None But Elizabeth

by Rhoda Edwards

  However high Lord Robert flew in the dance, the earldom he so much wanted eluded him. At Christmas his brother Ambrose was honoured, and became at last Earl of Warwick. Plain Lord Robert had to swallow his disappointment. Yet in a sense he was favoured, for he and Ambrose were so close, they were able to share the triumph. Robert saw the bear and ragged staff emblem of Warwick flaunted again, as it had been in his father’s time, and was glad.

  At New Year 1562, one gift in particular fascinated the Queen. Sir Thomas Heneage, a charming young man not long down from Cambridge, one of the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, a talented young man with a good financial head who should go far, had given her an hourglass. Not just a common hourglass; this one was slung in a gilded stand, and lived in a black velvet case embroidered in silver thread. Elizabeth sat for a while setting the gift in front of her and watched the sand of powdered glass fall gently through its glass cage to tell the hours. It fell so soft and silent, like diamond dust or powdered sugar. When it had stood a few minutes she turned it over and watched again. The glass sand ran back the way it had come. Yet Time could not be made to run backwards.

  *

  ‘The meeting would probably have to take place at York, your Majesty. Some date between late August and late September, though one always favours the earlier — September is late for travelling so far.’ Mr Cecil pensively stroked his nose with the tip of his pen. ‘The Queen of Scots might, of course, be persuaded to venture further south, perhaps Nottingham?’

  ‘I should prefer Nottingham.’ Elizabeth’s mind was filled with a vision of Mary Stewart, six foot tall. She would have to look up at her. Elizabeth frowned. ‘This depends upon the turn of events in France,’ she said.

  ‘I have a motion ready for the next meeting of Privy Council. If things are compounded in France by the last day of June without prejudice to the state of the realm, I can see no impediment to the meeting.’

  ‘Terrible news comes out of France, Sir William. The massacre of little children, of pregnant mothers, by the Papists under Guise. To think I led the man out to dance only six months ago at Whitehall — I shudder to recollect. Protestant and Papist are ready to fight to the death. This must not touch England.’

  ‘I am afraid it does touch England. We may be drawn into war, like it or not.’

  ‘I do not like it, Sir William.’

  ‘At any rate, the Queen of Scots wishes a meeting with your Majesty in friendship. That is as well, for she is your Majesty’s heir for the present.’ Until you produce one yourself, was what he meant.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Elizabeth, not to be sweet-talked by friendship. ‘So long as I live, I shall be Queen of England. When I am dead, whoever has the most right shall succeed me. But to say more is to set my own winding sheet before my eyes.’ She sat back, twirling a flower in her quill-like fingers; there were always flowers where she was.

  ‘The people of England are, I fear, inconstant. Plures adorant solem orientalem quam occidentalem, Sir William. They worship the sun in the east as it rises, not in the west as it is setting.’

  ‘Your Majesty’s sun is in the east.’

  ‘For a while, yes. Sir William, should I marry and cause a little eastern sun to arise?’

  ‘That would make me the happiest man in the realm, Your Majesty.’

  ‘This meeting with the Queen of Scots. I will go in friendship, but do you think I can love my winding sheet? Examples show that princes cannot even love their children who are to succeed them.’

  An uncomfortable remark from one he had just urged to have children. She was havering, of course. Cecil had his doubts about the meeting of the two Queens ever taking place.

  But plans went ahead. The Queen discussed the entertainments with her Master of Revels, and suggested the themes. For the first day, a grim, grey prison must be constructed, called ‘Extreme Oblivion’. For the mask, six ladies were to lead in two captives, ‘Discord’ and ‘False Report’, who were to be thrown into the prison. With them must come Minerva, with spear, shield, helmet and breastplate, riding exotically upon a unicorn — a compliment to Elizabeth herself in her wisdom and virginity. Her attendants were to be ‘Prudence’ with her snake and mirror, and ‘Temperance’ (her sweet sister), riding upon two lions, bridled and bitted.

  On the second day a castle was to be built in place of the prison, called the ‘Court of Plenty’, its porters ‘Ardent Desire’ and ‘Perpetuity’. This time the maskers led in ‘Friendship’, riding upon an elephant — of necessity a rather small elephant — which pulled the triumphal chariot of ‘Peace’. ‘Peace’ with her olive branch and dove — a real dove — was to take up her dwelling in the ‘Court of Plenty’. If only, thought Elizabeth as she worked with enthusiasm upon these details, Peace and Friendship might dwell in Plenty, for they dwelt neither in England, Scotland, nor France.

  During that summer it looked as if Discord triumphed. It was even wetter and more dismal than the last, so bad that some even thought the end of the world was at hand. At Hampton Court the Queen was reminded of that summer when Philip of Spain had been there. How he had hated the English weather. Elizabeth, who was used to it, found that the incessant noise of the rain got on her nerves, and that smoke from damp, down-draughting chimneys offended her nose. But there was little time in which to worry about the weather. Elizabeth found herself obliged to go to war.

  In July Cecil presented her with another of his pessimistic memoranda on the situation in France. This led her to suspect that he was not by nature quite so pessimistic, but was working in his usual clever way to persuade her of the need for action. However much she hated war, Elizabeth knew she must rise, like Prometheus from his bonds; she would not be worthy of her title as Queen if she held back. It meant that the meeting with Mary Stewart must be postponed until next year.

  An English force was sent to take Le Havre in Normandy; its Captain General was the Earl of Warwick. This Dudley triumph, worked for strenuously by Robert, meant that he, through Ambrose, was in a yet stronger position to influence affairs. In any case, Ambrose deserved distinction. He was a good soldier and entirely reliable — people did not dislike and mistrust him as they did Robert. Robert in part wanted to go with his brother, but he also wanted to gain the advantage of being close to both the Queen and her Captain General. And of course, the Queen would not have let him go. So he said his farewells to Ambrose in the first week of October and stayed at Hampton.

  Hampton Court oppressed Elizabeth, especially if she were confined indoors for any time by the bad weather. It was too big, too gloomy and formal, as if it had been meant to be something else but had somehow never achieved it. Her father had meant it to be his pleasure palace for wooing her mother, had festooned it with HAs and love knots. But by the time Hampton was ready the wooing was over and the wedding begun. Perhaps that was what spoiled it for Elizabeth.

  Waiting there for news of Warwick’s expedition, she felt indefinably unwell for a day or two, a feeling more of unease than any sign of ill health. She decided to take a bath. A long hot soak with infusions of herbs might drive away the odd, apprehensive twinges in her bones.

  The bath she lay in was of white marble, veined with flesh colour. Her own flesh was whiter, blue-white like skimmed milk. It was reflected in the mirrors on the wall — or rather it wavered milkily, the outline obscured by steam. The pungent smell of rosemary refreshed Elizabeth’s nose. Her body pleased her; she rearranged it often in the bath in order to study it at different angles in the mirror. Long delicate bones, sparely fleshed, small waist, small hips, small breasts, but firm and cone-shaped, two splotches on the white of a colour like the underside of a new mushroom sprung overnight. Hair down there ginger, like the fluff she must have had on her head as a baby. Elizabeth giggled, and rose from the steam like Aphrodite new born.

  As she was dried before the fire, she stood upright as was her habit, her stomach pulled in, flat as a boy’s, the hip bones showing under the skin; a deep breath revealed all her ribs. She ha
d good legs, very slim and shapely — a pity no one knew they were there, except of course herself and these women who shared her intimate hours. Well, no, there was one other person — Robin knew… But there were many secrets Robin did not know. Somehow, her body fitted her face, like her feet matched her hands, a pity feet were always hidden in shoes, hers, like her hands, were worth display.

  Dressed again, in a loose robe as wonderful in its design as Joseph’s coat, Elizabeth tried to relax herself by a little translation of Seneca. But Hampton Court seemed stifling; the weather was so mild and damp. First she tried opening a window, then she put on a cloak of black velvet, and like a crow stretching its wings went out for a walk in the gardens. With her she took Mary Sidney, Robin’s sister, and Ann Russell, one of her Maids of Honour. Poor little Ann needed to be cared for just now; it was only six weeks since she had lost her mother, the Countess of Bedford, from the smallpox. Ann was such a dear little sparrow of a girl, sweet and sensible and intelligent.

  ‘Red eyes,’ said Elizabeth, handing her own handkerchief, ‘will do her no good. She would not have liked to see you so sad. It is all over. You grieve; she does not, in the place where she is.’

  ‘Shall we find Ann a husband soon, Your Majesty?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Not too soon. Husbands sometimes bring as much sorrow as death.’ Then, realizing a little her own prejudices, and that this was no comfort, ‘I shall see you do not have an unkind husband, Ann…’

  That night the Queen slept badly, restless and anxious. The next night, after a heavy day, she realized that she was feverish. Elizabeth’s answer to being feverish was to behave as if she were not, until either she succumbed to being ill, or found that she had worked it off and pretence had become reality. Usually, the second course prevailed. This time, however, during the next few days, she felt hotter and hotter, peculiar and light-headed.

  Her cousin, Lord Hunsdon, had recently consulted a foreign doctor, a German called Burcot Cranach, whom he had found clever in diagnosis and successful in treatment. Hunsdon knew better than to offer Burcot’s services, as they would undoubtedly be rejected, so he sent for the doctor on his own initiative, bringing him rather surreptitiously into the royal presence.

  Dr Burcot was able to see immediately that the Queen’s fever had become dangerously high. Such a high fever was a symptom of smallpox. Persons with contacts at court had been known to have died lately of it.

  ‘My liege,’ he said, confidently, ‘you vill haf ze smallpox.’

  He did not know that one did not instruct the Queen upon what she would, or would not, have. Nor did one tell her to her face that she was ill. She had to be gently handled and led by stages to admit it herself.

  Elizabeth, sitting bolt upright, scarlet in the cheeks with fever and anger, opened her mouth to retort, but found it so parched, it took a breath or two to get the words out. The first few were all but inaudible, but the last were not. ‘Out of my sight!’ she screeched. Then she hurled a cushion, which hit him in the paunch.

  The doctor, taken aback, offended and helpless against such a royal command, left her presence and went home. His patients did not normally throw things at him, unless they were cases for the madhouse. Lord Hunsdon and the rest were left to fume and fear. The fear communicated itself quickly to those around the Queen. Lord Robert tried to hide his alarm from her, because it would only make her more obstinate. Instead, he pretended to believe her statement that she was not ill, and made her talk, and forced business on her, hoping she would feel so bad that she would give in.

  Three days later, Elizabeth gave in. One moment she was sitting in her chair, pen in hand, trying to finish a letter to the Queen of Scots, explaining her involvement in the French wars. She was suddenly aware that she was quite unable to finish it. Fear had her by the throat. Her head felt like a lump of molten glass might, as it swelled and ballooned out from the glassblower’s pipe. She thought it would burst. She wrote the words: ‘My hot fever prevents me writing more…’ Then she dropped the pen on the floor. The little sound made Robert who had been standing watching her start forward.

  ‘I am dying,’ Elizabeth announced loudly. Then she clutched her bursting head in her hands and fell sideways. Robert hurled himself forward and caught her. She had fainted. He yelled for help, and went on yelling until the whole of Hampton Court rang with running feet and the very stones shivered in panic.

  They got her to her bed. That was noon. By nightfall, she was still unconscious.

  ‘Send for Mr Secretary Cecil,’ Robert urged. ‘Get him out of bed if necessary.’ For once his words met with no dissension.

  When Cecil arrived, it was almost dawn, and he had a slipper on his gouty foot instead of a boot. When he stood at the Queen’s bedside, in the guttering candlelight, he said, ‘Is it the smallpox?’

  Dr Master, the Queen’s own physician, was not yet absolutely certain. How could anyone be, without the spots? But he did know it was a matter of life and death. ‘Many would have succumbed to the fever already. She is strong.’

  At that moment Elizabeth opened her eyes and held up her hands in front of them, looking for the dreaded spots. Then she touched her face.

  ‘There are none,’ said Robert, holding one of her hands. It felt like a loaf straight out of the oven. On the other side, sister Mary had her arm round Elizabeth’s shoulders. By this time the room had filled with Privy Councillors.

  ‘My Lords,’ Elizabeth croaked, ‘I am dying.’ To their chorus of protests, she gasped irritably — why must they argue with her when she was so ill? ‘No, it is so. Send for Archbishop Parker.’ Then she said, as loudly as she could, ‘My Lord Robert Dudley shall be Protector of my realm. Above all persons I love and trust him. No one else.’

  There was deadly silence. Only Robert’s light, unbroken breathing, which did not match the pumping of his heart, and the Queen’s short, feverish gasps were heard.

  ‘I want him to have £20,000 a year.’ The silence spat envy’s deadly poison. ‘And £500 to Tamworth.’ Silence spoke with venomous, knowing looks. Tamworth was Robert’s servant, whose discretion guarded the entry to his rooms. How long had this plan been in her mind? Robert realized that she had lived in terror ever since the German doctor had spoken the dread word ‘smallpox’.

  Still holding his hand — hers was wringing sweat out of it — she said, faintly now, ‘As God is my witness, I have loved — and still love — Lord Robert more than any other. Whatever you have thought, my Lords, whatever the world has said, nothing, I repeat nothing, improper has ever passed between us.’ She let go of Robert’s hand then. ‘I die as I have lived, a…’ With that, she fell back on the pillows.

  Dr Master grabbed her wrist and felt for the pulse.

  ‘Is she gone?’ Cecil moaned.

  Robert could not speak. If he did, he would weep and bawl and rage against God for taking her.

  ‘No — no. A faint again. I suggest, my lords, that you leave her to myself, and Lady Sidney and the women. She must have quiet to fight the fever or she will die.’

  Lord Hunsdon, lacking faith, sent for Dr Burcot once more. This time he had to be persuaded by a dagger point that he had not been insulted and that he must come to the Queen again. He arrived at Hampton Court speechless with anger, but soon found his tongue. Grumbling incessantly, he demanded a bolt of red Welsh flannel. How red flannel in this quantity was found in Hampton Court, Robert never knew, but it came, as if by divine messenger. Dr Burcot proceeded to roll the Queen in it until she horribly resembled an embalmed corpse. From this scarlet bundle one white hand was allowed to poke. Into this hand the doctor put a bottle of some liquid.

  ‘Drink ze drink,’ he ordered.

  Elizabeth meekly obeyed. ‘Comfortable…’ she murmured.

  She was laid, a scarlet sausage, in front of a roaring fire. For a long while Robert and Mary watched the sweat run down the still face, and at intervals they put the drink to her lips. Time passed from night into day without them being aware of
it.

  When the morning came Dr Burcot peered at his patient through little round spectacles, rimmed with horn. ‘Ze spots!’ he yelled in fiendish delight. ‘Now zere is hope!’

  Elizabeth tried hard to see. She was so weak. This noisy little man yelled of spots. Where were they — was that them on her wrist? Please God, not on her face. Faces that had smallpox looked like the fungus on rotting wood. She began to wail like a little girl told she is ugly. For one so ill, she wailed surprisingly loud.

  ‘God’s pestilence!’ grumbled Dr Burcot, not sparing her royal dignity, ‘Vot is better, to haf ze pox on ze handz, or ze face, or on ze heart and kill ze whole body?’

  To this Elizabeth had no answer. But when he had stopped spluttering with rage, she treated him to a ghost of her best smile. He was quite amazed.

  ‘She vill live,’ he said confidently.

  Lord Robert looked across her flannel winding sheet at sister Mary and they both let their tears come, though with Robert laughter almost burst through the tears.

  VIII

  A Monstriferous Empire

  1563 – 1567

  ‘They had buried me already!’ Elizabeth began to swear. ‘You as well!’ she shot at Lord Robert.

  ‘Much of this was discussed before I ever had a seat on Privy Council,’ he said reasonably.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Robin. Not you.’

  She had got hold of the Council Register and read the minutes of those meetings held when she was ill, when all talk had been of her successor.

  ‘Wrapped in my winding sheet!’ She was not giving up easily. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  She saw about it by ripping out the offending pages — a handful of them, all the months of October to December — tearing them up and throwing them straight into the fire. She made sure of the result by using the poker.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is what I think of those who stay up till two in the morning talking as if I were already a corpse.’