Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  And then she caught herself wondering if thoughts of her ever danced in his mind. She tried to stop, but it was too late. Thinking this way was useless, and there was an immediate sinking in her heart. He was the queen’s favorite and no one at court doubted the feeling was entirely mutual. He adored Elizabeth. How could he not? The queen was everything—beauty and power—and could satisfy his every desire. Bess had nothing to offer but herself.

  This stung, hurting all the way to her teeth, and she was angry at herself, both for wanting him and for ruining her fantasy by letting reality creep into it. She imagined his eyes and made them smile as he would turn to her and say... say what? It would no longer work. She could not conjure up his side of their hypothetical conversation, and the streets seemed darker, unsafe.

  Her thoughts turned as bleak as the winding alleys, and she began considering the man who’d asked her to come to him, her cousin, Francis Throckmorton. They’d played together often as children, but he’d always been more serious than she, and as they grew older, they saw each other less frequently.

  Francis had never found a position at court. He’d stayed quietly in the country, holed up at his father’s estate after leaving Oxford three years ago. Now he said he needed her, summoned her to come in the middle of the night—bad signs—but family loyalty kept her from refusing to see him. As she reached the house, she looked at the message again, wanting to be certain she was in the right place before knocking on the worn wooden door.

  “Bess! God bless you.” Francis opened the door and ushered her into a modest room. The furnishings were rough, not to the standard he or Bess had grown up expecting.

  “What are you doing here, Francis? You must be more careful.” She held out his note. “What if this had fallen into the wrong hands?” She held the paper over the flame of a candle, dropping the charred remains as the heat started to burn her fingers.

  “Can’t I send a note to my own cousin?”

  “Your father’s a notorious Papist—”

  “He’s an old man!”

  “—and a defender of Mary Stuart—”

  “That’s my father, not me.” He could say that, but any connection to Mary, no matter how tenuous, was dangerous, and Bess knew full well that he was an ardent Catholic, even if he was careful about hiding the fact. “Listen to me, Bess. I know England’s changed. The old faith is gone, and it’s not coming back. If I’m to have any kind of future, I have to change, too.” He looked at her, eyes pleading. “I want a place at court.”

  “They’ll never trust you at court, Francis. You know that.”

  “Why not? Everyone at court has a Papist somewhere in his family. Just as you have.”

  “The queen knows I’m loyal.” As she said this, her thoughts flew back to Raleigh. There was nothing loyal about her feelings for him, feelings she had no right to, not when she knew that he belonged to the queen.

  “What if she finds out you’ve met me here tonight?”

  “Is that a threat, Francis?” Beads of sweat clung to her forehead, worry showing itself on her pursed lips. She was behaving recklessly, coming here like this. The queen trusted her, but she knew well how quickly royal opinion could change and shuddered at the thought of finding herself exiled from court.

  “Help me find favor with the queen. Then I’ll not be a danger to you.”

  Her voice was low, quavering. “You must want this very much.”

  “So you will?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Give me a little time to think.”

  

  By morning, Bess had nearly convinced herself to embrace the idea of Francis coming to court. He might reform, renounce his father’s Papist ways. He could be a charming man when he tried—the queen might find him amusing. But even as she thought these things, something tugged at her, something that would not let her believe her cousin was being forthright with her, that his reasons for wanting to join the court weren’t altogether innocent.

  Margaret and several other ladies had come for her. They were all due to sit with the queen, who was planning to play a new piece she’d composed for the virginals. As they walked toward the music room, she considered what Francis’s motivations might be, and anxiety consumed her again. Inordinate numbers of rumors made their way through court—whispers of conspiracy, of terrible men bent on killing the queen and putting that Scots woman on the throne—but surely Francis would not embroil himself in anything that dramatic. It was not, however, unrealistic to worry that he might be seeking a position from which he could gather information—could he be a spy?

  She smiled at the thought, thinking of her cousin who, as a child, couldn’t even hide well during a simple game. Margaret tugged on her sleeve, and she looked up to see Walsingham standing directly in front of them. They all curtsied, Bess feeling the burn of his eyes on her the whole time.

  “I can’t believe he bothered to pay us the slightest attention,” Margaret said once he’d gone.

  “He’s never been particularly social,” another of the ladies, Jane, said. “He did have words with all of us who were here when he’d begun to suspect Lettice Knollys was having an affair with Robert Dudley, but I’d hardly call that social.” The affair—and the couple’s secret marriage—had been discovered at least six years ago, but the queen still refused to receive the Countess of Leicester.

  “Well, you can see why the queen was so upset,” Margaret said. “She’s always loved him. And Lettice Knollys bears a striking resemblance to her—I think she has wigs made specially to look like the queen’s. She even mimics Elizabeth’s walk. It’s revolting. And if anything, I think it’s unsavory for Leicester to choose a wife that looks so much like the woman everyone knows he loves.”

  “They were foolish to try to trick her,” Jane said. “But I suppose it all worked out in the end. I’ve heard the countess’s wardrobe very nearly rivals the queen’s. And she was treated like royalty when they lived in the Netherlands.”

  Bess had been holding her breath. “I’m surprised Walsingham felt any of this was a matter worthy of his consideration.”

  “He’s got a hand in everything, Bess. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that by not speaking to us he’s not taking notice of what we do.” Jane turned back to Margaret. “You know, I had been very close to Lettice before her marriage...”

  Bess stopped listening and was again consumed with worry. If Walsingham discovered she’d left the palace in the middle of the night, he would tell the queen. And then what? She was sweating, the bodice of her dress itching as it grew damp, and she wished more than anything that she could disappear, spend the day in private, doing anything but waiting for Walsingham to confront her.

  They’d reached the music room. Margaret and Jane took seats near the window, their heads bent together, still gossiping. Bess hung back, watching the queen and Raleigh, who were sitting close, the queen in front of the virginals, a beautifully relaxed expression on her face. She looked younger than she had in years, and Bess knew at once it was because of him, and her heart sank deeper into the mass of confusion that was becoming its permanent home.

  

  “So am I forgiven?” Raleigh asked, and she looked down at the keyboard in front of her before she found herself too captivated by his smile.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, beginning to play again.

  “I had no intention of offending you. I thought you’d be pleased to know that I have not befriended you looking for personal rewards.”

  “Instead you seek rewards that will take you away from me. And you—” She stopped, not certain that she wanted to continue.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t need to tell you another thing,” she said. “The privilege of royalty.”

  “I’m afraid that my words in the garden hurt you.” He put his hand on top of hers, stopping the music she was playing. “You must know that I only wanted to tell you that I do—very much—desi
re to like you for yourself.”

  “You presume too much,” she said, not looking at him but beginning to feel more favorably disposed to him once again. “I am a queen—that is part of me. You cannot separate it from the rest.”

  “But your heart is your own, is it not?”

  She studied his hand on hers, debated how to respond. She wanted to trust him, to reveal her whole self, but it was too difficult, too frightening. “Tell me more about your New World.”

  He gave a small smile, a slight shake of his head, a hint of laughter. “You’ll give away nothing, will you?”

  “Virginia, Water. I want to know more.” She began to play again, a lively tune, something she thought would remind him of the dances they’d shared.

  “The land, Majesty, is more fertile than any I’ve seen, and the variety of fish that can be caught off its shore staggers the imagination. The coast is not like ours—no cliffs like Dover— just sandy beach. You would find it most beautiful.”

  “I’m certain I would,” she said. “Perhaps I should visit your colony—once it’s suitably civilized. I am, after all, its ruler, am I not?”

  “I shall take you there myself. Though I’m not sure you’d much like the accommodations on the Tyger. You might consider having something more regal built.”

  “Don’t tease me, Water,” the queen said, falling fully back into the informality that had grown between them. She had forgiven him, couldn’t resist him, didn’t even want to try. “There’s nothing I’d like to do more.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  She gave him a calculated smile and her long, slender fingers stopped, resting on the keyboard. “All right, then. I will.” He blinked but did not speak, surprise registering on every inch of his face. Elizabeth laughed. “You liar! You don’t want me on your ship at all.”

  She looked up and saw Bess hanging in the doorway, not joining Margaret and Jane, who’d come into the room earlier. “Take Bess if you like,” she said, motioning to the girl. “Not me. Would you like to go to sea, Bess?”

  Bess stepped into the room and took the seat farthest from Raleigh as he shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Women bring bad luck onboard ship.”

  “Oh, do they?” Elizabeth asked, incredulous. “Why is that?”

  “Lock up a hundred men in a space smaller than this room, for months at a time.” He leaned forward, a wicked flash in his eyes. “Men have needs. A beautiful woman like you would drive us all mad.”

  The queen smiled, laughed, amusement on her face. “Men have needs?” She met Raleigh’s stare, then broke away, wanting to give herself a moment to decide if she wanted to initiate such intimate contact. A pause and she looked back, level and clear. “Then let them remain on land and see to their needs.”

  “You make remaining on land infinitely more bearable, but—” He stopped as the queen turned to Bess, interrupting him.

  “Mr. Raleigh is eager to sail away to his infant colony, Bess. We must persuade him to stay a little longer, mustn’t we?”

  Bess said nothing, just gave a small smile and stared at the floor. Elizabeth knew at once what was keeping her favorite lady quiet. She recognized the blush, the hesitation, the rapt attention whenever he spoke to the girl. And when he wasn’t talking to her, she’d noticed that Bess would hang back, watching, something in her eyes that looked dangerously like love.

  

  Night crept through London, rendering the streets silent again, the alleys dark, and laying bare the dangers of ordinary neighborhoods to anyone lurking in the shadows. Francis Throckmorton knew his friends would watch out for Bess, but he found himself worrying about her nonetheless. He was asking her to risk a great deal to come to him, more still should she agree to help him.

  He did not feel good about deceiving her, about letting her believe he supported the queen and was ready to play Protestant. But there was no chance for him if he told her the truth. So he prayed that he’d be forgiven for lies he believed in his heart were unavoidable.

  And he prayed that the dangers he faced would not stretch to his cousin.

  He knew well what would happen if he were discovered—relentless torture on the rack or the scavenger’s daughter and then a traitor’s death. But how was a man to resist doing God’s will? And if he did, would not the punishment he’d face in the afterlife be infinitely worse than anything that could be done to him on earth?

  A knock startled him, pulling him from his thoughts, and he looked out the window to make sure it was she. He saw her hood, her blond hair tumbling out of it, and unbolted the door, relieved that she had decided to come to him again.

  “Bess?”

  But it was not his cousin. He didn’t recognize the woman who left her head covered and stepped away, fading into the night. Before he could call out to her, two men burst through the door, grabbing him. He struggled, squirming to regain his freedom, flailing his arms and legs, unable to release the firm grips of his captors. In the end his ineffectual efforts gained him nothing but a single sharp blow to the head. As consciousness escaped him, he almost smiled. He was about to face every horror one could suffer on earth and hoped he was right—that they would pale in comparison to endless agony after death.

  Chapter 7

  William the Conqueror had built the palace at Windsor as a fortress, replete with bailey, motte, and keep, choosing for it an easily defensible site, on a hill above the Thames. Five hundred years later, it remained a safe respite for England’s monarchs, a retreat to which Elizabeth frequently returned. She had more privacy here than in London, more space, and more opportunity to pursue recreation. Within the royal grounds was the Great Park, an expanse of land—thousands of acres—for hunting stag, and it was here she loved to ride when she craved the wind in her hair and the feeling of fast freedom that came with thundering hooves.

  Two horses pounded over the grass, manes flying as they raced over the tree-covered grounds of the palace. Their riders, faces glowing, laughed, abandoning themselves to the breakneck speed of the moment. Elizabeth spurred her steed on as her opponent pulled in front, first by a head— she could still catch him—then by a length—the odds were slimming—until at last she met him after he’d stopped.

  “Mine!” Raleigh called.

  Elizabeth shook her head, smiling, out of breath. “You have the stronger horse.”

  “Yours carries the lighter load.” He swung to the ground and took the hand she held out, helping her dismount.

  “And the better rider.” She tossed her reins to him, and he tied them to a tree. “It must have been the horse.”

  “You’ll never get me to agree,” he said.

  She walked forward, ahead of him, looking at the great swaths of land around her. There was nothing stunning to the view, but it was bucolic, a perfect pastoral scene. “Yes, I remember this.” They’d gone the length of the Long Walk, leaving its manicured lawns and the castle hardly a dot behind them on the horizon, and from there, followed no path, racing up hills and down, through trees and next to Great Meadow Pond, coming at last to a heap of worn rocks, ancient ruins. “I used to come here when I was young.”

  Her childhood, though far from straightforward, had been generally happy. She’d adored her father, despite the fact that he’d executed her mother, Anne Boleyn, when Elizabeth was only two and a half years old. She couldn’t remember it, of course, but when thoughts of the stories she’d heard about it did creep into her mind, late at night, when the moon fought its way through the curtains of her bed, she’d wake up and find herself unable to breathe.

  Raleigh was staring at her. She’d not painted her lips vermilion that morning and they looked like pale petals, soft and parted as all hints of haughty regality drained from her face. “What has taken you so far from me?” he asked. “I can see that I’ve lost your attention.”

  “I was thinking of my mother. And my father. I remember making a book for him when I was a girl. It
was full of prayers that I’d translated myself, written in my best handwriting. I embroidered the cover.”

  “Did he like it?”

  “Yes, he did.” She looked at him, narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Of course he liked it. I was his daughter. And my handwriting is spectacular.”

  “I’ve seen your embroidery.”

  “You have?”

  “I make it my business to admire your talents,” he said.

  “Do you?” she asked, pleased with the attention.

  “I certainly do. Other than your embroidery, I’ve evaluated your dancing and singing, and have taken note of the fact that you’re a skilled linguist. But I’ve not yet seen your handwriting. Perhaps you should send me a letter.”

  “Perhaps I will, but only if you write to me first.”

  “I already have,” he said. “Have you not seen my verse?”

  “What verse?”

  “I scratched it onto a windowpane in your rooms at Whitehall. You’ll have to look for it.”

  “What does it say?” He grinned. “You’ll have to look for it.”

  “On a window? How did you do it?” she asked.

  He pulled a ring from his finger and handed it to her. “A diamond. They cut glass, you know. Though not very well. The method was far from efficient.”

  “I shall find your verse, Water.” She looked at his lips, considered what it would be like to kiss them, and realized, with no small measure of satisfaction, that she could kiss him. They were alone. She’d almost convinced herself to lean forward just enough that he would know what she wanted when he smiled, making her feel instantly self-conscious. “Why do you smile?”

  “Because you smile,” he said.

  “I was thinking how rarely I’m alone.”

  “But you’re not alone,” he said. “I’m here.”