither the spectacular temperament nor the essential physical frailty which enabled Elizabeth to make an exhibition of her instability without looking either ugly or ridiculous.
“How long are we to be honoured by Her Majesty’s presence?” was all that emerged at last in a rather dry tone from between her thin lips.
He coughed, as though realising that this, of all things, might be the final straw.
“Perhaps a month.”
So it was not enough to break his heart and then make him jump through a hoop like a performing dog; it was necessary to bankrupt him as well!
Not trusting herself to speak, she withdrew her arm stiffly from his hand and began to march back up the Mulberry Walk.
“Mall!”
She stopped. He never called her that, except behind the privacy of the bed curtains; in the hours of daylight she was always Mildred, respectable, serviceable.
“If you want me to say no—” He hesitated, staring miserably at the gravel walk. “I could plead my growing infirmity. If I do, I know she won’t ask it again. It could be as you wish—the house—the family.”
And you would be in the grave before the Spaniards come, thought Mildred sadly. So what is the point?
“Whatever you choose to do,” she said loyally, “I will support you, William. Don’t refuse her just to humour me.”
The relief in his face made her want to weep. He squeezed her arm gratefully and they went back into the house with their marriage intact.
* * *
So Burghley returned to court to resume his post as Lord Treasurer and having drawn her chief minister back into her web, Elizabeth turned her power on every man at court, deftly weaving the separate threads of their loyalty into one strong fabric. Transfigured by her own sense of purpose she was irresistible. No one escaped the network of her charm, neither courtier nor councillor. Poets and pirates, rogues and time-servers were suddenly united in her service, as Elizabeth alone was capable of uniting them. Never before had Leicester, watching her with awed fascination, been quite so strongly reminded of a queen bee; and indeed her influence over the hive held the same sort of primitive mystery. Like workers and drones, men fell into their appointed places around her, blindly, without questioning why they placed their lives at risk in a hopeless cause.
For it was a hopeless cause, Leicester was certain of it. He looked at the odds against them with the cold logic of a mathematician and knew that no man in his right senses would put a single gold crown on their chances of survival. A handful of modern ships and an army of ignorant amateurs! What serious hope had they against Philip’s huge vessels and Parma’s savage, disciplined troops? The very thought of them bearing down steadily upon Plymouth ought to be enough to make any sane man abandon the Queen to her enemies and run for his life.
Only no one would desert her, least of all himself—that was the miracle. And when he looked into her face, he knew that in spite of the facts, in spite of the logic, they were going to win.
This self-styled mother of the people was suckling them all, from some bottomless well of strength, with an intoxicating brew that played tricks with a man’s normal healthy sense of self-preservation. Each man who left her presence went out in a state of crazy euphoria, quietly convinced of his innate ability to walk through fire unscathed.
Her power was a tangible force he could no longer rationalise or dismiss; and curiosity consumed him. He simply could not help it any longer—he had to learn from whence that power came.
And what she offered in return for it!
“Elizabeth.” In his mouth his tongue felt dry and swollen, suddenly heavy with dread. What was it Burghley had once said? A very dangerous accusation—some might say it constituted an act of treason…
It could take him to the block.
Equally—it could take her to the stake.
She looked up and arched her pencil-line eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Are you still here? I thought you would have been at Tilbury by now, drilling that army of raw recruits.”
He looked down at the floor.
“Before I go—will you answer me one question?�
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She sighed and turned a page over; she was really very busy.
“Ask away then, but quickly. Burghley’s waiting outside.”
“Are you a witch?”
The words hung on the air for him to hear, aghast. How could he have asked it like that, without a grain of sense or subtlety, leaving neither of them any avenue for escape?
She looked at him in silence. Slowly she rose from her chair, a shadow curling upward until to his terrified sight she towered above him, all-pervading, all-knowing. It was a hot, hot summer’s day and all his senses throbbed and buzzed. Instinctively he passed a hand across his eyes.
“Robin?”
He blinked, and found her standing beside him, a full head shorter than him, as she had always been, her cool hand on his sleeve.
“This heat,” he muttered and wiped his brow with her handkerchief. She smiled and patted his stout girth.
“This padding doesn’t help. Now—you are not to tire yourself unduly at Tilbury, do you hear?” She frowned faintly, as the memory seemed to strike her. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”
Was it possible that she had been paying him so little attention that she had genuinely not heard his tense mumble?
Or was she offering the only safe way out for them both?
He would never know; he would never dare to ask it again.
He laughed a little unsteadily and said it was no great matter. Then he went out to tell Burghley that he might go in.
* * *
In mid-May 1588, a vast crocodile of Spanish ships sailed under its unwilling commander into storms and torrential rain. Medina Sidonia was horrified by “such summer seas as had never been in living memory,” sudden tempests which scattered their precise formation and wreaked such havoc that they were forced to shelter at Corunna until the middle of July. By then, they had lost time and the vital element of surprise. The English fleet was rapidly mobilised, and as Medina Sidonia pored over that dossier of instructions from Philip for the conduct of the campaign, Elizabeth gave full discretion to her Admiral, Howard of Effingham, and his vice-admirals.