Elizabeth groaned and her eyes fluttered open. “What is that you say? The pox? I am not poxed!”
At the unexpected sound of her voice, Robert cried, “Oh, thank God! Your Grace, you are ill with fever. It will soon pass. You shall…”
Dr. Burkhardt puffed out his chest and clapped his hands. “Iss no von listenink to me? Vy you call doctor iff you not lissten to him? I say iss der smallpox, and der smallpox it iss!”
Elizabeth tried to shout but her throat was very sore and she could not; she tried to rise but was too weak. Her words came out in a croak. “Knave! Charlatan! I am not poxed. Get him out of my sight! Fetch the royal physicians!” The effort to be angry had cost her dear; she was now racked with tremors and her jaw would not be still.
It was all Dr. Burkhardt could do to remember his oath at such a moment; but remember he did, and pulling Robert and Lord Hunsdon aside he said, “Dere hass been other smallpox in der vicinity. One lady hass died off it. Der qveen iss sufferingk from it, vether Her Grace like to hear it or not. Vat you musst do iff Her Grace iss to survife iss to keep her varm unt giff her all to drink, only water, but all she vill to drink. Ya? Unt to prevent der scarss, you musst hangk der redt flannel from der vindowss, ya? Ven der spotss come, four dayss, perhapss fife, den all vill be vell; der fever shall break den. More dayss for spotss to heal, den der qveen iss cured. Ya? I go now. I not to vait on voman who callss me knave, effen iff she iss der qveen. I go now.” With that Dr. Burkhardt turned on his heel and left in a huff.
###
“Dr. Burkhardt said the spots should appear in four or five days,” said Cecil. He was wringing his hands in his anxiety. “Why have they not appeared? And Her Grace’s fever grows ever hotter!” This was just what he had always feared! The queen sick unto death and no firm plan in place for an orderly succession!
The royal physicians and apothecaries exchanged worried glances. The senior apothecary, his hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves, sucked his teeth. “It is my considered opinion that it is not the pox,” he said. No spots, no pox; it was as simple as that. It must, therefore, be something else. Not plague; there were none of the usual symptoms of that ailment. They had tried febrifuges, infusions, noxious brews and all the potions they knew of: they had burnt medicinal herbs that left such a thick smoke that the eyes watered and one coughed; they had bled her until they were afraid to drain another drop; but nothing had helped.
“There is nothing more than we can do,” said the senior physician; and lifting his eyes to Heaven he proclaimed, “The queen’s fate is in God’s hands now.”
The room was very cold; the German doctor’s order to keep a fire burning had been disregarded. Who would want a fire when they were burning with fever? And all knew that those fevered suffered raging thirst; deny that thirst and the fever should leave.
Robert had been by Elizabeth’s bedside, but had heard every word spoken by Cecil and the doctors. He strode to the door and roared, “Not if I can help it! Page!”
No one appeared; although it was the duty of every subject to attend the queen when called upon to do so, all feared the dreaded smallpox with a terror that overrode mere punishment for dereliction of duty. “Watch over Her Grace,” he cried over his shoulder to Cecil, and took off at a run down the corridor.
When he reached the stables, Robert found the royal messengers there as usual. The queen employed forty couriers whose duty it was to ride anywhere they were sent at a moment’s notice.
He burst into the tack room and cried, “Who will ride as if the Devil were pursuing him to save the queen’s life? The man who finds Hunsdon’s German leech and brings him back here will have a pension of forty pounds a year for life!” It was a fortune; the men scattered without a word. Someone would find Dr. Burkhardt and bring him back to wait upon the queen’s grace.
Once he had seen the messengers depart, he sought out his man, Bolsover. Robert had been working behind the scenes ever since Amy’s death to raise a private armed force from amongst his loyal Norfolk retainers. They were needed now. Who knew what might happen should the queen take a turn for the worse? Or God forfend, if she should die? He must protect her while she was in this vulnerable state. What a time to be sick unto death! For Elizabeth had just recently sent the crown forces to the Continent to aid the Huguenots in their attempt to overthrow the Catholic Regent, Catherine de’ Medici. The payoff for such assistance would be, in addition to God’s favor, of course, the return of Calais. Elizabeth grieved over the loss of Calais as if it had been she who had lost it and not her sister, Queen Mary. If she could be successful in recovering such a prize, to what heights might her popularity not soar?
But none of that would matter if she were overthrown whilst in this weakened state, or if she should die. If there must be a succession, he himself was committed to the cause of the queen’s cousin, Henry Hastings, the Earl of Huntingdon. A descendant of the Poles, he was Plantagenet; he was male; and he was married to Robert’s sister. Lord Henry had made it clear that he had no interest in succeeding the queen and ruling England; should the throne be thrust upon him he would be open to advice.
These errands seen to, Robert sprinted back to the queen’s privy chamber, only to be met by a distraught Cecil. “I have summoned the Council,” he said. “The queen has lost consciousness.”
###
The situation was dire; factions were forming and tempers flared. The queen had been insensible for days and her fever burned ever hotter. She had taken neither sup nor crumb and was denied the only thing she had asked for when she was conscious, a mug of water. All now believed that she could not survive.
“It must be Mary of Scotland,” shouted Norfolk. “Her Grace is the daughter of the elder Tudor line.”
“Aye,” said Cecil sarcastically. “And a Catholic! We all know your position, Your Grace! King Henry’s will explicitly excludes the Stewart line from the succession, and for good reason! Would you be ruled by a gaggle of Scottish barbarians?” He cringed inwardly at voicing such an insult; he was actually much on the side of the Protestant Scots, and had supported their cause tirelessly with the queen. He had crafted the Treaty of Edinburgh to England’s advantage first, of course, but then to Scotland’s. But stomach another Catholic queen on the throne of England he would not; nor, he believed, would the people of England.
“The Lady Hertford is the rightful heir,” said Cecil. “Who can say that nay? And has the lady not proven her childbearing ability, having borne a healthy male child? Who can say that nay?”
Dudley, who had insinuated himself into the Council meeting, which was taking place in the Presence Chamber just outside the room where the queen lay nigh unto death, declared for his candidate. “Females!” he cried. “Why, when there is a man standing at the ready to rule England? Have all of you forgotten the Earl of Huntingdon?”
The Marquis of Winchester rounded on Dudley. “Who just happens to be married to your sister!” cried Paulet. “Why would you not support him?”
Just then the door to Elizabeth’s chamber opened and another of Dudley’s sisters, the Lady Mary Sidney, emerged. “The queen is awake and asking to see all of you,” she said.
A wave of relief washed over Cecil; when it came to the point, he had no desire to see Elizabeth dead and any of the other candidates on the throne. Elizabeth was intelligent, clever, a talented ruler, an altogether strong personality, as he had learned to his frustration many a time. But now that he was faced with losing her, he knew her great worth.
But in their great fear of the dreadful disease, the men of the Council, holding their vinegar cloths to their faces, still would get no closer to the stricken queen than the doorway to her privy chamber. From that distance they stared at the queen, appalled. They were used to seeing a straight, upright, implacable queen, clothed in elaborate gowns and every inch of her bejeweled. In the bed, the wasted frame lay on its side, the skin a pale greenish color, the lips white, the usually elegant, beringed hands clutching and clawing at
the bedcovers. Her hair was wild and had lost its luster and sheen. Could this shivering, convulsing skeleton really be their queen?
The eyes opened and regarded them all. “I am like to d-die,” she said, so softly that despite their fear of infection, they all drew a step or two closer in order to hear her words. “I want…Robert…”
Dudley leaned over and placed his hand atop one of Elizabeth’s, which continued to clutch at the bed linen. He was the only man who dared come so near; he had had the cow pox as a child, the result of forever haunting the stables in his love of horses. No one knew why having had a similar pox made one immune from this more virulent form, but it did.
“I…want Robert to b-be Lord Protector…of England. No one else. I am like to die, m-my lords. As God is m-my witness, n-nothing improper has ever p-passed between m-my lord and I.”
All were silent; all were stunned. When they had been called to her side, they had expected to see her better. But this was not so. The queen was likely correct in her assessment; she was probably going to die. But this was no sensible, lucid, death-bed request. The dumbfounded men looked around at each other. No one spoke, but all were thinking the same thing; the queen must be mad with fever. Protector of whom? Protector of what? All of the candidates, despite any other shortcomings they may have in some peoples’ eyes, were fully of age. And Robert Dudley, by the dying queen’s order as good as King of England? Never! Even Robert himself looked aghast at the suggestion. It was true that he had his ambitions; but they were all centered around being married to the queen, not reigning on his own!
Cecil was the first to recover; he looked down upon the dying queen and there were tears in his eyes. “All shall be as you command, Your Grace.” The others murmured their assent. If the queen was to die, they must not upset her. It cost nothing to agree; but never would they have implemented such a preposterous suggestion.
###
“Nein, nein, nein!” shouted Dr. Burkhardt. “I vill not go! Neffer shall I vait upon queen again. She insult me! She call me knave! Go avay, I tell you!” The little German man had been found in the cottage in the country that he frequented when not compelled to wait upon Lord Hunsdon. It was near the river, and reminded him of his beloved childhood home on the Rhine.
The messenger loved his queen, as all good Englishmen should do; but his desire to save the queen was only part of his motivation. He had no intention of foregoing the promised pension because of the little doctor’s injured pride.
“You must come, sir,” repeated the messenger.
Dr. Burkhardt, now red-faced and sputtering in his indignation, stamped his slippered foot on the floor of his sitting room, where a snug fire burned on the hearth and all the implements for mulling wine were laid out on a table by the fireside. “I am not subject of Her Majesty! I am subject of Emperor Ferdinand, not Elizabeth! I vill not…”
The messenger rarely had occasion to use the weapons that he carried; they were strictly a precaution, in case someone should try to rob him on the road. He was not a large man; messengers were usually chosen for their ability to ride long distances without over-tiring a horse. But he stood head and shoulders above the little doctor. Pistol? Sword? Bodkin? He decided that the bodkin would do. He drew his knife so quickly that the German almost stumbled backwards and fell when confronted with it. His eyes bugged out of his head in fear.
The messenger held the knife to the doctor’s throat and said, very softly, “You shall either don thy boots and cloak and mount yon horse, or you shall die here where you stand. Make thy choice now, I have no more time to waste.”
Dr. Burkhardt, who was very florid, turned so pale and mottled that the messenger knew a moment of panic; if it became known that he had found the doctor only to have frightened him to death before he could be fetched back to the queen, then certainly there would be no pension!
But the doctor’s bluff had been called; he dropped onto the settle and began to pull on his boots.
Chapter 6
“There shall be but one mistress here, and no master.”
– Elizabeth I
Palace of Whitehall, January 1563
S leet rattled intermittently on the windows of the Great Gallery at Whitehall. It was almost as if some mischievous child were tossing pebbles against the mullioned glass. The wind howled and the rain came down in torrents; the gloom matched Elizabeth’s mood. The men of both the House of Commons and the House of Lords had gathered for the opening of her second Parliament, and after her brush with death, she knew with a depressing certainty that they would once again be haranguing her about marriage and the succession.
She unconsciously lifted her fingertips to her cheek, caught herself, and lowered her hand back into her lap. How narrowly she had escaped the dreadful disfigurement of the small pox! She knew that she had the irascible German, Dr. Burkhardt, to thank for the sparing of her complexion, but when she tried to reward him he had refused even to attend the audience to which she had summoned him. Impossible man! If he did not want the gratitude of a queen, then to the Devil with him!
Her beloved Robert had shown both his loyalty and his mettle during the great crisis of her illness; he had stayed by her side for the duration, he had mustered a private army to defend her if such had been warranted, and he had spent his own money to convince Dr. Burkhardt to attend her when she was sick unto death. Robert, at least, had not demurred at the prize offered to him by a grateful monarch! Elizabeth rewarded him for his constancy during the catastrophe with the seat on the Privy Council that he had long coveted. She wanted to ennoble him, but she knew, having almost done so just after Amy’s death, that the people and her Council should not stomach it.
She sat on her throne under the canopy of estate, the magnificent arms of England mounted on the wall behind her. She looked about, assessing the assembly of men. There were some familiar faces, but also many new ones.
Her sister Mary had called five parliaments in as many years during her short reign; God send she would not need so many. But the war in France was proving to be more expensive than originally thought, and she needed money to continue it. Hence the summoning of Parliament, whose task it would be to vote her a subsidy. Motivations for supporting the conflict varied; the zealous amongst the English saw the support of the French Huguenots as a Protestant crusade; Elizabeth viewed it as a means by which England might regain her foothold on the Continent. Whatever drove it, the money must be found.
Parliament always opened with a sermon; this time, that responsibility had fallen to Alexander Nowell, the Dean of St. Paul’s. Just as she feared, he was droning on about the sanctity of marriage and the blessedness of issue. If this was the price she must pay to get her subsidy, so be it; but her patience was beginning to wear thin. Just as it seemed that the dean’s lengthy discourse might be drawing to a close, he lifted a long, scraggy finger into the air and cried, “The want of Your Grace’s marriage and the issue from it is like to prove unto England as great as a plague! If your parents had been of like mind, where had Your Grace been then? Alas and alack! For shame, Your Grace! What shall then become of us?”
She had allowed her thoughts to wander a bit, but at this direct address by the dean, her temper flared; she stood up and spoke directly back to him. “Aye, and was not my sister’s marriage a plague unto England such as you describe, sir? Spaniards strutting about on the streets of London, and bitter altercations taking place daily between good Englishmen and the arrogant, overweening foreigner? Wouldst thou visit another such plague upon our land, sir? I, for one, shall not do so without long and prudent thought!”
At this the Speaker of the House, Sir Thomas Williams, took up the theme. “Your Grace, it is for this very marry that we, your Commons, wish to petition Your Gracious Majesty in this session. In light of Your Grace’s recent illness, we are compelled to insist that this vulnerability be addressed now. And if marriage is not to thy liking, as Your Grace has said many a time, then a successor most certainly should be named.
”
The other men nodded their agreement and muttered, “Aye, tis so.”
She was expecting it; she was prepared. “Good Speaker, and all you men,” replied Elizabeth with a smile. “We are saddened to think that you would press your queen to name a successor when we have not yet ruled out making a match and producing our own heirs.” The use of the royal “we” was telling; only when wishing to invoke her direct relationship as the anointed of God did she use it.
The new men were visibly relieved at this statement of the queen’s; but the more experienced among them pursed their lips, shuffled their feet, and shook their heads. They had heard all this before.
“Forgive us, Your Grace, but it is your bounden duty to make provision for England’s future,” said Sir Thomas. “The time has come when it is evident to all that Your Grace must marry without any more delay. And until Your Grace produces your own goodly imp, which shall, we doubt not, bring Your Grace enormous joy, then your successors must be named in order of preference or priority.”
Still Elizabeth controlled her temper. “Naming an heir or choosing a husband are issues fraught with difficulty, as all of you well know,” she said. “Such cannot be decided without further thought and much reflection, the weighing of choices and their consequences. And for every possible choice, my lords, there are repercussions that must be considered, and for which contingency plans must be made. I fear me that there is no easy solution.”
“Then let us move forward to discuss these alternatives and begin crafting the very contingency plans to which Your Grace refers,” rejoined Sir Thomas.
The golden eyes smoldered. “I have thus far been patient with you, sirs, but know this; my marriage, should there be one, or the choosing of a successor, are decisions that are mine alone to make. There will be no parley on such!”
In High Places Page 18