Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  She rose from the table, a swish of blazing brocade, exquisite lace and jewels, the air around her heavy with rosewater and musk. The gentlemen leapt to their feet, bowed. The conversation was over, the queen unmoved.

  

  Again, the royal barge slid through the waters of the Thames. Again, Londoners on the riverbanks cheered at the sight of their queen, and she watched, giving at periodic intervals the slightest nod of her head, a slim acknowledgment of the pleasure she took at the devotion of her subjects. Traveling by river, particularly in a boat full of luxurious seats and fine silk cushions, was far preferable to subjecting oneself to the dirty misery of London’s roads, whose dreadful condition made riding in a coach uncomfortable, if not impossible.

  Bess Throckmorton, possessor of a captivating beauty that surpassed the exuberant glow of youth, had quickly risen through the ranks of the Ladies of the Privy Chamber to become the queen’s favorite. Her full lips and delicate nose, flawless skin and blue eyes would tempt the most dedicated celibate, but it was her sharp mind that drew the queen to her.

  Walsingham, across from the ladies, leaned forward. “You can’t put it off forever. The people have presented a petition with over a thousand signatures.”

  Elizabeth could think of nothing she’d better prefer to put off forever than this petition. She had even hoped that he’d left the dreaded document in the Privy Chamber. She tried—and failed—to remember how many times she’d been given similar papers demanding that she marry. Once, Parliament had done it, saying that by marrying and having children, she would give herself immortality. The Speaker of the Commons had assured her that this was the single— the only—prayer of all Englishmen. But all that had done was make her wonder at the lack of imagination necessary to be able to think of nothing better to beg from God.

  She disdained demands that she take a husband, whether they came in the form of a petition or were couched as thoughtful advice from her ministers. There had been moments— some long, some brief—in which she’d nearly succumbed to the charms of her favorite gentlemen, but she’d reigned alone for too long. She had no desire to share her power, wanted no master in her house, and she turned her attention back to Bess, brushing aside a soft lock of hair that had fallen over the girl’s smooth forehead. “Don’t hide your face.”

  “The bishops of Ely and Wells are saying that the continued sterility of Your Majesty signifies God’s displeasure with us all,” Walsingham said.

  She did not reply, watching her Moor in silence before looking back to her companion. “We shall have to look out for a husband for you soon, Bess.”

  “Not too soon, my lady.” Porcelain cheeks stained red.

  “Don’t you want to be married?” the queen asked. “I’ll want the marriage if I want the man.”

  She could tell Walsingham was trying to stifle all signs of frustration. His eyes bulged, but he was not slipping into the sarcasm to which he was prone. “You’ll do as you please, of course. But at least look as if you’ve read their petition,” he said.

  “What sort of man do you want, Bess?” Elizabeth asked, continuing to ignore him.

  Bess smiled, musical laughter escaping from her rose-colored lips. “A fine gentleman-like appearance.”

  “What does that mean? Tall?”

  “Tall.” The girl paused, thought. “An open face. Friendly eyes.”

  “Personally,” Walsingham began, “I would advise you to keep the possibility open. Maintain uncertainty.”

  A vibrant spark filled the queen’s eyes. “And good legs. You’ll want good legs.” The two women moved closer together, pleasure brightening both their complexions.

  “And he’s not to eat with his mouth open, or tell the same joke over and over,” Bess said.

  Walsingham spoke with more force. “At least enter negotiations for a contract with a foreign prince. Just to show the world that England still has friends.”

  A smile spread the queen’s painted lips. “And sweet breath, Bess. So that you can kiss him without choking.”

  Walsingham’s voice rose again. “To show the world that you may yet have issue—” This got her attention. Elizabeth struck him, her sharp hand delivering a solid blow. She relished the stinging sensation on her skin.

  “Child. Say ‘child.’ You are talking like a bishop now, Moor. ‘Issue,’ indeed!”

  “Child, then. I was being delicate.”

  Her voice fell as she grew serious. “There’s nothing delicate about having a child. It kills women every day.”

  All lighthearted joking and lusty pleasure flew from the barge and a tense silence settled on the party. Uncaring, sunlight continued its dance on the rippling water. Elizabeth watched it, untroubled by tension. Anything was better than discussing marriage.

  When at last they’d reached their destination—no one having enjoyed the awkward remainder of the trip—they climbed off the boat and headed toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Elizabeth turned to Walsingham with a calculated smile, ready to reconcile with him. “If I did marry, you’d do well to remember it would not necessarily solve the problem of succession. A child of mine might not make a good heir. It could grow out of kind and become perhaps ungracious.”

  Walsingham opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth silenced him with a shake of her head and continued toward the steps of the cathedral. The long Gothic building loomed above them, taller than the other buildings of the city despite the fact that its spire had been destroyed by a lightning strike. Scaffolding surrounded the church as renovations, funded in part by the queen, were underway. Inside, the nave’s Norman triforium and vaulted ceiling soared, though much of the splendid medieval decoration had been removed. No signs of Papist superstition and idolatry were welcome in an Anglican church.

  But the reformists had left the stained glass, and Elizabeth looked up at the rose window as she entered, sent Bess back to her place among the other ladies-in-waiting, and then spoke, her voice hard but quiet, to Walsingham.

  “I have darker concerns than marriage. Shipbuilders are being recruited in Spanish ports at double wages. The seawall at Dover is cracking. There’s no money to rebuild our defenses. I don’t need advisors to tell me my business.”

  “They care for your safety, Majesty. The threats to your person are real.”

  “And they know very well that if I fall, they all come tumbling down after me.” She had reached the steps at the foot of the altar, lowered herself to her knees, and began to pray. Without turning around, she held a hand out behind her. Bess stepped forward, taking it at once, and knelt to join her queen in prayer. The warmth of the girl’s hand brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face. Surely friendship was a more reliable cure for loneliness than marriage.

  

  Far from London, a ship drew into view of Dover’s white cliffs. Birds dipped and soared, black streaks against the bright chalk, their sharp cries carrying far over the open water, and the slim green strip of land atop the high ridge called out to sailors elated at the sight of England. The weariness that had set in during their long journey home evaporated in an instant. Already they could imagine their homes, their wives, food that hadn’t been stored in brine or dried until it was barely edible. Comfort was long overdue these men, and now that it was so close, they worked with an energy they’d not had in months.

  They pulled ropes, unfurled the dingy canvas sails of their square-rigged ship. Every inch of the Tyger was battered and worn, its wood bleached from long hours in the sun, paint beginning to peel. But the ship was solid and returned from the New World carrying treasure and stories of endless adventure.

  They’d skirmished with Spanish vessels and plundered more than a few. But they’d spent most of their time scouting out locations for future English colonies, because their captain’s primary mission was to find a place suitable for permanent settlement—a city that would start the English empire, bringing glory to his country but also to himself. He’d dec
ided on the island of Roanoke, a place where crops grew at astonishing speeds in the fertile soil and the natives they’d encountered were gentle and faithful, greeting strangers with no aggression.

  The indigenous people were everything exotic, with their walnut-colored skin and clothing of leather. But they were far from uncivilized. They were farmers who cultivated fields, fishermen with boats. Their houses were built from cedar, surrounded by stockades made from tall logs whose tops had been sharpened to deadly points. Thomas Harriot, the expedition’s scholar and scientist, had set to learning their language, Algonquin, and succeeded in teaching English to two natives who had decided to leave their tribal homes near Roanoke and go to England.

  Manteo was a chief of the Croatoans, and Wanchese a high-ranking member of the Winginas. They’d entertained the sailors admirably during the journey home, Harriot translating their stories when the natives’ English failed them. But now, as their time at sea was drawing to a close, they were protesting loudly in their own language as well-intentioned but thoughtless sailors forced them into stiff coats of brown taffeta.

  “Leave him alone, Mr. Calley.” The ship’s captain, Walter Raleigh, skin bronzed from the journey, curly hair tousled by the wind, crossed to his first mate, who was having no success getting a hat over Manteo’s thick hair.

  “Scare away all the ladies, sir. Paint his face white, I think,” Calley said, his own face tanned nearly as dark as the natives’.

  Though Raleigh was no less weather-beaten than his men, he could not be taken for anything short of their leader. It was in his walk, his posture, the steady and commanding calm in his green eyes. He’d fought with the Huguenots in France—had been a devoted Protestant since his youth— and had helped put down a rebellion in Ireland. But he was also a poet and a man of science. Manteo and Wanchese watched as he approached them with a quick, courteous bow. The natives smiled, and Raleigh threw an arm around Manteo’s shoulder, steering him to the foredeck.

  “England, my friend. The mother of us all, and our sweet home.” Dover’s cliffs were closer now, white rising from the sea, gleaming against the sky.

  “And not before time,” Calley said, the rest of the sailors on deck shouting hearty agreement.

  “As soon as she’s seaworthy again we’ll be back to your world, my friend.” Raleigh smiled at Manteo, who grinned back but gave no reply. The Tyger’s crew did, however, answering their captain with a chorus of groans.

  “Don’t worry, boys,” Calley said, then turned to Raleigh. “You’ll need your warrant from the queen, sir. They say it’s not so easy to see the queen. They have officers at court, they say, whose only job is to keep people like yourself waiting. Sometimes for years, sir. They say.” Hopeful-sounding murmurs flew from the sailors.

  Raleigh filled his lungs, pulling in the clean English air as deep as he could. He’d always considered patience the most overrated of the virtues, and it was said the queen was not immune to the charms of adventurers. If he could win her favor... his eyes turned away from Dover back to the open sea, his mind full of visions of a new colony. He didn’t relish the idea of playing sycophant, but if it gave him the means to found a civilization, it would be well worth it. He could think of no other way to obtain what he’d need: money, more ships, more sailors, and people willing to live in the New World.

  And yes, as Calley reminded him, he would have to have a warrant from the queen. That would be his first priority. Queen Elizabeth. What could he do to impress her? To get her attention, and quickly? A crooked smile crept onto his face. This might be an adventure all of its own. He called to his first mate.

  “Well, Mr. Calley, we’ll see about the queen. But for now, let England know we’re back!”

  Raleigh’s sailors cheered, stomped their feet on the deck, and he felt the pulse of their enthusiasm in his chest. The gunmen stationed in front of the ship’s eighteen cannons stood, watching for his signal. He raised his hand, dropped it, and the guns fired toward the distant white cliffs. The Tyger was home.

  Chapter 2

  It was impossible not to be drawn outside when the sky turned that perfect shade of blue that was at once cool and warm and looked as if it could swallow whole the crisp clouds that dared cross its broad spaces. Elizabeth had spent much of the afternoon watching her courtiers playing tennis on her father’s courts. She picked her favorite competitors and gave them handkerchiefs to indicate her support, but she paid only half-attention to their games. After supper, she’d sat through a disappointingly tedious play—there had to be someone in England capable of producing something more entertaining—and then she and her courtiers had danced in the Presence Chamber.

  La volta, with its jumps and turns, had always been her favorite dance. She loved the way her heart raced from both the exercise and the feeling of strong hands around her waist, the intimacy of a handsome face close to hers. But tonight, though she was as exuberant as usual, she noticed that her first partner—a young earl who’d only recently come to court—though attentive, was smiling at one of her ladies.

  “You like her?” Elizabeth asked, as he spun her around.

  “Margaret?” he asked, and she did not like how quickly he’d responded with a name. “She’s a sweet girl, but nothing compared to you, Majesty. How could a man’s attention be diverted, even for an instant, when he’s with such an engaging beauty?”

  They were pretty words. She expected nothing less. But they meant little when the man uttering them was, in fact, diverted by someone else. Her second partner, a duke from the North, threw her high as she jumped.

  “You’re an excellent dancer,” she said.

  “It must be a gentleman’s priority to dance well if he aspires to such a regal partner,” he replied, spinning her furiously. “I practice daily, my head full of thoughts of you.” Ordinarily, his speech would have pleased her. But tonight she noticed it was too rote, too memorized, too impersonal. She could not fault the way he spoke, his tone, the expression on his face, yet there was something beginning to tug at her, something uncomfortable that was keeping her from feeling the full delight of la volta.

  The next man to stand up with her was Sir Christopher Hatton, who, before his appointment to the Privy Council, had courted the queen. His letters were the most beautiful she’d ever received. She could still remember his words:

  Would God I were with you but for one hour. My wits are overwrought of thoughts. I find myself amazed. Bear with me, my most dear sweet Lady, passion overcometh me. I can write no more. Love me, for I love you.

  The memory of it brought a smile to the royal lips, and Elizabeth relaxed in his arms as they danced. “Sometimes, Lids, I think you’re the finest dancer I’ve known,” she said.

  “I’ve not the vigor I used to,” he said. “We’re neither of us so young anymore, are we?”

  “I show my age?” She bristled.

  “Not at all, Majesty. You are like a living miracle. Your face is as lovely as when you first ascended to the throne. It is as if you’re entirely immune to time’s hands. How do you manage it?”

  “I don’t believe a word you say, Lids.”

  And for the first time, she wasn’t saying such a thing to flirt. There was no question that her courtiers adored her, that the men vied for her attention the moment she entered a room; they all desired her, longed for her favor, wanted to be her favorite. But she was beginning to suspect that the affection they rained upon her lacked a certain sincerity. Not of attitude, but of depth. She’d always known that men were attracted to her position and what it enabled her to give them, but they were also captivated by her wit, her intelligence, her energy—there was no other woman at court who could compete with her royal charms. Only now, it was beginning to seem that royal was more important than charm.

  She was suddenly tired, and with a flick of her wrist stopped the music and stormed to her bedchamber. Her ladies had removed her heavy gown, corset, petticoats, and farthingale, then slipped a so
ft shift over her head. She sat in front of a mirror flooded by candlelight, watching Bess remove her thick makeup.

  “Lines round my mouth,” the queen said, tracing them with a single finger as she spoke. “Where did they come from?”

  “Laugh lines, my lady,” Bess said.

  “Laugh lines? When do I laugh?” She had laughed, of course. By herself, with her ladies, with her favorite gentlemen. But now she doubted the sincerity of all of them. Robert Dudley had loved her, of that she could be confident, and the truth was, she still adored him. Her Eyes, the love of her youth, the man she’d desperately wanted to possess. She’d made him the first Earl of Leicester—the highest peerage she’d created during her reign—but he’d disappointed her over and over. There had been rumors of a secret marriage to Lady Douglas Sheffield, but he’d denied them and she’d believed him. Eventually.

  But he did marry, and he did it in secret, and he lied to her about it. His wife wasn’t Lady Sheffield but Lettice Knollys, her cousin, and she’d expelled them both from court after she’d discovered their deception. In time, she forgave him. It seemed nothing could entirely sever her connection to him; it ran too deep.

  It was a pity he’d married, though. She never liked her friends or councilors to divide their affections between her and their wives. Not because she was jealous, of course— what cause would she have for jealousy? No woman shined brighter than she. She did not like marriage because she’d found that wives made gentlemen tedious, and tedious she could not tolerate.

  After Leicester, there had been her Frog—François, Duke of Alençon—whose proposal of marriage she’d accepted, then quickly rejected, the match opposed by many at court, Leicester among them. She remembered the look on Robert’s face when she’d told the French ambassador to inform his king that Alençon would be her husband. She’d kissed the duke—in front of the court—and given him a ring, accepted one in return. But had she loved him, this man nearly twenty years her junior? She recited to herself the lines of poetry she’d penned after he left her court: