Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Entertain me. The only good thing about prison is that the doors are locked, and the guards have promised not to open mine until you knock to signal that you’re ready to leave.”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable of entertainment.”

  “I think you are.” He kissed her, slowly, savoring the taste of her. “If my stay here is to be of some duration, I wonder if I could perhaps convince my jailers to move me to larger quarters and have you with me. Would you live with me in the Tower, Bess?”

  “I would live with you anywhere,” she said, returning his kisses. Jail, she soon found out, was not quite so dreadful as she’d been led to believe.

  

  Elizabeth felt better—slightly—the moment the boat glided through the dark water. She was completely disenchanted with her courtiers, everyone at Whitehall. They scattered out of her way, afraid of her mood, when she approached. Walsingham and Burghley kept telling her to be calm, and her Privy Councilors all stopped talking when she entered the room. It was unbearable. So, she’d started to play the game, to put on an air of easy grace, to hide her anger. But she felt no need to keep anything from John Dee.

  Hiding something from a man of his psychic abilities would be a futile effort, or so she told herself, glad for the excuse to not check her emotions.

  When she arrived at his dock in Mortlake, she’d stormed into the house, not waiting to be announced, hardly waiting for the door to be opened, and stood before him, alone, full of anger and confusion.

  “Majesty, this is a surprise.”

  She glared at him. “The fall of an empire, you told me,” she said, prowling through his cluttered rooms, picking up instruments that looked interesting, then dropping them back down almost at once. “Why do I begin to feel like poor King Croesus? Who took at face value the words of the Oracle of Delphi?”

  “You know your Herodotus. Excellent. But as I already told you, prophecy is an art, not a science.”

  “The Pythia told Croesus that if he crossed the Halys River, a great empire would be brought down. She did not mention that the empire was his, not the Persians’.”

  “Croesus should have considered the option,” Dee said. “One can’t find fault in the Pythia’s words.”

  “I will not stand for clouded words. So, tell me: Did you mean the English empire? Because by God, England will not fall while I am queen. If that’s your prophecy, sir, prophesy again.”

  “You want me to tell Your Majesty only what Your Majesty chooses to hear?” Dee asked.

  “I will not be a toy of the fates. Have I not faced an assassin’s bullet and lived?” She saw puzzlement in his eyes and did not like it. She sighed and felt the stabbing pain return to her stomach just as the seeds of a headache formed at the base of her neck. “Just tell me there’s no certainty. The shadows of ghosts, you said. Any outcome is possible. Give me hope.”

  “The forces that shape the world are greater than all of us, Majesty. How can I promise you that they’ll conspire in your favor, even though you are the queen?” he asked. “But this much I know. When the storm breaks, each man acts in accordance with his own nature. Some are dumb with terror. Some flee. Some hide. And some spread their wings like eagles and soar on the wind.”

  Elizabeth drew herself up. She knew her nature well, and it was noble. She’d made the mistake—again—of loving a man, of putting her faith in friends. It was not the path upon which God had placed her. Her heart was nothing more than a human flaw, and she must learn to control it, ignore it. She’d been made for England, for her people, to lead them and protect them. To bring them glory. She had to see and believe and feel that these betrayals that made her suffer in her very core were nothing but petty concerns when compared with the duty she owed her country. She would rise above it, never think of it again. She closed her eyes and banished the pain from her heart.

  “You’re a wise man, Dr. Dee.”

  “And you, madam, are a very great lady.”

  

  Raleigh heard keys clanging outside his door before it swung open and the guard admitted a servant carrying his dinner on a tray. “Excellent,” Raleigh said. “I’m famished and your food is not so bad. All things considered, this lodging is no worse than some I’ve taken on my own.”

  The servant did not reply.

  “But the days are beginning to grow tedious. I think that should my stay here be a long one, I’ll have to find something to occupy my time. Perhaps I’ll write a book. A history of the world. How far do you think I could get before returning to the queen’s good graces?”

  “I know not, sir,” the servant answered.

  “Any letter from my wife today?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bess wrote to him every day and visited as often as his jailers would allow. He missed her more than should have been possible, missed her even before she’d left when she came to him here. All he wanted was to have her back again, but he would have to wait, and waiting was something he despised. He blew out a sigh, changed the subject. “What news comes from the coast? Is the fleet at sea?”

  “Yes, sir. May God preserve them.”

  “Who’s in command?”

  “Lord Howard and Sir Francis Drake, sir. That’s all I know.”

  “England is in good hands,” he said, wishing he was with them. The memory of spraying salt and endless sea taunted him. He rubbed his hands, which were growing soft, losing their calluses, and he thought of the feeling of rough ropes raising sails.

  “As you say, sir.” The servant bowed and left the room, the click of the key in the lock following quickly.

  Raleigh abandoned his food and stepped to the window, looked out over Tower Green. Would Elizabeth spare him? Or would his life end here? The flip confidence he showed Bess when she came to him was not entirely sincere. He fell to his knees and prayed that God would help him find his way back to his wife and to the fleet.

  Chapter 20

  The Spanish ensign streamed from the masts of every ship, its yellow crosses on red backgrounds bright against the white cliffs of Dover, so close they seemed to have already been planted on shore. It was a daunting sight—but more so from a distance than from the decks of the massive ships. The English were preparing for a naval battle, but the Armada was not as strong as suspected.

  The ships were not so well armed as they might have been, and before they’d set sail, desertion and disease had run through the sailors, forcing the Duke of Medina Sidonia to round up any men he could find. Supplies were short, food spoiled, and the duke had heard too many warnings of disaster from noted astrologers. He’d been seasick almost from the moment they’d left Lisbon, and so far, their mission had met with nothing that even approximated glory.

  But he did not despair. Before they set sail, a simple friar had come to him to assure him God would be with them on their most holy crusade. And his words were the most sincere Medina Sidonia had ever heard.

  He chose to believe them.

  Storms had battered the great fleet on its journey to England, and the ships had suffered. Not all of them were new—some were converted merchant vessels, and not all were in the best of shape. Much would depend on Parma and his army, on the invasion, on the Armada serving more as support than an attacking force.

  A small skiff pulled up alongside Medina Sidonia’s ship, and a royal messenger scrambled up the side, bringing a letter from the king. Philip told him that in Spain, masses were being said almost continually, saints petitioned—the entire country was at prayer. The world was waiting for this victory, and God would not allow His mission to fail.

  

  The English fleet had sailed from Plymouth, and all that the people in London could do was pray. Elizabeth had decided to go to St. Paul’s, away from the palace, closer to her subjects, needing to be buoyed by their adoration, walking slower than was her habit, carrying herself tall. Her ento
urage was heavily armed, soldiers carrying glittering weapons, their boots thudding and shields clanking as they marched beside her. Two thousand men protected her, and although she appreciated their devotion, she wondered if the country would not be better served by having them fight with the army.

  The Ladies of the Privy Chamber had become more obsequious than ever since she’d ejected Bess from court, each hoping to become the queen’s new favorite. They brought her sweets, shoes, books, and jewelry, all of which left her singularly unimpressed. She was beginning to despise the disposable nature of humans: lose one, replace with another. It did not feel right. She did not want a new companion.

  Bess, she’d been told, had taken up residence near the Tower, wanting to be near her husband, a fact Elizabeth found profoundly irritating. Raleigh and his wife—she hated the sound of the word—should have prostrated themselves before her, should have begged for forgiveness. That they’d gone quietly was nothing short of infuriating. Infuriating and heartbreaking and she would fill the void in her chest left by them not with someone else but with ballast of stone. Philip’s Armada could not have come at a better time. She was as grateful for the distraction it brought as she was terrified by it.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes wide as they adjusted to the dim light, not missing at all the bright scrutiny of the sun. She pulled the cathedral’s cool, musty air deep into her lungs as she focused her not inconsiderable intelligence, preparing herself. She already had the unmitigated support of her people; now was the time to rally them to action. She began giving orders.

  “The bells are to ring in every church in the land. Laborers are to leave the fields and take up arms. The harvest must wait.” She needed all men capable of fighting to join the troops already at Tilbury. “Release all prisoners. England is their country too.”

  She paused and closed her eyes at an unwelcome feeling of sadness. Raleigh was a skilled sailor, an experienced fighter, someone who could motivate his men and convince them to follow him anywhere. After a long sigh, she opened her eyes and turned, searching for and finding Walsingham. “Release Raleigh. He is forgiven... As I too pray to be forgiven.”

  “Very good, Majesty,” Walsingham said, then dropped his voice so that only she could hear. “A difficult decision, I know, but the right one.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Leave me, all of you.”

  Her entourage disappeared from the nave—all but a grim-looking contingent of guards—the rest would be waiting to descend upon her the moment she stepped back outside. She walked to the altar and sank to her knees as a sublime feeling of confidence washed over her. The sun struggled through stained glass, and colored light danced on the stone floor. She raised her eyes to the window and decided that today she would not bow her head when she prayed.

  

  News did not travel as quickly as he would have liked—a fact that filled Philip with frustration that made him feel as if his muscles would burst through his skin. Now, at long last, messages had arrived, but they were not at all what he had expected.

  “When will they land in England?” He fingered a gold crucifix as he spoke.

  “Communication has been difficult, Majesty. The duke is doing his best—”

  “That is not acceptable.” The king interrupted his minister with such force that the man prostrated himself in front of him. “I want news of invasion. Of success. Of souls returned to the true church.”

  “There was a delay—a temporary one. Parma was not ready. They had to wait six days for the army. But they will be on their way soon, Majesty.” Parma, superior to every other general in Europe, would make up time as soon as they’d landed. His men, the Blackbeards, were seasoned veterans who would be able to crush the ill-prepared English army in a matter of hours. No one—not even the English—could doubt that.

  “God rewards patience.” Philip closed his eyes and prayed that God would give him patience, much more patience than he felt now. It was so hard to temper emotions, control anxious thoughts, when he was waiting for this great work to be done. Part of him wanted to command a ship himself, sail with the Armada, but he knew his place was here, with his people, his priests, praying.

  He rose and stalked through the palace’s lengthy corridors, sending courtiers and servants scurrying out of his way. When he reached his cell, the light from a single candle flickered in the plain space, as the chant of monks, warlike in its rhythm, drifted to him as he murmured his own prayer.

  “Tu es Deus qui facis mirabilia solus. Notam fecisti in gentibus virtutem tuam...”

  

  The English army was far from the finest in Europe. It included few professional soldiers, the bulk of its infantry made up of volunteers who knew better how to herd sheep than fight a battle. The officers did their best to rally the men’s spirits, but though no one dared say it aloud, the general consensus was that it was essential the fleet keep the Armada from landing its invasion force.

  A hasty camp had gone up at Tilbury, where Robert Dudley, in his new capacity as Lord Steward Her Majesty’s Lieutenant Against Foreign Invasion, organized the men. Not everyone was pleased to see Leicester back in the queen’s good grace. Elizabeth had placed him in charge of English forces sent to the Netherlands, and during his tenure there, Leicester had accepted the position of Supreme Governorship of the United Provinces offered by the Dutch Estates. The queen was furious, more so than she had ever been with him, and threatened to recall him, but her ministers managed to placate her, convincing her to let him remain.

  Before long, she’d forgiven him, and if others had not— or were jealous because of the favor bestowed on him by his regal friend—Elizabeth did not care. She had no interest in the opinion of gossips.

  Despite all that had passed between them over the years—all the times he’d disappointed her—she knew he would always be dear to her. And to see him now, with the pain of Raleigh’s betrayal so raw, would feel like coming home to familiar arms after too long away.

  She had traveled from London on the royal barge and made a great spectacle of her arrival. Cannons fired a salute, and she paraded through the camp with a fife and drum corps. As soon as she’d stepped off her barge, she could hear nothing but Leicester’s sweet voice.

  “Majesty,” he said.

  “Eyes,” she said, his nickname feeling good on her lips.

  “It’s been far too long.”

  “Yes.” She had not decided yet how to react to him. She’d wanted to be distant but, as always in the past, found herself incapable of keeping her heart away from him.

  “Still mad?” he asked.

  “About what? Your deceitful marriage? Your travesties in the Netherlands? The appalling condition of my army?”

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “You expect my forgiveness to come too easily.”

  “Not at all. I’ve not slept for three nights worrying what you would say when you saw me.”

  “Would that I had executed you for treason when I had the chance.” She could feel her eyes sparkling.

  “You never had the chance. I wasn’t guilty.” He took her by the arm and spoke quietly. “I suppose we must play queen and her general now. But know that I’d much rather sit somewhere quiet and talk.”

  “We’re in an army camp, Eyes. There’s nowhere quiet to sit.” She felt good seeing him, bantering with him. He looked much older than she’d expected—she’d heard rumors that he’d been ill, and his gaunt face suggested this was true. Did he look at her and begin to see her age, too? “Help me onto my horse.”

  He did, and then led the animal himself, holding the reins while she rode, an ocean of ragtag soldiers parting in front of her. The men had been soaked by rain before the arrival of the queen’s party and were covered with mud, as was the entire encampment. They were suitably awestruck to find themselves so close to her, and she was pleased with her army, knowing, as she watched her army fall to its knees before her, that
her infantry adored her.

  “What news, Lids?” she asked, sitting down as Lord Hatton, breathing hard and clutching papers to his chest, rushed into the tent that Leicester had erected in anticipation of her visit.

  “The enemy has been engaged, Majesty,” he said. “A brave action. Two ships lost.”

  “With what gain?” Elizabeth asked.

  “The enemy continues to advance.”

  “They must be stopped,” she said, and rose from her seat, stood in the doorway of the tent, and looked out at the camp before her. The news had spread quickly: there was no joy to be seen in any direction. No one was singing; there was none of the ribald humor one expected from soldiers. All she heard was hushed voices, nervous murmurs, the sound of swords being ground against sharpening stones. A somber mood had settled like a disastrous fog.

  

  Raleigh couldn’t stop kissing her. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have, even if he could.

  “I can’t believe she let you go,” Bess said, her face flushed, eyes bright, stomach growing larger by the day.

  “Nor can I. I suppose she thought she had no choice.”

  “We both know there’s always a choice,” she said, pulling him down on top of her.

  “I can’t stay, Bess, I have to go to the fleet.”

  She blew out a long breath. “I expected that. Another choice.”

  “Yes, it is. The right choice.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at him, but he could feel her start to tremble in his arms, could see the fear behind her eyes. “You will come back to me, though?”

  “Where else would I go? The Tower wasn’t that comfortable,” he said.

  “You know what I mean. Promise me. Promise you won’t leave me. That I won’t lose you. I can’t bear so many nights afraid, worrying that you’ll be gone forever.”

  “I promise,” he said and kissed her eyelids, her chin, every inch of her face. “I’ll bring you glory and stars and every good thing when I return.”

  “Safe. I only want you safe. The stars aren’t necessary.”