The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  “Do you trust me, Philip?”

  She heard him swallow hard. “Of course I do, Your Majesty.”

  “Then when I tell you I love my people, and I will do nothing, ever, to harm them, will you believe me?”

  He struggled with his answer. What he believed he knew made assent impossible. But he did know the Queen, love her, and trust her very deeply. And there was a twinkle in her eye that suggested there was more that she was not telling him, perhaps wished to tell, but could not.

  “I believe you, Your Majesty. Of course I do,” he said, and laid his cheek upon the back of her white hand.

  “Tell me,” she said, adroitly changing the subject, “have you heard lately from your tutor Doctor Dee?”

  Philip Sidney smiled. It always made him happy to speak of the good doctor. “I have had many letters from him from abroad. He is ever proud to be in your service, but he sometimes wishes to be closer to home, to Mortlake, to you.”

  “And I him,” said Elizabeth. John Dee had become a vital member of her inner circle who, with his magic as well as his mathematics, helped her determine the fate and future of England. Walsingham, head of her secret service, had become close friends with Dee, and was even now using him as a spy on the Continent.

  The Queen smiled enigmatically. “Close your eyes, Philip.” He did as he was told. “Now open your hands.” When he had done this Elizabeth placed in them a new leather volume embossed in gold letters. Before he could open his eyes she said, “Do you know what it is?”

  “Yes!” Sidney’s eyes flew open and he quickly turned to the title page. “Perfect Art of Navigation by John Dee. Oh, Your Majesty, thank you!” He thumbed through and found the dedication. “‘To Christopher Hatton.’”

  He looked up at Elizabeth. “I’ve heard Lord Hatton’s investment in the voyage of the Golden Hind was the largest share by far.”

  “Indeed,” said Elizabeth, again suppressing a smile. She had largely helped finance Francis Drake’s circumnavigation of the globe. But it was of course an unofficial investment, since Drake’s legendary piracy, with Spanish ships and ports his primary victims, could not look as though it were sanctioned by the Queen of England herself. It did, however, give Elizabeth perverse pleasure to revenge herself upon the King of Spain this way. It did enormous damage to his credit, and siphoned untold riches from his coffers that he might otherwise use to inflict harm on England or the Netherlands.

  “I am told it is a most exciting voyage,” said young Sidney. “That Drake himself has trod upon the western coast of the New World above the thirtieth parallel.”

  “I will tell you a secret, Philip. Your Doctor Dee foresees the English Empire expanding onto those very shores.”

  “The western shores of America?” he asked incredulously.

  “That is correct. But do not tell my lord Cecil, or I’m afraid he will fall into a fit of apoplexy. So, no one will know of our conversation on this subject, Philip, not even my petticoat!”

  Philip Sidney laughed delightedly and the Queen joined him. At that moment the Presence Chamber doors flew open and the Frenchman Simier burst in unannounced. He was red-faced and very, very angry, and he was shaking off a royal guard from either arm. Ladies gasped at the sight. Noblemen all instinctively moved — some protectively round the Queen, others to impede Simier’s forward motion. But Elizabeth could see he was unarmed and waved everyone off him.

  He moved to the throne and fell on both knees before her. She could hear his ragged breathing and feel the heat coming off his body in great waves. He rose without her leave and she could see that his handsome face was contorted with rage.

  “Someone has tried to murder me, Your Majesty.”

  The murmur in the Presence Chamber grew loud and unruly.

  “Silence,” commanded Elizabeth. She turned sympathetically to Simier. “Tell me what has happened.”

  “I had left my apartments and was coming across the north courtyard when a bullet …” He stopped, as though reliving his near brush with death. “ … a bullet flew past several inches from my head. There was but one shot, and I ran to the place of its origin, where I found no one except a small contingent of Privy Council guards.”

  Another flurry of talk all round.

  “Silence!” shouted Elizabeth. Her own heart had begun to pound. “Did you question them, Simier? Had they seen the culprit, any suspicious activity?”

  “Culprit, Your Majesty? There was no culprit except some murderous fiend amongst the guard themselves.”

  As the outraged mutterings grew, Elizabeth acted quickly.

  “Leave us. Everyone!” she cried, and the Presence Chamber began quickly to be vacated. Several of her high councillors looked at her pleadingly for permission to remain.

  The Earl of Suffolk spoke up. “How can we leave you alone with a man in so agitated a state, Your Majesty?”

  “Thank you for your concern, my lord. I assure you, Monsieur Simier is no danger to me. Do stay close, however. I may have need of you.”

  Suffolk and the councillors followed the others out and closed the Presence Chamber doors behind them. Elizabeth, in the space of a breath, considered the personal approach, using her feminine wiles to defuse Simier’s anger, calling the Frenchman by the affectionate name she used for him in private — her Monkey. No, she thought quickly. He was far too agitated for that, might consider her manner condescending. She would take her most dignified and queenly posture.

  “Now, Monsieur Simier,” she said in an unhurried and stately voice, “have you calmed sufficiently so that we may talk about this rationally?”

  “Oh yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a decidedly bitter tone. “We may speak rationally, and I will tell you the truth of it.”

  “Good,” she replied. “We have always been truthful with one another.” Elizabeth strove to keep her features even and her eyes unreadable, for her words were clearly lies. All of the marriage negotiations between Simier and herself had been an intricately woven fabric of deceit.

  “I do not know which of the Privy Guards tried to assassinate me,” he said, “but I do know very well who was behind the attempt.”

  “Tell me who.”

  “The Earl of Leicester, Your Majesty.” Simier’s normally handsome face had grown ugly with naked hatred.

  Elizabeth was silent as she composed her thoughts and her reply. Simier’s accusation did not entirely surprise her. Twas no secret that Leicester was the member of her Privy Council most vehemently opposed to her marriage with Alençon. Robin spoke openly of his loathing for the French prince as well as for his proxy Simier. Elizabeth had, in her deepest heart, been touched by Dudley’s position, and believed at the bottom of it all was simply jealousy. She had enjoyed that thought very much indeed. But she knew the Earl’s mind. He was far too astute to have perpetrated an assassination attempt on Simier. It would serve no purpose and it was not his way.

  “Monsieur,” she went on. “You know that I hold you and the Prince in the very highest esteem, and that I will investigate this heinous attack on your person until the culprit is discovered and dealt with severely. But as for your accusation against Lord Leicester, I can simply imagine no motive. Au contraire, whilst he clearly opposes the alliance between our countries, he would never jeopardize with violence the future peace which such a marriage would guarantee. Besides, Leicester is my oldest and dearest friend in all the world. And my most trusted advisor.”

  “Trusted?” repeated Simier. “Lord Leicester your most trusted advisor?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Elizabeth quite suddenly felt as though the blood had cooled in her veins, and an eerie premonition of disaster came upon her.

  “I think if that is true, Your Majesty,” Simier went on, “England is in very great danger indeed. For this man has deceived you so treacherously and for so long, that if he is your dearest friend, then you have no further need of enemies.”

  “Tell me what you are saying, Simier. Explain these accusati
ons at once and, I caution you, they had better be founded in provable fact or there will be hell to pay.”

  “The Earl of Leicester …” he said, holding Elizabeth with a hard and steady gaze, “is a married man. He has been so for six months. Your cousin Lady Essex is his wife.”

  In that moment Elizabeth felt as if her body rocked precariously on the throne. She was speechless. Entirely speechless. Is this what a mute must feel, she found herself thinking, with words spinning in one’s head but no way to utter them? She struggled to recover her voice so that she could argue with Simier. Then she understood that he would never have made such serious accusations if they had not been altogether true.

  Robin was married. Robin had betrayed her.

  “And there is more, Your Majesty.”

  Elizabeth wished to cry, “No, stop. Say not another word!” But she continued in her paralysis, entirely unprotected as her mortal enemy prepared to fling yet another poisoned dagger into her beating heart.

  “They have a child. A son. He was born a few short months after the marriage. I believe your dearest friend and advisor has not informed you of the changes in his … situation. Lord Leicester,” Simier went on in Elizabeth’s stunned silence, “is thought by all at Court except yourself, Majesty, to be a vile and dangerous man. A murderer three times over. He does whatever he wishes, to get whatever he wants. And he wants the Duc d’Alençon to disappear from your life. He is behind this attempt on my person and I demand —”

  Elizabeth stood suddenly. She still had not found her voice but she could, she discovered, move. Her legs felt wooden and her face was a rigid mask as she walked silently past Simier. The closed doors were an obstacle, so she raised her fist and pounded once. They flew open instantly and she was confronted by the gaggle of councillors, their concerned faces upon her as she sliced through them, her eyes commanding them not to follow. The walk to her apartments seemed the longest of her life. She remembered waving everyone away, clearing her bedchamber of her ladies, and finally finding herself quite alone and very, very still.

  Then like a great and terrible whirlwind Elizabeth began to move. Wildly. And like the wind she began to howl and shriek and moan. Her arms flung wide, she knocked all manner of objects from tables and boards, grasped curtains hung from bedposts, ripped them down. She sent benches flying, dashed mirrors from the walls, scattered myriad jewels, and trampled plate underfoot. She could not hear herself screaming, but the sound rocked the halls and corridors far beyond her door.

  Her councillors who had followed the Queen to her apartments now congregated in the antechamber, exchanging looks of confusion and alarm. After Elizabeth had stormed from the Presence Chamber, Simier had confessed his revelations to them, and whilst they had all known the storm would inevitably one day break, they had not been prepared for the violence of Her Majesty’s fury.

  The almost inhuman cries, the shattering glass, the sounds of ripping fabric and crashing furniture, were unbearable for them to hear, and it was incumbent upon them, despite her command to leave her to this private grief, to attend to their Queen’s safety. It was decided that the Earl of Suffolk should brave the tempest. Undoubtedly one of Leicester’s greatest enemies, he was nevertheless a man who saw things clearly — indeed had, almost twenty years before, favored a marriage between Dudley and the Queen if that were the surest way to a royal heir. With a final look to his peers Suffolk tried the bedchamber door. It was unlocked, though he had to push firmly to open it.

  Inside he found an overturned table blocking his way and set it up-right before lifting his eyes with great trepidation. Elizabeth had become very still, the Queen who had wrought so much havoc about her chamber. She was dishevelled, locks of her black periwig askew and one sleeve of the black and white gown ripped and hanging down, exposing the bare skin of her arm. Her crimson lip color was smeared away from her mouth, and the eyes, thought Suffolk, the eyes were terrible, red-rimmed and altogether mad. He found himself trembling, for the sight of his beloved Queen was at once ghastly and unutterably sad. Then she spoke. Twas a low, hoarse whisper, and he could not make out her words.

  “Your Majesty?” He dared moved a few steps closer, and then she repeated what she had said.

  “I want him dead.”

  “Oh, Your Majesty, no …”

  “Arrest him. Put him in the Tower.” She was unnaturally calm. “Take him through the Traitor’s Gate. He follows the footsteps of his father and his grandfather and his brother through that gate.”

  “Please, think, Madame,” began Suffolk. “Let some time pass before you —”

  “’Tis bad blood,” she said almost matter-of-factly. “Not altogether his fault. Bad blood. Kat always said that about the Dudleys.” Elizabeth looked up at Suffolk, and although she had been speaking to him, she appeared surprised that he was standing before her. “Go now. Go. Arrest him. I do want him dead. I do want him … dead.”

  With that the Queen’s body heaved and she commenced weeping, her sobs so heartwrenching that Suffolk, forgetting all protocol, went to her and enfolded Elizabeth in his arms. She, no longer the Queen but merely a wronged and wretched woman, allowed herself to be held and comforted, though it was clear to them both that no comfort, no small fragment of solace was to be found on this black and terrible day.

  Book Three

  Thirty-two

  As a captain in the Dutch cavalry I had been summoned to Delft to celebrate Prince Williams inauguration. He had for so long and so steadfastly refused the crown of the country whose destiny he had singlehandedly guided towards independence, that I hardly believed it was finally happening. Since the days of the Pacification of Ghent, events had unfolded in the confusing and complicated manner of all political maneuverings. The King of Spain had sent his most recent henchman, the Duke of Parma, and his highly disciplined troops to wrest from the Dutch their newfound liberation. As brilliant a diplomat as he was a soldier, Parma had won dozens of engagements where others had failed, simply by studying the Netherlands terrain. Even more impressive, he had cleverly laid promises of pardon and return of property at the gates of the southernmost provinces. In a trice they had relinquished their hardwon freedom and resubmitted to Spanish rule.

  William, meanwhile, had done everything in his power to entice a foreign Protestant monarch to accept the Netherlands crown. All those Dutchmen who loved the Prince of Orange fervently wished him to become Stadthouder, but to their dismay he clung to the principle — as a barnacle clings to a dike wall — of the Divine Right of Kings, and swearing he had no such claim repeatedly refused. In his heart he knew the Low Countries could never, despite his almost superhuman will, and the bravery of the Hollanders and Zeelanders, stand alone against Philip. He therefore held out the golden plum of Regency to England, France and Germany.

  I was sore disappointed in my Queen who hemmed and hawed, continued to send small contingents of English volunteers to Holland, and financed a pathetic army to fight Parma. Prince William held out hope that Elizabeth would rouse her self from what he called “her long dream of peace” and accept sovereignty of the States, but all she did do was send fifteen ships across the Channel carrying her betrothed, the Duke of Alençon — a little brown oaf of a man with a head too large for his body. Welcomed with open arms, he was officially named Protector of the Netherlands. But the evil toad wasted no time, forsook his pledge, and began to plot with Philip of Spain to dissolve the Estates and reestablish Catholic supremacy.

  Treacherous in the extreme, he actually sent his troops to invade Antwerp, but they were inept and ill prepared, and were soundly trounced by the burgher guard and citizens at once. The uprising Alençon wished to be remembered as the “French Fury” was better termed the “French Farce,” and spineless creature that he was, he refused responsibility for the attack, claiming it had been a mere misunderstanding — the result of a quarrel between his bodyguard and a Dutch gatekeeper. Within the year the Duke had died, some said of poison, and tho many rejoiced, all hop
e of a French alliance died with him.

  So finally and reluctantly William of Orange had acceded to his countrys pleadings, tho he agreed only to assume the office of Count, and answer to the will of the Estates General.

  In the previous years I had made my way up thro the ranks of Williams army and found my self in the great mans presence several times. He had, astonishingly, remembered me from our first meeting — I a lowly private in the English army coming with news of my companys suicidal siege. Now he had personally requested my attendance at his coronation, and my pride knew no bounds.

  I had ridden into the garrison at Delft and was delighted to meet up with my old friend Partridge. He had ascended thro the ranks as an expert in cyphers, and in deed had found a permanent place close at Williams side. My first night in the city we visited a popular tavern and sat quaffing good Dutch beer, and feasting on the herring and dumplings we had both, after many years in the Netherlands, come to consider delicacies. My plump Partridge had, without the exertions of the battlefield, become positively rotund, but he was glowing with vitality and his usual good nature.

  Despite our continuing allegiance to William and the Dutch cause, we were never the less Englishmen in our hearts, and fell immediately to talk of home. Whilst his family was diminishing — a spate of untimely deaths — mine was growing. I had nieces and nephews I had never laid eyes on, and my brother John had happily overcome his dissipation enough to marry and begin managing Enfield Chase with some semblance of order. My Father was aging and crippled in his legs, but wrote regularly and ever declared his love for me. He had long ago forgiven my desertion of him, saying he had never honestly expected me to stay, and felt sure I was destined for greatness. Those letters always made me smile — to know that a man could hold his second son in such high esteem. Well into our third plate of fish Partridge and I began loudly debating Prince Williams efforts to bring Lord Leicester to the Netherlands to administrate the country.