by Jean Plaidy
One February morning, Mary, dressed in black velvet, her crucifix in her hand, went to the hall of the castle of Fotheringay where the block and the executioner were awaiting her. Calmly she bade farewell to her servants.
“Weep not,” she told them, “for thou hast cause rather to joy than to mourn, for now thou shalt see Mary Stuart’s troubles receive their long-expected end.”
The whole Catholic world was talking of the wicked Walsingham’s forgeries, of the evil act of the Jezebel of England whose hands were red with the blood of her enemies.
Walsingham and Burghley would snap their fingers at their enemies. Not so the Queen. The threat of war was moving nearer; in the Spanish harbors work was going on apace in the building of that Armada which was to conquer the world; and its first victim was to be Elizabeth’s England.
The Queen sought to placate her enemies. Her great desire was to hold off the evil day. Time was her ally—now as ever.
She chose William Davison as her scapegoat. She declared she had never meant the warrant to be sent to Fotheringay. She mourned her sister of Scotland. She had never wished for Mary’s death.
She had Davison sent to the Tower. He was to pay a fine which would impoverish him. But she told him before he went that she would continue to pay his salary while he was a prisoner and, as he fell on his knees before her, she let one of her long slender hands pat his shoulder.
The Queen’s reassuring touch told Davison that he was merely the scapegoat she was offering to Spain; and she herself hated Spain as fiercely as any in her realm.
As it turned out, Davison continued to receive his salary, for the Queen kept her word; and when he was shortly afterward released, she did not forget to reward him.
So Mary Stuart died; but the Spanish menace grew and Elizabeth knew that the whole of England was threatened.
When Robert returned from the Netherlands he was greeted rapturously by the Queen. It was a year since she had seen him, and she felt a great and tender pity touch her as she looked into his face.
How he had suffered! His dignity was lost, and the great position for which he had longed was taken from him. She had heard that he was ill in the Netherlands and needed his English doctors. She had at once had them sent to him, for when she heard of his illness all her rancor had disappeared. Lettice was blatantly unfaithful with that young and handsome Christopher Blount. So how could Elizabeth scold him at such a time? How could she do anything but take him under her wing? He had lost dear Philip Sidney, that handsome and most clever young man. Life had suddenly turned cruel to Robert; and seeing this, the Queen knew the height, depth and breadth of her love which had flickered and flamed for nearly forty years and which, she knew, nothing could ever entirely extinguish.
Now she would keep him by her side. She would make up to him for the loss of his beloved nephew, for the loss of his honor, and for the unfaithfulness of his wife. Dear Robert, once the conquering hero, was now the conquered.
Elizabeth had believed that it would be impossible for her to love a man who was no longer handsome, who was no longer the most perfect, the most virtuous; nevertheless she found that she could not cease to love Robert.
The whole country was in a state of tension.
All along the south coast the watchers were alert for the first sight of a sail. The bonfires were ready. In Plymouth Sir Francis Drake was impatient to get at the enemy. Lord Howard of Effingham was begging the Queen for more supplies. The ships, even in the little harbors, were being hastily made ready all through the nights by the light of flares and cressets. The coastal fortifications were being strengthened at fever-heat; and off the Devon coast Ark and Achates, Revenge and Rainbow, Elizabeth Bonaventure and Elizabeth Jonas with their fellow escorts were waiting.
Burghley and Walsingham were frantically counting the cost of the preparations, demanding of one another whence the money was coming to pay for this and that. The Queen, who was always reluctant to spend money, was refusing permission to victual the ships, refusing the money to pay her seamen.
Elizabeth knew that she now faced the greatest peril of her reign, of her life; if her gallant sailors failed to beat off the invader, England would suffer worse than death. Elizabeth loved her country with a great maternal love, with a passion she had never given to any person. Her one idea had been to bring it through peace to prosperity; and this she had done; and this she would have continued to do had that tyrant of the Escorial allowed men and women to follow the religion of their choice. Let him have his priests and his Holy Inquisition—that unholy band of torturers—let him burn his own subjects at the stake; let him torture them on the chevalet; let him tear their limbs with red hot pincers in the name of the Holy Catholic Church; Elizabeth cared not that this should be. If they chose to follow such a Faith and such a King, let them.
But it was not as easy as that. They were sailing now steadily toward her shores—Andalucian, Biscayan, San Felipe, San Juan, and many others; they brought the Spanish dons, the Spanish grandees, the Spanish soldiers and sailors; but they brought more than these: they brought their priests, their inquisitors; they brought the instruments of torture from their dark chambers of pain. They hoped to bring, not only conquest, but the Inquisition.
She had been afraid, but she would overcome that fear. How could she lose? How could England be beaten? It was impossible. She had her men—her beloved men—who in the service of the goddess, the perfect woman, the Queen, the mistress, the mother, could never fail.
There was Lord Howard of Effingham, that fine sailor; there was the incomparable Drake; there was Frobisher, Hawkins; and there were all her dear friends: her Spirit, her Moor, her old Mutton and Bellwether—all those whom she loved; and above all there was Robert.
She had shown her confidence in him, and the return of all her love in this great emergency. He was forgiven the terrible calamity in the Netherlands for which she knew she must accept part of the blame; for if Lettice had not thought of joining him as his Queen, would Elizabeth have felt so insistent on robbing him of his new office, of destroying Flemish trust in England?
She had appointed Robert Lieutenant and General of her Armies and Companies. That would show everyone what she thought of him. That would make it clear that in adversity they stood together, as they had stood when Amy Robsart had died and he had been accused of her murder.
She trusted him; he was her beloved; he was again her Eyes; he was the only man she would have married if she had decided to take a husband.
Robert had divided his forces into two armies—one of which he had stationed at St. James’s, the other at Tilbury. They would be ready, those soldiers of his, to defend their country if the dons dared to land. But Howard and Drake and their men were determined they should never land. Would English seamen give the victory to English soldiers? Never! England owed her prosperity to her seamen—so said Drake—and he was bent on capturing the credit for himself.
Elizabeth wished to be with her armies at such a time—and was not Robert at the head of those armies? She sent a dispatch to him, telling him of her determination to see and talk with her soldiers.
His answer came back.
“Your person,” he wrote, “is the most sacred and dainty thing that we have in the world to care for, and a man must tremble when he thinks of it…”
He would have preferred her, he said, to have stayed in the safest place in England.
“Yet I will not that in some sort so princely and so rare a magnanimity should not appear to your people and the world as it is…”
She read the letter through many times; she kept it with her; she kissed it often, as she used to kiss his letters in the early days.
When she reached Tilbury, gay with flags, Robert met the barge to the sound of thundering cannon, and rode with her in a coach decorated with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.
She was truly noble as she went among her soldiers. This she knew to be the greatest moment of her country’s history; therefore it was Eliz
abeth’s greatest moment. Her fear had left her; she no longer believed in the possibility of defeat. The odds might seem against the English. The Spaniards had the ships; they had the ammunition; but they had not Elizabeth; they had not Drake; they had not—and this was their greatest lack—the calm knowledge that they could not fail.
There at Tilbury she mounted a great horse and, holding a truncheon in her hand, she sat more like a soldier than a woman; and thus she addressed them:
“My loving people, we have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety to take heed how we commit ourself to armed multitudes for fear of treachery. But I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and my loving people. Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects; and therefore I am come amongst you, as you see, at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved, in the midst of the heat and battle, to live or die amongst you all, to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honor and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which, rather than any dishonor shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know, already for your forwardness, you have deserved rewards and crowns; and we do assure you, in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you.”
This speech of the Queen’s put courage into the hearts of all those who heard it. She was invincible, as she had always known she would be, for, foolish though she might be, vain, coquettish, ill-tempered, selfish—when the occasion arose, she had the gift of greatness.
And the Armada sailed into the English Channel.
It was Spain’s tragedy that, with the finest ships in the world, with the best ammunition and equipment, she was doomed to failure. Her commander had no wish for the task which he had implored the King to give to another. His seamen were afraid of El Draque, the Dragon, that Englishman whom they believed to be no ordinary man, but one possessed of superhuman power, and destined to destroy them. They had seen him in action, and no ordinary man was ever so fearless as El Draque. He had sailed calmly into Cadiz Harbor and burned and pillaged the ships which lay at anchor there; he had delicately referred to this operation as “Singeing the Beard of the King of Spain.” He had sailed the high seas, and he had come back with Spanish treasure rich enough to fortify his country against Spain. The Devil was at work here, and Spaniards feared the Devil.
It was England’s glory that, with her little ships, ill-equipped, her sailors short of food, with sickness aboard and a tragic lack of shot and powder, she was invincible. She believed in victory. She had not the hope that she would win; she had the knowledge that she could not fail.
The fight was not of long duration.
The Spaniards were outclassed in courage and the genius of seamanship which the world had already seen displayed by Drake.
The battle raged. The fire-ships were sent among the Spaniards who were beaten before a storm arose to make their disaster complete.
England was saved. The might of Spain was broken.
The Inquisition would never come to the Queen’s England.
It was the greatest hour of a proud reign.
The Queen of half an island had set herself against the mightiest monarch in the world; and a small, courageous nation had beaten and broken the power of mighty Spain.
All through the towns and villages there was rejoicing such as had never before been known. The church bells rang out. With the appearance of the first stars the bonfires were lighted. Revelry was heard throughout the land.
Robert wrote to the Queen that he longed to be with her, but the fever which had troubled him so often had returned and he was going to Kenilworth, and thence to Leamington to take the baths, that he might not present himself until he felt well enough to enjoy that which gave him more delight than anything in the world—the company of his beloved and gracious mistress.
In the course of his journey he paused at a mansion in Rycott, and there he wrote to her again.
“I most humbly beseech Your Majesty to pardon an old servant who is so bold as to write and ask how my gracious lady doth. The chiefest thing in the world I do pray for is for her to have good health and a long life. I hope to find a perfect cure at the bath and with the continuance of my wonted prayer for Your Majesty’s most happy preservation, I humbly kiss your foot.”
She read this through several times and tenderly put it into the box where she kept his letters.
Then she went forth to the rejoicing.
It was September, less than a month after she had talked to her soldiers at Tilbury, when Kat brought the news to her.
Kat came and knelt before her and, lifting her face to that of her mistress, could find no words. Elizabeth looked into this dear friend’s face and, seeing the tears flow slowly down her cheeks, she herself was afraid to speak.
She feared this news. She wanted to run from it; but she was calm as she would always be in the important moments of her life, whatever sorrow they might bring her.
“What is it, sweet Kat? Do not be afraid.”
Still Kat could not speak.
“Mayhap I know,” said Elizabeth. “He looked so sick when I last saw him.”
“It was at Cornbury near Oxford, Your Majesty. It was the continual fever. It returned more violently and…he did not rise from his bed.”
The Queen did not speak. She sat very still. She was thinking: So he died near Oxford—near Cumnor Place. It is twenty-eight years since they found her at the foot of the stairs. Oh, Robert, Robert…never to see your face again! But we have been so near, so close in all things. Dearest Eyes, why have I lost you? How can I be aught but blind to the joy in life without you?
“Dearest…” said Kat; and she threw her arms about the Queen and sobbed wildly.
Elizabeth was quiet while the tears flowed down her cheeks. Suddenly she spoke: “In the streets they are still shouting Victory, Kat. I have a warm place in their hearts. They love me—their Queen—as they never loved King or Queen before me. Once I thought that was my dearest wish…so to be loved, Kat, by my own people. Our country is safe from danger; and I, who should be the happiest woman in the world, am the most wretched.”
“Dearest, do not speak,” implored Kat. “It hurts you so, sweetest Majesty.”
“I will speak,” she said. “I will speak through my tears and my torment. I loved him. I always loved him; and I shall love him till I die. Philip has lost his Armada, but mayhap he is not less happy this night than I. For I have lost Robert, sweet Robin, my love, my Eyes.”
Now she began to give way to her grief, and her sobs were so violent that they frightened Kat, who threw her arms about the Queen once more and comforted her.
“Dearest, remember your life lies before you. You are a Queen, my darling. My dearest, there is much left for you. You are no ordinary woman to cry for a lost lover. You are a Queen—and Queen of England.”
Then Elizabeth looked at Kat and, laying her hands gently on her shoulders, kissed her. “You are right, Kat. You are right, dear friend. I am the Queen.”
Then she went to the box wherein she kept his letters. She took out the one she had received but a few days before, and calmly she wrote upon it: “His last letter.”
She kissed it vehemently and put it quickly into the box. She turned, and she was smiling with apparent serenity.
Robert had gone, and he had taken much of the joy from her life, but when she faced Kat she was no longer the woman who had lost the only man she had loved; she was the triumphant Queen of victorious England.
Read Jean Plaidy’s Queens of England series in historical order:
The Courts of Love
The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine
The Queen’s Secret
The Story of Queen Katherine
The Reluctant Queen
The Story of Anne of York
The Lady in the Tower
The Story of Anne Boleyn
The Rose Without a Thorn
The Story of Katherine Howard
In the Shadow of the Crown
The Story of Mary Tudor
Queen of This Realm
The Memoir of Elizabeth I
Loyal in Love
The Story of Henrietta Maria, Wife of Charles I
previously published as Myself My Enemy
The Merry Monarch’s Wife
The Story of Catherine of Braganza
previously published as The Pleasures of Love
The Queen’s Devotion
The Story of Queen Mary II,
previously published as William’s Wife
Victoria Victorious
The Memoir of Queen Victoria
VISIT THREERIVERSPRESS.COM FOR INFORMATION ON OUR NEWEST HISTORICAL FICTION.
AVAILABLE FROM THREE RIVERS PRESS WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
To see all of Jean Plaidy’s other novels available from Three Rivers Press visit
www.threeriverspress.com.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To Hold the Crown