by Susan Kay
Chapter 2
The years which followed the Great Armada ticked away in a rapid succession of deaths. By 1595 Walsingham, Hatton, and even Drake were in their graves and a new generation of ambitious men was rising at court to snap at each other’s heels. Faction politics were showing signs of polarising into two distinct camps, one led by Burghley and his stunted son, the other by the Earl of Essex; both ruled by a woman who seemed increasingly to resemble a despot.
The strange, shifting sands of Elizabeth’s diplomacy continued to stalemate the affairs of Europe. Her ability to wring time out of ugly situations had become her greatest strength, but it was a fluid policy, based on underhand deals and shameless delays, which drove Essex into a frenzy of frustration. He could not abide inaction, indecision, or any of the tactics which his Queen employed with such resounding success. He wanted to lay military glory at her feet, but all she wanted to know was what it would cost!
Subterfuge was an anathema to him and the Queen was like some exotic spider, spinning a fantastic web, fascinating, but repulsive to his inner code of conduct. She listened to him; she smiled; she seemed convinced; but the next day saw her frowning, arguing, and dancing away to his enemies of whom frankly, there were many. Wild for to hold she was, just as her mother had been, and how could one conquer a woman who never stood still?
Each succeeding year saw Elizabeth slip a little deeper into the graven image of a virgin goddess. Her clothes became increasingly fantastic and her behaviour correspondingly eccentric; she ceased to notice her own tyranny. She held sway over a court of headstrong, ambitious men, looking down on them from Olympian height, dwarfing them by her presence to the insignificance of dolls. They were nothing without her favour, empty vessels, petty stars in a firmament where she alone was the sun. She took them, used them, watched them crumple to their drained and dispirited deaths without pity. And was amused to find that all the men who had lived in terror of her own death were now in their graves—all save one.
Bent and withered, often too sick to attend Council meetings, Burghley still soldiered on, unable to resign either the reins of government or his spiritual bondage to the Queen. Cruel words spoken in the heat of anger had made no permanent impression on their immutable relationship. Both, in their own way, had buried their private pain deep, making the necessary mental concession to the indisputable fact that neither of them could do without the other. They two, like Alpha and Omega, seemed destined to travel side by side until the last star burnt out. Men spoke of them both as immortal—and feared them.
The shadow in Elizabeth grew darker and gained substance, making her steadily harder and more irrationally jealous of the personal happiness of others. Marrying for love had become a crime second only to treason at the English court and no courtier was immune to the dreadful penalties it carried. Even Raleigh fell foul of her on that score, when his secret union with Bess Throckmorton landed him in the Tower. It was five years before he was permitted to set foot in the Queen’s presence again and he spent those five years, to his wife’s intense chagrin, driving himself on mad schemes designed to attract the Queen’s approval. When at last Elizabeth made the first gesture of forgiveness, Raleigh left his home and his wife without a backward glance, while Bess wept and cursed the woman no wife could hope to rival for long.
Essex, alone, was forgiven the transgression of marriage and restored to favour in a few weeks, for even the Queen, once over her initial fury, could not seriously resent his choice of wife. With the pick of her court to choose from, he had taken Sir Philip Sidney’s colourless, tragic little widow to his bed, and then felt honour-bound to marry her when he got her with child. This travesty of a union was no threat to Elizabeth, and having slapped the girl soundly for her presumption, the Queen was moderately agreeable to her; she was sufficiently in contact with reality to know that it could have been worse, much worse.
Her attitude to Frances Devereux was quite without precedent and caused a whisper to pass round the court that this man was a second Leicester and could get away with anything; but if the Queen heard, she gave no sign.
I see but say nothing was still her motto.
* * *
The war with Spain drifted on in a vague, unsatisfactory fashion, because Philip, though increasingly weak and ill, would never abandon his ambitions until he was laid in his coffin. Essex pleaded for the grand open action, an all-out assault against Cadiz under his command. But the Queen preferred to hedge her bests with an offensive and defensive league with the French.
Philip had switched the war arena to France and when Calais fell to the Spanish forces, the cannon fire was clearly heard in Greenwich Palace, a deal too close for comfort, as even Elizabeth had to admit. Essex seethed at her inevitable delaying tactics, bemoaned that he was never allowed to “do her service but against her will” and swore, with his usual extravagance, that if she thwarted his expedition at the last moment he would “become a monk.” But in the end as usual she had her own way. She got her French treaty and her victory at Cadiz. The Spanish fleet assembled there was destroyed and the most flourishing city in Spain fell before the onslaught of Essex’s forces.
It was a resounding victory, second only to the triumph of 1588, and Essex was loudly hailed in England as the hero of the hour. But his unaccountable delay in attacking had given the Spanish commander the opportunity to destroy Philip’s West Indian treasure fleet, which had been nestling in Cadiz harbour. Medina Sidonia had the comfort of knowing that if the treasure was lost to Spain it was equally lost to England; and Essex had watched the flaming galleons with the first qualm of unease. He had promised the Queen that this expedition would pay for itself, but surely she could not be so unreasonable as always to expect victory with dividends. The inhabitants of Cadiz raised a ransom of £120,000 but no one who knew Elizabeth could expect her to overlook the fact that twelve million ducats now lay useless at the bottom of the sea, along with more than forty vessels in prime condition, which would have handsomely swelled the English merchant fleet. He conferred sixty-eight knighthoods on his own officers, razed Cadiz to the ground, and set sail for England on a wave of romantic public opinion. There he found that the Queen had taken advantage of his absence to make Burghley’s crippled son, Robert Cecil, the new Secretary of State. His indignant protests were stopped short by Elizabeth’s scathing remarks on empty-headed knaves who allowed twelve million ducats to slide through their fingers. There was another quarrel, another withdrawal from court, and Essex, stung by the Queen’s contempt, turned to take comfort from the blaze of public popularity which now surrounded him. If the Queen did not appreciate his achievements, there were others who did. Cheering mobs followed him in the streets and clustered around Essex House, waiting for him to appear; flocked after him to Wanstead, where he retired to sulk; drank his health in the local taverns.
The noise of his triumph spilt in through the palace windows and when she heard the chanting of his name—“Essex! Essex! Essex!”—Elizabeth felt blind, hot jealousy seize her by the throat. Never in almost forty years had she heard the London crowds shout for anyone but her and, with her old, uncanny instinct for survival, she sensed her danger. She had a rival at last, an enemy more potentially dangerous than ever the Queen of Scots had been.
She had flayed everyone who chose to uphold Essex’s achievement as “the greatest blow ever dealt to the power of Spain,” even turned on Burghley and called him a miscreant and a coward, telling him that out of fear he had come to regard Essex more than he did herself. But now, seeing her peril, she changed her tactics abruptly and veered round upon Essex’s enemies, recalled the Earl to court and made much of him, so that Essex, utterly bewildered by her change of heart, could only suppose that his presence had conquered after all. She could not do without him—his ascendancy was complete.
Once more the viols played, the Maiden Queen rose and took the hand of the knight of chivalry, and beneath a blaze of candles they
danced, apparently in perfect harmony. But as she rose from a deep curtsey she glanced round at the bent, old figure of the Lord Treasurer and gave him a cool little smile. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the old man inclined his head; and though no words had passed between them, their understanding was complete.
* * *
Late that night Burghley lay abed, listening to the rantings of his stunted, hunchbacked son. Up and down the room went the twisted little figure of the new Secretary of State, gesturing wildly in his impotent rage.
“You and I, Father—we might just as well resign. He has everything—military reputation, the backing of the people, and the Queen as besotted with him as ever. She can’t bear him out of her sight for two minutes put together. Mark my words, in six months he’ll rule here—I see nothing likely to prevent it.”
“You are mistaken, Robert—no man has yet mastered the Queen or ever will.”
Cecil swung round, sharp with sudden irritation.
“Oh, lord, Father—how can you say that? I’ve seen them together and what I see disgusts me—she’s completely under his influence.”
Burghley smiled a slow, secret smile and smoothed the white linen sheets with guarded satisfaction.
“Completely under his influence,” he murmured. “Oh, yes—that is what he thinks now—but what he sees—and what you see, my boy—is an illusion. Her Majesty will dispel it like morning mist whenever it pleases her to do so.”
“You think so?” Cecil was patently unconvinced.
“You will allow that I know the Queen a little better than most!” Burghley’s voice was touched with frost; the necessity of mentioning the fact had annoyed him. “Lord, boy—do you really think her so devoid of purpose? The moment his back is turned she favours his opponents—only remember how you came about your present office. Secretary of State.” The old man nodded approvingly. “It’s a powerful position, Robert, mind you value it, as I did.”
“I would have valued it before now, if she had chosen to appoint me earlier, Father—God knows, I’ve done the job for long enough without recognition or salary. What did she think I lived on all that time—fresh air?”
Burghley waved his hand impatiently.
“You and your wife have been well provided for.”
“By you, sir. A man does not expect to look to his father for support at my age.”
“The Queen gives and the Queen takes. It is her right.”
“Oh, she most certainly takes! Mother warned me as much before I ever came to court. Doubtless, if we had a king it would be different—” Cecil looked up and caught his father’s eyes fixed upon him. They were hard and black with gathering fury.
“A king,” muttered Burghley, in a thin whisper of disbelief. “A king?”
“A private opinion only,” added Robert hastily.
“A traitor’s opinion!” Burghley snapped, his hands clenched round the sheets, his withered cheeks whitening with the intensity of his emotion. “By God’s soul, have I sired her a viper and nurtured it in my own nest?” He caught his son by the sleeve and shook him weakly. “Have I? God damn you, sir, answer me!”
“No,” said Robert, truly alarmed now. “No, of course not. For God’s sake, Father, don’t agitate yourself like this or you’ll have a seizure. Let me get you some wine.”
Burghley sank back into his pillows, breathing heavily and with difficulty.
“It’s not wine I need—it’s your oath of loyalty. Your sworn vow of service. You will be loyal to the Queen until she dies. You will swear it.”
Robert knelt and kissed the hand which had never before been raised against him in anger, not even in his childhood.
“I swear it, Father. I give you my word. Rest easy now, I implore you!”
Burghley closed his eyes and exhaled his breath in a long-drawn sigh of exhaustion.
“If you fail her, you fail me,” he whispered dimly. “When I am no longer here to remind you—remember it!”
“I will remember,” said Robert dutifully. But he turned away to fetch the wine with a resentful heart.
His mother had been jealous of the Queen; he had been little more than a boy when he first began to realise it. And now he remembered the day he had gone hurrying from his father’s study to his mother’s private closet, as near to running in his excitement as any hunchbacked youngster could be.
“Mother—I’m to go to court with Father when my studies are complete. I’ve been chosen to serve the Queen.”
Mildred had looked up at him and her comfortable face was stony.
“Chosen!” she repeated stiffly, laying her embroidery aside. “The Druids had a better word for it, I think!”
He came into the room and shut the door quickly.
“You’re not pleased. Didn’t Father discuss it with you first?”
“Oh yes, naturally. You know your father—the very soul of marital democracy!”
It was so unlike Mildred to speak slightingly of her husband, that Robert drew up a chair beside her and looked at her with concern.
“It’s because of Thomas, isn’t it?—you feel it was his right, as the eldest, to take his place at Father’s side.”
Mildred’s mouth set into a grim line.
“Most men,” she said harshly, “would seek to advance their first-born son, no matter what his ability, but not your father, oh no—Thomas was always a bitter disappointment to him. Not fit for the Queen’s service—not fit, his own heir! What other man would put such a consideration first? But there—Thomas might prove a liability to Her Majesty and that would never do, would it? Only the best for our Virgin Queen.” She groped angrily for her silks and needles. “So it’s to be you instead—you the child I wore myself out to rear, nursing you from one illness to the next—you who are to break your health and heart in her service. Much good it will do you!”
“Why are you so angry?” He had been hurt and indignant at last; he hated any reference to his physical frailty. “What else am I to do if I don’t go to court and win honour there?”
“Honour!” Mildred spat in the hearth without undue ceremony, “Aye, and honour is about all you’ll ever get from it. Never think to taste real power, boy. There’s only one power in this land and that’s the Queen—mind you never forget it.”
He was silent, sorting through her skeins of silk, as he had been wont to do as a child whenever he was troubled.
“I want this chance, Mother. I really want it.”
“Take it, then,” she said curtly. “You’re the pick of the litter—yes—your father’s own words, for all it makes me little more than a brood bitch. Sometimes he makes me feel that my sole purpose on this earth was to breed a son suitable—suitable, mind!—for her service.”
“Mother,” he remonstrated uncomfortably. “Anyone would think you hate the Queen.”
“Hate her?” Mildred lifted faded eyes, dogged with defiance. “Every woman in this kingdom will learn to hate her in time—every woman with a husband or a son that she can take and use to serve her purpose. Granted, she gives them back when she’s finished with them—gives them back old before their time, broken—useless!”
Now what exactly did she mean by useless? He did not like to guess and lowered his eyes, embarrassed by this unlooked-for outburst of bitterness. He tried to ease the conversation on to safer ground.
“Father says he’ll need my help in the coming years to form a faction. He wants the family’s influence to continue after his death, that’s all. It’s understandable.”
Mildred laughed shortly. “Much he cares for the family influence when he leaves the next Lord Burghley to rot in idleness on his country estate. Don’t you see, it’s not the family’s fortune that matters to him, it’s the Queen’s. What will she do when I’m gone? That’s the way his mind runs in this matter and you’re the answer to his nightmare. You’re a tool, my boy, n
othing more or less than another of his devices for her safety.”
“I don’t believe that,” Robert had said stubbornly. “He’s always been the most devoted father—the most faithful of husbands too,” he added, in pointed reminder. “It’s not kind of you to doubt it.”
“I never said that I doubted it,” remarked Mildred drily. “Your father is deeply fond of us all. But it’s the Queen he loves!”
Robert flushed hotly and turned away.
“You’re surely not trying to imply that Father of all people was ever—”
“Good God, no!” She cut him short in mid-sentence. “Your father’s never looked at another woman in that way—God knows, there’ve been times when I almost wished he had. I could have come to terms with his whore. I could have excused a normal transient lust, it’s his utter mindless devotion to her that I can’t bear. Nothing shakes his loyalty, no matter what blows she deals out to him. It’s—” She paused, groping for the right word to express her resentment. “It’s unnatural!”
Robert was silenced, his sense of eager anticipation dulled by a vague feeling of alarm. He was suddenly no longer sure he wanted to follow his father’s footsteps down such a dark and uncertain path. He did not like the sound of this woman he would be bound to serve and obey for his father’s sake.
“I suppose I could always take up law,” he began diffidently.
Mildred made an impatient gesture.
“Make all the plans you like,” she said irritably. “Do you suppose for one moment any of them will make a jot of difference? Your future is charted out for you now—the Queen will swallow up your life, just as she’s swallowed your father’s. I suppose I should give thanks to God for your twisted spine. She likes physical perfection in her men, so you at least will know some measure of freedom. Doubtless, your wife will be grateful for it.”
They had never spoken on the subject again, but it was a conversation which remained with Robert long after his mother’s death. It had coloured his view of Elizabeth well before he entered her service; when at last he came, fearful and hesitant, to court, under Burghley’s patronage, she chose to call him her Pygmy. And after that, it had been easy to believe that his confused emotional response to this mysterious woman was composed chiefly of cold dislike.