Legacy

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Legacy Page 67

by Susan Kay


  But now that she truly hungered, he was a forbidden delicacy that she must not devour. She dominated his existence from morning till night, punishing him for the desire she could not bring herself to assuage, tormenting, teasing, leading him so far, then drawing back coldly, disgusted with herself, and with him. Leicester’s death had cheated her of physical fulfilment with the one man she had come to trust against her will; and now it was too late to learn to trust another. She had only to give the word and Essex would take her gladly; but she would not give it. The gulf of thirty-five years lay between them—it would be obscene! And worse, it would mean betraying Leicester’s memory.

  She could not enjoy his body then; but others could—and did—and she hated them for it. She had begun to hate all lovers, each and every person around her who led a natural life with a mate. The mere mention of marriage was liable to provoke an outburst of temper, and lovers avoided her glance, taking their pleasures in secret corners, in terror of discovery.

  Five years slid away, almost without trace; the Queen was nearly sixty and the Earl of Essex was still at her side. Only now they were fighting. They said he was the one man left in England with the courage to do it.

  He committed more breaches of etiquette than the rest of the court put together; he disobeyed her; he made love to her women without subterfuge; he withdrew from court whenever he could not have his own way in any dispute. Each time, after some brief outburst of rage, she welcomed him back and marvelled at her own weakness. And each time he returned a little more drunk on the sense of his own importance, his utter certainty that his power was growing. No woman had ever held his attention for long, except the Queen, but her subtle promise of surrender—complete and utter surrender to his will—the prospect of conquering where no man had conquered before, held him like a lodestone.

  For himself, he had many assets. A real promise of military leadership, a rising influence at court, a steady, growing popularity among the people—the only one of her favourites not to be hated by the populace. The boy with the red-gold hair looked like a king when he rode through the streets to Essex House or Wanstead and was cheered with mounting enthusiasm whenever he appeared.

  But his chief asset was undoubtedly his curious hold on the Queen’s affections. The sense of achievement this gave him was an intoxicating madness. She was like a tigress in his captivity, safe only for as long as he could accurately gauge the length of chain which bound her. The length of that chain varied from day to day, so that he could never be quite sure of leaping beyond reach of her paw. It was that which exhilarated his senses, bringing him back again and again to take his chance against a multifaceted cat who beguiled and baffled, intrigued and infuriated him by turns. Her timeless magic held him fast in its steely grip and he was not troubled by its unnatural overtones, for he never even noticed them.

  But she did. And once she drove her women out of her presence for some imagined fault, that she might be alone with her nameless fear. She took Leicester’s miniature from her casket and addressed it with tears of despair.

  “Oh, Robin—why did you ever bring him here?”

  The portrait gave no answer, but she fancied it looked at her with silent reproach, and she shut it away quickly, with a horrible feeling of guilt. Oh, yes—she was playing with fire now, she knew it. But she had lived with danger all her life and she could not live without its challenge, could not fall back and watch life become quiet and safe and tiresome. She needed Essex; needed the fight which he alone seemed able to give her.

  Yet there was one point on which she was obdurate, and he beat himself against it like a persistent bee hammering against a window-pane, unable to accept his inability to pass through this one petty barrier.

  She would not receive his mother at court.

  “Can’t you see how it reflects on me?” he burst out, one hot evening when she had sent her ladies away, knowing the mood he was in. “How can a man stay in a place where his own mother is not welcome? Well, I shall not stay. I shall depart the court, madam, and leave you to your stubbornness.”

  In other circumstances, that threat had softened her, but now she looked at him steadily, her eyes dark and watchful.

  “You must not make a habit of threatening me,” she said quietly. “If it becomes too tiresome I shall be forced to cure you of it—and I fancy we will both find that cure extraordinarily painful.”

  He smiled suddenly, the corners of his lips curling up in one of those sudden swings of mood which were so curiously reminiscent of her own.

  “Madam! Now you sound like my mother! Will you not forgive her, for my sake?”

  She turned away, the expression knocking hollowly against her heart.

  “I’m not your mother,” she said curtly. “Never refer to me by that term again, even in jest!”

  “As you please, madam.”

  Her tone had surprised him; he had expected her to laugh, as she so often did when he wheedled. When they were not at odds over one thing and another, they were always laughing—but evidently not tonight.

  He sighed and went down on his knees, trotting out the humble courtier which sometimes amused her. Abrasiveness would only carry him so far and often overshot its mark. And if humility would serve, he was ready for once to be humble; he really could not bear this ill-will between his mother and the Queen to continue any longer. It genuinely distressed him.

  “Madam, I beg you! Let me bring her just once to kiss your hand and I will never ask it of you again. You have no idea what these years of exile have meant to her—and surely, whatever her crime, she has paid for it by now. Your creditors stripped her of virtually every possession Leicester left her—oh, yes, I know there were debts—but his debts after all—”

  “On his death they reverted to her,” said Elizabeth coldly. “She was his widow.”

  “She is no longer,” he reminded her tactlessly. “She is Lady Blount now.”

  The Queen’s lips tightened angrily.

  “Then let her new husband provide for her. I tolerate her within my realm against my will and it is enough. Within my court, within my presence—never!”

  His hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his sword. She recognised it as a gesture of nerves, again because it was her own. Sometimes the likeness between them seemed extraordinary, almost uncanny. But then he was of her mother’s kin, so perhaps some slight, family resemblance was not so remarkable after all.

  “I don’t understand you,” he was saying resentfully. “You have pardoned traitors in your time, yet for your own flesh and blood you are without pity. If you loved me, madam, you would not deny me this one small request.”

  She chewed the paint on her lower lip, aware of the tightly checked rage bubbling like molten lava beneath the surface of her mind, a treacherously dormant volcano.

  “Take care,” she said, “and humour me in this, if nothing else. I warn you now that age has not improved my temper.”

  “Age,” he echoed thoughtfully, staring at her steadily. “Age has forgotten you, madam—claim no advantage of it. I will not humour you for that.”

  Her eyes opened a little wider on his face.

  “I am almost sixty.” Her voice was thin with fear. “Sixty!”

  “Who would know it!”

  His flattery—if it was flattery—had a brutal edge to it, as though he was half-angered by his admiration. “You are in better health now than you have been all your life. You are slim as your maids of honour and dance better than any of them. Look in your mirror, my Maiden Queen, and see what the Devil does for those he favours.”

  She closed her eyes suddenly and Leicester’s voice was softly fearful in her memory.

  “Are you a witch?”

  Oh God, she thought in terror, what price my witchery in this?

  For Essex did not lie to her, she knew it. Whatever was in his mind tripped out on his tongue with
out a moment’s thought for expediency, and in that he was truly unlike herself. He had no tact. Rude with honesty, he was the most forthright man at court and the eyes which rested on her, with such unwilling adoration, were hard and guileless. The lines concealed beneath a subtle mask of paint, white hair under an exquisite wig, teeth steadily blackening behind her clever, close-lipped smile—there was no mirror in her palace, but she knew they were there.

  Only he never seemed to see it.

  And he was right. Most folk were in their graves by sixty. Those who weren’t were crippled wrecks like poor Burghley, toothless, hard of hearing, struggling with growing infirmity. But not since her childhood had she enjoyed such remarkable health and vitality. Her migraine attacks were increasingly infrequent. All those minor, but debilitating, symptoms which had once bolstered the ambassadors’ despatches, they had disappeared since the Armada, vanished as though somehow—they had served their purpose.

  She wondered suddenly just what part her poor health had played in staying Philip’s hand for three decades, how often he had weighed the cost of invading to dethrone her against the hope of her death from natural causes.

  Now, of course, it made no difference. They were still in a state of war and no such consideration would ever deter Philip again. Nor was ill-health of political advantage when coupled with encroaching age. So—was it mere coincidence that her ailments had dispersed, that no one could use the words, old and unfit for high office, at a time when most men should be seriously considering her successor?

  Essex was momentarily forgotten as she looked back over her life, searching for explanations.

  In her mind the mist was lifting a little, showing here and there a glimmer of light, an echo from the past, images and phrases jostling like pieces of some strange puzzle, never quite falling into place.

  “I was suborned to this marriage by foul practices of witchcraft.”

  So had her father spoken publicly of her mother, full of self-pity and self-justification for what he had done to her. But it was the common people who had first seized on the charge of witchcraft, citing in evidence Anne’s two physical blemishes, both known hallmarks of the Devil—an enormous mole on her neck, always covered by a cunning jewelled collar, and a tiny sixth finger on her left hand, always concealed beneath the sweeping Boleyn sleeves designed to hide it.

  The mist was still lifting. Deeper and deeper she groped into the forgotten regions of her early infancy.

  Someone was fondling her fingers, counting them over and over again and laughing with a shrill, demented pleasure.

  “You see, beloved, not a mark upon her skin to betray her.”

  “Nan—Nan, how can you be so sure? Look at the length of her fingers—it will surely cause comment.”

  “But they are perfectly formed, and they cannot fault her for beauty. Oh, George, she will be more fortunate than I. No one will ever be able to accuse her…”

  George.

  George Boleyn. Executed on a charge of incest with his sister, Anne—Queen of England…

  Such an incredible fierce desire to eat apples…

  The vision altered, narrowed, showed her the source of her power. Beside the state bed a golden casket, always locked; and within, a little, headless doll. Waiting!

  “Let me destroy this evil thing!”

  “No!—oh no, not yet—she does not wish it.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and found Essex watching her curiously. In one hand he held an apple, appropriated, without her leave, from the bowl which stood on her bedside table. He had taken the little jewelled dagger from his belt and was about to pierce its skin.

  Without warning, she reached out to strike it from his hand and the apple rolled under the state bed.

  “Next time,” she said, in a strangled voice, “ask before you take.”

  “Madam?” He seemed bewildered by her sudden rage; a little colour had left his face. He stared at her like a hurt child, uncertain how it has offended, and she tried to smile.

  “It had a maggot,” she said unsteadily.

  “I never saw,” he began.

  “No,” she said sharply, “you never see any danger, do you?”

  He smiled. “Oh come, madam—I would hardly die of a maggot. May I have your gracious leave to take another?”

  “No,” she said curtly, and turned away to sit down in the window-seat. “If you hunger, let your mother feed you.”

  So that was it! What a pair they were, she and Lettice, always sniping at each other; and he, like pig-in-the-middle, so painfully bound by loyalty to them both.

  “I have offended you,” he said contritely.

  She frowned. “Is that not your greatest talent?”

  “So it would seem—but there, I let it rest.”

  She half turned to look at him with relief.

  “Then—you will ask it no more?”

  “For tonight. But I shall ask it again, madam, I give you my word. I shall ask it humbly, on my knees, in season and out, until I live to see you change your mind.”

  “You appear to count on a remarkably long life,” she said acidly.

  He laughed, honestly amused by her tart retort.

  “Ah, madam, why not? I am young, I have many years left to me.”

  “The two do not necessarily follow,” she said darkly. “Those whom the gods love die young.”

  “Then I am safe, for no god loves me.” He pressed her long fingers to his lips. “Only a goddess—and she is famous for her mercy.”

  * * *

  Not all their disagreements ended so amicably. He had a voice in her Council now and he used it, raising it to the rafters whenever the Spanish war was under discussion. He had some of the Queen’s ability to command an audience; he was convincing, plausible even when he was wrong, and gradually the younger, hotter-headed councillors began to group themselves around him, in opposition to the moderation of the Cecils. By 1591 Essex was a man to be reckoned with, possessing solid status in England and a reputation for military eldership to bolster his considerable political standing.

  When Philip chose to hurl an army at the new Protestant French King in Brittany, Essex’s name, already a byword in Europe, was suddenly on everyone’s lips and there was a clamour in Council and among the people for an English army to be despatched to France, under his leadership. Elizabeth knew she could not stand idly by and let her ally go under, leaving Philip to occupy the Channel provinces. But when she had gathered her forces, grumbling bitterly about the cost, she did not immediately make what everyone considered the obvious choice of leader. Driven by her curious, instinctive sense, she hesitated, while a storm of protest broke out around her. The King of France had openly named his preference—Essex himself had spent two hours on his knees begging for the command—what made her hesitate?

  She did not know, she could not have explained—it was just a feeling, the old intuition which so seldom played her false. But in the end, so great was the outcry, she was forced to concede to the demands of public opinion; and Essex was appointed amid general applause.

  He sailed to France, there to play the gallant knight, disobeying her orders, and frittering her money away. He returned a virtual failure, but it made no difference to his standing with the people. They welcomed their handsome, high-born hero home as though he had just returned fresh from a second Agincourt, and outdid each other recounting stories of his personal bravery on the field, his perfect chivalry, his complete manhood.

  Elizabeth was not amused. She was sick of his complete manhood, and his perfect chivalry, and openly contemptuous of a reckless fool bent on empty heroics. She was not interested in honourable acquittal in the field, only in concrete results that could be judged in hard, economic terms; and she received him caustically.

  He told her in a pained tone that he had done his best; she told him coldly that his best was n
ot good enough; and they parted after a heated exchange of grievances.

  He took his perfect chivalry off to Wanstead, flouncing out of court rather like the temperamental woman he left behind. When he got there, he remembered all the telling remarks he ought to have made to her, the ungrateful bitch, and duly sat down in a flaming temper to pour them out on paper.

  It was a grave mistake. Words spoken in the heat of the moment may be forgiven; words preserved for ever on parchment may overreach their mark once passion has abated.

  “I see Your Majesty is resolved to ruin me…I appeal to all men that saw my parting from France or the manner of my coming hither, whether I deserved such a welcome or not.”

  The letter glowed with the same extraordinary passion that marked all his love letters to the Queen, and his sentiments alarmed Elizabeth. The threat was so openly expressed, that for the first time she wondered if he was quite sane. Certainly no other man in England would have dared to write such a thing to her.

  She was not angry now; she was something far more dangerous, cool, calculating, her sense of survival alerted by the one phrase which contained the whole essence of his letter.

  I appeal to all men…Would he, one day? Would he use the people against her if she ever pushed him too far?

  She folded the letter broodingly and put it away into her desk; and they were reconciled as everyone who knew them had supposed they would be. Only the Queen was aware of the significant change in their relationship. Her pleasure in the company of the man who was neither son, nor lover, was now tempered by the dark suspicion that one day he might stab her in the back.

  But the prospect did not entirely displease her. She had mastered every man in her life so far with consummate ease. The mastery of Essex was still fraught with challenge; and challenge was the one temptation she had never been able to resist.

 

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