He watched the guards pass, followed by courtiers and ladies-in-waiting—the queen’s protectors masking her almost entirely. His breath quickened as he started to reach inside the bag, feeling for the gun. He moved forward, easing his way to the front of the crowd, halting suddenly as a scuffle started. He strained to see through the throngs of people, half-expecting to find someone on a mission as grim as his. Would Savage have disobeyed Reston and come on his own?
It was not Savage.
Instead, he saw a gentleman, dressed with not quite the same level of finery as the others near the queen. His fingers were covered with rings, but he wore no hat, and his curly hair was disheveled by the breeze. His doublet, though not cut from common cloth, looked dingy compared to those around him, and his appearance altogether lacked the polish of a courtier. But as Elizabeth approached him, he’d jumped forward and, with a swish, snapped the cloak from his shoulders and lowered it to the ground in front of her.
“A puddle in the way, Majesty,” Walter Raleigh said, a smile full of charm lighting his face as he smoothed his cloak on the ground. He seemed to take no notice of the guards coming toward him. And there was no need to. At the slightest sign from the queen, they’d stopped.
Elizabeth’s eyes swept the man in front of her, and she nodded appreciatively at his handsome face and fine legs, smiling as she checked the ground. There was no sign of any puddle. “A puddle?” She met his gaze, her stare cool, and stepped on the cloak, shaking her head.
The guards fell back into their positions, and as the royal party continued on its way, one lady of the Privy Chamber looked back at the sea captain, throwing him a smile that, along with her shining eyes, sliced through him. Raleigh shrugged at her, picked up his cloak, and stood gazing after the queen until the doors of the chapel closed behind her.
He turned, found Calley—who’d hung back from the excitement—and put his arm around him. “She spoke to me. You have to give me that.”
“Oh, I do,” the first mate answered. “The queen spoke to you. One word—but she spoke,” the first mate replied. “Two words.”
“You’re made. A dukedom at the very least.”
“Did you see the girl behind her?” His breath caught in his throat as he thought of her smiling at him. “I’ve been at sea too long.”
Inside the chapel, dancing candlelight filled the dark space, illuminating its high stone arches as Elizabeth made her way to the large altar. The most powerful woman in the world knelt, supposedly at prayer, but her mind was elsewhere. She bit her lip and smiled, murmuring with amusement. “A puddle...”
Access to many of the rooms at Whitehall depended on either a person’s rank or favoritism of the queen, but every courtier could come into the Presence Chamber, a room splendid in magnificent grandeur and crowded every day with competing factions, each waiting—most in vain—for the queen’s attention. Carved and gilded mahogany paneling covered the walls, the marble floor gleamed brighter than silver. Forming a canopy above and hanging down behind the brown velvet throne in-laid with diamonds was an elaborate tapestry showing Elizabeth’s coat of arms, with three lions passant guardant, fleurs-de-lis, and her motto, Semper Eadem—Always the Same.
Those gathered to see her were no less spectacular than the room: the courtiers were dressed in bright velvets, jewels covering gowns and doublets, rings on every finger, feathers in the ladies’ hair. With them, the Spanish ambassador, Don Guerau de Spes, stood in the middle of a group of his countrymen, his foot tapping impatiently as Elizabeth listened to her advisors, while an architect stood in front of her, drawings in his hand.
“I’m getting reports of riots in Paris. Mobs killing Protestants,” Walsingham said, coming to her side, quietly briefing her. She had turned, ready to listen to him, when Lord Howard stepped closer, trying to persuade her to look at three small portraits, sent by would-be suitors to the queen, standing on easels.
“A French prince, Majesty,” he said. “Cousin to the king.”
“I’m told his breath smells.” She went back to the architect. Unrest in France could lead to danger in England. “You have the plans for the new docks?”
“Here, Majesty.” She studied the papers he handed to her as Walsingham continued to press her, his voice low.
“A Franco-Spanish alliance against us would be a disaster.” Henri III, king of France, a Catholic, had courted Elizabeth to disastrous effect when he was the Duke of Anjou. Though they were not openly hostile to each other politically, neither felt the slightest affection for the other on a personal level. But if she were to marry his cousin, Henri would never be able to offer Philip assistance.
“What if enemy ships should sail up the Thames?” Elizabeth asked the architect. “Can the docks be closed?”
“Not closed, Majesty. But here we have gun positions—”
Lord Howard interrupted. “The second portrait, Majesty. King Erik of Sweden.”
The queen looked around, suddenly realizing one of her entourage was missing. “Where’s Bess?”
Bess had slipped into the Privy Garden, looking for solitude, and was reading, completely caught up in Spenser’s poetry:
So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought.
The most romantic bits she read aloud, then closed her eyes and tried to imagine someone penning such perfect phrases for her. Gentlemen wrote poems for the queen, but they weren’t like these—these were less self-conscious, more unfettered, full of genuine passion. As she considered this, she began to understand the queen’s loneliness. There was something empty in the attention Elizabeth received from her courtiers, gentlemen much younger than her, who, when Her Majesty was not in the room, were all too happy—relieved, even—to flirt with ladies their own age.
She closed the book, tucked it under her arm, and had begun to wander through paths lined with boxwoods cut at perfect right angles when she panicked at the sight of how high the sun had risen. She was late. She picked up her skirts and ran back inside, through the corridors of the palace, dodging crowds of lesser petitioners who were waiting, hoping, to gain access to the queen.
As she reached the doors of the Presence Chamber, she saw the gentleman who’d been with the puddle man, outside, the other day. Beside him were two fierce-looking foreigners, whose dark skin and rough features made all those around them seem sickly pale. Then, despite herself, she gasped. There was the puddle man, looking much more handsome than before, trying—futilely, she thought—to persuade the doorkeeper to let him in to see the queen.
“Just look aside for a moment,” Raleigh said, pressing a coin into the man’s hand.
The doorkeeper pocketed the coin but did not step aside. “You’ll have to see the Controller of the Household, sir.” Beyond the open doors to the inner rooms stood the Controller, a portly man surrounded by persons no less eager than Raleigh to see Elizabeth.
“Christ in heaven. I had less trouble than this boarding a Spanish ship of the line,” Raleigh said, and Bess nearly laughed. This man was witty and appealing; the queen would like him. The doorkeeper moved, but to let her through, not him. Bess flashed the stranger her most stunning smile as she passed, her heart fluttering.
Raleigh watched the girl—a vision of blond loveliness— go by. “Tell the queen the New World is beating at her door,” he called out, but she gave no sign that she’d heard him and he was left stuck on the wrong side of the doors. He leaned back on his heels, frustrated.
“I told you, sir,” Calley said.
“Don’t be so quick to lose faith.” He tried to think of another way to convince the doorkeeper to admit him without further waiting but found himself wholly distracted by the memory of the girl’s upturned lips. It tugged at his chest, surprising him. He would not have thought anything could distract him from his purpose, even for a moment. She’d been carrying a
book; he wondered what it was.
Elizabeth shook her head as Bess rushed into the room and curtsied, low and elegant, before her. “Late again, Bess.”
“I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness,” the girl said, cheeks warm. Elizabeth wondered if it was from running or from embarrassment. The pearls dangling from her ears quivered as the crimson flush traveled from her chest all the way to the roots of her blond hair.
“Given. Once.”
Bess sighed, her relief evident. “The puddle man is outside, Majesty.”
“Is he?” Her interest was piqued. He was showing a pleasing persistence and might prove more interesting than most of the gentlemen at court. Or, more important, than any of the princes fighting for her hand in marriage. She took Bess’s arm and turned her to the row of portraits. “Come. You must help me evaluate my suitors. Who do you have for me, Lord Howard, aside from the Frenchman with the foul breath?”
Howard was standing next to the third easel, his jaw clenched. “The Archduke Charles of Austria, Majesty. The younger brother of Maximilian II.”
“He’s rather sweet,” Elizabeth said, studying the image of a handsome young man with reddish-brown hair. “More your age than mine, Bess, don’t you think?”
“How old is he?” Bess asked.
“Sixteen, maybe eighteen... I think,” Howard said.
“Would he mistake me for his mother?” the queen asked. She and Bess looked at each other and burst into laughter, their heads bent together as Walsingham stepped forward.
“An Austrian alliance would stick in Philip’s throat.”
“Always ready to seize the opportunity, aren’t you, Moor?” The queen looked across the room at the Spanish delegation, all surly, none among them attempting to hide his displeasure at being kept waiting. “I become almost enthusiastic. Send for him,” she said to Lord Howard, smiling, then turned to Bess. “I think we’re done here, and I’m overdue for some amusement. Why don’t you bring me the puddle man?”
The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried to the door.
“How much longer do you think I can play this game?” the queen asked, her voice quiet as she returned to her throne with Walsingham by her side.
“Virginity is an asset that holds its value well,” Walsingham said.
“Diplomatically speaking.” The queen’s face betrayed no emotion; her cheeks did not color; her lips did not move. But her eyes danced, just a little. She had no intention of marrying any of these men, but she had no objection to being wooed.
There was a commotion as the door opened and a motley party led by Bess and the puddle man, dressed far better than when she’d seen him last, entered the room. As soon as they’d started toward the throne, the Spanish ambassador cried out an objection and started to push his way forward, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice.
“Majesty, this man is well known to be a pirate,” Don Guerau said, thrusting an angry finger at the newcomer.
“Indeed?” asked the queen, finding more than a little humor in the irritation on the Spaniard’s face.
The ambassador motioned to the hampers carried by Raleigh’s men. “Spanish treasure, stolen from Spanish ships. Attacked without provocation.”
Silent, Raleigh knelt before Elizabeth, who gestured for him to rise. “Well, sir. Who are you?”
“Walter Raleigh, Your Majesty.” His eyes lingered on hers in a most deliberate fashion.
“What is your rank?” she asked.
“A gentleman of Devon.”
“What do you want?”
“Merely the honor of finding myself in the presence of my queen, whose radiant beauty is the boast and glory of the English people.”
“Yes, well, here you are.” Her eyes betrayed her amusement, but she kept her voice firm. She was no stranger to flattery. This man was handsome, moderately interesting, but he would have to offer something more if he hoped to gain her favor.
“I’m just returned from a voyage to the New World, Majesty. I have claimed the fertile coast in your name, and called it Virginia, in honor of our virgin queen.”
“Virginia?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “And if I marry? Will you change the name to Conjugia?” The royal entourage laughed with more sincerity than usual.
Raleigh showed no sign of distraction, keeping his focus on her. “I ask for your gracious permission, Majesty, to return to the New World with your royal warrant, to found a colony under the laws and protections of England.”
“A colony?” she asked. “A permanent settlement, Majesty, that will bring riches and honor to our country, that will expand our empire, that will—”
“Yes, I understand,” she said, looking at the natives standing stiff in their European clothes. “Who are they?”
“Americans, Majesty. They long to be your newest subjects.” He motioned to Calley, who led Wanchese and Manteo forward. “Have they no ruler of their own?” Elizabeth asked. “None to match England’s queen. Manteo is the chief of his people, yet even he wants to be led by you.” Raleigh’s smile was winning. Elizabeth studied the two men, fascinated, then held out her hand. Manteo took it, shaking it as the courtiers around them gasped, but Elizabeth accepted the courtesy with grace. “What do they think of your plans for colonization?” she asked. Raleigh came closer to her. “I have never encountered natives more friendly or helpful. They’re already learning English and realize there is much we can teach them. A colony would benefit them as much as us.”
“A very optimistic view, Mr. Raleigh.”
“An explorer must be optimistic, Majesty, or he’d never leave the safety of home.” She liked the brightness in his eyes when he spoke. “These gentlemen are welcome,” she said. “See that they’re treated well.” Raleigh motioned to Calley, who ushered Manteo and Wanchese out of the room. “I also come bearing gifts for Your Majesty, from the New World.” He nodded to his men, who brought forward the hampers as Don Guerau interrupted again. “The fruits of piracy, Majesty. The true property of the realm of Spain.”
“Let’s see, shall we?” the queen asked, then turned to Raleigh. “What do you bring me?”
“Mud and leaves,” Raleigh said. “Mud and leaves?” she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice. The courtiers tittered, but Elizabeth’s attention fell to Walsingham, who was watching the exchange with an interest that suggested concerns beyond the spoils of the New World. He would want her to be careful about antagonizing Philip and Spain. Raleigh bent down and opened the first basket. Don Guerau peered inside, suspicion covering his face, then scowled, drawing more muffled laughter from the audience. Raleigh pulled a dirty-looking vegetable out and waved it in front of the ambassador before turning to the queen. “Patata, Majesty. You eat it. Very nourishing.” He pulled the lid off the second container and drew out a brown leaf as the Spaniard continued to track his every move. “Tobacco. You breathe its smoke. Very stimulating.” The courtiers were no longer concealing their amusement and their laughter—all of it directed at the ambassador—grew too loud to ignore. Don Guerau drew himself up, a vision of angry pride, deep creases on his brow, lips pulled down. His own king would never allow such a spectacle at court. “Forgive me, Majesty. I find the air has become stale. I am sensitive to the smell of open sewers.” A glare at Raleigh, a bow for the queen, and he led his countrymen from the room. Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand, unable to stop herself from laughing. She’d never thought entertainment could stem from anything involving Don Guerau. Raleigh was growing more and more attractive. “Continue,” Elizabeth said as soon as the Spaniards were gone. Now Raleigh was smiling, broadly, eyes full of life. He gestured for his men to bring forward the third basket, then drew out of it a gold coin and handed it to the queen. “Gold. You spend it,” he said. “Very satisfying.” She pulled her eyebrows together, all traces of humor gone from her face as she took the coin and examined the image of Philip on its obverse.
“Courtesy of a Spanish
ship that found itself unable to complete its journey,” Raleigh said. She dropped the coin back into the basket. “I can’t accept the proceeds of piracy, Mr. Raleigh.”
“Philip of Spain is no friend of England, Majesty. The more gold I take from him, the safer you will be,” Raleigh said. “He balks when English ships refuse to respect the monopoly of trade he wants wherever his flag is found. And if you did not agree with me, I doubt very much you’d have sent Francis Drake to annoy him.” Philip had stopped all English ships in Spanish ports, and it had been a paralyzing blow to trade. In response, Elizabeth had unleashed Drake, favorite hero of the seas, explorer and soldier, on her nemesis. He’d met with nothing short of spectacular success. Success that she knew—not only because of what she’d seen when Philip was in England with her sister, but because of the reports from Walsingham’s spies—had made Philip furious. “Well, well.” She considered the man before her. “A political pirate. A logic-chopping pirate.”
“And Your Majesty’s most loyal subject.” Their eyes met for too long. Yes, she liked him. It was decided. “But not my best-dressed,” the queen said. “Welcome home, Mr. Raleigh.”
“Mr. Raleigh.” Walsingham overtook him in an arched corridor after he’d left the Presence Chamber. “A word of advice. It amuses the queen to show you favor. You will naturally take advantage of that. But do keep in mind that even her private affairs are matters of state.” He paused. “Don’t ask for too much.”
“You think all I want is money,” Raleigh said. “I hope all you want is money.” He walked on. Raleigh watched him go, thinking about his words and realizing that he’d very much enjoyed the queen’s sense of humor and quick wit. Machinating to win favor for his expeditionary plans would not be the chore he’d expected. As Walsingham disappeared down the hall, a tight group of the queen’s ladies burst out of the doors of the Privy Chamber. Their laughter bounced off the walls as light heels clattered on the stone floor. “‘Mud and leaves!’ I nearly died,” Margaret said.
Elizabeth: The Golden Age Page 4