by Weir, Alison
‘Good evening, your Excellency,’ she said, smiling graciously.
‘Your Majesty,’ he smiled, ‘this is a pleasure.’
‘It is indeed,’ Elizabeth beamed. ‘I would know if you have made progress with the Imperial ambassador. You said that you might put pressure on him and his master to have the Archduke come to England.’ Silva had said no such thing, but Elizabeth was determined to play it her way. No archduke, no marriage. She knew that he would never come.
Silva looked at her mischievously. ‘I wonder if your Majesty has noticed anyone you have not seen before among these gentlemen.’ He indicated the men of his suite, waiting a respectful few feet away. ‘Could you be entertaining more than you know at your court?’
Elizabeth was dumbfounded. Robert had rarely seen her so nonplussed. He caught the panic in her eyes. She was casting them from man to man, frantically trying to place them all, looking to see if any resembled the Archduke’s portrait. He could not be here! she was telling herself. He dare not be here! It would flout every law of protocol.
Then she realised that Silva, that grave-faced Spaniard, was laughing. She was so hugely relieved that she took his little joke in good part and joined in.
‘It might be no bad idea for the Archduke to visit me incognito,’ she said lightly. ‘Would his dignity allow it, do you think? I promise you, plenty of princes have come to see me in that manner.’ She smiled archly.
Robert’s ears pricked up. That was news to him. Then it dawned on him: she was bluffing, of course. It was the kind of provocative remark that she liked to make. Well, he hoped that she was bluffing!
‘I do declare I am feeling well disposed towards marriage,’ she was saying.
‘Then, Madam, let us hope for a happy outcome,’ Silva replied.
The Queen of Scots had spent her honeymoon raising an army and marching on her rebel lords, who had fled into England. Moray, Elizabeth learned, was on his way to her court.
‘I cannot be seen to be succouring traitors who rebel against their lawful Prince,’ she told her Council, in something of a panic.
‘But these are good Protestants, Madam,’ Cecil reminded her.
‘Yes, and I am sympathetic to their objections to this ill-advised marriage,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But rebellion is treason. This is not the way to go about putting things right.’
‘Will you receive Moray?’ Robert asked.
‘I will – but it will not be the kind of reception he is hoping for!’ Elizabeth said grimly.
She was dressed dramatically from head to toe in black when Moray was announced, and she kept him on his knees for a long time, before the whole court.
‘My lord, you have rebelled against your lawful sovereign,’ she reproved him. ‘You look to us for aid, that I know. But we will not maintain any subject in such disobedience against his Prince, for we know that Almighty God would recompense us with the like in our own realm.’
‘Madam, we serve a common cause, that of the true religion,’ Moray protested, his face dark with fury, his knees beginning to ache.
‘We are aware of that,’ Elizabeth told him, ‘and for that reason we will permit you to remain in England. But as we love peace, we will not engage in a war with Scotland.’
Moray muttered his thanks and staggered to his feet as elegantly as he could. Soon he had cause to perceive the wisdom behind Elizabeth’s refusal to become involved. Mary, it was clear, was digging her own grave.
‘She might have won the battle, but she will not win the war,’ Elizabeth told her councillors. ‘Without Moray she cannot control her lords; they are an unruly, quarrelling bunch, by all accounts. Darnley, I am credibly informed, spends half his life drunk, and the rest of it conducting himself wilfully, haughtily and viciously. He complains already that he is never sufficiently honoured. The Queen is no longer infatuated with him, and there are constant jars between them.’ She smiled in satisfaction. ‘What did I predict, gentlemen, when Darnley took it upon himself to propose to Mary?’
They all knew, of course, who had manoeuvred him into that position.
‘There is worse, Madam,’ Cecil said, producing a letter. ‘I had this today, from Thomas Randolph. It seems that Darnley has cause for jealousy. Queen Mary is turning increasingly for advice’ – he smiled as he stressed the word – ‘to her secretary, one David Rizzio, an Italian. Apparently it is he who determines all at her court, much to Darnley’s chagrin.’
‘All?’ Elizabeth enquired, her eyebrows raised.
‘All and more, or so it is rumoured,’ Cecil said, scanning the letter. ‘This Rizzio has a fine singing voice, which seems to be his prime qualification for controlling access to the Queen and ruling all. Darnley, Randolph writes, is spitting fire!’
‘And Mary thought herself too good for my lord of Leicester here!’ Elizabeth observed. ‘See to what depths she now descends. Her name will become a byword for scandal if she persists in her folly, and it will redound on others too. People will say that women are unfit to rule!’ Her eyes flashed.
‘No one could possibly say that of your Majesty,’ Cecil responded, as he knew he was expected to do.
‘Aye,’ chorused the others, just as dutifully, and happily, in most cases, heartily. Robert’s eyes were warm. Elizabeth looked at them all with affection. She was blessed in her lords – unlike Mary.
‘I wonder what Moray and his fellows will do,’ she mused.
The word was that Moray was preparing to go back to Scotland.
‘Where he will raise an army against his Queen!’ Robert said. He would dearly have loved to fight for the Protestant cause, but did not dare to suggest it. He could guess what Elizabeth’s answer would be.
‘We shall see,’ Cecil said. ‘So much is speculation. But I doubt that his return will portend well for Rizzio – or Darnley. By the way, my lord, the Queen is not pleased to hear complaints that your followers have been picking fights and brawling with Norfolk’s.’
‘I know. She told me herself.’ Robert frowned. ‘I explained that Norfolk is jealous; he puts them up to it. He will do anything to discredit me. But I ignore him; I depend only on her Majesty.’
‘That, my lord, is the problem,’ Cecil said drily, ‘and her Majesty must deal with it.’
Elizabeth did, but not in the way Robert had hoped. Before all the court, in the guise of making a joke, she tapped him with her fan and said, ‘You have been provoking jealousy, my lord! You must not display too much familiarity towards me. And you, my lord of Norfolk,’ – another tap with the fan – ‘have been immoderate in your conduct. You must set all quarrels aside, both of you!’ Reluctantly the two men shook hands, unsmiling, Robert smarting at the reprimand.
The courtiers were still laying bets that the Queen would marry him. The French ambassador, no less, had expressed the belief that Robert remained the chief contender for her hand. Even his enemies – Norfolk excepted, obviously – clearly felt it expedient to be pleasant to him and seek his favour. He and Elizabeth were as friendly as two turtle doves these days, but she would not permit him her chamber, and they were lovers no more.
He found himself looking back on the days of their passion as a golden time, but he realised, with profound sadness, that it was now in the past. Unsatisfied, desire had raged – and then, inexplicably, dwindled. A fire needed feeding, or it would burn out, and there had been precious little to fan the flames in recent months. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the very touch of Elizabeth’s hand had left him craving more. He could not recapture that feeling, try as he might, and he feared that she felt the same. If so, she had even less cause to marry him. Yet they remained close, and – when they were not fighting – she still treated him with the special favour that she had always shown him. If, by a miracle, she decided that he was the husband for her, he would not hesitate. And it would not be just the lure of a crown that would beckon him; what they had between them was more solid than many marriages, and maybe, if she summoned the courage to give her
self to him, their passion would be rekindled. He devoutly hoped so.
On Christmas Eve Elizabeth was standing with her ladies in the great hall, watching the men bringing in the yule log, which would burn on the hearth throughout the twelve days of celebrations. Around her, servants were merrily decking the hall with holly, ivy and bay, and setting the tables for tomorrow’s feast. She loved this season, and was enjoying herself hugely, so she was not pleased to see Norfolk bearing down on her.
‘Yes, my lord?’ Her voice rang out sharply. Her ladies scuttled away to a safe distance. She was wont to slap them when others aroused her ire.
‘Your Majesty, as your premier peer, I feel it my duty to raise a delicate matter with you,’ the Duke began, bravely venturing where few had gone before.
‘Indeed!’ she retorted. ‘Then let us go where we will not be overheard. Come walk with me in the gallery.’ She led him out of the hall and along to a window embrasure overlooking the river.
‘Speak, my lord,’ she commanded.
Norfolk plunged in fearlessly. ‘It is the matter of your marriage. As a maiden queen, you have never experienced the joys of matrimony, and I feel it incumbent upon me – for the sake of the kingdom, you understand – to reassure you that it is a most pleasant and fulfilling state—’
‘My lord of Norfolk!’ Elizabeth roared. ‘Only last year your poor wife died in childbed, and she only twenty-four. And I recall that your first wife suffered the same fate when she was just sixteen! I’m sure that matrimony was a pleasant and fulfilling state for both of them!’
‘I but meant, Madam, that, so the couple be spared to each other, they may find great happiness together. Indeed, I am not daunted by my sad losses, but am about to make a third marriage, so highly do I value the institution.’
‘And which lamb is it you are leading to the slaughter this time?’
‘Elizabeth Dacre, you recall, Madam. You did give your permission.’ He looked at her nervously.
‘Fool that I was!’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘But think, my lord: what would have happened to England had I taken your advice and wed, and then suffered the same fate as your poor wives?’
‘Many women bear healthy children and live to rear them,’ Norfolk countered, feeling nevertheless as if he was sinking into a mire.
‘And some do not! There are no guarantees!’
‘We can all of us say that, Madam. Life itself is uncertain. We can each of us be cut down without warning.’
‘Did you come to cheer me up this Christmas tide?’ Elizabeth snarled. But Norfolk was on a one-man mission, and did not heed the warning note in her voice.
‘Think of the succession, Madam! The matter must be settled soon. Most of your subjects want you to marry the Archduke Charles. If some have appeared to endorse a marriage with my lord of Leicester, it is because they believe that is where your heart lies, not because they think that the match would be beneficial to the realm or good for your own dignity.’
Elizabeth stood there seething. ‘I have long been aware of your hatred for the Earl of Leicester,’ she said. ‘You must not let it colour your judgement. I, and I alone, will decide who, and when, I marry. And believe me, my lord, I have the succession ever in my thoughts! Now go. I have let you off lightly because of the season!’
Norfolk departed in high dudgeon, and sought out Leicester.
‘You, my lord, should remember that you agreed to abandon your suit to the Queen!’ he growled.
Robert regarded him evenly. ‘Did I?’ he said. ‘I’m sure that your lordship is correct.’ And he gave Norfolk a tight smile and went on his way. Later that day, as Norfolk rode home to his estates to celebrate Yuletide, he congratulated himself on having done his Queen and his country a great service.
Elizabeth stood in her privy chamber, shaking. Not on account of that prattling fool, Norfolk – although God knew she had wanted to box his ears, and perhaps even send him for a salutary spell in the Tower – but because of the letter she held in her hand: the letter that had just arrived from Scotland.
Mary was with child. Pretty, brainless, imprudent Mary had achieved – despite her marriage having fallen to ruin – the one important thing that Elizabeth had not. The knowledge was like bitter gall in her mouth.
‘Leave me!’ she commanded her women. As soon as she was alone, she gave way to tears, hot, jealous tears – and that was how Robert found her. He had heard the news and realised how deeply it would upset her.
‘Sweet Bess,’ he gentled her, gathering her in his arms. ‘You are in a far happier condition than the Queen of Scots. Your subjects love you; your lords are loyal; I love you. Think how Mary’s lot pales beside yours. Her lords, for the most part, are in rebellion against her. Who knows what they will do? Her husband is estranged from her; they avoid each other’s company as much as possible, by all reports. She spends her days in the company of the upstart, Rizzio, and pays no heed to those who warn her of the scandal she is causing. There is even gossip that the child is not Darnley’s. You would not want to change places with her.’
‘True,’ Elizabeth sniffed. ‘But she has done something I cannot do!’
‘Why can you not do it? Ask yourself. The past is behind you.’
‘Ah, Robin,’ Elizabeth said sadly, ‘it is not just the past that deters me. Were I to have a son, there would be those who would clamour for me to stand aside so that a man could rule. I know the temper of my lords.’
‘Not so, Bess!’ Robert protested. ‘It may have been so at the first, but you have proved your mettle now, and they love and respect you for yourself. And with a husband standing firmly beside you, supporting you, no one would dare try to take from you the crown that is rightfully yours.’
‘Ah, Robin, you make it seem so simple!’ Elizabeth cried, breaking free. ‘And no doubt the husband you speak of would be yourself.’
‘It is simple, Bess!’ He went down on one knee and seized her hand. ‘I pray you, marry me! I would be your strength and support; I would honour you and respect your position.’
Elizabeth looked down at him. Her tears had dried, and she was smiling. ‘I will consider it,’ she agreed. ‘It is Christmas now. I will give you an answer by Candlemas!’
‘But that is weeks away!’ he cried.
‘Then you must wait!’ she told him. ‘It is not so very long, and you can be sure that I will weigh very seriously what you have asked me.’
He was more confident of success this time, even though he had lost count of the other times he had been hopeful. He felt that he had presented Elizabeth with the most acceptable solution to her concerns. It would be enough for him to be her husband and wear the crown matrimonial; he would not pursue sovereign power. Instead he was resolved to use his influence much as he did now. But over the Christmas festivities he could not resist dropping hints about the imminent change in his prospects, and bearing himself like the king he hoped soon to be, while Elizabeth let him do it, and kept him constantly at her side.
The court buzzed with speculation. Robert’s enemies girded their loins for protest. The French ambassador spread it around – without any truth – that the Queen and her lover had slept together on New Year’s Night. Silva angrily denied it, fearing that if this got back to the Emperor – and the diplomatic grapevine was alive with gossip – it would scupper the match with the Archduke.
An ugly incident at the Twelfth Night feast did not help matters. To Robert’s fury, Thomas Heneage drew the sought-after bean hidden in the traditional cake, and was chosen as King of the Bean for the evening, his ancient office being to preside over the revelry.
‘We must do everything he commands!’ Elizabeth cried, laughing at the prospect. Who knew what undignified and hilarious challenges, dares, forfeits or orders the King of the Bean would issue? No one had forgotten the Christmas that witnessed the stately Cecil crawling about on his knees under the high table looking for the Queen’s slipper (which had, helpfully, been hidden beneath her skirts), or Elizabeth herself
planting a kiss on the lips of her highly embarrassed Archbishop of Canterbury. Robert himself had been King of the Bean then.
Heneage was suddenly at Robert’s ear. ‘Ask her Majesty which is the more difficult to erase from the mind – jealousy, or an evil opinion implanted by a wicked tale-teller,’ he ordered.
‘What the hell are you implying?’ Robert asked angrily. ‘People will think that I have been unfaithful to the Queen.’
‘Do it!’ Heneage snarled. ‘Or I will tell the company that you have refused to obey me.’ People were already staring curiously at them.
Robert rose unwillingly to his feet. He posed the question to Elizabeth.
‘Both are difficult to get rid of,’ she answered, ‘but in my opinion it is much harder to remove jealousy.’ She gave him a strange look.
‘I will castigate you with a stick!’ he muttered to Heneage.
‘That is not a punishment for an equal,’ Heneage retorted, ‘and if you come to insult me thus, you will discover whether my sword can cut and thrust.’
Others were avidly taking in every word of this heated exchange.
‘This gentleman is not my equal,’ Robert said stiffly, ‘and I will postpone chastising him until an appropriate time.’
Soon afterwards he watched as Heneage approached the Queen and whispered in her ear. She frowned and summoned Robert to her side. ‘If, by my favour, you have become insolent, my lord, you should soon reform,’ she reproved him. ‘Remember, I could debase you just as I have raised you.’ Heneage stood by, grinning smugly.
Robert was extremely hurt. The episode had depressed him, and he stayed in his lodgings for the next four days, not venturing to sally forth into a court that would be either hostile or laughing at him. He felt deeply humiliated, and wondered why Elizabeth had turned on him so unfairly.