“Of course.” She slipped out of bed and put her hand in his, leading him to a small basket, and his breath caught as he looked down on the baby. He reached for him, but she stopped his hand.
“Don’t wake him,” she said, an enormous smile on her face. “You can pick him up after he’s done sleeping.”
Tentatively, feeling almost scared, he held out his hand and touched the boy’s tiny fingers, gasping when he felt their smoothness, knowing that there could be no love more pure than that filling him now. He turned to Bess and kissed her, then carried her back to the bed.
When the baby woke, he took him from the basket and held him gingerly, dancing slowly, crooning a soft song as he carried the child downstairs, not wanting to wake Bess, who had fallen asleep. He kissed his son’s head and was about to sit down, when a servant entered the room.
“Her Majesty the Queen!”
Elizabeth entered the room slowly, wanting to appear formal and regal, letting no warmth creep onto her face. She’d debated coming at all but, in the end, felt that she must. Angry though she still was, she wanted to see him, wanted to see the child. She controlled her breath, keeping it even. Then, with a wave of her hand, she sent away servants and guards.
And there he was. Holding the infant. She had not expected this. It simultaneously cut and warmed her. “When was the birth?” she asked, crossing to him. He looked tired, thinner—battle-worn—but still handsome.
“Four nights ago.”
“The mother is well?”
“Yes, thank God,” he said.
“And the child?”
“My son is well.” The pride in his voice made her smart.
“Your son...” She stepped forward, looked at the baby. “So the other Elizabeth has a child. You must be proud.”
“Yes.”
“I owe you thanks for your role in the battle. Drake tells me you were spectacular. A hero.”
“I only did my duty,” he said.
“And you saved the life of a friend.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
She could not help smiling at the easy tone of his voice, but she knew they would never flirt again. Moving away, she turned her back, not wanting him to see the pain etched on her face. “I thought once that you were the only man in the world who truly knew me.”
“I loved you,” he said.
“And did you love her too?”
“Yes.”
“Is one woman’s love not enough for you?” she asked.
“Is one man’s love enough for you?”
She stood, silent, for a long moment. “No. One man’s love is not enough.”
“You have the love of all the people of England.”
“That I do,” she said. “And you? Do you still dream of your shining city in the New World?”
“Always,” he said.
“I will not keep you from it. You’ll have your warrant, whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Majesty.” His voice was full of love, and their eyes met. She let herself feel lost in them for the briefest moment, then squeezed his hand and turned to go. As she reached the door, she stopped.
“I’d like to give your son my blessing,” she said.
“I would be honored.”
She took the baby in her arms, holding him carefully, bending over him, her eyes brimming with emotion as she bit her lips to keep them from trembling. At last, she pressed her cheek to the tiny head, breathed in his buttery smell, and closed her eyes.
Elizabeth was glad to let plans for the celebrations of her victory consume her. Summer had ended, and the fleet and army were coming home as the mighty Armada, hopelessly crippled, made its pathetic way back to Spain. She’d consulted with Dr. Dee and settled on a date in November to progress to St. Paul’s after a series of public holidays. She would present a new image of herself—Gloriana, the invincible queen.
“Majesty...” Sir Christopher Hatton stepped into the room, approaching her more cautiously than was his habit.
“What is it, Lids? You don’t look yourself,” she said.
“I—” He stopped and something about the look in his eyes—a look she couldn’t quite decipher—scared her. “I bring news from Oxfordshire.”
“Oxfordshire?” Robert’s home was there, in Cornbury.
“It’s Leicester, Majesty. He’s dead.”
The entire world went black for a moment. She felt herself stagger, could not draw breath. A pain like none she’d known before squeezed her heart and forced its way through her veins. “How?”
“He’d been ill.”
“I know, but I never thought—” He’d written to her, saying he’d felt unwell and asking permission to go to Buxton, hoping that the waters there would cure him. She’d written back at once, telling him to go. The following day, she’d sent him one of her rings.
“I’m very sorry,” Hatton said. He stepped forward, arms out, offering an embrace, but she pushed him back. She couldn’t bear sympathy.
“No. No.” She shook her head. “Please leave me. I must be alone.” He obeyed at once, and when he was gone, she flew to her desk, upon which sat a letter she’d received from Robert only a handful of days ago.
I most humbly beseech Your Majesty to pardon your poor old servant to be thus bold in sending to know how my gracious lady does, and what ease of her late pain she finds, being the chiefest thing in the world that I do pray for, for her to have good health and long life. For my own poor case I continue still your medicine and find it amends much better than any other thing that hath been given me. Thus hoping to find perfect cure at bath, with the continuance of my usual prayer for Your Majesty’s most happy preservation, I humbly kiss your foot. From your old lodging at Rycote this Thursday morning, ready to take my journey,
by Your Majesty’s most faithful and obedient servant, R. Leicester
Even as I had written thus much, I received Your Majesty’s token.
She bit down hard on her fist as she read his words, then picked up a pen and wrote across the paper, “His last letter.” The thought that there would be no more, that he was no longer there, far away but thinking of her, stabbed her. It was unbearable. Her Sweet Robin, her Eyes, gone. She fell to her knees and sobbed.
She spent days locked in her bedroom, refusing to see or speak to anyone. There was continual commotion outside her door, as courtiers and her councilors pleaded, trying to get her attention, begging her to take food, to open the door, to let someone comfort her. They did nothing but anger her, and she wished she could will the sound away, be left in peace to mourn. But a queen, as she was too frequently reminded, had no semblance of a private life.
She hardly slept, not that at present waking was much different from slumber. She was numb, couldn’t think, did nothing but cry, silently now, and look out the window. On the fourth morning, as the sun rose, she felt ready to face them all. She drew herself up, read his letter again, then carefully placed it in a box next to her bed, where it would always be within easy reach. As she closed the wooden lid, the smooth surface cool to the touch, she stopped crying. She dried her face with her hands and then called for her ladies.
Her country needed her.
Her people needed her.
Their love would carry her, complete her, be with her forever.
Two months later, Elizabeth—Gloriana—was on her way to officially give thanks to God for bringing her victory over Spain. Bonfires had been burning for nights as all of England celebrated. And now, at the culmination of the festivities, every nobleman in the country jostled for a good position in the procession from Somerset House to St. Paul’s Cathedral in the City. Bright banners streamed overhead as trumpets announced a spectacle that rivaled that of the queen’s coronation nearly thirty years ago.
The Privy Council came behind the nobility,
followed by state officers and soldiers. Every living person important to Elizabeth was there, including Raleigh and her old ministers—Lord Burghley, Hatton, Howard, and Drake. But she felt keenly the holes left by Walsingham and her dear Robert. She did not, however, succumb to sadness. She missed them, noted the feeling, said a quick prayer, and climbed into the open chariot that would carry her to the church. Its throne was surprisingly comfortable and she waved from beneath the canopy held in place by four pillars to the crowds gathered along the way.
As she approached Temple Bar, she slowed to allow the Lord Mayor and his aldermen to escort her through Fleet Street to the cathedral. The aldermen’s scarlet robes moved in a blur past railings covered in blue cloth that separated her from the city’s soldiers, saluting her as she went by. She felt the adoration in the cheers that greeted her, and a pleasing sensation of power swept through her.
They went up Ludgate Hill, and when they’d reached the church, the West Door was opened. She stepped off the chariot and approached the Bishop of London.
“Our glorious day has arrived,” she said and then dropped to her knees in prayer. The crowd fell silent, but she felt no pressure to hurry. They could wait. Everything could wait. Only when she felt she’d adequately thanked God did she rise and make her way inside.
The sounds of a perfect hymn filled her ears as she walked down the lengthy aisle, above which hung banners captured from the Armada’s ships. She felt a glow in her chest at the sight of them, these visible signs of triumph. She walked slowly, taking care to meet the eyes of as many of her subjects as possible, as always, wanting them to feel a personal connection to her—to think that she’d singled them out. It was as much for her benefit as theirs, though. She was soon intoxicated by the admiration on their faces.
After she had crossed the transept, she took her seat— hard wood in the north wall of the gallery’s choir—and listened to the Bishop of Salisbury’s sermon. Or pretended to listen. The truth was, she hardly heard the words, but their firm, joyous tone flowed through her, and she could not think of a time in her life when she’d been so content.
Soon the bishop had finished, and she rose and went to the pulpit. She was dressed in gold, looking more like a goddess than a mortal, and a collective gasp greeted her when she stood, serene and regal, radiating power as she stood before her subjects. “I am called the Virgin Queen. And yet I have many children. You are all my children. There is no jewel, be it never so rich a prize, which I put before this jewel: I mean your love.” Her voice soared as a heady mixture of love and power filled her. “I want no more wars. England is enough for me. I want no lordship over your souls. Only a free people can love. And in your love is my life.”
She could feel that if they were not in a church, in the midst of a great ceremony, her subjects would have cheered. But they sat quietly, gazing at her, adoration traveling from their admiring eyes to her hungry heart. Their love would be with her forever. She would never need anything more.
Elizabeth: The Golden Age Page 21