Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  Mary had managed to delay the commission by refusing to participate. She was a queen, a sovereign, not subject to the laws of England, and insisted the trial was illegal. But in the end, Sir Christopher Hatton had persuaded her to let it continue. He would allow her complaint to be formally recorded—but without a trial, she would never have the opportunity to prove her innocence.

  The night before the proceedings were to begin, she found a letter from her cousin tucked casually next to a plate on her dinner tray. She picked it up, fingered the paper, noted that Elizabeth’s italics were as perfectly elegant as ever, but hesitated to open it. After two bites of bread and a flavorless spoonful of some thin soup of ambiguous origin, she broke the seal.

  You have in various ways and manners attempted to take my life and to bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed. I have never proceeded so harshly against you, but have, on the contrary, protected and maintained you like myself. These treasons will be proved to you and all made manifest. Yet it is my will that you answer the nobles and peers of the kingdom as if I were myself present. I therefore require, charge, and command that you make answer, for I have been well informed of your arrogance. Act plainly, without reserve, and you will sooner be able to obtain favor of me. Elizabeth

  Her cousin’s words incensed her. She pushed her food away from her, knocking over a heavy goblet, wine leaving a dark stain on the table. She started to pace. “I have not threatened her,” she said, clutching Geddon to her chest with one hand while she shook the paper at her ladies with the other. “I have plotted desperately to secure my own safety—to escape from these prisons to which I’ve been confined. I have ordered men to assist me. But I have not planned to kill a queen.”

  She pulled out a stack of papers she’d carried with her from Chartley House and motioned for Annette to sit with her. She had the sharpest mind of any of Mary’s ladies and was the best suited to help her put the finishing touches on her defense.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting the pages at Annette. “Read these while I continue writing.” She had started work on her statement the day Paulet had told her of the charges against her and continued to polish her words every day since they had brought her to Fotheringay.

  “They cannot find you guilty,” Annette said when she reached the end of the first page.

  “I hope you’re right,” Mary said. “After twenty years as a prisoner, I fear I grew complacent. I’ve done everything I could to organize an escape.”

  “And you were always thwarted,” Annette said.

  “Yes, but even when plots were discovered, I was never implicated. It gave me a dangerous sense of security.”

  “Do you know what they claim as evidence against you?”

  “Not precisely. My letters, I assume.” She tried to remember exactly what she’d written in that last missive. They had asked her to give them orders, to issue the command, and she’d done that—but she’d phrased her words with great care, stopping short of directly telling them to assassinate Elizabeth. Of course, it was evident that the queen’s death was part of the plan, but how could she be held accountable for that? She was not the author of the scheme. “So, these Englishmen,” Annette said. “They can be sent to their deaths for being party to a threat to the queen?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are not English.”

  “Precisely. Perhaps if I am able to distance myself from the conspirators, that will be enough. I am not responsible for their plans.”

  Annette finished with the papers and an ugly laugh flew from her throat. “These people are so pathetic. You, madam, have the strongest legal claim as Elizabeth’s heir. Would they send to death the successor to their throne, when their own queen is a dried-up spinster? Who would they have rule when she is gone?”

  “My son, of course.” Mary sighed, thinking of the boy— James, King of Scotland. Not a boy, not any longer.

  “Why did the English queen never marry?” Annette asked.

  “I don’t know. But she will make herself ridiculous as she ages. It’s all fun to collect men like trinkets when you’re young and beautiful, but it won’t last.” Mary relished the thought of her cousin, old and alone and pathetic, the men who claim to adore her laughing behind her back. But if she wanted to be alive to see it, she needed to finish her defense.

  Fog twisted through the fens the next morning, snaking around bare tree limbs and settling on dropped leaves rotting in heaps on the damp ground. Mary leaned against the window, fingering the lead cames between the diamond-shaped panes of glass, barely feeling the hard coldness of the surface. Cold did not bother her; it helped focus her mind. A sharp rap on the door announced the servants bringing her breakfast. She was not hungry but ate every morsel, pronouncing it all delicious, wanting to project nothing but contented confidence.

  As soon as she’d finished eating, she was escorted downstairs. Close to a dozen gentlemen were seated around a long table in the center of the room. Benches lined the two walls parallel to the table. Sir Thomas Bromley, Lord Chancellor, sat in the first one, the rest filled with earls of the realm and other nobles. Perpendicular to the table on one side was a single long bench with a high back: here sat Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Francis Walsingham. Of the other four men with them, she recognized only one: Sir Amyas Paulet. Against the wall near the door and opposite the other end of the table, stood a single, magnificent chair. A throne, intended for the queen, who, Mary had been told, would not appear.

  She composed herself, smoothing the soft fabric of her black gown, and stood at her full height, taller than the men who brought her to face her accusers. They led her to a chair not far from Elizabeth’s empty one, across from the Lord Chancellor. She did not sit, preferring to stand while she spoke.

  “So many councilors here, but none for me,” she said, a charming smile on her face. Her clear voice filled the cavernous hall, the sweetness of her syllables bouncing off the hard stone walls.

  “My father was a king, and I am cousin to the queen of England. I came to this country seeking protection from my enemies and the rebels in Scotland who forced me from my throne. Your good queen promised me help, yet instead of receiving it, I was taken captive.

  “I cannot recognize the laws of your country because I am a queen myself. Submitting to your justice would weaken not only my own position but that of every other sovereign ruler in the world. And yet here I stand, alone, with no one to speak on my behalf. Everything I own has been taken from me, including my papers. Papers that would have helped in my defense.

  “I will make no attempt to deny that I desperately want my freedom, and that I have done all I can to secure it. Is that not understandable? Would any of you gentlemen, finding yourself in similar circumstances, act in any other way? Would you not resist? Defend yourself?

  “I have tried, with the help of loyal friends, to escape my bonds. But in doing so, I have wished no harm to your own Queen Elizabeth, nor have I encouraged others in planning such a scheme. But I am a queen with a claim to the throne of England. I do not share your faith, and there are, among you, subjects who prefer me to my cousin. I cannot be held responsible for the criminal acts and sedition of such people.

  “It is my faith—the faith into which I was born—for which you judge me, and I cannot stop that. You will do as you wish. And if the worst is to come, my motto will see me through: In my end is my beginning.”

  She’d spoken beautifully. She knew that. But when the commissioners would not let her hear the witnesses against her, nor show her the letters they claimed as evidence— letters they insisted were written in her hand—her heart sank. Her intentions, her simple desire for freedom, would not matter to the men sitting in judgment of her; she had no doubt what their verdict would be. At the end of the second day of the trial, she told them she forgave them for what she knew was inevitable.

  The verdict should have come at once, but Elizabeth ordered her commissioners back to London, where all
the evidence gathered by Walsingham and his cohorts was studied in the Star Chamber, a court made up primarily of the queen’s Privy Councilors, and full of the same men who’d already heard Mary’s case. More testimony was given, and the Scottish queen’s own secretaries did not pause in their condemnation of their sovereign. Ten days later, the decision was announced at Westminster: Mary Stuart was “not only accessory and privy to the conspiracy but also an imaginer and compasser of Her Majesty’s destruction.”

  Parliament met not long afterward and proclaimed the verdict, but Elizabeth delayed the public reading of her proclamation of the sentence for more than a month. That Mary would be put to death was obvious, and the document need not state it directly. No one doubted the execution would come quickly—all of the country was clamoring for it. But Mary would not yet be put out of her misery.

  

  The light in Elizabeth’s library was dim, not bright enough to read by, but she did not care and made no move to light more lamps. She had come here for solace and sat in silence, pressing her hands flat together, feeling the pulse of her blood in them, then pulling them apart, over and over. She ought not be so conflicted; Walsingham had shown her all the evidence. Mary’s guilt was undeniable. But no one other than herself—and Mary, she supposed—appreciated the difficulties of finding a queen culpable of a capital offense. Once again, she felt her isolation, lonely even when people surrounded her. Only another queen would understand how empty adoration could be.

  Walsingham came through the open door and bowed low before sitting in a chair across from her. “Majesty?”

  “Is there any truth to the rumors that this all has been an elaborate conspiracy against her? Did you plan this, Moor?”

  Walsingham met her eyes, his face full of confidence. “You know of my involvement. I merely provided her the means of communication. She decided to use them the way she did.”

  “Had she any choice?” Elizabeth dropped her hands into her lap. “What would I have done if I found myself imprisoned?”

  “You were a prisoner, Majesty.”

  “I wanted my sister off the throne.”

  “But you did not actively solicit her assassination.”

  “No. I did not.”

  “Have you signed the warrant?” he asked.

  “I have not yet decided if I will.”

  “Majesty—”

  She rose to her feet. “Do not even consider, Moor, telling me what to do. I am the queen and I shall decide my cousin’s fate.”

  “The verdict has been proclaimed in public.”

  “I am perfectly aware of that. Why must I be so rushed?”

  “It’s been more than a month, Majesty.”

  “Do not pressure me,” she said, rubbing her temples.

  “You think it is all so simple, don’t you? That none of this matters beyond the ordinary rules of English law? Do you not see the precedent I am setting? That I put myself in danger by ordering her death?”

  “You put yourself in danger, Majesty, by letting her live. Until she is dead, there’s always the possibility of a plot to free her. Every day she remains alive gives hope to the Catholics. Do not play renegade with your own safety.”

  She sent him away with a wave of her hand. When the door had snapped shut behind him, she closed her eyes and focused on the sadness and confusion and anger that coursed through her. Her throat burned hot and she could feel sweat forcing its way through her makeup. She wiped her brow, then looked at her hand, upon which there was now a thick line of white lead. With a finger, she began to trace circles in the heavy lead, taking slim comfort in the repetitive motion.

  Walsingham could wait. The Privy Council could wait. Time was a commodity they could not take from her, and she would sign nothing before she was ready. But Mary was waiting, too. Waiting, as Elizabeth had so many years ago in the Tower, wondering if the next time the door opened, she’d be taken to her death. It was unconscionable to do this to another human being, to another sovereign queen. She pushed back from the table, knocking over her chair as she stood, her legs shaking. Queens ought not to be so very mortal.

  Chapter 15

  Winter had swallowed autumn, and still Elizabeth resisted signing Mary Stuart’s death warrant. Its ever-present status in her mind had led to a consuming anxiety: she was on edge, frazzled, angry. Her courtiers had started tiptoeing around her, being more obsequious than usual, and their fawning, which she ordinarily welcomed—required—had become irritating. It had been all she could do that morning not to throw a shoe at young Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. He was a handsome enough man, but at the moment, she had no stomach for flirting.

  Even Raleigh could no longer distract her from her agitated state. The frustration on his face, in his eyes, disappointed her more than anything, though she knew she was being hard on him. She could not keep him in court forever, but she was not yet ready to let him disappear to his infinite oceans, especially now, when the problem of Mary tormented her night and day.

  Parliament was clamoring for her to act, had asked her to “take away this most wicked and filthy woman.” Similar things had undoubtedly been said by an earlier Parliament about her own mother. Ugly words to describe a sovereign queen.

  “Your Majesty,” Walsingham began, his exhaustion dark in the circles around his eyes. It was late, but she had not let him leave the Privy Chamber. “You have no choice.”

  “Don’t tell me I have no choice! I do as I please.”

  “Majesty,” Walsingham said. “This is no time for mercy—”

  “Don’t preach at me, old man.” She was tired of being told what to do and was beginning to resent—violently— his persistence on this matter. She could stand it no longer. “Look at you. You can hardly stand. Go home to your wife. Go home to your bed.”

  “The law must have its way.” He spoke calmly, but she did not reply in kind.

  “The law is for common men, not for princes.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before he spoke, a fatherly softness in his voice. “Two rivals for a throne, one must die.”

  “Francis,” she said, her tone more gentle as she tried to be reasonable, regal. “I owe you my life. But not my soul.”

  

  “Thank God you’ve come,” Bess said, rushing toward Raleigh as soon as he stepped into the atrium of Elizabeth’s private quarters. “I’ve never seen her so distressed. She’s been alone in her rooms since morning. She’ll see no one.”

  “Has she asked for me?” Concern was etched in the lines on his face, but he could not help smiling at Bess. It was so hard to see her in public like this, when they were forced to ignore their feelings, to pretend their souls did not reach for each other every time their eyes met.

  And there was his guilt. The guilt that came from letting the queen love him without knowing that his heart was so divided, that he’d given so much of himself to Bess. He hated to consider what she would do to Bess if she learned of their affair, hated to think of the hurt and heartbreak it would cause to all three of them. He loved both of them, these two extraordinary women, each so different. How could he step away from either?

  “No. But she needs you. I know she does,” she said. He took her hand in his, discreetly, needing her to know all he felt and could not say.

  “Go to her.” She gave him a half-smile, her lips closed, and it was enough to tell him that she understood him more perfectly than he could have hoped. He kissed her hand and left her.

  The queen was sequestered in her study, sitting alone, her back to him as he entered the room. He pulled the door shut behind him, hesitated for a moment before going toward her. “My queen,” he said, his Devonshire accent soft.

  “My friend.” She did not turn to face him. “Have you too come to tell me I must do this thing that I dread to do?”

  “No. You don’t need me to instruct you in your duty.”

  “Is it my duty? I can’t do it.
Since when was I so tender-hearted?”

  “Since when were you so afraid?”

  Now she looked at him. “Yes, I am afraid.” She spoke slowly. “But what is it I fear?”

  He stood, silent, considering the woman before him for a long moment, then replied. “That your soul will be touched. Royalty is close to immortality. Kill a queen, and queens are mortal.”

  “I spent two months in the Tower. I know what it is to be a prisoner, to fear for your life. Every day I wondered if they would come for me, take me to the scaffold, the axman waiting for me.”

  “To live with such dreadful uncertainty is no easy thing,” he said, coming closer to her.

  “I was in the Bell Tower, in a hideous room. The dampness seeped deep into my bones. It was always dark—the windows were painted—and I thought I should lose my mind until they allowed me to start walking outside. Seventy feet of sunshine, when there was any, but not even that could burn the dampness out of my bones.”

  He took her hand, rubbed it. “But you are warm now.”

  “Yes, but to keep that way it seems that I must send another queen to something worse than a damp cell.” Her eyes were so very different from Bess’s. Equally bright, equally captivating, but Bess’s were more open, more inviting, and the realization of this saddened him. Elizabeth had to be guarded even with those she loved.

  “I want to be of use to you,” he said. “But there’s little I can do other than listen. So talk to me, talk to me, my queen.”

  “I would have you call me something more dear.”

  “As would I.” He felt a piercing disloyalty to Bess as he said this, pictured the flashing jealousy that crossed her face whenever Elizabeth pulled him into a corner so they might talk alone. “But you will not—”

  “No. I won’t. And I can’t think about it now, Water.” She looked strong again.

  “If I sign the death warrant, how will Mary’s son react to his mother’s execution? James would be my heir. He might decide he’d prefer to rule England now, instead of waiting for me to die.”