by Susan Kay
He sat on the edge of the bed now and watched his father slowly sipping his wine, wheezing and grunting with the multiplying discomforts of old age.
Pity touched him and he leaned over to touch Burghley’s swollen hand on the coverlet.
“Father—you’re a very sick man. Don’t you think it’s time you really did resign this post?”
The Queen would not countenance it,” said Burghley with an air of quiet satisfaction which irked the younger man. “I am her right hand—always have been, you know. I had my chance to leave office and retire quietly in the country after Mary Stuart’s death. Your mother urged me to take it, but then the Queen came back to me—yes, she took me back, as I had hoped and prayed and thought impossible at last. Your mother wasn’t pleased of course, but she held her peace. Admirable woman, your mother, Robert—admirable woman. She understood what it meant to me to regain the Queen’s confidence.”
Robert was silent.
“She always trusted me,” mused Burghley softly, “trusted me beyond anyone else—even Leicester.”
“And now she has Essex,” said Robert sourly.
“Whom she does not trust at all.”
Robert stared at him in astonishment.
“She loves him!”
“Perhaps. That will not save him if he continues playing to the gallery in this manner. The moment he raises his hand to touch the sceptre, she’ll strike him down without mercy. Believe me, my son, I know her. You may think that you have seen her angry, but you know nothing—and no more does Essex—of her capacity for vengeance. Her extraordinary talent for inflicting pain.”
Burghley’s thin lips quivered for a moment and he closed his eyes on a fugitive gleam of unshed tears.
“She chose to hurt me once. I will not tell you why or how—but there was a time, I assure you, when I thought I would never care for anything again because of it.”
“Father!”
“Oh, I deserved some punishment, even expected it, but not that—I did not deserve that! Walsingham used to say that knowledge is never too dear, but I would have paid a king’s ransom to be spared that one cruel piece. She is two people, my boy—two entirely different people. One, kind and loyal, so full of warmth and intelligence that a man would gladly give his soul to serve her. And the other—frightening! Few have seen that other side of her and those who have prefer not to dwell on the experience—the dreadful cruelty. If that side of her should ever turn its face to Essex—”
Burghley broke off and was broodingly silent. It was a long time before he looked up and, when he did, he began to speak as though his son had only that moment entered the room.
“My dear boy, it was good of you to come, but I’m too weary to discuss anything tonight. Put out the lights and leave me to my rest. We will talk tomorrow.”
Puzzled and ill at ease, the young Secretary did as he was bidden, leaving his father to nod in the rosy firelight.
Shadows bobbed on the panelled walls as the flames leapt and flickered in the stone hearth, and Burghley watched them, remembering the Queen’s curious sidelong glance, and all that he believed it signified.
Oh no, she did not trust Essex; and now there was something growing in the labyrinth of her mind, something dark and secret. She was jealous of her people’s affection and whenever she was jealous she was dangerous; but Essex was blind to the smouldering resentment in her black eyes. Blind and reckless and arrogant; and assuredly riding for a fall.
The knowledge gave Burghley a certain satisfaction, for it was almost like old times, a reincarnation of his lifelong battle with Leicester—his son, against the Gypsy’s stepson. Very fitting, yes—supremely fitting. Intelligence and craft against charm and panache, and the Queen still where she had always been, squarely in the centre of the see-saw, holding the balance of power.
Whatever his grievances, Robert had been bred up in loyalty to the Queen, and Burghley had every confidence that he would serve her with unstinting care. He was also equally convinced that Essex would betray her.
There would be a mighty clash of titans, an earth-shattering encounter which would echo through the firmament and disturb the heavenly bodies. When it was over, the landscape at court would be irretrievably altered, scattered with flotsam and jetsam, as after some terrible shipwreck of emotion. That day might be near or far, but it would come. And when that day was over, Robert Cecil, Secretary of State, would be there to pick up the pieces quietly and unobtrusively.
* * *
“Madam, I tell you plainly, there is a new Spanish fleet bound for English waters.”
The Queen turned her head in its stiff-wired frame of lace and shrugged her monstrously padded shoulders. There was always a new Spanish fleet and it was always bound for English waters—so what was new?
“You are an alarmist, my lord, like the rest of my warmongering Council.”
Essex laughed shortly.
“Madam, Philip’s hatred of you is quite maniacal. He has sworn to avenge the failure of ’88 if it costs him his last candlestick. As an alarmist, I consider that to be an alarming threat. Will you sit back and allow it to be carried out?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I’ve told you before, I can’t afford to keep financing these offensive expeditions.”
“You can’t afford not to!” he interrupted angrily. “For Christ’s sake, stop haggling like a—like a—”
Her finely plucked eyebrows raised in ironic challenge, dared him to say the dreadful word “miser.” But even Essex’s courage had its limits and he took refuge in kissing her hand.
“Madam—you try me too far when I seek only to serve you. Let me take the fleet to the Azores and lie in wait for them, wherever they’re bound—to the south coast or Ireland. It will be Cadiz all over again.”
“It had better not be,” she said caustically. “If I don’t see a better return for my investment this time there’ll be trouble.”
This time?” He picked her up at once. “Does that mean you consent?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He half rose from his knees in exasperation, but she placed an imperious finger on his shoulder so that he sank back again.
“Madam, you’re being totally unreasonable. You know I can do it.”
“I know you say you can do it. Just because you had a little luck at Cadiz you think you can conquer the world at my expense.”
“Luck!” he echoed in angry disbelief. “Luck!”
She saw the dangerous flash in his eyes and suddenly smiled and patted his shoulder.
“Now, there’s no call to take that tone, I was only teasing you. You’re always so quick to take offence, Robert.”
“You’re always so damned ready to give it,” he said frankly, and suddenly they both smiled. She began to chew the handle of her fan thoughtfully.
“If I agreed to finance this exploit—if, I say—then I might be prepared to give you a joint command with Raleigh and Howard—”
He flung up his head furiously and glared at her.
“You know I won’t accept that—I won’t be treated like a schoolboy who can’t be trusted! I’ll command the whole damn thing or I’ll have nothing to do with it—and you know what that will mean. The men will follow me into Hell—they won’t follow Howard half as far. Is that what you want?”
She stood up suddenly and shook out the folds of her heavily panniered gown, so that the ruby aglets flashed fire in the candlelight. A mantle of white lawn trailed from her headdress and she stood twisting Mary Stuart’s long rope of black pearls between her fingers.
“One day,” she said quietly, “I will break you of that stubborn will, you wild stallion. You’re as arrogant and obstinate as the Devil himself—you get it from your mother, of course—I’ve always said so.”
She made to turn away from him and he caught her hand and kissed it violently.
“Would you rather I cringed and whined at your heels like the rest of them?”
She was silent, watching him, and beneath her steady gaze, his own fell.
“I speak the truth as I see it.” He stole a glance at her. “Whether it’s pleasing to your ears or not. You used to say you liked that—that it was a breath of fresh air in your stifling court. Do you now mislike it in me that I will not lie like a Trojan to suit your mood?”
The Queen sighed and stroked one finger idly across his cheek.
“Some day,” she said softly, “you will speak your mind once too often. I swear that tongue of yours will be the death of you.”
He smiled faintly. “A duel?”
“Perhaps.” She had turned away from him, her voice curiously distant. He ran after her and flung himself on his knees at her feet, clasping both her hands aggressively between his own.
“No, madam, you shall not dance away from me again. I mean to have your answer and to have it tonight. Do I command this fleet or not?”
She freed one hand and began to twist the silver buttons which adorned his russet doublet.
“If you come back empty-handed again—”
“I won’t, I swear it. You shall have your West Indian treasure fleet, madam—sufficient to pay for the expedition several times over.”
She studied the arrogant tilt of his chin, the brilliant hair, Tudor red, this young aristocrat who would pass anywhere for her son, so like herself and yet so unalike. Fear touched her for a moment, a sudden, maternal urge to protect him from himself and the creeping darkness in her own heart. If she let him go and he succeeded, he would be a greater threat than ever to her; if he failed she would never forgive him for it. Why must he strive for military glory when she could keep him at home, safe from all its attendant perils?
He touched her hand in a little, prompting gesture.
“Your answer, madam?”
She turned her head abruptly away from him and stared out at the black night beyond her window.
“My answer,” she said coldly, “is No!”
He rose stiffly, narrowly holding himself in restraint, took her hand in a hard grip that made her wince, pressed it against his taut lips and bowed icily.
“I shall be at Wanstead until you change your mind,” he snapped; and was gone, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
The silence from Wanstead was so deep and ominous that the Council became alarmed and begged the Queen to allow Essex to lead the expedition to intercept the new Spanish fleet. She frowned, she grumbled at the cost, she baulked at the emotional and political blackmail which he had aimed against her; but, in the end, she said ungraciously that he might go if he wished.
From beginning to end the mission was an unmitigated disaster, for this time the elements were against him. A gale force wind prevented him from destroying the Spanish shipping in Ferrol harbour and, not daring to return empty-handed, he set sail for the Azores in search of the Spanish plate fleet. There a question of honour wrecked the whole expedition, when Raleigh, his subordinate officer, stole his moment of glory by taking the island of Fayal behind his back. In a blazing rage, Essex promptly attempted to outshine Raleigh by attacking the island of San Miguel. While he was occupied there, the Spanish treasure fleet, finding its route suddenly unguarded, seized the opportunity to sail safely into the impregnable harbour of Terceira and was lost to the English force for good. News was carried to Philip that while Essex was cavorting about the Azores, the English shores were completely vulnerable to attack at last; and in a transport of holy, half-hysterical glee, the King of Spain flung his third Armada out to sea. This time—this time he could not fail!
The Spanish fleet set sail in hurried confusion, its commander not even permitted to know its destination until they reached the Bay of Biscay. Even so they were a mighty force and the news of their imminent arrival caused a panic of preparation in England. Once more the warning beacons were laid in readiness, the rusty militia was organised, and the Queen cursed the men who had persuaded her to capitulate to Essex and so give the enemy both the leisure and the courage to attack. When gales and storms splattered the Spanish fleet along the coast of France, the main body of ships, leaking and battered, was forced to straggle home. Elizabeth was first limp with relief at the news and then transported with rage against the fool who was responsible for the whole situation. While Philip, half dead with disease and fatigue and despair, learned that once more his God had deserted him, Essex arrived home to discover that in his absence Robert Cecil had received the Duchy of Lancaster, and the old Lord Admiral, Howard, had been created Earl of Nottingham. As Steward of the next Parliament, Howard would now take automatic precedence over the hero of Cadiz. All his carefully rehearsed humility deserted him at that news and instead of grovelling for forgiveness, as any man of sense would have done, he promptly flew into a temper and flounced off to Wanstead, refusing to return even for the festivities of the 17th of November, the fortieth observance of the Queen’s accession.
“I’ve had enough of this!” said Elizabeth ominously to Burghley, as Christmas approached without a gesture of conciliation from the absent Earl. “The time has come to put an end to his nonsense.”
“Yes, madam,” said Burghley, quietly; hopefully.
“I knew it would end like this—a total disaster—nothing to show for it but expense upon expense. Doesn’t he realise we could have been invaded while he played the fool in the Azores?”
Burghley said nothing, letting her mood of indignation grow slowly. She was pacing up and down like a caged tigress.
“Well, that’s an end to it! I’ve finished with these mad exploits altogether—we seek peace from now on. The next time the fleets sails out of the Channel it will be over my dead body—do you hear me, Burghley?”
He coughed discreetly. “Yes, madam.”
She bore down on him furiously, brandishing her fan like a dagger.
“And after all this the people still hail him as a hero?”
“Yes, madam,” he said grimly; there was no accounting for the people. “They blame the bad weather—they blame Raleigh—they blame everything, in fact, except my lord of Essex.”
“My lord of Essex!” She gritted her teeth and slapped the fan viciously against the billowing folds of her gown. “And where is he now, the conquering hero—still sulking at Wanstead because Howard takes precedence over him in a stupid procession?”
“I believe he’s here in London, madam.”
“Oh?” Her glance flickered. “Then why is he not at court?”
“Why indeed, madam!”
Burghley raised his bushy eyebrows in a significant gesture that was not wasted on her. Suddenly her eyes narrowed into a fixed stare like a cat’s and her lips became a thin, grim, scarlet line in her lined face. He knew she understood how dangerous it would be to continue humiliating a man whose name was sung in all the taverns. And while he remained in London, pointedly absent from his post as Privy Councillor, he was unquestionably gathering a popular support which would make him increasingly dangerous.
“The people say that he is wronged,” she mused, staring into the fire, biting a finger as she was apt to do when she was tense and disturbed. “He cannot be allowed to remain absent from his duties indefinitely. He must be seen to return amicably—”
Burghley’s glance was steady. “It would take some especial mark of your favour and forgiveness to bring him back this time.”
She looked round over her shoulder and smiled coolly.
“Yes—he must be made to understand that, since I am only a weak and feeble woman, I cannot do without him.”
She walked away thoughtfully, poured wine into two fine glasses and held one out to him. As he took it, their eyes locked together and they touched the rims of the glasses.
“I give you a toast, my lord,” she said quietly. �
�To the Earl of Essex—the new Earl Marshal of England.”
Admiration shone out of the old man’s eyes as he looked at her in the soft candlelight.
“Madam, you give him the means to hang himself!”
“Precisely!” Her smile held a gleam of icy malice. “And I’m sure he will make a thorough job of it, as usual.”
When she had sipped the wine, she turned and hurled her glass into the fireplace. It splintered into a thousand tiny fragments and left a red stain like a pool of blood on the hearth.
Chapter 3
Earl Marshal of England!
Essex waited for his mother to hand back the Queen’s letter in stiff-necked silence, then let out a yell of triumph.
“What did I tell you? You see now that she can deny me nothing.”
“I see an empty title,” said Lettice tartly, “a tinsel badge of honour to pacify a sulking child. How clever she is!”
“Clever?”
“It’s called playing dead. Dogs do it—and bitches!”
“Mother!” There was a warning note of anger in his voice suddenly. “You will not abuse the Queen in my hearing.”
Lettice sat down at her embroidery frame, stabbing the needle in and out of the tapestry with cold rage.
“You’re a fool, Robert,” she said after a moment, “do you know that? In thrillage to an old crone of sixty-six!”
“She is not—”
“She is! Sixty-six! It’s—it’s positively indecent, the two of you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,” he said icily, “we’re not lovers.”
Thank God!” snapped Lettice, biting off a thread with a vicious gesture. “I really would tremble if I thought you had been so foolish. I never wanted you to go to court, but Leicester would have it that he needed you. I might have known how it would be. First my husband, now my son. Sometimes I think she singled you out simply to spite me—to pay me back for Leicester!”