In High Places
Page 73
Edward Seymour was the son of the late Protector, he who had met his untimely end through his own vainglory. Hertford himself did not pretend to the throne, but he ceaselessly sought to further the candidacy of his two sons, who were the sons of her cousin, the Lady Katherine Grey. Such a tangle these men created with their interference! Well, she would support neither of them. The succession was her own to decide, and no man, be he a favorite like Robert, or a dear friend and trusted advisor such as Cecil, was going to dictate the matter to her. Suddenly an inexplicable wave of sheer exhaustion seemed to sweep over her. She leaned slightly to whisper into Christopher’s ear.
“I am weary,” she said, laying her hand atop his. “Come, let us repair to my privy chamber.” She turned to Walsingham. “You as well, my Good Moor.” The three of them arose and as soon as they did so, the music stopped abruptly and the great throng of people fell silent.
Sir Francis stood up and cried, “The queen wishes to retire, but has no desire to stop the merrymaking.” He signed to the musicians to resume their playing.
As she walked farther and farther away, the cacophony in the Great Hall receded to a muffled blur. But in her heart, she could still hear the sound of Robert’s voice.
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Once in her privy chamber, Elizabeth settled into a chair by the fire. Christopher wordlessly handed her a steaming mug of ale, fresh from the mulling poker. Sir Francis sat opposite her, his fingers steepled under his chin. Without preamble, as was his wont, Sir Francis began to speak.
“I like it not that King Philip has appointed Don Juan as Governor of the Netherlands,” he said.
Elizabeth snorted inelegantly. “Nor do I,” she replied. “But forsooth, he will have his hands full there, I trow! We have done what we could.”
Sir Francis knew what she meant; they had been sending vast sums of money to the Netherlands in support of the Dutch Protestants, and continued to allow Englishmen seeking adventure to go to the Low Countries to fight with the Dutch Protestants against the Spanish threat. Thanks to Francis Drake and others like him, Philip had been unable to pay his Spanish troops. The men had revolted, and before Don Juan would be able to set his sights on England, he must first quell his own unruly soldiers. Philip had complained to her of the English pirates who waylaid his ships laden with treasure from the New World; she never failed to assure him that she was as outraged as he at their insolence, and would be sure to upbraid the unruly English privateers. But this was at the very same time that she lauded their efforts and shared their booty. She gave a silent shrug. It was the way of things; Philip would have done the same in her place.
“Forgive me,” said Sir Francis, in his soft, hypnotic voice, “but I still believe that Your Grace ought to have accepted the offer of the governorship of the Netherlands, and the opportunity of sovereignty there.”
It was true; the Dutch had offered her their crown. But Elizabeth shook her head.
“It should have meant war with Spain,” she replied. “A war we may very well have lost. No, my way is better. As it is, Don Juan has arrived to rioting soldiers demanding their arrears of pay, and is having to quell them before he can even think of subduing the Dutch. It would have been madness to involve England in such a fray. And to what end, I ask you? I have no desire to rule any kingdom save my own, as I have said many a time. Unlike my queenly cousin of Scotland!” And she did not say it, but to challenge Philip’s sovereignty in such a manner was tantamount to what Mary was doing to her. No monarch should undermine another ruler’s right to their crown; to do so weakened all royalty. It was the reason that she had always stayed her hand where her cousin was concerned. Keep her fellow queen prisoner she must; but she had never once challenged Mary’s right to call herself Queen of Scotland.
“Her Grace’s head should have been cut off long ago,” Walsingham said blandly, as he sipped his ale.
Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “Again, I ask you, to what end? That should have meant war with France.”
Sir Francis shrugged. “Perhaps, sometime in the past. But not now.”
“No,” said Elizabeth, with a guffaw. “Forsooth, now she has Spain clamoring for her! Will this never end?”
“No,” Sir Francis promptly replied. “It will not. Not until the Queen of Scotland is in her well-deserved grave. At least will Your Grace consider a more rigorous jailor?”
“I marvel much that Alençon also refused the Governorship of the Netherlands.”
Sir Francis recognized the subtle change of subject; he was astute enough to leave his arguments concerning Mary of Scotland to another time.
It was Sir Francis’ turn to shrug. “I fear me that Monsieur has set his sights higher than the Netherlands.”
Her ire flared. Many believed that Alençon’s interest in her was feigned and that he sought her hand only that he might be a king. But had not his letters said differently? And they were letters that he had taken it upon himself to write. No shame, no stigma, no reflection upon herself could be attached to his failure to keep their tryst at Dover; Alençon had, after all, been imprisoned by his own brother as punishment for his intrigues.
And then another thought struck her. Alençon’s intrigues to usurp the throne of France suddenly seemed like the Janus face of his wooing of herself. Had his plans borne fruit, his plottings against his brother should have resulted in his ascending the throne of France. Failing that ambition, it was very possible that his wooing may simply have been an underhand strategy, a failsafe, that could have resulted in what, for him, would have been second prize; the throne of England as her King Consort. Either scheme should have resulted in a throne for Alençon. From that point of view, his refusal of the sovereignty of the Netherlands made perfect sense and Sir Francis was right. If it were indeed true, then it was yet another bitter pill she must swallow.
After so much hope, was she never to know love? She had known great love with Robert, but it had always, of necessity, stopped short of complete fulfillment. And so he had sought that fulfillment elsewhere, to her infinite heartbreak.
Christopher loved her truly, she knew, and he made no demands upon her, as Robert was wont to do. He was effusive in his expressions of love…flatteringly so…but he had grown to be very possessive and would cry openly if she had occasion to curb his tendency to cling to her overmuch. Still, he was all she had now. She cherished his innocent, undemanding love. She wished with all her heart that she could love him as she loved Robert, but perhaps it was better that she did not. She had no intention of marrying a subject. Alençon was royal, but he had let her down. So she was back where she was before Alençon’s first magical letter had arrived to disturb her peace of mind.
Must she then resign herself to never knowing the joys of love fulfilled? Once again the pervasive thought that perhaps it was better so flitted through her mind. Beside the inherent difficulties of a married reigning queen, difficulties which had been so amply demonstrated to her by her sister’s ill-fated marriage to Philip of Spain, there was the frightening prospect of death in childbed. And death put an end to all…it was so very final.
Had not that lesson been driven home to her amply by the recent death of her cousin, the Earl of Lennox? Charles Stuart had died suddenly over the summer of an ague that had settled on his chest. Lady Elizabeth was said to be inconsolable, and was like to expire at any moment of a broken heart. Well, she herself was no stranger to heartbreak! She suffered it profoundly whenever she beheld Robert’s face, or heard his voice.
Christopher arose from his chair at the sound of a faint tapping at the door; he returned holding a dispatch. He had the most endearing way of handing things to her; he would go down on one knee, bow his head, and hand up to her whatever it was with both hands. Despite her melancholy, she smiled. It was as if he were making a votive offering to a goddess. At that moment, an absurd thought struck her; she almost laughed out loud. In that posture he very much resembled one of her hunting dogs laying a kill at her feet. She took the parchment
, broke the seal, and began to read. All of a sudden she leapt from her chair and cried, “God’s teeth!” She thrust the parchment at Sir Francis.
“It is the Earl of Essex,” she said, as she paced before the hearth, an elbow in each hand. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “He has been poisoned. He is dead!” Suddenly her mind flew back to September of 1560, when Amy Dudley had been found dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs at Cumnor Place, her neck broken. All had thought Robert guilty of his wife’s death and some still thought so, despite the findings of the inquest. But she had always had complete faith that Robert could not be responsible for his wife’s death; she had believed unequivocally in his innocence…until this moment. But now Lettice’s husband was dead in Ireland under suspicious circumstances. Just as with Amy’s untimely…and some said convenient!...death. There were many, she knew, who would once again rush to judgment. Was she not at that very moment doing the same?
“Christopher,” she said, running a distracted hand over her hair. “Fetch the Earl of Leicester to me, if you please.”
It was many years since Amy’s death, and she was not so blinded by love now as she had been then. She was convinced in herself that one look in his eyes would tell her all she needed to know.
Suddenly she had never been so afraid of what she would find there.
Chatsworth, Derbyshire, September 1577
The fall had come early; it was only September, but already the woods around Chatsworth were ablaze with color, and the woodland path on which they rode was carpeted with autumn leaves in vibrant, gemstone hues of ruby red, orange, and yellow; these contrasted with the emerald green of the leaves that still held fast to branch and twig.
Mary wore a dark green riding habit with a matching hat, on which a spray of iridescent cock’s feathers danced. The green of her habit enhanced the green of her eyes, and her auburn hair glinted in the dappled sunlight. It was true that some silver strands shone errant amongst the chestnut, but that only served to give her a regal look. Even the fine lines around her eyes, as she squinted in the sun, did not detract from her beauty. The porcelain paleness of her skin still held the power to charm.
Robert had an eye for attractive women, and the Queen of Scotland was the sort who would always be lovely; for her beauty was not only that of the flesh, or her striking coloring, it was in the bone structure of her face, and in her noble bearing. She talked animatedly as they rode, and although part of his mind was engaged in the conversation, there was another part of him that simply marveled at her charm of manner. That indefinable thing that so many had sought before him to describe, to define, had him firmly in its thrall. It was no wonder that Elizabeth had adamantly forbade him to go to Buxton whilst her queenly cousin was known to be there.
He had spent a good part of the late summer, when the Queen’s Progress had at last concluded, at the Earl of Huntingdon’s castle of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, in Leicestershire. From there he had planned to take the waters at Buxton, but an urgent dispatch arrived forbidding him the spa as long as Mary was there. And so he had not gone to Buxton after all, but had had quantities of the healing waters sent on to him at Ashby instead.
But Elizabeth’s order was not to go to Buxton; it said nothing about visiting Chatsworth instead. He was fully aware that he was violating the spirit of the queen’s mandate, but he found that his curiosity must be satisfied. He simply could not be so close to the Queen of Scotland and not meet her at last. He had once thought to marry her; had he done so, he would have been King Consort, if not king, of Scotland. And who knows? Mary Stuart had been so besotted with Bothwell that she had given him free reign; why not himself?
He had long since lost his fear of the Queen of Scotland; he now harbored only a certain curiosity about her. And oh, but Elizabeth was right to fear her; Mary’s allure was formidable. She possessed a certain indefinable magnetism, an enigmatic draw that defied description. But one could not fail to feel its pull in her fascinating presence.
She was speaking animatedly, her pretty gestures so very French in nature; he could not help wondering what it would be like to bed her. Lettice, Douglass and Mary were all of an age, at thirty-and-three or four; of the three, Mary showed the most signs of aging. But strangely, he found her much the most attractive of the three. It was not merely that she was a queen, with a crown on offer if she could be freed from her captivity; it was that mysterious, unfathomable and captivating charm that made it so.
And one had to admit that Elizabeth was not aging well. Her face was pitted, if not pocked, from the smallpox; where once her hair had been thick, red, and luxuriant, it was now so faded, scanty and dull that she must wear wigs; and her burden of rule kept her so lacking in appetite that she was thin and gaunt to the point of…it must be owned… a certain scrawny unattractiveness. He still loved her. She was his childhood friend, playmate, confidant; and his lover, even if a platonic one. But there was no denying that he had moved on. All knew of his liaison with Douglass, and many, including Elizabeth, suspected his relationship with Lettice.
Many thought him responsible for the death of the Earl of Essex, but it was not so; dysentery had raged through the damp, unhealthy camps in Dublin, and many others had suffered. But the earl had become ill after supping at a banquet in the castle, and some, aware of his amour with Lettice and dredging up old stories about his wife’s death in 1560, assumed that he was responsible. It was unfair, untrue, and therefore, as with Amy’s death, could not be proved. But that did not curb the gossip.
Mary regarded the Earl of Leicester from under hooded lids as they rode. So this was the man for whom Elizabeth had made a fool of herself, and whom she had once thought to fob off onto her. He was handsome enough, it was true, one could still see vestiges of that. But at forty-and-four, Robert Dudley showed the signs of dissolute living that Darnley had already been manifesting at one-and-twenty; the same puffiness around the eyes; the double chin; the belly no longer taut, but straining against its confines. Ah, well, she thought, we are all of us past our prime, and no mistake!
The earl held no fascination for her except for her natural curiosity about her rival queen’s lover. She sighed; if she were honest with herself, she had done no better; first she had become besotted with a dissolute boy, and then a ruthless, ambitious Border Lord. The only saving grace was that she could say she was a queen and had therefore had her own way, but her judgment had been flawed. Elizabeth had always wisely stopped short of marriage, but at what cost, she wondered? She pondered that enigma for a few moments. Both of them had paid a high price for their decisions. Elizabeth had condemned herself to the loveless, childless life of a virgin queen; she herself had made two bad choices that had resulted in the loss of her kingdom, her child, and her freedom. So who was she to sit in judgment upon her cousin?
She sighed. She was allowed to ride now, but never without an escort. The men following them kept a respectful distance but were prepared to spring into action should that be necessary. She pursed her lips and unconsciously lifted her shoulder in an impatient shrug. There was little hope of rescue at the moment; the Netherlands was in turmoil, and it would be some time before Philip could spare Don Juan to rescue her. She had learnt few lessons in her lifetime, since it seemed that she kept making the same mistakes over and over again; but what choice had she but to trust in others?
She regarded Robert once again, who, as he rode, chatted excitedly, pointing to this charming feature or that. Chatsworth was a sight to behold at any time of year; Bess had made many points of interest. Robert eyed one of the many fountains with envy, and she doubted not, with an eye to replicating it at his own castle of Kenilworth. But he had not, she surmised, come to Chatsworth simply to see Bess’s creations. What did he want? For he must want something. They had once thought to marry, although she had openly scorned the idea of marrying a commoner, and Elizabeth’s cast-off lover. Was he, like so many, thinking only of her crown? No, it must be something else. But what?
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He had spent most of his life trying to convince Elizabeth to marry him. Had he succeeded, he would have been King of England. He would have been a petticoat king, it was true; he knew full well that Elizabeth would never have given him even one iota of power. How unlike his father’s situation as Lord Protector for her brother, the boy king, Edward VI! His father, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, had ruled England in King Edward’s name for nigh on three years. And much good he had done! But his father had come to a bad end on the block. Robert shivered. He had, by association, come close to the block himself.
Had he been living in a fool’s paradise all these years? As Elizabeth’s favorite, and under her protection, there was little that anyone could do to harm him. But what would happen if he proceeded with his secret scheme? Only if he could continue to rely upon Elizabeth’s love and tolerance could he expect to survive. This latest plan was, he knew, tantamount to playing with fire. But he could not resist the urge to try his hand at a throne. It may very well be his last chance.
Mary was speaking to Bess in low tones; the walls had ears and servants, no matter how seemingly loyal, could not be trusted. Her voice had a hypnotic quality about it. He studied her unobserved as she and Bess plotted and planned. He could not decide which was more entrancing, the sweet, dulcet quality of Mary’s voice, or the captivating quality of her basilisk eyes. It went far beyond just their changeable color; her riveting gaze had the power to enchant. When one looked into her eyes, it was simply impossible to look away again; one was held spellbound until she choose to release the snared captive.